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LAST FIRST KISS
RIGHT WRONG GUY
Releasing Aug 4th, 2015
fun and flirty second installment in Lia Riley’s fantastic Brightwater series.
Sometimes two wrongs can
make a right…
boy wrangler, Archer Kane, lives fast and loose. Words like responsibility and
commitment send him running in the opposite direction. Until a wild Vegas
weekend puts him on a collision course with Eden Bankcroft-Kew, a New York
heiress running away from her blackmailing fiancé…the morning of her wedding.
has never understood the big attraction to cowboys. Give her a guy in a
tailored suit any day of the week. But now all she can think about is Mr.
Rugged Handsome, six-feet of sinfully sexy country charm with a pair of green
eyes that keeps her tossing and turning all night long.
might be the wrong guy for a woman like her, but she’s not right in thinking
he’ll walk away without fighting for her heart. And maybe, just maybe, two
wrongs can make a right.
“Get the hell out.” Stormy’s real voice sounded a lot more Jersey Shore than genteel Georgian peach farmer. She wasn’t half bad at the whole ventriloquist gig, but now wasn’t the time to offer compliments.
He threw on his Levi’s commando-style while Stormy eyed his package as if prepping to go Category Five hurricane on his junk. Scooping his red Western shirt off the floor, he made a break for the bedroom. His boots were by the door but his hat was still on the bed, specifically on Crystal’s head. Her sleepy expression gave way to confusion as Stormy sprang from the bathroom, Great Uncle Sam leading the charge.
“What’s going on?” Crystal asked as Stormy bellowed, “Prepare to have your manwhore ass kicked back into whatever cowpoke hole you crawled from.”
Hat? Boots? Hat? Boots? Archer only had time to grab one. He slung his arms through the shirt, not bothering to snap the pearl clasps, and grabbed the hand-tooled boots while hurtling into the hall. Yeah, definitely getting too old for this shit.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he called over one shoulder as the dove swooped.
He bypassed the elevator bay in favor of the stairwell. Once he’d descended three floors, he paused to tug on his boots and his phone rang. Pulling it out from his back pocket, he groaned at the screen. Grandma Kane.
He could let it go to voice mail. In fact, he was tempted to do just that, but the thing about Grandma was she called back until you picked up.
With a heavy sigh, and a prayer for two Tylenol, he hit “answer.” “How’s the best grandma in the world?” he boomed, propping the phone between his ear and shoulder and snapping together his shirt.
“Quit with your smooth talk, boy,” Grandma barked. “Where are you?”
“Leaving church,” he fibbed quickly.
“Better not be the Little Chapel of Love.”
“What do you—”
“Don’t feed me bullhickey. You’re in Vegas again.”
Sawyer must have squeaked. As Brightwater sheriff, he was into upright citizenship and moral standing, nobler than George Washington and his ******* cherry tree.
“Did you forget about our plans for this weekend?”
“Plans?” He wracked his brain but thinking hurt. So did walking down these stairs. Come to think of it, so did breathing. He needed that upcoming coffee and bacon like a nose needed picking.
Grandma made a rude noise. “To go over the accounts for Hidden Rock. You promised to set up the new purchase-order software on the computer.”
Shit. His shoulders slumped. He had offered to help. Grandma ran a large, profitable cattle ranch, but the Hidden Rock’s inventory management was archaic, and the accounting practically done by abacus. In his hurry to see if an impromptu Vegas road trip could overcome his funk, the meeting had slipped his mind. “Let me make it up to you—”
“Your charm has no currency here, boy.” Grandpa Kane died before Archer was born and Grandma never remarried. Perhaps he should introduce her to Stormy’s Great Uncle Sam. Those two were a match made in heaven, could spend their spare time busting his balls.
He closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. “I’m sorry, I completely forgot, okay?” Not okay. Grandma counted on him and he let her down.
“Funny, guess you’re probably too busy using women like disposable silverware.” Her tone sounded anything but amused. “Even funnier will be when I forget to put you in my will.”
Grandma’s favorite threat was disinheriting him. Who cared? The guy voted Biggest Partier and Class Flirt his senior year at Brightwater High was also the least likely to run Hidden Rock Ranch.
The line went dead. At least she didn’t ask why he couldn’t be more like Sawyer anymore.
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Lia Riley writes offbeat New Adult and Contemporary Adult romance.
After studying at the University of Montana-Missoula, she scoured the world
armed only with a backpack, overconfidence and a terrible sense of direction.
She counts shooting vodka with a Ukranian mechanic in Antarctica, sipping yerba
mate with gauchos in Chile and swilling XXXX with
stationhands in Outback Australia among her accomplishments.
A British literature fanatic at heart, Lia considers Mr. Darcy and Edward
Rochester as her fictional boyfriends. Her very patient husband doesn’t mind.
Much. When not torturing heroes (because c’mon, who doesn’t love a good
tortured hero?), Lia herds unruly chickens, camps, beach combs, daydreams about
future books, wades through a mile-high TBR pile and schemes yet another trip.
Right now, Icelandic hot springs and Scottish castles sound mighty fine.
I love this quote, Diana
“I’m wondering what to read next.” — Matilda, Roald Dahl