Excerpt from Her Christmas Cowboys
Chapter One:
"You have got to be kidding me." Frowning, I sit up straighter in the back seat of the car, my thumb hovering over the screen of my phone.
"Is there a problem, ma'am?"
I glance up, meeting the gaze of my driver in the rearview mirror. I force a smile. "No, nothing. Sorry."
He returns his attention to the road, and I allow the corners of my mouth to tip downward again.
The image on my phone hasn't changed in my brief distraction, though.
In it, my supposed best friend Kaylee is posed kneeling in the snow, a fashionably chunky sweater wrapped around her size zero frame.
She has to be freezing in black leggings and fuzzy boots, but her face is lit with a bright smile.
Her head is tipped back mid-laugh as she tries to untangle her bulldog, Frenchie, from a string of colored Christmas lights.
It's a good shot, well-composed, with great lighting and a perfect view of the Catskills retreat where she and her boyfriend are spending the holiday this year. Normally, it would put a huge smile on my face.
Scowling, I navigate over to my own profile and scroll back to my post from a few days ago, and yup.
There I am, a little thicker in the thighs, my hair unstyled and my pose less artful, my rescue mutt, Max, less photogenic.
That makes sense, considering he'd actually managed to get himself completely tangled in those lights, as opposed to being artfully draped in them.
But otherwise, the pictures are the same.
Or at least they would be if hers didn't have a couple thousand extra comments and likes.
Annoyed, I pull up our text chain and tap out, Hey, nice pic today .
She responds right away. Thx! Frenchie is a natural, right?
I wait a minute, but there's no additional reply. No acknowledgment that she stole the idea from me. Definitely no apology.
Sighing, I toss my phone into my bag and sit back in the seat.
In the grand scheme of things, her copying my picture doesn't matter.
Kaylee is a minor social media celebrity.
I know she spends tons of time trying to come up with ideas for photo shoots and has to live her life "on brand". Meanwhile, I'm basically a nobody.
Okay, fine, I'm not nobody . I'm Reagan Hillier, heiress daughter to the founder of the Hillier hotel group.
That's not a title I've ever gotten much milage out of, though.
I have no desire to play out my boring little life for the tabloids or the social media influencers of the world.
I don't want to follow my brother into the family business.
I don't know exactly what I want, honestly.
I just think my cute dog pictures deserve a little respect is all, okay?
Rolling my eyes at myself, I shake off my irritation the best I can. My friends back in New York are a fun bunch of girls, most of us from the same Manhattan prep school. I've known them forever, and I love them all like sisters.
Recently, though, I've been feeling less connected to them. There's nothing in particular I can point to to explain it, but Kaylee copying my post feels like a part of it.
I sit back in my seat and gaze out the window at the bright white faces of the Colorado mountains in the distance. I let out a deep breath. If it weren't thirty degrees outside, I'd open the window and fill my lungs.
At first, I pushed back against my parents' decision to spend Christmas at a secluded ranch outside of Denver. Two weeks in the middle of nowhere with spotty internet isn't normally my idea of a good time.
But who knows? A couple of weeks away from regular life may be just what I needed.
We keep driving for another half an hour before the car approaches a sign with a familiar logo.
The red painted sign marking the entrance to Gold Canyon Ranch is a little more rustic than I would have expected, considering my parents' taste, but the property surrounding it is so beautiful, I can't really question it.
A long, winding road leads to a huge, sprawling, renovated farmhouse.
It's nestled amongst a sprinkling of snow-dusted pines decorated with cheery lights.
I chuckle to myself, sad for my poor pup Max that I had to board him back in New York.
He would have loved all this space--not to mention a chance to chew on those lights.
As the car pulls to a stop, I open the door. I grab my purse and my carry-on, while the driver goes around back to get my bigger bag from the trunk. He gestures forward, and I head inside, grateful for his help.
Big double doors open onto a two-story great room with slate tile on the floor and wood paneling on the walls.
A wooden balcony looks over the space, with a matching staircase leading down.
The decor is a comfortable mix of country quilts and contemporary lines, made all the more warm by the fire burning away in a deep-set brick hearth behind an iron screen.
"Good morning!" A dark-haired woman in her late twenties comes out of an office to greet me. She has pale skin and a friendly smile. "You must be Reagan."
I smile in return, but it's wavering. "That's me. I take it everyone else has already arrived?"
I got so distracted by the view and by Kaylee's antics that I let my guard down. I know better than that.
"Sure have. I'm Hattie. Let me be the first to welcome you to Gold Canyon Ranch." Hattie looks past me to my driver, who's still standing there with my luggage. "I'll call Dylan to come get your bags and take them to your room."
"Thank you." I rummage around in my purse for my wallet and pull out a generous tip.
As I shake the driver's hand and pass over the bills, a dismissive voice rings out. "You know that's all taken care of in the app, right?"
My shoulders rise closer to my ears, but I keep my cool.
Smiling at the driver, I pull away, making sure the cash is in his hands.
I turn away to find my older brother Thomas standing with his hands braced on the railing of the balcony.
I tip my chin up and reply, "You know half those apps take a cut off the top, right? "
He rolls his eyes, but before he can belittle me any further, a squeal cuts the air of the space, followed by thundering footsteps.
I set my carry-on and purse down beside my bigger suitcase and dart to the stairs. Thundering down them come my niece and nephew. Five-year-old Madison beats seven-year-old Bryce to the bottom, but only by a hair. I drop to my knees and hold my arms out wide, grinning hard enough to split my face.
"Auntie Reagan!" Madison throws herself into my arms.
"Hey, Pumpkin." I wrap her up in a huge hug.
Bryce is just as eager, but he glances up at his father, as if expecting his disapproval.
I bite back an unflattering remark about my brother training his son to be cold and distant already.
As soon as Madison lets me go, I grab Bryce.
He melts into me for a second before pulling away.
We exchange our secret handshakes, and I remember all over again why I agreed to come.
Even if my brother seems determined to help me forget it.
"Gabriella," he calls, his voice impatient and curt.
"Sorry, sir." The children's nanny appears at the top of the stairs. She runs down, still apologizing, but I wave her off.
"It's fine."
"Come on," she chides Bryce and Madison. "Wash your hands before lunch."
"But Aunt Reagan," Madison pouts.
"Will be washing her hands, too," I assure them. "Then after lunch maybe we can play."
"Promise?" Bryce asks.
"Promise."
Gabriella shepherds the kids down the hall as my brother slowly descends the stairs.
As he approaches, he eyes me up and down.
I stand tall, refusing to feel self-conscious in a perfectly respectable dress and leggings, even if it's not quite his--or the rest of my family's--pressed, buttoned-down style.
"Nice of you to join us," he says, maintaining a careful distance. He keeps his hands in the pockets of his khakis, as if I needed any reminder that he's not a hugger.
Sighing, I cross my arms. "I told you I had a thing last night."
Another of my friends was doing a benefit concert for a children's charity in the city, and I'd promised I'd help her with it ages before my parents announced their holiday plans.
"I'm sure it was very important," he says dismissively.
"It was, actually."
Not that he'll ever see it that way. The only thing that matters to him is work and corporate profits and trying to impress our parents.
Personally, I gave up on that a long time ago.
I may be between things, professionally, but the work I do with non-profits in the city is the most fulfilling part of my life right now. It's not my problem that he has no respect for how I choose to spend my time.
I open my mouth, ready to tell him exactly that, when a low voice interrupts us.
"Excuse me."
A shiver of hot lightning runs down my spine. That voice. It's deep and rich and just a little bit rough. I turn around, and something deep inside me clenches down.
The man standing there is even more gorgeous than his voice would have led me to believe.
I suck in a breath, locking my knees when they want to buckle under the sheer force of attraction that suddenly sweeps over me.
The man is tall, well over six feet, with sun-kissed tan skin and full lips.
The bit of his hair that shows beneath his stetson hat is dark, matching the scruff on his sharp jaw.
He's dressed in a plaid shirt and a shearling jacket, with jeans that look distressed from hard work, not the fashion industry. Underneath them are black cowboy boots.
Right. I knew we were coming to a real, working ranch for our Christmas vacation, but somehow I wasn't prepared to meet a real, working cowboy. Especially not one who looks--and smells--like this.
I lean forward unconsciously, the mouth-watering scent of hay and pine and pure, red-blooded male making my head spin.