Everything She's Ever Wanted. Mary J. Forbes
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“I won’t be charmed by a man again. Nor am I seeking the quick bed bounce.”
“Who said that’s what I’m after?”
“Why wouldn’t you want sex?”
He hadn’t moved. “Two reasons. One, both of us have to agree and, two, we both have to feel it’s right.”
“It won’t be for me. It was difficult enough in my marriage.”
“You married the wrong man.”
He stood with his back to the living room window. Against the backdrop of the wet day, his big shoulders appeared tougher than usual, potent.
A surge of yearning shot through her.
She wanted him to see her as a woman.
She wanted him to care. To make love to her, with her.
Most of all, she wanted to be wanted.
Dear Reader,
Well, as promised, the dog days of summer have set in, which means one last chance at the beach reading that’s an integral part of this season (even if you do most of it on the subway, like I do!). We begin with The Beauty Queen’s Makeover by Teresa Southwick, next up in our MOST LIKELY TO…miniseries. She was the girl “most likely to” way back when, and he was the awkward geek. Now they’ve all but switched places, and the fireworks are about to begin….
In From Here to Texas, Stella Bagwell’s next MEN OF THE WEST book, a Navajo man and the girl who walked out on him years ago have to decide if they believe in second chances. And speaking of second chances (or first ones, anyway), picture this: a teenaged girl obsessed with a gorgeous college boy writes down some of her impure thoughts in her diary, and buries said diary in the walls of an old house in town. Flash forward ten-ish years, and the boy, now a man, is back in town—and about to dismantle the old house, brick by brick. Can she find her diary before he does? Find out in Christine Flynn’s finale to her GOING HOME miniseries, Confessions of a Small-Town Girl. In Everything She’s Ever Wanted by Mary J. Forbes, a traumatized woman is finally convinced to come out of hiding, thanks to the one man she can trust. In Nicole Foster’s Sawyer’s Special Delivery, a man who’s played knight-in-shining armor gets to do it again—to a woman (cum newborn baby) desperate for his help, even if she hates to admit it. And in The Last Time I Saw Venice by Vivienne Wallington, a couple traumatized by the loss of their child hopes that the beautiful city that brought them together can work its magic—one more time.
So have your fun. And next month it’s time to get serious—about reading, that is….
Enjoy!
Gail Chasan
Senior Editor
Everything She’s
Ever Wanted
Mary J. Forbes
To Elaine, for sharing Kinderhook Lane and other things…
MARY J. FORBES
grew up on a farm in Alberta amidst horses, cattle, crisp hay and broad blue skies. As a child, she drew and wrote about her surroundings, and in sixth grade composed her first story about a lame little pony. Years later, she was an accountant and worked as a reporter/photographer for a small-town newspaper and attained an honors degree in education. She also wrote and published short fiction.
Today, Mary—a teacher by profession—lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and two children. A romantic by nature, she loves walking along the ocean shoreline, sitting by the fire on snowy or rainy evenings and two-stepping around the dance floor to a good country song—all with her own real-life hero, of course. Mary loves to hear from readers. You can contact her at www.maryjforbes.com.
Dear Reader,
The idea for Seth’s story came to me a number of years ago when my husband and I purchased a home in a residential area under construction. The site was atop a small mountain forested with pine trees. A couple times a week, dynamite blasted away boulders and bedrock, and eventually houses rose along those winding carved-out streets.
Since we were the first family to move into the area, we were surrounded by machinery, hard-hatted guys and dust. Dawn till dusk. Still, I walked our German shepherd every day. Up and down and around that mountain. Gravel trucks would pass by with loads of dirt or rock. One friendly driver took a liking to my dog. Each time he saw us walking along the newly cemented sidewalk, he would slow his monstrous Peterbilt, lean out the window and ask questions about her—or croon some doggie nonsense. Sometimes, if he was in a hurry, he’d simply wave and call, “How’s the pup?”
Well, how could I not ponder questions of my own on those walks? Like… What if a man driving a Paul Bunyan truck carried a secret fear? What if he lost his child to a custody battle? What if that child was unsure of his love…?
Since I also taught school and have, over the years, encountered hundreds of kids, it didn’t take long for my imagination to meld a child’s face into that nameless trucker’s life. But then, I went on to writing other stories, and my “Seth” faded into obscurity. Until now. Until he walked through the mist of my memories and demanded his story be the next of my Tucker brothers’ trilogy, in Everything She’s Ever Wanted.
So here he is—builder-man to the rescue. Happy reading!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Memo To Self:
A woman alone on a deserted residential street at nine o’clock at night might expect trouble. One on the town outskirts, hiking along a highway, stands out like a lure in clear water.
Breena Quinlan timed the words with each step. Wind bit her cheeks, paralyzed her fingers. She clutched the single brown bag of groceries against her thin fleece jacket. Fleece, when autumn bent toward winter, for goodness sake!
A rig, from its sound, crested the hill behind her. Headlights flashed through the brittle night air, etching her against the blacktop.
Think gloves, scarf, Aunt Paige, shop. Don’t think of the truck slowing. Slowing.
She ducked her head against another swat of October wind.
Air brakes hissed. The truck shuddered, stopped.
Keep walking.
“That your Blazer back there, ma’am?” a male voice inquired.
Breena picked up her pace. Why hadn’t she brought her cell phone?
Brakes squawked; the massive vehicle—a gravel truck—jerked gently forward.
“Ma’am, I know what you’re thinking.” Lit by dash lights, the driver laid a flannel-sleeved arm along the ledge of his rolled-down window. “I’m not that kind of guy. Name’s Seth Tucker. I own Tucker Contracting Limited here