LITMIR.BIZ

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Epilogue

      One

      Brooke Blake picked up her beer, sipped and grimaced. Success was an acquired taste. Evidently, so was the bitter, yeasty brew in the longneck bottle. But she was determined to experience everything her new home state had to offer—including the beer bottled here.

      Glancing at her watch, she granted herself ten minutes to brood over the contradictory state of her life. Professionally, her success as a bestselling motivational author and speaker continued to rise, but her credibility was in jeopardy because personally, she needed a lifestyle makeover. She’d failed to achieve her most important goal ever.

      She’d calculated and taken all the appropriate steps, but her goal of having a family by her thirty-fifth birthday had eluded her. What had she overlooked in her approach? Opening her Day Planner, she flipped back until she found her five-year plan.

      The door of the bar opened. A draft of fresh air stirred the smoke hovering over the room and ruffled the pages of her planner. Lifting her gaze to the mirror behind the bar, she studied the cowboy’s reflection when he paused to survey the room. Until the door closed behind him the fading afternoon light silhouetted his slim hips and broad shoulders. Nice, but alas, not her type. The only Remingtons she wanted to possess were cast in bronze and made to sit on a mantel. This guy looked like he could have posed for the artist. All he needed were chaps, a horse and a lariat thrown over his shoulder.

      He crossed the hardwood floor with the grace of an athlete and the presence of a man used to leading not following. She was abundantly familiar with the type and had discovered that most of them felt threatened by a successful woman.

      Specifically her.

      He made his way toward the bar and stopped behind her, catching her gaze in the mirror. She hoped he hadn’t considered her scrutiny an invitation, but was prepared to correct him if he had. Unwanted attention was a part of her job. She turned to face him and forgot all about the polite rejection she’d mastered years ago.

      The cowboy’s reflection in the cloudy mirror hadn’t done him justice. The hard angles and planes of his face were too rough to be classified as handsome, but she found him compelling regardless. Dark stubble covered a stubborn, square jaw with an incredibly sexy cleft. In his long-sleeved chambray shirt, opened just enough to reveal dark chest hair, and Wranglers snug enough to reveal rather impressive territory, he could have stepped right off the pages of a calendar geared toward women with Wild West fantasies.

      Specifically, not her. She preferred the academic type.

      His gaze drifted over her the way the lazy stream wandered over her new ranch—slow and easy with numerous detours. His eyes, the rich brown of coffee beans, affected her like a shot of espresso. Unwelcome awareness rippled through her, settling in the pit of her stomach.

      He removed his hat, revealing thick, glossy hair the same coffee-rich shade. “Mind if I sit?”

      His voice was middle-of-the-night-secrets deep, and his soft, full lips were made to whisper sweet nothings in some woman’s ear. But not hers. She liked her men more refined, more…urban, but for a moment she wondered what it would be like to make love to a man as primitive as this one. She seriously doubted it would be the kind of silent, civilized coupling to which she’d become accustomed. This man would be earthier, noisier. More adventurous.

      Shutting down her improper, but stimulating, mental meanderings, she straightened her shoulders and glanced around the room. She’d been so intent on discovering the glitch in her goals that she hadn’t noticed the bar filling. The only empty seat was the one beside hers.

      Her type or not, the cowboy would be sharing her space. She lifted her purse from the stool beside her and hung it on the wooden slatted back of her own. “Be my guest.”

      “Thanks.” As he settled his long, lean frame onto the stool his knee brushed her thigh. She wondered if he’d done it on purpose, but he didn’t try to extend the contact. “’Scuse me, ma’am.”

      Instead of rubbing the tingling spot where they’d touched, she clenched her hand around the amber bottle in front of her and lifted it to moisten her suddenly dry mouth. She shuddered as the now tepid beverage filled her mouth and then forced herself to swallow. She’d never acquire a taste for this stuff.

      Cowboys, on the other hand, were a different story. If the ones she would encounter once she moved into her new home looked and smelled as good as this one she probably wouldn’t have any trouble finding the right man to settle down with her on her ranch. However, she would prefer one a little less rough around the edges. A cultured cowboy—if there were such a thing.

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