скачать книгу бесплатно
The Hotter You Burn
Gena Showalter
New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter is back with another sizzling Original Heartbreakers story featuring an irresistible charmer about to meet his match… Beck Ockley lives by a single rule: one and done. The millionaire playboy knows the pain of loss and will do anything to avoid another. He moved to the small town of Strawberry Valley, Oklahoma, expecting more of the same–time with the only two friends he trusts, work…and lots of pleasure. What he never could have predicted was that a vulnerable Southern beauty would sneak past his defenses.Harlow Glass is determined to rebuild her life. The reformed bully has lost everyone and everything she loved, and she's paid the ultimate price for her checkered past. Now she wants commitment, the only thing Beck refuses to give. As their chemistry blazes white-hot, he'll either have to break her heart…or surrender his own.
New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter is back with another sizzling Original Heartbreakers story featuring an irresistible charmer about to meet his match…
Beck Ockley lives by a single rule: one and done. The millionaire playboy knows the pain of loss and will do anything to avoid another. He moved to the small town of Strawberry Valley, Oklahoma, expecting more of the same—time with the only two friends he trusts, work…and lots of pleasure. What he never could have predicted was that a vulnerable Southern beauty would sneak past his defenses.
Harlow Glass is determined to rebuild her life. The reformed bully has lost everyone and everything she loved, and she’s paid the ultimate price for her checkered past. Now she wants commitment, the only thing Beck refuses to give. As their chemistry blazes white-hot, he’ll either have to break her heart…or surrender his own.
Praise for New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter (#ulink_47c29cc6-aaab-5733-abaf-681619f08767)
“Showalter…rocks me every time!”
—Sylvia Day, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“Showalter writes fun, sexy characters you fall in love with!”
—Lori Foster, New York Times bestselling author
“Sassy, smart characters and an expertly woven, unconventional plot, The Closer You Come showcases
Gena Showalter in all her shining talent.”
—Kristan Higgins, New York Times bestselling author
“Showalter makes romance sizzle on every page!”
—Jill Shalvis, New York Times bestselling author
“Emotional, heart-tugging, kept me turning the pages!”
—Carly Phillips, New York Times bestselling author
“With compelling stories and memorable characters, Gena Showalter never fails to dazzle.”
—Jeaniene Frost, New York Times bestselling author
“The Showalter name on a book means guaranteed entertainment.”
—RT Book Reviews
“The versatile Showalter…once again shows that she can blend humor and poignancy while keeping readers entertained from start to finish.”
—Booklist on Catch a Mate
The Hotter You Burn
Gena Showalter
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book would not be what it is without my amazing editor, Emily Ohanjanians, who once again went above and beyond, pointing me in the right direction anytime I lost my way. Thank you! I thank God, the giver of all good things, for bringing you into my life.
A huge shout out to the magnificent Katie McGarry—an author I admire and adore—who spent precious time on the phone with me, helping me with my research (any mistakes are my own). You are a treasure!
A special thank you to these fantastic ladies and authors: Lori Foster, Carly Phillips, Jill Shalvis and Kristan Higgins. You guys rock on so many levels!
And to all the wonderful folks at Harlequin Books for taking a chance on this series I’ve been foaming at the mouth eager to write.
Contents
Cover (#uab3b7a2b-24d0-5553-9d11-1145c1b739fa)
Back Cover Text (#u3260e6bf-71ae-54be-9ebf-01c76eb6ed4c)
Praise (#ue9ac3bc3-9c26-5345-83e3-9a8d87aa3833)
Title Page (#u22da31d8-88ec-5609-84d1-b443a9435ec5)
Dedication (#ua1ce7cc0-2cd5-56ff-a640-c2e269a5a6be)
CHAPTER ONE (#u958c9102-db6b-5244-b24e-e9573a39e982)
CHAPTER TWO (#ua4f90703-d4ac-5e33-998e-553a4b574296)
CHAPTER THREE (#uf3251653-2121-5a2c-9304-a6141040399d)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u5ed624ce-30b0-5aba-95a0-b13b44f51522)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ua2a9cf3c-dc48-5648-b87d-ed71bfa96097)
CHAPTER SIX (#u42a121b3-bae2-5e70-9119-8ccbf33a19dc)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Recipe (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_1976d9ed-321a-5600-8c3f-51b84d68632f)
HARLOW GLASS STOOD on the porch of a hundred-year-old farmhouse that had more character than most people, waning daylight wrapping the structure in its loving embrace. Exterior walls once covered in chipped cream-colored paint that revealed crumbling, weathered wood now boasted new slats of paneling and a fresh coat. The broken seal on the bay window had been replaced, no more sheets of moisture collecting between the panes. Ivy used to climb all the way to the roof, but every stalk had been cut down.
She scanned the driveway. No cars.
She listened at the door. No suspicious sounds.
A smile stretched from ear to ear. After months of bad luck, something had finally worked in her favor.
Here’s hoping it lasted.
Trembling, she inserted her key in the door lock. Hinges whined as the thick, wooden entrance brushed open, homey scents—fresh bread, vanilla and some kind of caramelized fruit—wafting out and making her mouth water. Her empty stomach grumbled and twisted painfully.
“Hello,” she called.
No one cried out a startled rebuke.
She shut the door with more confidence and entered the living room, breathing a sigh of relief. I’m ba-ack.
Her childhood home creaked out a welcome, and for a moment, one of her favorite memories played at the forefront of her mind: Martha Glass pushing the sofa to a new angle, while Harlow straddled one of the arms, pretending to ride a bucking bronco. Her dad hadn’t been home to sneer insults, thank God—you’re pathetic, you’re stupid, you’re such a disappointment—so a relaxed, almost giddy atmosphere had pervaded.
But the cherished recollection withered against the depressing heat of realization. This might be Harlow’s childhood home, but it no longer belonged to her; technically she’d just committed breaking and entering. But only technically! She’d just...well, after all the work that had been done, she’d needed an inside look at the place. And if a few items of food happened to leave with her, she’d be doing the new owners a favor, saving them from nasty fat grams.
“You’re welcome, everyone,” she muttered.
The owners were the newest residents of Strawberry Valley, Oklahoma. Bachelors she’d watched from a distance for weeks. Lincoln West, the one she’d dubbed Most Intelligent. Beck Ockley—Most Beautiful. And Jase Hollister—Most Fierce. Men she’d never spoken to and never wanted to speak to, really. In Harlow’s heart, the house still belonged to her, would always belong to her, making the guys the trespassers. She had been born here, and if all went according to her life plan, she would die here. Just hopefully not today.
This was her first time inside the house since the bank had kicked her out roughly seven months ago. Spinning slowly, she drank in the only love still part of her life. Too many changes. Gone were the scuffed, stained wood floors, the “imperfections” sanded away.
What was wrong with a few flaws? In a home, or even in a person, flaws proclaimed, “Life happened here.”
The wallpaper had been peeled, Sheetrock repaired and painted the color of a caramel latte. Once decrepit crown molding and wainscoting gleamed with new life. There were a few feminine touches here and there to save the place from being a total man cave—throw pillows, bowls of potpourri and lace doilies—but she missed the cat portraits her mother had hung, random displays of china, knitting baskets, porcelain dolls and the gaudy lamps that once rested on lace-covered side tables.
Harlow braced for disappointment and headed for the bedrooms. Up first, the former guest room, now a man cave on steroids. A king-size bed with dark brown sheets dominated one side, while the large flat-screen suspended above a ginormous console stuffed with DVDs dominated the other.
How was a person supposed to relax in here?
The next bedroom—hers—boiled her blood. The princess paradise her mother had created for her as a child, which she’d never had the heart to change, even as she’d grown up, had been transformed into a man-child’s playpen. Multiple gaming systems cluttered a tiered platform, the controls scattered across the floor. In front of a gargantuan unmade bed towered a floor-to-ceiling projector screen. The walls where she’d once lovingly painted a magical forest were now beige. Beige!
Sure, the mural had come with defects, but she’d loved every inch of it, had spent weeks etching different designs, mixing colors, learning and adoring the entire process while allowing her imagination to sweep her away. Of course, she’d ruined the fruit of her efforts long before boring beige had done so, throwing handfuls of mismatched paint at the images in a fit of temper. Still. The sea of monotone was worse.
Before she gave in to the urge to find a marker and draw something to liven up the room, most likely a pair of hands with both middle fingers extended, she backed out and shut the door.
The master bedroom had been converted into a nerdy workaholic’s dream, all traces of her parents gone. Computers and computer parts were stacked on the desk, on the bed and scattered across the floor, and oh, she couldn’t stand this.
She made her way to the kitchen...where the wallpaper had been removed. But okay. No big deal. This change she understood. The design had been so faded the different clusters of strawberries had looked like swollen testicles.
The matching red laminate countertops had been swapped for sparkling white marble, but at least the cabinets were the same, even though they’d been sanded and painted black. Not bad... Just different.
A pang over what should and shouldn’t be cut through her and might have broken what remained of her heart if she hadn’t spotted the blueberry pie perched on the stovetop.
Jobless, penniless—homeless—she hadn’t eaten a decent meal in forever. And a decent dessert? Not since Momma died.
Another pang, this one sharper, but again, the lure of the pie distracted her, and she moved forward, as though in a trance. Trembling, she traced her fingertip over the rim of the pan and caught a warm glob of juice.
One taste... Just one.
The moment the sweetness hit her tongue, her plan to make a sandwich with ingredients the Bachelors Three wouldn’t miss completely upended. She rushed around, digging through drawers for the necessary supplies, growing indignant when she discovered nothing in its rightful place.
Gravel crunched. A door slammed.
Chilled to the bone, she dashed into the living room and threw herself on the couch to peer out the window.
Beck Ockley, Most Beautiful himself, helped a woman from the passenger side of his car. Beck...the man who reminded her of the shed out back, polished on the outside, crumbling on the inside.
