by Stacey Keith Genre: Contemporary Romance
Deep in the heart of Texas is a small town where secret wishes have a funny way of coming true . . .
With a nine-year-old daughter, an overdue light bill, and a job slinging burgers while zooming around on roller skates, Cassidy Roby is not living the glamorous life. But Cuervo, Texas, has its charms: quiet streets, loving family, and the down-home familiarity of knowing which of your neighbors are mean as snakes. With Cassidy’s reputation, she knows what will happen if she steps a foot out of line. But how can she help it now that Mason Hannigan’s back in town?
As Cuervo’s high school quarterback ten years ago, Mason was all rock-hard abs and yes-ma’am manners. Now that he’s living the glitz and glory of the NFL, he’s all that plus a couple million bucks. The desire blazing between them is too hot to hide. Cassidy has some experience getting her heart broken by the hometown hero—and having the whole world watch her try to pick up the pieces. Will adding fame, fortune, and paparazzi be a playbook for disaster—or lead to the biggest adventure of her life?
“Damn,” Mason’s friend and linebacker, Jasper, said after a low whistle. “That is one sweet little hometown honey.”
In the back seat, Mason’s two other teammates leaned forward expectantly.
“Where?” Temple demanded to know.
“Sit your bitch ass down,” Brian, his seatmate, told him. “I can’t see.”
“I told you Cuervo was the bomb,” Mason said, but then as the honey drew closer—on skates, no less— his hands tightened around the steering wheel.
It was Cassidy Roby.
Mason blinked. Refocused. He’d forgotten how much his type she was. He’d forgotten … well, a lot of things. She hadn’t changed one bit. Same glossy ponytail, all sun-streaked and blonde. Same perfect little body. The skates made her taller, but he knew that without them, she barely reached his shoulder. Why her type had always appealed to him, he didn’t exactly know, but petite and wholesome did a whole different number on him than the women he found himself dating these days—beautiful, yes. Models, yes. But they were all cheekbones and sharp shoulders. Give them a salad and they’d push away the croutons. Yet these were the women who traveled in his circle now. After a while, it seemed they all wore the same hungry look, and it wasn’t a look that warmed a man’s blood.
Stacey Keith is the award-winning author of the Dreams Come True series (Kensington Books), DREAM ON, SWEET DREAMS and DREAM LOVER, in addition to A WEDDING ON BLUEBIRD WAY with New York Times Bestseller authors Janet Dailey, Lori Wilde and the talented Allyson Charles.
Twice a Golden Heart finalist, Stacey has won a Maggie, two Silver Quills, a Jasmine, a Heart of the Rockies, and over fifteen other first-place finishes in Romance Writers of America contests.
An avid writer of fiction, nonfiction, poetry and short stories, Stacey doesn’t own a television, but reads compulsively—and would, in fact, go stark raving bonkers without books, which are crammed into all corners of the house. She now lives in Civita Castellana, a medieval village in Italy that sits atop a cliff, and spends her days writing in a nearby abandoned 12th century church.
The two things she is most proud of are her ability to cook pasta alla genovese without burning down the kitchen and swearing volubly in Italian with all the appropriate hand gestures.
When I was twelve, I skipped school for six weeks to write my first novel. It was about Henry VIII's fifth wife, Kathryn Howard and had a lot of silly words in it that I didn’t know how to use yet. It was wildly overwritten, in the way of first novels...and if you're wondering why on earth a twelve-year-old would even find something like Henry Tudor that interesting, let alone write a novel about him, you’ve clearly never met anyone as dorky and weird as I am.
My long-suffering single mother would go to work in the morning. I’d wave cheerily from the bus stop as she drove past with her coffee in hand, barely awake, barely functional, a preview of things to come when, many years hence, I was the single mother chuffing by, bleary-eyed and tragically under-caffeinated. The minute her car turned the corner, I raced back into the house and locked the door.
Any right-thinking kid—any normal kid—would have drunk beer or toilet-papered a house or gotten in a whole bucket-load of trouble. But I was far from normal. You see, I was what we refer to as a “problem child.” On the outside, it was all eyeliner and sarcasm. On the inside, I had a hundred geeky enthusiasms.
I knew more about the Tudors and the Elizabethans and the Jacobeans and the Stuarts than most people knew about their own families. I was fascinated by the idea of just bulldozing over people to get your way, be it a divorce, a woman, or a war. Henry VIII enclosed feudal lands, drove off the peasants, balkanized England, beheaded dissenters, and gave the Pope a pre-Protestant noogie. He was a tyrant in every sense of the word, a despicable, horrible man, and I couldn't feed my hungry brain enough information about this period of time when women navigated by their beauty, wits, and wiles.
Anne Boleyn, Henry's second wife, held him at bay for six years so he'd marry her. He may have been the King of England, but Anne worked him like a puppet.
I'd write longhand. I still write longhand. I'd plow through my mother's vinyls and put Bach or Chopin, something classical, on the turntable. I was insane with joy. The whole day stretched before me, hours and hours of unstructured time, time to do what I wanted, which was write. When the school called, I pretended to be sick. "My mother's at work," I'd rasp. "The doctor said I couldn’t go to school until the boils dried up.”
I never worried about catching up or my grades because I didn't care. There were no grand expectations about "being a writer" or starving elegantly in a garret in Paris or seeing my name in lights. I didn't even know about those things. I just wanted to be left alone to do what I wanted to do. Was that so much to ask?
When my mother found out (no doubt through some brazen attempt by the school to contact her personally), she didn't know whether to hug me or hang me. What does any parent do with a child that is genetically incapable of toeing the line? School was a miserable experience for me, one I’m inflicting on my own children now, although I wish there were happier alternatives.
But looking back, I realize just how formative a time that was in my life. Isn’t that what we all want—to do our own thing? I don’t mean sitting around comatose and watching hours of television (although sometimes that’s a blessing, too) but to pursue the things that interest us, whether learning how to code, crotchet or cook—or in my case, conjure worlds with my imagination.
School gets it all wrong. Having a well-rounded education is important, but if you’re not interested in something, how are you going to retain that information? Short answer: you don’t.
Yet if you are allowed to pursue even a mild interest, many times it will blossom into a flower with many branches. My interest in English history, for instance, spurred a desire to study Shakespeare. Studying Shakespeare allowed me to learn more about poetry in general and iambic pentameter in particular. From my fascination with poetry came a love of Baudelaire; ergo, the desire to learn French. It was self-prescribed Montessori.
Instead, I was stuck in the back of a geometry classroom, a subject I failed miserably, by the way, struggling to stay awake, failing even in that, and sleep-drooling all over my notebook.
Being a geek is a life force. Embrace it. Everyone has something they’re geeky about. My advice as a lifelong geek, nerd, dork, spaz, moron, loser?
DIVE IN. See where it takes you.