What could two troubled souls from different walks of life have in common? Maybe everything.
Andra Lawler lives isolated at her family’s horse ranch, imprisoned by the memories of an assault in college. When she needs help training her foals, she hires a Haitian-Creole cowboy from New Orleans with a laugh as big as the Montana sky.
LJ Delisle can’t stand the idea that Andra might be lonely—or eating frozen TV dinners. He bakes his way into her kitchen with a lemon velvet cake, and offers her cooking lessons that set them on the road to romance. But even their love can’t escape the shadow of what they've been through. Despite their growing friendship and his gentle rapport with the horses, LJ is still an outsider facing small-town suspicions.
Before they can work through their issues, LJ is called home by a family emergency. In the centuries-old, raggedly rebuilt streets of New Orleans, he must confront memories of Hurricane Katrina and familiar discrimination. And Andra must decide if she’s brave enough to leave the shelter of the ranch for an uncertain future with LJ.
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Andra opened her front door, and the frown froze on her
face as LJ’s shoulders filled the doorframe.
He was holding . . . a cake?
“Um, hi,” she managed.
She reached behind her back to undo the knot that pulled
her T-shirt tight against her chest, shaking the baggy hem so it would fall to
cover some of her leggings. What was he doing here? Oh crap, she’d promised to
talk to him about the horses.
“Look, I’m sorry. I know I said I’d come talk to you a
couple days ago, but then Socks kicked one of the grooms, and Mary Kay lost a
shoe, and I completely forgot.” She hadn’t forgotten, so much as she was . . .
working up to it. Giving him a few days of seeing her around the ranch when she
was in control of herself, before she got close enough she’d have to see his
opinion of her in his eyes.
He shrugged, careful not to tip the tall cake off its
platter. “I think we got off on the wrong foot the day we met, and our do-over
didn’t really stick.”
Oh God. Apparently, he wasn’t tiptoeing around anything
today.
LJ grinned—a playful, twinkly-eyed one that made him look
like he was just having more fun than everyone else. “Besides, nobody’s afraid
of a guy with a cake.”
A smile tugged at the edges of her mouth. “I’ve never heard
that.”
“No? It’s completely true. Not to mention, bringing a cake
is the best excuse to eat some. I mean, it’s yours. You don’t have to share. Of
course, if you don’t, you may want to pass a tissue or two my way, is all I’m
saying.” He widened his eyes mournfully.
She glanced at the cake, the white icing whipped into
gorgeous swirls. “Did Stacia make that? She used to be terrible at baking.” She
gripped the edge of the door a little tighter. Maybe her friend had been
practicing. It wasn’t like she knew what Stacia was up to these days.
“I’m a little offended. A man doesn’t bring a borrowed cake
for an apology.” He lifted the platter and gave it a waggle. “We’ve got lemon
velvet with French buttercream here. You oughta get it out of the heat soon,
though. The sun melted the frosting some on the way over. It’s a hike to get up
over here, you know it?”
Oops, he was feeling around for an invitation. Duh, and she
was still standing in her door like some kind of freak. “Um, come in.” The
least she could do was feed him some cake and try to act like a normal person.
She stepped aside and racked her brain for small talk that didn’t involve
anything on four hooves. “You know, I can’t quite place your accent. You said
you were from Louisiana, but I’ve met lots of people from there at rodeos, and
they didn’t sound quite like you.”
“Well, you can tell I’m from the South because I
interrupted your workout with dessert.” He tipped his head toward the yoga mat
she’d left by the couch. She smiled, and his grin brightened a couple more
watts. “Seriously, though, I think I’ve got a little bayou country from my days
on my uncle’s horse ranch, cut with the rhythm of the Lower Ninth, maybe some
southern drawl creeping in from the Mississippi border. And New Orleans has a
sound all its own, always has.” Between one word and the next, his words
straightened to all square corners instead of luscious curves. “Then again, if
my mother is listening, I sound strictly like the Yankee university she helped
pay for.”
“Your mom doesn’t like your accent?” Andra frowned. “Doesn’t
she have one?”
“Mama thought I wouldn’t get a decent job unless I talked
like a white banker from Wisconsin.” He shrugged.
Her eyes widened. “That’s not fair. Why should you have to
fake an accent to get a job?”
“That’s the way the world works. People have ideas about
what intelligence should sound like, and I don’t expect I’m going to change all
of them on my own.” He winked. “I tutored English composition for work study
all through college, so I can play the game. I have to admit, though, sometimes
it’s nice to sound like home.”
Andra laughed, a little self-consciously. “I don’t think I
even realized we had an accent up north until you imitated it.”
“Oh, it’s an accent all right, sweetheart. And you’ve got
it thick as anything.”
Heat crept into her skin at the endearment, though she didn’t
get the feeling he was really flirting with her. She glanced away, the afterimage
of him seared on her lids. His deep-brown eyes were a couple of shades darker
than his skin, and they always seemed to be laughing. He was handsome, with
high cheekbones and sensual lips. The kind of man she would have looked twice
at, once.
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