A sweet and sexy holiday romance in the Southern Comfort series—set in Hollow Bend, Kentucky, where love (and laughter) are just around the corner. When Andrew Bateman rolls into town in the midst of a snowstorm, his first thought is that the place is hardly big enough for a dog crate, let alone the vet practice he’s looking for. Next thing he knows, his life is flashing in front of him—a depressingly short flash—as he skids right into the side of the local bar. Things start looking up when the vision he wakes to is not the Angel of Death, but a doctor. Well, actually a vet. Make that a vet tech, wearing red mittens. Who invites him home, where every inch is covered in holiday sparkles, cookies to be decorated, and an odd assortment of stray dogs, cats and puppies . . . There’s nothing merrier than a white Christmas in Kentucky! Praise for Sarah Title’s Southern Comfort Romance series “Wild, witty, and wonderful.”—Jo Goodman, New York Times bestselling author “Quite a sexy book.”—USAToday.com “A really cute and fun story . . . It’s sexy and made me laugh!”— Smexy Books “A fast-paced read that provided just as many smiles from the humor as it did sizzles from the romance.”— The Book Diva’s Reads
Release date:
December 1, 2013
Publisher:
eOriginals
Print pages:
65
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He was batting a thousand on this trip, really. He hated snow, he hated driving, and he hated selling people stuff they probably didn’t need. He especially hated sales. But if his cousin hadn’t given him this job, he’d be living with his mother. Once a man passes thirty, he doesn’t like the idea of moving back in with his mother.
That was another thing he hated. Being thirty-one. Thirty was not so bad. Thirty-one seemed like: no turning back now, buddy. And what was he doing with his life? He was Midwest Regional Sales Rep for Bateman Veterinary Supply, and kind of sucking at that. He’d made about three sales in Indiana. Now he was just hoping for the next appointment to go well so he could go back to his dinky apartment above his cousin’s garage and watch everyone sing Christmas songs and drink eggnog and get fat.
He looked quickly at his Smartphone. No reception. Dammit. His cousin had warned him about two things: one, that in Kentucky horse country, veterinary supplies were big money, and if they wanted to break into the market, they’d have to start small; and two, don’t get lost on any dirt roads. It was late, and he was beginning to feel lost as soon as he pulled off the Interstate. He thought he would just be able to find a place to stay, then call on . . . whoever it was early in the morning, then start the long drive back.
But when he pulled off the interstate, there were no hotels. No restaurants, not even street lights. He was beginning to think his cousin was playing one of his practical jokes, the kind that made Ed laugh and made Andrew end up with his pants around his ankles or stone-drunk in a biker bar. Kentucky wasn’t even in the Midwest. He tapped his GPS, and it sputtered a direction at him. It had only worked sporadically since he’d crossed the border. Maybe he was imagining that. Southern Indiana was pretty hilly; surely he’d had reception problems there, too. All he knew was that the satellite wouldn’t pick up the signal unless he tapped it. He was used to electronic equipment behaving when he asked it to, but he was having no luck now. He would have just turned it off and followed signs to—what was the town called?—Hollow Bend, said the nice lady on the GPS, but there were no signs. Only darkness, and hills, and snow.
Billie Monroe loved snow.
She loved that feeling of putting on her snow boots and zipping her coat up to her chin and seeing her breath as she walked everywhere because it was too dangerous to drive. Besides, it hardly ever snowed in Hollow Bend, at least not enough to stick, and never this early in the winter. She was going to enjoy it.
She tried her best to skip as she approached the entrance to the Cold Spot, Hollow Bend’s answer to a hipster hangout. Of course, there were no hipsters in Hollow Bend, so the Cold Spot adjusted accordingly. Everyone was happier with a honky-tonk anyway.
Her best friend, Katie Carson, was standing outside, shivering without her coat and talking to Trevor Blank, who was smoking a cigarette. And shivering. Billie rolled her eyes. These two were doing their dance again. She had gone out with Trevor once or twice—every girl in town had—but found him a little . . . dumb. That’s not very nice, she thought. But man, it was true. All those beautiful farm muscles and she still couldn’t. It was hard to get too excited over a guy who thought Shakespeare was a fancy mixed drink.
Billie called out and Katie nodded in greeting, keeping her hands under her arms. But her face lit up in a big smile.
“Nice hat, Monroe,” she said.
“You don’t like it?” Billie said, fingering the red pom-pom bouncing on her head. “You’re just jealous because Miss Libby made a hat for me and not for you.”
“Oh, she made me a hat,” said Katie, smiling. “I just conveniently lost it in the woods. In eighth grade.”
“I like it,” offered Trevor with a shrug. So cute, thought Billie. So cute and so, so dumb.
“Thank you, Trevor.”
He smiled at her. Not happening, thought Billie. You better stake your claim on Katie while Chase isn’t around.
“Where’s my brother?” Katie asked, stomping from one foot to the other. “I thought you said he was coming.”
“Ugh, he’s staying home,” said Billie. “Today is the two-month anniversary of his coming back to work with my dad,” she told Trevor, “but he said we celebrated enough on the one-month anniversary.”
“And he wanted to get home to his pregnant wife?”
“He told you?” Billie asked. Mal had been really sick shortly after she and Keith got back from their honeymoon, but she was still walking around with moony eyes. Keith was much worse, twice as moony as Mal, and every time she passed him, he would put his hands over her belly. For a man who barely spoke, Keith Carson was terrible at keeping secrets.
“No. We all figured it out when they came over for dinner last week. He wouldn’t let Mal lift anything, and the green bean casserole made her throw up. Miss Libby hasn’t stopped crying since.”
“Yeah, when he came into the office last week, Keith couldn’t stop smiling, even when he had to pull half a dish towel and a wristwatch out of the Coopers’ dachshund.”
“Well, I guess we’re drinking alone,” said Katie, opening the doo. . .
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