Melinda Curtis - Summer Kisses

Becca smiled. This was what was permanently missing in her own life. Not that she’d ever belong with people like these in a living room like this. As a caregiver, she’d always be an outsider. She’d been fine with that for years. She planned to be fine with that forever.

“Becca’s done a wonderful job with the house,” Flynn was saying. “We bachelors aren’t very good at cooking or cleaning or stocking up on toilet paper.”

Hearing Flynn’s voice, Becca’s desire to belong increased. He was the carrot she happily plodded toward. But even if they explored their feelings for each other after her lawsuit was dismissed—crossing fingers, knock on wood-it may not amount to anything… .

Still, the more they laughed, the more Becca felt connected to Flynn, and the more she believed in a future together.

But would Flynn agree?

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Harmony Valley!

Things aren’t as harmonious here as they once were. Jobs have dried up and almost everyone under the age of sixty has moved away, leaving the population … well, gray-haired and peaceful.

Enter three young men-Flynn, Slade and Will-friends, newly minted millionaires and hometown success stories. Flynn Harris is balancing the trio’s new winery against the needs of his stroke-burdened grandfather while caring for his young nephew.

Now that Flynn’s wealthy, all kinds of people show up to try to take advantage of him and his family. Flynn is especially suspicious when Becca MacKenzie, caregiver in need of a job, conveniently shows up on his doorstep. Becca is smart, pretty and opinionated—and once his grandfather meets her, no one else will do.

If only Becca didn’t have a secret that could break Flynn’s trust. I hope you enjoy Flynn and Becca’s journey, as well as the other romances in The Harmony Valley series. I love to hear from readers. Check my website and sign up for email updates. Or you can chat with me on Facebook (MelindaCurtisAuthor), or on Twitter (MelCurtisAuthor), and hear about my latest giveaways.

Melinda Curtis

Summer Kisses

Melinda Curtis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MELINDA CURTIShas lived in Georgia and Texas, but she’s a California girl at heart. Her earliest memories are of life on an isolated fifty-acre sheep ranch in rural Sonoma County. Picture rolling hills covered in brown grass, a eucalyptus forest, a long gravel driveway lined with plump sheep, and no sidewalks. It was a big deal to drive into town on a one-lane road in a ramshackle, bubble-fendered pickup for an ice cream.

Fast-forward to today. Melinda lives in California’s hot central valley with her husband—her basketball-playing college sweetheart. With three kids, the couple has done the soccer thing, the karate thing, the dance thing, the Little League thing and, of course, the basketball thing.

Melinda writes sweet to medium-heat contemporary romances as Melinda Curtis and red-hot reads as Mel Curtis.

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With love to my family and close friends. It’s not unusual for my spin buddies, household members or siblings to see me enter a room with a glazed look in my eyes and a new question—”What if …?”

With thanks to A.J. Stewart, Cari Lynn Webb and Anna Adams. Hardworking Bees, indeed.

And for Carrie.

I think of you every time I find a dime.

Contents

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

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER ONE

BECCA MACKENZIE WAS sweet and loveable and trustworthy.

At least, that’s what people used to say.

But that was before. Before a Taliban bullet widowed her, before her smile felt scarred, before she got it into her head that everyone deserved the granting of their last wish.

Sure, go on, ignore trusts and wills and judgmental relatives. Never mind the necessity of paper trails to protect those left behind.

What had she been thinking?

Not about protecting herself. She’d been thinking, screw grief. She’d been thinking that if you loved someone and they loved you back, fulfilling that person’s last request was an honor.

Sweet and loveable and trustworthy.

That’s what Becca’s clients would say about her.

If they weren’t all dead.

Becca’s lips were so tightly sealed grief had no chance to escape.

Death was an appendage of being a certified nursing assistant who cared for the elderly. Easing their passing was a sacred trust, whether they died of natural causes, of cancer or kidney disease, of heart failure or just plain fatigue. Life was exhausting, too short for the ones she loved, and, well, exhausting for those left behind.

Exhausted, Becca sat in her temporary home in Harmony Valley, a don’t-blink-or-you’ll-miss-it town in the northernmost corner of California’s Sonoma County. Her home was mobile. Twenty-one feet long, with rusted bumpers, and an orange burlap dinette that doubled as her bed. She’d been in town less than three days, and was parked at the house of a prospective employer, waiting for him to get home.

When Flynn Harris showed up with his grandfather, she’d stand up straight, look him in the eye and ask him for the job. She would not think about the near-zero balance in her checking account, the accusations a previous employer’s family made against her or the lawsuit she had almost no chance of winning without this job.

A cold, wet nose pressed against her side. Trust Abby to know when Becca needed reassurance. The black, tan and white Australian shepherd looked at her with dark, adoring eyes, as if to say everything was going to be as right as her nightly kibble. Becca stroked the small dog’s silky fur, but even Abby couldn’t chase away the tension knotting her stomach.

A classic black Cadillac the length of a small cruise liner turned into the lightly graveled driveway, moving slowly toward the army-green, ranch-style house where Becca was parked. The car stopped so that the passenger-side door was even with the front walk.

Becca hopped out of the motorhome and would have hurried to the passenger door, Abby trotting eagerly at her heels, if not for the penny she saw at her feet. Shoved between two small white rocks, the penny seemed bent and beaten. Becca shoved it into the pocket of her jeans and waved to the elderly passenger through the open Cadillac window.

Edwin Blonkowski’s pale face was dominated by a bulbous nose, his expression stuck in a stroke-induced half frown, framed by a stringy gray comb-over. The T-shirt at the folds of his neck was a dingy gray, the collar curled as if clinging to life. He was so clearly in need of TLC that Becca’s heart panged.

And panged again when she glanced at the driver, Edwin’s grandson, Flynn Harris. Locals said Edwin was on the road to recovery. Flynn’s eyes told a different story. They were the crisp blue of a morning sky, but sharp, so sharp. Sharpened by the fear of loss. Sharp enough to shred her hopes.