Kathleen O'Reilly - Long Summer Nights

“Because it won’t stop,” Aaron said.

“I know,” Jenn replied, smiling.

Then his lips covered hers, and she could feel the frustration in his mouth, his tongue, in the way his fingers touched her face.

Her blood started to simmer, and the feel of his tongue inside her mouth, its furious demands, were the very best sort of pain. His hands fumbled, pulling her closer, her breasts to his torso, and her fingers tangled in the dark silk of his hair. Her phone, her prized phone, fell uselessly away, and once again Jenn was swept up in the very things that were bad.

Oh, but this. How could it be bad? He was whispering to her, using words that were neither pretty nor poetic, but the unfocused rasp in his voice, the hard pressure of his touch was hitting the spot right between her thighs.

It was all pleasure now. Apparently Mr Wilderness Adventure had other ideas.

And soon she’d know what they were …

KATHLEEN O’REILLYwrote her first romance at the age of eleven, which to her undying embarrassment was read aloud to her class. After taking more than twenty years to recover from the profound distress, she is now proud to finally announce her career—romance author. NOW she is an award-winning author of nearly twenty romances published in countries all over the world. Kathleen lives in New York with her husband and their two children, who outwit her daily.

Dear Reader,

This past summer, we went camping in a cabin in upstate New York. Tragically, there were many similarities to my heroine’s accommodations in Long Summer Nights . But sometimes, against all odds, something miraculous happens. In my case, you manage to forget the fishhook you found in the mattress, and have a great time!

I hope you enjoy the romantic adventures of Aaron and Jennifer, and their quest for true love. I didn’t intend to like Aaron as much as I did, but in the end he truly touched my heart.

Happy May!

Kathleen O’Reilly

LONG SUMMER NIGHTS

KATHLEEN O’REILLY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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THE TINY CABIN WAS A cobwebbed hovel. An abandoned relic left over from an era that predated air-conditioning and bed springs. Casually, coolly, completely in command, Jennifer Dade scanned the room. Yes, the cabin predated indoor plumbing, as well.

She glanced at the manager of the campgrounds, a tan, thirtysomething woman, who had lake-green eyes that seemed as weary and faded as the once-white apron she wore. Yet there remained a quiet dignity, as if she was not yet resigned to rejection. And no, it wasn’t that Jenn wanted to be rejecter-girl and take her business elsewhere, but the dirt …

As if on cue, Jenn sneezed, and then met the woman’s eyes. They were steady. Unflinching. Joan of Arc, prepared to be martyred at the stake.

Why now? Why this?

The place was borderline unlivable, and Jenn did have limits to what she’d put up with. She had standards. High standards. She thought of her last boyfriend, Taj, the twenty-four-year-old drummer with a love of the Cartoon Network. Mostly high standards.

The manager noticed her hesitation—understatement of the year—and patted the head of the cherubic chubster who was clinging to her hip.

“You don’t want to stay here, do you? You’re here for the Summer Nights Festival, and you’re expecting something a lot nicer, right? There’s a bunch of bed-and-breakfasts up the road. The Wildrose Inn is the nicest, and I heard they had a cancellation. If you make it there before high tea, you might get in.”

“The Wildrose Inn?” Jenn breathed the words, shallowly transported by the idea of a towering Victorian with rambling rosebushes that dotted the lawn. Tea on a silver platter … and a toilet. It sounded heavenly, with mass appeal. Commercial appeal. The sort of commercial appeal that would insure Jennifer’s job.

The little girl piped in, flashing her big, blue Oliver Twist eyes and a grape-juice stain that extended from nose to chin. “It’s all right, Momma. Somebody else will come soon. We’ll find a renter. I know we will.”

Watching the kid, Jenn felt something tug at her heart, and she wasn’t sure if it was the first stirrings of maternal instincts—which frankly terrified her—or her stubborn impulse to drop a quarter in every panhandlers box, even though she knew it would only perpetuate the very impracticability of the homeless plight.

However, if she wanted to keep the job of her dreams, she needed to fight these urges. For the next two weeks, Jenn was on assignment, and her computer needed electricity. Ergo, if there was no electricity, there was no job.

So, even if she wanted to stay here, she couldn’t. Problem solved.

She almost smiled until she noticed the black-plated plug in the wall. Okay, electricity was here.

Still, the readers would love the Wildrose Inn. Presidents had probably slept there. There was probably a charming love story about the ghosts that roamed the halls. Because of course, there would be ghosts at the Wildrose Inn. And a five-star chef who thrilled the critics.

The sad-faced kid began sucking her thumb. Jenn felt her womb contract, pulse, sigh. No. Be strong.

“It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. I was expecting something a little more …”

“Fancy,” finished the woman, no stranger to the obvious.

Time for a new tactic, something that didn’t make her feel like such a martyr-killer.

“This is the deluxe cabin?” asked Jennifer hopefully. Maybe the paper had made some clerical mishap, and Jenn had landed the supersaver accommodations instead? Times were tough; it was a possibility.

“My ex was a wilderness freak,” the woman explained. “He loved the sounds and smells of nature, and bought this place for a song. Of course, then he leaves me to run it. Not that I want to talk bad about Emily’s father—” she covered her daughters ears “—but if I called him an asshole, I’d offend thousands of butt cheeks everywhere.”

Sorrowfully Jenn shook her head. “Been there, bagged that, sobbed at the ending. We’re a gullible gender. Too softhearted to stand up for what is best for us. No, it’s all about sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice.”

It was a habit of Jenn’s. Promote camaraderie, create intimacy, inspire trust. It was the key to her reporter’s way, the secret to getting to the very heart of strangers in the span of sixty minutes or less.

But not this time. The woman heaved a self-sacrificing sigh, uncovered her daughter’s ears, and then smoothed at nonexistent creases in her apron.

“You’ll be happier at the Wildrose. It’s really nice. They have these great down comforters, and in the afternoon,

Sven will do massages. His name isn’t really Sven, it’s actually Mario, but still, he has great hands.”