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“I want an interview—with you.”
Ah, hell. Owen wanted to walk away, but Piper looked determined. It wouldn’t be so bad, he reasoned to himself, quickly weighing the pros and cons. She probably wanted to grill him about one of the projects she and her parents were adamantly opposing. “A half hour.”
“As long as it takes,” she countered.
He shook his head. “No open-ended deals. One hour.”
“Two.”
“Woman, what on earth could you possibly want to talk about for two damn hours?” he said, annoyance getting the better of him. “An hour and a half. Final offer. Take it or leave it.”
“Deal.” She smiled. “And I get to pick the topic. And you have to cooperate.”
She drove a hard bargain. “Fine. Now get the hell out of here.”
She frowned and opened her mouth to protest, but the dark look he sent her snapped it shut pretty quickly. One thing was for sure—she wasn’t dumb. Whatever she was after, she was likely to get. He wondered if she approached relationships the same way. Heaven help the man caught in her crosshairs. He wouldn’t stand a chance.
Dear Reader,
I confess. I’m a sucker for a story where opposites attract. I love the push-pull of a relationship that seems doomed from the start because both characters are stubborn, determined and absolutely certain they know what’s best.
When I envisioned Owen Garrett, the gruff but deliciously sweet logger, I knew right away the woman of his dreams was going to be the last he’d expect. And Piper Sunday didn’t disappoint. Immediately I loved her quirky sense of humor and easy acceptance of things that might make others balk. I also loved that she refused to let Owen push her around even when he was blustering. Who wouldn’t love a pair like these two?
As the last of Mama Jo’s Boys, it’s a bittersweet ending. I’ve loved these “boys” as much as my ever-lovin’ Mama Jo. I hope you’ve enjoyed the journey. I know I certainly have!
Hearing from readers is one of my greatest joys. Feel free to drop me a line at my website, www.kimberlyvanmeter.com, or through snail mail—P.O. Box 2210, Oakdale, CA 95361.
Happy reading,
Kimberly Van Meter
Secrets in a Small Town
Kimberly Van Meter
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kimberly Van Meter wrote her first book at age sixteen and finally achieved publication in December 2006. She writes for Harlequin Superromance and Harlequin Romantic Suspense. She and her husband of seventeen years have three children, three cats and always a houseful of friends, family and fun.
My biggest thanks go to Bob Berlage
of Big Creek in Davenport, California.
My husband and I thoroughly
enjoyed your crash course on logging practices
in the Santa Cruz Mountains.
Without your help, I surely would’ve been
floundering. Any deviations from true practice is
no reflection of your teaching,
for you were a great resource!
Thank you!
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
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
OWEN GARRETT TRIED TO KEEP it cool but he’d already crumpled the newspaper in his hand because he couldn’t stop imagining it was the neck of one nosy journalist who’d decided making his life miserable was her single goal in life.
He pushed open the glass door of the Dayton Tribune’s office and went straight to the receptionist, with a demand to see the editor.
“She’s not here.” The woman, her name plaque identifying her as Nancy, arched her brow at his tone. “Perhaps I could take a message?”
He ignored her suggestion and barreled forward, too hot to follow the advice circling in his head. “Then, I want to see the general manager. And if that person isn’t available, I want to see the publisher. There ought to be rules about what can and can’t be printed without verifying the facts. Oh, wait, there are. If I don’t see someone right now about this—” He thrust the mangled front page in front of Nancy’s face and she scowled but took the paper from his hand. He pointed at the lead story. “Then the next call I place is to my lawyer. This is slander and I want a retraction. Now.”
Nancy exhaled softly and she plainly didn’t appreciate his tone or his attitude but he didn’t care. This was the third article that reporter, Piper Sunday, had written about his logging operation that basically painted him to be the “big bad logger” out to clear cut the forests without any consideration for the environment, which was complete and total crap. He’d tried to take the high road, but she’d pushed too far this time.
“The editor is out for the day and the managing editor is on vacation until next week. However, Ms. Sunday is here in the office. Perhaps you’d like to speak with her?” she asked in a voice so perfectly bland it could be taken only as a rebuke for his own hotheaded blustering.
Speak with Ms. Sunday? Hell yes. He tried to school his face into some semblance of calm, but he couldn’t quite manage it. “I would love to speak with Ms. Sunday,” he said.
Nancy picked up the phone. “Ms. Sunday, you have a gentleman up front to speak with you regarding a story you wrote in this week’s edition.” She returned the phone with a smile. “She’ll be right up. Would you like to sit and wait?”
“It’d be my pleasure.” Except he didn’t sit, he stood, arms crossed and fuming. This morning he’d nearly choked on a chunk of his granola cereal when he’d read the lead story—Logger Proceeds With Flawed Harvesting Plan—printed with big, bold type running across the page and he’d quickly and suddenly lost his appetite as he’d spewed a litany of curse words that made his German shepherd, Timber, cock his head in confusion and then walk away to flop on his bed with a sad expression. Somehow he’d known they weren’t going for a walk after breakfast. Instead Owen had raced into town to deal with lying reporters, which was a waste of a perfectly gorgeous spring day in the Santa Cruz mountains. Yet another reason to want to strangle Ms. Sunday.