While You Were Writing: Watkin's Pond, Book 2 (11 page)

He pitched the glass across the room. “Dammit, Stewart, I told you I didn’t want to be interrupted. The door being unlocked was an oversight, not an invitation for you to come trotting in here, waving lists at me. I’m working!”

Stewart clutched his tablet to his chest like a shield, wide-eyed and meek, the bastard, but didn’t retreat. “And I told you, sir, we needed to go over this schedule. I have to e-mail people back with your responses.”

“Tell them all I said go to hell, I’m working!”

He turned away from the man, shocked when a hand landed on his shoulder. He was about to growl and spit out another oath when her lips landed near his ear. “Well, you’re in a mood. Emma not cooperating this morning?”

With a sigh, he glared at Sher. “We discussed this. I’m working and—”

“You’re playing a game on your computer. Last night you were going through your mother’s boxes. You’re not writing and haven’t been for at least two days.” She bit his shoulder. As always, her very presence awakened a hunger he wasn’t sure he’d ever satisfy. He reached for her and she danced back a step, one brow raised. “You can take five minutes out and answer Stewart.”

Pasting his conference face on, he turned with utmost politeness and answered the questions that Stewart rattled off in a shaky voice. Within minutes, the man scurried off, tail between his legs, to do whatever in the hell Radcliffe paid him to do other than interrupting his work. Sheri followed him to the door, shutting herself inside and turning the lock.

“There, was that so hard?”

“You’re still in my space and I’m working.”

As usual, she didn’t back down or hesitate, looking up at him with her mysterious eyes and smiling her secretive smile. “I know. I’m here to help. When I saw the game up, I realized you must be stuck.”

While she spoke, she’d unbuttoned her shirt, letting it fall to the floor. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

Leaning back in his chair, he considered his new wife with interest. “How, precisely, do you plan to help, Mrs. McQueen?”

“Oh, Radcliffe, I’m sure we can think of something. After all, you said not to state the obvious. I wouldn’t want to bore you.” Stepping out of her jeans she knelt in front of him, her smile warming him almost as much as the sight of her nude on the floor of his office.

“I’m not bored,” he offered.

She took his hand and he pulled her close to kiss the lips he couldn’t quite describe, no matter how many times he’d tried in countless books since he’d met her. “Good,” she answered.

Radcliffe decided he could probably work later, since making her see how very good it could be became a sudden and overwhelming priority.

About the Author

Virginia Nelson believed them when they said, “Write what you know.” Small town girl writing small town romance, her characters are as full of flaws, misunderstandings and flat out mistakes as Virginia herself. When she’s not writing or plotting to take over the world, she likes to hang out with the greatest kids in history, play in the mud, drive far too fast and scream at inanimate objects. Virginia likes knights in rusted and dinged-up armor, heroes that snarl instead of croon and heroines who can’t remember to say the right thing even with an author writing their dialogue. Her books are full of snark, sex and random acts of ineptitude—not always in that order.

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Look for these titles by Virginia Nelson

Now Available:

Watkin’s Pond

Runaway Groom

He’s ready and waiting. She’s wanting…but wary.

Runaway Groom

© 2014 Virginia Nelson

Watkin’s Pond, Book 1

The groom is back in town.

Abigail lost her best friend years ago when he ditched her at the altar like a loaf of stale bread. Now he’s back and determined to do whatever he has to—even lie, apparently—to get under her skin. Although he makes her hormones rev to life in a way that no one has since he left, she is equally determined not to fall for his boy-next-door charm.

His bride-to-be is somewhat reluctant.

Braxton Dean was too young and stupid to know better when he walked away. Years of trying to fill the Abby-shaped hole in his heart have left him empty, and now he’s going to win back his girl—or get over her. But first he needs answers. Particularly why she never responded to any of his letters.

It might take a whole town to make this wedding happen.

With the help of their friends, the two battle it out. The army? An entire town of busybodies. The prize? Happily ever after.

Warning: Contains indignant old ladies, steamy sex (but not with indignant old ladies), seduction cake, and condom bouquets. Yes, we went there.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Runaway Groom:

July 7, 2005

Abby,

I’m sitting in a diner in the desert. The sun peeking over the mountain lights up everything in these reds so bright they almost hurt the eyes. You’ve never felt a hot like this, all dry, nothing like the days that we went swimming over at Watkin’s pond…

I don’t really know why I’m writing you. I don’t have answers and right now you probably want them. I just know I couldn’t do it.

I miss you though.

Love, B

Knuckles white, Abigail put her beat-up Ford Focus in Park, and glanced at her best friend. “I can’t do this.”

“Pussy.” Applying a coat of lipstick to her lush red lips in the mirror, Carnie shot her a glance. “You can do this. It isn’t like you’re about to face a firing squad. It’s just a bonfire.”

Shoving her hand through her short, pixie-cut brown hair, Abigail blew out a frustrated breath. “I would rather face a firing squad. If you ditch me to go running off with the new boyfriend…”

Carnie gave her a dirty look, tucking her red hair behind her shoulder. “I would never do that. I know how bent out of shape you get every time we go anywhere that Braxton might be. Really, though, it will be fine. The crap happened a thousand years ago. You’re adults now.”

Abigail didn’t feel like an adult. She felt like the rejected teenager even thinking of Braxton Dean.

It didn’t help that he’d become sexier with age. Heartbreakingly handsome, Braxton made her thighs clench with just a glance. She needed to remember the pain and humiliation rather than how it felt to be pushed into a bed by him. Better to remember the chest-constricting, blinding terror when he’d ditched her and vanished rather than remember his face a mask of unleashed passion and his green eyes wild with need. The former would keep her knees together.

The terror of that time—it wasn’t something she shared with anyone, not even Carnie.

Remembering gave her the strength she needed to peel her fingers from the wheel. “You’re right, of course. I can do this. No big deal. We’re both more mature now. He probably won’t even say a word to me.” The last came out a bit hopeful, even to her own ears.

“Yeah, at his birthday bonfire, he isn’t going to say a word to the woman he dated for years and ditched at the altar like a loaf of stale bread. Really, Abs, you need to get pissed off rather than feeling pissed on. You’re totally the injured party here.”

“He had his reasons. I’m sure he did.”
Why was she defending his dumb ass?

“What reason could be good enough for that grand act of douchebaggery?” Carnie raised one well-plucked brow at her. “Besides, these are
our
friends. You need to remember why we’re here. He took off. He stayed gone. This is our town. You’re going to walk in there and show him what he is missing. Rub in his face what he can’t have.”

“I don’t know. He really wasn’t a jerk…not most of the time.”

“Let’s just go find Mike and the crew, and have a good time. All of our friends from high school are here and it’ll be good to catch up with them.”

Nodding, stomach still a bit of a knot, Abigail opened her door and stepped out into the muggy Ohio night. Stars hung like tiny lanterns above the recently mowed field and the sound of laughter carried on the breeze. The bonfire, a huge conflagration, was surrounded by what looked like hundreds of folding chairs, coolers and other party miscellany that beckoned Abigail onwards. Who knew? Maybe she would meet someone new and end up being really happy she wasted the extra five minutes to make sure everything was shaved and neat?

Carnie strode with her usual impulsive bravery into the melee. Abigail stuffed her hands in her jeans and resisted casting her head down to avoid any stares that might be coming her way. Instead she held her head high, but refused to meet anyone’s eyes. In small-town Ohio, everyone knew she hadn’t seen Braxton since that fateful day when he left her standing, flowers in hand, waiting for a runaway groom. Everyone knew that instead of marrying her, Braxton—golden boy and football hero—ran off to parts unknown, and she’d neither heard from him nor caught a glimpse of him when he’d come to town until a few weeks ago. He only returned home now to help his father with his tool store after his father’s stroke made it hard for the old man to get around like he used to.

Everyone watched to see how she’d handle it.

She wouldn’t give them a show to chew over for the next decade. She’d act like it was ancient history, like she hadn’t spent years wondering how a man could go from saying he loves her to leaving her to stand alone against a whole swarm of gossips with nothing better to do than tear her to shreds for being moronic enough to think he would stay.

She concentrated so hard on what she wouldn’t do, she slammed to an abrupt halt against a firm chest.
His
firm chest. Braxton. He smelled the same, damn him.

Even over the scent of wood burning, the ripeness of summer and the bitter tang of someone’s spilled beer, she inhaled his soap, familiar cologne and under it all, simply Braxton.

Her stomach clenched. Part of her wanted to smack him and demand answers. Part of her wanted to run away. Part of her wanted to pull his face down and kiss him because she’d missed him so much.

Instead she hid behind an armor of polite civility and gave a short, sharp nod. “Braxton.”

“Abby.” The word came out almost a plea. His eyes held a sad look she quickly identified. He pitied her.

Double damn him. “Happy birthday.”

And even though she promised herself she wasn’t going to give everyone a show, promised herself she wouldn’t feed the rumor mills...

The sound of her slap rang out across the field. Even in the flickering light from the bonfire, her handprint marked his strong jaw and she couldn’t ignore the pleasure it gave her. Silence seemed to spread across the night as he touched his cheek. Her mouth hung open, shock rippling through her as his gaze locked on hers.

“I deserved that.” The timbre of his voice seemed to stroke across her skin, stirring up a potent cocktail of emotions—lust, love, fury and pain. The worst part was disgust at herself for feeling anything.

“You deserve worse.”

Instead of arguing with her, which almost would have made her feel better, like it meant something to him, he simply nodded. “Wanna go somewhere to talk?”

Every first love deserves a second chance.

Blame it on Texas

© 2014 Amie Louellen

Shelby Patterson has come back to Texas for one reason and one reason only—to get her husband to sign divorce papers. She’s worked hard to build her California bakery, where clients clamor for her one-of-a-kind creations.

Seven years after her disastrous marriage, she’ll finally have everything in perfect order—just as soon as Ritter McCoy signs the dotted line.

Ritt is still pissed that Shelby walked out all those years ago without giving their marriage a chance. Sure, they were young and had just lost the baby that had rushed them to the altar, but they’d loved each other beyond reason.

Ritt gave up his college baseball scholarship, only to have Shelby and her mom take his parents’ bribe money and run. If Shelby wants those papers signed, she’ll just have to wait until he’s good and ready.

Or maybe, before she flies the coop again, he can convince her the love they had between them is still there—and still hot enough to melt their hearts back into one.

Warning: This book contains a sexy Texas boy determined to recapture his first love. May also produce feelings of nostalgia and longing for slow kisses and sweet tea.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Blame it on Texas:

She should have known she’d find him like this.

Shelby looked down at the oil-stained driveway to the denim-clad legs protruding from underneath the ancient Ford. The hem of the jeans was frayed, the worn cowboy boots dusty and with a few stains of their own.

She propped her hands on her hips, doing her best not to tap her foot in irritation. It would do no good. If there was one thing she’d learned in her time as Ritt McCoy’s wife, he had his own timetable and to hell with anyone else’s.

“I said, I need to talk to you.”

“And I said, just a minute,” his muffled voice returned.

Shelby bit back a growl and used the thick packet of papers to fan herself. That was one thing she didn’t miss about Texas—the heat. But with any luck and the good Lord’s grace, she’d only be here another few minutes, an hour at the most, and then she’d be on her way back to California.

A trickle of sweat ran down between her shoulder blades and into the small of her back. Shelby fanned harder and checked her watch. She’d been waiting twenty minutes for Ritt to finish whatever it was he was doing to the truck and sign on the dotted line. That was nineteen more than she cared to wait.

“Ritt.”

“Shelby.”

“I need you to sign these.”

“In a minute.”

“Now. I have a plane to catch.”

She jumped back, nearly snapping the heel off one peep-toe pump. They had been a special purchase for this trip along with the form-fitting black dress that hugged her like a second skin. Scrambling to get out of the way, she managed to maintain her balance as Ritt pushed the creeper from under the truck.

And there he was, the boy who stole her heart, took her virginity and married her all in one summer. Well, he’d had her heart for years before that. And he wasn’t a boy any longer; though the years, she grudgingly admitted, had been very kind to him.

“What?” he asked. Even lying down, he looked taller, broader, more. She was glad to have the advantage, standing over him like she was.

“I’m in a hurry.”

“Not my problem.” He disappeared in a quick swoosh back under the truck. But he left his image behind. Dark blond hair curling from under a ratty Longhorns baseball hat. Dirt smeared T-shirt covering a chest she didn’t remember as having quite so many muscles. Long legs, firm lips, square jaw.

“I’ve flown over a thousand miles to get you to sign these. The least you could do is get out from under there and do it.” Her voice rose in pitch, the whine she’d been tamping down rising to the surface. Couldn’t he see how they needed this? That it was time to move forward?

There was a loud clunk, which sounded like head versus oil pan, then a muffled curse.

He rolled out again, and before she knew what had happened he was towering over her. She took a couple of steps back for good measure, unable to meet his blue-gold gaze as he studied her face.

“What is it, Shelby? What is so important that you flew all the way out here to grace me with your presence?”

She was wrong. The years had been more than kind to him, they had outright adopted him. Had he always been this tall? This broad? This…masculine?

He had, she decided. But after seven years away, she had forgotten what a man her Texas boy had been.

She licked her lips, the sight of him bringing back more memories than she cared to delve through. Prom night, at the lake after the baseball games, Saturday afternoon in the canyon…

He raised his brows. “I’m waiting.”

Waiting? “Oh, the papers,” she squeaked. “I need you to sign the divorce papers.”

“You flew all the way here for that?” He picked up a rag and started wiping his fingers on it. Shelby could smell the oil on him, the fabric softener in his shirt and the heat from his body.

“I didn’t think you’d sign them any other way.”

“You didn’t trust me to sign them.” He tucked the stained rag into the back pocket of his Levis and adjusted his hat.

“My attorney has sent them twice now.”

“I lost a set in the move.” He jerked his head toward the house he had lived in his entire life.

Shelby took a deep breath, doing her best to formulate her most persuasive offense. “No problem. I happen to have a set right here.” She pulled the papers from the manila envelope and flattened them against the hood of the truck. They ruffled in the breeze as she dug around in her purse. “And here’s a pen.” She handed it to him triumphantly. She was minutes away from being a free woman. Free of Ritt McCoy and free to move forward.

“Sign, please.” Her words came out confident and true. There wasn’t a waver in her voice, no sign that being this close to him had her tied in knots. He could always do that to her. They brought out the worst in each other. A divorce was for the best.

“I haven’t had a chance to look over them yet.”

“My attorney sent them to you last month.”

He shrugged.

“I need you to sign—”

“I think I should have a chance to read them—”

“I flew all the way out here—”

“I mean it’s only fair—”

“Fair?”

“No one told you to come out here.”

When had he stepped so close?

“Sorry you had to dirty your precious bohemian feet to come to mean old Texas. But I ain’t signin’.”

Shelby took another deep breath. “Why are you being so stubborn?”

He glared at her.

“What do you want, Ritt? A signing bonus?”

Oops. Wrong thing to say.

His eyes narrowed, his jaw ground together, and that good ol’ boy look froze on his face. “Funny thing you should mention that, sugar. ‘Cuz that may be the only thing that’ll get me to sign.” He turned on his heel and stalked to the porch. “Come on, Clyde.” A fat basset hound stood and stretched and followed behind his master. Without a backward glance, Ritt jerked open the door, then he and the dog disappeared into the house.

The wind blew the papers onto the desert-hot driveway. Shelby bent to pick them up, crazy nostalgia nearly choking her. She should have known that seeing him again after so long was a bad idea. She should have known that he wouldn’t make it easy for her. But she hadn’t thought her own emotions would get in her way. This is what she wanted. What she needed. She bit her lip and stared at the front door of the house.

She’d give him a few minutes, then she’d try again. She had plenty of time before she had to get back to the airport. Plenty of time to convince him to sign. Well, it would help if she knew
why
he wouldn’t sign. It wasn’t like they had a real marriage. They’d only lived together a couple of months. A couple of passionate, turbulent months.