Love Me Again, Cowboy (Second Chance Romance): Wyle Away Ranch Book 2

by Torsha Baker

  ©️2021 by Torsha Baker

  Cover Design ©️ 2021 by Joshua Oram

  Cover photo ©️ Dan Hixon

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations and or reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Author’s Note

  Sneak Peek

  Wyle Away Ranch Series

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Dedicated to my husband, even though he’ll probably never read this.

  Chapter One

  MALIA

  My fake boyfriend is cheating on me. This cannot be happening. I glare at the TMZ picture on my phone and read the caption, Looks like Trey is done with Malia’s outbursts and controlling ways. It was only a matter of time before he left her.

  Outbursts and controlling ways? That’s completely made up. It’s just Hollywood rumors I haven’t fought because my agent, JulieAnn, convinced me not to. When they first started up, JulieAnn said I should be happy that gossip sites were drumming up interest in my role as the infamous Veronica Chase. Everyone loves to hate a villain, after all. And that’s what my character was. But I left that show six months ago, and it seems that my villainous reputation is following me.

  The party around me carries on, oblivious to the fact that my life is being ruined. No, not ruined, destroyed. Or at least my career is—which is practically the same thing.

  It’s my sister, Ala’s, party. She and her husband, Ben, are having their first child after years of infertility, and I offered to throw them a Hollywood-based gender reveal party. It’s the latest trend among the elite, and my sister deserves only the best. A party at the Ritz with actual Hollywood celebrities present (I had to call a few favors in to get them here) might be a bit extravagant, as Ala pointed out over and over again. But I’ve missed too many birthdays and Christmases because I’ve been so career-focused that I wanted to do something big to make it up.

  The ballroom of the Ritz Carlton is split in half with Pink tulle, flowers, and lights on one side and blue tulle, flowers, and lights on the opposite side. The walls are covered in ornate mirrors, making the event feel as if it goes on forever. Partygoers crowd the dance floor, moving to the music of the top paid band in Beverly Hills, while others talk and laugh with crystal flutes of either blue or pink sparkling juice in their hands. Wait staff in black-and-white tuxedoes carry hors d’oeuvres on platters through the crowd.

  If you ask me, the event is a success, if a peculiar mix: Hollywood’s elite, decked out in Armani and Valentino, mix and mingle with my family who wear colorful Hawaiian prints and with the residents of my sister’s small town who have on either cowboy hats and boots or eccentric hippy clothing a human kaleidoscope of color and style. If I weren’t dealing with the Trey problem at the moment, I could better appreciate the strange awesomeness of it all.

  But instead of being here with me, like he said he would, one of the industry’s top paid movie actors, Trey Wentworth, is in a tangle of limbs with some blonde woman. I squint, trying to get a better look at the picture being illuminated on my phone. I can’t see the blonde’s face, not with Trey’s big head blocking the way, but they are engaged in what looks like a rather raunchy make-out session on his yacht. My hands shake, blurring the image on the screen. I work to take calming breaths, but all I can see is Trey and the blonde and wonder what this will mean for my reputation and my plans to be in Trey’s next big motion picture.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” my Auntie Tutu says over my shoulder. I quickly press my phone to my chest, spinning around to face her. She’s wearing a floral muumuu with one of her signature cat sweaters over it. This one has two kittens, one with a blue hat and one with a pink hat, in honor of the evening—charming. She wrinkles her eyebrows in concern. “You must be heartbroken, Lia-girl.”

  If Trey and my relationship hadn’t strictly been a publicity stunt, then maybe. But no, this is much worse than a broken heart. Trey is jeopardizing my career. Heartbreak you can get past (I should know), but Hollywood is unforgiving. Trey is America’s hero, and I’m remembered for my five-season role as Veronica Chase, where my character basically went around making people’s lives miserable. People love to hate me. It’s not exactly the reputation I want when pursuing new acting opportunities.

  “You betta kick him to da curb. Did I eva tell you ‘bout the time William Tucker broke my heart? Well, let Auntie tell you—”

  “I’m really sorry, Auntie,” I interrupt her, “but I just need a moment to myself. I’ll be right back.” I turn and make a beeline for the double doors that lead to the kitchen. I get smiles, and a few people try to stop and talk to me, but I feign sickness with an apology and escape into the kitchen. The hot air, filled with the smells of garlic, simmering butter, and spices, meets me like an edible Sonoran Desert. I jump out of a chef’s way just before he hands a tray full of scallops to a waiter. The kitchen is bustling with the clatter, clang, and sizzle of hors d’oeuvres being prepared.

  I find a quieter, less busy part of the oversized kitchen where a multitude of desserts wait in giant refrigerators to be presented later in the evening. I glance at the picture again and whisper, “Trey, you idiot. You horny idiot. You couldn’t just hold out a few more weeks?”

  I knew there was a risk working with him. He might be America’s favorite hero, but this past year he’s gotten quite the reputation for being a man-whore. Every week he seems to have a new girl on his arm or is locking lips in some shady nightclub.

  That’s why my publicist, who happens to be friends with his, suggested we could offer each other something. Trey needed to show America he was able to keep a relationship for longer than a week, and I needed an audition with Henry Wilson for Trey’s upcoming film. Trey and Henry Wilson have been making films together for years, winning Oscars along the way.

  But now Trey and his stupid overactive male hormones had to go and ruin it all. Trey and I are supposed to be marketed as a power couple, which would help promote the movie.

  My phone rings. It’s my publicist, JulieAnn.

  “I’m going to kill Trey,” I say as a greeting. “What are we going to do?” I lean against a fridge. The glass doors are cold against my back, but it feels good in the hot kitchen.

  “We can’t kill him dear,” she says in her gravely, smoker’s voice. “It wouldn’t help your career at all. How are you holding up?”

  If I could see her now, I’m sure she’d be wearing an outlandish outfit that looks like it should be on a runway, and she’d be smoking one of her thin cigarettes. No matter how many times I’ve told her she should quit, she wa
ves me off with a red manicured hand and says she’ll quit when she’s dead.

  “I’m pissed. Not only am I not going to get a role in Henry Wilson’s film because Trey and I are no longer the perfect couple, but the media is already blaming me for Trey’s indiscretion as if I pushed him into that girl’s arms. I knew this was a bad idea.”

  When I raise my voice, a couple of the cooks turn their heads to me. I smile and give them a little wave before turning to the side.

  “Okay, listen,” JulieAnn says. “First of all, when have I ever steered you wrong? Yes, we knew he was a risk, and I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but this is good, darling. Bad publicity is still publicity. Your name is going to be on the covers of all the magazines—we can’t buy that kind of exposure.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Despite the publicity, I care about my name and would rather it not be smeared.”

  “I know, I know,” she says. “I can fix this, spin it into a positive. You just need to trust your Auntie JulieAnn.”

  Trusting her is what got me into this mess in the first place. “I think I had it right when I said I needed a break from the spotlight. I just don’t think I have the energy for all of this drama. My heart isn’t in it enough.”

  JulieAnn sighs into the phone. “You know, maybe a small break would do you some good. I’ll set you up at a resort in Sedona. They’ll be discreet. No one will even know you’re there. You can relax and get facials and massages every day. Oh, and I can set you up with some extreme adventure tours, so you’ll be ready for the role. Since I told the casting director that you could do all those crazy things, you ought to learn.”

  That was another thing she claimed I could trust her on . . . assuring the casting director that I could shoot a gun, rock climb, horseback ride, fight, and rope a cow. I told her the only thing on that list I could actually do is horseback riding. But she said it didn’t matter, just as long as I could learn the other skills before filming.

  “You think I still have a chance for the role at this point?”

  “Absolutely. You go take your break and learn what you need for the role, and I’ll fix everything on this end.”

  Getting away from the spotlight does sounds like a breath of fresh air. “Yeah, okay,” I say.

  “Great. I’ll take care of everything. Now get back to your sister’s event and show those hillbillies how to party Hollywood style. Okay sweetie, I’ve got to go now. Kisses.”

  I hang up the phone and look at the cupcakes in the fridge. They’re chocolate. My mouth starts to water. I haven’t had dessert in six months. I’ve been working on toning up for the role. Despite JulieAnn’s optimism, I’m probably not going to get it now, so why not? After today’s headlines, I deserve something sweet. I open the fridge, and a burst of cold air surrounds me. I grab one of the frosted cupcakes with a yellow bonnet on it in fondant. The sweet, nutty aroma of chocolate floats around me like a sultry tease.

  I know it’s not dessert time yet, but I did pay for these so I don’t think anyone will mind. Still, I snatch a napkin from a stack on a shelf to hide the cupcake and slip out of the kitchen before the chef notices and scolds me. Once I’m back in the ballroom, I waste no time shoving a colossal bite of rich, gooey deliciousness in my mouth. I close my eyes and moan in pleasure, knowing I totally deserve this right now. Oh. . . chocolate, how I have missed you.

  “Oh. My. Goodness!” someone yells out.

  I open my eyes. Everyone in the room is staring at me and pointing. What is it? My heart skips a beat. Oh, please tell me I’m not having a nip-slip moment like Janet Jackson. I look down. My red dress is still covering everything it ought to, but my confusion grows when the gasps continue to ring out in a ripple effect across the ballroom. I turn and gaze at my reflection in one of the mirrored walls. Aside from my long, dark hair looking fabulous swept to one side with a jeweled comb and my make-up being on point, my lips are coated in blue. It’s even stuck in between my teeth. I look like I just ate a Smurf.

  “It’s a boy!” someone shouts, and cheers erupt in the room.

  Ala and her husband, who are currently gawking at Reese Witherspoon, turn their heads to me. Amongst the cheers and congratulations, my eyes meet my big sister’s. Ala’s smile drops, and I see the disappointment in her expression. I put that disappointment there. Here I was trying to do a nice thing, and I went and ruined it.

  Chapter Two

  “I’m so sorry,” I say to Ala.

  She shrugs. “Are you? You have a habit of stealing the spotlight.”

  She says it in jest, but she can’t take the look of disappointment from her face or stooped shoulders.

  My eyes sting and my nose burns. I need to get out of here. I turn and flee the ballroom. I run through the hall, my heels clicking angrily on the polished marble floors, until I duck into an unoccupied conference room with rows of tables and chairs set up lecture-style. That’s when I let the tears fall. I slump into a chair and toss the half-eaten cupcake on the table. It’s a sad day when even chocolate has forsaken me.

  I hear the door slide open and look up. Ala waddles into the room and stares at me with raised brows. “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey,” I say back and work to dry my eyes.

  She sighs and takes a seat next to me.

  I shake my head. “I’m so sorry I ruined the reveal. I didn’t realize the frosting was in the cupcake. I should’ve known, but I was pissed at something else, and I saw chocolate, and—”

  “Shhhh,” she says and rests her hand on top of mine. “You had me at chocolate.”

  We both chuckle, and I rest my head on her shoulder. She leans hers on top of mine. “You gonna tell me what’s going on with you, sis?”

  “It’s nothing you need to worry about. Shouldn't you get back to your party?”

  “It’s my party, and I'll ditch it for a while if I want to.” She huffs a laugh. “Now tell me what’s going on with you.”

  I sniff, knowing perfectly well that she’s not going anywhere until I tell her what’s really going on. “I did everything I set out to do when I came to California. I’m successful, I have lots of money, I have an Emmy on my mantle, and I go home every night to my big empty house and wonder where I go from here.”

  “Oh, poor baby. That tiara feelin’ a little too heavy these days?”

  “Ala,” I say in annoyance.

  “I’m kidding, kidding. Go on, tell me more.”

  “I guess I just feel lost.” I know where I had planned to be, but that was a lifetime ago. An image flashes through my mind of a young me sitting under a towering tree on a summer evening, held in the arms of the boy I loved, making life plans. I shake my head. They were the dreams of a foolish girl. I can’t explain how I feel to my sister when I’m not exactly sure about it myself. “I’m just not happy.”

  “I thought you wanted to do movies next.”

  “Well, my publicist seems to think that’s the right direction. I told her I wanted to pick roles in movies that make a difference. The ones with messages. But JulieAnn says that in order to get any role I want, I first have to break into movies with a splash, which is why I'm trying so hard to get an audition for the next Henry Wilson film. But I don’t know . . . acting just doesn’t feel right these days.”

  “What does feel right?”

  “This,” I say, closing my eyes for a moment. “This quiet room, here with you. Talking without worrying about saying or doing the wrong thing. Just being me. I miss this. I miss Mom and Dad and simplicity. When I’m around you guys, I’m not the Emmy-Award-winning actress that has to be perfect all the time. I’m just your kid sister.”

  She sits upright and turns to face me. “Then come home with us. You need family.” She rubs her belly. “And Lord knows I could use an extra set of hands with this one coming soon.”

  “Go back to Bisbee?” I want to say yes, but the truth is I’ve been avoiding going back for a long time. I’m not sure I want to face what awaits me in that small town.r />
  When I hesitate, my sister sighs. She can read my emotions as easily as she did when we were kids. “Malia, seriously? It’s been eight years. I thought you’d moved on.”

  “I have,” I say defensively.

  She laughs. “Really? So, you flying everyone to Hollywood to throw me a shower has nothing to do with not wanting to be in Bisbee?”

  I lift a shoulder. “I thought the Hollywood party complete with Hollywood would be fun.”

  She smacks her lips. “And it had nothing to do with Ja—”

  I put my hand up to stop her. “I thought I made it clear that we don’t say his name.”

  Ala glares at me. “Seriously, sis?”

  I sigh and drop my gaze. “It’s just that I’ve been avoiding he-who-shall-not-be-named for so long that I’m comfortable with the avoidance.” I give her a smile and flutter my lashes. “Avoidance is my friend.”

  “Avoidance is keeping you from your family. And did you ever think that maybe you need closure to fully move on?”

  “What are you talking about? I’ve moved on. I left, didn’t I? I didn’t let a heartbreak keep me from my dreams.”

  She gives me a pointed look. “I wasn’t talking on a professional level. Think about it. In the past eight years, you’ve barely even dated.”

  “That’s not true. I was almost engaged—twice.”

  “Exactly. You said no, both times. Haven’t you ever wondered why that is?”

  I shrug but avoid eye contact by studying the hem of my dress. I pick at a loose thread. It unravels like those relationships had. I know perfectly well why I said no. Both of the ex-boyfriends who proposed were good guys, but as much fun as I had with them, it was nothing compared to what I had—and lost—with Jax. Maybe Ala is right. I do need closure. I certainly didn’t get it eight years ago. I look up into my sister’s knowing gaze. “Closure, huh?”