Welcome to Grosvenor Ranch, where this rough and rugged cowboy is about to discover everything he’s ever wanted . . . in one cute, curvy, and totally off-limits package.
Beau Black is ready to take the reins of the Grosvenor Black Cattle Ranch. A man of few words and many responsibilities, it’s his job as the eldest son to hold on to the family legacy for his two brothers while raising his four-year-old twins. Alone. Carrying the guilt and grief of his failed relationship with the woman who left him before her death, Beau refuses to let anything—or anyone—distract him from what’s important in life: his family and their land. Even if that means closing his heart to love.
Until his ex’s long-lost younger sister appears in his life . . . and makes his resolve crumble.
Hallie Lockhart is a breath of fresh air in Beau’s dusty world, a reminder that life isn’t just about duty and tradition. When she offers to help his family for the summer, the chemistry between them becomes undeniable. But Hallie is his girls’ aunt, so she’s absolutely off-limits.
As friendship becomes more, can the two fight the passion building between them? Or are they destined to learn that love doesn’t always follow the rules?
Release date:
November 3, 2026
Publisher:
Dell
Print pages:
368
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I swear the same spots are peeling in the old brown leather booth seats. The scent of sweat, grit, and aftershave hangs in the air. How does a place not change at all in eight years since I was sneaking in here with my friends and our shitty fake IDs? I left this small ranching community for Memphis University when I was eighteen, searching for a place to start fresh, and I stayed there for a while. Now that I’m right back where I started, I wonder what it was all for. The only difference is that there’s less here for me now than there was when I left, which is something I have to live with. Now it’s just me and my dad.
The lights are low, the pool table in the back is packed, and David Allan Coe plays through the rickety old sound system. This place is filled with mostly men, after a hard day on their respective ranches.
Many heads turn while I look for a seat. I know I’m out of place here. This bar is nothing like the nightlife Memphis offered. Some real uptown, high-rent kind of places where you could sip martinis and listen to live music every night of the week Lottie’s pub is more of a back-alley, four-dollar-beer kind of place. Which is precisely why I’m here. I could go to the Whisk and Brew, which is much prettier and more modern, but I’d be sure to see people I know, people I went to high school with, hell, one of my oldest friends still works there. I’m here because I don’t want to see anyone I know and thankfully I don’t.
Taking a deep breath, I fix my eyes to the long wooden bar that has the only thing I want.
Alcohol, and lots of it. The front of the bar is padded with quilted black leather that’s seen better days, and it hugs the entire back wall. Above it is a blue neon sign that says Five o’clock somewhere. Behind that is every kind of Kentucky bourbon I could want.
Perfect.
With only two open spaces to choose from, I analyze them both. One is between two very drunken burly men in a heated discussion about the baseball game playing on the TV. They’re loud and boisterous, and I want no part of that. The other empty stool is sandwiched between an unassuming, scowling man, sipping whiskey. His hands are wrapped and bloody and on the other side an elderly rancher.
I decide to take my chances between them. As I approach, I glance at the bloody-handed cowboy. He looks to be in his mid-thirties. His stature is big, and I can tell he’s tall, even though he’s seated. At least six four, maybe even six five, and he’s clearly wide and solid. One big, heavy boot sits on the rung of his stool, and his tattered jeans fit tight to his thick thighs. His navy blue T-shirt showcases his muscled biceps and forearms. They’re covered in ink, all the way down to his rugged hands. Working man hands. Hands I can almost imagine sliding up my thighs. I instinctively punish myself for that thought and then remember I’m allowed to think it now. I don’t owe anything to anyone anymore.
When I pull the stool out, it scrapes across the floor, and the cowboy looks up. His jaw is wide and covered in scruff. I can’t decide if it’s an on-purpose look, or if he just hasn’t had time to shave in a few weeks. Either way, it’s perfection. The deepest green eyes I’ve ever seen grab hold of me in the single moment when they flick my way. They change with the light, and they’re bottomless; it’s obvious they’ve seen a thing or two. Deeper, etched lines surround them, like he’s spent his life squinting into the sun or smiling, but something tells me it isn’t from smiling. His face has the start of bruising on it near it at his cheekbone, as if he just fought somebody but they didn’t get a good enough clip in to make him really swell up. His cowboy hat is pulled low, and dark strands escape from under it, mussed and damp.
“There’s a nicer bar a few blocks over,” a small, take-no-shit kind of woman says when she approaches my end of the bar. Her red hair is curly and her eyeshadow sky blue. She sort of looks like Lottie, and I wonder if it’s her daughter.
“Not really in the mood for nice if you know what I mean.” I smile at her.
“Point taken.” She nods. “What can I get you?”
“Whatever is the smoothest.” She begins to turn. “And the strongest,” I add in a breath.
The deep gruff of the man beside me grabs my attention. “One of those days?” His voice is full, sort of velvety. It’s highly unlike me to speak to a strange man in a pub, but I’m not quite feeling like myself right now. In fact, right now I’m not sure who I’m supposed to be.
“One of those months,” I admit, watching the bartender pour me a hefty shot of expensive-looking bourbon. “Gotta keep it local.” She winks. The label says Foxx and I recognize it. My dad’s favorite. I give her the come-hither gesture, so she makes it a double.
“I’ll drink to that,” he says, holding his glass up. When Kristy—I can now make out the name on her nametag—passes over my whiskey, I look at him full on.
Damn. He’s gorgeous. Not magazine or movie star gorgeous. But sturdy and hyper-masculine gorgeous. Every feature is symmetrical and straight. His lips are full, and his brow is knit together like he’s permanently pissed off. Dark lashes frame those intense green eyes, and unlike most of the men here, despite his beat-up appearance, he seems clean, he smells good. Like some sort of warm spice and leather.
I clink my glass with his before taking a big sip. Christ almighty. That’s one thing I missed about Kentucky. We make God-tier bourbon.
“What kind of month has someone like you in the filthiest bar in two counties drinking alone?”
“Someone like me?” I query, no idea why I’m talking to him. I came here for solitude, but there’s something about him that says he isn’t trying to hit on me, he’s just genuinely curious. He looks forward, and the hint of a smirk lines his full lips. Those lines around his eyes become more pronounced.
“Someone whose bag I reckon costs more than most of the men in here’s monthly pay.” He side-eyes my tanned monogrammed leather Louis Vuitton. I didn’t pick it out. It was a gift, from my ex, Jesse’s, parents last Christmas. His mom is the highest-paid plastic surgeon in Memphis, and his dad is a jockey doctor on a high-profile racing circuit. They could afford to gift me the latest Louis Vuitton bag. I can’t even afford half the matching wallet.
“What kind of month has someone like you sitting here channeling your inner Fight Club drinking all alone?” Another thought occurs to me.
“Or maybe there’s no fight club, maybe you have a whole host of secrets like the true crime podcast I listened to on the way into town. The killer was a butcher, had his hands wrapped just like yours, covered in scratches from his victims.” I nod down to his knuckles and lean forward, holding my fist out, a natural microphone. “Our listeners want to know, Mr. Dark and Mysterious, is that your blood or your latest fight club victim’s?”
He looks me dead in the eyes before lifting his glass up to his plush lips.
“We don’t talk about Fight Club.”
When I see the hint of a smirk, I immediately realize the joke he’s making, channeling his inner Tyler Durden.
“Touché.” I take another big sip of my bourbon. “And you’d be surprised,” I offer.
“About what?”
“Why I’m here . . .” I pull my eyes from him and focus on my glass. “Things aren’t always as they seem, oh, judgy stranger.”
“A-f***ing-men.” He nods. “For the record, I’m not a murderer, but I am drinking to one of those shitty months too.” He looks at me quizzically. “But now I’m not so sure, maybe you’ve got me beat.”
It’s an invitation to elaborate. I could look away and ignore his invite, but for some reason, I don’t.
“I’ve definitely got you beat,” I say with way more confidence than I have under the weight of his stare. I swivel to face him a little more, at the same time he turns toward me. Our knees are practically touching, and there’s heat I can’t make sense of between us as he tilts his head, intrigued. His direct gaze covers me in warmth as it bounces from my eyes to my mouth.
“Your classic love story, really,” I say dryly because I’ve decided after Jesse, I no longer believe in love at all. “Well, I told myself it was love.”
He nods, almost as if he understands. “Where to begin . . .” I tap my chin in thought. “Five weeks ago now, I came home early from a conference I was at to find the man I thought was about to propose to me sitting online in the gaming forum he’s always on.”
“Hmmm, that’s your first mistake,” my stranger comments with a little guffaw.
“What?”
“A grown-ass man in an online gaming forum instead of focusing on you when you walk in the door.”
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