Home to You (Three Pines Ranch #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

The cowboy hat twenty feet away made my heart stop.

But it wasn’t just the hat. It was the man whose head it was perched on.

The one who, at least from behind, looked exactly like my ex—six-foot-two, two hundred pounds of solid muscle, that high, tight ass in well-worn jeans, strong, broad shoulders tapering down to a trim waist. Even his dark hair curling at his nape was the same shade I used to run my fingers through.

When he twisted to grab a bundle of bananas, I ducked behind the apple display in the center of the produce section, bobbing up and down like a prairie dog as I tried to get a better look at him without being noticed.

But when the man turned fully around, it wasn’t Jake Mercer’s face staring back at me—just another Montana cowboy in a sea full of them. I let out a shaky laugh and straightened, feeling ridiculous as I glanced around the store, noticing that at least twenty other men were wearing similar hats.

I’d been back in Bridger Falls exactly eighteen hours, and I was already jumping at shadows. This was precisely why I swore I’d never return.

Not because I didn’t love it here, because I did.

There was a reason this place was called the Last Best Place.

But when I left, I took the coward’s way out.

I’d fallen too hard, too fast, for a man with sparkling eyes and a wicked mouth who was never part of my plan.

So I did what any panicking twenty-three-year-old would do: I ran and never looked back.

But here I was anyway, ten years later, hauling boxes up my Aunt Mags’s porch steps and trying to pretend that seeing a cowboy hat hadn’t nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. At my age, I was supposed to be past jumping at shadows. Past letting the ghost of Jake Mercer haunt me.

Clearly, I had some work to do.

The lock stuck, just like it used to, so I jangled my keys this way and that, giving the door a little hip bump while juggling our groceries. It creaked open.

“I’m home!” I called out, trying not to choke on the word.

Home .

A week ago, that was a sleek penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan … one I’d shared with my cheating bastard of a husband until I walked in on him screwing my best friend. In our bed. The one I’d picked out.

“In the kitchen!” Aunt Mags hollered, her voice perpetually cheerful.

I followed the smell of coffee and cinnamon rolls to find her standing at the stove wearing one of her signature novelty aprons—this one says “Knit. Purl. Kick Ass.” Her hair—silver now—was pulled into a messy bun, and there was flour on her cheek.

While almost everything about my life has changed, it was nice to see some things stay the same.

I set the bags on the counter, and a package of Double Stuf Oreos tumbled out, followed by a pint of Ben she just hated to see me take the coward’s way out.

“We James women are made of sterner stuff than that,” was one of her favorite sayings.

I winced. “I know.”

There was so much more she could say. More I probably deserved to hear. But Aunt Mags just patted my hand.

“You’ve got a fresh start, Eden. Don’t waste it hiding from the past.”