It's In His Heart (A Red River Valley Novel) (30 page)

“You are a strange woman, Ella Wells.” Coop smiled when he said her new name. “What do you have against big weddings? Aren’t most girls planning them by the time they hit puberty?”

“I’m not like most girls.” She tossed another sweater and some hiking boots in her suitcase.

“You can say that again.” He tugged at the hem of her shirt.

“I’m not like most girls,” she parroted. “And you, buddy boy, need to start packing for our honeymoon.” She eyed him suspiciously. “Or are you already backing out on your promise?”

“A chance to see the American Flag-Raising Site in Sitka, Alaska. I wouldn’t miss it.” He raised a brow playfully.

“There’s also salmon fishing, and hiking in Denali National Park. And don’t forget whale watching. That should be interesting.”

“Especially if it’s mating season.” He tugged a little harder, and she fell on the bed, landing on top of him.

His hand found the waistband of her shorts and he dipped underneath.

Her skin prickled under his touch.

“We need to pack before we go see my family off.”

“Uh-huh.” His words were muffled as he found her mouth. She kissed him deeply and lovingly, then she broke the kiss. Looking down at him, her heart filled with joy. And something else, too.

“I love you, Cooper Wells.”

That was it. It was love filling her heart, a mirrored reflection of the very thing that danced in his hazel eyes. Love. Bright and colorful and alive.

A
cknowledgments

A huge thank-you to two tough and incredibly talented critique partners, Shelly Chalmers and Katherine Fleet, who aren’t afraid to tell me when I can do better. Thank you to my friend and mentor in this business, Tamra Baumann. Everyone needs a Tamra in their corner. Thank you to Stephanie Thompson, the Steady Editor, in San Diego, CA, for fighting my duel with the dreaded comma. And last but certainly not least, my deepest gratitude to my agent, Jill Marsal of the Marsal Lyon Literary Agency, and my editor, Kelli Martin of Montlake Romance/Amazon Publishing.

Every one of you rock!

C
hapte
r
O
ne

“Drop the panties, or the octopus gets it.” Angelique Barbetta held out the plush doggy toy, a bottle of bitter antichew spray pointed at its overstuffed head. She used the predatory tone usually reserved for courtroom opponents as she glared at her four-legged adversary.

A soft breeze whispered through the trees, wrestling autumn-hued foliage to the ground. The draft of cool air caught the silky neckline of her robe and sent a chill racing through her. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the shedding branches, and a silhouette of the snowcapped Sangre de Cristo Mountains glittered in the background. Her long black hair up in hot rollers, a sudden gust pulled a thick tendril loose, and she blew it out of her eyes, refusing to lose a staring match to a dog.

The ten-pound weenie dog’s posture tensed, his tail wagged a fraction, and his jaw clamped tighter around the black thong panties he’d snatched from her suitcase while she was unpacking. Hence, the reason she’d scurried outside half-dressed and sporting curlers so big they could pick up a radio frequency from three states away.

Why’d she bring skimpy panties on an extended vacay to Red River—population 475?
Pfst
. Insulated long johns would’ve been a more practical choice.

She shivered against another nippy gust of autumn breeze.

It wasn’t like she’d ever wear the string bikinis currently lodged between her dog’s teeth. They’d been part of the risqué honeymoon trousseau given to her by her best friend, Kimberly, and the horde of female Barbettas. Of course, that was before she caught her fiancé, Gabriel, screwing their legal assistant on top of his desk.
While
Angelique was recovering from invasive breast cancer.

Asshole.

Come to think of it, she should let the dog have them. Let Sergeant Schnitzel chew up the underwear and every last memory of what she thought she had with Gabriel.

Just like she’d
accidentally
let the dog chew up Gabriel’s Armani jacket. And his Tumi briefcase. And the crack in his brand-new fifty-five-inch widescreen—a testament to his insecurity and belief that size really did matter—may or may not have been an accident. Golf clubs sometimes slipped out of one’s hands midswing. It happened.

Sergeant Schnitzel whined, his tail wagging at lightning speed.

“Come on, Sarge. Drop ’em.
Please
.”

Jeez, she was pathetic. Had she really been reduced to begging a dog?

Okay, admittedly, destroying Gabriel’s personal property had been a vindictive reaction, but her momentary lapse in emotional restraint was understandable. While she was in the process of moving out of their rented condo, Gabriel announced his shotgun wedding to their legal assistant because he’d knocked her up. Then he actually expected Angelique to attend along with the rest of their law firm because
cohesion
looked good for the junior partnership he’d just landed. So much cruelty at once probably would’ve pushed Mother Teresa over the edge. That was Angelique’s story, anyway, and she was sticking to it, because Gabriel deserved it times ten.

A
bout the
A
uthor

Photo © 2014 Frank Frost Photography

A 2014 Golden Heart
^®
finalist, Shelly Alexander grew up traveling the world, earned a BBA in marketing, and worked in the business world for twenty-five years. With four older brothers, she watched every Star Trek episode ever made, joined the softball team instead of ballet class, and played with G.I. Joes while Corvette Barbie stayed tucked in the closet. When Shelly had three sons of her own and no daughters, she decided to escape her male-dominated world for some “girl time” by reading romance novels and has been hooked ever since.

Now she spends her days writing steamy contemporary romances while tending to an obstinate English bulldog named Lola. Her debut Red River Valley series is set in the quaint mountainous area of northern New Mexico, where fun, quirky characters and beautiful landscape embody the essence of small-town life. Find out more about Shelly and her work at
http://shellyalexander.net/