She's Far From Hollywood

by Jo McNally

  “You and me are a bad idea, Hollywood.”

  She’s a former beauty queen, former reality TV star and the former wife of a former Sexiest Man Alive. And now Bree Mathews has been forced into hiding on this godforsaken farm in the middle of Nowhere, North Carolina...all because some deranged stalker wants her dead. That grumpy farmer next door isn’t enough to chase her back to Malibu, even with his dark and scary PTSD episodes from his army days and his lack of respect for all things Hollywood. Always up to a challenge, she sets out to prove to Cole “Plowboy” Caldwell that you can never judge a celebrity on the lam by her cover!

  She put her left hand on his shoulder and held up her right hand.

  He seemed baffled, but silently took her hand and pulled her close. She couldn’t read his expression. Confusion? Anger? What the hell was he doing here anyway?

  His gray eyes never left hers, even when other people patted him on the back and told him how good it was to see him. They seemed genuinely surprised and happy at his presence, but he paid them no attention. He just stared at her as they moved to the music. His body was tight with tension under her fingertips.

  Looking into his eyes made her dizzy. She closed her own to regain her equilibrium, and her fingers absently traced the rough scars that scrolled under the dark tattoos on his arm. No wonder the tats had seemed three-dimensional.

  When she opened her eyes, Cole was still staring as he moved her across the floor. She felt a sudden urge to sink her fingers into his thick, tobacco-colored hair. This was crazy. She tried to pull away, but he wasn’t letting go.

  The song came to an end, and still he didn’t release her. She needed to free him from whatever demons were holding him there, immobile in the center of the dance floor.

  “So...your ex-fiancée seems nice.”

  Dear Reader,

  I start my writing process the same way for every book—with the opening scene. Once I have an opening that sets the mood I want, I let the stories spin out from there. The funny thing is, the story doesn’t always end up where I expect! I love the opening scene of She’s Far From Hollywood with Hollywood diva Brianna Mathews driving through the Carolina countryside arguing with herself in the rearview mirror. When I wrote that, I expected this to be a light romance between city and country, but the characters took me so much deeper.

  Writing Bree and Cole’s story sometimes made me laugh out loud, but it also brought me to tears more than once. I hope you enjoy reading about their journey as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Having this, my debut novel, published by Harlequin Superromance is a dream come true for me, and happily there’s more to come, so stay tuned! Dreams don’t happen in a vacuum, and none of this would have been possible without the loving support and understanding of family and friends.

  Wishing you forever love,

  Jo McNally

  PS: My research into PTSD revealed an average of twenty-two veterans commit suicide every day. And while I really do believe love can conquer anything, love can’t always do it alone. Please reach out to maketheconnection.net or one of many other organizations out there ready to assist. A portion of the proceeds from this book will go to support programs for veterans.

  JO

  McNALLY

  She’s Far From Hollywood

  Jo McNally lives in coastal North Carolina with one hundred pounds of dog and two hundred pounds of husband—her slice of the bed is very small. When she’s not writing or reading romance novels (or clinging to the edge of the bed), she can often be found on the back porch sipping wine with friends while listening to great music. If the weather is absolutely perfect, Jo might join her husband on the golf course, where she tends to feel far more competitive than her actual skill level would suggest.

  She likes writing stories about strong women and the men who love them. She’s a true believer that love can conquer all if given just half a chance.

  You can follow Jo pretty much anywhere on social media (and she’d love it if you did!), but you can start at her website, www.jomcnallyromance.com.

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  I’m lucky enough to know what forever love looks like. My husband of twenty years is my hero, my lover, my cheerleader, my coach and my very best friend.

  To John. I love you.

  Contents

  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

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  EXCERPT FROM BREAKING EMILY’S RULES BY HEATHERLY BELL

  CHAPTER ONE

  BRIANNA MATHEWS HATED North Carolina.

  Seriously.

  She hated it.

  She’d left the cosmopolitan appeal of Charlotte a couple of hours ago, and now it was just field after field of...what? Corn? Tobacco? Cotton? What did they grow in North Carolina, anyway? Cotton, right?

  Some of the fields looked like golden-green grass and were undulating prettily in the wind. Was that wheat?

  ...amber waves of grain...

  Wasn’t wheat a grain?

  She cursed softly behind the wheel of her rented red Mercedes. She was completely out of her element driving through farm country, and she laughed at her reflection in the rearview mirror.

  “You’re a long way from Hollywood, girlfriend.”

  This seemed like such a good idea last night. But last night she was still in the civilized world. She’d been happily ensconced at her cousin Amanda’s palatial stone castle, Halcyon, in the Catskill Mountains of New York, sipping pink champagne at Amanda’s baby shower. Then she got the news that upended her tidy little world. The consensus was she needed a place to stay that was out of the public eye. Amanda’s best friend, Caroline, offered her mother’s rural farm as the perfect place to avoid both paparazzi and crazed stalkers.

  “‘Go to North Carolina,’ Caroline said. ‘You’ll be safe there.’” Bree glared at her reflection as she continued her one-sided conversation. “‘Mom has a cute little cottage you can use.’ Didn’t that all sound so delightful last night at Halcyon? And look at me now. Driving down country roads in the middle of nowhere. Me! Miss California!” She shook her head. “I haven’t been here three hours and I’m already talking to myself. How am I supposed to last a month?”

  According to Caroline’s scribbled directions, the small town of Russell should be coming up anytime now. Thank the good Lord for that. This was not how her life was supposed to turn out. She was not supposed to be driving past feed mills and dusty double-wides that had signs in their front yards advertising things like Steve’s Stump Grinding and Bob’s Deer Processing. She didn’t even want to know what “deer processing” was.

  No. North Carolina was not her life. Her life was back in Los Angeles. She owned t
hat freakin’ town. Clerks in the shops on Rodeo Drive knew her by name. The waiters at the finest restaurants knew which tables she preferred, and had a Sapphire martini waiting for her before her ass hit the chair seat.

  Then it all went to hell. And now she was driving to East Bejesus, USA. To hide. The whole situation ticked her off royally.

  Village of Russell, North Carolina

  Founded 1820

  Population 249

  She nearly wept with relief when she saw the faded wooden sign. Russell looked like so many of the other towns she’d driven through since leaving the Charlotte airport, except it was even smaller than most. Downtown, for lack of a better word, consisted of five or six buildings, washed out and faded in the scorching-hot summer sun. It looked like the set of a movie out of the 1950s, with aged and dusty brick storefronts. The Methodist church at the edge of town was the largest building, with the exception of the towering metal silos gathered directly across the street. It was midafternoon on a Monday, and the streets were quiet. A few pickup trucks were parked along the side of the road. Four in front of the farm supply store. Two in front of the bank. And one particularly dirty one sat in front of the only restaurant in town. A sign identified the business as The Hide-Away, and there was a neon beer sign in the window. She grinned at the irony—it was just what she was looking for.

  She hadn’t eaten anything since that reheated egg and biscuit concoction she bought at the airport, and she could most definitely use a drink. Caroline told her to stop in town and ask for directions to “Miss Nell’s house,” and the restaurant was as good a place as any to do that. Apparently Caroline’s mom was so well-known in town that last names weren’t necessary. Bree uncharitably wondered what it took to become famous in a place this small. She pulled the Mercedes into a spot next to the enormous black pickup truck caked with dried mud. Her car was as out of place in this dirty little town as she was.

  The Hide-Away was dark and cool inside, with the blinds narrowed to block the heat of the sun. As her eyes adjusted, she saw an old-fashioned wooden bar that ran down the right side of the room, complete with a massive etched mirror on the wall behind it. The wooden bar stools had seats of well-worn dark leather. The place was straight out of a John Wayne Western. Dining booths lined the left wall, with more tables in the back of the room. A wide accordion door was pulled across an opening that seemed to lead to whatever business was next door. She didn’t see any other patrons, and she wondered for a moment if the place was closed. Then she saw the good-looking man standing behind the bar.

  He gave her a warm smile, and she relaxed. Somewhere around his late thirties, he wasn’t overly tall, but he was muscular. Not Hollywood Beach muscular, where the muscles came more from steroids than actual exercise. No, this man had the lean, sinewy muscles that came from real physical labor. Dark brown hair fell across his forehead, stopping just above golden-brown eyes.

  She slid onto the first bar stool she came to, settling down with a dramatic sigh. The still-smiling man wiped his hands on a thin towel and nodded toward her.

  “How y’all doin’ today, ma’am?”

  Ma’am?

  She was only twenty-nine years old. Well...okay, she’d be thirty-one in six months, but very few people on this earth knew that. Still, nowhere near being a “ma’am” to anyone. She bit back her protest when she met his kind eyes, and reminded herself that she was in the South, after all.

  “Would you like a menu, ma’am, or just something cold to drink on this hot afternoon?”

  She finally remembered her manners and returned his smile. “Both, please. I’d like to see a menu. And I’d absolutely love to have a chilled white wine. Do you have a Sancerre?”

  She flinched when she heard a sharp snort of derision to her right. A man sat in the shadows just a few feet away, at the short end of the bar. He was close to the wall, and there was a shot glass of amber liquid in front of him. She couldn’t see his face because of the camouflage ball cap pulled low on his forehead. His jeans were worn thin and covered with dirt and something that looked and smelled worse. She wrinkled her nose. His Western boots were crusted and cracked. He wore a sweat-stained dark green T-shirt that stretched snugly across his broad chest. Dark tribal tattoos wound their way down his left biceps, looking three-dimensional. His hands were rough, with dirt plainly visible under his short fingernails. A day’s growth of stubble covered what little she could see of his jawline. If she saw this guy in LA, she would have assumed he was homeless, or perhaps a day laborer. And he’d just snorted at her.

  She pulled her shoulders back and sat up straight, but the bartender spoke before she could.

  “Don’t start, Cole.” So the bum had a name. Cole sounded like “coal,” which was basically dirt. It fit.

  “Come on, Ty,” Cole said with a gravelly voice that made her breath hitch for some weird reason. “A Sancerre? You really think this lady drove to Russell in her fancy red car to eat one of your famous Hide-Away burgers? Clearly she’s lost. Give her directions and send her on her way.”

  The man behind the bar, Ty, leveled a glare in Cole’s direction. She still couldn’t see Cole’s face under the brim of his hat, but the two men were having some sort of unspoken conversation as they stared at each other in stony silence. Finally, Ty turned back to her, slipping his easy smile back in place.

  “Ma’am, for white wine we have chardonnay and also pinot grigio, mostly because that’s what my wife likes.”

  She liked the way his soft Southern accent made “wife” sound like “whahf.”

  “Your wife has excellent taste. A glass of the pinot would be perfect, thanks.”

  Her nemesis in the corner spoke up again. The angry rumble of his voice made her skin tense and tingle, setting her on edge. “You better tell her what vintage it is, Ty, and maybe offer to take her on a tour of the wine cellar. And don’t forget to let her sniff the cork.”

  He turned his head subtly in her direction. She could see the hard outline of his chin, but she still couldn’t see his eyes.

  Arrogant jackass.

  Ty’s voice was no longer gentle. “I won’t say it again, Cole. Shut up or go home.” He turned back to Bree and looked chagrined. “I’m sorry, ma’am. My brother’s being more surly than usual. And he was born surly, so that’s saying something.”

  Her eyes went wide. “You’re brothers? Really?” She made a point to smile at Ty. “But you seem so nice...”

  Ty laughed as he poured the wine, but Cole just grunted and stared back down into his glass.

  “Cole’s my baby brother. He’s not always as bad as he seems this afternoon. I’m Ty Caldwell.”

  She took his extended hand and shook it. She was sure no one in this little burg had ever heard of her. “Nice to meet you, Ty. I’m Brianna. You can call me Bree.”

  Her stomach rumbled, making her laugh. “You know, a burger sounds absolutely divine right now. Could I have one, medium rare?”

  She glanced in Cole’s direction. She shouldn’t engage with him, but she just couldn’t resist. Tossing her hair over her shoulder like she used to do for the cameras, she raised a brow coquettishly. “That is, if my order meets with your approval?”

  He turned slowly and, for the first time, raised his head to look straight into her eyes. The effect was momentarily paralyzing. His eyes were blue-gray. And they were hard. Flint hard. His features were sharp and handsome, but they seemed to be chiseled into ice. Every muscle line was tight and tense, like a cat waiting to pounce. The corner of his mouth twitched into a semblance of a smile that never reached his eyes.

  “Ma’am, I don’t give a flying fu—”

  “Jay-sus, Cole!” Ty seemed stunned by his brother’s actions. But Bree was grateful to have a target for all the anger she’d been nursing for the past twenty-four hours.

  “Well, forgive my confusion,” sh
e said with saccharine sweetness, “but just a minute ago you were so terribly concerned about what I ordered. And if you think for one minute that tossing profanities around will make me faint dead away, think again. I can out-curse the best of them. I doubt you qualify as the best in any category.”

  His eyes narrowed dangerously, but he didn’t speak. Her anger gave her a rush of adrenaline, and her lips parted as she took a deep, steadying breath. His gaze flickered down to her mouth, and his chin turned to granite.

  Ty looked back and forth between Bree and Cole in stunned silence as the atmosphere crackled with tension. Then he started to laugh.

  “Brother of mine, I do believe you’ve just met your match. Miss Bree, I’ll be happy to go make that burger as long as you two promise not to kill each other out here.”

  Cole’s eyes met hers, and she didn’t flinch from his hard glare. She nodded. “I promise. Thank you.”

  Cole just turned back toward his drink with a grunt. That seemed to be his favorite form of conversation. Ty looked between the two of them one last time then nodded, apparently satisfied no crimes would be committed in his absence. He turned and walked through the swinging door that led to the kitchen.

  Bree picked up her wineglass and silently cursed her trembling hand. It was just adrenaline and exhaustion, but it made her look weak. She raised the glass for a sip and slowly set it down again. The base rattled against the gleaming wood. Cole snorted again, and she lost it.

  “Look...” She spun and pointed her finger at his rock-solid chest. She saw a flash of surprise in his eyes, but he hid it quickly and returned to his usual glower. “I’ve had a miserable few days. I’m tired, I’m hungry and I’m angry.” She left out “terrified,” because she thought he’d enjoy it too much. “I’m in the middle of nowhere. On purpose. But I at least expected a little freakin’ Southern charm. Is that too much to ask?”

  This time his grin almost reached his eyes. He seemed amused by her outburst.