Epilogue
Ten months later…
“Kylie, this is the most bee-yoo-ti-ful studio ever! I can’t wait for the first class,” Lee Ann gushed in a slightly tipsy twang as she closed in for a hug. Ginger moved quick and intercepted Lee Ann’s champagne flute before the Southern belle’s sloppy hug splashed the contents all over Kylie’s strapless black cocktail dress. When Lee Ann drew back, Ginger raised the half-empty glass and toasted Kylie. “You done good.”
Ariana nodded. “Yes, Kylie. You make us proud.”
“Thanks,” Kylie replied. Her own pride welled up as she glanced around her brand-new yoga studio, Nirvana on Ninth, and took in the high ceilings, gleaming bamboo floors, and for tonight’s grand opening party, the champagne fountain and tables overflowing with hors d’oeuvres. Friends, family, and students chatted and circulated. Her gaze landed on Trevor, ridiculously gorgeous in his dark suit and silver-striped tie. He stood by the door, talking with Vern and Ian. At the sight of him, her heart did its predictable little flutter. He turned and gave her a long look loaded with not-so-hidden messages, and a whole lot of other parts started fluttering, too.
With some effort, she dragged her attention back to the girls. They were quite a sight decked out in their mile-high heels and short, tight outfits. “It means a lot that you ladies came to help celebrate the grand opening.”
“We wouldn’t have missed it,” Ginger assured her, “and not just because of the free-flowing champagne.” The redhead leaned in and gave Kylie a quick squeeze, then tugged Lee Ann toward the door. “C’mon, Country. Time to call it a night.”
“Me, too,” Stacy said, looking every inch a star in her silky ivory gown. “I’m so thrilled for you, Ky, I want to party ’til sunrise, but—”
“But the new, responsible Stacy knows she has to be on the set at 5:00 a.m.,” Kylie finished with a grin. Stacy had struck gold with her TV show. The network had picked up the series on the strength of the pilot, and now, a month into the first season, critics and fans alike declared it a breakout hit.
“Right,” Stacy smiled back, but it didn’t reach her eyes, and Kylie didn’t miss how her twin’s attention strayed across the room to where Ian stood. After being joined at the hip for the past several months, Ian had suggested they move in together, and Stacy had abruptly pulled the plug on the relationship. Kylie couldn’t help thinking her twin had a heaping dose of cold feet…and regret, if her expression tonight offered any hint of her feelings.
“Talk to him,” Kylie urged.
Stacy frowned and shook her head. “No. We’ve already talked everything to death. He wants commitments and promises. Christ, he even mentioned the ‘M’ word.” She shivered and released a humorless laugh. “That’s so not what I’m looking for. My career demands all my focus. I spend fifteen-hour days on the set, and the rest of my time learning my lines, doing publicity, and meeting with my agent about new projects.”
“But you love him—”
“No!” The denial flew out of Stacy’s mouth on wings of panic, and told Kylie her sister was running scared. “You know me better,” Stacy went on. “I don’t do love. Lust? Sure. Sex? Hell, yes. But nothing more.”
Kylie remained silent. Rather than argue, she leveled a patient, who-are you-trying-to-convince look at her sister.
Stacy ran a hand through her flawless cascade of blond waves. “Look, Ian’s an amazing guy. He deserves a sweet girl who wants to make him the center of her universe.” Her eyes drifted to the other side of the room, where Ian stared back with an expression that warned he might either kiss her senseless or strangle her in the next five seconds.
The look apparently wasn’t lost on Stacy. She flushed and mumbled, “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Kylie forced a lid on her frustration as she watched Stacy leave. Now wasn’t the time or place to excavate her sister’s fear of commitment, but Kylie intended to dig in very soon. Not out of a compulsion to step in and rescue her twin from a bad decision—they’d both finally outgrown that habit—but because she wanted Stacy to expect, and fight for, love with the same determination she used to pursue her career.
Soon
, Kylie silently vowed as she stood in her shiny new space while the last of the guests said their good-byes and wandered out into the starlit evening. The Santa Monica mountains rose in the distance, framing a huge, round moon as full of portent as an ancient Celtic blessing coin.
She felt blessed, and her blessings extended beyond having friends and family on hand to celebrate the realization of her goal. Between the loyal students she’d cultivated over her years instructing at other yoga studios, and the new members she’d picked up via word of mouth, her classes were booked to capacity. The biggest blessing of all, however, stood by the door, arms folded across his chest, watching her.
She walked over to him. He smiled the slow, crooked smile that always sent her pulse skyrocketing, and centered himself between her and the door. “Sorry,” he said, sounding anything but. “Hope I’m not in your way.”
Trevor had been by her side since the day she’d been released from the hospital, but never, ever in her way. While helping her do everything from create her business plan to pick paint colors, he’d slowly taught her the all-important difference between being able to depend on someone and being dependent. He’d shown her that sharing her heart didn’t mean subjugating her dreams.
“No,” she replied, unable to help the husky note in her voice, “you’re not in my way.”
“Good to know.” He reached behind him clicked the front door lock closed.
“Just the opposite, really. I couldn’t have done this,” she gestured around the studio, “without you.”
“I don’t know about that, but I suppose I am pretty handy to have around at times.” He winked, and with a flick of his fingers over the wall panel, dimmed the lights to a soft glow.
Unwilling to let him brush off her words, she laid her palm on his chest, over his heart. “Trevor, I mean it. Your belief in me, your support…” She shook her head. “Not to mention setting up spreadsheets, or spackling and painting. I don’t have the words to describe what everything you’ve done means to me.”
He lifted her hand from his chest and kissed it. “I’m versatile. Thing is”—releasing her hand, he stepped away and lowered the rattan blinds over the big, street-facing windows—“I don’t think you fully appreciate how versatile I am.”
Though his expression remained playful and his voice teasing, Kylie suddenly worried he really didn’t understand how much he meant to her. “I do,” she promised. “I appreciate everything about you.”
“We’ll see.” He drew her back into the main room, pulled one of the rented, slipcovered chairs away from a table, and positioned it in the center of the open area that had served as the dance floor for the evening’s festivities. “Take a seat.”
Oh, no, what was this? Were they going to have a
talk
? Her heart clutched. “Trevor—”
He slipped over to the sound system, hit a couple buttons on the remote, and then walked back around until he stood in front of her chair, facing her. “Now, about my versatility…”
Music started, an instantly identifiable guitar riff, followed by an equally identifiable voice—“Kiss,” by Prince. Trevor flipped his jacket off his shoulders and let it slide down his arms to land on the floor. Then he inched closer, leading with his hips, which were doing a mouthwatering bump-and-grind in perfect time with the pulsating beat of the song.
“Oh my God,” Kylie gasped, and clapped a hand over her mouth.
Off came the tie, which he draped around her neck. She giggled. “My own private dancer. I can’t believe I thought spackling was your secret, hidden talent.”
“I spackle, too. But I figured I owed you at least one dance, and I wanted to make it memorable. How am I doing so far?”
Kylie could only nod like a bobblehead.
“Okay.” Not missing a beat, he flicked open his cuffs. “Since I’ve taken an oath to protect and serve, I’m duty-bound to warn you to shield your eyes for this next part.”
“Huh?” Uncertain what he had in mind, she raised her hand, fingers parted so she could still see him. As Prince demanded her extra time and her kiss, Trevor tore open his shirt, sending buttons flying, baring his truly amazing chest and chiseled abs.
Holy smokes. This act of his was going to melt her panties right along with her heart. True, she knew his spectacular body almost as well as she knew the back of her own hand, had seen, touched, and had her way with him hundreds of times, but familiarity didn’t diminish the impact of watching him strip for her.
He turned around, tugged his shirt the rest of the way off, and flexed his delts and lats until her mouth went dry. With his hands behind his head, he turned to face her again, arched his back, and offered up his fly. “Care to do the honors?”
“Are you kidding?” Eagerly, she undid the clasp of his trousers, but when she went for the zipper, he pulled his hips back. “Uh-uh. Not so fast.” With a slight twist of his waist, he shifted closer again. “Reach into my pocket. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
She laughed, despite the wave of frustrated desire swirling through her. “The old ‘reach into my pocket’ routine?”
He merely shrugged and prompted her with a little hip shake. She reached in and tunneled her fingers down, enjoying the feel of his granite-hard thigh through the slippery lining. Her fingertips brushed something small and cool at the bottom of his pocket. Curious, her eyes sought his.
“Find something interesting?”
“I don’t know.” She closed her fingers around the tiny object and drew it out of his pocket while Prince wound his song down with a frenzy of kisses and funky guitar. When she opened her hand and saw what she was holding, the air backed up in her lungs. A beautiful diamond solitaire sat in her palm. Her pent-up breath escaped with an audible whoosh into the sudden quiet.
“Surprise,” he whispered.
“Oh…”
He dropped to his knee and took her hand, folding her fingers around the ring. “Marry me, Kylie. I love you. I want to spend my life with you. Hopefully you know by now that I’ll never stand in the way of your dreams.”
She took a shaky breath and looked up at him through tears.
“Ah, Jesus, don’t do it. Please.” Gently, he swept his thumb over her cheek.
“I can’t help it.”
“Because you’re so happy, or you’re completely freaked out? Spell it out for me, Ky.”
Laughing, crying, she flung her arms around his neck.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” And then he was kissing her. A long, deep kiss that set her soul soaring even as her body went up in flames.
“Yes,” she echoed when they finally came up for air.
“I’m holding you to that,” he whispered, and slipped the ring on her finger. “Forever.”
Can’t get enough of Samanthe Beck’s romances? Check out her debut novel
He’ll teach her how to bring a man to his knees…
Dr. Ellie Swan has a plan: open her practice in tiny Bluelick, Kentucky, so she can keep an eye on her diabetic father, and make hometown golden-boy Roger Reynolds fall in love with her. But Ellie has a problem. Roger seeks a skilled, sexually adventurous partner, and bookish Ellie doesn’t qualify.
Tyler Longfoot only cares about three things: shaking his bad boy image, qualifying for the loan his company needs to rehab a piece of Bluelick’s history, and convincing Ellie to keep quiet about the “incident” that lands him on her doorstep at two a.m. with a bullet in his behind.
The adorable Dr. Swan drives a mean bargain, though. If sex-on-a-stick Tyler will teach Ellie how to bring a man to his knees, she’ll forget about the bullet. Armed with
The Wild Woman’s Guide to Sex
and Tyler’s lessons, Ellie is confident she can become what Roger needs…if she doesn’t fall for Tyler first.
Chapter One
“To be honest, I’m relieved Roger and I called off our engagement.”
The snippet of conversation from the booth behind her pulled Dr. Ellie Swann’s nose out of her medical journal. She blinked and stared at the large window beside her. Its reflection offered a view of the bustling interior of DeShay’s Diner, including the booth where Melody Merritt and Ginny Boca huddled over pie and coffee.
Ellie forced her attention back to her journal and held her breath, waiting for the conversation to resume. No, Melody’s broken engagement was none of her business, and yes, eavesdropping was wrong, wrong, wrong. But she couldn’t resist listening in, because the discussion involved Roger Reynolds, the object of her longstanding and completely secret adoration.
“Roger and I weren’t well suited. I know we looked like the perfect couple—high school sweethearts and all—but between college in Manhattan, and then law school and the clerkship in DC, he changed. He picked up big-city tastes in some, ahem, intimate areas.”
Goodness
. Ellie used her napkin to blot the sweat from her upper lip.
Like what?
“What do you mean?” Ginny asked, her voice pregnant with curiosity.
Ellie flipped the page in her journal and feigned deep interest in an article about a recent drug trial for a female libido enhancer, of all things.
“He wanted me to—” Melody paused. Ellie peeked in the window and watched the blonde’s reflection glance around the diner, scanning the area for prying eyes and ears. Wise move. Sleepy little Bluelick, Kentucky, might be a mere speck on the map, but it boasted a grapevine of staggering efficiency.
Ellie shamefully included herself in the prying eyes and ears category, but the real irony was Melody’s choice of confidant. If the local gossips elected a president, Ginny would win by a landslide.
Apparently satisfied she had no unwanted listeners, Melody leaned toward Ginny and whispered. Ginny’s mouth dropped open. Ellie strained to hear, but it was no use.
The statuesque blonde leaned back in her chair and shuddered delicately. “I am
not
that kind of girl. I just won’t do those things. I mean, I like sex as much as the next woman, but Roger’s looking for a nymphomaniac. His ideal woman has a whole lot of experience and very few boundaries.” She sighed and shook her head. “I’ll always love him, as a friend, but really, it’s for the best.”
Hours later Ellie stared at the moonlight slanting through the window of her cozy bedroom and reviewed the conversation she’d overheard at the diner. Her conscience cringed at the rudeness of eavesdropping, not to mention coveting another woman’s freshly cast-off fiancé. Either transgression might explain why she was still tossing and turning at one thirty in the morning.
Let it go for the night
, she told herself, but her stubborn mind refused to obey. Shadows played across the ceiling while she obsessed over how to turn her most cherished secret wish into reality. She’d had the dream, in one form or another, for as long as she could remember: Roger fell in love with her. They married, moved to one of the stately old houses overlooking the river, and lived happily ever after, preferably with a passel of blue-eyed, honey-haired mini-Rogers. Roger III first—they’d call him Trey—and then Michael, or Elizabeth, if they had a girl…
The low rumble of a motorcycle tore through the quiet of the warm June night, distracting her from her family planning. Abruptly, the noise ceased and silence reigned again, everywhere except between her ears.
Melody had headed the cheer squad in high school. She was beautiful, limber, and full of…pep. If Melody couldn’t satisfy Roger in the sack, what chance did academic-minded, unathletic, and comparatively inexperienced Ellie Swann stand?
So close, and yet so far. On one hand, their paths seemed perfectly aligned. She’d recently moved back to Bluelick to open her general practice and keep tabs on her father, who was facing, or more accurately ignoring, a type 2 diabetes diagnosis—not that he seemed particularly thrilled with her weekly check-ins. Roger had returned home to join his family’s law firm. They were both single young professionals looking for love. On the other hand, unless she transformed into a sexually adventurous woman, fast, he’d never give her a second glance.
Thankfully she wasn’t still “Sparky” Swann, the sad little dork she’d been in high school. Back then the most curvaceous thing about her had been the thick round glasses she’d worn to correct nearsightedness. The intervening years had brought the final flourishes of puberty, LASIK surgery, and a much-needed fashion intervention by her college roommates. Nobody mistook her for a Victoria’s Secret model, but at least she didn’t still look like a refugee from science camp.
What did Roger look like now? Letting her heavy eyelids drift closed, she conjured up his golden perfection in her mind’s eye. She could picture him clear as day, seated in pew four at Bluelick Baptist with the rest of the Reynolds clan, all tall and square-jawed in his Sunday best. Would his eyes retain their stunning sky-blue clarity? Would he still have his star quarterback’s body and thick, gilt-blond waves? It didn’t matter. She adored Roger for more than his pretty container. Everything about him appealed to her, from his large, loving family to his sense of tradition and duty, confirmed by his decision to follow in the footsteps of his father and grandfather, joining them in their law practice.
In the seamless way of dreams, Roger turned to her and smiled his heart-stopping, almost blindingly white smile. The congregation launched into a booming rendition of “Rise Up, O Men of God.” He winked and leaned in close.
Can I share a secret with you, Sparky? I’m
—
Something crashed, and a low, distinctly un-Roger-like voice muttered, “God
dam
mit!”
She bolted upright in bed, heart pounding. Her eyes automatically sought the red glow of her bedside clock: 1:47 a.m. Had her subconscious sound editor missed a cue, or had a real-life noise jarred her out of what had been shaping up to be a very interesting dream? Holding her breath, she listened intently, and then nearly screamed when another crash sounded from her front porch. Another muffled curse followed.
Her feet hit the floor. Her hand swept across the surface of the bedside table, searching for her phone. The slow, steady crunch of gravel betrayed someone’s progress around her cute and, gulp,
isolated
cottage. When the footfalls stopped, her racing heart pole-vaulted into her throat. Someone lurked outside her bedroom window.
Your open bedroom window
, her mind screamed. What had she been thinking, going to sleep without locking the window? Now nothing but a flimsy screen and a wispy white curtain separated her from some crazed rapist-murderer. Unless this guy had the body mass of a mosquito, she was screwed.
She snatched up her phone and ordered herself to calm down. Bluelick wasn’t exactly a hotbed for cold-blooded violence. Everybody knew everybody and a good percentage of them were related. If she braved a look outside, she’d probably find some kid pulling a dare, more scared than she was.
A deep, almost lazy “Hey, Doc?” broke into her weak attempt at self-soothing.
The voice didn’t sound like a kid, or the least bit scared. Her fingers fumbled over the phone, tripping up the simple 9-1-1. If he wanted to come in, he’d be through the window and choking the life out of her in less than a minute. Emergency responders would reach her in time to draw a chalk outline around her cold, dead body.
“I’ve got a gun!” she croaked, trying for Dirty Harry, but sounding more like Kermit the Frog.
“Well, that’s fine, Doc,” the oddly familiar voice drawled. “But you don’t need it. I’ve already been shot.”
Shot? Holy smokes, was he serious? She flicked on her bedside lamp, but before she could formulate a response, he went on. “C’mon Sparky, open up. I heard you moved back home to hang out your shingle. Congratulations, you’ve got your first patient.”
That he’d called her “Sparky” didn’t mean much. The entire town knew her by that godforsaken nickname, but her fear ebbed, because an unmistakable stitch of pain threaded her mystery visitor’s voice.
She crept to the window. “Who
are
you?”
“Tyler Longfoot. Remember me?”
What woman could forget Tyler Longfoot? Four years older than her, a whole lot wilder, and monumentally cooler, Bluelick’s very own badass rebel had always radiated dangerous charm. A vision of him floated through her mind: the devil’s mane of thick, black hair; flashing green eyes filled with careless challenge; sensual lips cocked with wicked intent.
Pushing the curtain aside, she stared out. Sure enough, he stood there, a tall, rangy figure illuminated by the meager light from her bedside lamp. He wore his hair shorter now, but still a little untamed. It fell like a raven’s wing over his forehead. Otherwise, ten years hadn’t changed him much—or dimmed his bad-boy appeal.
“What the hell are you doing, slinking around my house at two in the morning?”
“Bleeding to death,” he said, not bothering to keep his voice down. Why would he? He’d already woken up the only other person around. “I’m not kidding, Doc. I need your help.” He leaned forward until the light fanned across his face, revealing pain-filled eyes.
“Why didn’t you ring the bell like a normal person?”
“Because after setting off every damn booby trap on your minefield of a front porch, I figured I had about fifteen seconds to get ’round here and let you know who it was before you called the cops or put another bullet in me.”
Her fingers automatically tensed on her phone. Okay, maybe his strategy wasn’t completely incomprehensible. Letting her gaze drift down, she tried to spot evidence of an injury. “You’re walking and talking pretty well for a man who’s supposedly been shot.”
“It’s a flesh wound, but it hurts like a mother—”
“All right. Go around. I’ll meet you at the front door.” He nodded and turned to go back the way he’d come. She grabbed her robe, shrugged it over her white nightie, and went to meet him. Along the way, her mind took an unscheduled trip back to sixth grade.
Even at twelve, she’d recognized that Tyler Longfoot oozed sex—hot, no-holds-barred sex—although at the time she wouldn’t have used those words. She’d gotten an eyeful of Tyler kissing Melody’s older sister, Melinda, behind the bleachers during a Bluelick Buffalos home game and had thought he looked like one of the rogues gracing the covers of the paperback novels for sale at Dalton’s Drugs. He’d certainly seemed to kiss like one. He’d bracketed Melinda’s slim waist with a lean, muscular arm, holding her close while the power of the kiss actually bent her backward. Ellie had felt light-headed and tingly just watching.
From the time she’d been old enough to daydream about happily ever after, she’d cast Roger in the role of Prince Charming, but seeing Tyler kiss had made her wonder what happened once
the enchanted couple rode off into the sunset.
She flicked the porch light on and looked down. The garbage bags she’d placed by the front door in preparation to haul them to the end of the driveway tomorrow morning—well, later today—were toppled and the contents scattered. Into the mess stepped a pair of scuffed black work boots. They jutted from the fraying hems of well-worn jeans. Her eyes traveled up long, muscular legs, absently noticing worn-to-white stress points at the knees, along the creases near the front pockets…the fly. A picture of eager female fingers tugging those buttons invaded her mind.
Shoving the unhelpful image away, she continued her inspection. A white T-shirt stretched across the hard expanse of his chest and hinted at chiseled abs. A smear of something that looked suspiciously like pink lipstick decorated the collar, and some lighter imprints shimmered on the bronze skin of his neck.
When she reached his striking green eyes, she found them staring back at her, filled with equal parts pain and amusement. “Where’s your gun, Sparky?”
“I go by Dr. Swann nowadays.”
“Where’s your gun, Doc?” A grin teased his lips.
She brought her hand from her robe pocket and stuck it out at him, index finger extended from her fist, thumb cocked. “Bang.”
He staggered back playfully and then winced for real. “You got me.”
“Where?” She still saw no trace of an injury.
By way of answer, he strode past her into the hallway. She turned to follow and immediately spotted the dark stain spreading over his hip pocket.
It wasn’t a ton of blood, but enough to bring a twinge of apprehension. “Tyler…”
He stopped halfway down the hall. “Where do you want me?”
“In my office downtown.”
“Funny, Spark—Doc.”
She caught up to him and put a hand on his arm. His muscle bunched beneath her fingers. “I’m not joking. Better yet, how about the ER in Lexington?”
“No, no. Let’s keep this between you and me. We go running into town, someone’s going to see us. At the ER, they’ll file a report of the shooting with the authorities.”
She removed her hand and stepped around so she faced him. “That’s going to happen anyway. I’m required to report any gunshot injuries to local law enforcement. If I don’t, I put my license in jeopardy.”
Without warning, he swayed and slumped against the wall. She grabbed him around the waist.
“Tyler! Tyler, do not pass out. You hold on to me, okay?” His arm around her shoulders felt reassuringly strong, and thankfully, his legs seemed able to support his weight. “Let’s go to my kitchen, so I can take a look and see exactly what we’re dealing with. Then I can decide where best to treat you.”
She doubted he was lucid enough to follow her suggestion, so he took her by surprise when he guided them down the hall to the kitchen and hit the lights.
Her eyes took a minute to adjust to the sudden brightness. Once they did, she focused on her patient. His color was just fine and his pupils fully responsive. “Funny, I don’t remember seeing you at the housewarming party.”
A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “I built this house. I know the layout well enough.”