Heartbreaker

by Kate Kisset

  She gasped, feeling a shiver of panic, taking another step backward. “There is no way I’m following you to—to who knows where.” She backed away farther. “You probably have some kind of kinky sex cabin out here.”

  “Kinky sex, huh?” Harlan grinned, showing off his dimples. “Funny how your mind just went there, with me.”

  “Funny is—” funny was...well, her mind went blank. “Call Boone again, or—”

  “Or you’ll drive back to town? Sounds good to me.” Harlan gave her a three-second, darkly layered stare and then turned his back on her.

  “Wh—?” Georgia gritted her teeth. A trickle of fear slithered down her spine while she watched the cocky bastard saunter down the path, taking long strides to his truck, looking every inch the rogue he was. Apparently not bluffing, Harlan leisurely pulled keys from his pocket and reached the driver’s side door. He tipped his hat to her, sending a smirking grin. “The weather’s turning, Peach. You either drive back to town or follow me. Suit yourself.”

  With her heart in her throat, she gulped when he grabbed the door handle. Harlan was Boone’s brother. This was the closest she’d been to Boone all day. “Hold on!” Georgia yelled, hurrying to her car.

  After giving her hands a douse of sanitizer, she gripped the Toyota’s warm steering wheel with her sweaty palms while her pulse did somersaults. Was Harlan trustworthy enough to follow? She reached into the open bag of salt and vinegar chips on the passenger seat and the smell of pickles filled the car. Georgia sniffed, and thought about the last appointment with her shrink, when they discussed emotional eating and all the weight she’d gained. She stuffed a greasy handful in her mouth and chomped. He better be taking me to Boone’s house.

  But who knew what Harlan Beckett was up to? He’d made a fortune doing all the wrong things. Things like getting bleeped in prime time and laying a completely inappropriate kiss on the queen of country, Leva McKinney, at the CMA awards only made him more popular. Until The Story broke.

  After Harlan’s debut album hit number one on Billboard’s country charts and “The Heartbreak Kid” stayed in the top twenty for an entire year, Harlan released a second album and then fell off the map. This was a while ago, after a reporter exposed Harlan as a lying, cheating scum. Who knew how long he'd been fooling around on his sweet girlfriend before he got caught having an affair with his drummer Danny’s wife? Harlan’s fans turned on a dime, and Danny’s fans were outright pissed.

  In most genres fooling around with someone married wouldn’t raise an eyebrow, but country music was different. It was a small, familial community where everyone knew each other. Screwing around with someone’s wife, particularly the wife of a man you’ve known since kindergarten, was an absolute no-go, and, in Harlan’s case, a career-ender.

  Georgia had a soft spot for any woman who’d been cheated on. Although her parents were divorced, her dad never cheated, and the three of them still had a pretty good relationship. Her folks lived a short drive from each other in the Berkshires.

  Harry, however, her mom’s second husband, had turned out to be a player. Her mom married him after Georgia moved out and was at NYU. They were only married for a little while, never made it to their second-year anniversary, so Georgia never got to know Harry very well. But Georgia knew enough to despise him. Her mother had been so demoralized after she discovered he’d cheated on her that she never dated again.

  Georgia shoved the last crumbs of chips in her mouth and wiped her hand on her jeans. Clutching the steering wheel with both hands again, she fought to keep the car steady over all the potholes.

  Why hadn’t she spent the extra dime on getting a truck? Oh yeah, because she was about to get the axe.

  About a mile up the road, Harlan’s truck hung a left at a white mailbox. Georgia nodded to herself, getting her bearings while cruising the long, stately driveway. She focused on committing every sight to memory while maintaining a safe distance behind Harlan. The low, rolling hills and drifts of blue, pink and yellow wildflowers seemed to stretch on forever until finally a rambling white farmhouse with a wraparound porch to die for came into view.

  Georgia slowed the car, blinking through the windshield, and took a swig of warm, melted ice from the Slurpee cup. She’d never imagined Boone Beckett living in such a house. Who knew he had such a flair for design?

  Moving closer, she noted several other buildings on the property. With the lush landscaping, perfectly clipped hedges, and colorful flowerbeds, the mini compound looked out of place plunked there in the middle of nowhere.

  Georgia pulled onto the flagstone-paved circular driveway next to Harlan’s truck while fighting to keep her swirling emotions from spinning out of control. But by the looks of the house—and, evidently, the lack of a torture cabin—so far, so good.

  After straightening her blouse and wiping mascara smudges off her face, she put her notepad in her purse and eased herself out of the car.

  Tall, smirking Harlan silently waited for her by the porch. She strolled over awkwardly, trying to ignore his not-smiling, unreadable stare. “It's okay if I park there, right?” She pointed to the Toyota, feeling like an ass as soon as she did it. He obviously knew where she parked. He just watched her do it.

  “You’re fine.” With his arms folded, Harlan’s blue eyes stared her down from under the brim of his hat with an expression that read somewhere between I’m gonna get you and I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with you yet.

  Gulping, she looked away. “Is Boone inside?” she asked, admiring the grounds.

  “This isn’t Boone’s house. It’s mine.”

  “No way,” she moaned, throwing her hands up, checking to see if the scoundrel was playing with her. “What the hell? Where is he?”

  Harlan only tapped his foot, and a sinking feeling drained away the last of her supply of hope. She was on Harlan’s turf now. What was he doing bringing her there?

  He didn’t take his piercing blue gaze off her.

  “Are we meeting Boone here or something?”

  Of course he didn’t answer right away, with him scanning and staring at various areas of her body, he seemed too busy checking her out. Harlan Beckett. It didn’t take an investigative reporter to figure out he was up to no good.

  Harlan pointed to a large barn sitting a few yards back from the driveway and across from the house. “I keep a few horses.”

  “Uh-huh.” Georgia pivoted, studying a majestic barn that looked like something out of Architectural Digest. When she turned back, expecting him to make the next move, he merely adjusted his hat, knowing perfectly well he looked like an extremely hot stripper cowboy.

  Georgia fiddled with her purse. Maybe we’re going to meet Boone out here in the front yard?

  Harlan cocked his head, angling it just right so she could see his face out from under the shade of his brim. Stepping away from the porch, he approached her, his big boots clicking determinedly across the pavement. And, as all six-foot-plus of Harlan swaggered toward her, Georgia took a giant step back, fighting the urge to jump in her car and haul ass out of there.

  “Where’s Boone?” She begged, catching a whiff of mulberry and fresh laundry as Harlan brushed past her on the way to the barn.

  “You ready for the next leg of your journey?” he grumbled.

  “Um, not really.” At least he seemed agreeable about taking her to Boone. “Do we have to ride a tractor to get to Boone or something?”

  “This way.” Harlan glanced down, clearly checking out her legs and taking his own damn time while doing it. “You’re going to like her.”

  Her? “We are going to meet up with Boone, right?” she clarified. “He’s waiting for me.”

  “She’s over here,” he said pointing to the stables.

  Georgia decided to go with the flow and strode impatiently behind him. She didn’t have time for Harlan’s BS, and she still needed to blow her editor’s socks off with this story.

  No heart. That’s what her boss said about her m
ost recent piece, the one on Tim McGraw. “You didn’t take any risks. You asked all the safe questions. You didn’t dig deep enough. This article has no heart.”

  No heart. If anything, Georgia had too much heart. That was her problem. She’d been burned so many times, it was no wonder she played it safe in her personal life. When Georgia wasn’t traveling to the ends of the earth tracking down her latest interview, her days consisted of writing, occasionally at the Starbucks on her corner, but mostly in the small apartment she shared with two roommates.

  When she wasn’t writing, she was worrying about deadlines, edits, word counts, cross-town meetings with her boss, and whether she was doing the subject of her article justice.

  On paper it might seem like she was living large, in the spotlight with celebrities, but contrary to popular belief, there was a big difference between living the life and writing about the people who experienced it.

  But when it came to her career—case in point, walking into a barn with a notorious player—she wasn’t afraid to take a few calculated risks. Georgia reached into her back pocket, pulled out a half-eaten bag of melted M&Ms, and popped a chunk of stuck-together hard-shell chocolate in her mouth, taking in the view and adjusting to the concept of Harlan and his brothers living in a remote place like this, with wild animals and who knows what else creeping around in the fields...

  It was all a little over the top for her, thank you very much.

  Close behind Harlan, Georgia entered the cool, serene building, hearing the whizz of two retro fans above. Her high heels clacked over the spotless barn’s cement floor as she peered down a long aisle with stylish wood stalls on either side. These horses must live like kings, she thought, taking in their surroundings. There wasn’t even a whiff of horsey smell, only sweet hay, leather and cedar.

  Harlan led her to a corner area with neatly folded blankets on the shelves. The sparkling metal bits, bridles, reins—all the tack looked brand new. A door on the far wall near the window was closed. Maybe someone was waiting in an office?

  Charges of excitement flashed through her system. Who was the her she was about to meet now? She rarely had the chance to meet family members. Is there a Beckett sister? This could turn out to be the story of the year. Georgia reminded herself to play nice.

  “I really appreciate this,” she said from behind as Harlan reached into a fridge under a shelf.

  He grunted, passing her a cold bottle of water.

  “Thanks.” She twisted off the cap, chuckling. “I know you're busy and could probably be doing a million other things besides escorting me to your brother.”

  Harlan scooted closer, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him and smell fresh, clean laundry and mulberry again.

  “I’m not making you nervous, am I, Peach?”

  “Nope. Not nervous at all.” Holy hell. Where did that come from? Georgia quickly took a step back for air, twisting the cap back on the water and stashing the bottle in her purse. She dug out her notepad and pen, blurting in one long breath, “So where’s your sister, when will I see Boone, and how many horses do you have?”

  He moved closer, taking back most of the space she put between them. Locking on Harlan’s scorching eyes, she fought to stay on point and not get flustered. “You haven’t answered my questions.”

  His stare turned to ice as he glowered down at her from under the rim of his hat with so much anger, she broke out in a sweat. “Stop snooping into my life. Boone’s the one who agreed to be interviewed, not me.” He stomped to the wall and grabbed a rope off a hook.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She glanced around, taking another scan of the mystery door, the shelves, and up to the rafters, searching for a plausible explanation for him needing a rope.

  “Um, hey,” she said gently, trying to keep her notepad from rattling in her shaking hands. “I’m sorry. I promise I won’t ask you any more questions.”

  He scowled at her notepad. “Put that away. You’re going to need both hands.”

  “Oh?” What the hell?

  “Come.” He touched her elbow, making her flinch, impatiently ushering her around the corner to the stalls. Surprisingly, that sweet hay smell didn’t change.

  “So, is Boone out riding with your sister somewhere?”

  Harlan poked his head into one of the stalls and pointed. “This bay in here is Jessie’s Girl, but everyone calls her Jess. She’s mine.”

  What did Harlan’s horse named Jess have to do with this story? Georgia’s head spun and her stomach hit the floor. “This is the her? You don’t have a sister?”

  “No.”

  She peeked over the half door into the immaculate stall and found two soulful brown eyes gazing back at her. “She looks pretty friendly.”

  “She is. That’s why I’m letting you ride her,” he commented casually, as if he hadn’t just lowered the boom.

  “No...I don’t think so.” Georgia shook her head, backing away. Taking a few calculated risks to secure an interview was one thing, but getting up on a horse and breaking her neck for a story was another.

  Holding the rope, Harlan marched into the stall and moved to put it around Jess’s neck.

  “Wait,” Georgia begged, “You really don’t need to do that.”

  Ignoring her, Harlan tossed the rope around Jess’s neck and led the monstrosity out of the stall. Jess’s feet clop, clop, clopped over the floor, sending shockwaves through Georgia.

  “I am not riding,” she explained, while she followed them, staring at the horse’s mammoth rump and swishing black tail. “Honestly, I’m not doing it.”

  “Oh, but you will,” he said, leading Jess to a saddling station on the opposite side of the tack area.

  Did he not just hear her? “I. Do. Not. Ride. Horses.” Georgia enunciated every word so there would be no confusion.

  “A shame. Then it looks like you’re out of luck, Peach.” Harlan casually flung a blanket over Jess’s back and then a saddle.

  What is this crazy man up to? “What do you mean, a shame?” She asked with her heart pumping. “And stop calling me Peach.”

  He shifted to her, bending in a way that forced her to look him in the eye. “You wanted me to take you to Boone’s house. This is how we get there, Peach.” He shrugged, sauntering over to a wall and grabbing a bridle with reins off a hook. “If you don’t want to go to Boone’s house, you should go ahead and drive back to town.”

  It took a moment for what Harlan was suggesting to sink in. Incredulously, she watched him keep his back to her and slip the bit into the horse’s mouth. Then he swung the reins over Jess’s neck.

  “Are you kidding me?” She stormed over to Harlan and tapped his shoulder, because he was obviously having a hard time with the fact that she had no intention of getting on that horse and had no intention of explaining why. “There are no roads around here? You expect me to believe that?”

  Jess snorted, making Harlan grin at her. “Exactly what I was thinking,” he cooed, petting the horse’s sleek neck. He turned back to Georgia, eyeing her carefully, studying her as if this was a test of some kind. “You can believe whatever you want.” He tossed the words without a care and strode back down the aisle with the stalls and poked his head in the stall next to Jess’s. He beckoned Georgia closer.

  “Fine,” she muttered, marching over to him with her hands fisted. Harlan raised his brows and shrugged, trying to act like he couldn’t understand why she was so upset. Dismissing her with a nod, he stepped to the side so she could get a good look at a golden horse with a white mane.

  “Delilah is Boone’s, a palomino, and this beauty, Morticia,” Harlan explained, sauntering to the stall directly in front of Delilah’s, “belongs to Colt.”

  Georgia took in the sight of a magnificent, all-black horse. “Humph.” She observed all three. “Delilah, Morticia, and a girl named Jess. All females, huh? Fine. What’s the point?”

  “Mares.” A flash of humor crossed his face. “We have a thing for women.”<
br />
  She raised her brows. “No doubt.”

  “The point is, we all ride.”

  She eyed him again and didn’t see even the tiniest trace of a joke. “You are serious.”

  “What’ll it be? Am I taking you to Boone’s, or are you driving back to town?” Harlan draped an arm over Morticia’s door, and the horse moseyed over to investigate. He stroked her muzzle and half-turned to Georgia. “Well?”

  “Good gravy.” Propping her hands on her hips, Georgia swiveled from Morticia to Delilah, mentally going over the complications of being broke. “What the hell, I guess.” After coming this far, she couldn’t give up on Boone’s story now. “But if I’m going to ride, I’m going to need boots.”

  Harlan pointed. “There’s a box against the wall, next to the door in the tack room. Help yourself.”

  Georgia beat Harlan and his ride down the aisle, turned the corner, and spotted the box. While Harlan saddled Delilah, Georgia rummaged through pairs of clunky, worn-out boots discarded by ranch hands, or random strangers with huge feet and a penchant for mud. She snagged a pair of size tens, the smallest she could find. After shaking them upside down, and checking for spiders, she joined Harlan by the horses.

  Jess and Delilah were ready to go. Harlan leaned against a wall, hands jammed in his pockets, waiting.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have an extra pair of socks around here?” She asked turning the boots upside down and shaking them again.

  “’Fraid not.” Harlan gave her a what’s a man supposed to do? Grin.

  “Fine.” Georgia peered inside the dark, mud-crusted, scuffed boots and slipped out of her heels.

  “I don’t need anyone suing me for a broken foot,” Harlan complained, snarling.

  “I wouldn’t sue you for your information,” Georgia snapped, giving him a scowl before balancing on her right foot and tentatively slipping the other into the cool, hopefully clean interior. She wiggled her toes in all the extra space and breathed a sigh of relief when she didn’t feel anything clumpy or nasty.

  “You can hang on to me if you want,” Harlan pushed off the wall, and approached her.