Coe learned early on that life never goes according to plan. His dreams of hitting it big vanished when Miranda all but invited her father to take the only thing of value he ever had. But now the once-pampered princess is holed up in a condemned trailer on the edge of town...and everything he thought he knew about her—and about what happened between them back then—seems completely wrong.
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A sudden melody
murmured from her purse slung over her shoulder. For a baffled moment
her brain scrambled to identify the tune before she dug for her
phone. Was that John Mayer’s “Your Body Is A Wonderland”? Great
song, but for it to spontaneously sound off like it was a ringtone…
She stared at the
screen in disbelief. It was
a ringtone.
Coe.
Under his name was
his picture set as the background—hair mussed, chest bare. Sleepy.
Smiling. Satisfied.
“Holy shit, he
took a selfie.” Then she clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified
she’d said it out loud. “I’m so sorry, please excuse—”
“Not bad, as
selfies go. I’ve never taken a good one—can’t get far enough
away from the damn camera to look any good. Better answer before he
hangs up.” Esme took one last peek at Coe’s picture before
heading for the kitchen.
Miranda was still
trying to get her jaw re-hinged—and recover from the notion of what
sort of selfie Esme might have taken—when she got the phone to her
ear. “‘Your Body Is A Wonderland’?”
“What? I hear that
in my head every time I touch you.”
“Oh.” She put a
hand to her idiotic heart as it melted. No doubt her panties would be
next. “Then it should be the ringtone for me.”
“It is. If you
were to call me, I mean. That’s the song I have for you on my
phone, which, by the way, I always have with me. So I promise I’ll
pick up, if…well, if you ever need to call me.”
Hint, hint. “Which
I can do, now that I see you’ve put your number in my phone.”
“Right. You needed
to have my number, just in case your car breaks down again. Or if you
need me for anything else, like to kill a bug, or open a jar. Or to
talk. You know. Whatever. Whenever. You can now call me. I’ll
always answer when you call, Miranda. Always.”
Her throat squeezed
tight. “Thanks. That’s good to know.”
“You really should
put a passcode on your phone, now that I’m thinking about it. I
could do that for you, if you don’t know how. But you’d have to,
you know, bring me the phone so I could take care of it for you.”
In other words, he
wanted to see her face-to-face. And damn it, she suddenly wanted to
see him. “I’m still at Esme’s. Where are you?”
“I’m where I
need to be.” She heard him blow out a breath. “I’m outside
Esme’s trailer.”
She glanced through
the curtain, saw his car behind hers and nearly choked when her heart
bounded into her throat.
“I’ll be right
out.”
A competitive figure skater from the age of
eight, Stacy Gail began writing stories in between events to pass the time. By
the age of fourteen, she told her parents she was either going to be a figure
skating coach who was also a published romance writer, or a romance writer who
was also a skating pro. Now with a day job of playing on the ice with her
students, and writing everything from steampunk to cyberpunk, contemporary to
paranormal at night, both dreams have come true.
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