First Frost

by A Lyrical Press Anthology

  Currently I have three series underway. Bodyguards is a heart-pounding line in which each story will bring you a bodyguard and the woman he protects.

  Magio-Earth is a fast-paced YA fantasy romance line, where across worlds, soul-bound mates battle against both love and land.

  And Highlander Heat is a historical Highlander romance line featuring strong heroines whose paths collide with their delicious Highland heroes.

  There is no greater feeling than seeing my characters come to life, so thank you for joining me…where romance meets fantasy and adventure.

  To learn more about Joanne and her works, visit:

  Website and Blog: http://joannewadsworth.com/

  Facebook: http://facebook.com/joannewadsworthromanceauthor

  Twitter: http://twitter.com/JoanneWadsworth

  Other Lyrical Press books by Joanne Wadsworth

  Magio-Earth Series

  Protector http://lyricalpress.com/protector

  Warrior http://lyricalpress.com/warrior

  Enchanter (coming summer 2014)

  Bodyguards Series

  Witness Pursuit http://lyricalpress.com/witness-pursuit

  Highlander Heat Series

  Highlander’s Castle (coming fall 2014)

  Ripe for Trouble

  Contemporary romance by Autumn Piper

  Are they ready for love this time around, or just ripe for trouble?

  When Ivy Leeds takes a job in her hometown, few things have changed…but Ridley, the bad boy of her graduating class, has cleaned up his act. Or so everyone else thinks. After hearing him and his friend practicing pickup lines, she has her doubts.

  Ridley Tucker can hardly believe his eyes. Ivy, the president of the Brainiac Club, has returned to town. Some things never change—she’ll barely give him the time of day, and she still looks as fine as she did that night at Prom, when they almost… Well, when he blew their chances forever. Or...did he?

  Chapter 1

  “Get me some fries to go with that shake, right?” Ridley Tucker elbowed his buddy Miguel and indicated the hot specimen helping some little kid load a big pumpkin into a wagon.

  Miguel whistled. “Damn. All those curves, and me with no brakes.”

  No kidding. The last time he’d seen a chick rock denim overalls must’ve been Daisy Duke. The long, long braid almost down to her waist should’ve been boring, but he’d like to undo it and run his fingers through that hair.

  “Hey bro, go over and introduce yourself. Put an end to the dry spell, huh?” Miguel gave him a shove in her direction.

  Speaking of dry spells… “Where’d RJ go?” Ridley scanned the area and found his tow-headed three-year-old squatting in front of a tiny pumpkin, running his little hand over it the same way he petted the kittens in back of the shop at home.

  “I’ll keep him company. Go make your move.”

  “Right. Like, what am I supposed to say?” He was a little rusty. Make that a lot rusty. Single dad-dom had a way of slowing down even the smoothest players.

  Miguel shrugged. “How ’bout, What are you doing tonight? Besides me.”

  “Too crude, unless I’m looking to get slapped.” He lowered his voice to its deepest. “Hey baby, you got something on your butt. My eyes.”

  Miguel cracked up, but then immediately went sober. “Ah…” He pointed over Ridley’s shoulder.

  “She’s behind me, isn’t she?” Of course she was.

  “Think lil RJ needs me.” Miguel turned tail and hurried over to help with the midget pumpkin.

  So this was what life looked like from under the bus.

  Ridley cleared his throat and turned to face the pumpkin patch goddess.

  Her hands were on her hips, her eyes narrowed. “You!”

  “You,” he repeated. Couldn’t be. Of course it was. “Ivy? Ivy League—er, Leeds.” The girl who’d gotten away had returned.

  She curled her lip, kept those eyes squinted on him. “Well, well. If it isn’t Ridley Tucker. So you graduated from using crappy pickup lines on every female in sight, to using them on guys now?”

  They were just…goofing around. And she was the same too-good-for-him snot as always. He lifted his chin. “Looks like you graduated from Princeton so you could be a pumpkin farmer in Rifle, Colorado.”

  “Yale.” If her eyes narrowed any more, she wouldn’t be able to see the light of day. But hey, at least he’d managed to make her turn red. And at least she wasn’t hiding her eyes behind those giant glasses like she had in school. “I’m here helping my uncle for the weekend, and I have a job in town starting Monday.” Probably some fancy-pants lawyer going to court against a big company or something. “It’s good to see you didn’t end up in prison.” She looked him up and down, probably surprised to see him in new, clean jeans with no holes and a real white t-shirt meant to be worn alone, instead of a wife-beater. “I better get back to work. Please let me know if I can be of any assistance.” Her words said she’d help if he needed it, but her tone said she’d help him rot in hell if she could. She turned and strode away.

  Sweet Jesus. She did not have an ass like that in high school. Same eyes, though. Like a clear sky on a warm September day up on the flattops. She’d definitely improved since her school days.

  “Struck out, huh?” Miguel crossed his arms over his chest, and watched her walk. “Too bad. But you’re not givin’ up, right?”

  Ridley blew a raspberry. “We…kinda know each other. Graduated together.”

  “Yeah, buddy! Guaranteed score. Now you’re the rich guy with a TV show. You told her about the show, right?”

  He shook his head. No point in playing that card. To Ivy Leeds, the smartest good-girl Rifle High had ever turned out, he’d always be Ridley Tucker, the fringe wannabe with a minor juvie record and unemployed parents who spent their days at the corner bar. She was right; it was amazing he hadn’t ended up in prison. “Let’s see if RJ’s ready to pay for his pumpkin. I gotta get him to his mom’s by four.”

  * * * *

  Ivy rounded a tower of straw bales, leaned against them and paused to catch her breath. Damn Ridley Tucker! Of all the people she had to run into, it had to be the bad boy, troublemaking, ladykilling, no good louse who had managed to sleep with just about every girl that moved. Except for her, of course. None of the guys in high school had wanted anything to do with her. They’d decided she thought she was too good for them, or that she was a prude, or because she was smart she didn’t have feelings like normal teenagers, or…something. But she was over that now. She’d gone to college and learned more than what the professors taught: she’d figured out she was attractive, and responsive, and totally capable of getting her tramp on when she felt like it. “So there, Ridley Fucker, and all your little chauvinistic, womanizing friends too,” she muttered. Better. Yeah, the old nickname from the girls he’d used still fit.

  “Ivy?”

  She looked up. “Kiersten? Wow. I haven’t seen you in…ages.”

  “No kidding.” Kiersten Day—or whatever her last name was now—wrapped her in a tight hug. “You don’t come around enough. Welcome home, neighbor. You’ll have to go by the ranch and see Grandpa. He’d love it.”

  “How is Wins?” She stepped back and looked Kiersten up and down. Still the same little redhead, but... “Is that a baby bump?” No doubt about it; Kiersten must be at least five or six months along.

  Kiersten laughed. “Yep. This is number three. One and two are over there with Daddy.” She pointed to a tall guy in a Stetson, with two little boys who couldn’t be more than two, all in cowboy boots.

  “Twins?” Here’s your sign.

  “Colby and Cutler Howell. And Cleve. Hey, Tex!” Kiersten yelled and he looked up from the kids.

  “Wow. Stunner. You go, girl.” Ivy gave her the thumbs-up.

  Cleve ambled over and put out his hand while the introductions were made. “Howdy.”

  Oh, Lord. She knew that accent. “West Texas?” she asked. “I’ve been working out of Dallas
for the past five years. Howell…” How’d she know that name?

  “MaryEllen. She’s my sister. Running for state legislator.”

  “Cutler!” Kiersten took off toward one of the boys, who was shoving something in his mouth.

  “I got it, Rocky.” Cleve shooed his wife back toward Ivy. “Stay and visit.” He tipped his hat and resumed herding the little guys.

  “Good hell.” Kiersten leaned in the shade against the straw. “Those kids wear me to a nub. Luckily this one’s a girl. Hope that means she’ll be easier.” She rubbed her belly and grinned. “Grandpa’s keeping the munchkins tonight so we can go out. What are you up to? Ridgerunners band is playing at Remington’s.”

  The local bar scene? Not her thing. Pretty much everybody in town figured she was only good for one thing—booksmarts. Socializing in her hometown never turned out well. “Oh, I just got into town yesterday. I better get my stuff unpacked and settle in, and tomorrow I’ll be up here helping out Uncle Rod again.”

  “Come keep me company. God knows I can’t drink anyway. I’ll be designated driver. How long are you here for?”

  Ivy wanted to groan, thinking what she’d gotten herself into by moving back. “Well, I sorta took a long term promotions job here.” A brand-new TV show, the first job she was 100% in charge of.

  “Great!” Kiersten hugged her again. “I’m so excited to have an old girlfriend around. We’ll introduce you to Cleve’s ranch guys, get you spinning around the floor with a posse of hot cowboys.”

  “Well, I…” How to beg off?

  “God, look at that little guy. Isn’t he the cutest?” Kiersten was looking at a little blond boy carrying probably the smallest pumpkin in the whole patch up to the cash resister. He was pretty cute. “That’s little RJ Tucker. Ridley’s his dad.”

  Whoa, wait. “RidleyFu—Tucker has a kid? I mean, one he’s taking responsibility for?”

  Kiersten snickered. “Yeah, hard to believe after all his hump ’em and dump ’em days, right? But yeah. He’s raising RJ by himself.”

  “Must’ve been a pretty sorry excuse for a mother, if he’s the more-fit parent,” Ivy replied. God, the kid was cute. Were those baby Doc Martens he was wearing? And Ridley looked entirely too cute himself, following the little dude up to the register. Same great butt. Newer Levi’s, though, and he seemed much cleaner-cut. Same drool-worthy gray eyes, too. If those eyes could talk…they could probably write a whole website worth of pornos.

  “I’ll tell you all about her tonight.” Kiersten patted her arm. “We’ll pick you up at eight.”

  Chapter 2

  Remington’s was clean and smoke-free like only a brand-new bar could be, loud and surprisingly sparkly, due in part to all the pairs of Miss Me jeans on the female patrons. Even Kiersten had managed some sort of maternity jeans with flashy rhinestones all over the pockets.

  Cleve took off to the bar to fetch her order of icewater and a virgin daiquiri, and a bucket of beers.

  “Looks like your hubby’s a keeper,” Ivy told Kiersten.

  “Too late to throw that one back.” Kiersten grinned. “Ever. Now, to line up a Romeo for you… Not to be like every nosy old lady in the world, but exactly why are you still single?”

  Not for lack of trying. “Um. Well.” How to explain Dax, who’d postponed an engagement for four years? “I somehow managed to commit myself to the most commitment-shy man in Texas. And you know me, once I’ve set my mind on something…”

  “So you couldn’t change him quite like you expected, huh?” Kiersten grinned and waved at a crowd of guys who’d just come in the door. “Here they are. Nate, this is Ivy Leeds, from next door. Walt’s daughter. We grew up playing together, even though I’m an old lady compared to her. Nate’s my ranch manager.”

  He offered a bone-melting smile and super-smooth handshake. God, the best ones were always gay. “And this is Clay, my significant other,” Nate said.

  Clay tipped his hat, looking very much like Cleve. “Ma’am.” He glanced at Nate with those way-dark eyes, but then made brief eye contact with Ivy. “I hear this is a homecoming party for you.”

  News traveled fast. She looked at Kiersten, who shrugged and pointed at Nate. “Nate and I text…a lot. About most everything.”

  “So how are you feeling about being back in your old stomping grounds?” Nate asked.

  As if.

  Cleve returned and handed out the beers. Ivy took a long, long drink.

  Kiersten laid a hand over hers. “Ivy wasn’t a stomper. She was a studier.”

  “Yeah, Ivy League had forgotten more by kindergarten than most of us would learn by graduation,” someone said behind her. “What I don’t get is, if she’s so smart, what the hell is she doing back in this backwater hole?”

  An old nemesis, Lana, sidled up to the table. Loose Lana. Ugh. Ivy felt like she needed antibiotics just from being in the same room with her.

  “And look at you,” Lana continued. “Drinking beer straight from the bottle, without even holding your pinkie finger out. Slummin’ it.”

  “Knock it off, Lana.” Someone else from behind, before Ivy even had a chance to answer.

  Ridley moved in between her and Lana. “Thought you were staying in with RJ. Isn’t that why you insisted on having him tonight? To spend time catching up?”

  “Fuck off, Ridley.” Lana stepped back. “The kid’s with my mom. I can do whatever I want during my visits.” She turned on her sky-high hooker heel and stomped away.

  “Sorry for that.” Ridley looked around the table.

  “You’ve got no reason to apologize,” Kiersten said. “You can’t be responsible for her behavior.”

  And he wasn’t, Ivy mused. Lana had been a bitch to her all the way through school. Ridley hadn’t been bad to her…other than that one thing. Ivy cleared her throat. “Thanks. Um, so, Lana is your…”

  “Baby mama,” Ridley said.

  Classy. Took a real class act to sleep with the likes of Lana, although in fairness she’d probably de-classed most of the single guys in Rifle and a bunch of the married ones.

  He rubbed his fingers across his forehead as if it pained him to admit it. “Not my finest hour.”

  Knowing is half the battle. New twist on an old story: Man-whore sleeps with woman-whore, makes baby. Man-whore keeps baby.

  “Hey, Tucker,” Cleve said, “I was thinking I’d bring the cruiser in maybe this week, see if you can tune it up a little?”

  “Sure, yeah. Anytime. Things are kinda nuts down at the shop right now, but we’ll work you in.” Ridley turned to Ivy. “Hey, would you like to dance? With me?”

  Not going there. She’d never forget the last time that happened. “Thanks, but my feet are really tired from working the pumpkin patch today.” She took another swig of her beer, hoping he’d get the hint and move on.

  He cleared his throat. “Ah. Well, I just wanted to apologize, for what Miguel and I were saying today. It was juvenile.”

  Everyone around the table went quiet. How could she not accept his apology? “Boys will be boys, right?” She offered him her best fake sharky smile, hoping he could see past it and realize she wanted to tell him to go to hell. What was his angle, anyway? He’d had his chance with her ten years ago. And left her crying alone in the dark, still a virgin. Bastard.

  “Right. Well, I’ll see you all around, huh?” Ridley pushed away from the table and left amid awkward goodbyes.

  Kiersten looked over with her head tilted to the side. “Didn’t you tell me about some thing between you two—”

  “No.” Ivy stopped her in her tracks. “No. Just another of those old schooldays deals.” God, she’d really stepped in it this time, coming back here. Why? Why had she?

  * * * *

  Ridley stared at the dance floor and waited for his next tequila shot. “Tired feet, my ass.” Ivy had danced the past five songs, two of them with Cleve’s youngest ranch hand, Dusty, and three with the womanizing one, Cash. “Shit.” It could have been fun tonight
with the guys from the shop—their last night out before the show started filming and everything they did got caught on tape for the next two months. Not only did Lana crash the party, but he had to watch while the one woman who’d rejected him danced with every guy in the room but him. “Damn.”

  Miguel tapped his shoulder and pointed to four shots of Cuervo behind him. “Doubles for both of us, bro.”

  “You know, I bet…” He tipped up a shot glass and drained the contents. “You could ask her to dance and she would.”

  Miguel grinned. “’Course. Why wouldn’t she? But the real question is, why’s this lady matter so much?”

  Good question. Maybe because he never got to finish what he’d started that night after prom. Maybe because when he’d tried to ask her out the next week, when she was sober, she wouldn’t give him the time of day. Or maybe because she was so damn untouchable. So far above him. She’d been nominated for prom queen, and even if it was a mean joke some of the girls had pulled, at least Ivy had showed up in a nice dress her parents had paid for. He’d made it to prom—barely—by convincing the guy at the clothing store to let him work off the tux rental by painting the dressing rooms. He hadn’t asked her to dance because he felt sorry for her standing all alone over by the balloon arch. She’d looked damn fragile in that pale pink number. Like something from his grandma’s china cabinet. Even then, when she looked so breakable, he hadn’t asked. But he’d wanted to. So when his buddy Mark dared him—no, triple-dog dared him—and bet him fifty bucks she’d turn him down cold, he’d asked her. Fifty bucks would buy a lot of gut-bomb burrito dinners from the gas station.

  And the dance had been—

  “Hey. Yo.” Miguel waved a hand in front of him, interrupting his trip down Memorably Bad Moments Lane. “You gonna drink your other shot or what?”

  He nodded and drained the other shooter of its fiery contents. He’d regret that tomorrow. But hell. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d regretted something the next morning.