“Nice of you to make it,” forward Daniel Holstrom said as he approached.
Harp music drifted down the stairs as Sam peeled back the cuff of his shirt and looked at his Rolex. “Ten minutes to spare,” he said. “What are you all waiting for?”
“Frankie and Logan aren’t here yet,” goalie Marty Darche answered.
“Savage make it?” Sam asked, referring to the groom.
“I spotted him about ten minutes ago. First time I’ve ever seen him break a sweat off the ice. He’s probably nervous that the bride has come to her senses and is halfway to Vashon.”
Sam laughed as a shiny auburn ponytail and smooth profile caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He turned. His laughter stopped. A woman moved across the lobby toward the front doors, talking into the tiny microphone in front of her mouth. A black sweater hugged her body and a little battery pack was clipped to her black pants. Sam’s brows lowered and acid settled in the pit of his stomach. If there was one woman on the planet who hated his guts, it was the woman disappearing through the front doors.
Daniel put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Sam, isn’t that your wife?”
Marty turned toward the front. “You have a wife?”
“Ex-wife.” The acid chewed its way up toward Sam’s esophagus. “She’s my ex-wife.”
Daniel laughed like he thought something was real funny. “Does being married for three days really count?”
Have you missed any
of these amazing romances
by Rachel Gibson?
Here’s a glimpse into some
of her unforgettable Avon Books!
Welcome to Gospel, Idaho, where everyone knows that every sin known to heaven and earth is all California’s fault. In TRUE CONFESSIONS, you’ll see what happens when Californian Hope Spencer comes to town and falls for local sheriff Dylan Taber…
Usually, Dylan didn’t mind helping in the search for missing backpackers. It got him out of the office and away from the paperwork he hated. But he’d been kept awake most of the night by Adam’s puppy, and he wasn’t looking forward to a nine-thousand-foot climb. He walked to the driver’s side of the Blazer and shoved a hand inside the pocket of his tan pants. He pulled out the “cool” rock Adam had given him that morning and stuck it in his breast pocket. It wasn’t even noon yet, and his cotton uniform was already stuck to his back. Shit.
“What in the hell is that?”
Dylan glanced across the top of the Chevy at Lewis, then turned his attention to the silver sports car driving toward him.
“He must have taken a wrong turn before he hit Sun Valley,” Lewis guessed. “Must be lost.”
In Gospel, where the color of a man’s neck favored the color red and where pickup trucks and power rigs ruled the roads, a Porsche was about as inconspicuous as a gay rights parade marching toward the pearly gates.
“If he’s lost, someone will tell him,” Dylan said as he shoved his hand into his pants pocket once more and found his keys. “Sooner or later,” he added. In the resort town of Sun Valley, a Porsche wasn’t that rare a sight, but in the wilderness area, it was damn unusual. A lot of the roads in Gospel weren’t even paved. And some of those that weren’t had potholes the size of basketballs. If that little car took a wrong turn, it was bound to lose an oil pan or an axle.
The car rolled slowly past, its tinted windows concealing whoever was inside. Dylan dropped his gaze to the iridescent vanity license plate with the seven blue letters spelling out MZBHAVN. If that wasn’t bad enough, splashed across the top of the plate like a neon kick-me sign was the word “California” painted in red. Dylan hoped like hell the car pulled an illegal U and headed right back out of town.
Instead, the Porsche pulled into a space in front of the Blazer and the engine died. The driver’s door swung open. One turquoise, silver-toed Tony Lama hit the pavement and a slender bare arm reached out to grasp the top of the doorframe. Glimmers of light caught on a thin gold watch wrapped around a slim wrist. Then MZBHAVN stood, looking for all the world like she was stepping out of one of those women’s glamour magazines that gave beauty tips.
“Holy shit,” Lewis uttered.
In NOT ANOTHER BAD DATE Adele Harris asks the question, “What does a gal have to do to get a good date in this town?” She’s had so many lousy dates, she’s pretty sure she’s cursed. And when she meets Zach Zemaitis, she hopes her luck’s about to change…but is it?
Kiss me, babe.”
“No, really.” Beneath the light of a sixty-watt bulb on her porch, Adele Harris placed a hand on the chest of her latest date. “I’ve had enough excitement for one night.”
Investment banker and former nerd turned world-class jerk Sam King mistook the hand on his chest for a caress and took a step forward, backing Adele against the front door. Cool October air slipped across her cheeks and between the lapels of her coat, and she watched horrified as Sam lowered his face to her. “Baby, you don’t know excitement until I fire you up with a kiss.”
“I’ll pass. I don’t thi—urggg—” Sam smashed his lips against Adele’s and silenced her protest. He shoved his tongue into her mouth and did some sort of weird swirly thing. Three quick circles to the left. Three to the right. Repeat. She hadn’t been kissed like that since Carl Wilson in the sixth grade.