by Liza Kendall
Acknowledgments
To Louise Fury for working a miracle. (She is a whirlwind of energy, hard work, humor, and tolerance for crazy authors.) To Kerry Donovan for making this book the best it could be; Claire Zion and Cindy Hwang for believing in the series; and the multitude of other people at Penguin Random House for creating magic behind the scenes. Thank you all.
Keep reading for a special preview of the next book in the Silverlake Ranch series,
Home with You
Coming from Berkley in Spring 2020!
Everett “Rhett” Braddock was not the type to hear voices in his head, especially not over the smooth, steady purr of Scarlett, his unapologetically red Porsche. Scarlett always sounded like she ran on single-malt Scotch and sex, not gasoline. But hear voices he did on the afternoon that he pulled into Silverlake, Texas. His hometown had changed.
Silverlake still retained the charm of a small Texas Hill Country town, but it had gotten spit-shined, more picturesque.
He couldn’t argue with the changes from a business point of view. Clearly, the town was doing better than it had been when he’d been unceremoniously booted out of it. But it just wasn’t the same.
Rhett took in all the storefronts as he cruised down Main Street. Piece A Cake. Obviously a bakery. Amelie. Looked like a fancy dress shop. Sunny’s Side Up—thank God, something was the same, besides Griggs’ Grocers. The Tooth Fairies? A dentist. Schweitz’s . . . he sighed with relief. Schweitz’s had a new coat of paint and an awful garden gnome outside with a pint in his hand, but it was still there.
Oh, and something else was familiar: Silverlake’s famous sparkling Fool Fest garlands. He couldn’t help grinning. They were a bonus for April Fools’, strung between lamp posts lining the main drag. Better watch out, Pop used to say with a grin, Silverlake fools are fair game all month.
Mama had been a glue-gun-carrying member of the town’s holiday committee, and before everything changed, every spring the living room down at the ranch was festooned with tinsel, ribbon, fake flowers, and crepe paper jesters in a mess of harvest colors. The good folk keeping up the tradition of hanging the awful decorations used to say the neighboring towns that mocked them were just jealous.
That last year in Silverlake, Rhett had been telling his family about his rodeo dreams for the New Year. They’d been telling him something else.
As he idled in front of a florist called Petal Pushers, which hadn’t existed in his time, he heard, quite clearly, Pop’s voice ricochet through his brain. “Son, I ain’t gonna tell you again. You get your butt back in that desk chair and fill out those applications.”
So he had.
He heard Mama’s voice say, “Rhett, you’re special. The places you are gonna go . . .”
So he had.
Colonel Akers, his high school algebra teacher: “Sure, you stay here at Silverlake High, you’ll be valedictorian by a mile. But life isn’t about the easy choices, son. I can’t teach you any more than I know myself. Full scholarship? Go. Go to Deerville Academy and push your own envelope. Strain that crazy-smart brain of yours.”
So he had.
Declan’s voice came to him, too, booming over all the others after their parents had died. Stoic, acerbic, an older brother learning how to be a father on the fly. “You’ll get on that plane to Connecticut if I have to knock you out, hog-tie you and toss you in the luggage hold. The horses will always be here. That scholarship won’t. Go to Deerville. Go to Harvard or Yale. Go to Wharton. And go to Wall Street.”
So he had.
Except not all of the horses are still here, are they, Deck?
Not at Silverlake Ranch. When he’d found out Declan now only kept a few horses on the property, it felt like a slap in the face. That wasn’t the hardest slap, though. Rhett’s mouth twisted as he remembered one particular conversation. His brother had dropped it casually into a discussion about interest rates. Deck had had the unmitigated gall to give Rhett’s old rodeo horse away to the Holt family—without even talking to him about it!
At least the new deal Rhett had just struck with Billy Holt would let him ride Frost whenever he wanted.
Rhett allowed himself a small smile at the thought of Declan’s face when he told him what he’d gone and bought this time.
Still idling in front of the ridiculously named florist, Rhett leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. The leather interior suddenly smelled all wrong. It was buttery and processed, a cologne and not a hide. It wasn’t something he thought about in Dallas, but in Silverlake, the difference was notable.
Real leather smelled like a well-worn saddle, a bridle or a harness soaked in a horse’s sweat. Real leather wasn’t a pale cream color; it was dark and chocolatey and rough in places where a man’s calloused hands hadn’t buffed it to a working shine.
He clenched the stitched, cushioned steering wheel. German engineers didn’t know what reins felt like between a rider’s fingers, and probably didn’t care.
Scarlett had cost upward of $300,000, and there were plenty of days Rhett thought she was worth it; he certainly enjoyed her company more than any woman he’d dated in recent memory, and she was nothing if not loyal. Still, he’d trade her in half a second just to be home before the accident, fifteen again and back on Frost, his silvery Appaloosa. He couldn’t wait to see the old boy. He’d rather see him, in fact, than his brother Declan, though he was worried about him after the devastating loss of the Old Barn. What did that say about Rhett, exactly?
His mouth twisted as he glanced at the passenger seat next to him. Three Red Delicious apples knocked heads in a plastic bag. A bunch of carrots roped together stared up at him eagerly. In the footwell, six Shiner Bocks patiently waited for him to free them from their plastic yokes, condensation staining the top of his crocodile-hide briefcase, which lay outraged on the floor.
The beer was for Frost, who loved it. Pour that dark, fizzy liquid into a bowl and Frost would slurp it right down, twitching his velvety muzzle when the bubbles popped on his tongue. Then he’d show his teeth in a big horsey grin.
Damn, Rhett had missed him.
But you didn’t trailer a horse and a western saddle the size of an armchair up to Deerville Academy in Connecticut. And you sure didn’t talk to anyone about 4-H or rodeos—especially when they’d already started mocking the fact that he went by Rhett.
Where’s Scarlett, Rhett?
I got her right here, boys. He smiled, and gave the dashboard a pat.
Of course, if he wanted to see Frost, he’d have to see Julianna Holt, too. A blessing or a curse? Rhett’s smile faded at the thought of her. He’d messed that situation up but good. You didn’t screw around with your best friend’s little sister, and he’d gone and done just that—only weeks ago in Dallas. He’d bolted from her bed in the morning. And ever since then, he’d been trying to come up with any acceptable explanation to give Grady. Problem: There was no explaining to Grady, who’d kill him if he ever found out—and worse, Rhett couldn’t stop thinking about Jules. He needed to erase her from his mind.
* * *
“You’re leaving?” Jules had mumbled, still half-asleep. She opened her hazel eyes and peered at him, the sleepiness chased away by hurt.
“Yeah,” Rhett had said, trying not to look at her. He hadn’t intended for anything like that to happen, but seeing Julianna Holt all grown up had done something to him that he never could have anticipated, so he went with it. And now he had to make it stop. For even though these last few hours felt about as right as anything Rhett could remember, reality had shown up with the morning sun. And reality was, Rhett had just had a one-night stand with the one person he should have never, ever touched. “You’re Grady’s little sister! What in the hell was I thinking?”
“Grady’s little sister,” Jules repeated mechanically. Her face was blank as the white sheet over her hot, curvy, delicious little body.
“You can’t tell him, Jules. Promise me. You won’t say a word. To anybody. If he finds out, he’ll never forgive me.”
She lay there, frozen under that sheet.
He almost said something then, knowing how he looked, like a careless man who broke hearts as a habit. But that’s what he needed her to think.
“Right,” she finally said. There was a pause. “Don’t you worry ’bout a thing, Rhett.” She said the words slowly, steeped in some emotion that he still couldn’t read, no matter how he angled it, how many times he replayed that sentence or her expression in his head. “I won’t give your dirty little secret away to anyone—not even my brother.”
* * *
Rhett stared out the car window at the riot of flowers in the Petal Pushers window.
That night had been one of the best nights of his life. He should have left differently, though.
Wish I’d never done it . . .
Nah. I’d do it all over again. Twice. At least.
Stop it, Rhett!
Rhett turned off the ignition and stepped out of the car, letting the door close on its own.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, looked up and down Main Street, and then headed into the florist shop. He owed Julianna Holt one big apology, and he’d better do it before he set foot on her family property.
Inside the florist, a gal was arranging a huge bouquet of yellow roses with some fancy greenery. He couldn’t help but stare at her bare arms, which sported full sleeves of tattoos: flowers of every imaginable variety. The tats were works of art, and though he wasn’t usually a fan of them, they suited her. She raised her eyebrows at him, taking in his custom-tailored suit, white shirt, and gold cufflinks. “Can I help you?”
A bouquet. He’d send Jules a bouquet. The one he should have sent a lot earlier, if he’d been thinking of anyone but himself and what Grady might do to him for getting naked with his baby sister.
“Yes.” He smiled his megawatt, let’s-close-this-deal-already smile at her. “I think you can.”
She waited.
“I need . . . I need the most beautiful, the most special arrangement you’ve ever done in your life.”
Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline. Her eyes themselves focused on his pricey watch. “Do you, now.”
“I want the best.”
“Looks like you’re used to it,” she drawled.
He should have left the damn watch in his glove box. “What’s your name?” he asked, trying to decide how best to win her over. Charm-offensive boosters activated.
“You don’t remember me?” She said it too casually.
Oh, hell. “Uh . . .” Nobody he’d known in high school had those distinctive tattoos. “Sorry.”
“Maggie,” she said, her gaze shifting from his watch to Scarlett, which she could see through the storefront window. That wasn’t exactly admiration in Maggie’s eyes. “And you are Jake and Declan’s brother, Rhett. I heard you’d become some kind of banker . . . you’ve been busy, huh?”
“Maggie Cooper? Of course . . . sorry. It’s just that you’ve changed a lot.”
“So have you.” She looked him up and down.
Rhett Braddock, Some Kind of Banker. Managing partner of a venture capital firm, actually. I turn millionaires into billionaires—myself included. But we can go with banker. “Yeah, guess I have.” Note to self: Consider borrowing clothes from Jake. But why should he hide his money? The money that “made” him—even though he’d made it.
“Well, Rhett, what kind of bouquet can I do you for?” she asked.
He stared at her blankly. “I don’t have a clue.”
“What kind of flowers?”
“I don’t know. The best.”
“Yeah. You told me.” She waited.
He shrugged.
“Okay. So what exactly are you trying to say with these flowers?”
“I . . . uh . . .” Rhett stumbled over this. “That . . . hello . . . and I’m sorry?”
“Hello and I’m sorry. And it’s got to be the most spectacular, beautiful arrangement I’ve ever made.”
“Yes.” It wasn’t what he really wanted to say, but it was all he could give.
If Rhett could tell Maggie to write what he really wanted to say . . . You have no idea how sorry I am that our one-night stand will never be more than one night.
Because it never would.
Grady was family. Closer than his own. Grady had been there for him when Rhett’s parents died, when Declan sent him away, and all those tough years back East. Grady had gotten him through the bad times, and messing around with his little sister was not how to repay the debt.
And so Jules? Well, Jules wasn’t allowed to matter. Jules couldn’t matter.
“Done,” Maggie said, finishing up the order description on her pad. “Who’s it for?”
“Julianna Holt, out at—”
Maggie’s hand froze. She looked up from the pad, and whatever nice she had left after considering his watch and car and clothes, well, it all just drained away. “I’m familiar with the address.” She dropped the order pad on the counter, and then crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t think Jules knows yet.”
Rhett studied Maggie’s aggressive tapping of the pen against her bicep. “Knows what?”
“That you’re taking over her place.”
Aw, Jeez. Small towns. No secrets . . . Rhett cleared his throat. “That’s not exactly how I’d put it. Word travels fast.”
“Yeah.” Maggie said coldly. “So what’s your budget for the flowers?”
“Whatever it takes.”
She gave him a too-sweet smile. “Mmm. If it were me? It would take a lot.”
They stared each other down for a moment before Rhett shook his head, letting loose a bark of laughter. He fished out his wallet and forked over his black Amex. “Obviously, I need it delivered today.”
“Obviously. Women love flowers,” Maggie said in saccharine tones as she processed the transaction and handed back his credit card. “I’m sure this will make everything all right.”
Want to read more of Rhett’s story? Get to know all of the delicious Braddock brothers and their wild child little sister? Come visit Silverlake at lizakendall.com. Kick off your shoes and stay awhile! xo Liza
About the Author
Liza Kendall is the combined pen name of two award-winning, bestselling authors who've known each other forever and decided they could work together without someone ending up dead.
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