Jacquie Biggar-USA Today Best-selling author

New Releases

Love, Me: A Christmas Wish Novel

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B099PLKTM8

Universal: https://books2read.com/Love-Me-A-Christmas-Wish-Novel

bookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/love-me-a-christmas-wish-novel-by-jacquie-biggar

GoodReads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/58805215-love-me

Will a Christmas wish bring two lonely hearts together and give a little girl the family she’s always wanted?

Single parent, Grace Donovan arrives in the small town of Emerson with the hope a trial program at the local cancer clinic will be the answer to prolonging her young daughter’s life. She doesn’t expect to fall for her handsome boss.

As principal of Emerson Elementary, Kyle Roberts is aware of the students’ medical issues and his heart goes out to little Cassie Donovan and her mother. When he learns Grace needs a job, he fabricates a childcare program, and is pleasantly surprised by its success. Now, if only he could help Cassie’s recovery and get Grace to give him a chance before she learns of his duplicity.

Cassie Donovan barely remembers the father who died when she was just a toddler, but she does know her mother is sad. Even though Cassie wants a puppy more than anything, she gives up her wish to ask for a daddy from Santa Claus, that way if she gets sick again, Mommy won’t be alone.

This Christmas, two families are brought together by a Christmas wish and a child’s need for a miracle.

Excerpt

“Hello, I’m Principal Roberts and you must be Cassie’s mom.” He grinned at Cassie. “I’m glad you could make it.”

She gazed up at him like a deer caught in headlights. “You are?”

His heart melted. She was so earnest; a tiny girl with an ancient soul. He ignored her mother for the moment to crouch down to Cassie’s eye level, though he was tangibly aware of the watchful woman hovering nearby.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked.

She looked up at her mom before hesitantly nodding, curiosity creasing her brow. “O… kay.”

“Well, the truth is, I don’t know very much about dogs and cats. I’ve never had one and they make me nervous. Do you think you could help my daughter, Avery, take care of the puppy pen?” He rose and gestured to the temporary white picket fenced enclosure that had been constructed in the center of the floor. Puppies yelped and jumped, grabbing ears and tumbling over each other in enthusiastic play.

Her eyes grew wide with excitement. She tugged on her mom’s hand. “Can I, Mom? Please?”

“I don’t—”

Just as his idea was about to get shot down, Avery came to the rescue. She danced across the room and under his arm. “Hi, Cassie, isn’t this the coolest?” She glanced up at Kyle. “Daddy, I’m thirsty.”

“Code for ‘I need some money’,” he said, pulling out his wallet. He handed over five dollars but didn’t let go when she made a grab for it. “Milk, not juice, and you can get one for Cassie, too, if she’s allowed?”

Cassie’s mom’s lips quirked, her gaze knowing as it rested briefly on his face, creating a spark in his chest like a lick of lightning.

“We weren’t planning on staying for long,” she murmured, but her daughter’s crestfallen expression changed her mind. “You can go, as long as you stick with Avery. Is that all right, Avery?”

She nodded and grasped Cassie’s hand; a mini-mom. “Yes, ma’am. C’mon, Cassie, the puppies are soooo cute!”

The girls raced away without a backward look, leaving Kyle feeling strangely awkward with the enigmatic Mrs. Donovan. He dealt with parents daily. Some were loving and had their child’s best interests at heart, while others—his gaze went to Ms. Bigalow chatting with a few of the other parents—were more concerned with his pension plan.

“Are you needed elsewhere?” Mrs. Donovan asked, following his gaze, her chin unconsciously rising as though she was used to being left behind.

He shook his head, dislodging a curl that flopped over his forehead. He needed a haircut, if he could ever get a spare minute to call his own. “Nope, I’m all yours.” His neck got hot at her raised brow. “Not literally, of course,” he hurried to clarify. Great, she was probably ready to yank her kid out of his school now. “I mean, I was just supposed to drop in to check on things but got roped into helping out for a few hours. And you?”

She looked confused for a moment, and who could blame her, then broke into a light laugh that captivated him. “Well, I had a strenuous day of housework planned, but I think it can wait.” She watched Cassie and Avery skip to the puppy pen with containers of milk in hand. “Thank you,” she said. “Cassie is withdrawn. This will be good for her.”

He stared at her. There was a story behind those words, but he didn’t want to pry. Instead, he directed her to a table laden with mini cakes, cookies, squares, and a couple of hardworking coffee urns. “Join me?”

She hesitated, much as her daughter had done earlier, then nodded. “I could use a coffee, our machine broke this morning.”

Instant sympathy welled up. He’d be a wreck without his morning cuppa.

He led the way, conscious of her presence behind him as he greeted one parent and nodded to another. When they reached the table, he pulled a mug from the tray and poured her a cup. “I hope you like it strong,” he said, handing it over and getting a zing from her fingertips as his reward. “I’m almost sure the cook worked on a chuckwagon in another life.”

She took a careful sip and made an appreciative hum that shot straight to his gut. “Any chance he delivers?”

No, but Kyle would be happy to. “He’s a she and that’s not all she’s good at. Wait until you try the chili, it’s, shall we say, memorable.”

She smiled, her shoulders relaxing for the first time since they’d met. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Well, we’ve made it to the first date,” he teased, raising his mug. “Is it time for a name exchange?” He held out his hand, again. “Kyle Roberts, very nice to meet you.” Truer words had never been said.

She eyed his hand, then slid her fingers—no rings—into his. “Hello, Kyle Roberts. I’m Grace.”

 Because the true power is love!

My heroes are tough, alpha males who know what they want. That is until they get gob-smacked by heroines who are strong, contemporary women willing to show them what they really need is love.

I’ve been blessed with a long, happy marriage and enjoy writing romance novels that end with happy-ever-afters.

Jacquie Biggar has a wonderful gift for writing hot and extremely likable military men!

Jacqui Nelson

From the time Jacquie was twelve years old, she knew she wanted to be a writer. That year she wrote a short story called Count Daffodil after spending countless hours searching for ideas. The story garnered Jacquie an A and was read aloud through the school’s loudspeaker system. Needless to say, after that she was hooked.

Jacquie grew up, married her best friend, raised a family and left her writing urges to simmer in the background unattended.

She owned and operated a successful diner in her hometown for a number of wonderful years before deciding to live her dream of becoming an author.

Jacquie’s first book, Tidal Falls, a romantic suspense novel about second chances, released September of 2014.

Connect with Jacquie here: jbiggar@jacqbiggar.com

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USA Today bestselling author Jacquie Biggar loves to write Romantic Suspense novels brimming w/Attitude. 

Jacquie Biggar is a USA Today bestselling author of romance who loves to write about tough, alpha males and strong, contemporary women willing to show their men that true power comes from love. She lives on Vancouver Island with her husband and loves to hear from readers all over the world!

In her own words: “My name is Jacquie Biggar. When I’m not acting like a total klutz I am a wife, mother of one, grandmother, and a butler to my calico cat. My guilty pleasure are reality tv shows like Amazing Race and The Voice. I can be found every Monday night in my armchair plastered to the television laughing at Blake and Adam’s shenanigans. I love to hang at the beach with DH (darling hubby) taking pictures or reading romance novels (what else?). I have a slight Tim Hortons obsession, enjoy gardening, everything pink and talking to my friends.”

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I thought I’d share with you the beginning of my love affair with writing.

Normally, procrastination is my enemy. I like to get done whatever it is, as soon as I can, so that I don’t have to worry about it any more.

In school I worked hard to stay in the top ten every year. So when I came down sick with the measles and missed two weeks of grade nine, I was devastated. How was I ever going to catch up? I had less than a week to write a compelling story for Language Arts or get a failing mark.

Angry and frustrated, I sat in our living room, pen and paper in hand, staring at a bright yellow bouquet of cheerful looking daffodils. I wanted to hurl them across the room. It wasn’t fair. Why was I being punished for getting sick?

But then an idea popped into my head. A silly, farcical story. If the teacher wanted an essay, fine, I’d give him one. And so, Count Daffodil, was born. After the first paragraph the words flowed quicker, I could see the scene in my head and needed to get it down on paper. (Sound familiar?) I spent the rest of the day writing, and by the end of the night I had my story.

The next day I turned it in and immediately felt ill all over again. It was dumb. The teacher was going to hate it. I’d be a laughing stock. Funny how easy you can build something up to catastrophic proportions when you lack self-confidence.

We had to wait two weeks for the results. I was on tenterhooks the entire time. Sure that my mom would blow a gasket because I’d goofed instead of giving it my best shot.

Then came the big day.

I was scared to look. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and turned to the last page. These were my teacher’s words:

I’m glad I didn’t read this at night. It’s been a while since I was so enthralled with a story. Very professionally done. The suspense, the ending, the style was excellent. I think I’ll read it to the other classes. Very impressive.

Not only did he read it to the other grade nines, he read it over the intercom to the entire school!

Because of Mr. Thomas and a hapless bouquet of sunny daffodils, a writer was born.

Jacquie’s first book, Tidal Falls, a romantic suspense novel about second chances, released September of 2014.

 

 

For a limited time, you can get My Baby Wrote Me A Letter for #FREE! 

A family’s brush with the past will threaten the fabric of their lives.

Eight months pregnant and her Navy husband away on a mission, Grace Freeman craves the security of her childhood home in Canada.

When a letter written by her long-lost mother is found in an old writing desk it creates a tear in the fabric of her family.

Can Grace find a way to bring peace to those she loves, or will a message from the past destroy their future?

 

 

 

Finding Me

I found a wonderful cover created by Teagan Geneviene and it gave me the idea for a YA novel about two sisters estranged over their father’s suicide.

Here’s a short excerpt:

Our house looks just the same; a two-bedroom craftsman Daddy converted into four by finishing the basement for his girls. That’s what he’d called Izzy and me, his beautiful baby girls. We’d grown up poor, but it never felt that way. Our parents always made sure we had new outfits for school, birthday parties all the neighborhood kids clamored to attend, and Christmases where we could hardly find the floor for all the gifts. We were spoiled, but in a good way. We understood the value of money and knew we had to take care of our stuff or face severe punishment—usually a week of doing dishes by ourselves, washing and drying. Dad worked long hours at the tire shop and Mom took in mending and did baking for the local market. My job was to babysit my brother and sister and keep them out of Dad’s hair until he had a chance to relax after work, which meant chugging back a beer or three.

I can’t make myself pull into the driveway, it feels too much like getting sucked into a void, so I parallel park in front of the house and shut down the engine. Over the click of the cooling motor I hear the birds chattering in our giant pine tree that shades most of the yard and part of the road. We used to take turns seeing how high we could climb as kids, even though Mom said if we broke our necks we were on our own. Izzy, the little tomboy, had scurried from branch to branch like there were suction cups attached to her feet and hands. Ben was only five or six maybe and scared of heights. I could get him to hang onto the bottom branches, but that was as far as he would go. But, his smile. It made the fact I was stuck on the ground watching him worthwhile.

We’d tried to talk Mom into moving after Dad… but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said this house held the key to every happy memory she could recall; from arriving as a young, naïve bride, to pregnancy, babies, and holidays. She refused to throw it all away because of our father’s last, selfish act. And that was that. We all pretended the backyard didn’t exist, and carried on as though our lives were normal, when they were anything but.

The gate creaks open with a lisp, the hinges old and rusty and barely holding onto the whitewashed fence. Grass grows better between the sidewalk blocks than in the rest of the yard, littered with pine needles and the cones Mom used to send us out to collect for craft night. My heel catches in one of the hairline cracks in the cement and I nearly fall on my face. It’s the final straw; I turn to leave, tomorrow is another day, but the door opens and I stop in my tracks.

Izzy.

She looks older. A nervous laugh bubbles. I wasn’t expecting it to be this hard. “Hi.” That’s me, Miss Eloquent.

“What are you doing here?” She leans a slim shoulder against the door frame, her red hair glinting in the sun, her gaze flat and hooded. The dark circles underneath her blue eyes tug on my heartstrings. Well, that and the sorrow engulfing me the moment she opened the door. There’s no more denying it—Mom is gone.

I ignore her antagonism and hurry forward, dropping my overnight bag at our feet—so different, me in my heels, her barefoot—and draw her resisting body into my arms. I close my eyes, the better to breath in the essence of my baby sister. Every bit as strong and lean as I remember, her arms are stiff and unyielding at her sides. Heaven forbid she’d give in to a moment of sentimental emotion.

Forgiveness isn’t big on the Thomas’s list of strong points.

Reluctant, I let her go and take a step back to assess how she’s holding up. Not good, if the too pale skin and deep lines across her forehead are anything to go by. Well, I’m here now. It’s past time I take on some of the family responsibilities.

“Where’s Ben?” I ask, glancing over her shoulder into the dim hallway beyond. “Is he…?” What could I say? Doing okay? Upset? Sad? Mad? No doubt, all of those and more. Benjamin was closest to Mom, her baby. It wouldn’t be easy for him to accept her death. An ugly shiver sweeps down my back.

“He’s in his room. He doesn’t come out. I can’t get thr… what does it matter?” Izzy snarls, tossing her head. “You didn’t care before. You can’t just show up, especially now, and expect everything to be how it was when we were kids. There’s no going back.” She straightens and heads inside, trying to slam the door in my face.

Good to know her temper is the same, anyway. I stop the door with my palm, wincing as the pressure explodes up my arm. Much as I want to leave, the time for running is over.

I’m home.

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Blueline

I’m also working on the third in the Men of WarHawks series, which follows the lives of a NHL hockey team. This is a romantic suspense series with plenty of pulse-pounding action!

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Twisted Sister

I love the romantic suspense genre and Navy SEALs (who doesn’t? :)) and wanted to combine the two with another favorite, motorcycle clubs.

The premise of this story is that a woman disappears and her shy, geeky sister seeks help from the only man she thinks will be invested in her case- Reed McLaughlin.

Excerpt:

Emma Stone knew the moment she entered the Twisted Sister it was a mistake. The biker bar was as rough on the inside as it was intimidating on the outside. If she weren’t so desperate she would’ve turned around and gone home the moment she saw the long line of bikes parked in front of the dilapidated building.

The noise from cheap speakers pumped way higher than their tweeters could take competed with rowdy laughter, the slap of pool cues striking balls, and the stench of unwashed bodies blending with spilled beer.

Em stood just inside the doorway, blinking like a lost owl. The scene in front of her bemused eyes was like something out of one of those thriller novels her sister enjoyed. She prayed Rose hadn’t ended up like one of those victims.

A burly guy in a leather vest covered in badges bumped into her, almost knocking her out with his breath. Hope he didn’t plan on driving.

“Well, looky here,” he slurred. “Aren’t you in the wrong church, sister?” He stuck his head back and roared, thoroughly amused at his obvious wit. Emma ducked her head and wished herself back home curled up on the sofa with her tortoiseshell cat, Thomas. He slung a beefy arm around her neck and tugged her under his armpit. “Sugar, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

Emma’s heart beat frantically as she pushed ineffectually against his chest. “Let me go. I need to find a man.” The words barely left her lips before she cringed.

He grinned down at her with teeth stained from tobacco and Lord knows what else. “Lucky you, you found one.” His moist lips puckered and his head lowered and Emma did the only thing she could—lifted her knee and caught him square between the legs.

His arms loosened, his face turned an alarming shade of green, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Emma was feeling a little woozy herself. She’d seen it done on TV, but the women there stood over their fallen assailants with satisfied expressions and handcuffs. She had no cuffs and was terrified. What if his friends noticed? They’d probably shoot her on the spot.

A quick glance around showed her no one was paying them any attention. Relieved, she edged around the groaning mound and inched her way through the crowd up to the bar. A busty brunette in a too-short jean skirt and a black t-shirt with the words, I Really Feel Like Going for A Ride, emblazoned across her chest gave Emma the onceover before grabbing a couple of longneck bottles of beer dripping condensation from the counter.

“You’re in the wrong bar, honey,” she muttered, slipping off the high stool. “You better leave—while you can.” She sauntered over to a table in the corner. Emma could just make out a set of masculine jean clad legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. The moment the woman got within range, arms, one covered in a sleeve of tattoos, reached out and tugged her onto his lap. She shrieked, but not in fear as Emma had done. This was more of a hello, baby, proven when she buried her lips against the stranger’s neck.

Embarrassed, Em turned away. It wasn’t that she was a prude, it’s just that there was a time and a place and public displays were neither. In her opinion romantic encounters belonged behind closed doors. Some people—her ex-boyfriend for one—would say it was an antiquated ideal, and maybe they were right. But, there weren’t half as many divorces in the days of courtship as there was now with the modern generation’s loose morals.

It took forever before the bartender noticed her. He made sure everyone was happy then worked his way down, laughing and chatting with the locals. He wiped his hands on a surprisingly white apron tied around a lean waist and leaned an elbow on the counter, arm bunching with impressive muscle. His bald head and a gold hoop dangling from his ear gleamed under the fluorescents. A tattoo of an eagle’s talons peeked out from the arm of his shirt.

Emma gulped.

“What’ll ya have?” he asked, eyeing her like she was an anomaly. Which she probably was, around here anyway.

“I’m, ah… looking for someone. Reed McLaughlin.” Emma caught the quick glance over her shoulder. She turned, but no one was there. “Do you know him?” she asked, not sure why the name would elicit that suspicious look she was now receiving from the previously friendly bartender.

“Maybe. What do you want him for?” He straightened and crossed his arms over a rock hard chest.

This was such a bad idea.

“I have a proposition,” she whispered.

He cocked his head. The earring flashed, mocking her. “Speak up, missy. This is a bar, and I can’t hear on the best of days.”

Emma twisted her hands, then grabbed deep for some courage. “I said, I have a proposition for Mr. McLaughlin.” The words rang loud and clear into the silence between one song and the next ear-splitting tune.

Someone laughed, and then the catcalls and wolf whistles began. Emma groaned, her face flaming as only a redhead’s could. She looked to the barkeeper for help, but his face was stoic. Despair brought a tear that she wiped viciously away. These people didn’t need to see her misery. No one cared.

She swung around to blindly head for the door, and practically rammed her nose into a man’s chest. Her distraught gaze climbed to an uncompromising jaw, firm, yet supple lips—her heart fluttered—a nose with a slight bump on the side like it had been broken at one time, and eyes that glittered almost black in this lighting.

Her knees gave out, but before she could slide to the ground in an ignominious heap a firm male hand gripped her arm and held her upright.

“My place or yours?” A voice like a cat’s contented purr rumbled in her ear.

So there really was a devil, and he was in Cincinnati.