Miranda Brookhaven returned to Bitterthorn, Texas to fix the past. Years ago, her father used her teenage romance with Coe Rodas to steal the prototype for a groundbreaking new automotive invention. Now her father’s dead, and thanks to the convoluted will he left behind, she’s stuck in town until she rights the wrong that lost her the man she loved.
Coe learned early on that life never goes according to plan. His dreams of hitting it big vanished when Miranda all but invited her father to take the only thing of value he ever had. But now the once-pampered princess is holed up in a condemned trailer on the edge of town…and everything he thought he knew about her—and about what happened between them back then—seems completely wrong.
Miranda’s determined to give back to Coe all that he lost. If she can do that, maybe she can move on from the past. But Coe seems to be more interested in their rekindled passion than claiming what she thinks he deserves. She’s got sixty days to convince him to cough up evidence that he’s the original inventor—after that, the only way to transfer the patent rights over to him would be to make him part of the family, and she’s not sure her heart can take another hit.
Before I begin, I’d like to thank Braine for allowing me to hop onto her blog to gab a bit about WHERE THERE’S A WILL, my latest release with Carina Press, and what usually goes on in the Gail household this time of year. Thank you so much, Braine! *hugs*
Actually, I don’t love it all. Most of it, but not ALL of it. For instance:
- If It’s Not Any Trouble: Why does this phrase exist? Usually when someone says it, they KNOW they’re asking a lot of a person who’s just as busy as they are. I eliminated this phrase (at least I hope I did) when it was said to me one too many times a few Christmases back. A relative (who shall remain nameless) knew I was going to the post office to mail off some cards. She asked if I could mail off her stuff too, since I was already going. I stupidly agreed… and got loaded down with THREE HEAVY BOXES. So… let’s do the math, shall we? If you take 1 busy person and add 3 heavy boxes to handle on her own, plus sticking her with the shipping cost (almost $80), how many people does it take to keep that person from committing justifiable homicide?
- Are We There YET???: I will NEVER travel during Thanksgiving again. EVER. The one time I had to travel, everything went wrong. Mechanical problems with the plane had us sitting on the tarmac for three hours with every crying baby IN THE WORLD, and I missed all of my connecting flights (of course). When I finally did arrive at my destination, I did so without luggage. It got lost and stayed lost—I eventually wound up going to that Thanksgiving dinner wearing borrowed shoes and no underwear. Ah, memories.
- Ambrosia…Not: I’m a huge fan of Thanksgiving food (and I get huger with each passing holiday meal, heh 😉 ). For days the womenfolk in my family prep for this, and I love the camaraderie. There used to be one tiny dark cloud on my horizon, though. When I was very little, my grandmother’s ambrosia salad was, in my opinion, the worst thing ever concocted in the history of cooking. She’d put whole cranberries through a grinder, then nuts, then golden currants, then grapes. Now, don’t get me wrong—I understand putting cranberries through this process. Those buggers are tough. But everything else? It’s like food that’s already been chewed. It’s not even food. It’s food paste. When my grandma passed away, the recipe went with her, and it’s been many years since her version of ambrosia salad hit the Thanksgiving table… but it’ll be back this year. ***voice of doom*** My mother found her mother’s recipe box.***/voice of doom*** My mom can’t wait to make it, and I’m not ashamed to say that I’m going to suddenly develop an allergy to nuts. 😦
- DAMN IT, IS IT STRAIGHT OR NOT?!: Ugh, that phrase… *shudders* The day after Thanksgiving means Black Friday (and yes, I AM one of those ninja warriors who’s up pillaging at 4:00 AM :D). But in my house, it also means it’s time to put up the tree. Decorating the tree is MY job. I have over 400 ornaments that I lovingly unwrap, hang, then re-wrap for the next year (again with the elf behavior). But I don’t put the tree in the stand. Oh, no. THAT’S A MAN’S JOB. And the tree is Never. Freaking. Straight. Every man I’ve ever had in my life, from my father to boyfriends, insist that the tree is crooked. “Is it straight?” they ask. I look at it. “Looks fine to me.” They back up and turn purple with frustration. “How can you call that straight? It’s about to fall over!!” (It’s not about to fall over, OMG) This goes on… and on… until everyone’s snapping at everyone. And the tree still isn’t straight, because by now they’ve gotten it totally out of whack. I’ve gotten smart about this, though. Nowadays I leave the men to it and instruct them to have the tree up by the time I’m done shopping. Then I call up my Dirty Birdie girl posse, and we go out for a coffee gabfest while the men work themselves into a frenzy. It’s the only way to deal.
- Holiday Sweaters: This last one is kind of fun, actually. I like everything holiday-related… except the clothes. I have probably half a dozen Christmas-themed sweaters in my closet that I’ve never worn, because really… how can you wear a sweater decorated with reindeer doing a Rockette-style kickline with any amount of dignity? The answer: You can’t… unless you’re going to an UGLY CHRISTMAS SWEATER PARTY! *throws confetti* I went to one last year, and it was the bomb, y’all. There were prizes for everything—worst homemade sweater, worst placement of decorations on the sweater, overall worst sweater. Sadly, my penguin sweater didn’t win anything (I even had matching penguin earrings, darn it!), but I’ve got hope for this year. I found one that uses batteries to light up a Christmas tree appliqué. Booyah! 😀
No matter how you celebrate the holidays, there are going to be pissy little moments that make you twitchy-eyed. It’s unavoidable. But whenever you want to gripe about battling holiday traffic to pick up relatives at the airport, or you’re trying desperately not to fall asleep during the pre-K version of the Pilgrims’ First Thanksgiving in the New World, take a breath. These are actually the good times. Find the happiness of the moment; that’s the key to making the holidays a wonderful experience year after year.
Well… that, and remembering to run the moment someone starts a sentence with, “If it’s not too much trouble.” 😉
When she felt Coe’s arms lift to gather her closer, she hardened the heart he and her father had crushed so long ago, and pushed him away. And when she raised her eyes to his, she hoped he only saw icy fury there, and none of the bittersweet anguish she’d opened herself up to when she chose to punish him with a kiss.
A competitive figure skater from the age of eight, Stacy Gail began writing stories in between events to pass the time. By the age of fourteen, she told her parents she was either going to be a figure skating coach who was also a published romance writer, or a romance writer who was also a skating pro. Now with a day job of playing on the ice with her students, and writing everything from steampunk to cyberpunk, contemporary to paranormal at night, both dreams have come true.
Stalk Stacy!
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