Table of Contents
Dedication
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
Epilogue
About the Author
Find your Bliss with these great releases… No Cowboy Required
Back in the Rancher’s Arms
Blame It on the Bet
Mischief and Mayhem
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Carrie Nichols. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 105, PMB 159
Fort Collins, CO 80525
[email protected]
Bliss is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Alycia Tornetta
Cover design by Cora Graphics
Cover photography by 4Pm production/Shutterstock
ISBN 978-1-64063-647-7
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition October 2018
Dear Reader,
Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.
xoxo
Liz Pelletier, Publisher
To Tina and Taryn. You awesome ladies have kept me sane during this journey. And to Marcia for reading my manuscripts over and over without complaint.
Chapter One
“I’ve got money riding on this, so you better make it good,” Sasha Honeycutt boldly cautioned the man in the black cowboy boots. He wore dark jeans with a classic white oxford shirt and black sport coat, but those boots coupled with the silver star belt buckle gave her goose bumps. Good Lord, he was even more gorgeous up close than he’d been from across the crowded French Quarter piano bar.
“Don’t you worry, cher, I’ll take good care of you.” The stranger leaned closer, his obsidian eyes glittering as one corner of his generous mouth lifted.
Damn. Why hadn’t someone warned her those fruity, rum-filled hurricanes were lethal? As in, betting she could get a stranger to kiss her lethal. Her friends had teased that even on a wild weekend in a city known for debauchery, she was unable to cut loose. Emboldened by alcohol, she’d set about proving she wasn’t a prude.
Even in her ridiculously high heels, Sasha had to stand on her tiptoes. The man was a freaking giant. She grabbed onto his upper arms to steady herself. Thoughts of bulging biceps and hot skin swirled through the fog in her brain.
His arms encircled her and calluses brushed her bare skin. She shivered, unsure if she should rejoice or curse her open-backed dress. He groaned deep in his throat and those rough fingers tightened their hold, crushing her against his hard chest. Rejoice the dress!
Slowly, as if he enjoyed the anticipation, his mouth descended to meet hers.
A tilt of his head and her brain stopped functioning as his lips explored and devoured hers. Warmth gathered in places that had been cold for way too long. When she made a soft mewling sound in her throat, he licked the corner of her mouth. Her fingertips dug into the muscles on his arms while his tongue ran circles around her lips until they tingled. She parted them, his tongue slid along hers, and just like that, he took charge of what had started as her big experiment. Her whole world focused on the sweet agony that was his mouth. Growing bolder, she scraped her tongue against the edges of his teeth and entered, sending shivers down to her toes. He tasted like fine whiskey and expensive cigars.
A discreet cough crashed her back to the world of the piano bar. The clinking of ice dropping into empty glasses, the strains of a Billy Joel tune on the piano, the mutter of voices and occasional bursts of laughter assaulted her.
Someone close to them cleared their throat and said, “Bon Dieu, even here in N’Oarlinns we have decency laws.”
“Mais oui, the fire department is on the way,” a male voice on Sasha’s other side chimed in.
She jumped back, wobbling in her three-inch heels. The stranger’s hand snaked out and steadied her. “Thanks.”
“Thank you.” His hand still wrapped around her arm, he glanced over Sasha’s shoulder to her two friends seated at a table along the brick wall. “I hope you won your bet.”
“I’m sure I did.” Her face burned so hot she swore she could smell charred skin. No one would be able to call her a prude…at least not tonight. She’d noticed him when he’d leaned against the bar and surveyed the room. His gaze had swept the room, landing on her, and she’d wondered aloud if he kissed as good as he looked. Her friends, of course, seized on the idea, and the rest was history.
She tugged her arm, and he dropped his hand. Glancing back at her girlfriends, whose mouths hung open, she gave them what they referred to as “Sasha’s stink eye.” She backed away from the stranger and motioned with a tilt of her head for her friends to follow.
“How much?”
The stranger’s deep voice stopped her, and her gaze went straight to his mouth. Look away. “P-pardon?”
His lips quirked up on one side. “How much did you win, cher?”
“Twenty dollars.”
His dark eyebrows shot upward into the lock of lush ebony hair that had flopped over his forehead during the kiss. Way to go, Sasha. She winced. Why couldn’t that dang rum have stripped her of her honesty along with her sanity?
The sandy-haired man standing next to her stranger hooted with laughter and slapped him on the back. “Hear that? You’re worth a whole twenty dollars.”
Someone snickered. “I’ll double that to see a replay.”
The remarks were a bucket of cold water dumped over her head. Spinning away, she hurried toward the exit as fast as her damn shoes allowed. Reaching the open doorway, the balmy air welcomed her like a wet towel thrown over her face. She’d never ever again wear heels. Or a backless dress. Or drink rum.
She waited in the doorway for a walking tour to pass, everyone craning their necks while their animated guide called attention to various locations. Once there was a gap in the pedestrians, she walked half a block to Bourbon Street to wait for her friends.
Even on a non-holiday weekend in April, revelers crowded the closed-off street, drinking and tossing Mardi Gras beads. Purple, green, and gold baubles littered the cobblestones, because women of all ages bared their breasts for the cheap necklaces thrown from wrought iron balconies. Sasha pulled up and rearranged the halter straps on her dress.
Karen and Denise caught up to her, and the three of them headed toward Canal Street.
“Wow, he was smokin’ hot. You go, girl.” Karen looped her arm through Sasha’s and giggled. “We didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Looks like our plan to drop her off at the convent we saw this afternoon is out,” Denise said.
Sasha shook her head and regretted
the gesture when the pastel-colored buildings lining the street spun. She leaned on Karen. “What I have in me is rum and way too much of it.”
“Did he kiss as hot as he looked?” Karen glanced wistfully back toward the piano bar.
“Better.” Sasha touched her lips. She hadn’t kissed a man in five years. She pushed the guilt down. She hadn’t done anything wrong—foolish, but not wrong. This was her taking back her life.
A man in an ill-fitting tuxedo stepped in front of them and motioned toward a darkened doorway. “Half price drinks for ladies as pretty as you three.”
Karen’s steps slowed, but Sasha pulled her along. “No thank you.”
They passed a brightly lit souvenir shop, its dusty windows chock-full of faded T-shirts with suggestive sayings, music blaring through the open door.
“You should have danced with him.” Karen tilted her head.
“Not in these heels.”
“How are we supposed to live vicariously through you if you live like a nun? That’s no fun.” Denise took Sasha’s other arm.
Sasha clucked her tongue. “You’re both happily married. Why would you need to live through me?”
“Because you can still kiss hot strangers.” Karen wrinkled her nose. “What is that smell?”
Denise shook her head. “I don’t think we want to know.”
They stepped off the sidewalk to avoid a group of young boys laughing at a window display of sex toys. Sasha stumbled on the uneven cobblestones and clung to Karen, who was staring behind them.
“Look at that. One of those boys still has braces. Should we say something?”
Denise snorted. “Like what? I’m going to tell your momma?”
Karen continued staring. “I just think…”
“I want to get back to the room. Not start trouble,” Sasha said.
A raggedly dressed adolescent boy approached and pointed at Sasha’s feet. “I bet you twenty dollars I can tell you where you got those shoes at.”
Before Sasha could respond, a uniformed police officer approached, and the kid darted away, blending back into the crowd.
“Ladies.” The officer nodded and offered a smile as he passed.
Denise elbowed Sasha. “Ooh, he’s cute.”
“He’s probably very nice.” And married to his job. And his poor wife won’t even realize until he’s gone that her husband was someone she barely knew, someone who shared more with his work partner than his life partner. Someone gone in the blink of an eye, leaving broken hearts and shattered dreams behind.
Yeah, there was no way she’d ever get involved with another man in law enforcement. It wasn’t worth the inevitable heartache.
…
After a week of putting her New Orleans adventure behind her where it belonged, Sasha sat in her second-grade classroom in Rose Creek, Texas, a stone’s throw from the Louisiana border. She’d been in town a month and a half, and she was starting to finally feel at home. Which meant she could find her way to Target without taking a wrong turn. She double-checked the manila folder to be sure it contained everything she needed for her upcoming conference with Evangeline Fontenot’s father. Since she’d stepped in as long-term sub so close to the end of the year, she wanted her first parent/teacher meeting to be perfect. If she could prove herself, this job and her fresh start would be permanent. No more being pigeonholed. She’d decide who she was going to be. Pulling out the papers, she stood them up and tapped them on the desk to be sure they lined up before returning them to the folder.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” Angie Cunningham, the kindergarten teacher, strolled into Sasha’s room.
Sasha glanced down at her navy blue vest. The appliquéd red apples, yellow school bus, and colorful crayons worked wonders at hiding marker stains and the occasional glob of glue. “It’s what I’ve had on all day. It’s very respectable and appropriate for meeting with a parent.”
Of course it wouldn’t be appropriate for tonight’s date, but she would have plenty of time after the conference to go home and change. And to worry that dating had somehow changed in the last five years. Meeting people hadn’t. She’d spotted him in the grocery store’s frozen food aisle and couldn’t help noting his small basket was filled with prepared foods, an indicator he might be single. At least that’s what several articles on the internet had suggested. Then the handsome veterinarian had introduced himself over the self-service salad bar and asked her out when they both ended up in the limited items line at the checkout.
It was refreshing to no longer be “that policeman’s poor widow” and expected to mourn forever, as if her moving on would somehow rob a still grieving family and a town of their hero. Wasn’t five years long enough? Moving on didn’t mean she wouldn’t miss Jimmy or that she hadn’t loved him. Clearing her brooding thoughts, she checked her watch and frowned. Sheriff Fontenot was late, which wasn’t a great start to their meeting, her date preparations, or the new beginning she could see on the horizon.
Angie leaned against the desk, drawing Sasha’s attention. She shook her head. “He’s a parent and I—”
“Remy Fontenot isn’t just any parent.” Angie primped her silver bob. “I may be a grandmother, but I can ogle as if I were thirty like you. If you’re not drooling in five minutes, I’m checking you for a pulse.”
Sasha rolled her eyes, brushed cracker crumbs off her dress slacks, and touched her hair. It hadn’t taken long to learn the humidity of her new home was not hair-friendly. In this morning’s sticky heat, she’d pulled the riot of blond waves into a bun at the back of her head and forgotten about it…until now. “He’s a parent. And he’s late. I don’t see what—”
“My dear girl.” Angie tapped her hand on Sasha’s desk, shaking her head. “Have you seen the man?”
“Well, no, I haven’t had the pleasure.” But she had to admit to being curious when several other teachers remarked on her luck at having “the Fontenot girl” in her class. At first Sasha had thought it was because Evie was bright, cooperative, and inquisitive—every teacher’s ideal student. Now, she realized their envy had nothing to do with the daughter and everything to do with the father. Well, Sasha didn’t care how attractive the sheriff was, she wasn’t about to get involved with him, especially since he was a parent.
Angie sighed. “And what a pleasure it is.”
Footsteps in the hall cut off any further conversation. Angie reached across the desk and squeezed Sasha’s arm. “Lucky you. I wish I could’ve held little Evie back for a few years.”
The footsteps came closer. Angie raised her pencil-thin eyebrows, grinned like a Cheshire cat, and hurried out the door. Sasha looked down at her vest and then back to the open door. The sheriff couldn’t be that good-looking. If he was so spectacular, why was he single? Her coworkers were just being silly. Or he had flaws that weren’t visible.
“Good afternoon, Sheriff Fontenot, so good to see you again.” Angie’s voice floated in from the hallway.
“Always a pleasure, Mrs. Cunningham. I assume I’ve got the correct classroom?”
The hair on the back of Sasha’s neck stood at attention. Something about that deep, silky voice…
“Oh, yes, Miss Honeycutt has been expecting you.”
The sheriff appeared in the doorway.
Oh no.
Sasha resisted the urge to dart under her desk. Barely. It was the same lush, ebony hair, the same dark eyes and generous mouth. His broad shoulders and muscular frame lent authority to the knife-edge creases in his khaki uniform. A duty belt hugged his trim waist, and his badge glinted in the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. She straightened the framed picture on her desk.
She stood but didn’t gain much of an advantage in today’s sensible ballet flats. This had to be some sort of cosmic joke. What happened in New Orleans was supposed to stay in New Orleans. Or did that apply only to Vegas?
She removed a pen someone had stuck in her pencil cup.
He strolled into the middle of the r
oom, extended his hand, and froze. “You! I didn’t recognize you for a second. You’re all…all…teachery.”
Sasha forced her hands to stop their nervous movements. Teachery? Okay, so the vest wasn’t exactly sexy, but the way he said it made her wish she’d worn something less…frumpy.
“This is rather…awkward, Sheriff.” She used his title as a reminder that her marriage had vaccinated her against getting romantically involved with lawmen, no matter how delicious. Judging him because of his occupation was wrong, but self-preservation was a strong motivator.
“Awkward isn’t the word I’d use.” His dark eyes gleamed. “And please, call me Remy.”
She cleared her throat. “Well, Sheriff, what word would you use?”
Good grief, why did you even ask that? Let it drop.
“I like fortuitous.” His mouth crooked at one corner. “And it’s Remy.”
“Yes, well.” That seductive grin electrified her nerve endings until they could power the entire town. Curiosity won out and she had to ask. “Why would you call it fortuitous?”
“Because you disappeared that night and didn’t even leave a glass slipper to help me identify you. Your girlfriends were gone, too. By the time I’d recovered my wits, you and your friends had vanished into the night…like vampires.” He rested his hand—the one he’d extended in greeting upon entering—on his duty belt above his weapon.
Now she knew where those calluses came from. She gulped. “May-maybe I didn’t want to be found.”
He pointed an index finger in a gotcha gesture. “And that’s why I’m calling today’s meeting fortuitous.”
Goose bumps broke out on Sasha’s arm, and she wished he’d stop using that word. The way it rolled off his tongue reminded her of the exquisite feelings that same tongue had aroused, and that was something she shouldn’t know about a student’s father.
Think about something else, Sasha. Anything else. Like how did he keep those knife-edge creases in his shirt all day? She gripped the fabric of her slacks between her thumb and forefinger, trying to look less wrinkled, trying to drag air into her lungs, trying to recover her equilibrium. For the first time since she’d begun teaching, she wondered if she’d be able to get through a parent conference.
The Sheriff's Little Matchmaker Page 1
