Derrick Bright’s baseball career may be over, but his brother’s is just starting—until a scandal threatens to end things. PR specialist Anne McGrath hasn’t spoken to Derrick since he left her eleven years ago. But she agrees to help for his brother’s sake. Escaping the press in Pacific Cove allows them to reconnect. Will she accept Derrick’s vow and make his Christmas dreams finally come true?
“I didn’t even know you were participating in the auction until I saw the program tonight. Before I could find you myself, a friend introduced me to Todd, and Todd asked if I’d be willing to meet you…” Derrick’s mouth pulled up on one side like he was trying not to smile. He was all boyish innocence and every bit as appealing as Anne remembered as he added, “He, uh, he actually asked me if I’d flirt with you a little.”
Anne choked out a surprised laugh. “Thank you for sparing us both that awkwardness.”
Grinning, he assured her, “It wouldn’t be awkward for me.” His gaze traveled down and settled on a spot. “You have a little smudge of something on your dress. Let me guess—ice cream?”
She frowned. A combination of embarrassment and discomfort blazed through her. How dare he draw on their former intimacy like this?
Glancing down, she tugged clumsily on her wrap and thought up a lie. “No, it’s, um…oil.”
“Oil?” he repeated skeptically.
“Yep.” She shrugged and stared him down. “Moonlighting on the oil rig.”
He started to smile, to call her out, but then seemed to pick up on her back-off signal. He cleared his throat and composed his features. “How have you been, Anne?”
“For all eleven of the years it’s been since I’ve seen you?” She heard the clear edge in her voice. There was a chance she hadn’t gotten over this quite as well as she’d believed. But you know what? What he’d done had been really…hurtful, and perhaps she was still a tad angry. Now that she thought about it, there was no rule stating she had to make this reunion easy on him.
USA Today and national bestselling author Carol Ross grew up in small-town America right between the Pacific Ocean and the Cascade Mountains, in a place where you can go deep sea fishing in the morning and then hit the ski slopes the same afternoon. The daughter of free-range parents, she developed a love of adventure and the outdoors at a very early age. She’s grateful for the “research material” that every questionable decision, adrenaline-charged misstep, and near-death experience has provided.
It’s been almost a decade since the end of the war, when the telegram first arrived at their house on Lennox Lane.
Four years since the apartment on Harker Street, where food was scarce and nights were long and their mother slept away her grief.
Three months since Janie was forced to leave her little brother, Brayden, and best friend, Leo, behind at Anthers Hall.
Two weeks since she stole a bicycle and ran away from the new children’s home on the other side of the state.
One day since she arrived in Montours City.
No one knows her secrets in this small town. If Janie is going to make it back to her brother and the only place she’s ever called home, she needs to keep it that way. But when a hard-hearted widow, a boy in a boxcar, and a dog named Panda weave their way into her life, Janie begins to wonder if what she’s searching for isn’t better off laid to rest.
The town was on fire. The four o’clock sunlight filtered through a tangle of skeletal branches, its leaves already tinged gold and red, burning the brick exteriors of the buildings so the whole world looked ablaze. It reflected off car mirrors and flecks of dust in the asphalt, paving a path of scattered light as she pedaled past houses with white-shingled siding and painted shutters and swings tied to trees in the side yards. Broken pieces of colored chalk rolled into cracks in the sidewalk, a red wagon crushed purple mums in a flower bed, and milk bottles rattled as a woman shooed away stray cats from the porch steps.
Janie turned the corner and lifted her feet from the pedals of her bicycle, allowing the tips of her tennis shoes to skim the pavement, their leather already blackened and cracked from wear. The front wheel wobbled from the decrease in speed, and she tightened her grip on the handlebars and leaned to the side before pushing off the pavement again with one foot, letting the momentum carry her further down a new street—past a man in denim overalls raking leaves and white-haired ladies sipping lukewarm tea on front porches, she herself a whisper of a vision of which no one could be certain.
She didn’t know what she expected when she turned off the main road along the river and coasted around the mountain bend. Maybe another small town like the one she’d left behind or some thoroughfare to an anonymous city. But when she paused at the green wooden sign, its words etched in scratched gold paint, she thought it would be as good a place as any to pause and sleep and see what road came next.
Color and light and sound whizzed by her as she veered down another street and followed the road until the sidewalks widened and turned to brick. Storefronts with hand-sewn awnings and faded chalkboard signs pressed against front windows boasting sales and specials. On her left, a row of tall, elegant townhomes with large oak doors filled most of the block until they, too, gave way to a beauty shop, a five-and-dime, and a small café announcing a full chicken dinner for $1.65 and a beer for a quarter.
Janie closed her eyes and raised her head, imagining she could smell roasting chicken with rosemary or thyme, perhaps, and garlic string beans, mashed potatoes on the side. Her stomach twisted, a sharp pain to the center of her gut, and she quickly steered her bicycle to the other side of the street. A small garage, its doors lowered, boasted a pile of discarded tires and a red gas pump out front. A savings bank and post office advertised postage for letters home while a small grocer stacked canned goods in the window, a drooping maroon flag above the door. There was a tailor, a drugstore, and a bakery—the last in a line of shops displaying loaves of French bread in a wicker basket, pound cakes set on lace doilies and fruit tarts placed on stands beside it.
She veered closer to the bakery, the soles of her shoes skidding along the sidewalk as she rolled to a stop and stared at the display. She could distract herself from the dinners and canned goods and produce hidden behind closed doors, but she couldn’t ignore the sight of warm butter rolls, the crumbling coffee cakes, the cinnamon raisin loaves that taunted her from behind the glass. Something burned in the pit of her stomach—something deep and raw and wailing, threatening to break through to the surface. Cream cheese fillings and honey glazes and flakey, crusted breads warped her senses. They blurred her vision and tugged her memory forward until she was back in the kitchen at Anthers Hall, unwrapping fresh loaves on the counters where they cooled before breaking off the ends to tuck in a cloth napkin and hide behind the flour canister for Leo.
Leo…
“Closed up for the night.”
Janie whirled around, her eyes darting to the few cars that sat outside the shops before wandering up and down the empty sidewalk until she spied a tall, thin man dressed in coveralls across the street. He stood on the front porch of a large, yellow stucco house, a paintbrush in his hand.
“Today’s Sunday. Nothin’ open Sundays. Everybody’s gone home for supper.” The man shook his head and turned back to the porch columns, carefully raising and lowering his hand with every pass of the paintbrush. “Y’ain’t from around here.” His voice carried across the street, though he didn’t pause from his work. “I know everyone in Montours City, and you ain’t one of them. Which can only mean one thing: you ain’t from around here.”
Susan Pogorzelski is the award-winning author of Gold in the Days of Summer and The Last Letter. When she’s not writing novels of nostalgia and the magic of everyday life, she works as a consultant and editor at Brown Beagle Books, is an intuitive energy practitioner at Susan Dawn Spiritual Connections, and is the founder of LymeBrave Foundation. She lives in South-Central Pennsylvania with her beloved family and pets.
Title: Return All Author: Eve Dangerfield Series: Rebirth #2 Genre: Romantic Comedy
Hundreds of women have tried to win Derek over, but the only girl he’s loved is nowhere to be found…
Derek Hardiman has been crowned a football prodigy—but success came at the cost of his dorky high school sweetheart, Mara Temple. A decade after she left town, he still can’t imagine marrying someone who isn’t her… Traveling for most of her twenties, Mara has returned home with a designer wardrobe, a sweet puppy, and a new last name. What better to keep her surly ex-boyfriend from recognizing her?
When Mara and Derek are thrown back into each other’s lives the obsession that began when they were teenagers returns in full force. Derek can hardly believe the goddess his once-awkward lover has become, and he’s determined to win her back. But Mara is determined not to give in to the hype surrounding her bachelor superstar ex. Unfortunately, Derek has always lived up to the hype. After all, a girl only has one daddy…
Derek moved toward her, getting bigger by the second. “Mara? Mara! It’s me!”
His eyes were wild, his face—his face looked different. His moustache was gone. Clean-shaven, he was more like the boy from school than ever, jogging toward her in a black hoodie as though this was Albury in 2011.
Mara lowered hands she hadn’t known she’d brought to her chest. “Hi.”
She said it so quietly he couldn’t have heard her, but his face lit up. Naked happiness so bright it was terrifying. She wanted to burrow into the ground like a scared rabbit.
Chase turned. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Derek didn’t even glance at him. His unworldly black eyes were locked on hers. Mara’s cunt contracted. He was going to pick her up. He was going to carry her away like a marauding conqueror. Then he didn’t. He pulled up, his body jolting. “Mara. I can’t believe it’s you.”
She stared up at him. Even in her fuchsia Attico pumps, she barely came to his shoulders. He’d grown since he was a teenager. Up close, his face was different too. There were lines around his eyes that weren’t visible in photos or on TV. Neither was the black stubble under his skin. The word rose unbidden, Daddy, and euphoria spread through Mara’s chest like honey.
“Hello? Asshole? Can you hear me?” Chase demanded.
Derek ignored him. His gaze dragged over her face, studying her as she studied him. She touched a hand to her lips. Had he noticed her injection? Her eyelashes? Her nose? The fact her ears no longer stuck out through her hair?
Then he shook his head. “You’re fucking stunning. You look so… I don’t know how to say it.”
Expensive. She looked expensive. Money had flowed into her life, glossing her rough parts, and buffing the bright places to a near-impossible shine. She looked like a rich girl. Mara stared at her toes. For years she’d dreamed of this moment, dreamed of him saying these things, but now he was here, and she wanted to hide.
“Mara… where have you been, baby?”
It was such a huge question, tied off with such a ridiculous pet name, Mara didn’t know how to answer. “Around. I guess.”
Derek’s face sagged. “But—”
Chase stepped between them. “Maybe I should have made this clearer at our meeting, stay the fuck away from us. Now leave or I’ll call the police.”
“One minute, mate.” Derek sidestepped Chase. “Your hair. When did you grow out your hair?”
Mara almost laughed. “When I was twenty. Derek, what are you doing here? Is this about the house?”
“The house? The fucking house?”
He took a step toward her, and Chase moved across, blocking him. “Talk with your words, Hardiman.”
Derek scowled but took a step backward. “I’ve been looking for you for years. I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
Mara felt a small streak of pride. She’d paid handsomely to keep her name out of Google search terms. It was nice to know it had worked. “I… got off social media.”
“Right.” Derek shoved his hands into his pockets. “Fuck. Well, I’m so sorry, baby. I’m sorry, for everything. I’m sorry we lost touch and…”
His words washed over Mara like dirty waves. So sorry. Lost touch. Baby. They meant nothing. They were just sounds crammed together. A woman in a gray coat ducked past them and she realised they were blocking the path. She turned her face away.
Chase glanced from her to Derek. “Okay, this has been sufficiently weird, but we need to get to work. Goodbye, Mr Hardiman. Don’t come here again.”
Chase slid his arm through hers and steered her around Derek and back toward HFA.
“Mara!”
Derek’s voice stirred waters deep inside her. Places she’d allowed to crumble in the darkness of her twenties. She turned and found him staring desperately after her.
“Mara!” Derek’s voice was clear, a king calling across his hall. “Mara, we’re not done.”
She stopped as though he’d commanded it and Derek’s legs ate up the ground between them. “You. You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.”
She flushed, aware of Chase sputtering at her back. “Derek, I don’t know what to do.”
“So let me decide.”
Anger sizzled through her like hot oil. “Things aren’t the way they used to be.”
“Okay. I get that. You want me on my knees?”
“What?” she and Chase said together.
To her astonishment, Derek dropped like a stone onto the dirty footpath, cutting his height in half.
“For the love of Christ,” Chase groaned but Mara could only stare. Derek had always been unapologetic in his affection, but this was insane. He was a famous footballer and anyone could see him. How could he possibly be this desperate to speak to her? “Derek…”
“Give me your number.” He raised his tattooed palms as though in prayer. “Let me give you mine. I need to see you again.”
But you’re seeing me right now…
Chase touched her shoulder. “I’ll give you some privacy. But I’m right here.”
“Okay,” Mara whispered.
Derek watched Chase go, his gaze flicking back to hers as soon as he gauged Chase was far enough away.
“Baby,” his voice was gravel. “Baby, I want to kiss you. I am barely holding back right now.”
Mara knew that. She felt his energy vibrating out at her like orange heat. He wanted to snatch her up, crush her, take her down. Her body responded like warm paper desperate to curl into flame.
He smirked, so handsome, it almost stopped her heart. “It’s been too long, Little Miss.”
She stepped back. Little Miss. She called Pan that. But he had called her that. Not all the time. In bed. Pan. Pan was chewing away at Chase’s jumper upstairs. She needed to go to her. She needed to be with Pan. She took another step back. “I don’t know why you came, but I have to go.”
Derek stayed on his knees. “Give me your number. Or take mine. We’re not done, baby.”
Eve Dangerfield has loved romance novels ever since she first swiped her grandmother’s paperbacks. Now she writes her own stories about complicated women and gorgeous-but-slightly-tortured men. Her work has been described as ‘genre-defying,’ ‘insanely hot’ and ‘the defibrillator contemporary romance needs right now’…and not just by herself or those who might need bone marrow…OTHER PEOPLE! She lives in Melbourne with her boy and a bunch of semi-dead plants. She can generally be found making a mess.
