Fall in Love Book Bundle: Small Town Romance Box Set

by Grover Swank, Denise

“She teaches calculus,” Cletus said from someplace. “And she doesn’t grade on a curve.”

  I laughed lightly and Drew gave me a smile that made his eyes shine. Then he pulled me forward into an unexpected bear hug.

  “Welcome to the family, Jessica,” the big man said as he set me away, sounding and looking more sincere than a man had a right to sound or look. To my astonishment I felt my chin wobble.

  I didn’t get a chance to respond because Ashley was there, bumping him out of her way with her hip, and saying, “Jessica James, is your cat still trying to kill people?”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but she cut me off by pulling me into a warm, soft, lovely smelling hug. In truth, she smelled like pancakes. Delicious, buttery, fluffy, vanilla pancakes.

  And when she’d finished with our tight embrace, she slipped her arm through mine and pulled me away from the congregation of beards, walking us toward the living room. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. I’m so glad you’re here. I was hoping to see you yesterday, but understand you had a family commitment. Duane was telling me about your plans to go to Italy in the summer, and then after that he said something about Greece?”

  “Yes, but Greece might be next year, depending on how long we stay in Italy.”

  “Well, if you’re still in Italy next summer then maybe I can talk Drew into a trip.” She grinned down at me, her big blue eyes excited. “I’ve always wanted to go, and there’s this yarn from Italy, one hundred percent cashmere, called S.Charles Collezione…”

  I turned and glanced over my shoulder as Ashley told me about this special yarn she wanted to procure from Italy and I found Duane standing next to Drew. The two men were watching us with mirrored expressions of amusement and adoration.

  I gave Duane a bright smile, which he returned, and I found myself truly at a loss.

  He was giving this up—this amazing family, with their holiday pranks and steady love and support—just to be with me, just to travel the world and share adventures. I felt both astonished and blessed.

  But most of all, I was humbled. He was giving up his home. And so I made him a silent promise that he’d never regret giving up so much. Not for one second.

  * * *

  Duane went through the house and systematically removed all the mistletoe.

  Well, all the mistletoe he could find.

  He missed a bunch in the pantry and had to fight his way to the front of the line to rescue me from his brothers—all of whom had lined up except Billy. Billy had caught me earlier under another bunch hanging just outside the downstairs bathroom. However, like a gentleman, he’d been content with a kiss on the cheek.

  Ashley pocketed every bunch Duane removed, slipping them into her bag. She planned to hang them up all over Drew’s house. She wanted to catch him unawares for the next week before she had to fly back to Chicago.

  She really was planning to move back to Tennessee and hoped to return for good no later than the end of March. I was glad to hear it because it would give us a few months of getting acquainted before Duane and I were off. Plus I still thought these boys needed someone. They needed a good woman to keep them safe, and Ashley already loved them with her heart and soul.

  Dinner was nice. Actually, it was great. The boys were lively and animated, telling stories about Ashley and Duane, hoping to embarrass their siblings. This may have worked for Ashley, but I already knew most of the stories they told about Duane. Therefore I didn’t hesitate jumping in and adding details they missed.

  My eagerness earned me high fives from his siblings, but only heated glares from Duane. And it was totally worth it. Each hot look ignited a simmering thrill low in my belly because each promised delicious retribution. I had a feeling I was going to enjoy his version of revenge.

  After dinner I served my four kinds of pie. When all the dust settled, not a single slice remained. Truly, there is no feeling quite like making four pies and leaving with no leftovers.

  Dessert was followed by an impromptu family concert. Cletus played his banjo and Drew accompanied on his guitar while Billy and Ashley sang folk duets of Christmas classics. They looked like twins, Ashley and Billy; and their harmonies were beautiful, like they’d been singing together all their life, like they knew each other from the inside out. I guess, when I reflected on it, they did.

  From the time the music started until it ended, Duane had me wrapped in his arms on his lap. I leaned into him, enjoying his easy affection. He touched me with contentment, with wistful sighs and smiles, melting my heart with each cherishing pass of his fingers through my hair and stroke of my back.

  Midnight came and went. Around 1:30 a.m. Duane told me it was time to go. Leaving took another twenty minutes as sleepy hugs were handed out and Ashley made me promise to have lunch with her before she flew back to Chicago. The entire brood gathered on the porch to wave as Duane pulled the Mustang out of the drive and turned on Moth Run.

  I yawned, eyeballing Duane in his bucket seat.

  “I miss the Road Runner,” I said, my words a little slurred because I was dead tired.

  “Why?”

  “Because it was a bench seat. This car has bucket seats.”

  “Fair point.” He nodded solemnly, then took the turn off for the cabin.

  I gave him a small smile and shook my head. He hadn’t mentioned we’d be staying the night at the cabin, hadn’t discussed his plans with me, but I couldn’t say I was surprised. He’d been doing this with regularity over the last month, taking us out to his fortress of solitude.

  Sometimes we’d have picnics, go on walks, talk, play cards. The cabin was where we’d discuss my Aunt Louisa and my feelings on the subject. I’d lost it a few times, cried tears I didn’t know I needed to cry. And he’d held me close, reassuring me that I was wonderful and her absence in my life was her loss. I talked through my messes and he listened, giving advice if and when I asked. He talked through his frustrations and I listened, giving advice if and when he asked.

  But most of the time we ripped each other’s clothes off.

  Yep. That’s what we did. And I finally got to spend some quality time with his buttocks, thighs, and calves. They were wonderful.

  Duane pulled up to the stone steps and cut the ignition, then jogged around to my side of the car. I was barely on my feet before he swept me up into his arms and kicked the door closed behind him. I snuggled against his broad chest and placed a kiss on his neck; meanwhile, he had the keys ready and unlocked the cabin door, crossed to the bed, and placed me gently on top of the covers.

  I sat up and fumbled to remove my clothes, the room spinning a tad, likely the effect of too much moonshine eggnog and the late hour. Duane quickly built a fire and turned back to me when he was done, giving me a pleased grin when he saw I was naked except for my socks.

  “Get under the covers,” he said, peeling off his own clothes.

  I did as he instructed. My eyes were heavy but I managed to keep them open long enough to watch him undress.

  Sleepy tipsiness meant I was saying and thinking in tandem, “I like watching you take off your clothes, it’s like unwrapping a present.”

  My stream of consciousness nonsense was rewarded with a broad smile, his glittering sapphire eyes just visible in the dim cabin.

  “How do you think I feel? Having you to myself, naked? It’s like winning the lottery.”

  I giggled at this and turned my face into the soft pillow. A moment later the bed dipped and I felt him climb in next to me, one of his legs moving between mine, his strong arms bringing my chest against his, and his hands smoothing down my body.

  “Go to sleep, Jessica,” he whispered as he stroked my hip. “Go to sleep and have sweet dreams.”

  “So, dream of you and your hot looks?” I mumbled, relaxing into his skin, my eyes already closed.

  His hand paused on my hip and I felt his lips curve against my temple.

  “Or dream of you and your sassy backtalk?”

  His smile grew.

&nbs
p; “Or dream of you and your goodness? Your…yawn…irksome integrity.”

  This earned me a chuckle and a squeeze.

  “Or maybe I’ll just dream of us, like this, forever.” I shifted against him so I could get closer. “Yeah…that’s what I’ll do. I’ll dream of home.”

  “Is this place home?” He kissed my cheek and I discerned the lingering smile in his voice.

  “No, Duane.” I shook my head and confessed just before tumbling into blissful sleep, “You are.”

  -The End-

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  About the Author

  Penny Reid is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling Author of the Winston Brothers, Knitting in the City, Rugby, Dear Professor, and Hypothesis series. She used to spend her days writing federal grant proposals as a biomedical researcher, but now she just writes books. She’s also a full time mom to three diminutive adults, wife, daughter, knitter, crocheter, sewer, general crafter, and thought ninja.

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  by Penny Reid, book #2 in the Winston Brothers series

  “Not all those who wander are lost.”

  J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

  ~Sienna~

  I was lost.

  I was lost lost. My throat was tight with how lost I was. A desperate lost, half wondering if I’d crossed over into a new dimension and would never be found lost. I hadn’t seen another car, let alone a pedestrian, in over an hour.

  Perhaps I was now the last person left on the face of the earth. Perhaps everyone else had been abducted by aliens. I was so lost not even aliens could find me.

  Whatever. Alternate reality, body-snatching aliens or not, I was now beyond frustrated. And when I’m extremely frustrated, I cry.

  At present, I was very close to crying. I hate this about myself.

  Which is why I pulled my tiny rental car off the side of the mountain road as soon as I spotted an overlook. Driving while crying is like eating while crying, or having sex while crying: weird, wet (not in a good way), and dangerous.

  I tried to ignore that this overlook felt suspiciously familiar. I was fairly certain I’d pulled off at this exact spot an hour ago in a futile attempt to consult the paper map now crumpled on my passenger seat. This was the same paper map I would again have to consult, and likely with the same outcome—another two hours spent driving up and down this godforsaken mountain road.

  Calming breaths were coming out as slightly hysterical huffs as I snatched the map from the passenger’s seat. I shook out the map. I enjoyed the violent sound of the paper rumpling in my hands. I cleared my throat. I glared at the map. I continued glaring at the map.

  I decided the map was clearly written by masochistic-doodling ancient Egyptians because everything was hieroglyphics and unreadable doodads.

  I cursed the map.

  “BY MOTHRA’S NIPPLES! I FUCKING HATE THIS MAP!”

  Irrational anger bubbled to the surface and all I could think about was murdering the map. I would show the map who was boss.

  I was boss.

  Not some evil, wrong map from hell. I had no choice but to hit the map against the steering wheel several times, grunting and releasing a string of curses that would have made my sailor father proud. And maybe blush.

  Then I opened my driver’s side door, still grunting and raging, and slammed the map against the car, threw it on the ground, stomped on it, kicked it, and just generally assaulted it in every way I could think of. I’m a little embarrassed to admit, in my mindlessness I was also taunting the map, questioning its virility, flipping it the bird, and cursing now in Spanish as well as English.

  It was the most cardio I’d done in over twelve months.

  Stupid map, making me do cardio. I’ll kill you!

  Awareness I was no longer alone didn’t occur all at once. I kind of realized a truck had driven past my map-assault-breakdance but had ignored it. If it had been twenty minutes ago I would have flagged down the truck or followed it. But I was now red-faced, snot-nosed, and sweaty. The last thing I needed were red-faced, snot-nosed, sweaty pictures of me all over the Internet . . . again.

  But then the truck returned. The sound of tires crunching over gravel pulled me out of my fit of violence.

  “Oh, crap.”

  I inhaled a large, steadying breath, leaned against my car, and closed my eyes. I needed to piece together my wherewithal as soon as possible, prepare to flash my dimples, unleash the charm.

  It was at this point I almost wished I’d agreed to let my sister—who was also my extremely capable manager—accompany me. But, no. I’d wanted some time away. Some quiet and peace. The world had grown too loud, the studios too demanding, the paparazzi cameras too suffocating.

  My house in LA had been broken into four times in the last month; three had been over-exuberant fans. But one of the break-ins had been a reporter. She’d gone through my stuff, digging for dirt. I had no dirt. I didn’t even have sand or dust. My life was an open book.

  So, no. I hadn’t wanted my sister to come. And I’d left my security team in Knoxville. And now I was lost. I’d wanted a break from being Sienna Diaz. Maybe if I’d had a proper map—or any innate sense of direction—then a break might have been possible, but now . . .

  Sliding my eyes to the side and glaring through the curtain my dark brown hair provided, I tried to sneak a peek at the newcomer through the truck’s windshield—specifically, I wanted to determine whether I was being filmed—and that’s when I spied the lights on the roof and the emblem on the hood and side of the car.

  This car was official. And the man in it—now getting out of it and removing his sunglasses—was also official, wearing a uniform complete with a hat and a tool belt. A public servant.

  THANK YOU, UNIVERSE.

  I flipped my hair away from my face, wiped the backs of my hands across my slick cheeks and forehead, relieved I didn’t need to gather my charm or wherewithal. Law enforcement didn’t typically use phones to shoot amateur videos. If they did they were usually fired for misconduct. I could leave all my figurative masks on the ground, along with Satan’s torn and tattered map to hell.

  As I straightened from the car and faced him I saw his steps falter. He was clearly surprised and I was pretty sure he recognized me because abrupt interest tempered his surprise. I pressed my lips together and gave him a quick smile, allowing him time for the shock to pass. But he didn’t need the time; he quickly covered his surprise with a swaggery brand of attentive amusement. His left eyebrow cocked just a hint as his eyes swept over my body, and his mouth a suspicious looking line, like he was fighting a smile.

  Eventually he abandoned the fight and grinned. “Evening, ma’am,” he said, his accent just as sweet and thick as his voice was low. The man even tipped his hat.

  And that’s when I noticed Officer Grins-a-lot was adorable.

  Six foot something; smiling eyes framed by thick lashes; brown beard covering a strong, angular jaw. Maybe most people wouldn’t describe him as adorable. In fact, I’m pretty sure most women would call him a hot piece of ass. But after working for the last five years in Hollywood, all good-looking men were regulated to benignly adorable in my headspace.
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  In my early acting days, I’d dated a lot of hot guys—short hot guys, tall hot guys, muscular hot guys, thin hot guys, voluptuous hot guys—I’d tapped all manner of hot guys. But over the years I’d found the hotter the guy, the more the guy behaved like an entitled and incapable child.

  Plus, I just couldn’t afford to date. My career had to come first. As my sister frequently reminded me, if I wanted success, I didn’t have much time for hot guys. Or any guys.

  I nodded once at this hot guy’s polite greeting, as a new gust of wind meant I was again forced to push my long hair away from my face. “Howdy, partner.”

  I cringed, because that wasn’t at all charming. That was unintentionally awkward. But I really needed any help he was capable of providing, and based on his hotness, my expectations were low. I sent up a prayer that he wasn’t my least favorite kind of hot guy: the hot guy asshole.

  In my defense, at least I didn’t follow up my earlier statement with, “Someone has poisoned the waterhole.”

  His lips compressed like he was wrestling laughter.

  I braced. I never knew what or how people would react. Sometimes they’d ask me to quote one of my more famous movie lines. And that was usually fine. But right now I was lost and I was hungry and I desperately needed a shower and he was too freaking cute for me to repeat one of my most popular catchphrases—which included:

  “I’ll make you a sandwich if you make me a woman,” and “Fat chicks love fat dicks.”

  But instead of asking me for my autograph or telling me how much he enjoyed my latest film role as Frankenstein’s accident-prone, chubby younger sister, he surprised me by clearing his throat, tipping his cowboy hat back, and asking, “Ma’am, do you require assistance?”

  “Yes.” I reached out automatically, rushing forward and grabbing his arm. Hot guy or not, he was a life preserver in this sea of mountain road sameness. His eyes followed my movements and focused on my hand where I gripped his sleeve. I was also perfectly fine that my voice betrayed my level of desperation. “Please. Yes. I am totally lost. The GPS failed me three hours ago. I’ve been up and down this road a few dozen times. My phone has no reception. I have hardly any gas. I am so fucking lost. You are my hero.”