contemporary romance

12 Days of Christmas Reads — Rocky Mountain Cowboy Christmas by Katie Riggle

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Welcome to a bookish celebration of the Christmas season! For 12 days in December, I’m highlighting a book a day that puts the holiday season front and center of the narrative. You’ll find romances, women’s fiction, and even a cookbook! For day four, I’m sharing a Colorado-set romantic suspense.

When firefighter and single dad Steve Springfield moved his four kids to a Colorado Christmas tree ranch, he intended for it to be a safe haven. But he never expected danger to follow them to his childhood home...

Or that he would come face-to-face with the one girl he could never forget.

Folk artist Camille Brandt lives a quiet life. As the town's resident eccentric, she's used to being lonely—until Steve freaking Springfield changes everything. Brave and kind, he's always had a piece of her heart, and it doesn't take long before she's in danger of falling for him again. But as mysterious fires break out across the sleepy Colorado town, Steve and Camille will have to fight if they want their happy family to survive until Christmas...

I’ve always liked a good Western United States-set romance novel, so Rocky Mountain Cowboy Christmas was a blind pickup from me based solely on the man in a cowboy hat, flannel, and denim on the cover. (I love the genre and its covers, but I’m glad to see that there was no snowy shirtless cowboy on this one. Poor man would’ve frozen to death.)

This light romantic suspense is unusual in that it flips the reclusive hero on his head and casts the heroine in that role. Camille isn’t comfortable around people, and that manifests not through physical awkwardness and clumsiness but pure dread at crowds, strangers, anything really. But Steve is a good solid man and father who shows her from the beginning that he poses no threat. He accepts her fear and discomfort for what it is and, suitably, the relationship progresses on her terms. This makes for a slow building romance that is ultimately believable and satisfying.

One of the most deft pieces of characterization in this book centers around the watching Camille becoming fully comfortable in Steve’s life. She relaxes and interacts and shows who she really is around him and his children gradually. The fact that she doesn’t automatically slip comfortably Steve’s life is a credit to the author. Steve doesn’t make her a social butterfly but helps her become a better version of herself in a realistic way.

Check back tomorrow for the next edition of the 12 Days of Christmas Reads. If you want to see all of the 12 Days of Christmas Reads recommendations in one place, you can check out this handy landing page or sign up for my newsletter.

Get a Free Holiday Romance Today!

I've got a secret for you. Sometimes authors put out books and think, "I'm not so sure about that one." That's what happened when I put out "Kiss Me at Midnight" in the One Week in December anthology. It wasn't that I didn't like the holiday short story. I loved the characters and the premise. I just felt like it was missing something.

Fast forward to this fall and I figured out what was bothering me about the story. It needed more. Now I'm rereleasing Kiss as Midnight as a fully revised, much longer holiday novella under my Julia Blake name. I've also made the story a lot sexier. (TBH this is probably what was bothering me the most. I wrote a contemporary romance without sex it in? Well we can't have that.)

You can now download the fully revised version of Kiss Me at Midnight at all your favorite retailers for free.

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This holiday novella kicks off my revamped Ticket to Love series with The Wedding Week and Seduction in the Snow. In honor of it, I'm putting those two books on sale for 99¢ for a for a limited time!

Enter to Win an eBook of Changing the Play

If you haven't had a chance to pick up a copy of my new sports romance CHANGING THE PLAY, you're in luck! My publisher has generously put 100 copies of the ebook up for a Goodreads giveaway. All you have to do is click on this link and hit the "enter giveaway" button. That's it!

The contest runs through September 4. And don't forget to leave a review after you read it! Good or bad, reviews help readers find their next favorite book.

Listen to the First Chapter of Changing the Play

I've always loved hearing stories read out loud. I'm sure it comes from Mum and Dad reading to me every night when I was a little kid, and even into adulthood I've never lost it. Audiobooks, podcasts, radio shows—I love all things audio. That's why, when my new Julia Blake book CHANGING THE PLAY came out earlier this week, I decided to do a little read aloud on Facebook Live!

On these videos, you'll hear me reading parts one and two of chapter one of my new sports romance. You'll also get a little insight into why I wrote the book.

If you want to keep reading, you can buy CHANGING THE PLAY from these fine ebook retailers:

Amazon | iBooks | Kobo | Nook | Google Play | Books-A-Million

Be sure to like my Facebook page, because I do a Facebook Live every Friday to talk about everything from new release news to the books I'm reading!

Changing the Play Is Out Today!

Today is a very exciting day. My brand-new contemporary sports romance, CHANGING THE PLAY, is hitting readers' eReaders as we speak! It's an enemies-to-lovers, second chance romance set in the tense weeks before the NFL Draft, but you don't have to be a football fan to fall in love with Rachel and Nick! Keep reading for more details.

The game changed when he walked back into her life.

Rachel Pollard has never been a push-over. That’s why she’s a superstar in the world of sports management, making a name for herself with a shrewd eye for overlooked talent. She certainly isn’t taking any chances with her latest NFL draft prospect, Kevin Loder, who’s poised to shake up the league. But when Nick Ruben, a tenacious sports reporter who also happens to be the crush who ignored her all through high school, picks up the scent of a long-buried story, Rachel suddenly finds herself playing defense for the first time in years.

Your First Look at a New Sports Romance

As much as I love writing historical romance, you need to spice things up from time to time. That’s why, in just a couple weeks, I’m giving you a taste of a sexy, fast-paced new sports romance series published under a brand-new name—because what lady doesn’t need a second, not-so-secret identity?

My new Julia Blake book, Changing the Play, is the first book in the Game Changer series, and it comes out on August 21. It’s a second chance romance between Rachel, an agent at the top of her game, and Nick, the sports reporter trying to wheedle a story out of her biggest new client. Things are extra sticky because Nick also is Rachel’s high school crush who never paid her any attention—or so she thinks.

You can preorder Changing the Play now to make sure you’re in the game the day the book hits stores.

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To give you a little taste of what you can expect, here’s the first chapter.

Chapter One

Rachel Pollard huffed out a breath and wished desperately for a shot of whiskey in her coffee. She’d been up all night reviewing an endorsement contract for Katerina Baranova, and now the spoiled tennis player and her equally loathsome father were tying up her office line with even more demands. Not a fun way to end a workday.

“Why does Serena get to design her own dresses?” Katerina whined, her Russian accent softened by years of training at an exclusive Palm Beach tennis academy.

Because Serena Williams revolutionized the women’s game, and you only cracked the quarterfinals of your first Grand Slam last month.

“Katerina should be focusing on her forehand,” barked Yuri. “Not dresses. Not shoes. Not visors.”

His daughter sniffed. “I’m interested in more than just hitting a ball around a grass court.”

“If you’d learn to respect the grass, you wouldn’t have lost in the second round of Wimbledon last year,” Yuri said.

Rachel pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose and pinched. Hard. She had neither the time nor the desire to get dragged into the middle of another Baranova brawl. What she did have was a hot date with a bottle of cabernet, a scalding bath, and three contracts on her iPad. Not exactly an evening of romance, but the contracts had to be read, and doing the work at home trumped late nights in her midtown Manhattan office any day.

“Look,” she interrupted, “your contract very clearly states that you’ll be given a selection of clothing at the beginning of each season. For now, all you can do is keep winning, Katerina. Wins mean more leverage when it comes time to renegotiate with the sponsors.”

“See,” said Yuri. “Miss Pollard tells you to win. You do what Miss Pollard tells you.”

Rachel was so happy to hear a Baranova agree with her that she didn’t even point out that she went by Ms. and not Miss. Not that Yuri cared. He was more focused on grooming his daughter to be the next Maria Sharapova than he was on pleasantries. Typical nightmare tennis dad.

Five minutes later, Rachel dropped her desk phone unceremoniously into its cradle and slouched in her chair. A glance at the gold watch she always wore on her left wrist told her that Katerina and Yuri had sucked up twenty-four minutes. Much too long. It was time to start weighing whether the troublesome tennis player was worth the investment—Grand Slam appearances or not.

Most of Rachel’s clients weren’t a problem because most treated her with the same reverence a fifth grader holds for a strict but beloved teacher. In her business, reputation was key, and over the years she’d become known for finding raw, untested young athletes and grooming them into stars.

Working with her came with some caveats, of course. She operated under strict rules. You work out. You practice. You don’t fuck up. If you don’t fall in line, you get dropped.

You do not want my cell phone to ring at three in the morning because you’ve done something stupid, she told each of them. Most—if not all—followed that rule.

Rachel unplugged her iPad and slid it into her purse along with a file of loose papers. She blindly felt for the unforgiving black pumps she’d kicked off under her desk hours ago and wiggled her feet into them before gathering up her coat.

“Night, Nathan,” she called to her assistant as she passed his desk. But then she stopped. “You’re going home, aren’t you?”

The tall, skinny young man with spiked brown hair blinked a couple of times before shaking his head. “Sorry, yeah. I’m just finishing up the edits to this press release.”

“It can wait. Go home.”

He mumbled something that sounded like a yes, but the way he bent his head over the keyboard told her odds were slim he’d actually follow her instructions. She couldn’t fault Nathan’s work ethic. She’d been the same way when she was an assistant—hopeful and hungry for her break.

Halfway down the hall, the door to Emma Robbins’s office was still open. Rachel stuck her head in and found her friend on the phone, pacing the room in stocking feet.

Emma smiled when she spotted her but held up a finger. “I’ll send you all the details ASAP. I’ve got to go. Call me first thing tomorrow, and don’t even think of talking, texting, or tweeting anything. To anyone.”

She raised her eyebrows when Emma ended the call and let out a long sigh.

“What’s going on?” Rachel asked.

Her friend flopped down in her leather desk chair and tucked her platinum blonde hair behind her ear. “Someone leaked to the press about Dante not being happy with his contract. Now this reporter from the Seattle Times is threatening to publish some bullshit story. I’m working up a press release saying—”

“Dante Helms loves Seattle and wants nothing more than to help bring another Super Bowl win to the city,” she finished for Emma.

“Exactly.”

“And the truth?”

“Dante wants to get back to Chicago so badly, he’ll burn rubber on I-90 doing it.”

“Looks like you’ve got a long night ahead of you. Are we still on for the Nets game on Wednesday?”

Emma nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it. I need to get out of this office.”

She laughed. “Don’t we all? See you tomorrow.”

In front of an office a few feet down the hall, Rachel’s other friend, Louise, was poring over something on her computer.

“Hi there,” Rachel said, stopping in front of Louise’s desk.

The younger woman slid her glasses off, rubbed one of her eyes, and froze. “Dammit. I forgot about my mascara.”

Rachel did a quick check of Louise’s makeup. “You’re good.”

Louise sighed. “That just means I rubbed it all off earlier.”

“Is Brad making you stay late again?” she asked.

“I’m doing his expenses, but I promised myself I’d break free at eight no matter what.”

A few years younger than Rachel and Emma, Louise had the misfortune of working for “Brad the Bad.” The agent had installed her in an assistant’s chair four years ago and had been coasting on Louise’s hard work ever since.

“You’ve left after me every night for the past three weeks. I wish you’d let me talk to him,” Rachel pleaded.

Louise shot her a tight smile. “It’s just a busy time.”

“Too busy to catch the game Wednesday?” she asked.

Louise’s shoulders slumped. “Probably, but I’ll let you know if it changes.”

She said her goodbyes but made a mental note to talk to Emma. They had to figure out a way to get Louise off the assistant’s desk and building a client list of her own. She deserved it.

Rachel should have been able to make the forty steps from Louise’s desk to the elevators with no interruptions, and she would’ve been home free if her cell phone hadn’t rung just as she stopped in front of the stainless steel doors.

The number was blocked. She was tempted to let it go to voice mail, but it was her job to be reachable, day or night. Sometimes, she thought as she swiped to answer, being available 24/7 sucked.

“This is Rachel Pollard.” She pushed the elevator’s down button with one red-polished nail.

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. She repeated her greeting—her voice clipped and short this time as she tapped her foot.

No response.

But just as she was about to hang up, a man’s deep voice broke the silence, “Rachel, it’s been a long time.”

She frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who this is.”

“It’s Nick.”

“I know a lot of Nicks.” She glanced at the elevator display. The closest car was fourteen floors away.

The man cleared his throat. “Nick Ruben. We went to high school together.”

The ball of her foot hit the floor with a sharp click and stayed there. Nick Ruben. Oh, she knew exactly who he was. The two-sport star of Prescott High School. The golden boy. She’d spent most of their sophomore and junior years wondering if he’d ever notice her, and all of senior year forcing herself to get over her crush. And now, he was calling.

“How can I help you, Nick?” she asked, putting on that little edge of professional ice she used when speaking to reporters, because while she’d grown up to become one of the most in-demand young agents in sports management, she knew Nick had become a journalist. One, it would seem, who couldn’t ignore her any longer.

“I was feeling nostalgic, so I thought I’d call and see how you’re doing.” His voice might be sweet as honey, but it wasn’t thick enough to coat the bullshit that lay under the small talk. She didn’t have the time or inclination to wheedle out why he’d called. He’d have to come out and ask for whatever interview with whichever of her clients he wanted, just like anyone else.

And that’s when Nick would learn that she was the gatekeeper, and the gatekeeper didn’t do favors.

Mashing the elevator’s down button again, she said, “Nick Ruben. Reporter and sometimes anchor of New York Sports Network’s Sports Desk. You got a job in Kansas right after college covering the Royals for the Associated Press. Then you made the move to TV in Kansas City. After that you headed to one of Seattle’s local stations, and two years later you landed in Chicago. Your work was good enough that NYSN snatched you up to cover the Devils out of their Newark bureau. Since getting there, you’ve worked your way into a general assignment and fill-in anchor position. You’ve been in the tristate area for the last three years, here in New York City for the last two. You won a Murrow Award for your reporting on sub-concussive hits on high school football players in 2014. You also occasionally land in the gossip columns. Page Six in particular seems to like reporting on your dating life.

“I’m not big on nostalgia, Nick. Consider us caught up.”

When he didn’t respond immediately, she was certain she’d scared him off. She talked fast and took no prisoners—not everyone’s favorite set of qualities and ones that didn’t jive with most men’s first impression of her. All they saw were a pair of legs and a lot of red wavy hair standing quietly behind some of sports’ biggest stars during press conferences. Most men weren’t prepared for her to steamroll them.

Instead of sputtering, Nick began to laugh, the rich tone filling her phone’s speaker, and all at once her stomach clenched. How many hours had they spent just feet apart from each other in their high school baseball team’s dugout? In those days, she’d just wanted a sign that he saw her as something more than the gangly manager who took down game stats. A long time ago, she would’ve paid anything to elicit that kind of laugh from him.

“Sounds like you’ve been following my career pretty closely,” he said.

The elevator doors opened and Rachel stepped inside, her grip on the phone just a little bit tighter. “It’s my job to keep an eye on the talent at all of the major broadcast outlets. You’re no exception.”

You’re not special. I’ve been watching your career because this is what makes me so good at my job.

“So tell me, Nick,” she said, forcing the chill back into her voice, “what can I do for you?”

* * *

Nick stared at his cubicle wall, unsure of his next move, which was annoying as hell. He always knew what to do—even when someone turned him down, there was always another angle to get what he wanted—but somehow Rachel Pollard had managed to put him on his ass in two minutes flat. Just like she had in high school.

He caught his producer’s eye as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He should’ve have taken the call privately, but Mindy had insisted on being there. She was as invested in getting this interview as he was, but now she hovered over him like a mother hen, knocking him off his game.

Or maybe you’ve just never had game when it came to Rachel.

No. He had too much riding on this call to start thinking like that.

He took a deep breath. Time to turn on the charm and try again. “Like I said, can’t old high school friends—”

“The most you ever said to me in high school was ‘Can I get my game stats?’ or ‘Hand me that water bottle,’” Rachel interjected.

He frowned. That wasn’t true. Was it?

He remembered her, skinny as a string bean with her long red-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and stuffed through the loop of an Arizona Diamondbacks ball cap. Quiet and closed off, she was always around, standing just a little apart. Unapproachable.

In the fall, she was never far from the football field, watching practice armed with a pad of paper, constantly taking notes on plays and strategy. The football coaches mostly tolerated her—probably because having her hanging around the bleachers didn’t really hurt anyone.

Each spring, she’d ride at the front of the baseball bus, crunching stat lines and talking tactics with Coach Callahan. The man used to brag about her knack for defensive positioning and her encyclopedic knowledge of pitchers—and how it was a damn shame none of the boys on the team ever developed a head for “that kind of advanced strategy.”

But while Coach Callahan treated her like a protégé, Nick’s teammates were ruthless, breaking her down in the locker room, where she couldn’t defend herself. They said she was weird. They dismissed her because they figured she must be crushing on someone. And then they’d try to guess who she had the hots for. As a wide receiver and a pitcher who saw a lot of game time in both of his sports, his name came up a lot. The mentions had made the back of his neck burn red because, deep down, Nick had liked her.

He hadn’t gone after her like he had Melanie Crawford, who he’d talked into kissing him in an empty hallway at Winter Formal sophomore year. Rachel wasn’t the cheerleader that he, the jock, was supposed to chase. She was the quiet girl, and somehow that made her seem cool, distant, and unattainable. He’d been so sure she’d turn those deep blue eyes on him and shut him down.

And now here he was, trying to stave off another kind of rejection a decade and a half later.

“Look, I apologize for being an idiot teenager,” he said, switching tactics and swallowing his pride. “Most teenage boys are idiots.”

“They are.” She hesitated. “An apology is a start.”

For the first time since she’d picked up, he heard something underneath the ice—the faintest hint of a smile. It wasn’t much, but Nick knew from a lifetime of experience that the moment he could make someone smile, he was in. Now all he had to do was get Rachel in front of him for five minutes, long enough to convince her to grant him the interview he needed.

Taking a calculated risk, he asked, “Meet me for a drink?”

Mindy shot him a horrified look, so he fixed his gaze on the dozens of press passes hanging on his cubicle wall.

“Like I told you, I’m not big on nostalgia,” Rachel said. “Look, I’m kind of busy right now . . .”

Damn. He’d miscalculated. She was going to hang up, and he was going to have to call back and beg.

Quickly he said, “Last time I was back home Coach Callahan asked about you. You’re right, I do have a favor to ask, but I also want to be able to tell him how you’re doing next time I see him.”

There was a slight beat—a gap in her armor—but he wasn’t expecting the warmth in her voice when she asked, “Did he really?”

“He got on my case about not having met up with you, since we live in the same city. He still thinks you could teach me a thing or two.”

That got a laugh out of her. “I’m not so sure about that.”

She had a good laugh—full and throaty. It made all of the bullshit worries about sucking up his pride and calling her fall away. Suddenly, hearing her laugh again seemed very, very important.

“Is that false modesty from Rachel Pollard?” he asked.

“It’s knowing a lost cause when I see one. You never really listened to your coaches. You just kind of did your own thing.”

He couldn’t help the urge to test the elbow he’d injured in college. Too many pitches in his freshman season and a natural weakness in a tiny tendon had landed him on the surgeon’s table. Even after months of physical therapy, his pitching arm had never been the same.

“Guilty as charged,” he said. “So what do you say? Meet me for a drink.”

“I’ve got a lot going on tonight,” she said, starting to hedge.

He took another gamble. “No you don’t.”

“How do you know?” she scoffed.

He grinned. “Because you thought about it for a split second. You were weighing whether meeting with me was really worth your time. My guess is you’re bringing work home. Maybe you have some plans to see your boyfriend—”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

His grin spread into a full-on, shit-eating smile as he stored that little bit of information away. Not that he’d ever pursue Rachel. Chasing after an agent with her client list would be as stupid as running headfirst into a wall over and over again, never mind that it would land him straight in his news director’s office as soon as word got out that he’d made a play for a high-profile woman who could also become an important source.

“The fact that the boyfriend is the thing you’re correcting me on just proves I’m right,” he said. “You’ve got a free night.”

“A better man would have let that go.”

“Good thing I’m not a better man,” he said, swiveling around and raising an eyebrow at Mindy. His producer rolled her eyes.

“Come get a drink with me,” he continued. “Unless you’re scared.”

That laugh filled his phone’s speaker again. “You haven’t scared me since I saw you wipe out into a bench of Coconino High School players.”

Automatically his hand went to his chin to rub the thin, pale scar he’d gotten that night.

“You know Artemis in Columbus Circle?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“I’m going to be there in twenty minutes.” Without another word, he hung up the phone and put it facedown on his desk.

“Well, that was either the most brilliant or the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen you do,” said Mindy. “And I’ve seen you do a lot of stupid things.”

“No you haven’t,” he said as he stood to put on his suit jacket.

“I’ve wing-womaned all over Manhattan for you. That means I’ve seen you karaoke ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart’ with some blonde you were trying to talk into bed. You still owe me for that one, by the way. Your singing voice is even worse when you’re drunk.”

He remembered the night in question. Mostly.

“That was two years ago. Let it go,” he said.

Mindy smirked. “Never.”

“I’ll bet you twenty bucks that I get Rachel to agree to grant this interview by the end of the night,” he said, smoothing his lapels against his chest.

Mindy folded her arms. “Right. Because she sounded so willing to walk down memory lane with you. Are you sure she’s even going to show?”

His phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen. It was one of his college friends asking for fantasy basketball advice.

“Got a hot date?”

He looked up and caught Mindy’s smirk.

“None of your business,” he said.

“Who is it this time?” she asked. “A hedge fund analyst? A lawyer? A publicist? Or do I have to wait until you two wind up in the tabloids to find out?”

He shot her a dirty look and put his phone away.

“Why do you think Rachel’s not going to show?” he asked.

“From right here it sounded like you were bombing pretty hard. Even if she comes, there’s no way she agrees to work with us.”

“So take the bet.”

Mindy adjusted her black-framed glasses in that way that reminded him of librarians and elementary school teachers. Only none of the teachers who’d taught him paired them with leather leggings, long slouchy sweaters, knee-high boots, and piles of wood bracelets.

“Fine,” she finally said, sticking out her hand to shake. “Twenty says you can’t convince her to let us do the interview.”

He clapped his hand on hers and squeezed. “That twenty will buy a couple of sweet-tasting victory beers.” Just barely, damn New York prices.

Nick glanced at his watch. It’d take him ten minutes to walk to the bar, which would give him another ten to settle in, order a drink, and wait. Every man had his game, and part of Nick’s was making sure that he was never the last one to show up to a meeting—whether it was a date or a drink with a source. He wanted to pick the location, the time, the mood. He wanted the other party on their toes, just a little flustered at finding him halfway through a drink.

“I’m looking forward to taking your money, Ruben,” Mindy shouted after him as he walked out.

Never going to happen, he thought as he made his way out of the newsroom. There was no way he was going to let Mindy or himself down.

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Grab 4 Romances for 99c Before They Go Away Forever!

Wyoming-One-Week-FB-003All good things come to an end, and so do anthologies. My very first book, One Week in Wyoming, is on sale until 9/7 for just 99c because my fellow authors and I have decided it's time to retire the ebook.

AmazoniBooks | B&N Kobo

Moving forward you'll be able to buy the individual version of my novella Seduction in the Snow and the three other books. However, One Week in Wyoming was a set of interconnected stories which means characters from one book popped up in the others (think Love Actually). If you want the full experience of reading this sexy wintery anthology, you've really got to read them all together!

Just a quick note, the paperback edition of One Week in Wyoming will continue to be available Amazon and CreateSpace. Wyoming-One-Week-SQUARE-005

A Sneak Peek of The Wedding Week

The Wedding Week CoverI've had a couple of historical posts recently, so I wanted to change it up this week because I've got a big contemporary release coming out in just eight days (hey, my motto's "Sexy in every century" for a reason).

Today I'm sharing the first chapter of my book The Wedding Week (which first appeared as a novella in One Week in Hawaii). It's a sexy, fun contemporary romance set in beautiful Hawaii. In it you'll meet Annie Kalani, a no nonsense wedding planner, and the man who makes her want to break all the rules, Chris Benson.

If you like what you read, you can preorder The Wedding Week for $2.99:

Amazon: http://amzn.to/1Ov3VvP Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1WAO7zr iBooks: http://apple.co/1NvcnAf Kobo: http://bit.ly/24TSVkY B&N: http://bit.ly/1TQWsZi Smashwords: http://bit.ly/1WAOiKY

And without further ado...

Chapter One

Don’t panic.

Annie Kalani wedged her iPhone between her shoulder and her ear as she readjusted the tower of boutonniere boxes under her left arm. “How does a bridesmaid lose an earring in a three-room suite? It must be there somewhere.”

Her assistant Jemma’s voice came thin and high through the phone’s speaker. “She may have snuck a cigarette behind my back while I was coordinating the big reveal.”

Annie stopped dead in her tracks. “What?”

“I know, I know. There are so many people in this bridal suite, she just got out.”

She closed her eyes for a brief second and sent up a prayer to the wedding gods. It was the Friday evening before Memorial Day—the official kickoff of Wedding Week at the Kuhio Resort & Spa, and the start of the busiest three months of her year. Stapling a surly bridesmaid to a caterer’s chair was not how she wanted to ring in the season, but she would do it if she needed to.

“Was she wearing her dress while she was smoking?” she asked, keeping her voice as calm as she could. Couples paid a premium to have her orchestrate their big day. If she panicked, they panicked, so she never panicked. Visibly.

Jemma let out a little huff of relief. “She had a bathrobe on, thankfully.”

“At least we won’t have to Febreze the dress. Just her. There’s some dry shampoo that deodorizes in the kit. Get Johnny to give her a once-over with that, and then swap out her earrings for the pearl studs. They should be in a tiny Ziploc in the front pocket of the kit.”

“Johnny’s almost packed up,” Jemma fretted. The temperamental hairstylist was the best in Oahu, and he knew it. Experience told Annie that love and a little ego stroking was the best way to get him to do what she wanted.

“If he gives you a problem, send him my way,” she said, mashing the elevator’s up button with her pale pink, manicured finger. “And it wouldn’t hurt to mention that we have the booking for Jessica McCreedy’s wedding next May. The budget is unlimited.”

“I’ll let him know.” She could hear the grin in Jemma’s voice.

They said goodbye just as the elevator’s door slid open. With the boxes wedged against the wall, Annie let the phone slide down her arm, catching it in her hand to end the call. Alone in the quiet, she breathed deeply. One mini crisis a wedding. That was all she would tolerate, and the future Mr. and Mrs. Mark Liu just had theirs.

Wedding Week was all about putting out fires as fast as they sprang up. Celebrations at the Kuhio had two-a-day bookings for weddings Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, a fiftieth wedding anniversary dinner Wednesday, a Thursday rehearsal dinner, and five events the following weekend. Things would go wrong—they always did—but Annie would be there to fix them. The groom was late? No problem. The father of the bride got drunk? It’s handled. The flowers didn’t show up? On top of it. Being a planner was like juggling fourteen flaming torches while standing en pointe, and she loved it.

The elevator dinged, and she was out in the hall—boxes and all—in seconds flat. Things were running a few minutes behind schedule, but the buffer time she had built in should take care of that, so long as they didn’t slip any further.

At least the groom hadn’t presented any problems. Yet.

As she approached the groom’s suite, the door opened, and Josh, the wedding photographer, walked out while tucking a lens into his camera bag.

“You’re moving fast, Kalani,” he said with a jerk of his chin at the boxes in her hands. “Boutonnieres?”

“Late boutonnieres. I know we all run on island time, but remind me to kill the florist next time I see him.”

Josh laughed as he ran a hand over his shaved head. “You can’t do that. He’s the only florist you like. Besides, the groom’s good to go.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Really? He didn’t seem like the type to be ready on time.”

Josh grinned as he passed her. “Got you.”

With a sigh, she shifted the boxes back under her arm so she could knock. The door swung open to reveal a groomsman—this one called Dan—with a drink in hand. “Hello, wedding planner!”

She gave him a once-over and nudged through the door. “Your tie is undone.”

He looked down and tugged at one of the bow tie’s ends. “We were just trying to figure it out on YouTube. Gary’s got his done, but everyone else is struggling.”

She lifted the boxes. “Let me put these down. Then I’ll help.”

Dan led her over to a sideboard that also served as a bar. She eyed the levels on the decanter of scotch she’d checked on that morning. About half gone. Calculate that across half a dozen groomsmen plus the man of the hour and it wasn’t too bad. She’d certainly seen more sauced bridal parties on both ends of the gender spectrum before.

She glanced around the richly appointed room. Two groomsmen she’d met at the rehearsal sat on a plush, pale blue couch in front of a Dodgers game. Gary shook his head as he tried to show Dan and Andrew how to take one bold step into manhood and tie a real bow tie. And one man stood with his back to all of them, on his phone. That must be Chris, the late groomsman. She had a dossier on all of the wedding party, but what was on paper often didn’t tell her the whole story. Like the fact that Chris, a Los Angeles chef, hadn’t been able to get away from his restaurant until the morning of the wedding. That meant Annie had spent a good part of the early hours of setup tracking his flight, praying there would be no delays. Now that he was here, all she cared about was that the man was dressed and on time for the actual ceremony.

She would deal with him when he got off the phone. For now, she had tie-struggling groomsmen to put out of their misery.

A movement at the edge of her field of vision caught Annie’s attention. She turned on her nude three-inch high heels and found herself staring at a naked groom.

Well, not naked—wrapped in a towel—but that meant he was wearing a lot less tux than he was supposed to be.

She raised an eyebrow. “Mark, you aren’t dressed.” Before the wedding day, she tried her best to be accommodating, understanding. On the day? Not so much. Her job was to make sure Mark Liu and Karen Curen got to the gauze-covered bamboo pergola that would serve as their altar and said, “I do.” To do that, Mark needed to be clothed. Now. No excuses. No exceptions.

“I was a little late getting in the shower,” he said as he sheepishly ran a hand through his wet hair. Hair that should be pomaded and swept into a perfect, sixties-esque side part, per Karen’s instructions. Time for Mark to learn how to use a hair dryer.

Eric, Investment Banker Groomsman, had detached himself from the Dodgers game long enough to pour a couple of tumblers of Macallan 18. Ice cubes clinked in the glass that he started to hand to the groom.

“Oh no.” She surged forward to intercept the scotch. “Dress now. Drink later. You get married in twenty-six minutes.”

With her free hand squarely on Mark’s shoulder, she pushed him toward the bedroom. “Don’t forget the shirt studs.”

The groom dutifully trudged into the bedroom, sending only a brief, wistful glance at the baseball, booze, and bro time waiting for him in the living room.

When she turned back, she found Frat Boy Dan eyeing her and the glass of scotch in her hand. “Are you going to drink that?”

She could sense the slight edge in his voice. A bossy woman intruding on Man Time. No, not just a woman. A wedding planner, the kind of woman who made her living thinking about lace versus satin. Runners or full tablecloths. Venetian hour or plated desserts. She was the enemy, an intruder, and sometimes groomsmen gave her a hard time. What Dan didn’t know was that her job demanded that she be able to put him in place with ruthless efficiency, all while wearing a pastel, flowered Karen Millen sheath dress and a smile.

For now, however, she’d start with a friendlier approach. “I would like this scotch more than you know,” she said, putting the glass down, “but someone’s got to drive these stilettos. Now, why don’t I help you guys with your bow ties?”

Five minutes later, five groomsmen’s bow ties were in perfect order. The sixth was still pacing back in forth in front of the massive windows looking out over the water to Diamond Head.

Annie planted her hands on her hips, ready to order Late to the Party Chris to grab his tie and get in line, when the man hung up his call. He turned a pair of intense, soulful eyes on her, and he lifted a hand to scrape over the faint trace of a beard. “Are you going to tie me up too?”

The innuendo flowed through her, thick and sweet as golden honey that came to pool between her legs. Oh, this was bad. This was very, very bad.

He was a handsome man in a rugged sort of way. He wore his tux well, but something about him told her that this man was more comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt—broken in and comfortable. Pair that with his short black hair and the loose, confident way he stood with his left hand thrust in his pocket, and he was all sorts of gorgeous.

He was looking at her expectantly, his head cocked, and Annie realized that she was checking out his lean body rather than answering his question. She cleared her throat. “Do you need help?”

His grin was a little lopsided as he set his phone down on a table and picked up either end of his bow tie. Slowly he wove them together, manipulating the black silk into a perfect knot. His fingers would be elegant if it wasn’t for the white slashes of healed scars that were visible even from where she stood. An image flashed through her head—those fingers playing over the smooth skin of her breasts—and a fierce blush exploded over the back of her neck, rushing to her cheeks.

“How did I do?” Chris asked, tugging at the tie to straighten it before letting his hands fall to his side.

He was flirting with her. It wasn’t exactly uncommon behavior for a groomsman, especially when you threw alcohol into the mix, but this was different. This time, Annie wanted to flirt back.

No. You have rules.

“You look fine,” she said, pushing away the throb of arousal that rolled through her. “Are you planning on stowing that cell phone for the ceremony?”

He glanced at the phone on the table. “Will you take it away from me if I say no?”

Her eyes narrowed, her expression frosty where his was teasing. “If I need to. Confiscating technology is part of the job.”

“Then I guess I’ll turn it off.” He swept the phone up as he walked by her, hesitating only to whisper, “But it would have been more fun if you took it from me.”

Heat shot through her, and she glanced around to see if anyone had just witnessed that exchange. All of the men were fixated on the Dodgers game.

She blew out a long, steady breath. This Chris guy was just messing with her—his own version of a test the way that Dan had challenged her about the Macallan. Nothing more.

Behind her, the bedroom door flew open, and Mark burst out dressed in everything but his tuxedo jacket. “How do I look?” he asked, a mile-wide grin plastered on his face.

“Like a man who’s about to lock himself to a ball and chain,” said Eric with a laugh.

Annie allowed herself the tiniest of eye rolls. “Okay, Mark, time to walk down to the ceremony. This wedding gets going in twenty minutes.”

The groom nodded. “My jacket’s in the bedroom. Hold on.”

He turned back and… Rip!

Everyone froze as the rending of fabric echoed through the room. All of the color drained from Mark’s face. His hand flew to his shoulder, and he pulled at his shirt. “Shitshitshit. Karen’s going to kill me.”

Annie strode across the room, gripped Mark’s shoulder, and spun him around. A three-inch rip gaped at the back of his fine cotton tuxedo shirt.

Fuck.

“How bad is it?” asked the panicking groom as he tried to twist to look.

“Do you have a backup?” she demanded.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Karen doesn’t like it. It doesn’t fit as well.”

Of course it didn’t. She looked at her watch. Nineteen minutes to ceremony. “Take it off.”

The groom and his party all stared at her.

“I have a sewing kit in here,” she explained, fighting to keep the exasperation from her voice. “Take the shirt off, and I’ll sew it back together. But someone’s going to need to iron the backup just in case.”

Mark started to unbutton the torn shirt as she looked around the room at more blank faces. “Not a single one of you can iron?” she asked.

Gary, the New York lawyer, shrugged. “Camilla won’t let me near the iron after I burned a hole in my brand new Brooks Brothers shirt a couple years ago.”

“I can do it.”

Chris stepped forward and unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket, letting it slide down his arms. She was one hundred percent positive that if she peeled his shirt off him she’d find strong, wiry muscle underneath there. Muscle she might have let herself indulge in thinking about if it wasn’t for the clumsiest groom in Hawaii.

“Good,” she said with a sharp nod. At least one of them could fend for themselves. Her mother always said that a real man was one who could cook, clean, and keep a house. A man who was the opposite of her father—often drunk, sometimes incarcerated, and rarely present.

She took Mark’s torn shirt, but not before fixing the other groomsmen with a hard stare. “You will each take a boutonniere. Then you will go to the ceremony location. You will stay at the ceremony location. No detours. No stalling. No more drinks until after the wedding vows are exchanged. Is that clear?”

The men murmured their agreement and shuffled out of the hotel room. She half expected them to hold hands, pairing off into field trip buddies like little kids.

She moved to her kit, a suitcase she’d planted in the room that morning. “Mark, how much have you had to drink today?”

“I had a scotch a couple hours ago,” he said shakily. “I was too amped up for anything else.”

“Good. Pour yourself another—a small one—and watch the game. I’ll be done with this in a moment.”

The groom shot her a grateful look and scuttled over to the couch.

She pointed at Chris. “You come with me.”

She moved fast, ripping the dry-cleaning bag off the backup shirt that hung in the closet and sliding it from its hanger. When she turned back, Chris had the ironing board out and was in the bathroom filling the iron’s water chamber.

They worked in silence for a couple of moments, her repairing the shirt with tiny stitches and him moving methodically to iron the backup crisp and smooth.

“You’re good at that,” she said, tipping her head in his direction.

His crooked smile slid over his face again. “Courtesy of my first job. I did all the grunt work at my stepfather’s restaurant. If I was late or broke a dish, I got stuck ironing napkins. He wanted sharp corners, the same way every single time.”

“Is spending all that time in the restaurant what made you want to be a chef?” She didn’t know why she asked it. After tonight, she wasn’t going to see this guy again, but he was helping her. Asking felt right.

“Mark mentioned that I’m a chef?” he asked, flipping the shirt so he could do the second front panel.

“I have a file on all members of the wedding party.”

His eyes widened. “That’s not sinister at all.”

She shrugged. “During one of the first weddings I ever planned, I didn’t realize that one of the bridesmaids had an ex-husband and an ex-boyfriend in the wedding party. The men started brawling during ‘The Cha Cha Slide.’”

He barked a laugh—a sound as rich as chocolate and just as sinful. “You’re kidding?”

The beginnings of a smile tugged at her lips. “The bridesmaid wound up sobbing into my lap in the bathroom. That’s why I try to find out as much about you guys as I can beforehand.”

“So what else do you know about me?” he asked. The question should have been casual, but the low rumble of his voice made it sound like a promise of so much more.

She squeezed her thighs tight. She was at work. That meant no lusting after guests.

“I know enough about you,” was all she said.

“That’s a cop-out.”

“I’m like the CIA. If I told you what’s in the dossier, I’d have to kill you.”

He put the iron down. “And what’s the CIA’s policy on dancing with a guest? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

Annie nearly jabbed herself in the thumb with the needle. There was no way she was going to dance with this man. She wouldn’t survive the feeling of his body pressed up against hers no matter how much she wanted it.

“Generally the CIA frowns on such activities,” she said stiffly.

“Generally?” The look he sent her might have scorched the panties off her if she hadn’t held herself back. Because she needed to hold back. She could never let herself slip. No matter how much she wanted to.

“Exceptions are made if the man asking is a widower over the age of seventy-five.”

“You’re a tough sell.”

She concentrated on the shirt in her hands. “I’m not looking to buy.”

Oh, but she wanted to. He smelled like he’d just gotten out of the shower, with a hint of salt and masculine spice underneath the soap. Her whole body hummed with awareness, and she couldn’t help but want to know what it would be like to have those full lips on her skin. She had rules, yes, but this man was ice cream on a diet. TV on a school night.

Trouble.

This was getting out of hand. She wasn’t a bridesmaid cliché looking for a wedding fling with one of the groomsmen. She was one of the most in-demand wedding planners in Hawaii, but a long time ago, she’d realized that she needed to be smarter, sharper, better than everyone else. She didn’t have the connections that some planners had. She didn’t have the bred-in taste or knowledge of etiquette of the ones who had old Hawaiian society roots. Instead, she had hard work, grit, and determination. That was how she’d made it this far, and it was how she was going to stay at the top of her game. Men like Chris? They weren’t in her plan. She would not throw herself at a man just because he had some scruff and scars and talked a good game.

After putting in the last stitch on Mark’s shirt, she tied the thread off and snipped it. Barely a seam. “Not too bad.”

Chris turned off the iron and rounded the board. “Let’s see.”

Before she could hand the shirt over, he ran his finger over the thin seam of stitches, pressing the fabric into her open palm. She fought a shiver as he said, “Looks good to me. I think you’ve saved Mark from passing out from stress.”

She scooted along the bed and pushed up to standing a few feet from Chris. “Time to get the groom dressed. Again.”

Chris laughed. “Are you going to use that schoolteacher voice on him?”

“What do you mean?” she asked with a frown.

He closed the gap between them until she had to tilt her chin up to look into those deep blue eyes of his. “You marched those men out of here like they were five. You get shit done, Annie Kalani. I like that.”

Then he took that slow, delicious smile of his and walked straight out of the room.

Again, if you like what you read, you can preorder The Wedding Week:

Amazon: http://amzn.to/1Ov3VvP Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1WAO7zr iBooks: http://apple.co/1NvcnAf Kobo: http://bit.ly/24TSVkY B&N: http://bit.ly/1TQWsZi Smashwords: http://bit.ly/1WAOiKY

TBR Buster: Vacation Reading

I'm reading down my TBR this coming week because I'm heading on what should be a gorgeous vacation to London and Spain (I can't wait!). Here's a look at what I'm looking forward to that's been sitting in my TBR pile. And yes, it's an ambitious list...

Tropical Dreams (Coming This Spring!)

Waikiki-Beach-Hawaii-485x728 I've got some exciting news today. I just turned in the first draft of my novella The Wedding Week that is set to appear in the anthology One Week in Hawaii!

All four authors behind One Week in Wyoming are taking you to the tropics for our latest book featuring four sexy contemporary romances set in Hawaii. It's been the perfect antidote to living in the frozen Northeast, and we can't wait to share it with you. It's set to release in the spring with updates coming soon.

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