Coe learned early on that life never goes according to plan. His dreams of hitting it big vanished when Miranda all but invited her father to take the only thing of value he ever had. But now the once-pampered princess is holed up in a condemned trailer on the edge of town...and everything he thought he knew about her—and about what happened between them back then—seems completely wrong.
A sudden melody murmured from her purse slung over her shoulder. For a baffled
moment her brain scrambled to identify the tune before she dug for her phone. Was that John
Mayer’s “Your Body Is A Wonderland”? Great song, but for it to spontaneously sound off like it
was a ringtone...
She stared at the screen in disbelief. It was a ringtone.
Under his name was his picture set as the background—hair mussed, chest bare. Sleepy.
“Holy shit, he took a selfie.” Then she clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified she’d
said it out loud. “I’m so sorry, please excuse—”
“Not bad, as selfies go. I’ve never taken a good one—can’t get far enough away from the
damn camera to look any good. Better answer before he hangs up.” Esme took one last peek at
Coe’s picture before heading for the kitchen.
Miranda was still trying to get her jaw re-hinged—and recover from the notion of what
sort of selfie Esme might have taken—when she got the phone to her ear. “‘Your Body Is A
“What? I hear that in my head every time I touch you.”
“Oh.” She put a hand to her idiotic heart as it melted. No doubt her panties would be
next. “Then it should be the ringtone for me.”
“It is. If you were to call me, I mean. That’s the song I have for you on my phone, which,
by the way, I always have with me. So I promise I’ll pick up, if...well, if you ever need to call
Hint, hint. “Which I can do, now that I see you’ve put your number in my phone.”
“Right. You needed to have my number, just in case your car breaks down again. Or if
you need me for anything else, like to kill a bug, or open a jar. Or to talk. You know. Whatever.
Whenever. You can now call me. I’ll always answer when you call, Miranda. Always.”
Her throat squeezed tight. “Thanks. That’s good to know.”
“You really should put a passcode on your phone, now that I’m thinking about it. I could
do that for you, if you don’t know how. But you’d have to, you know, bring me the phone so I
could take care of it for you.”
In other words, he wanted to see her face-to-face. And damn it, she suddenly wanted to
see him. “I’m still at Esme’s. Where are you?”
“I’m where I need to be.” She heard him blow out a breath. “I’m outside Esme’s trailer.”
She glanced through the curtain, saw his car behind hers and nearly choked when her
heart bounded into her throat.
“I’ll be right out.”
A competitive figure skater from the age of eight, Stacy Gail began writing stories in between events to pass the time. By the age of fourteen, she told her parents she was either going to be a figure skating coach who was also a published romance writer, or a romance writer who was also a skating pro. Now with a day job of playing on the ice with her students, and writing everything from steampunk to cyberpunk, contemporary to paranormal at night, both dreams have come true.