Bouquets and Buckles

Book 0: Crimson Ridge

by Elliott Rose

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Western Romance; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

From internationally bestselling author Elliott Rose

My plan was to visit my boyfriend back home in Crimson Ridge for the holidays. Except, my surprise trip, after shutting up my florist shop for the festive season, only ended up revealing the worst kind of betrayal.

Now, I’m hiding from the guy I just caught cheating on me, while stranded with a flat tire and a snowstorm approaching.
All it took was a slip of my thumb, a press of the wrong contact name in my phone.

Instead of dialing my best friend for help, I accidentally called my life-long cowboy crush.

My best friend’s father.

Lucas Rhodes is a man I haven’t seen in twelve months. Not since last New Year’s Eve when he drove me home… alone.

If we get snowed in together on his ranch tonight, how am I supposed to resist my every teenage fantasy when he’s looking at me like that?

Bouquets & Buckles is an interconnected stand-alone, novella set in the same world as the Crimson Ridge series.

Release date: April 15, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 148

Sample

It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

Yeah… when you don’t work in retail, events, or hospitality, it’s fucking peachy. However, when you’ve been run off your feet for the past few weeks making sure that everyone else has a magical, glittering Christmas, your own plans for nothing more than curling up in front of the fire and spending most of the time naked with nowhere to go and no one to talk to sounds mighty appealing.

So that’s why I currently have my go-to nineties grunge playlist on blast, and my very special hot as fuck outfit on, after high-tailing it out of town at the first opportunity to escape.

I locked the door to my cute-as-a-button florist shop the second my final customers for the year headed out that door.

Bless their sweet little mulled wine offerings, nope very much, and desire to chit-chat about what plans I have, eating and sleeping, but I practically stuffed their last-minute Christmas Eve order into their hands—lord help me not to have to see a single sprig of holly or mistletoe, let alone another festive wreath for the next eleven months—and damn near sprinted to my car.

Checking my hair in the rearview, I cruise along the empty main boulevard of Crimson Ridge. The place is all twinkling lights and small-town charm, with a giant outdoor Christmas tree erected in the square. Festive cheer of grandiose proportions proudly greets me as I make my return for the first time in twelve months.

My hometown.

The sweetest little middle-of-nowhere-Montana winter destination, where nothing much happens, and the population is pretty much exclusively ranchers and cowboys.

Which is why I made the decision to move to the next town over after college, where my teeny tiny little florist business actually had a hope in hell of surviving her first year of being open.

As much as I would love to still live here, with the gorgeous Victorian-style buildings, trees lining the middle of the wide main street, and everyone-knows-everyone kind of vibe… there isn’t much foot traffic. Certainly not enough to sustain luxuries like bouquets and floral arrangements in a place like this.

I’d be better off selling horse feed and leather polish if I was in it solely for the money.

It feels strangely familiar, driving past all the shops and locations ingrained in me from my younger years. Places that haven’t changed, yet the years have rolled on by.

Even stranger is the realization that I don’t have a reason to come back here anymore, now that my parents have left town, selling up everything to buy an RV and begin living the gray nomad life.

Love that for them; it’s utterly stinking adorable.

They’re currently sending me daily photos and awkward but cute selfies from the other end of the country, chasing the sunshine and warmth of a non-winter in California while the rest of us here are buried up to our necks in snow.

Which is pretty much the standard backdrop for Crimson Ridge at this time of year. I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to make it over here on Christmas Eve, but the weather gods have played nice and given me the perfect window of opportunity to surprise Jeremy. He’s here house-sitting for his parents, and the drive to the Smith family home is as familiar as the back of my hand.

The cul-de-sac his folks’ house is located on stands lined with plenty of trees, and I use that to disguise my arrival… I mean, my boyfriend thinks I’m currently picking up Christmas Eve takeout before heading back to my apartment, where I told him I’d be getting ready to facemask and video chat once I’ve curled up on my couch with a glass of wine in hand.

Not that I’m actually here in town, about to surprise him.

Pulling off to the side of the road a couple of houses up the block, allows me to park my car where it can’t be seen. Out here in this neighborhood, it’s all cute festive decor, with lawn ornaments and garland lights festooned over the houses, making the dark Christmas Eve night a whole lot brighter.

I grin to myself, pulling out my favorite magenta lipstick and twist the rearview mirror in order to paint my lips. The shade goes perfectly with the waves framing my face of my pastel pink bob. The thought of turning up to surprise Jere when we didn’t think either of us would be able to see the other for the holiday season—with how busy I had been at the shop, not to mention the snow often being too heavy to get to Crimson Ridge—sends a curl of excitement through my stomach.

This will be our first proper Christmas as a couple, after dating for the past three months, and to be able to burst through that door and hug him has been the only fucking thing getting me through all the insanely long hours I’ve worked this past week.

Grabbing my coat, I bundle myself up and figure I’ll do the surprise part with his gift first. I can come back, get my bag, and move my car into the driveway later.

As I slide out of the door, the air has that weird energy to it. Too calm, too still. Experience tells me tonight is on the verge of starting to snow prolifically and turn everything into a real-life snow globe. So I cradle the jar of his favorite peanut butter cookies against my chest, duck my chin into my collar, and scuttle my ass and cute boots down the sidewalk.

Jere’s house has the curtains shut out front, but I can see lights on. As I slip around the side towards the back door, there’s music playing, the closer I get the more the anticipation builds.

I’ve always been the ‘single one’ over the holidays, and this year, it settles something inside me to know that for the first time, I won’t be alone.

The back door has a glass panel built in, and looks into the open-plan kitchen area, all aglow with lights switched on over the kitchen island. I roll my lips together with eager excitement when I see Jere standing on the far side of the room.

He’s looking down, his gaze fixed on something I can’t see. Light brown hair flops over his forehead, those metal rim glasses giving him that scholarly hottie vibe, but there is an unusualness in his expression. Enough so, that it makes me pause before I reach out to grab the door handle.

I see the way his hand moves, partially obscured by the countertop.

Something about this scene isn’t right. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, not because of the winter’s air, but because if I didn’t know any better, he’s mouthing words.

If I didn’t know any better…

Oh god.

That’s when the entire damn script flips right before my disbelieving eyes.

The reason his hand is doing something becomes apparent. Dumping realization on me, cold and brutally sudden, like a slab of snow falling off the roof.

It’s fisted in some bitch’s hair.

Her glossy blonde head comes into view as he drags her to stand up.

She’s been down there on her knees.

Jesus. This fucking asshole has got some other girl blowing him in the kitchen.

On Christmas Eve, no less.

My chest goes numb, and I stumble backward, still not wanting to believe the cock-sucking evidence right in front of me.

And that’s when he shoves his tongue in her mouth.

My toes and the balls of my feet don’t have any sensation left in them. Neither do my fingers.

Neither does the cavity left hollowed out inside my chest.

Fumbling in my jacket pocket for my keys, I’m like a shadow in the night, disappearing back toward my car as fast as I can fucking move.

Humiliation has kicked my heart out into the snow, leaving it to freeze amongst the rows of illuminated reindeer and gaudy candy canes.

The backs of my eyes sting, and I’m about two seconds from bursting into a torrent of ugly, snotty tears.

What a piece of shit.

Is there a worse way to spend your Christmas than discovering by accident that your boyfriend has been fucking around behind your back?

As I dash across the curb to reach the driver’s door and get myself the hell out of here, I nearly collapse at the sight before me.

Oh my fucking god. Not right now. No, please, no.

The front tire on my car is as deflated as my stomped-on little heart. Sitting flaccid and drooped, helpfully lit up for me to see that I cannot possibly drive away from here by the array of red flashing Christmas lights on the fence of the house I parked in front of.

That’s the moment the waterworks erupt.

Fuck this. Fuck it all. Fuck Jere and whatever slut he’s been secretly banging down here in Crimson Ridge every time he needed to come and ‘house sit,’ … which, now that I think about it, was a lot.

Ugh. I’m so tired and can’t even process what the hell I’ve done to deserve a night like this.

With fat tears rolling down my cheeks, I slide into the driver’s seat and grab my cell. Stabbing at my contacts list, I know Brad will save my ass. He’ll come rescue me, cuddle me, and let me watch a rom-com marathon while bundled under a blanket on his sofa. If there is any man I can count on to have enough booze and ice cream to drown my every last sorrow through the duration of the holidays, it’s him.

Bradford Rhodes will also know how to change a tire because he was raised on a ranch, and as much as I’d love to clai. . .