Where she belongs?
Free spirit Priscilla Hart doesnât get tied down, to anyone or any place. Then she arrives in Widowâs Grove and meets her half brother. The ten-year-old tough guy has no one else but her. So Priss staysâfor now.
But her sexy new landlord, Adam Preston, is interfering with her ideas. Heâs everything Priss normally steers clear ofâcommitted, stable and no rebellious urges in sight. As opposite as they are, each conversation, each touch, each kiss they share feels so right. Can a little gangster-wannabe, an irresistible ânice guyâ and an odd assortment of new friends make Priss want to stay for good?
âMy legendary luck is running true to form.â
Adam looked out to where the sun neared the horizon. âThe most intriguing woman Iâve met in years, and sheâs on her way to somewhere else.â
Prissâs small shoulder gave his a gentle bump. âItâs only March. Nachoâs not out of school till the end of June.â
âWeâd better get going, if we want to be back by dark.â Adam stood, and reached a hand down to help her up. Her hand fit in his as if it belonged there.
She squeezed his hand. The look in her dark eyes lit the pilot flame in his chest, and the heat cranked up.
When his pâté sandwich tried to crawl up his throat, he swallowed it again. Heâd just made up his mind to grab for the life he wantedâ¦.
Three months was not going to be near long enough.
Dear Reader,
I was so happy when, after Her Road Home (Mills & Boon Superromance, August 2013), Mills & Boon wanted more stories! I was missing the little Central Coast California tourist town of Widowâs Grove and the townspeople.
The Reasons to Stay was born of my personal experience with cobbled-together families. You see, when I met my Alpha Dog twenty-eight years ago, he came with a bonus: sole custody of his two young children. Overnight, this clueless single girl became a wife and mother. Although none of this book is autobiographical, I hope I was able to convey some of the perpetual lostness I felt during that first year.
I hope you enjoy The Reasons to Stay, and watch for the cameo appearance of Sam and Jesse from the first book. Then watch for them all to turn up in the next book coming in 2015!
Laura Drake
P.S. I enjoy hearing from readers. You can contact me and sign up for my newsletter through my website, www.lauradrakebooks.com.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Laura Drake is a city girl who never grew out of her tomboy ways, or a serious cowboy crush. She writes both womenâs fiction and romance stories. She rode a hundred thousand miles on the back of her husbandâs motorcycle, propping a book against him and reading on the boring stretches. Then she learned to ride her own motorcycle, and now owns twoâElvis, a 1985 BMW Mystic, and Sting, a 1999 BMW R1100. Since then, sheâs put in a hundred thousand miles riding the back roads, getting to know the small Western towns that are her booksâ settings. Her twenty-five-year aspirations came true this year when she officially became a Texan! She gave up the corporate CFO gig to write full-time. In the remaining waking hours, sheâs a wife, grandmother and motorcycle chick.
This book is dedicated to my long-suffering resilient children, Glenn and Kimarie. In spite of my well-meant, yet fumbling efforts, youâve grown to be strong, wonderful people. I couldnât be prouder if Iâd given birth to you.
I learned much more from you than you ever did me. Thank you.
CHAPTER ONE
BILLY JOEL IS full of crap. Not only the good die young.
The low gray clouds seemed to settle on Prissâs shoulders as she walked between the graves, zipping her leather jacket against the chill air. Was it a sin to wear jeans to a funeral? Probably. But it was a long way from Boulder to Widowâs Grove, and Mona had overheated in Phoenix. If sheâd stopped to change clothes, Priss would have been alone in this graveyard.
As it was, there were only two other people in the cemetery on the right side of the winter-brown grass. They stood beside the subtly Astroturfed dirt pile.
She stopped a few feet short of the open grave. Her mother was down there. Shouldnât she feel something beyond tired? Hearing her heart thud in her ears, she listened for something else. Sadness, maybe, or loss? Regret?
A little late for that. Old wounds didnât always healâthe deepest ones festered.
By the time the hospital had tracked down Priss and called, her mother was gone. Better that way really, for them both.
âCome, Ignacio. Itâs time to go.â A meager woman stood at the foot of the grave, both her face and raincoat set in similar generic authoritarian lines.