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Once Upon a Valentine Harlequin Books |
Once upon a sexy time... She had long, gorgeous hair He sought a sleeping beauty Historian Ashlynn Scott is seeking the fabled castle of Sleeping Beauty. But with just one kiss, she finds herself involved with a rogue adventurer. She might never want to wake up! She was being chased by every man Ginger Redman wanted to be irresistible, so she made a wish. And the wish comes true--sending her sexy best friend, Stephen Fox, right into her bed! THREE NEW STORIES BASED ON BELOVED BEDTIME STORIES! |
Excerpt
from "All Tangled Up"
Andrew Macmillan has returned to his hometown to handle his estranged father's funeral arrangements. He intends to be in and out as quickly as possible...but life has another plans.
“Here you go,” Mr. Hadley said, handing him a metal urn.
Andrew stared down at the urn, confused. “What’s this?”
“Your father’s ashes,” Mr. Hadley said. “Those were his wishes—to be cremated.”
Andrew almost dropped the urn, but juggled and caught it. “Since when?”
“Since always. Every time Barber set foot in this place, he apologized to me in advance for denying me a big crowd here at the funeral home.” Hadley smiled. “That was his way.” He opened a file drawer and rummaged, then removed a yellowed sheet of stationery. “Here you go—he made me keep a copy of it on file.”
Andrew shifted the urn to the crook of his elbow and took the sheet of paper to scan.
I, Barber MacMillan, being sane and all of that, upon my death, wish to have my body cremated and my ashes scattered over the Mane Squeeze Ranch. No muss, no fuss, no funeral, and no head stone.
Andrew blinked in surprise. “I didn’t know.”
“I’m not surprised,” Mr. Hadley said. “Barber was an odd bird…but then you probably know that better than anyone.”
Andrew nodded. “Yes.” He folded the paper and stared down at the urn. “So, how am I supposed to do this?”
Mr. Hadley shrugged. “Just unscrew the lid and start scattering. Make sure you’re upwind.”
Andrew pursed his mouth. “Aren’t there laws against scattering remains?”
Mr. Hadley gave a dismissive wave. “If you don’t tell anyone, neither will I.”
Andrew nodded, remembering that in Tiny, Tennessee, laws were elastic. “What do I owe you for the, um, services?”
“Already taken care of,” Mr. Hadley said. “Barber saw to that ages ago.” He handed Andrew another piece of paper. “Here’s an obituary for the paper, I think your dad would be okay with that at least.”
Andrew read the write-up about the man who had been a pillar of the community, a source of comfort and know-how for the farmers in the area who had depended on him to vaccinate their cattle against pink eye, treat swine pneumonia, or birth stubborn foals. Barber MacMillan treated any animal that needed his help, but he was especially gifted with horses, a trait not passed on to Andrew, who had always worked in the stables, but didn’t share the same bond with the animals as his father.
Barber MacMillan is survived by his son Andrew Barber Macmillan of New York City and a host of grateful friends and neighbors, human and otherwise.
“It’s a fine obituary,” Andrew said.
“Summer wrote it.”
Andrew frowned. “Summer…Tomlinson?”
“One and the same.”
The image of the coltish tow-headed teenager who lived next door came to mind. Summer was five—no, six—years younger than Andrew. He had a vague memory of her giving him a Valentine’s Day card when she was a shy preteen. He hadn’t seen her since he’d moved to Manhattan after college. Even though his dad spoke of her often because she’d assisted him in the stables on occasion, she hadn’t been around during his holiday visits. But apparently Summer had been close to his father. He felt a rush of gratitude toward the young woman.
“Oh, and my daughter Tessa asked me to give you this.” Geary handed Andrew a business card.
Andrew glanced at the real estate logo and the picture of his former classmate—still pretty…and probably still as vapid. “How is Tessa?”
“She’s done real well for herself,” Mr. Hadley said with pride in his voice. “She thought you might be interested in selling your dad’s place.”
Andrew nodded—he’d seen his dad’s will, knew he was the sole beneficiary. “That’s the plan.”
The man’s eyes twinkled. “Tessa’s still single, too.”
Andrew coughed, then tucked the card in his pocket. “Thanks, Mr. Hadley. I’ll give Tessa a call…about the property.”
He shook the man’s gnarled hand again and left with the dubious burden of his father’s ashes in his hands. Andrew settled the urn in the passenger seat of his car and shook his head. “You managed to throw me one last curveball, old man.”
How could he in good conscience scatter his father’s ashes over the farm, and then sell it?
Andrew’s mind clicked as he drove over familiar roads, past recognizable landmarks, and allowed nostalgia to flow over him. The high school campus and the city pool looked small…he marveled over how big and important they had seemed when he was young. Ditto for the movie theater and bowling alley, around which his social life had revolved.
The road leading to the Mane Squeeze Ranch was hemmed by overgrown foliage on either side of the paved road barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass. The closer he got to home, the more memories assailed him. The gigantic weeping willow tree at the fork in the road where he used to ride his bike, tap the trunk, then ride back…the wide spot in the road where he’d waited for the bus, now tangled with dormant blackberry bushes…the grouping of community mail boxes, all shapes and colors, lined up in a row.
As he drove by the Tomlinsons’ house, he was distracted by the sight of a slender woman sitting on an upstairs balcony, combing her waist-length golden blond hair.
Summer Tomlinson, he realized with a start. No longer in cutoffs and sporting a boyish pixie cut. She looked up and saw his car, then jumped to her feet, shouting and pointing to the road.
Andrew looked back to the road and his heart leapt to his throat. Standing in the middle of the road was a swayback gray horse that looked too old to move…and too big to miss.
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