Kitabı oxu: «The Cowboy Upstairs»
THE PERFECT CANDIDATE
Single mom and aspiring perfectionist Becca Johnston is determined to be the next mayor of Cupid’s Bow, Texas. She can’t afford distractions like her new tenant, rugged rodeo champ Sawyer McCall. Having a good man around the house means so much to her young son, and Becca is definitely enjoying the handsome cowboy’s attention. But the election is too important to risk scandalous town gossip.
Sawyer only planned on staying in Cupid’s Bow long enough to help with the upcoming centennial celebration, but with Becca and her son, he’s finally found home. When she treats him like he’s a dirty little secret, hiding him from her voters and her son, Sawyer is crushed. How can he convince her that love is the one thing she can’t control?
Becca’s eyes widened. The gorgeous cowboy from the bar? What was he doing here?
His mouth curled in a slow, satisfied smile.
“Marc, you run along and take your shower,” she instructed.
Her son, who was fairly well behaved for a second-grade boy, picked that moment to exhibit his rare rebellious streak. “Hi, I’m Marc.”
The cowboy smiled as he came closer, his long-legged stride graceful and annoyingly mesmerizing to watch. “I’m Sawyer.”
“Mr. Sawyer, do you like pizza?” Marc said.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Sawyer grinned.
“Then you should—”
“Marc! Scoot.” Becca tried to cut him off.
“—have dinner with us,” her son invited.
Becca bit back a groan; Sawyer’s eyes glittered with knowing humor as he met her gaze. He was amused by her discomfort, which did nothing to raise her opinion of him, but he had the decency to wait until her son was inside to laugh outright.
“Well,” he said as the front door slammed, “at least one of you likes me.”
Dear Reader,
Welcome back to Cupid’s Bow! Or if this is your first visit to my fictional town, I’m so glad you’re here.
The fun thing about returning to the same community over and over again is that the characters start to feel like family. I care about them and want them to be happy. When single mom Becca Johnston showed up in my first Cupid’s Bow book, Falling for the Sheriff, she was a strong-minded woman who knew how to get stuff done, practically running the town through all of her volunteer efforts and her work on the town council. Becca has really grown on me over time, and I wanted to make sure this take-charge heroine met a hero worthy of her.
Enter rodeo cowboy Sawyer McCall, who needs a place to stay for a couple weeks and rents Becca’s attic apartment. In many ways, he’s Becca’s opposite, guaranteed to drive her crazy. But sometimes the person you didn’t know you wanted in your life is exactly who you need.
I hope you enjoy Becca and Sawyer’s story and that you’ll come back to Cupid’s Bow! I’m already working on the next two books in the series. Follow me on Twitter, @TanyaMichaels, or like me on Facebook (AuthorTanyaMichaels) for updates about the series, anecdotes about my family and the writing life and to chat about favorite books and TV shows.
Hope to talk to you soon!
Tanya
The Cowboy Upstairs
Tanya Michaels
TANYA MICHAELS, a New York Times bestselling author and five-time RITA® Award nominee, has been writing love stories since middle-school algebra class (which probably explains her math grades). Her books, praised for their poignancy and humor, have received awards from readers and reviewers alike. Tanya is an active member of Romance Writers of America and a frequent public speaker. She lives outside Atlanta with her very supportive husband, two highly imaginative kids and a bichon frise who thinks she’s the center of the universe.
For H. I love you.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Introduction
Dear Reader
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Extract
Copyright
Chapter One
“Sorry—I was trying to listen, but I got distracted by the hot cowboy in tight jeans.” Even as Hadley made the apology, her gaze remained fixed across the dining room of the barbecue restaurant. The two women on either side of her craned their heads to look.
Across the table from the oglers, Becca Johnston sighed in exasperation. “Ladies, this is Cupid’s Bow. Good-looking cowboys in Wranglers are a common occurrence. What’s uncommon is a female mayor. So, could we focus?” If Becca won the election—no, when she won—she would be only the third woman in the town’s hundred-year history to be mayor.
Sierra Bailey, seated next to Becca, smiled in encouragement, not at all distracted by the prospect of a hot cowboy—probably because she went home to her own cowboy every night. Locals had been placing bets on when her devoted rancher would officially pop the question. “You’re going to make a wonderful mayor.”
“Thank you.” Becca truly appreciated the other woman’s support and all the hours she’d spent volunteering on the campaign, in addition to her full-time job as a physical therapist. “You’re forgiven for your poster idea.” Sierra had suggested the slogan Vote for Our Favorite Control Freak!
“If it helps,” Sierra said, “I meant it as a compliment. As Jarrett will tell you, I tend toward the bossy side myself.”
In Becca’s opinion, there was nothing freakish about wanting a life that was calm and controlled. Growing up in a house with six kids, she’d craved order. Now she planned to give that gift to her friends and neighbors.
Hadley refocused on the conversation, a glint in her dark eyes; the town librarian wasn’t as blatantly outspoken as Sierra or Becca, but God help you if you defaced a book or interrupted patrons trying to read and study in peace. “In men, they call it leadership skills, but women get called ‘bossy.’ I say good for you—both of you—for not being afraid to take charge.”
It isn’t like anyone ever gave me a choice. Unwanted responsibility had been thrust on Becca as a kid. And again two years ago when her real estate agent husband fled town after a shady investment, leaving her a suddenly single mom struggling to pay the bills. Some money from a late uncle had helped her survive while she brainstormed new revenue streams, but survival wasn’t enough. She wanted to triumph.
While Hadley had, thankfully, regained her concentration, Irene and Anita were still staring after the unseen cowboy.
“Who do you think he is?” Anita asked with a sigh. “Besides my future husband.”
“Wait—none of you recognize him?” Becca swiveled in her chair, craning her head for a better look. She needed to know as many constituents as possible; if he was new to town, she should introduce herself. Then again, if a “hot cowboy” had just moved to Cupid’s Bow, wouldn’t she have heard the gossip by now? The local grapevine prided itself on speed and thoroughness.
She blinked at her first glimpse of the man. Wow. Hadley hadn’t exaggerated his appeal. Unlike her friends, Becca wasn’t usually drawn to rugged men. Her ideal type was more polished and urbane, like her ex-husband.
The man in the weathered straw cowboy hat stood facing local rancher Brody Davenport as they waited for a table; she could see only the stranger’s profile, but it was impressive. Beneath the brim of his hat, a few curls of rich brown hair fell toward his eyes. His striking cheekbones were flawless and not even the unshaven stubble of an auburn-tinged beard lessened the effect of his strong jaw. And then there were his wide shoulders, corded forearms and, as promised, the breathtaking way he filled out his je—
Oh, hell. Suddenly Becca found her gaze locked with a pair of amused eyes. She couldn’t tell their color from here, but the cocky merriment as he caught her staring was unmistakable. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she whipped her head back around. But the movement made her feel cowardly. Looking in his direction wasn’t a crime, and she wasn’t one to be intimidated by a man. Ignoring the prickle of embarrassment, she glanced back toward him and offered a casual, unimpressed smile.
He smirked.
Arrogant cowboy. She didn’t want him; she’d just wanted his vote.
* * *
DESPITE BEING HUNGRY and eager to try the barbecue Brody claimed was the best in Texas, Sawyer McCall was irrationally annoyed when the hostess showed them to a booth around the corner. Following her meant he couldn’t get a better look at the group of women on the other side of the restaurant—specifically, the woman with pale red-gold hair who’d been scoping him out with such frank appreciation before she’d studiously tried to pretend otherwise.
Too late, sweetheart. She couldn’t erase the spark of awareness they’d shared.
Once seated at the booth, he and Brody ordered a couple sweet teas. While Sawyer studied the laminated menu, his friend began once again praising the restaurant.
“Back when I was doing the rodeo circuit, The Smoky Pig is what I missed most about Cupid’s Bow.” Brody smiled, looking happier than Sawyer had ever seen him. “Of course, that was before Jazz came back to town, or she would have been what I missed most.” Last month, Brody had married a former high school classmate, Jasmine Tucker, who’d left Texas after graduation and returned to her hometown only a couple years ago. Brody had fallen hard.
Sawyer still couldn’t believe the bronc rider he used to go out drinking with was someone’s husband now. “I can’t wait to meet her.” He grinned slyly. “Especially if she’s as gorgeous as you say she is.” According to her proud new husband, Jasmine had been a model in New York City.
“No flirting with my wife, McCall.” Brody shot him a mock glare before his tone returned to normal. “You know the only reason you weren’t invited to the wedding is because it was so small and so far away, right?” Brody had admitted that he’d suggested the Caribbean ceremony because he’d wanted to prove he could be worldly, too—that marrying him didn’t mean being “stuck” in Cupid’s Bow.
“You sure the real reason you didn’t invite me was because you were afraid she’d take one look at me and decide I was the better-looking cowboy?” Sawyer smirked, but then said, “Nah, I understand. I think it’s great you two put a couple stamps in your passports. I’ve always had wanderlust myself.” Granted, most of Sawyer’s travels had been regional—Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming.
“On-the-Move McCall. When was the last time you were home?”
Sawyer shrugged, as if the answer didn’t matter. “My life’s a thrilling blur of cattle drives and training horses, pretty cowgirls and small-town motels.”
At the mention of motels, Brody frowned. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay with us until after the trail ride? You’d be more than welcome.”
Cupid’s Bow was about to have its centennial celebration, a week of Western-themed festivities culminating in a three-day trail ride that would recreate the journey of the town’s founders; on the strength of Brody’s recommendation, Sawyer had been hired as one of the ride leaders. Getting here a week early allowed him plenty of time to catch up with his friend, a chance to compete in a rodeo in the next county and the opportunity to finish a series of articles he’d been writing for a Texas travel magazine. Plus, you had nowhere else to be. He hadn’t been back to the family spread since his older brother had made it clear Sawyer was no more than a glorified ranch hand.
“I appreciate the offer of letting me bunk with you.” Originally, that had been Sawyer’s plan...or as close as he came to “planning” in advance. But he’d realized today just how smitten Brody was and how awkward the role of third wheel would be. “You and Jazz are newlyweds, though. You don’t need me underfoot. I’ll check into a hotel after lunch.” It would be an added expense, but he’d had a good year between prize money and breeding rights for the bull he’d invested in. His only splurge was a new truck.
“Sure, there are a couple of hotels close by. Or you could—never mind.”
Sawyer raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “What?”
“Well, Becca Johnston has a room to rent. Since you’ll be staying for a couple of weeks, that might be more comfortable than a hotel, but she’s—”
“You boys decided what you want to eat?” A blonde waitress with a polka-dot manicure and thick drawl set their drinks in front of them. “Sorry I took so long. Lunch rush.”
Both men ordered their entrées, but as the waitress turned to go, Brody stopped her with a question. “Hey, Leanne, how would you describe Becca Johnston?”
“Terrifyingly efficient,” she said over her shoulder.
“That pretty much nails it,” Brody agreed. As the waitress walked away, he told Sawyer, “If you rented a room from Becca, your lodgings would be spotless, the meals would be tasty and she could answer any question you ever had about Cupid’s Bow. But you don’t want to cross her. Last man who did that is still missing.”
Sawyer froze with his glass halfway to his mouth, sweet tea sloshing, but then decided his friend was messing with him. “You made up that last part.”
“Exaggerated, maybe. But it’s true no one knows where her ex-husband is—including Becca. Long story short, she’s still pretty ticked. And she would hate you.”
“What’s wrong with me?” Sawyer demanded. “I’ve been told I have a winning personality.”
“Becca likes structure and setting rules. While you...are a pain in the ass.”
“But a charming one.”
Brody snorted. “Not as charming as you think. Is that our food?” He perked up at the sight of Leanne carrying a tray in their direction.
“Do you have her phone number or address?”
“Leanne’s?” Brody asked, sounding perplexed.
“Becca’s.”
“I’m telling you, it’s a bad idea. Although, I suppose that’s why you’re pursuing it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Brody gave him a knowing glance. “Never met anyone who hates being told what to do more than you.”
“It’s not like I’m being stubborn for the sheer hell of it,” Sawyer defended himself. “A private room is bound to offer more peace and quiet than a hotel filled with tourists in town for the centennial celebration.”
“I’ll give you directions to Becca’s place, but it’s your funeral if you track in mud or pick an argument with her.”
“Pretty sure I can handle myself.”
“Maybe. If not...can I have your truck?”
Chapter Two
Marc Johnston watched the soccer ball, a whirl of white and black as it came at him, and wished it would roll far away. Off the field. Into the street. His mama would never let him chase it into the street. No ball, no soccer practice. He could go home to play in his room! It was too hot outside.
But that was a dumb wish. If the ball rolled into the street, his mama would chase it down and bring it back to him. She’d told him a zillion times, “I’m always here for you.” Not like his daddy, who’d gone away. Mama was never far.
Right now, she was coaching from the side of the field. “Kick the ball, Marc! You can do it!”
He swung his leg. It wasn’t really a kick, not a good one. He brushed the side of the ball, which kept moving, and lost his balance as it rolled under his foot. He wobbled, then fell on his back, the sting just enough to make him suck in a breath. Ow.
Mama jogged toward him, her face crinkly with worry. She helped him up, brushing grass and dirt off his uniform. “You okay, champ?”
“I guess.”
She patted him on the shoulder. “Maybe you should take a break and drink some water.”
He’d rather have soda from the machine by the bleachers, but knew better than to ask. Mama handed him a water bottle, then turned to give instructions to Jodie Prescott, who was taller than Marc even though his birthday was before hers. He didn’t like Jodie—she called him Shorty—but he was glad she was keeping Mama busy so he could go sit in the shade. There was another boy there, not in Marc’s grade, playing on a Nintendo 3DS.
“Are you here for soccer practice?” Marc asked.
The kid grunted. “Does it look like I’m playing soccer? My dad’s coaching my sister’s team over there.” He flung an arm toward another field without looking up from the screen. “I’m waiting.”
“You’re lucky you have a DS.” And lucky you have a dad. And, also, lucky he didn’t have to play soccer. “Can I have a turn?”
“No. But you can watch me.” He scooted a little closer so that Marc could see the screen.
It was the best soccer practice ever. Marc almost forgot how hot it was. He even almost forgot about his mama, who had to call his name twice when it was time to go home. On their way to the van, the way she watched him made him feel bad for not trying harder at soccer.
She brushed the back of his shirt again. “We’d better get this straight in the washer if I’m going to get the stain out.”
“Sorry.” His mother didn’t like stains. Or running in the house. Or when he forgot to swallow his food before telling her interesting stories, like how Kenny Whittmeyer’s pet snake got out of its cage. Marc had learned at dinner last night she also didn’t like stories about Kenny Whittmeyer’s pet snake.
“You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong—everyone falls down.”
“Even you?” It was hard to imagine Mama falling. She never messed up.
“On occasion.” She hit the key button that made the doors unlock. He got in the back seat, wishing he was big enough to sit in the front. It felt lonely back here.
Although she started the engine, she didn’t drive anywhere. She looked at him in the mirror. “Marc, are you enjoying soccer?”
If he told her the truth, would he still have to play? Probably. She was the coach. They couldn’t just quit the team. “Soccer’s okay.”
“You know you can talk to me, right?”
“Yes, Mama.”
She sighed. She made that sound a lot. Marc didn’t remember her doing it so much when his dad lived with them, but those memories were blurry, like when he tried to see underwater at the community pool.
“Mama? A girl in my class has parents with a divorce.”
“Parents who are divorced.”
“She says she lives with her dad in the summer. Is it summer soon?”
“Next month, after the election.”
“Will I live with Daddy then?”
“No, I’m afraid not, champ.” Her eyes were shiny in the mirror, like she might cry, and Marc wished he hadn’t asked. “But I’ll do my best to make sure you and I have a great summer. Okay?”
“Okay.” He looked out his window. “Is Mr. Zeke coming back?” For months, the bald, smiling man had been around their house, making what Mama called ren-o-vations. Mr. Zeke had shown Marc cool drills and saws.
“Not anytime soon. The attic’s finished now, so he’s moved on to his next job. But now that the attic apartment is ready to rent, maybe we’ll have guests.”
That would be nice. It would be even better if whoever came to stay with them was as cool as Mr. Zeke.
* * *
BECCA HAD MIXED feelings about her son’s silence on the drive home. On the one hand, she’d had a very long day and appreciated the few minutes of peace. But she was worried; quiet reflection was not the seven-year-old’s natural state. Was he still in pain from his fall? More likely he’s still in pain from his father’s defection. The questions about when he would see his dad, followed by whether or not the general contractor would be back, made it pretty clear that he missed having a man to look up to in his life.
Her throat burned. Nothing mattered more to her than her son, but she couldn’t be everything to him. The town’s upcoming centennial celebration was taking up her time for the next couple weeks. But maybe after that, she could invite Zeke, a widower in his late fifties, over for dinner—a home-cooked thank-you for a job well done.
By the time they rolled into the driveway, the stillness in the minivan was becoming oppressive. This called for emergency measures. “How about I order pizza for dinner while you take your shower?”
The excited whoop from the back seat made her smile. She’d barely pulled the keys from the ignition before her son flew out of the vehicle and up the three wide porch steps. There, he sat dutifully to remove his cleats. She took a minute to stare at the house, gleaming white in the Texas sunshine, and remembered the day she and Colin had moved in. It was a beautiful two-story home, complete with a porch swing, surrounding rosebushes and gorgeous maple trees in the yard. It had all symbolized how far she’d come from an overcrowded double-wide trailer on a gravel lot. To her, this house had been the castle at the end of the fairy tale.
It still can be. She clenched her fists at her sides, summoning determination. Okay, yes, Colin had turned out to be more fraudulent frog than prince. But she didn’t need him for a happy ending. She would become mayor and raise a wonderful son.
“Mama, I can’t get this knot out.”
Joining Marc at the top of the steps, she knelt down over his shoe. Her promise of pizza must have really improved his mood, because by the time she’d unlaced both cleats, he was happily chatting away. She didn’t even register the sound of the vehicle at the bottom of the driveway until the door closed.
“Excuse me,” a deep masculine voice called, “are you by any chance Becca J—”
As she turned, the man stopped dead, recognition striking them both. The cowboy from the bar? What was he doing here? Stalking her?
“You,” he breathed. His mouth curled in a slow, satisfied smile. “You’re the woman who was checking m—”
“Marc, you run along and take your shower,” she instructed. She was about to throw this man off her property. It was probably better that her son didn’t witness it...or overhear any of the man’s lewd commentary on what she may have been “checking.” Unbelievable. She’d ogled a stranger once since her divorce, and he’d followed her home. What were the odds?
“Uh, Mama? The door’s locked.”
Right. She knew that. She fiddled with the key, but the dead bolt got only part of her attention. The sense that she could feel the man’s gaze on her was distracting. “There you go, champ.” She swung the main door wide open, expecting her son to reach for the handle on the inner screen door.
Instead, he hesitated, waving at the approaching cowboy. “Hi, I’m Marc.”
The cowboy smiled, his long-legged stride graceful and annoyingly mesmerizing to watch. “I’m Sawyer.”
Marc’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the man’s gold belt buckle, etched with a cowboy on the back of a bucking horse; Becca read the word champion before realizing that she was staring in the direction of the man’s groin, and averted her eyes. “Did you win a rodeo?” her son asked.
“Quite a few.”
“That is so cool! Maybe I’ll ride in a rodeo someday,” Marc said, surprising Becca. He’d never expressed any interest in that. “I take riding lessons from Ms. Meredith. She’s nice, but I like Ms. Kate better. She’s my piano teacher. She gives me cookies.”
Hearing him list his teachers out loud, Becca mentally kicked herself. She’d inadvertently surrounded him with women. Why hadn’t she checked to see if Jarrett Ross was taking on any more riding students over at his ranch? In Becca’s defense, Marc’s soccer coach was supposed to have been a man. But when he’d broken his leg the first week of the season, she’d stepped up to fill the void.
Sawyer winked down at her son. “Keep at that piano practice. The ladies love musicians.”
Yeah, that’s what her seven-year-old needed—advice on picking up women. From the cocky way Sawyer carried himself, she just bet he had plenty of experience in that area. “Ladies also love hygiene,” she said wryly. “Now about your shower...”
Marc opened the screen door. “Back in a minute!”
“Take your time and do the job right,” Becca cautioned. “There’s no rush.”
“But I’m hungry. If I hurry, I get pizza faster. Mr. Sawyer, do you like pizza?”
“As a matter of fact, I love it.”
“Then you should—”
“Marc! Scoot.”
“—have dinner with us,” her son invited.
Becca bit back a groan; Sawyer’s eyes glittered with humor as he met her gaze. He was amused by her discomfort, which did nothing to raise her opinion of him.
“Well,” he said as Marc disappeared inside, “at least one of you likes me.”
Now that he was on the step just below her, she could see his eyes were green, flecked with gold, and she hated herself for noticing. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” she said tightly, “I need to call in an order for pizza.” That would give her an opportunity to regain her composure.
He smirked. Didn’t the man have any other expressions? “Want to know what toppings I like?”
She shot him a look that should have vaporized him on the spot, leaving nothing but his memory and scorch marks on the sidewalk.
“I’ll just wait here then,” he said, moving past her to make himself comfortable on the porch swing. He even took his hat off and ran a hand through his brown hair. In the sunlight, a few threads shone a deep coppery red, much darker than her own strawberry blond.
His hair was thick, wavy, and she wondered errantly if it was soft to the touch. Rebecca Ruth Baker Johnston, pull yourself together. Just because she hadn’t had sex in the two years since Colin skipped town was no reason to become unhinged in hormonal desperation. She marched into the house, locking the door behind her. No matter how good-looking he was, Sawyer was a stranger; she was a single woman with a child to protect. She called the pizza place, but she was so preoccupied that there was no telling what she ordered. For all she knew, instead of a large pepperoni pie with extra olives, dinner tonight might be a piece of garlic bread and six liters of soda.
Well, that’s what she got for stalling. Her philosophy had always been to tackle problems efficiently, then put them behind her. Time to figure out why this cowboy was here and send him on his way. She returned to the porch, her tone brisk as she asked, “So is Sawyer your first name or last?”
“First. Sawyer McCall.” He extended a hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Officially.”
Her fingers brushed over his in something too brief to qualify as a handshake before she pulled away. “Becca Johnston. What are you doing here?” Besides bonding with my son and trying to mooch free pizza.
“Brody Davenport sent me. I don’t know if you happened to notice while you were undressing me with your eyes—”
She exhaled in an outraged squeak.
“—but he’s who I was having lunch with. Brody and I are old friends. He contacted me a few months ago about coming to town to help with the centennial trail ride and to finally meet Jasmine. I need a place to stay.”
That place sure as hell wouldn’t be under her roof. “There are two motels in the Cupid’s Bow area,” she said. “I can draw you maps to both of them.”
He bobbed his head. “Yeah, Brody said you were pretty much an expert on this town—which would be useful to me, since I’m writing a travel piece. Brody also said that if I stayed here, the room would be spotlessly clean and the food would be excellent.”
She bit the inside of her lip. When she’d had the bright idea to rent out her attic, she’d been thinking more in terms of single women who might feel vulnerable staying alone at a hotel, or who would appreciate bubble baths in the spacious claw-foot tub. Maybe she could even rent the room as a long-term apartment to a woman like herself, divorced and needing to regroup. She certainly hadn’t considered giving the key to a smug, sexy stranger. “I think I would prefer female tenants,” she said. “At least until I get a guard dog.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a dog person.”
She wasn’t; training and grooming seemed like a lot of work when she was already stretched thin with limited hours in the day. But she resented being pigeonholed. “You don’t know anything about me, Mr. McCall.”
“No, but from what Brody said...” He cleared his throat, looking sheepish.
Ah. So there’d been more to the rancher’s characterization of her than the promise of a clean house and good food. All Sierra’s teasing about being a control freak echoed in Becca’s head.
“Do you currently have any female tenants scheduled?” Sawyer asked.
“Well, not yet.”
“I can pay up front. Cash. And I can give you a list of references, including Brody and his aunt Marie, to assure you I’m not some whack-job.”
She’d known Marie Davenport, a now-retired 911 operator, for years. And there was no denying Becca could use the money; her salary running the community center and her stipend as a town-council member were barely a full-time income. That’s why she’d decided to invest in renovating her attic to an apartment in the first place, so she could rent it to a paying customer. Yes, but...him?
Becca had spent her life mastering the art of structure. During the happier moments of her marriage, she’d relaxed, grown complacent, and she’d paid for it with scandal and divorce. Now, she was more determined than ever to keep her life smooth and orderly. Sawyer McCall might be smooth, with his glib manner and roguish smile, but instinct screamed that life would be anything but orderly with this cowboy living upstairs.
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
