Runaway Cowboy (18 page)

 

“U
h. Hi.”

Georgia splayed her hand over the front of her wet blouse and stared. The impossibly tanned guy standing just inside the doorway—­wearing a tight T-­shirt, jeans, and a smile—­was as still as a statue. A statue with fathomless, unblinking chocolate brown eyes. She let her gaze drop from his face to his broad chest. “Oh. Hello. I was expecting someone else.”

He didn't comment, but when she lifted her gaze again, past his wide shoulders and carved chin, she watched his smile turn into a grin, revealing way-­too-­sexy brackets at the corners of his mouth. He walked down the steps and onto the platform where she stood. He had to be at least 6'3”, and testosterone poured off him like heat waves on the field below. She shouldn't stare at him, right? Damn. Her gaze flicked from him to the glass wall but moved right back again.

“Scared of heights?” he asked. His voice was a slow, deep Southern drawl. Sexy deep. “Maybe you oughta sit down.”

“No, thanks. I was just . . . looking for something.”

Looking for something?
Like what—­a tryst with a stranger in the press box? Her face heated, and she clutched the water bottle, the plastic making a snapping sound under her fingers. “So . . . how did you get past my agents?”

He smiled again. “They know who I am.”

“And you are?”

“Brett Knox.”

His name sounded familiar. “Okay. I'm Georgia Fulton. It's nice to meet you,” she said, putting down her water.

He shook her hand briefly. “You, too. But I just came up here to let you know that I'm declining the interview. Too busy.”

Georgia felt herself nodding in agreement, even as she realized
exactly
who Brett Knox was. He was the star catcher—­and right in front of her, shooting her down before she'd even had a chance to ask. Such a typical jock.

“I'm busy, too, which is why I'd like to set up a time that's convenient for both of us,” she said, even though she hoped it wouldn't be necessary. But she couldn't very well walk into the news station without accomplishing what she'd been tasked with—­pinning him down. Georgia was a team player. So was Brett, literally.

“I don't want to disappoint my boss, and I'm betting you feel the same way about yours,” she continued.

“Sure. I sign autographs, pose for photos, visit Little League teams. Like I said, I'm busy.”

“That's nice.” She nodded. “I'm flattered that you found the time to come all the way up to the press box and tell me, in person, that you don't have time for an interview. Thanks.”

He smiled a little. “You're welcome.” Then he stretched, his broad chest expanding with the movement. He flexed his long fingers, braced a hand high on the post, and grinned at her again. Her heart flipped down into her stomach. Oh, no.

“I get it, you know. I've posed for photos and signed autographs, too. I've visited hospitals and ribbon cutting ceremonies, and I know it makes ­people happy. But public appearances can be draining, and it takes time away from work. Right?”

“Right.” He gave her a curious look. “We have that in common, though it's not exactly the same. I may be semi-­famous in Memphis, but I don't have paparazzi following me around, and I like it that way. You interviewing me would turn into a big hassle.”

“I won't take much of your time. Just think of me as another reporter.” She ventured a warm, inviting smile, and Brett's dark eyes widened. “The paparazzi don't follow me like they do my sisters. I'm the boring one.”

“Really?” He folded his arms across his lean middle, and his gaze traveled slowly over her face.

She felt her heart speed up. “Yes, really.”

“I beg to differ.”

Before she could respond, he gave her another devastating smile and jogged up the steps. It was the best view she'd had all day. When Brett disappeared, she collapsed back against the post. He was right, of course. She wasn't just another reporter; she was the president's brainy daughter—­who secretly lusted after athletes. And she'd just met a hell of an athlete.

Talk about a hot mess.

 

An Excerpt from

A Bowler University Novel

by Megan Erickson

The last installment in Megan Erickson's daringly sexy Bowler University series finds Cam Ruiz back in his hometown of Paradise, where he comes face-­to-­face with the only girl he ever loved.

 

C
am sighed, feeling the weight of responsibility pressing down on his shoulders. But if he didn't help his mom, who would?

He jingled his keys in his pocket and turned to walk toward his truck. It was nice of Max and Lea to visit him on their road trip. College had been some of the best years of his life. Great friends, fun parties, hot girls.

But now it felt like a small blip, like a week vacation instead of three and a half years. And now he was right back where he started.

As he walked by the alley beside the restaurant, something flickered out of the corner of his eye.

He turned and spotted her legs first. One foot bent at the knee and braced on the brick wall, the other flat on the ground. Her head was bent, a curtain of hair blocking her face. But he knew those legs. He knew those hands. And he knew that hair, a light brown that held just a glint of strawberry in the sun. He knew by the end of August it'd be lighter and redder and she'd laugh about that time she put lemon juice in it. It'd backfired and turned her hair orange.

The light flickered again but it was something weird and artificial, not like the menthols she had smoked. Back when he knew her.

As she lowered her hand down to her side, he caught sight of the small white cylinder. It was an electronic cigarette. She'd quit.

She raised her head then, like she knew someone watched her, and he wanted to keep walking, avoid this awkward moment. Avoid those eyes he didn't think he'd ever see again and never thought he'd wanted to see again. But now that his eyes locked on her hazel eyes—­the ones he knew began as green on the outside of her iris and darkened to brown by the time they met her pupil—­he couldn't look away. His boots wouldn't move.

The small cigarette fell to the ground with a soft click and she straightened, both her feet on the ground.

And that was when he noticed the wedge shoes. And the black apron. What was she doing here?

“Camilo.”

Other than his mom, she was the only one who used his full name. He'd heard her say it while laughing. He'd her moan it while he was inside her. He'd heard her sigh it with an eye roll when he made a bad joke. But he'd never heard it the way she said it now, with a little bit of fear and anxiety and . . . longing? He took a deep breath to steady his voice. “Tatum.”

He hadn't spoken her name since that night Trevor called him and told him what she did. The night the future that he'd set out for himself and for her completely changed course.

She'd lost some weight in the four years since he'd last seen her. He'd always loved her curves. She had it all—­thighs, ass and tits in abundance. Naked, she was a fucking vision.

Damn it, he wasn't going there.

But now her face looked thinner, her clothes hung a little loose and he didn't like this look as much. Not that she probably gave a fuck about his opinion anymore.

She still had her gorgeous hair, pinned up halfway with a bump in front, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and on her cheekbones. And she still wore her makeup exactly the same—­thickly mascaraed eyelashes, heavy eyeliner that stretched to a point on the outside of her eyes, like a modern-­day Audrey Hepburn.

She was still beautiful. And she still took his breath away.

And his heart felt like it was breaking all over again.

And he hated her even more for that.

Her eyes were wide. “What are you doing here?”

Something in him bristled at that. Maybe it was because he didn't feel like he belonged here. But then, she didn't either. She never did.
They
never did.

But there was no longer a
they
.

 

An Excerpt from

Book Three: Independence Falls

by Sara Jane Stone

Travel back to Independence Falls in Sara Jane Stone's next thrilling read. Armed with a golden retriever and a concealed weapons permit, Lena Clark is fighting for normal. She served her country, but the experience left her afraid to be touched and estranged from her career-­military family. Staying in Independence Falls, and finding a job, seems like the first step to reclaiming her life and preparing for the upcoming medal ceremony—­until the town playboy stumbles into her bed . . .

 

S
ometimes beauty knocked a man on his ass, leaving him damn near desperate for a taste, a touch, and hopefully a round or two between the sheets—­or tied up in them. The knockout blonde with the large golden retriever at her feet took the word “beautiful” to a new level.

Chad Summers stared at her, unable to look away or dim the smile on his face. He usually masked his interest better, stopping short of looking like he was begging for it before learning a woman's name. But this mysterious beauty had special written all over her.

She stared at him, her gaze open and wanting. For a heartbeat. Then she turned away, her back to the party as she stared out at Eric Moore's pond.

Her hair flowed in long waves down her back. One look left him wishing he could wrap his hand around her shiny locks and pull. His gaze traveled over her back, taking in the outline of gentle curves beneath her flowing, and oh-­so-­feminine, floor-­length dress. The thought of the beauty's long skirt decorating her waist propelled him into motion. Chad headed in her direction, moving away from the easy, quiet conversation about God-­knew-­what on the patio.

The blonde, a mysterious stranger in a sea of familiar faces, might be the spark this party needed. He was a few feet away when the dog abandoned his post at her side and cut Chad off. Either the golden retriever was protecting his owner, or the animal was in cahoots with the familiar voice calling his name.

“Chad Summers!”

The blonde turned at the sound, looking first at him, her blue eyes widening as if surprised at how close he stood, and then at her dog. From the other direction, a familiar face with short black hair—­Susan maybe?—­marched toward him.

Without a word, Maybe Susan stopped by his side and raised her glass. With a dog in front of him, trees to one side, and an angry woman on his other, there was no escape.

“Hi there.” He left off her name just in case he'd guessed wrong, but offered a warm, inviting smile. Most women fell for that grin, but if Maybe Susan had at one time—­and seeing her up close, she looked very familiar, though he could swear he'd never slept with her—­she wasn't falling for it today.

She poured the cool beer over his head, her mouth set in a firm line. “That was for my sister. Susan Lewis? You spent the night with her six months ago and never called.”

Chad nodded, silently grateful he hadn't addressed the pissed-­off woman by her sister's name. “My apologies, ma'am.”

“You're a dog,” Susan's sister announced. The animal at his feet stepped forward as if affronted by the comparison.

“For the past six months, my little sister has talked about you, saving every article about your family's company,” the angry woman continued.

Whoa . . . Yes, he'd taken Susan Lewis out once and they'd ended the night back at his place, but he could have sworn they were on the same page. Hell, he'd heard her say the words,
I'm not looking for anything serious
, and he'd believed her. It was one freaking night. He didn't think he needed signed documents that spelled out his intentions and hers.

“She's practically built a shrine to you,” she added, waving her empty beer cup. “Susan was ready to plan your wedding.”

“Again, I'm sorry, but it sounds like there was a miscommunication.” Chad withdrew a bandana from his back pocket, one that had belonged to his father, and wiped his brow. “But wedding bells are not in my future. At least not anytime soon.”

The angry sister shook her head, spun on her heels, and marched off.

Chad turned to the blonde and offered a grin. She looked curious, but not ready to run for the hills. “I guess I made one helluva first impression.”

“Hmm.” She glanced down at her dog as if seeking comfort in the fact that he stood between them.

“I'm Chad Summers.” He held out his hand—­the one part of his body not covered in beer.

“You're Katie's brother.” She glanced briefly at his extended hand, but didn't take it.

He lowered his arm, still smiling. “Guilty.”

“Lena.” She nodded to the dog. “That's Hero.”

“Nice to meet you both.” He looked up the hill. Country music drifted down from the house. Someone had finally added some life to the party. ­Couples moved to the beat on the blue stone patio, laughing and drinking under the clear Oregon night sky. In the corner, Liam Trulane tossed logs into a fire pit.

“After I dry off,” Chad said, turning back to the blonde, “how about a dance?”

“No.”

 

An Excerpt from

by Jamie Shaw

A straitlaced college freshman is drawn to a sexy and charismatic rock star in this fabulous debut New Adult novel for fans of Jamie McGuire and Jay Crownover!

 

“I
can't believe I let you talk me into this.” I tug at the black hem of the stretchy nylon skirt my best friend squeezed me into, but unless I want to show the top of my panties instead of the skin of my thighs, there's nothing I can do. After casting yet another uneasy glance at the long line of ­people stretched behind me on the sidewalk, I shift my eyes back to the sun-­warmed fabric pinched between my fingers and grumble, “The least you could've done was let me wear some leggings.”