Home To You
“ROBIN KAYE DELIVERS A GREAT READ EVERY TIME.”
—USA Today bestselling author Maureen Child PRAISE FOR THE BAD BOYS OF RED HOOK
Had to Be You
“Kaye’s latest . . . has a solid plot, good pacing, and genuine characters. . . . A magnified connection and sizzling chemistry between Slater and the vulnerable Rocki keep readers turning the pages.”
—RT Book Reviews
“I love this book. . . . This was a great romance with lots of tenderness and some suspense.”
—Bitten by Love
“Ms. Kaye ended this series with an emotional punch. . . . Well done, Ms. Kaye.”
—Under the Covers
You’re the One
“Readers will . . . fall for the spunky Skye, and Kaye’s luscious descriptions of food and chef menus are a great touch as she continues her engaging Bad Boys of Red Hook series.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“In her latest novel in the Bad Boys of Red Hook series, Kaye’s humorous yet edgy storytelling shines. The distinctive characters that make up Logan’s and Skye’s individual families and the chemistry that sizzles between the two, set against the charm of a New York City neighborhood, will have you turning the pages with a smile. Kaye hits it out of the park again.”
—RT Book Reviews
Back to You
“Kaye throws together richly drawn love-challenged characters to launch her Bad Boys of Red Hook contemporary romance series. . . . A strong sense of place makes this a solid series launch.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Passionate and poignant . . . an emotionally gratifying contemporary romance.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Heartwarming, sexy, and definitely enthralling. . . . Ms. Kaye delivered it with style, complete with humor and a swoon-worthy hero.”
—Under the Covers
“If you like contemporary romance with a nice sizzle . . . I definitely recommend Back to You.”
—The Romance Dish
FURTHER PRAISE FOR ROBIN KAYE AND HER NOVELS
“Robin Kaye creates characters that reach in and grab your heart.”
—LuAnn McLane
“Charming readers with her wit and style, Kaye creates an extremely sensual romance.”
—Booklist
“You’ll be in romance heaven.”
—Night Owl Reviews (top pick)
“Wildly entertaining and comical from the start. . . . The love scenes are hot and sexy, and the chemistry sizzles!”
—RT Book Reviews
“Contains as much heart as it does heat, and the result is a book that will make you melt.”
—The Long and the Short of It
“A treat to read, and a sweet, funny way to start the new year.”
—New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James
“A fun and spicy story. Robin Kaye is a fresh new voice in romance fiction.”
—New York Times bestselling author Susan Donovan
ALSO BY ROBIN KAYE
The Bad Boys of Red Hook
Back to You
You’re the One
Had to Be You
Hometown Girl (digital novella)
Heat of the Moment (digital novella)
SIGNET ECLIPSE
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC
Copyright © Robin Kawczynski, 2015
Excerpt from Back to You © Robin Kawczynski, 201Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
ISBN 978-0-69818286-8
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Praise
Also by ROBIN KAYE
Title page
Copyright page
Acknowledgments
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
Excerpt from BACK TO YOU
To Claire. I doubt I’d have been able to write this without your help. You’re an inspiration, a great sounding board, and an incredible support.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d love to tell you I wrote this book all on my own. After all, part of the writer’s mystique is the solitary life we live. Well, for me at least, the solitary part is a load of bunk. For me, it takes a village to make a book. Here are some of the people who have helped me: I’m lucky to have the love and support of my incredible family. My husband, Stephen, my children, Tony, Anna, and Isabelle, who are my favorite people to hang out with. Alex Henderson and Jessye and Dylan Green, whom I love like my own kids. All of them make me laugh, amaze me with their intelligence and generosity, and make me proud every day.
My parents, Richard Williams and Ann Feiler, and my stepfather, George Feiler, who always encouraged me and continue to do so.
My wonderful critique partners, Deborah Villegas and Laura Becraft. They shortened my sentences, corrected my grammar, and put commas where they needed to be. They listened to me whine when my muse took a vacation, gave me great ideas when I was stuck, and answered that all-important question: Does this suck? They helped me plot, loved my characters almost as much as I did, and challenged me to be a better writer. They are my friends, my confidantes, and my bullshit meters.
I owe a debt of gratitude to their families, who so graciously let me borrow them during my deadline crunch. So, to Robert, Joe, Elisabeth, and Ben Becraft, and Ruben, Alexander, Donovan, and Cristian Villegas, you have my thanks and eternal gratitude.
I’d also like to thank my writing friends who are always there when I need a fresh eye or a sounding board—Grace Burrowes, Hope Ramsay, Susan Donovan, Mary Freeman, R. R. Smythe, Margie Lawson, Michael Hauge, and Christie Craig.
My dear friends, which include Laura Becraft, Deborah Villegas, Amy Greene, Anne Burger, and Ginger Francis, who have given me more love, laughter, and support than I ever knew existed. I’m so blessed.
I wrote most of this book at the Mt. Airy, Maryland, Starbucks, and I have to thank all my baristas for keeping me in laughter and coffee while I camped out in their store. I also need to thank my fellow customers who have become wonderful friends: Liz, Barbara, Mike, Teresa, Anne, Megan, and Joni.
As
always, I want to thank my incredible agent, Kevan Lyon, for all she does, and my team at Penguin/New American Library—the cover artists for the beautiful job they did and my editor, Kerry Donovan, for all her insight, direction, and enthusiasm.
CHAPTER ONE
Kendall Watkins stopped the Jeep and threw it into four-wheel drive before turning off the main road onto the sorry excuse of a trail that led up the hill to the cabin, her sanctuary. She’d gotten through a long, tough day on almost no sleep. She’d made the trip from her Boston apartment to Harmony, New Hampshire; powered through her best friend Addie’s inquisition about Kendall’s first heartbreak with minimal waterworks; and taken all the groceries, love, and support that she could stand.
As much as she loved Addie and appreciated the offer of her spare bedroom, right now, the last thing she needed was company. No matter how supportive, understanding, and well-intentioned Addie was, Kendall needed to be alone to lick her wounds and wallow in self-pity for as long as it took her to feel human again, or until the Rocky Road ran out—whichever came first. She had a bad feeling she’d be busy until the cupboards were bare.
Addie had told her in no uncertain terms that the grocery shopping spree was a onetime-only offer. There would be no refilling of the five basic food groups—chocolate, wine, pasta, ice cream, and Nutella—until Kendall poked her head out of her cave and rejoined society.
From a therapist’s perspective, Kendall had to admit it was a sound plan on Addie’s part. Everyone knew wallowing for more than a week or two might lead down the dark road of clinical depression, but from the perspective of a woman who was just unceremoniously dumped from a twelve-year relationship with no warning and not so much as a this-isn’t-working-for-me chat, a week or two didn’t seem nearly long enough.
Last night, the only thing she had wanted was to escape the apartment she’d shared with David. She’d never felt at home in Boston, and she wanted to go home. Home to Harmony.
When she thought of possible escapes, a picture of the old hunting cabin immediately came to mind. She knew she could go there and no one would find her hiding place. The only person who lived within five miles of it was Jaime Rouchard, and if he caught her, she was sure he’d keep her secret and respect her privacy. As far as she knew, he and Addie were the only people in their gossip mill of a town who could.
She looked through the dwindling light of late afternoon and tried not to think of all the times she and David had gone to the cabin. She did her best to tamp down a case of sudden nerves, wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans to make sure she had a good grip on the steering wheel, and wondered if she wasn’t making yet another huge mistake. When she’d come up with her plan in the wee hours of the morning, it hadn’t occurred to her that the last thing she needed was to be stuck in a cabin with the Ghost of Boyfriends Past. No, she wouldn’t allow David to ruin her homecoming. She refused to give him that much power.
The trail was snow-covered, and in the fading light it was difficult to discern the path at all. It was clear that whoever plowed hadn’t done so recently, so she was stuck picking her way up the steep incline in low gear.
Sara Bareilles’s “Gravity”—a song she’d always liked but could never relate to until today—drowned out the rumble of the engine and struck a chord so deep within her she had to blink back tears and fight for control of her emotions.
Kendall took a hand off the wheel to wipe her eyes, and the front passenger’s side of the Jeep ran over something—a boulder, the edge of the trail, a snow-covered log; she wasn’t sure. All she knew was she needed to get off the damn thing, since the Jeep canted awkwardly. She stopped and sent up a little prayer that she had enough clearance. After all, this was why she’d bought a four-wheel drive in the first place. It gave her the ability to go off-road, and this was definitely off-road. She eased up on the brake and tapped the gas, and the Jeep surged forward off whatever it had been on and landed with a decidedly expensive-sounding crunch of metal. “Damn.” She tapped the gas again, and the Jeep grunted ahead, except this time the front passenger’s side fell at an awkward angle and lurched to a stop, sitting way too low to be considered normal.
“Oh, God. This is just the icing on a total shit cake of a day. Can’t anything go right?” She put the car in park—as if it would go anywhere—and banged her head against the steering wheel with a painful thud. She rubbed her forehead. The action did nothing to make her feel better. “Whoever thought that a good head bang would release tension was obviously an idiot.”
Great. She was in the middle of nowhere, miles from the nearest person, in a disabled car. She took a quick look at her phone—no cell coverage. Unfortunately, in a twenty-four-hour period filled with nonstop shocks, the lack of cell coverage wasn’t one of them.
Strains of Lady Antebellum’s song “Love Don’t Live Here” filled the car, and she considered banging her head again. “Maybe love don’t live here anymore, but it did once,” she mumbled, and killed the engine.
That thought pushed her over the edge of the emotional cliff she’d been skirting for the past day and a half. She stopped fighting the good fight and let loose the river of tears she’d kept dammed up with a finger, a wad of gum, duct tape, and a prayer.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d sat in the cooling car, crying, when a triple rap on the driver’s-side door interrupted her midmeltdown. Kendall jumped, let out a startled yelp, and blinked at the image of a hairy hulk of a man staring through the steamed-up driver’s-side window. He had longish blond hair sticking out of a navy blue knit cap, a two-or three-week beard covered what looked like a square jaw, and he sported crinkles around the bluest, most intense eyes she’d ever seen. Even with tears and a foggy window clouding her vision, her gaze felt shackled to his, and, like a sleepwalker, she slowly opened the door and let out an embarrassing, hiccuping sob.
The man took what looked like a cautious step back and crouched before her, maybe to seem less threatening. “Are you hurt?” He sounded as if he didn’t want to know the answer but felt awkwardly obligated to ask.
Another sob escaped. She shook her head and took what she hoped was a calming breath. “Physically, I’m fine. Emotionally, I’m a complete wreck.”
He rose to his full height, rounded the front of the car, and then crouched to inspect the sunken front end. She wasn’t sure if it was to look for damage or just a damn good excuse to get away from the crazy woman blubbering all over herself. He placed one large hand on the edge of the hood and pushed, rocking the car with a grunt of effort.
The next sound she heard was a manly hum of disappointment confirming her initial assessment of the situation: she was screwed.
He came to his feet in one smooth move and caught her gaze—probably to gauge her mental competency—and his expression shifted from polite but hugely uncomfortable concern to an I’ve-got-bad-news-for-you grimace.
Kendall wiped her cold, tearstained face. “You might as well just say whatever it is.”
He looked her up and down again. “I don’t want to make what is obviously a terrible day worse, but it looks as if you have a broken axle.”
“A broken axle? Seriously?” She raised her gaze to the sky. “God, I know I’m strong, independent, intelligent, and resourceful, but don’t you think the broken axle was just a little over the top?” She waited a beat to give God a second to strike her down, in case he was in the mood. “Okay, you win. I give up.” She knew she stood beside a snowbank, but looked over her shoulder just to make sure before taking a seat. Who could blame her? After the day she’d had, she had good reason to question her own judgment. At that moment, she couldn’t have cared less who the man before her was or that he, a complete stranger, would witness her tears. At times like this, self-respect was overrated. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had to stand there and listen—he could slink off to wherever he came from.
She took a stilted breath before dropping her face into her hands and crying again in earnest. “In the past day, I’ve been down
sized and dumped. In a month, I’ll be homeless, because without my job and my fiancé, I can’t afford to keep my apartment. And if that isn’t enough, now you tell me I’ve just broken the axle on my car. I’m no crack mechanic, but even I know that’s really expensive.”
The snowbank gave way, and she sank another six inches. “And now I’m sitting here, in the middle of nowhere, crying in front of a total stranger, my ass is wet, and I’m stuck.”
A slow, self-deprecating smile spread across his face. “I’m not much of a stranger anymore.” He pulled a folded bandanna from his pocket and held it out to her. “Here, blow your nose.”
She took the bandanna. “What do I look like? A five-year-old?”
“No. No one would mistake you for a child, but you’ve been crying with all the abandon of one.”
Kendall always enjoyed arguing, but even she couldn’t argue with this. After all, he was right. She shrugged, snapped the bandanna open, and blew her nose. Before she finished wiping tears from her face, he had a grip on her arm. “Come on. It’s getting colder, and we’re losing the light. I can deal with a lot of things, but not a frozen ass. I have a cabin just up the hill. I’ll stoke the fire, and you can thaw out.”
She dug in her heels. “You have a cabin?”
“Yeah, but just to warn you, it’s not much.”
“You’re staying in the Sullivans’ hunting cabin?”
“The very one.”
“My father rented it to you?”
When he didn’t answer, she forged ahead. “My father works for the Grand Pooh-Bah of Harmony, Jackson Finneus Sullivan III.”
“Teddy Watkins—”
“Is my father. Guilty as charged.” From the look of consternation on his face, she figured he must have recently been on the receiving end of her father’s third degree—the same one her dad gave to anyone interested in renting one of the houses or cabins on Sullivan’s Tarn. “Well, that’s a relief. At least I know you’re not an ax murderer. The Secret Service has nothing on my dad when it comes to looking into the backgrounds of tenants.”