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The Truth About Cowboys (Texas Heat #1)
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Steamy, sexy, and laugh-out-loud funny, THE TRUTH ABOUT COWBOYS is a new contemporary novel that will pull your heartstrings and steam up your e-reader…
While I was off pitching in the big leagues, my family was back in the small town of Sweetwater, Texas, running the family ranch. Then tragedy hit and I discovered there were secrets that my family kept, problems they hid. I went home, left behind the money, women, and fame. I took over the ranch and took care of my grandmother. I took over hiding the secrets. Then she came to town. A smart-mouthed, clumsy, too-smart-and-too-pretty-for-my-own-good city girl hiding out to write a book. She’s right here, on my property, in the cottage my grandmother rented her without my permission, and she sees too much. She knows too much.
Now suddenly my world is spinning, and she’s shoving a baseball back in my hand while baking cookies with my grandmother. She’s the devil and an angel all in one fiery little package. I decide I’ll wait her out. She’ll go back to the city. Only suddenly I don’t want her to leave, and everything I’ve settled for in my life isn’t enough. I want to play ball and I want her, but there’s that secret that won’t let go, but neither will she.
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Rain pounds on my window, the wipers on my windshield working fervently to clear the glass and my view. The huge droplets of water from the fierce Texas-style summer thunderstorm seem to mock me with every smack against my windshield, and I’m pretty sure it’s because I just ate an entire jumbo-sized bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups after saying I was on a diet. Of course, there is much to mock right now, such as the debacle that is my life a few hundred miles back in Dallas.
Most people would think it’s crazy to leave everything (newly defined as “nothing”) behind to live in a cottage that I’ve never seen outside of a few Zillow photos. And yes, it’s a decision I admittedly made rather spontaneously, and from a hotel room, but desperate times demand desperate decisions. I need to breathe air that my ex isn’t breathing and, even more so, sleep in a bed that his secretary hasn’t been rolling around in with him.
My fingers clutch the steering wheel, and I force myself to remember the events that got me here on this dark, rainy highway, and then I focus on the bright side. It’s true that my ex hijacked my bank account. It’s true that I told the largest corporate client of my firm, my client, that he’s a loser and a cheater and did so while in divorce court. Of course, in my defense, that was a mere hour after finding out I was almost engaged to a man who is nicknamed “Oh God” by his secretary. Despite said good reason, that outburst ensured I’m no longer about to be the twenty-eight-year-old youngest partner in my firm but rather on a forced leave of absence. I do however have an offer to write A Girl’s Guide to Divorce, and it comes with a healthy advance. Thank God I got the publisher making the offer a heck of a divorce settlement last year.
And so here I am, on my way to a cottage retreat to write my book, so darn eager to get started that I’m driving in a storm in the middle of the night. The rain keeps falling, but at least my wipers keep wiping. The rain is never ending, though, as I reach for my bag of peanut butter cups to find it empty. Terrific. I need more candy. Thankfully, my GPS chooses that cheerful moment to alert me to my upcoming exit, and I slow to a crawl while my gaze cuts through the haze of the downpour, seeking my destination in earnest. I’m nervous in this weather, and I manage to hydroplane by the time I spy the turn, which, with a slow maneuver, I discover is—oh God—a really dark, spooky country road. Apparently, I’m auditioning for the role of the stupid girl in a horror flick who gets killed before everyone else, the one no one remembers. Lord, help me. Just let me get to my little cottage safe and well.
As if assuring me that’s not going to happen, the rain continues splattering and pounding my windows. It’s like someone is throwing buckets on top of my car. I’m already out of my element, I decide, as I hit a pothole and then bump my way down a muddy path while the sexy voice of my GPS says, “Travel approximately one mile, then turn right.” I don’t know why the GPS voice has to be so very blonde and beautiful-sounding, but she reminds me of the “other” blonde. I don’t approve. She also has me driving a very long, winding road.
I check my locks, thinking of a horror movie again, certain that this is where the girl’s car breaks down and a crazy monster stabs her to death. It’s right in that moment, with that thought, that I hit another pothole and yelp. My hands momentarily lift from the steering wheel and I quickly grab it, slam on the brakes, and halt, which probably isn’t smart on this dark road. I panic. I hit the accelerator and my tires spin. I accelerate again, which goes as well as the first attempt. It doesn’t go at all.
I hold down the brake, grab my phone to call for help, but I have no idea who to call. I shift the car into park and try to look up AAA, only my phone says I have no service. Okay, think. Think. 911. This is an emergency of sorts. I might be close to being stabbed to death. I dial 911 and eye my phone, which still has no bars. It’s right then that truck lights flicker in my direction and travel toward me at a rapid pace. The truck cuts to the side of the road right in front of me. It’s official. I’m about to die and I can do nothing but sit here and wait for the end. And watch it coming, watch him coming.