Trusting The One (Meadowview Heat 2; The Meadowview Series 2)

by Rochelle French

  “Jack…” She could barely breathe out his name.

  “Lia, I want to ask if you would change your last name from Sawyer to Gibson. I think the name suits you better.” Jack’s voice caught, and then he whispered, “What do you think?”

  What did she think? She laughed to herself as a smile spread across her face. Someday she’d tell Jack that she was just about to propose to him when he’d beat her to it. Someday she’d tell him that they’d both thought of the same favor to ask one another. But for tonight, well, tonight, she would only say one thing.

  “Yes, Jack Gibson. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

  Later, after they’d made love yet again, she crawled out of bed to get a drink of water. When she came back to the bed, she gazed out the window into the dark night. Motion caught her eye. As she peered out the window, a laugh came bubbling up from somewhere deep inside.

  “What is it?” Jack asked. He crawled out of bed to stand behind her, and wrapped her up in his strong arms. Together, they stared out the window, mesmerized by what they saw outside. Snowflakes, as large as a baby’s hand, dropped silently from the sky.

  “Happy snow,” she said, smiling. “It’s snowing happy snow.”

  * * *

  * I hope you enjoyed following Jack and Lia’s path to love in Trusting the One. If you had fun during your stay in Meadowview and think others should learn about this quaint and quirky town, please consider taking a moment to leave an honest review, even if it’s just a few words, by going here.

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  Up next in Meadowview…

  Liz Pritchard has a fantastic opportunity to ditch her less-than-stellar reputation and become socialite Elizabeth Picard. To complete the transformation, though, she must return to Meadowview to sell her childhood home. But when the only man who’d ever held her heart shows up, he opens the door to doubt—because erasing her past means erasing everything that was once in her heart…including Hunter. Keep turning the pages for an excerpt from Claiming the One, Book 3 in the Meadowview Heat series!

  Meadowview: The Meadowview Heat Series: When friends (and enemies) return to the same small town where they grew up, sparks fly! Meet three best friends and their younger sisters (and the girl the boys once protected) and discover what happens when the past becomes the present. The little town of Meadowview will never be the same when love takes center stage!

  Also by Rochelle French

  (by town)

  MEADOWVIEW

  The Meadowview Heat Series

  When friends (and enemies) return to the same small town where they grew up, sparks fly! Meet three best friends and their younger sisters (and the girl the boys once protected) and discover what happens when the past becomes the present. The little town of Meadowview will never be the same when love takes center stage!

  Forever the One (Ethan and Sadie)

  Trusting the One (Lia and Jack)

  Claiming the One (Hunter and Liz)

  Tempting the One (Theo and Chessie)

  The Meadowview Heroes Series

  The quirky town of Meadowview finds itself wrapped up in a whole heap of happy when a few sexy newcomers arrive to challenge the status quo of a by-the-books sheriff, a reluctant artist, and a firefighter headed for destinations unknown. A thieving goat, a missing horse, and a porcupine with a tendency for trouble help make for a rocky and oh so fun path to love.

  Finding the One (Mac and Trudy)

  Always the One (Remy and Coraleen)

  Charming the One (Peter and Neva)

  Treasure the One (coming soon!)

  VINEYARD SPRINGS

  The Vineyard Springs Series

  Welcome to Vineyard Springs, a town where love is always in the air! Sometimes it’s about knowing when NOT to do something, as the heroes and heroines learn in this contemporary romance series.

  What NOT to Do in Bed (Cooper and Victory)

  How NOT to Fake a Fiancé (Oliver and Juliet—2016)

  How NOT to Tame a Bad Boy (Sean and Anise—2016)

  How NOT to Resist a Rebel (Delphine and Wilder—2016)

  * * *

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  About the Author

  Rochelle French is a bestselling romance novelist and the author of the Meadowview series and the Vineyard Springs series. Her books feature contemporary characters falling in love in small town settings. She currently lives in Northern California in the same small town where she grew up, where she now spends her days writing, hiking in the woods, or swimming in the river.

  * * *

  @RochelleFrench

  AuthorRochelleFrench

  www.rochellefrench.com

  Excerpt, Claiming the One

  Meadowview: Meadowview Heat 3

  Liz Pritchard has a fantastic opportunity to ditch her less-than-stellar reputation and become socialite Elizabeth Picard. To complete the transformation, though, she must return to Meadowview to sell her childhood home. But when the only man who’d ever held her heart shows up, he opens the door to doubt, because erasing her past means erasing everything that was once in her heart…including Hunter.

  Claiming the One

  Meadowview: Meadowview Heat 3

  Rochelle French

  CHAPTER ONE

  Peace could be so deceiving. Afternoon sunlight streamed over the California coastal range, illuminating the cultivated beauty of the hundred-acre estate in the heart of Marin County. A crowd of three hundred-plus guests, not a single one less than a multi-millionaire, all invited to attend the engagement party for Gerald Callahan and Elizabeth Picard, stood chatting in small groups scattered about below.

  Liz stood on the top level of a multi-tiered limestone terrace, looking out over the gathering crowd, and forced the corners of her lips upward. These people, in their designer dresses and Italian-made suits, nattering on about their stock portfolios and their chalets in Switzerland, would soon be her new best friends. And this manicured property and the thirty-thousand-foot mansion standing behind her would soon be her new home.

  Holy crap.

  A tall woman in her late fifties, with the color of hair only achieved by what had to be a gajillion-dollar set of highlights, came up to her. “May I see the ring, dear?”

  Seemed like more people wanted to see the ring than get to know her. Kinda irritating, but whatever, Liz thought. She lifted her hand upward, turning it to make sure the sunlight caught the ten-carat diamond and sent flashing sparks in an arc. Dots of light shimmered and danced. So freaking pretty. Definitely not cubic zirconia.

  “Oh, my,” the woman said, practically purring the words. “Our Gerald is quite the generous man, is he not?”

  Liz struggled to recall the woman’s name. Gerald would be pissed at her if she couldn’t remember her guests’ names.

  Annoyed.

  He’d be annoyed, she reminded herself, correcting her inner voice. She was to be Elizabeth Picard now, not Liz Pritchard. Elizabeth would never say the word “pissed.” Or “shit,” or “crap,” or “holy fuck.” Those were Liz’s words. And soon, Liz would be long gone.

  For a moment, her mind went blank and she entered into nothingness, as if she’d stepped into a cloud—big and puffy, all fluffy and white on the outside, but hiding the chaos of thunder and lightning within.

  The woman’s light touch on her arm brought her back to reality.

  Alba.

  That was the blonde’s name. Alba Todd-Jones, of the New York Todd-Joneses. Liz pulled in a breath. She needed to get back into the role she was to play. Back to being someone she wasn’t, but someone she desperately wanted to be.

  Elizabeth Picard of the Normandy Picards—formerly Liz Pritchard of the Meadowview Nobodies—smoothed her long, auburn hair, recently dyed to a more sophisticated color than the carrot-red it used to be, over a bone-thin shoulder, arched her neck forward to
enhance her surgically altered breasts, and added emphasis to what she hoped was a brilliant smile.

  “He is indeed generous,” she said, attempting to add a purr to her throat. She coughed. Christ. That hurt. How did these women do that purring thing?

  “We are all so pleased with how happy you’ve made our Gerald.” Alba leaned closer to Liz and whispered conspiratorially, “He’s had a few gold diggers after him, you know.”

  Liz’s stomach clenched. If Alba Todd-Jones knew who Liz really was, the socialite would flip out, calling her a gold digger and figuring the marriage would be one of convenience.

  And Alba would be right. At least, Liz thought, she’d be partially correct.

  Liz wasn’t only one who found the marriage convenient: fifty-five-year-old billionaire Gerald Callahan got something out of the arrangement, too. Marrying a well-educated, financially stable, and beautiful woman from an impeccable background would cut short the rumors of his bisexuality—a truth he wasn’t willing to face publically.

  Her heart clenched as compassion washed over her. Poor Gerald, emotionally unable to publicly acknowledge he was bisexual…and in love with a man. They’d come across one another late one night in a hole-in-the-wall bar in the outskirts of San Francisco. She’d been on a rather disastrous date with a man who’d promised her the moon only to take a call from his wife as he slid a hand up her thigh.

  She’d ditched the loser the moment she discovered he was married—she was many things, but never a home wrecker—and had wandered into the closest bar. That’s where she’d found Gerald, the only person in the bar, drunk as a skunk and quoting Proust into his watered-down gin and tonic as the bartender pretended to listen.

  Always a sucker for a sob story, she’d sat down next to him and bought him a fresh drink. For the next hour, he’d uncharacteristically opened his heart to her about the man he was in love with, how his closed-minded family held the purse strings to his fortune, and how his friends were anything but that. He’d shared with her how his life was about money, prestige, and image. In turn, she’d shared with him her fucked-up childhood and how unhappy she was.

  By the time the bartender had announced Last Call, Gerald had proposed, begging her to marry him so his family and friends would let up on the pressure to find him a mate. With a beautiful wife by his side, he could secretly be with the man he loved.

  Gerald had offered a unique option: he’d use his money and power to create an alternate persona for her, one that said her blood was as blue as mold on cheese—he’d winced when she’d murmured the analogy—so long as she didn’t have any nasty skeletons in her closet. She assured him she didn’t.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d lied.

  Gerald’s social world had forced him to make a choice: open himself up to love and risk censure, or close himself off and maintain a façade. Like her, he’d chosen the façade. This marriage of convenience would give her the image she’d always craved: one of the socially elite.

  She’d always claimed she’d marry for prestige, not love. She’d loved once, and would never open her heart again. A loveless, sexless marriage was exactly what Gerald wanted, which worked perfectly for her. Because while she was a lot of things, most of which weren’t that particularly nice, she wasn’t about to sleep with someone she wasn’t attracted to.

  Memories of a time when she’d been in love shot into her mind, and she winced. Not now. This wasn’t the time to think of her one true love or what they could have had all those years ago. Nope, this day was all about her and Gerald, and their completely fake relationship.

  Now was not the time to think of Meadowview.

  The cloud moved out of her head until only wisps showed, and then they too were gone. On the grass down below, Gerald caught her attention with a seemingly cheerful wave. She knew better. He could fake happiness just as well as she could. Nervousness ate at her stomach as she waved back. She glanced again at the throng below. It was happening. It was really happening. Liz Pritchard, who once had been snubbed by her entire town, was about to be accepted into the inner circle of high society.

  And only one task remained before she could complete the transformation and rid the world of Liz Pritchard. She had to sell the house in dingy old Meadowview she’d inherited when her mother died a few months ago. Tomorrow she’d return home for what she hoped would be the last time, and meet with the Realtor to put 35 Nightingale Lane up for sale.

  Once the sale of the house went through, Liz Pritchard could disappear forever.

  To be replaced by Elizabeth Picard. Darling of the socialites. Newest member of the popular clique.

  Soon, Liz Pritchard would be dead.

  Her chest suddenly squeezed the air out of her lungs and a hollow, sinking sensation hit her stomach. She forced herself to stay upright, to swallow the sick back down. Guilt did this—made her want to barf.

  But why feel guilty? She’d done nothing wrong in accepting Gerald’s proposal. Marrying Gerald would bring her prestige, honor, respect. All that had once been stolen, first by Hunter Thorne, then by the entire town of Meadowview. No one could ever give her back what she’d lost, but gaining social standing had at least been an achievable goal. One she’d earned.

  So why did she suddenly feel so vastly empty?

  * * *

  On a tree-lined mountain highway, headed toward the town of Meadowview, California, six hundred pounds of hot steel vibrated between Hunter Thorne’s thighs as he cranked up the throttle on his BMW, revving up the motor to power out of a curve.

  Late afternoon sun cast oblique shadows over the winding asphalt. In front of him, the two-lane road stretched long and clear, surrounded by tall pines, thick oaks, and the occasional manzanita bush tucked along the roadside like unwanted broccoli on a kid’s plate. The wind picked up, tossing dried oak leaves in his path. A green and white road sign caught his eye as he raced past. Three miles to Meadowview.

  The road dipped, the elevation dropping as the foothills leveled out to a valley floor. The air took on a scent he remembered—summer’s warm and damp smell, brought about by the creek that flowed through town.

  The white church spire from St. Bartholomew’s came into view and Hunter shifted down a gear. His hometown and his past lay directly ahead. Instead of continuing on the road, he pulled over at the vista point and slowed to a stop, then hit the kickstand and balanced the bike between his thighs.

  Letting the engine chug, he reached into his back pocket and tugged out the well-worn and creased piece of paper. He pulled the folds apart and smoothed the note out on his thigh. He didn’t need to read the words that stared back at him in black and white—they’d been burned onto his brain several days ago when he’d first opened up the email.

  Dear Mr. Thorne,

  You probably weren’t expecting to hear from me for four more years, but I hacked into the adoption agency’s database and got the letter you wrote me a long time ago. I really, really want to meet you. I want to meet my mother, too, and at the same time. It’s important. Just tell me where and when. I’m super, super excited!!!

  Yours truly,

  Abbie McHale, your daughter

  His heart jumped, then curled in on itself. He folded the paper along its original creases and worked it down deep in the back pocket of his jeans. After revving the engine, he took off in a squeal of burning rubber, leaning into the curves, heading toward 35 Nightingale Lane in Meadowview, California. To Liz Pritchard’s house.

  Thirteen years ago, Liz had made a decision on her own, one that had ended up costing him the chance to know his daughter. At the time, he’d been blindsided by what she’d done and hadn’t had the balls to fight for his rights. Now that his daughter had found him, he wouldn’t let Liz screw that chance up again. He’d find her and make her acknowledge what they’d once made together. What she’d once so callously thrown away.

  He’d make her meet their daughter.

  * * *

  In Denver, Colorado, curled up on a twin-s
ized rumpled bed, in a room plastered with posters of rock bands and actors, thirteen-year-old Abbie McHale flicked her fingers across her iPhone. With a quick tap, a scanned image appeared. The sight sent a shiver into her stomach, as it did each time she pulled up the file.

  A file she had no right to see.

  Curled around her, her best friend, Bay, squealed and said, “Show me again.”

  A week ago, after Abbie had pleaded and bribed, Internet-savvy Bay had hacked into the adoption agency’s files with the ease of someone the NSA should be after. After a few quick keystrokes, Bay found the answer Abbie would have had to wait another four years to see.

  There, glowing on the rectangular screen in black and white, were the names of her birth parents…and a scanned note from her birth father, written about thirteen years ago.

  Since the moment the handwriting had flashed up onto her screen, Abbie had repeatedly read the letter until she knew it by heart.

  “That’s so cool he wrote to you before you were born,” Bay said.

  Abbie nodded. Her throat had clenched up so tight she couldn’t speak. She angled the phone so Bay could read the letter once again.

  Dear Daughter,

  When I signed the adoption papers, the agency told me that you could read this letter when you turned eighteen, if you want. I can’t put how I feel in words, but know in your heart that I have always loved you and always will. I hope I can see you some day. Please call or write. I will never stop thinking about you. I promise.

  He’d signed the letter, “All my love, your birth father, Hunter Thorne.” Apparently, her birth father had made good on his promise never to stop thinking about his daughter. Several updated addresses and phone numbers appeared in the file, along with an email address.