Steal My Magnolia (Love at First Sight Book 3)

by Smartypants Romance

  Daddy glanced at me through the windshield. Maybe my pleading eyes registered in that brief look, or maybe he saw how much this moment meant to me. Or maybe my father just loved me enough to know that if I was bringing Grady here, after what I’d told him, that I viewed this man as my future.

  “My wife told me not to come out here,” Daddy said.

  Grady exhaled a quiet laugh.

  “Normally, I listen to what she tells me, especially when she says it with a certain look in her eyes.” My daddy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “But I wanted to see how you’d react when you weren’t ready.”

  Grady looked my way, giving me a tiny wink. “Well, sir, I’ve been ready to meet you and your wife for a while.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He lifted his chin. “Because I’m completely in love with your daughter, and if I’m very lucky, with your wife’s and your blessing, I’ll be asking her to marry me in the next few months.”

  With a shaking hand, I covered my mouth.

  My father’s eyes widened and color bloomed on his cheeks. J.T. McIntyre was not often taken completely by surprise, but if I hadn’t been so shocked by what Grady said, I might have snapped a picture.

  “That so?” he asked gruffly. “Hardly seems you’ve been dating her long enough to know that.”

  Grady nodded. “Might seem that way. But I have a feeling you won’t judge me for it.” His eyes flicked back in my direction again, and he smiled. “Sometimes, you just know.”

  Daddy was quiet. “I suppose you’re right.” He slapped Grady on the shoulder. “I’ll meet you down at the house. Don’t park on the grass like an ingrate. I worked my ass off on that lawn.”

  Grady grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  My hand fell away from my mouth when I caught a glimpse of my daddy’s smile as he walked away from the car.

  Grady slid back into his seat, wearing a satisfied smile on his face. “That went well.”

  I stared. “You told him you’re going to propose to me in the next few months.”

  He looked over at me. “I did.”

  “Are you crazy?” I laughed.

  He leaned in for a soft kiss, which I gave freely. “Maybe I am, my Magnolia.”

  I curled my fingers through his as he drove us down the driveway. Maybe I was crazy too, because even if he asked me tonight, I’d say yes.

  Sometimes, you just knew.

  Second Epilogue

  Hunter

  The pen I used to sign my divorce papers was heavy in my hand, one of the nicest ones I owned. My dad gave it to me the night before I graduated high school, and I remember thinking that a pen was one of the worst gifts I’d ever received.

  But I kept it. Used it all the time at work, stored it in the fancy box he’d presented it to me in. It wasn’t heavy because I was using it to end my marriage. It was heavy because it was expertly made. The black ink flowed effortlessly across the white paper, and before I could even blink, it was done.

  And my father, who gave me the black and gold pen in the black and gold box, had no idea that I’d even filed for divorce from my wife. Neither did my mother. I’d told no one back at home that it had come to this.

  Even though it was the right decision—one that Samantha and I made together—and even though they’d never really gotten along with my wife, they’d view my divorce as a sign that I should come home to Green Valley.

  I set the pen down and leaned back in my desk chair.

  Going back to Green Valley was the last thing I wanted. Not because of the town itself. Or the people who lived there.

  It was because of her. Because of Iris.

  The bottom-right desk drawer, the one that held a small box that I hadn’t touched since the day I got married, beckoned me to open it. Instead of indulging that impulse, my gaze moved back to the paper I just signed.

  Was it that simple? Scrawl my name in expensive ink, legally end the marriage that had been over emotionally for almost three years, and then open the locked box. Look at her face and feel my heart turn painfully in my chest, simply because now … with the writing of my name … I was allowed to.

  It wasn’t that simple.

  Because nothing in life was. Opening a box and looking at a picture would never be enough when it came to her. And soon, too soon, I’d have to face her anyway.

  I pushed aside my divorce papers and carefully picked up the letter I’d received earlier that day.

  No, it definitely wasn’t simple at all, because with the contents of that letter, I found out I’d have to face Iris for the first time in ten years.

  “Ready or not,” I murmured into the quiet apartment, “here we go.”

  Acknowledgments

  The first person who gets a shout-out is Korrie Noelle. Thank you doesn’t even really seem sufficient, because she was so instrumental for me in approaching the character of Magnolia—her family background, her history, her reality, and her truth as a biracial woman. Korrie was honest and vulnerable about her own truth, her own reality, and answered any question I had during the process. Because of her help in approaching Magnolia respectfully and sensitively, I hope I came close to doing her character justice.

  I’m also beyond grateful for Kathryn Andrews, who helped me plot and listened to me ramble and vent and gave me such valuable feedback on this story, as she does for all of my books!

  In our little corner of the world at Smartypants Romance, thank you to Brooke and Fiona (who deserve sainthood), Penny for ‘giving’ me the characters of J.T. and Bobby Jo (who turned out to be some of the most fascinating secondary characters I’ve ever written), and the SRU authors whom I just adore unequivocally.

  To my husband and boys, for letting me lock myself in our bedroom to write this book during one of the weirdest summers ever, and the rest of my family for their never-ending support.

  To Najla Qamber for the most amazing covers. She took the CRAZIEST description I’ve ever given her for what I wanted and turned them into glorious reality.

  To Rafa Catala for the mad photography skills on the cover.

  To Jenny Sims and Janice Owen for the editing and proofreading.

  To Michelle, who helps me during release, and my readers for being generally amazing and wonderful.

  “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.”

  James 1: 2-3

  About the Author

  Karla Sorensen has been an avid reader her entire life, preferring stories with a happily-ever-after over just about any other kind. And considering she has an entire line item in her budget for books, she realized it might just be cheaper to write her own stories. She still keeps her toes in the world of health care marketing, where she made her living pre-babies. Now she stays home, writing and mommy-ing full time (this translates to almost every day being a ‘pajama day’ at the Sorensen household…don’t judge). She lives in West Michigan with her husband, two exceptionally adorable sons, and big, shaggy rescue dog.

  Stay up to date on Karla’s upcoming releases!

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  Read on for:

  1. Sneak Peek: The One That I Want by Piper Sheldon,
Scorned Women’s Society Book #3

  2. Karla’s Booklist

  3. Smartypants Romance Booklist

  Sneak Peek: The One That I Want by Piper Sheldon, Scorned Women’s Society Book #3

  Roxy

  Tonight I could be nobody. I had no worries waiting for me. I was just a woman looking to get her dance on. And I was damn happy about that.

  The club music pumped all around me, taking over my mind, drowning out the responsibilities that waited for me back in Green Valley, Tennessee. Lights flashed in a pleasing and disorienting way. Bodies all around me moved to the heavy bass and electronic beats; some faced the stage, dancing solo, others paired up, groups of girls clumped together to form that invisible, creep-repellent forcefield any clubbing regular immediately recognizes.

  Blissfully in my own world, my arms reached for the sky and I rocked my hips to a sexy blend of hip-hop and Latin that had me flexing newly learned dance moves. Despite how my sweaty face probably looked, I was happy. One dance club in a foreign city, and I could take a full breath for the first time in years. Six years ago, I was given a second chance to change my life. I vowed I would never let down those who saved me.

  But maybe just one night off to dance was okay too.

  I danced until I forgot about what waited for me back home. The chaos that Diane Donner’s sudden disappearance left, the worry about the promotion I was desperate to earn, or the new manager that was in charge of that decision. I hopped up and down to the music, shaking off the thoughts that threatened to ground me.

  An awareness of being watched had me twirl to scan the crowd. Something across the room snagged my attention. Rather, someone. A man stood at the bar, leaning casually despite intense eye contact that zipped through me. Or at least I thought he was looking at me. It was hard to tell among the flashing lights and jumping bodies. A group of girls jostled me and I lost sight of him. I turned in time to the music, trying to spot him again, wondering if I imagined that initial jolt of energy.

  There had been something about his look. It wasn’t that scary, stomach-hurting focus that some men triggered. Instead, there was an intense interest to it that felt like more than just a passing glance. It was rare for me to make eye contact with someone and react so physically. His gaze had been piercing but his light coloring surprised me the most. Light hair, light eyes, even across the dark bar I could tell that much. He required more time to study. For science.

  Sadly, I would never know because he had disappeared.

  It wasn’t long before a deeply satisfying sweat broke out on my brow. I was getting overheated in my favorite leather jacket over a loose tank top and tight jean skirt. When the band took a break, I pushed through the crowd of people toward the bathroom. I missed this in some ways, the electricity of bodies and music and being free. I didn’t really let myself go in Green Valley unless it was from within the safety net of the Scorned Women’s Society, SWS for short. They were my gravity when the world spun out around me.

  I didn’t have the same startling beauty that Suzie Samuels had. I didn’t charm easy like Kim Dae. I couldn’t say whatever came to mind like Gretchen LaRoe. I only had the protection of looking completely unapproachable.

  I patted my face with a damp paper towel to cool off, careful to not blur my eyeliner. My fingertips shook my bangs back in place. I tilted my head and squinted at my reflection. Gretchen once said she envied my resting bitch face, RBF for short. (A term I resented but, unfortunately, universally acknowledged.) She told me it was my superpower. She was right. I did not exist to make sure people felt comfortable when they looked at me.

  My full lips and freakishly long lashes gave me a perpetually pouty face. People always asked me if I was cosmetically altered. It didn’t help that I was naturally thin and covered in tattoos. I always drew looks. Typically, I just gave them one of my winning glares and they scurried away. Smiles came as easy for me as catching a greased-up pig and stayed half as long. My blunt-cut bangs and thick eyeliner completed my badass look.

  As I washed my hands, a younger girl—or maybe I was getting ancient at twenty-eight but she looked like a baby—stepped up next to me to wash her own. I felt more than saw her look me up and down. I kept my focus on my reflection.

  She was just about to leave the bathroom, when I said, “Hey, you. Stop.”

  She froze and turned around. She looked around and back to me, before gripping her clutch tighter. “Uh, yeah?”

  I rolled my eyes. Even when happy, apparently I looked meaner than a wet panther. I needed a T-shirt that said “nicer than my face looks.” My RBF was a good thing when I still rode with a scary motorcycle club called the Iron Wraiths, but since leaving, I overanalyzed every interaction I had with “normals.” It helped to think, What would the SWS do? Kim would become her best friend. Suzie would give her makeup tips. Gretchen would probably find out what she needed in five minutes and figure out how to get it for her in another five. Me? I didn’t bring anything to the table, but I could get better.

  I pointed to the toilet paper stuck to her shoe. “You’ve got a clinger,” I said dryly.

  She followed my gaze and let out a nervous giggle. “Oh. Thanks,” she said and scraped it off.

  I turned back to dry my hands as she left, making sure to take my time so I wouldn’t have to make small talk with her. I was making changes but it wasn’t time to start expecting miracles. After I double-checked my eyeliner was in place, I made my way down to the dance floor.

  Carillo’s was a hipster gastropub turned nightclub in downtown Denver. It was recommended to me by one of the vendors I had hit it off with earlier at the hospitality convention. I’d spent the last two days representing Donner Lodge, trying to gain new business and potential vendors: corporate suits, fake smiles, small talk, blah. I was beyond exhausted but certainly earned a promotion when I got back. The vendor with the most potential was a corporate adventure company called Outside the Box. Before today I’d never even heard of outdoors activities used to bond coworkers, but after a long conversation with the co-owner, William, not only did I understand the popularity but could easily see how they’d fit in at the Lodge. It was actually William who told me to use his name to bypass the line to get into the club tonight.

  Now I could let the weight of responsibility melt off me like humidity on a glass of sweet tea. I was going to dance until my thighs shook or my feet gave up.

  The walls of Carillo’s were draped with gold pressed-velvet curtains interspersed with a wide range of mixed media art—or random junk from garage sales—it was hard to tell in the dim lighting. Crystal-beaded chandeliers dropped from the ceiling. Couches made of jewel-toned velvet were tucked away in deep alcoves that lined the dance floor and the upper level. Burly bearded bartenders scrambled to keep up with shouted orders.

  I went to the bar and chugged a water. I definitely didn’t scan the room for that man that watched me earlier. What I felt was a one-off. I didn’t care about men in bars anymore. Especially not tonight.

  Though I had just told myself how content I was to dance alone, I couldn’t help a hint of disappointment. I had cooled off considerably but wasn’t done dancing yet. The band was getting ready to go back onstage for their next set. I took off my jacket and folded it gently and placed it on a barstool. It felt like taking off a protective shield.

  I backed up, ready to get back to the dance floor when I smacked into a solid body.

  “Watch it,” I mumbled as I was steadied by strong hands on my shoulders. Then I remembered to be nice and tried to scoot to the side.

  The arms held me gently in place. When I looked up, glaring pointedly, he dropped them. It was Mr. Eye Contact from across the room. A little thrill tickled the back of my knees. He was damn fine this close up. Not my taste, but definitely a certain appeal. Like, if I wanted to know someone with a yacht to “summer on,” he’d be my type.

  His eyes were startlingly blue. His hair was this dark shade of blond, thick waves swept back with lighter
tips that looked as though it had been bleached naturally by the sun. A smile quirked his mouth and my focus moved there. He had soft crinkles around the corners of his eyes and a natural tan that spoke of time outside.

  He said something with the tilt of his head and a soft smile on his lips. I blinked away, wondering if my mouth had been hanging open catching flies as I took him in.

  “What?” I yelled and pointed to my ear. The band had just started back up.

  His smile grew to expose that two front teeth protruded just a little. It was a disarmingly charming flaw, like a puppy with just one floppy ear. His gaze moved over the exposed skin of my neck and shoulders under my tank top, seemingly studying the tattoos.

  I wasn’t knocking my edgy looks, but I typically didn’t attract men who could have been plucked straight from an Ivy League fraternity mixer. At least the collar of his black button-up wasn’t popped. And he wore nice sneakers and jeans, not boat shoes and pink shorts. Okay, so he wasn’t preppy per se, but squeaky? Like he’d hurt my teeth to take a bite out of. He didn’t even have a beard, for crying out loud. Not to box this guy in, but guys like this did not go for girls like me. Then again, sometimes there were the guys who liked to “slum it” with the easy small-town girls from Green Valley.

  Mr. Eye Contact leaned closer. He smelled like a shower after a hard workout. It was like the cleansing smell of a spring morning after working all night at the Dragon Bar. My jaw was clenched tight, thinking about taking a bite out of him again.

  “Dance?” he asked. His voice had a rich and deep timbre that sent a tiny shudder down my spine.

  His confidence was sexy without being overwhelming. He tucked his hands deep into his pockets and waited patiently as I took him in, studying him head to toe. There was no pressure in his question. I suspected if I said no, he’d walk away without another word. I told myself I wanted to dance alone but suddenly I wasn’t so sure. Wouldn’t it be nice to have hands on me? Wouldn’t it be an escape to just be a woman dancing with a man to good music?