Can’t Get Enough

by Showalter, Gena

  The Hotter You Burn: Beck Ockley and Harlow Glass

  The Harder You Fall: Lincoln West and Jessie Kay Dillon

  Can’t Hardly Breathe: Daniel Porter and Dorothea Mathis

  Can’t Let Go: Jude Laurent and Ryanne Wade

  Also, when I wrote this book—Can’t Get Enough—I drafted up two prologues to show a snippet from both Dorothea and Ryanne’s weddings, and the girls noticing how much Lyndie and Brock notice each other. But this made for a super confusing opening since neither Dorothea nor Ryanne were the heroine of this particular story. Therefore, those scenes got axed.

  However, I decided to show them to you anyway so you could get a glimpse into the weddings.

  Wishing you all the best,

  Gena Showalter

  First Prologue

  Dorothea Mathis twirled in front of the full-length mirror, the hem of her gown dancing at her ankles. The day of her wedding had arrived. Well, the day of her second wedding. She would be pledging her future to Daniel Porter, the love of her life, soul mate, and the reason she breathed.

  She and her bridesmaids occupied the choir room of the Strawberry Community Church.

  “You are gorgeous.” Lyndie Scott, co-maid of honor, beamed at her. The beautiful redhead wore a pink sheath dress that clung to her slender form. “If Daniel doesn’t look like he’s smuggling a police baton in his pants the moment he sees you, I’m going to be shocked.”

  Dorothea laughed. Very few people knew the shy, sweet Lyndie had a wee bit of a dirty mind and wicked sense of humor.

  Ryanne Wade, the other maid of honor, kissed Dorothea’s cheek. “If I weren’t in love with Jude, I’d want to marry you.”

  Holly, Dorothea’s younger sister, wore all black. As usual. Between blowing bubbles with her gum, she grumbled, “I don’t know why you want to go get married anyway. You should be his mistress. Take what you want and kick him out the door.”

  Dorothea rolled her eyes—her gaze landed on Lyndie, who appeared thoughtful. Goodness gracious. “Do not listen to Holly. She will always steer you wrong.”

  Holly rocked her head back and forth, then hiked up a shoulder. “That’s fair.”

  “All right, girls. The time has come.” Ryanne handed Dorothea a large bouquet of yellow roses before urging everyone toward the door. “If Dorothea is a second late, we all know Daniel will launch a search and rescue. And where Daniel goes, Jude and Brock go.”

  Jude Laurent, Ryanne’s husband. Brock Hudson… Lyndie’s crush. Not that she would ever cop to her feelings. The girl had a past steeped in violence. An abusive father and, just when she’d escaped him, an abusive husband. Both men were dead, and she’d just begun to enjoy her freedom. Even still, she avoided romance, claiming, “You never know who a man will become behind closed doors.”

  Daniel, Jude, and Brock were best friends. Since Ryanne was already engaged to Jude, they just needed Lyndie to realize her feelings for Brock and Brock the playboy to decide to settle down, and life would be perfect. Three best friends married to three best friends.

  With a dreamy sigh, Dorothea followed her bridesmaids to the doors of the sanctuary.

  “Where’s Mom?” Holly asked.

  “I don’t know.” To start without Carol Mathis or wait? I don’t want to wait another moment to become Mrs. Daniel Porter. “Go on,” she said.

  Holly grinned. “That’ll teach her. Bet she’ll be on time for your next wedding.”

  “There won’t be a third.” Daniel was her forever. “Now go.”

  Holly entered first, followed by Lyndie, then Ryanne. Finally the wedding march drifted through the air. She breathed deeply and glided into the room. The entire town had come to witness her union with Daniel.

  “I’m here, I’m here.” Her mother appeared at her side, huffing and puffing from exertion. She hooked her arm through Dorothea’s, smiled, and nodded at the crowd. Through the corner of her mouth, she whispered, “Sorry I’m late, but I rushed back to the inn because I wanted you to have this.” With her free hand, she pressed a dried rose into Dorothea’s bouquet. “One of the roses Daniel gave you when the two of you started dating.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “Thank you, Mom.”

  “Of course, sugar. I love you, and I want you happy. And you are happy right?”

  Her gaze met Daniel’s, and breath caught in her throat. He was just so tall and muscular, with dark hair and bedroom eyes. Sometimes she wondered: what does he see in me? She’d been overweight most of her life no matter how much she’d dieted and exercised. Then she smacked herself because she was perfect just the way she was.

  “I’ve never been happier,” she said.

  As soon as her mother handed her off to Daniel, Dorothea lost track of the ceremony, lost in her love’s eyes. She spoke when prompted. When Lyndie nudged her to hand over the ring, she jolted, and chuckles rang from the crowd.

  She accepted the ring and turned back to Daniel. Her gaze skimmed over Brock, only to return in a hurry. Oh wow, was Brock staring at Lyndie. There was enough heat in his eyes to warm the Arctic for a year.

  If Lyndie crushed on him, Brock obsessed over her. Not that he’d ever admit it either.

  Maybe she should try to get them together?

  Nope. No way. No how. She’d only get into trouble. Besides, they had to want each other enough to work for it.

  “—now kiss the bride.”

  The pastor’s voice penetrated her awareness and she locked gazes with Daniel, the rest of the world once again fading from her view. He cupped her face with his big, strong hands and brushed the tip of his nose against hers.

  “I’m going to love you forever,” he said.

  “I know,” she replied and met his lips with her own.

  Second Prologue

  Ryanne Wade stood in front of the bathroom-length mirror, Dorothea and Lyndie at her sides.

  For her wedding to Jude, she’d chosen a skintight red dress. Because why not?

  Her bridesmaids wore white because, again, why not?

  She’d decided to get married at the Strawberry Inn because Jude had done a little courting here when their relationship had gone through a rough patch. Afterward, she and Jude would be flying to Rome for an extended honeymoon. She couldn’t wait! World travel was her dream.

  “You can’t be real,” Dorothea said at her side. They’d spent the past two hours in one of the rooms, helping each other get ready. Curling hair. Applying makeup. Laughing. “You have to be some sort of sex robot.”

  Lyndie nodded. “They’re called fembots, and I want to be one. Teach me your ways.” She pressed her hands together, pleading. “I’m desperate for some sugar, but my silly little heart demands I wait for a relationship.”

  Ryanne pretended to turn a key over her lips. “I’m voting for you to date Brock.”

  The redhead’s jaw dropped, a sign of surprise. And yet her eyes, those haunting amber eyes, turned heavy lidded as her pupils dilated. She shook her head, her breathing a little off.

  Brock wanted her too. Clearly. It was obvious every time he looked at her. But the foolish man continued to show up at Ryanne’s bar, the Scratching Post, every single weekend. He continued to flirt with strangers—go home with strangers. A new woman every night. Sometimes more than one.

  Considering Brock’s military history was the same as Jude’s and Daniel’s, Ryanne figured he had a whole heck of a lot of baggage he carried around. Mental torment he wanted to forget. Sex had become his go-to distraction.

  “Brock gets my vote too,” Dorothea said.

  Again, Lyndie shook her head. “Not Brock. But dang it, you guys have forced my hand. If I want to get my sugar, I have to start dating. I hope you’re happy.”

  “Yes!” Ryanne and Dorothea shouted in unison. Then the two high-fived.

  An alarm sounded from Ryanne’s phone, letting her know she needed to head to the ballroom where her few guests waited. Her fiancé, his first wife’s parents—after a drunk driver killed his wife and twin
daughters, he’d stayed in touch with his in-laws—her mother, and the pastor.

  She hugged her friends, and Lyndie held on for dear life. At one time, Ryanne’s mom had married Lyndie’s horrible excuse for a father, giving Ryanne an up-close-and-personal view of the abuse the girl had survived. They’d become sisters of the heart back then, and even though their parents had divorced years ago, they’d remained sisters of the heart. Always and forever.

  “I love you. So much,” Ryanne whispered. “You deserve happiness, and I hope you know that.”

  When they parted, Lyndie had tears in her eyes, but she offered Ryanne a bright smile. “I love you too. Now let’s go get you hitched.”

  Their group of three walked arm in arm into the ballroom where everyone else waited. Dorothea had spent days decorating the entire area, adding flowers here, there, and everywhere, and tying silk roses over every inch of an arbor.

  At her side, Lyndie gasped. What was—

  Oh. Brock had taken a step forward—toward Lyndie, who went still as a statue and looked anywhere but the gorgeous former Army Ranger.

  Brock’s hands fisted, and he fell back into line beside the groom. His green gaze radiated all kinds of desire. Palpable desire. The air seemed to thicken.

  Be still my heart.

  Then Ryanne forget all about the others. Her gaze snagged on Jude. He wore a pin-striped suit, and he was so sexy he made her mouth water. His expression softened, as it always softened whenever he focused on her. He stepped toward her, as if he couldn’t bear the distance between them, and she noticed a slight limp. He’d lost part of his left leg while on a military mission overseas, and sometimes his prosthesis pained him more than usual.

  Her friends released her, and she basically floated to her love. He took her in his arms and kissed her as if he lived for her alone.

  “Hey, hey,” her mother said with a grin. Selma had agreed to officiate the wedding. “We’re not to that part of the ceremony yet.”

  With her gaze steady on Jude, Ryanne said, “Then you better hurry up and get there, Momma, because I know the limits of my control, and I’m five minutes away from dragging my groom away to have my wicked way with him.”

  Selma patted her dark hair. “Like mother, like daughter.” She winked at Jude’s former father-in-law. “We come from a long line of passionate women.”

  The father-in-law pulled at the collar of his shirt. A common occurrence in Selma’s presence.

  Jude gifted Ryanne with one of his rare smiles, causing her heart to race. “You are more than the love of my life, shortcake. You are my life.”

  The small crowd of onlookers created a chorus of “oh” and “ah.” Except for Lyndie. From the corner of Ryanne’s eye, she watched as her friend finally look up…at Brock…with interest.

  Well, well. The two might have a chance after all.

  With a smile of her own, Ryanne beamed at Jude. “Hold on to your invisible hat, cowboy. I’m going to take you for a wild ride.”

  Excerpt from

  Can’t Let Go

  Jude and Ryanne’s story

  by Gena Showalter

  Excerpt from Can’t Let Go © 2017 by Gena Showalter. Used by permission of Harlequin Books S.A.

  Chapter One

  He was back.

  Ryanne Wade poured her world-famous fruit cocktail moonshine—affectionately known as CockaMoon—into a small mason jar and, as discreetly as possible, watched as Jude Laurent prowled through her bar. And okay, the moonshine wasn’t exactly world famous but regionally famous. Okay, almost regionally famous; made from her personal recipe, it was distilled at a local brewery and sold exclusively at the Scratching Post.

  Jude had once called the drink Downfall in a Glass. Or DIG. Like, you’re digging your own grave, Wade. Just to get a rise out of her, she was sure.

  The former army ranger was a new resident in her hometown, and one of three co-owners of LPH Protection, a security firm. Sometimes he looked like a brawler from the maddest, baddest streets, yet other times he looked like a businessman fresh from a boardroom negotiation—and he’d won. Tonight, he was a bona fide brawler, ready to throw down and heat women up. He wore a black T-shirt, ripped jeans and combat boots. Leather cuffs circled his wrists, and three silver rings glinted on his fingers. His version of brass knuckles?

  No matter his persona du jour, he was always as gorgeous and tempting as sin—and an all-around pain in Ryanne’s backside.

  He really churned her butter.

  Usually he only blessed the Scratching Post with his exalted presence when one of his two friends required a designated driver. He never ordered anything but water, and never spent a dime or even left a tip for the waitress unlucky enough to serve him. Namely Ryanne. Not even the insulting kind of tip: a note on a napkin. Fetch my drinks faster next time, and you’ll get cash.

  The worst thing about him? He liked to stand at the jukebox and intimidate patrons with a death-ray glare. Oh, and let’s not forget how he sometimes attempted to police the door, commanding people to sit and stay as if they were dogs, simply because they’d had a sip of something—anything—alcoholic.

  The nerve of the man. And the body on him…

  Ryanne fanned her flushed cheeks. Time to crank up the air conditioner. Because no, her boiling blood had nothing to do with Jude’s sexy, muscled, delicious, sexy, mouthwatering, sexy good looks.

  Not too long ago—okay, okay, soon after meeting Jude—Ryanne had decided to nix her ban on romantic relationships and pick someone to date. The timing was purely coincidental, of course, but her hormones had been out of whack ever since.

  Besides, even if she did want Jude, she wouldn’t go after him. Despite his surly attitude, females young and old continued to approach him in droves, stealthily or not so stealthily dangling their bait, but he never even nibbled. He might as well have Off Limits tattooed on his forehead.

  Was tonight the night he relaxed and had a little fun?

  Shivers rained over her as he cast a dark, brooding glance in her direction. He had collar-length blond hair with the slightest wave, eyes bluer than a morning sky, and the body of a surfer: lean, muscled and bronzed. But he also had a perma-frown. To her knowledge, he’d never smiled, joked or laughed, and he’d always radiated scary-hot menace and aggression.

  If he ever smiled…goodness gracious, her hormones might explode from lust overload!

  Of course, he had a good reason for his bad attitude. A few years ago, he lost his entire family in a terrible car accident; his wife and twin daughters were gone in the blink of an eye. Talk about the ultimate heartache. Ryanne reckoned guilt and grief ate at him on a daily—hourly—basis. And she absolutely 100 percent empathized.

  But come on! His troubled past didn’t give him the right to accuse her of duplicitous flirting practices in order to boost return visits, and oversalting snacks to ensure patrons remained thirsty. First, she wasn’t a plain, ordinary flirt; she was flirtish, and there was a difference. She wasn’t after conquests but smiles. Second, how would Jude know anything about the food? He hadn’t tasted a single dish she served.

  For some reason, he’d pegged Ryanne as a villainess at their first meeting, and his opinion of her hadn’t changed.

  Dang him. I’m as sweet as sugar, and probably tastier to boot!

  When he turned on his heel and headed her way, a frisson of electricity raced through her. Their gazes locked once again, and his step hitched—so did her breath. The sight of him, drawing nearer while fully focused on her…

  Keep your cool, mi querida.

  Impossible! Her heart thudded against her ribs, and sweat glazed her hands.

  Attraction gave way to irritation, but irritation gave way to compassion when she noticed his limp. Poor guy. It was more pronounced than usual.

  On a mission overseas, he’d lost the bottom half of his left leg. Now he wore a prosthesis.

  Fingers snapped in front of her face, and she blinked. Cooter Bowright, one of her regulars, stared a
t her with concern. “You all right, Miss Ryanne? You’ve been spacing while I’ve been foaming at the mouth. Dehydration is deadly, don’t you know.”

  Ugh. Caught ogling a man who despised her. Feigning nonchalance, she topped Coot’s CockaMoon with a sprig of mint and slid the jar in his direction. Since she’d begun selling the fruity specialty, her nightly revenue had increased over 20 percent. Maybe because the cocktail consisted of strawberries, blueberries and grapes, a tribute to the three Oklahoma towns that surrounded the bar: her childhood home Strawberry Valley, Blueberry Hill, where the Scratching Post was located, and Grapevine. Or maybe because the cocktail utterly rocked.

  “I’m all right enough to know this is your last moonshine of the night,” she said. “If you get to feeling dehydrated again, I’ll pour you a sweet tea.”

  Coot took a long swig, draining half the glass, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Come on, Miss Rye-anne.” He sometimes drew out the syllables in her name when trying to make a point. “Don’t cut me off just yet. The night’s barely even started.”

  “You know the rules. Three CockaMoons, no exceptions.” No one got blackout drunk on her watch. Actually, if anyone slurred their words or staggered while walking, regardless of the limits, she pulled a Jude and stole keys. One, it was illegal to sell alcohol to anyone who appeared intoxicated and two, no, just no.

  Safety first, sales second.

  The difference between her and Jude? She called a cab afterward and never judged.

  “I’d say you suck rotten eggs, but I love you too gosh dern much,” Coot muttered, only to brighten. “Hey, you gonna be singing tonight?”

  Sometimes she enjoyed performing a couple sets with the band, but she couldn’t sing, mix drinks and make snacks. “Not tonight. I—”

  Jude reached the bar, and the rest of her response died in her mouth. Sex made flesh. He leaned against the polished wood and—shocker—glared at Coot. “Public intoxication is a crime.”