Just Say Maybe: A Thistle Bend Novel

by Tracy March

  Just Say Maybe is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2016 by Tracy March

  Excerpt from Could’ve Said Yes by Tracy March copyright © 2016 by Tracy March

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Could’ve Said Yes by Tracy March. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  ebook ISBN 9781101885000

  Cover design: Diane Luger

  Cover photograph: © 211 production/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Tracy March

  About the Author

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Could’ve Said Yes

  Chapter 1

  Bryce Bennett sprang up off the seat of the rented mountain bike, standing on the pedals and flexing his knees as he blazed along the narrow ridge trail, pounding across a section of large, loose rocks, sending one tumbling over the edge into the thousand-foot drop-off. The craggy Rocky Mountain peaks in the near distance sloped drastically down to the vast green valley below. A sapphire river cut a wavy path through its center, shimmering in the early June sun, miniature from this height.

  Bryce white-knuckled the handle grips, keeping the bike steady as he pedaled up a steep, bumpy rise. The achy sting in his quads reminded him there’d been way too much business in his life lately, and not nearly enough adventure. Forget that rides like this tested his thirty-one-year-old body in ways they hadn’t when he’d been seventeen.

  He sucked in a deep breath of super-thin air, craving oxygen.

  Fat chance of getting much of it at this altitude.

  Arriving in Thistle Bend, Colorado, from sea level just yesterday hadn’t given him near enough time to acclimate, but he’d been too amped to ride the Wild Rose Ridge Trail to resist the temptation. When he came to the area a month ago to check out the abandoned lodge a couple miles down, near the trailhead, he’d been told that the trail was a not-to-be-missed ripper.

  That lodge is a helluva piece of work—all stone and timber and glass…And almost mine.

  The building needed a big-time reno, but Bryce had something to prove—and something to set straight. The idea of owning a place with such spectacular potential pushed the rush he was riding to an off-the-charts level. Flirting with the edge of a deadly drop-off while shredding miles of treacherous trail totally kicked ass, but having his name on the deed of his second adventure travel lodge killed. His heart thundered faster.

  He pumped the pedals, picking up speed on a flat run along the ridge before the next daunting rise, his hair whipping at the back of his neck. Dust kicked up from the tires, and branches of low, scrubby bushes scratched his calves. He glanced down over the mountainside, awed by the view. Fueled by the risk. Times like these made him feel alive.

  Times like these are why I’m alive…

  As the delinquent teenage son of a single, overworked mom, Bryce had spent enough time in juvie to call the godforsaken place his second home. The joint hadn’t been much less miserable than the tiny apartment he and his mom had shared in Poquoson, Virginia. She could’ve afforded a better place in a nearby town, but she’d sacrificed because the school system was better in Poquoson—as if Bryce could’ve cared.

  Laboring up another lung-blowing climb, Bryce shook his head, picturing his sweet mom’s face, regretting all the trouble he’d caused her. If it hadn’t been for that summer when he was seventeen and she’d sent him to an adventure sports camp, he would’ve never straightened up. His mom had charged the admission fee on her credit card. It had taken her three years to pay it off. Even so, she never missed an opportunity to tell Bryce it was worth “every red cent,” since his camp experience turned both their lives around. A rueful smile stretched across his face. He could never make everything up to his mom, but he’d spend forever trying—or at least as long as he was lucky enough to have her around.

  Bryce exhaled at the top of the rise then charged along the rocky downhill payoff, the trail dancing nearer to the mountain’s crumbling edge. Patches of pink wildflowers flashed like a strobe as he flew past, barreling toward the blind curve ahead. He took it as wide as he could, peeling around to a sick view that took his eyes off the trail. He’d never seen anything so—

  His front tire hit a deep pit, stopping him cold. Bryce leapt from the bike as it tumbled forward, grateful that the edge had given way to an outcropping of boulders until he landed on one, hard—mostly on his knees and elbows. His sunglasses flew off and skittered across the rock as pain ricocheted into his hips and shoulders. His phone popped out of his backpack and tumbled toward the drop-off. Bryce clenched his teeth, watching helplessly, amazed that it stopped inches before plunging over. He rolled onto his back, and stayed there, getting his bearings, sucking in air…taking inventory.

  Knees. Hips. Elbows. Shoulders.

  He unclasped his helmet and put his forearm over his eyes, shielding them from the intense sun.

  Definitely bruised, but nothing broken…

  He couldn’t count how many times he’d fallen off a mountain bike. Gotten hit in the head with a surfboard. Capsized his kayak in wicked white-water rapids.

  “Pay to play, Bennett,” he muttered.

  “Are you okay?”

  Had he imagined that sexy female voice? He hadn’t hit his head, but it had been a while since he’d heard someone inquire about his well-being in such a sweet and soothing tone. An alluring fantasy started shaping up in his mind. He debated whether to open his eyes or let it play out.

  “Oh, man,” the woman said, sounding worried.

  He dragged his forearm away from his eyes, shaded them with his hand, and focused. Dressed in hiking gear, the woman kneeling next to him had a knockout oval-shaped face with high cheekbones, a perfect nose, and very kissable lips, puckered with concern. She also had what his mom would call a little “beauty mark” on the arc of her right cheekbone. Her auburn ponytail stuck out from the back of a green baseball cap and fell in front of one of her slender shoulders. Bryce blinked and tugged in another oxygen-depleted breath, convinced she was a posttrauma vision, holding half a sandwich with a bite taken out of it and smelling like…peanut butter?

  Maybe I did hit my head.

  He propped himself up on his elbows and she drew back a little. The girl was definitely not a vision, because things would’ve gone a little
differently had Bryce’s psyche been calling the shots.

  Am I relieved or disappointed?

  She lowered her eyebrows. “Everything all right?”

  Bryce tore his gaze from her lips and met her eyes—a dazzling kaleidoscope of light brown and gold that had his heart paragliding from beat to beat. “Better than I thought.” He sat up, leaving his long legs outstretched, and checked out the fresh gashes on his knee guards.

  Sandwich in hand, she gestured toward a backpack and a bottle of water several yards closer to the edge. “I’d just started eating and I heard you coming.” She leaned back on her heels and tipped her head. “I’ll give your dismount a nine-point-three, considering the way you stuck the landing without breaking anything.” She winked.

  A spark fired inside Bryce and a grin stretched across his face. He was a sucker for a girl who took him at his word and didn’t go all Florence Nightingale on him—especially one who looked like this, and had clearly spent her Tuesday morning hiking in the Rockies. There were no easy trails to this ridge above the lodge—he’d confirmed that himself. No wonder she was in such fine shape.

  “Ah, the elusive perfect ten,” he said. “Guess I need more practice.”

  She smiled—a magical thing that matched the awesome view—brought the half sandwich to her mouth, and hesitated. “Want some?” she asked, and held it out to him.

  “Peanut butter?” He had no doubt.

  “And jelly. Homemade.”

  “The jelly and the peanut butter?”

  “Yep,” she said, as if it was nothing unusual.

  “The bread too, right?” he teased.

  “The bread, too.” Her matter-of-fact tone had Bryce’s chest tightening with disappointment. Had she sent a couple of little kids off to school this morning with lovingly made PB&Js, then stashed one in her backpack for her hike? Maybe her lucky husband had gotten one to take to work, too.

  Bryce wasn’t exactly looking for romance, but if it happened to find him, he wished it would bring along a girl like her. The ones he wanted always seemed to be taken, and he knew better than to flirt with that kind of disaster again.

  Lesson learned.

  He settled his gaze on the sandwich in her left hand then zeroed in on her ring finger—jewelry-free. His spirits lifted a little.

  Single mom? Married without a ring? Dating someone? Or just plain single and enjoys making peanut butter?

  At this stage of his life, this assessment thing had become way too complicated. Why couldn’t there be some kind of sign—outside of a ring—that immediately told him if a woman was available?

  She tore off a piece of her sandwich and handed it to him as she stood, turned, and headed toward her backpack. Her just-right curves and the easy sway of her hips had Bryce thinking about another of his favorite outdoor activities.

  A special girl…A campfire…A blanket under the stars…

  He eagerly took a bite of the sandwich, savoring the moist bread, the rich creamy peanut butter, and—“Is this blackberry jam?” he asked through a mouth full. This had to be the most incredible PB&J he’d ever tasted.

  “Sure is. My grandfather grows blackberries on his farm just outside of town.” She grabbed the bottle of water and returned to his side.

  “Delicious.” Bryce bent his knees. Pain shot through the left one and he winced. “So you’re local?”

  She grinned. “And you’re a tourist.”

  “Pretty much.” No need to tell her that he was just about to buy the lodge down near the trailhead. That would sound too much like bragging, and that wasn’t the way he rolled. Besides, he still needed to contact the lawyer to schedule the closing. He and the sellers had only recently settled on a firm price.

  “You’ve got one of Dirt Street’s bikes over there.” She glanced toward his rental, which had landed a short distance away, the bike shop’s red logo emblazoned on the bright blue frame. “That’s a dead giveaway.”

  Of course the locals had their own bikes. He would too, once he started spending time there. But he would never settle in Thistle Bend long enough to be considered a local. He had the lodge in Costa Rica to oversee. And ever since he’d been old enough to decide, he had never chosen to stay in one place too long. People might find out…

  “Busted,” he said.

  She scrunched her nose. “And the locals know there’s a pit there.” She aimed the unopened water bottle at the big divot in the trail then handed it to him.

  Bryce laughed. “I won’t forget it.” He took the water from her and straightened his left leg, testing the pain in his knee.

  Better…a little.

  “I’m Holly, by the way.”

  “Bryce,” he said, opening the bottle and raising it to her. “Appreciate it, Holly.” He liked the way her name rolled off his tongue. “My CamelBak’s nearly empty. But is this your only bottle? I wouldn’t want to leave you dry.”

  “No worries,” she said lightly. “I’ve got more.” She ate the last bite of her sandwich.

  Bryce took several greedy slugs of cool water, polished off his PB&J, and drank the rest, worried Holly would take him for a grade-A wuss if he sat on his butt much longer. “Speaking of the bike…” Determined not to wince or moan, he picked up his helmet, soldiered through the pain in his knee, and stood. “Let’s see what kind of shape it’s in.”

  She got up much more gracefully than he had and they walked over to the bike. Bryce stepped gingerly over the rocky terrain, but worked to put some swagger in his stride. He pulled the bike upright and checked it for damage, rolling it forward and backward several times. No flat tires, bent rims, or jacked-up alignment. Holly narrowed her eyes, examining it closely as if she knew a thing or two about mountain bikes.

  “Looks good to go,” he said, relieved he wouldn’t have to walk it down the mountain. The trail was mostly downhill from here, and despite his barking knee, he wasn’t about to hobble away, walking a crippled bike.

  Not in front of a girl like her.

  Holly gestured toward the front tire. “Except that brake pad rubbing against the rim.”

  A quick glance confirmed that she was right. She had an eye for detail. Bryce gazed at the brake mechanism, suffering through an uncharacteristic bout of self-consciousness. What details had she noticed about him? His look might check the boxes for some women—the long blondish hair and the scruff; the sports-toned, six-one body with the year-round tan—but not for others. What about Holly? Bryce shook the question from his mind. He didn’t even know her. Might never see her again. Was it crazy to hope she liked what she saw?

  “Good eye.” He pried the mechanism away from the rim, got on the bike, and tested the brakes. They would work for now, but they still needed adjusting. He’d be sure to square up with the bike shop, even though they might not notice the damage. “That oughta get me as far as I need to go.”

  Holly nodded, seeming satisfied with his fix. “You’re going to need those brakes on the switchbacks heading down. On the third one, about thirty yards into the Aspen grove, there’s a tree blocking the trail.” She winked. “Just in case you’re rusty on your bunny hops.”

  Bryce gave her a wry grin. He wasn’t rusty on his bunny hops—or any of his other techniques—and he’d jump at the chance to prove it to her. “Good to know.” He put on his helmet, and propped his right foot on the forward pedal, poised to ride.

  “You’ll probably be needing that.” Holly pointed toward his phone over on the edge of the flat rock he’d landed on. “If it isn’t smashed.”

  Good God. She had gotten so far into his head that he’d forgotten about his phone—and his sunglasses. “It isn’t,” he said lightly. His fortified case had saved it from worse.

  Her eyebrows rose along with the corners of her mouth. “You seem pretty confident. That thing took a header onto the boulder and turned a couple of cartwheels before it settled all the way over there. Did you see it?”

  Bryce nodded, giving her his best cocky smile. “It’ll still
work.”

  Holly leveled a playful, challenging gaze on him, turned, and went to get the phone. He couldn’t help but notice that her gray hiking pants looked tailored to fit. It took him only seconds to decide that enjoying another fine rear view of her was worth getting pitched off his bike. She stepped to the crumbling verge of the ledge without hesitation—which made him like her even more—picked up his phone, and examined it.

  “You’re right.” She shrugged. “It’s not smashed.” Along the way back, she picked up his sunglasses and scrunched her nose. “But these are.”

  He shaded his eyes with his hand, giving himself the chance to totally check her out as she walked toward him. A tad taller than average, lean and fit, with compact curves and a little sway in her step—a sweet blend of athletic and feminine, with a shot of super-sexy. Despite the low-fifties temperature, heat surged through Bryce and sweat prickled on his skin.

  “But it’s dead.” She handed him the phone and the cracked sunglasses.

  Bryce slid the sunglasses into a cargo pocket on his shorts and focused on the phone. Pushing the power button, he brought it to life, a recent photo of a brilliant Costa Rican sunset on his home screen. A touch of his thumb brought up his icons, and he held the phone out to show Holly. “Good as new.”

  She cupped her hand behind his, pulling it closer and turning it to get the glare off the screen. Bryce tensed at her touch, aware of the softness of her skin, the pressure of her fingertips.

  Holly shook her head, an amused smile on her face. “You got so freakin’ lucky.” She plucked the phone from him and pulled her hand from his. “There’s an app you can get for updated trail conditions,” she said, busy tapping the screen. Within moments she handed him the phone. “Off you go, Bryce.” She stepped aside, clearing the path before him. “Happy trails.”