Talkin the talk, p.1
Talkin' the Talk, page 1
Talkin’ The Talk
Evie Snow
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Epilogue
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Sneak Peek of Stuck On You
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Evie Snow
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A dress store owner who thinks big. A fallen soap opera star who's out of luck. Second chance love is a spectator sport…
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1
“Sean, you sadistic Texan bastard, if this place you booked for me is your definition of relaxation, you need a new dictionary. Return my call before I drive back to Houston and burn that monstrosity you call a house to the ground.”
Ian Buchanan shoved his phone into his back pocket and pounded on the log cabin’s bright yellow door one more time. The knocker was an optimistically upturned horseshoe with a single cast-iron star. Ian chose to see it as ironic because this was definitely not his lucky day. In all his years, he had never imagined that he’d wind up standing on a porch that looked like it had been designed in Billy the Kid’s day, complete with dual rocking chairs sporting patchwork cushions.
He turned, squinting at the panorama of longhorn cattle grazing on a vast, rolling pasture festooned in cheerful orange, pink and purple wildflowers. They contrasted with the unbelievably expansive blue sky. Near the horizon, on a hill, he could see the orderly rows of a vineyard next to a lavender farm that appeared neon purple beneath the sun’s white-hot glare.
Christ, it was hot.
Ian had spent his childhood on frigid Scottish moors praying he’d one day live somewhere warm, but this was pushing his limit; this was only a whiff of sulfur away from being infernal. There was a breeze, but the sound of it rustling through a clump of gnarled juniper trees wasn’t affording him any sense of peace. The trees looked flammable.
There was no sight nor sound of a car approaching. That was a problem. He’d never been a man who liked to be kept waiting, and he’d left what little patience he once possessed in England with the ruins of his career as one of Britain’s youngest and most influential newspaper editors.
He scowled again at the cabin’s closed door. The place was incontestably rustic and charming, but he wasn’t in the mood for charming. He needed action. Right now that consisted of stalking back to his idling black Mustang.
A blessedly controlled climate washed over him as he folded himself into the plush driver’s seat and debated his next course of action. Luckily, his ringing phone prevented him from mastering fire-breathing. He didn’t need to check who was calling. Sean Walker was one of only three people who knew Ian’s temporary American number.
“It’s about bloody time.” Ian’s booming voice filled the car.
“I know you’re a precious soul, but you only left my place four hours ago. I think it’s a good idea to keep up some sort of distance so people don’t start talkin’ about our special relationship. What will the neighbors think?” Ian’s oldest friend said in a laid-back, good-ol’-boy drawl that hid a mind sharper than barracuda teeth.
“They’ll be surprised anyone loves you enough to visit you twice.” Ian focused on the yellow gingham curtains in the cabin’s windows. “I am not amused.”
“Settle down, tiger. Have you arrived at the greatest little place God made on this planet yet? Or did you just pull over in a truck stop to abuse me for the hell of it?”
“Of course I’ve bloody arrived, five minutes ago, and there’s no sight of this woman you assured me would be here.” Ian held his Rolex Submariner up in front of his eyes. “Six minutes.”
“Six whole minutes? Good Lord.”
“You’re being a prick.”
“And you’re being an impatient asshole. Just sit in your shiny rented toy and wait. If she’s not there in the next thirty minutes, don’t call me, I’ll call you. And be nice when she arrives. Bad manners are a shootin’ offence in Texas.”
Ian opened his mouth to bark a retort but was met with dead air. Walker had gotten in the last word.
“Bastard.” Ian threw his phone onto the passenger seat and caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror. He forced his features to relax into what could be best termed as a pained grimace.
He’d seen that expression in the mirror far too often this past month.
Ian had initially been keen to go along with Walker’s suggestion to spend a few weeks near Walker’s childhood hometown, Hopeville, in Texas Hill Country. After being unjustly fired as chief editor of The London Voice, one of London’s largest broadsheets, he’d reasoned that he needed time to think away from the baying of the British press and far, far away from the ghosts of his past, which were slinking towards him, fangs dripping with vitriol, ready to drag him back to hell now that the one buffer between him and his childhood identity had been torn away.
He let out a low, humorless laugh. What was he thinking? He was in hell.
Not only had he been forced to hand in his resignation as editor-in-chief of the paper he’d built from the ground up, he was desperately trying to work out how to clear his name without attracting the attention of the wrong people—namely his father.
He growled in frustration, feeling the bubbling volcano of rage that had traveled with him for most of his youth threatening to erupt. His anger had cooled and remained stone-cold granite for well over a decade, but now it was heating up again.
He didn’t want to feel like this.
One bad week, one bad week and everything he’d spent his life working towards had shattered to pieces.
“Bugger this.” He glanced at his watch again. The owner was eight minutes late.
The intelligent thing would be to stay put, but this wasn’t going to work. While retreating to the quaint heart of Texas and its ranches, wineries and barbecue restaurants was a novel idea, this was not the kind of place where a man could plot to topple an international media franchise.
2
“I’m so late, I’m so late, I’m soooo late.”
Sophie Grey wiggled in the driver’s seat of her brother’s ancient F-150 truck as she hurtled it down the dirt track towards Yellow Rose Cabin. Feeling sweat beading on her forehead, she wound down her window, undoing the hour she’d just spent blow-drying her hair and applying makeup.
Her phone rang and she picked it up, lodging it between her ear and shoulder while keeping her eyes glued to the road. “Sophie speaking! How can I help you?”
“Any reason my truck’s not in the barn where I left it?” Hank asked.
She winced at the long-suffering patience in her big brother’s voice. “Yeah. I’m sorry about that. My car broke down this morning and I had to get it towed into town, and then I didn’t have time to arrange anything else or to call you before I got ready for the reunion, so I borrowed it. I know you probably need it, but I’ll have it back by tonight, or tomorrow morning if I stay over at Candy’s, which won’t be a—”
“Take a breath. Lord, woman, you’re gonna pass out one of these days.”
Sophie skidded the truck into a clump of scrub to avoid hitting an armadillo, then sped up again, turning on the truck’s wipers to get rid of the leaves and twigs on the windshield. “I’m not! The last time I borrowed your truck, you—”
“Went apeshit because I knew the oil needed topping up and you could’ve boiled the engine. It doesn’t now, and I’m not gonna bite your head off, so calm down. Just tell me that you’ll drive carefully and drop my toolbox back at the house before you head on out.”
“Thank you!”
“It’s gonna cost you one of those lemon cakes you made last week and a couple of loaves of homemade bread.”
Sophie shifted gears, racing around a corner and kicking dust all over the place as t
“Yeah, yeah. Love you too. Drive carefully or I’ll kill you, you hear me?”
“Yeah. Okay. Bye.” Sophie threw the phone down onto the seat next to her new fake Gucci purse and rounded another corner, stones chip-chipping against the vehicle’s already battered undercarriage.
Her mind whirred as she planned ahead.
She’d have to do some fast talking to get her guest settled in record time. Then she’d have to make that detour to drop off Hank’s toolbox, meaning she’d have to put pedal to the metal during the drive to Austin. There was no way she could afford to be late to her high school reunion.
Not that she wanted to go. Sophie had been against the idea from the start, especially given the idiot she’d made of herself at graduation, but her friend Candy needed backup and Sophie was never one to let a friend down.
This kind of social offensive required armor, and so Sophie was dressed to kill in a dress so tight it was mapping latitudinal lines on her torso and pushing her boobs up so high it was a wonder she could see over them to drive.
The magic undies she was wearing under the dress were the main reason she was late. The stupid things should have come with a shoehorn—if she had to pee any time soon, she’d be in serious trouble.
She glanced at the clock on the cracked dashboard again and made a loud keening noise. “Sophie, you’re an idiot. You’re going to be so late. Candy’s going to kill you. She’s gonna leave before you get there. Everyone will laugh, and you’ll end up hiding out in the girls’ bathroom drinking cheap bourbon like you did at graduation. You know it. You know it, and you’re still gonna do it.” Her anxiety intensified when her destination came into sight: a rustic wood cabin with a charming view of a rolling, wildflower-strewn pasture.
A shiny black Mustang was crouched in front of it. It was reversing.
“Damndamndamn!” She skidded the truck to a halt behind the car, blocking its exit.
The Mustang’s brake lights came on, and Sophie sent up a silent prayer begging God not to let this particular guest be difficult. She already had difficult guests staying in her other three cabins, so surely she’d get lucky with this one.
She tried to take a deep breath to relax, but the tightness of her dress just fast-tracked her to hyperventilation. She had to settle on a self-administered lecture about not getting too nervous. Getting too nervous meant talking too much, and talking too much meant getting looked at funny.
Maybe this guy had been reversing because he’d thought to make enquiries at the Lonely Creek Ranch House. He’d paid up for a two-week stay, so it wasn’t like he’d be leaving for good. Surely not.
Sophie gave herself a mental shake and leaned over to rummage on the passenger-side floor, shoving aside a wrench, a hammer and a couple of loose fencing nails before latching onto the straps of the red stilettoes she’d thrown there earlier.
Hiking up the pencil skirt of her too-tight and too-red-for-daytime dress around her hips, she worked to get her feet high enough to buckle the straps around her ankles. There was a good chance she was flashing her newest guest the magic underwear, but she didn’t have time to worry about that now.
Instead, she scrambled out of the truck, immediately stumbling on the uneven gravel surface. She steadied herself just as a man climbed out of the Mustang.
Her breath caught.
Genetic engineering had obviously advanced much further than the general public knew. About thirty or so years ago, someone had merged Jason Statham and Tom Hardy’s genetics but added a little extra height and a touch more breadth in the shoulder region.
Sophie registered a well-shaped bald head, crooked nose, high cheekbones, a full bottom lip, a jaw so chiseled it could cut glass and deep brown eyes under thick, blond eyebrows. Beautiful eyes. Soulful. So unexpected in a face like that. His ears had taken a battering at some stage. The only time she’d seen ears like that was on a wrestler she had dated in college. Was he a wrestler? His body was built enough for him to be one.
Damn, she was staring. So was he, but he didn’t seem as captivated by her. He looked like her brother did that time he’d learned half his cows were milling about on the highway because some tourist let them out “so they could be free.”
His eyes traveled from her face to the bare-all neckline of her dress and then lower, his expression getting darker before he turned his attention to her brother’s truck. Sophie had no idea what impression she was making or what conclusions were being drawn, but she had a feeling she’d have to start talking soon to smooth the waters. Maybe, for once, her ability to verbally stun any sapient being would be a blessing.
She smiled, turning the wattage up to a hundred and slathering on the down-home charm. “Well, hello there! You must be Ian Buchanan. Welcome to our little corner of Hill Country! Sorry I’m late! I had a little car trouble. I hope you weren’t here long. It sure is hot today, isn’t it? I know I’m feeling it.” She puffed out a breath of air before thrusting a hand forward. “I should tell you my name, shouldn’t I? I’m Sophie Grey. You’ll be seeing a lot of me over the next two weeks. I’ll be dropping off breakfast supplies and tidying things up every other day.”
He gave her a look that told her the Great Almighty wasn’t in the mood to answer her prayers for this to be easy before brusquely grasping her hand in a way that was barely long enough to be polite. “I was just leaving, but it appears you’ve trapped me.” His voice was deep, and he had the kind of English accent that had probably ordered troops to storm the beaches in days of old.
Sophie’s cheeks ached from keeping her smile in place. “I know, and I’m really sorry, but it was only a few minutes, so there’s no harm done. I’m attending a high school reunion in Austin tonight. As you can see.” She did an up-and-down wave that was meant to encompass her dress, shoes and immaculately styled hair and makeup. Unfortunately, after the crazy scramble to get here, there was a good chance her long blonde hair was frizzing and her makeup had melted into a clown mask. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “You know how it is. You want to go to that extra effort. It’s a ‘make the bullies wish they’d never been horrible to you and beg your forgiveness so they can get with you now’ kind of thing. It’s a cliché, but that’s not gonna stop me!” She pumped a fist in the air to back up her exclamation, fully capable of seeing her guest’s expression morph from surliness to incredulity.
Since Sophie had been on the receiving end of that “did she really just say that?” look for years, she did what she’d always done: made the situation worse by soldiering on, her words injected with manic bonhomie, tripping over one another in a rush to escape a tidal wave of anxiety. “Why don’t I show you around? You’ve already seen the outside, so you know the porch gives you a great view of Lonely Creek Ranch. That winery you can see way off in the distance is Monforte Estate. They have a restaurant there that does the best barbecue in this part of Texas. They own the lavender farm, too, and it smells amazing around here first thing in the morning and late at night when the breeze blows right. It’s really hot today, but a breeze should come through later on so you can sit out and enjoy it. For now, air-conditioning is what we need, isn’t it?” She took a step forward then stopped in her tracks. “Except . . . I don’t have your door keys. They’re in the truck. Just wait a minute.” Sophie spun on the balls of her feet before remembering that she wasn’t wearing her flats. She promptly felt her left foot taking off for parts unknown as pea-sized gravel kicked up everywhere.
