Even Tree Nymphs Get the Blues by Molly Harper Book Review

Even Tree Nymphs Get the Blues by Molly Harper is a paranormal romantic comedy. I listened to the Audible Original version of this book narrated by Amanda Ronconi and Jonathan Davis.

Ingrid Asher, a tree nymph, is the newest paranormal member of Mystic bayou, a little town in the swamp that is home to shifters, vampires, witches and even humans.

Fleeing the crowds of the big city all she wants is to run an ice cream store in the serene quiet of the countryside.

However, with the nosey and  handsome Rob Aspern her neighbour and the head of the League’s data science department, snooping around Ingrid’s secrets and dark past may be exposed.

This novella is book 3 in the Mystic Bayou series. I have not read any of the other books in the series and I think this one can be read as a standalone. I will point out that according to Amazon reviews this book is shorted than the others in the series and is more of a novella that adds some backstory.

I enjoyed the book and how it brought mythical beings into the modern world and it was fun to think of them as having the same dreary issues as us mere mortals like paying the rent despite their powers.

If your’e looking for a sweet, short romance that happens to have a paranormal backdrop I would suggest this book as a way to introduce yourself to the rest of the series which gets rave reviews.

Read this book if you enjoy:

  • Paranormal stories
  • Myths and legends
  • Romances with ice queens

 

 

 

 

 

Excerpt from Even Tree Nymphs Get the Blues by Molly Harper

Sometimes, being an ancient supernatural creature meant making strange choices to pay your rent. Sometimes it meant sacrificing your dignity. Sometimes it meant riding down the highway on a Greyhound bus, past a giant billboard image of yourself dressed like a Swiss milkmaid, and hiding your face so the other passengers didn’t recognize you.

Edelweiss Hills Dairy ads had become the bane of her long existence.

Ingrid Asher never meant to be the face of an aggressively quaint dairy, headquartered in pastoral Detroit. But a decade before, an exec for the dairy’s advertising agency—not headquartered in Detroit—had spotted her while working her temp job in the agency’s mail room and the money he offered was simply too good to pass up.

It was one of the few moments of serendipity she’d experienced in her long, relatively luckless life. By the time her high cheekbones, icy blue eyes and milky complexion were “discovered,” she’d lived a mostly spartan existence in New York City for close to fifty years. And at one point, she’d been close to burning the tiny sapling that gave her eternal life and walking into Central Park to die. And then she’d discovered something that made life worth living—ice cream.

She’d been living in a forest (and then a fourth story walk-up in Queens) for the last five hundred years. There was no Baskin Robbins in the deep northern forests of Norway. Once she’d discovered the healing power of frozen sweetened delights, she’d made it her single focus to learn everything she could about ice cream—the science of how it was made, the way varying milk fats affected the texture, the various flavor combinations that tickled her palate. She bought a dozen different ice cream machines to try out techniques and recipes at home. She’d eaten sundaes at nearly every ice cream parlor in the five boroughs. And she’d never gained an ounce, because that was one advantage to being a nymph. Once you were fully grown, you stayed in that form until your death.

And so she’d agreed to wrap that form in a ridiculously not-accurate-to-any-culture blue milkmaid costume and pose in false pastures with “model cows” that had never worked a day in their bovine lives. The moment she saw the number of zeros on her first Edelweiss Hills check, she knew what she would do with the money—open her own creamery. She would use the best milk from happy, pampered cows to create ice cream that would soothe the soul, the way she had been pulled back from the brink by Bing cherry vanilla. And up until recently, she thought she would open her store in some cute refurbished pre-war building in one of the more gentrified neighborhoods in Brooklyn.

But some nagging instinct in the back of her brain, in her other nature, was calling her south. That insistent pressure had been there for years, since the day she’d set foot on American soil, but she’d been so deep in her own despair that she’d been able to ignore it.