Miranda Brookhaven returned to Bitterthorn, Texas to fix the past. Years ago, her father used her teenage romance with Coe Rodas to steal the prototype for a groundbreaking new automotive invention. Now her father's dead, and thanks to the convoluted will he left behind, she's stuck in town until she rights the wrong that lost her the man she loved.
Coe learned early on that life never goes according to plan. His dreams of hitting it big vanished when Miranda all but invited her father to take the only thing of value he ever had. But now the once-pampered princess is holed up in a condemned trailer on the edge of town...and everything he thought he knew about her—and about what happened between them back then—seems completely wrong.
Miranda's determined to give back to Coe all that he lost. If she can do that, maybe she can move on from the past. But Coe seems to be more interested in their rekindled passion than claiming what she thinks he deserves. She's got sixty days to convince him to cough up evidence that he's the original inventor—after that, the only way to transfer the patent rights over to him would be to make him part of the family, and she's not sure her heart can take another hit.
For the first time in seven years, she regarded the man of her nightmares, Coe Rodas.
The raw power of his dark eyes punched through her like a wrecking ball, but she refused to let it hurt. Nor did she smile at being the focus of those fathomless eyes as she once had, or itch to loosen the tie that held back his unruly shoulder-length black hair. Even when they’d been little more than kids, he’d always looked like he needed a shave. It was just the same now, his perpetual five o’clock shadow underscoring high, sculpted cheekbones he’d inherited from a long-ago Comanche ancestor. Silver hoops hung from both ears and there was a new silver barbell at the edge of his left eyebrow. A hint of what looked to be a black tribal tattoo peeked out of his collar on the right side, and on his left wrist was another, smaller tribal design.
Without even trying, her brain conjured up the image of her name in scrolling cursive on his arm just below the deltoid muscle, an image of her true signature claiming him as hers. At the time they’d gotten their tattoos, he had complained that it hadn’t been fair, as her name had more letters. Like an idiot, she had given in to his wish that his name, written in his own handwriting, cover the small of her back between the twin dimples just above her butt. For years she’d made herself forget the tattoo was there, always promising herself that she’d get it removed someday. But here she was, seven years later, suddenly feeling its presence as keenly as the day she’d dreamily marked her body as his.
Eighteen-year-olds were such idiots.
“Well, well. The true face of evil.” His usually golden-hued face looked pale as he pushed to his feet and towered over her. She balled her fists, resisting the urge to step back. “You’ve got a lot of balls showing up here, Miranda.”
A competitive figure skater from the age of eight, Stacy Gail began writing stories in between events to pass the time. By the age of fourteen, she told her parents she was either going to be a figure skating coach who was also a published romance writer, or a romance writer who was also a skating pro. Now with a day job of playing on the ice with her students, and writing everything from steampunk to cyberpunk, contemporary to paranormal at night, both dreams have come true.