OTHER TITLES BY LAUREN LANDISH

  Stand-Alones

  Drop Dead Gorgeous

  The Blind Date

  Filthy Riches

  Scorpio

  One Day Fiance

  The Truth or Dare Series

  The Dare

  The Truth

  The Big Fat Fake Series

  My Big Fat Fake Wedding

  My Big Fat Fake Engagement

  My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

  Bennett Boys Ranch

  Buck Wild

  Riding Hard

  Racing Hearts

  The Tannen Boys

  Rough Love

  Rough Edge

  Rough Country

  Irresistible Bachelor Series

  Anaconda

  Mr. Fiancé

  Heartstopper

  Stud Muffin

  Mr. Fixit

  Matchmaker

  Motorhead

  Baby Daddy

  Untamed

  Get Dirty Series

  Dirty Talk

  Dirty Laundry

  Dirty Deeds

  Dirty Secrets

  Dirty Fairy Tales

  Beauty and the Billionaire

  Not So Prince Charming

  Happily Never After

  The Virgin Diaries

  Satin and Pearls

  Leather and Lace

  Silk and Shadows

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2022 by Lauren Landish

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781662507410 (paperback)

  ISBN-13: 9781662507403 (digital)

  Cover design by Letitia Hasser

  Cover photography by Wander Aguiar

  Cover image: © MG Drachal / Shutterstock

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 WYATT

  Chapter 2 WYATT

  Chapter 3 HAZEL

  Chapter 4 HAZEL

  Chapter 5 WYATT

  Chapter 6 HAZEL

  Chapter 7 WYATT

  Chapter 8 HAZEL

  Chapter 9 WYATT

  Chapter 10 HAZEL

  Chapter 11 WYATT

  Chapter 12 WYATT

  Chapter 13 HAZEL

  Chapter 14 WYATT

  Chapter 15 HAZEL

  Chapter 16 WYATT

  Chapter 17 HAZEL

  Chapter 18 WYATT

  Chapter 19 HAZEL

  Chapter 20 WYATT

  Chapter 21 WYATT

  Chapter 22 HAZEL

  Chapter 23 WYATT

  Chapter 24 HAZEL

  Chapter 25 WYATT

  Chapter 26 HAZEL

  Epilogue WYATT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  WYATT

  WELCOME TO COLD SPRINGS!!

  HOME OF FRIENDLY FACES AND SCENIC VISTAS!!!

  A lot of people ask the universe for “a sign” when they’ve got a decision to make. What I don’t think they expect is for it to be a five-foot-wide by three-foot-tall green-and-white reflective chunk of metal with questionable punctuation and capitalization. I certainly didn’t. Though the extra exclamation points and overly emphatic capitalization do make me snort a little.

  The sign is the doing of the one and only Francine Lockewood, Cold Springs’ librarian and self-proclaimed historian. When the oldest elder in town declares the city council is being old fuddy-duddies and that she’ll haunt the entirety of city hall if the winner of her slogan competition isn’t honored, it’s hard to disagree. Of course, the fact that no one had condoned a contest to begin with, and Francine had taken it entirely upon herself to run one, meant nothing.

  I remember hearing my dad bitch about it, but in the end, Francine won. The city council ponied up $1,000 for that sign just to stop her from whispering to every school kid, soccer mom, and library visitor about the council members. They were protecting their jobs, what with an election coming up. Besides, it is sort of friendly and quaint, so maybe it is a little bit of a good sign?

  Better than the one that actually drew me home, at least: the wedding invitation in the passenger seat of my truck. That one hit me like a bolt from the blue—literally, since my mailbox is blue. It’s the universe telling me to handle my shit like a grown-ass man. Point taken, albeit reluctantly. Coming up to a red light, I glance at the ivory, heavyweight cardstock with fancy gold embossed script for the dozenth time.

  The pleasure of your company is requested at the marriage of

  Miss Avery Singleton

  and

  Mr. Winston Ford

  Ford Family Home

  Saturday, May 21, 6:00 p.m.

  RSVP

  The words alone are shocking, but I still might’ve ignored the invitation despite the fact that my younger, perpetual-bachelor brother is apparently getting married. The accompanying handwritten postscript hadn’t been as easily dismissed.

  Come to the wedding, Wyatt. I want you by my side. Please. —Winston

  Even then, if he’d left it at the first two sentences alone, I would’ve skipped and claimed my invite was lost in the mail if anyone ever called me on it. Not that they’ve called me in the years I’ve been gone. But that last little bit, the please, had been my undoing.

  Once upon a time, Winston and I were close. He and I were united, allies in a struggle of behavioral appropriateness and familial expectations that eventually had me leaving town. And despite our relationship growing distant since I left, our bond is still strong. If I were getting married—which I’m never going to do—I would want him by my side. Hell, I’d even go so far as to admit that I’ve missed him, and some other members of my family, but not enough to go back. Until now.

  So here I am, drawing closer to the town that never did anything for me but expect my sweat and tears simply because of my blood. Cold Springs, the city that is both kingdom and prison to my family.

  My father isn’t simply on the city council that argued with Francine; he’s been on it for most of my lifetime, and is currently the mayor.

  My mother? President of the Junior League, former head of the parent-teacher association, and back in the day, Miss Cold Springs herself, who took first runner-up at the state contest.

  My uncle? The largest developer and contractor in the county. At least 60 percent of the houses here were either built by Ford Contractors or have had repairs done by Ford Contractors.

  The Fords are Cold Springs. For a lot of people, it’d be enough. I could’ve set myself up as a small-town prince.

  Except I don’t want any part of it. I didn’t when I was younger, and I still don’t now.

  Francine was right about one thing—this town does have scenic vistas, but there will be few to no friendly faces for me on this visit. Thankfully, the rolling green hills and bright blue skies are beautiful enough to make up for it.

  Almost.

  I roll my window down, calling out to the trees, “Home sweet home. You miss me?”

  The wind carries my words off, the trees ignoring my question as they focus on photosynthesis, and I suck in a deep breath of fresh, crisp air. As my lungs expand, my gut turns, souring the sensation.

  This is going to be a clusterfuck of epic proportions. There’s no way around it. I’ve found peace and enjoy a life where I’m not judged on my last name, except by car lovers. I’ve settled into a routine of my own making, but returning to my hometown automatically dredges up all the reasons I left.

  I won’t be able to avoid them when they’re standing proudly at Winston’s wedding like Dad of the Year and Uncle of the Century. It’s going to hit me like a baseball bat to the balls.

  Speak of the devil, or even think of him, and he shall appear. A larger-than-life billboard looms tall beside the road with my Uncle Jed’s face beaming from its vinyl surface. It’s been photoshopped, his teeth bleach white, his skin tanned, his hair perfect. Next to his face is the text.

  TRANSFORMING WITH THE TIMES

  SPRINGDALE RANCH SUBDIVISION

  * LUXURY HOMES * NEW SCHOOLS * PRIVATE TECH HUB

  COMING SOON—THE NEW AND IMPROVED COLD SPRINGS

  The boring lack of extraneous punctuation tells me that Francine had nothing to do with the billboard, but it’s the overall tone that furrows my brows. New and improved?

  What in the hell is Uncle Jed up to now?

  Luxury homes in Cold Springs? I mean, Mom and Dad’s place is definitely nothing to sneeze at, but a whole new subdivision of them seems aggressive for what’s always been a place that can’t quite decide if it’s a tiny city or a town.

  And new schools? As in plural? I’m not sure there’s even a need for that. I’m not that old, and Cold Springs High wasn’t crowded back when I was there.

  Most of all, what the hell is a private tech hub? Sounds like an overpriced copy machine that’ll make espresso while you wait for your shit to print out.

  The billboard version of my uncle doesn’t answer. He stands
silently with his arms crossed and a shit-eating grin on his face, khakis perfectly pressed and light blue shirt screaming his “rich guy pretending to be a working man” image.

  “Plans, boy. I’ve got big plans.”

  He told me that once, and though I never doubted that he did, I didn’t quite think he meant . . . this. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m coming back when I am. For the wedding and to find out what the hell is going on.

  As I drive through downtown, I see signs in the windows of businesses and the historical homes surrounding the old-fashioned square that’s still the center of town.

  MCMANSIONS = HIGHER TAXES FOR YOU AND ME!

  SAY NO TO REZONING!

  And the most vehement and blatant one . . .

  FUCK JED FORD!

  The tone of the last one is a little bit scary, especially given that it’s got a pitchfork poking a cartoon version of Uncle Jed’s crotch and devil’s horns sprouting out of his ubiquitous cowboy hat. But it’s outside the local bar and grill, which is run by a woman who has a sordid history with Uncle Jed, so maybe it’s saying more about her than him? I’d like to hope so, but a little voice in my head whispers, “I doubt it.”

  I finish making my way through downtown and get into the part of Cold Springs where my family and family friends live, and the signs change to ones that are more supportive of whatever Jed is up to. Or at least supportive by default . . .

  BILL FORD

  COLD SPRINGS MAYOR

  REZONING FOR THE FUTURE

  The plain lawn signs may have my dad’s name on them, but he’s always been the “one” of the one-two punch that is Bill and Jed, no jokes about “excellent adventures” necessary. So anything supportive of one is in favor of the other. That means I’ll need to have a talk with both of them to catch up on what’s happening in Cold Springs.

  I grunt in displeasure at the very thought. This is why I left. Or at least one of many reasons. I don’t want to be involved in all this “politics interlaced with business and all connected by family” bullshit. It’s shady as fuck and driven as much by greed as by progress.

  But those thoughts dissolve into the breeze as I see my childhood home. It’s a large, historical house that’s been kept in meticulous condition for over a hundred and fifty years. The two-story white columns and black shutters surrounding every window look freshly painted, and the manicured green lawn is dotted with pristine flower beds pruned into submission. Dandelions are afraid to even land on that dirt.

  The double-wide driveway of stamped concrete is clear of even a speck of dirt or grass, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Mom has it swept every morning.

  I used to play on the lawn as a child. Me, Winston, and our sister, Wren, would run amok, play hide-and-seek, and create entire fantasy worlds with our “castle” as a backdrop. I didn’t realize how true that was until much later, though, when school became a study in classism, the haves and the have-nots naturally dividing into groups. Membership was declared through a hundred subtle signs, from what brand and type of shoes you wore to how worn or fashionable your jeans were.

  As the wealthiest of the haves, I was treated as either the fabled prince who could do no wrong—despite my considerable list of wrongdoings—or the spoiled rich boy who couldn’t be bothered to actually do anything.

  The truth lay somewhere in the middle back then. It wasn’t like I sat around waiting for life to be handed to me on a silver platter . . . but I definitely ignored more than a few rules, confident I wouldn’t catch hell for it.

  It was, in ways that a lot of people don’t understand, miserable. A lot of my acting out was simply rebellion, asking someone to actually make me pay for my bullshit. And it kept getting excused. Which of course just led to more bullshit.

  However, it did teach me an important lesson. Sometimes people will have preconceived ideas about you, and regardless of their accuracy, they will not be swayed, no matter the proof to the contrary. People liking or disliking me, using or dismissing me, without knowing anything other than my last name was a hard pill to swallow. Even now, living in a city where my name means nothing, I find it difficult to trust people’s intentions.

  Shutting off my engine, I relish in the moment of silence, taking one last breath of freedom, and wishing I could reverse out of here and never look back. But I can’t.

  All because Winston fucking said please.

  I step out of my black Tundra, my boots barely touching the ground before the tall glass double doors swing open and a yellow bomb of fluff blurs toward me. Before I have a chance to react, it launches at me like a heat-seeking missile, hitting me flat in the chest and knocking me to the ground to be attacked by wet, sloppy kisses.

  “Mr. Puddles! Hey, buddy! I missed you too,” I tell the goldendoodle, who is nipping at my stubble as though trying to figure out what weird animal is currently living on my face. Mr. Puddles whines, his butt wiggling happily as I pet him. “That’s my stubble, not an intruder,” I tell him laughingly as I press my forehead to his. I did miss Mr. Puddles.

  There’s the click of heels on concrete, and another voice calls out, “Well, I’ll be a damned liar! I told Winston there was no way you’d come back, not even for a wedding. Way to surprise even me.”

  My sister’s voice is sharp and sarcastic but doesn’t hide the thread of hurt beneath the venom. Knowing her, she meant for it to show so she could twist the knife a little. Pretty much every rock or country singer’s epitome of that small-town girl who can turn his heart inside out and go dancing off into the sunset without a single fuck given, Wren is smart as a whip and more skilled at verbal warfare than anyone I’ve ever met.

  Thankfully, I know how to deflect her a little. “I missed you, too, Wren.”

  She blinks, not giving in. In fact, her chin rises another inch, her nose haughtily in the air.

  “And I’m sorry?” I hope it’s enough because it’s all I have to give her. There’s no big story to tell, no tears of remorse, and no promises that I’ll stay for good this time, because I’m not sorry I left.

  Though I am sorry I hurt her by leaving.

  “It’ll do,” she tells me, the ice slightly melting in her emerald eyes. “For now.”

  In a rapid switch of blondes from goldendoodle to human sister, she’s crouched down beside me, hugging me tight. The smell of sunflowers and vanilla wafts up from her hair, and I realize that I’d forgotten what her signature perfume smells like. It’s more of a gut punch than anything else has been today.

  Mr. Puddles takes the opportunity of having two of his favorite people on his level to dive back in for more cuddles, and squirms his way between Wren and me, his belly up as he lets us know exactly where to pet.

  I give in, rubbing his soft fur before shifting over and getting up. I offer Wren a hand up as well, and she follows it in for another hug. She’s tiny next to me, barely five foot but full of confidence that makes her seem ten feet tall and bulletproof, another one of her traits that seems to be pure Wren. Of course, the Ford name doesn’t hurt. Neither does the trademark Ford beauty, which she puts to good use.

  Early on, Wren learned from Mom how to make the most of her green eyes, hair with natural highlights most women pay for, and feminine figure. I’m pretty sure that during her time at Cold Springs High, just about every guy had at least a passing crush on her, but that’s mostly a guess since I was already gone for the majority of those years.

  But just as importantly, she learned how to put her brain to use by watching Dad, though she likes to play the dumb-blonde act to her advantage when it suits her.

  “Wy, I can’t breathe,” she grunts, laughing despite her lack of oxygen. I squeeze a little tighter, and she thumps me on the back hard enough to take my breath away too.

  “Oh, sorry. Just happy to see you,” I tell her, surprised at the honesty in my own words.

  “You could’ve come visit anytime,” she reminds me. Her perfectly filled-in brow arches as she experiments with delicately calling me out.

  “You could’ve come visit me anytime too,” I echo, not taking the bait.

  “Psshaw, and leave all this.” Her smile is bright and as fake as a twenty-five-cent diamond from a gumball machine as she throws her hands out, indicating the house behind her.

  “You’d like Newport, Wren. City shopping, for one. And there’s less . . .”—I search for the right word, but find only one—“Ford there.” Somehow, she knows exactly what I mean when I use our last name to describe the difference between Cold Springs and Newport.