A Honeybun and Coffee

By: Sam Cheever


These Honeybuns are sugar free, but hot enough to burn!

Surprised into hiding in a men's room stall at work, Angie Peterson, owner of the Dunk and Run Coffee Shoppe, overhears two men talking about killing someone named Alastair Honeybun. Picturing a frail, helpless old Englishman, Angie rushes to warn him. There’s only one, small problem, Alastair Honeybun is six foot two inches of yummy man, who's perfectly capable of taking care of himself. But when the thugs show up while Angie's still there, they soon figure out they'll need to take care of each other.

Running from criminals who seem to know where they are and what they're doing before they do, the two enlist Alastair's hunky and talented brothers to help them unravel the confusing swirl of murder, kidnapping, and downright unpleasantness closing in on them. But not to worry, the Honeybun brothers are determined to put a serious crimp in the bad guys' day!

I don’t give away a lot of books. But I value my readers and, to show it, I'm gifting you a copy of a novella from my fun Silver Hills Mystery series just for signing up for my newsletter!



ALASTAIR HONEYBUN STOOD in a dark corner of the bar and wished he could be somewhere else, anywhere else, other than where he was. His penetrating, blue gaze slid around the noisy bar, noting the drunken antics of his friends with disgust.

At thirty-two years old, Alastair was growing weary of the constant bump and grind of male ritual that brought them, always and forever, into the same stale venues doing the same, juvenile things, night after night.

His friends suffered from no such disillusionment. They were perpetually happy with their current stage in life and saw no reason to reach beyond into adulthood.

Alastair didn’t share their enthusiasm for the drinking and mindless search for the next great pair of tits or soft, round ass to bump against in the night. He was dangerously close to wanting more out of life. A singularly terrifying thing. And something that would most likely cause him no end of grief with his friends if he were...stupidly...to confide in them.

So he didn’t confide. Instead he moved through his days as a highly paid financial planner with a certain kind of contented glee, and his nights, as one of the guys, with much reluctance and teeth grinding.

He decided he’d had enough “fun” for one night and turned to leave, only to bump into, or be bumped against, by a cute little thing with sparkling hazel eyes and gleaming black hair. She smiled up at him drunkenly and licked glossy, red lips.

“Hiya hansome.” She slurred. Then the pretty hazel eyes slid shut and she started to fold toward the floor.

Alastair reached out to catch her but found himself a beat too late.

Two long arms, clad in shiny black suit sleeves, caught the girl under both armpits and reeled her into a broad, overly-muscular chest covered by a pink shirt and a shiny red tie. Alastair looked up into dark brown eyes that were cold and empty like a shark’s. He smiled. “She’s had a little too much to drink, eh?”

The man hefted the girl into his arms and stared hard at Alastair, the coldness of his gaze barely warmed by an insincere bend in his lips. “It’s my sister,” the scary looking man said unnecessarily.

Alastair, lacking the usual conversational cues to help him out with this, simply nodded and watched the man turn away and leave the bar with the unconscious young woman draped across his arms. A tall, emaciated looking man held the door for the oaf carrying the woman and, after throwing a glacial last look at Alastair, followed him out.

Alastair did a mental shrug and went to find his buddies. Maybe he’d stay for one more beer.

ANGIE PETERSON RAN a damp, soapy rag over the countertop and glanced at the clock above her head for the umpteenth time. The shop had been non-stop busy since six o’clock that morning and she hadn’t had so much as a pee break since she’d walked through the door.

The customer queue had dwindled finally to the point where she thought it might be safe to leave the counter to the two teens who helped her out in the afternoons for a five minute potty break. But before she could escape, the door opened and two more customers sauntered in.

Stifling a sigh, Angie plastered on a bright smile as they approached the counter. “Welcome to the Dunk and Run, what can I get for you today?”