The heart’s best defense is a lusty offense.
Clare Chronicles, Book 1
Now that Nolan Penrith is finished with the Farmer Wants a Wife reality show, he’s ready to get back to the farm and a normal life free of publicity. Normal also means resuming his relationship with divorced, solo mother Yvonne McDonald.
Except she seems determined to resist any talk of reconciliation. On to plan B: woo her to his way of thinking. And if persuasion includes plenty of raunchy sex, he’s ready to man up.
Yvonne McDonald might still have feelings for Nolan, but she resents the way he expects to pick up right where they left off. Still, she’s a healthy woman with a body that—damn it—melts for him, so maybe she can twist this situation to suit her needs.
All she needs to do is hold her heart out of reach, hold her head high, and enjoy his brand of lusty sex without a care in the world. Easy-peasy. At least until her plan gets a little kink in it…
Warning: Contains hot country loving between an arrogant, sexy farmer and a woman who intends to prick his confidence and slap him down—her way!
Part-Time Lovers
Shelley Munro
Dedication
For Paul.
Chapter One
Lord, her feet hurt.
Yvonne McDonald thumped the spent coffee grounds into her bin and started making a soy latte and two flat whites. While the coffee dribbled into cups, she filled a teapot with peppermint tea leaves and poured over boiling water while trying not to think about her cozy sheepskin slippers waiting for her at home.
The Clare town festival to celebrate the New Zealand spring was great in theory. Aunt Gina was cackling gleefully about their bumper takings this week, but they needed someone stationed at the door to draft customers into their bookstore café in manageable groups rather than massive herds. A set of the mobile yards the local farmers used for their cattle would do the job.
The bell over the door dinged a cheerful welcome. Yvonne didn’t bother to glance up since they’d hired two students to help. The two teenage girls could do the smiling thing. She bashed her bell to signal order up.
“My feet hurt.” Kelsey loaded her tray with the coffee, tea and a plate of fresh scones, jam and clotted cream.
“We need to hit Gina up for spa visits,” Yvonne said, almost moaning at the decadent thought. What she wouldn’t give for a man to greet her at home. Never mind the hot sex. She’d settle for a foot rub.
A flood of whispers stormed the café. Stray words struck Yvonne like bullets. Farmer. Reality show. Susan. Nolan.
“Yvonne.” The familiar masculine voice hurled her into the past…
A dark bedroom.
Naked bodies sliding together.
Mind-numbing touches.
Pleasure storming her body, culminating in sweet, sweet bliss.
Stellar sex. Superior and awesome and stellar sex.
Another word bullet hit, and her head jerked up at the repeat of her name.
Nolan.
Damn, the man.
Her gaze settled, and irritation punched her in the chest, stealing her ability to breathe for a few seconds. She glared at Nolan Penrith, the bane of her life. Tall and lean from hard physical farm work, he was a male in his prime. His light brown hair—currently full of blond streaks from a fortnight of spring sunshine—needed a cut but he suited the unruly curls. His brown eyes sparkled with open admiration as he stared at her, and his sensual lips curved upward in a smile of greeting.
This acknowledgement with the underpinning of lust was a new development, and the hair lifted at the back of her neck in a silent warning to take care.
She ripped her scowl from his tempting smile and started to build the next order. A skim milk latte and a hot chocolate. Her disobedient mind refused to focus and like a rambunctious child, darted back to thoughts of sexy Nolan.
The man owned a farm on the outskirts of Clare and recently he’d brought fame and notoriety to the country town when he took part in the reality show Farmer Wants a Wife. The minute he’d started dating women from the show, their…fling—the best description for their relationship—ended.
Kaput. A full stop on her sex life.
Yvonne frothed a jug of milk, the hiss and whir of the coffee machine overly loud and rubbing her nerves raw. The café section of the bookshop had become library quiet, but she didn’t intend to glance up to see why.
She. Would. Not.
She sucked in a deep breath, tried to ignore the zing of sensual awareness tugging her breasts, the tremor of her hand guiding the coffee machine, the clamp of invisible hands constricting her ribs. She brushed off her hormones’ celebratory rumba.
“Yvonne.”
Cursing under her breath, she gave up the fight. She tore her gaze from the steaming milk and glowered at the man. “Nolan, what can I get you today?”
“I’m here to ask you to dinner,” he said in a husky, jump-in-bed-with-me-now voice. “Tonight.”
Yvonne’s mouth dropped open. Shock kicked her square in the solar plexus while irritation charged like a mad bull seconds later. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Her voice emerged in a high-pitch shriek, the register of her tone reminding of her of a squeaky cartoon character. The customers in the café were pin-drop quiet now, entertained by the impromptu Nolan and The Dumped Girlfriend show.
Nolan straightened, his good humor visibly cooling. He shot a glance to his left, one to his right. “No. I’m asking you on a date. If tonight doesn’t work, we can try another night.”
“You’ve treated me like a dirty secret,” she snapped. “And I don’t need your mother’s shrewish attention focused on me again.”
The man had rocks in his head if he thought she’d come running after his behavior. And the way his witch mother had flown around town on her broomstick to spread rumors about Yvonne’s morals. Bah. Elizabeth Penrith might consider herself Clare royalty, but that didn’t give her the right to treat people like crap for not measuring up to her lofty standards.
“Our dating has nothing to do with my mother. Look, we can’t discuss this here. The café is too busy. I’ll see you later at your place.”
The bell tinkled as someone left the café.
Yvonne didn’t blink. “I’m not a disposable commodity for you to discard then pick up when you have no better offers. I’m tired, my feet hurt and all I want to do is go to bed.” Her good-for-nothing husband had left her and walked away with another man. Nolan had searched for a wife elsewhere. The third time was not a charm.
“You tell him, love,” an elderly woman called from her table over by the magazine stand.
“Make him grovel,” another woman shouted out her advice.
“Don’t throw him away,” a teenage girl said. “Give him a chance, or better yet, toss him my way.”
“Make him work for you. He should apologize.” Elderly Mrs. Wright added her two cents in a deep voice.
Yvonne felt heat rise up her neck to take residence in her cheeks and gave silent thanks to her Maori grandmother. Not many people would notice her discomfort.
“Tonight,” Nolan repeated in a firm voice. He turned to face the café patrons and bowed from the waist, straightened and strode from the café. The doorbell tinkled for long moments then silence fell—a long one in which everyone studied Yvonne.
Ignoring the weight of stares, she focused on her coffee art. Once she’d completed her design on the top of her latte, she set the coffee on the counter. “Order up!”
> Nolan strode down the main street of Clare, past the florist, a menswear shop, an ice cream parlor and a store specializing in jeans. Everyone he passed stopped to stare, and he bit back a snarl of frustration. Now that filming on the reality show was over he’d hoped his life would settle into normal routine.
No such luck.
“Nolan. Nolan! Wait for me.”
Nolan halted outside a real estate agent’s office and waited for his mother.
“Lorna Wright told me you asked that woman for a date. In front of everyone.” She started her lecture before they’d traded greetings. “How could you embarrass me like that? You need a wife of good moral character. I know several single women who are suitable.”
“Stop,” Nolan snapped. “Listen, because this is the last time I’m going to say this.” He nailed his mother with a hard expression. “You will stop interfering in my private life. You will stop spreading gossip around Clare about Yvonne.”
“I—”
“You will stop judging her, belittling her in front of other people.”
“But she made you look stupid in front of the café customers. People are still speculating about the kinkiness you alluded to on TV. You must keep your head down.”
After his recent behavior, Yvonne was due a few digs. “Nothing to do with you,” he said, his tone uncompromising. “Leave Yvonne alone. Have I made myself clear?”
“But she has children,” his mother said, furrowing her brow.
“So?”
“Someone else is the father. You don’t want to bring up another man’s children.”
Fury jerked his shoulders straight. “I’m not you, Mother.” His mother might treat Tyler, Nolan’s younger brother, like crap because their father chose to have an affair. Nolan didn’t intend to cast the father’s sins on Yvonne’s sons. He wasn’t his mother.
His mother sniffed. “They’re little hellions.”
They were healthy boys who enjoyed rough and tumble play. “Stay away from them, and stay away from Yvonne. If I hear one more rumor, one more word from you about Yvonne or her children, I’ll spread gossip of my own.”
His mother gasped and her pompous air switched into disbelief. Some of the indignant color fled her face. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” Rumors and gossip were already circulating after his father moved out of the family home. “A few more juicy tidbits will add a pinch of spice.”
Mother and son gazed at each other for an extended moment. His mother broke their visual connection.
“Very well,” she snapped. “You make your own bed and lie in it. Just don’t come running to me when the bed leg breaks.” She swiveled and marched two doors down to the second café in Clare—the one she and her pals frequented.
Nolan noted the interest from passersby and huffed out a sigh. It was his mother’s fault he’d gained notoriety in the first place. She’d sent off his application to the damn reality show.
He dodged a group of women who were pawing through a rack of clothes outside a ladies wear shop. A sale, the sign said. He hastened his pace. The glow in their eyes, their fervor served as a warning to any male with common sense.
Clear of danger, his mind headed back to his immediate problem. Yvonne.
He hadn’t expected her to act with such hostility. He’d thought she’d understood he wasn’t interested in the women on the reality show. Damn, the female sex was confusing.
Tonight he’d explain everything, tell her he wanted her, tell her he didn’t need any other woman, tell her the two of them were in a relationship.
Together, they had a future.
Yvonne picked up her sons from the babysitter and drove down the busy streets to her small rented home, not far from Clare school. The recent reality show had put the town on the map, as had the news the show’s producer intended to film again in the town.
A white compact cut in front of her and slowed rapidly.
She slammed on the brakes, her seatbelt stopping her from flying into the windshield. “Idiot!”
“Mummy called the man a mean name,” David said from the rear seat.
Yvonne turned to check on David, her four-year-old, and Michael, her six-year-old. “Okay?”
“Can we have a puppy?” Michael asked, his earnest gray-blue eyes a mirror image of her own. His curly black hair, pale skin and slim build came from his father.
David took after her with light brown hair and an olive complexion. “Oh, yes.” His brown eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “We’d like a puppy.”
“I don’t think so. A puppy would get lonely when you’re at school and kindergarten. They don’t allow dogs,” she said, forestalling their next logical argument. Her sons were the only good thing to come from her marriage.
The driver behind her honked his horn, and Yvonne muttered under her breath. While the surge of visitors helped local retailers, today the strangers and their aggressive driving were working her last nerve.
At home, she started dinner preparations and organized bath time, put on a load of washing and directed the boys to do a little tidying. She pushed thoughts of aching feet into the far recesses of her mind. Once the pasta was cooked, she poured over her meat sauce. It was full of disguised vegetables in the form of grated carrots and zucchini and diced tomatoes, so she was glad to see the boys eat with enthusiasm. One less battle to wage.
An hour later, with the boys in bed, she poured herself a glass of wine and collapsed on the sofa. She wriggled her toes. Sheer bliss. Then the doorbell rang. Yvonne groaned and pushed herself to her feet.
A few seconds later, she yanked the door open, her scowl deepening when she identified her caller. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you I was going to stop by.”
Yvonne stood firm in the doorway. “I don’t suppose you’d go away?”
“No.”
Yvonne let out a heavy sigh and limped down the passage. She took a right into the lounge and lectured herself sternly. Don’t touch. Keep your hands to yourself. He’ll hurt you again. Her trepidation sailed close to panic. Why had he come when she’d told him so clearly to stay the heck away?
She hesitated, glanced at the couch. No. No sitting. She didn’t want him to get comfortable. She picked up her glass of wine and took a swig. The chair called to her throbbing feet. She ignored her aches and pains, the siren lure of comfort.
“Are you going to offer me a drink?”
“I don’t have any beer. I used the beer you left in my fridge to make bread.” Satisfaction tinged her words, the petty act still giving her pleasure.
His eyes glittered with amusement, and her hands curled to fists. The man stood on boggy ground. She was in the perfect mood to commit physical violence.
“Is there more wine?”
Ingrained manners had her stepping toward the door before her brain registered the act. Bother. She came to an abrupt halt, briefly thought about freeing the sharp words tickling her tongue, then continued to the kitchen. It wouldn’t hurt to regroup.
The creak of the floorboards behind her straightened her shoulders and made her last steps to the kitchen self-conscious and jerky. Drat the man. Her hands were unsteady—again—when she retrieved a wine glass from the cupboard. The show of nerves continued when she poured the wine, drops of liquid sloshing on the counter before she regained control.
“Do I make you nervous?”
“You piss me off,” she snapped. “I don’t understand why you’re here when I’ve made it clear we’re over.”
He propped his hip against the counter and studied her closely—until she felt like a creepy-crawly laid out on a glass slide. She thrust the glass of wine at him and finally, finally, he released her from his gaze. “We’re not over. I want you as much as I always have, and if you’re honest, you want me too. Yvonne, we’re good together.”
; Yeah, yeah. Her marriage had been agreeable at the start—pleasant and enjoyable even—but look how that had turned out. Not that she was bitter or anything.
“Yet you decided to publically search for a wife on a reality show,” she said sweetly. “And when we were seeing each other, you’d come here, stay long enough to get your rocks off and sneak out again. I was a convenience.”
“We’re good together,” he repeated, pinning her with his determined gaze.
“We fucked,” she said with brutal intent. “We scratched an itch. I don’t want that again. I refuse to sneak around. When I start dating again it will be with a man who doesn’t act as if he’s ashamed to take me out in public, a man who likes my children, a man who’ll rub my feet at the end of a busy day. Damn.”
Angry at herself for thinking of her ex-husband and for having to deal with Nolan, she limped back to the lounge and dropped into her favorite easy chair with a loud sigh. A man—this man—wasn’t worth the aggravation of aching arches. Gingerly, she lifted her feet and placed them on the matching footstool. She closed her eyes.
Ah, the simple things in life.
“Why didn’t you say you were exhausted?”
His harsh voice, right next to her ear, made every muscle stiffen. Her eyes snapped open. “I thought it would be obvious to anyone with half a brain. It’s been a busy week.”
“Look, I know I’ve screwed up, but I didn’t apply to the reality show. My mother did, and by the time I realized, it was too late to pull out. My grandmother persuaded me it would be good for Clare, gain us some publicity, and I decided to play my mother and teach her a lesson, which is why I picked Susan. I like Susan. She’s great, but she’ll make me a much better sister-in-law.”
“So it’s true? Tyler and Susan are getting married?”
“Yeah.” Nolan smiled—a wide and genuine smile that grabbed every one of her female hormones and embraced them tightly. Her fingernails bit into the flesh of her thigh to halt her impulse to touch.
“That’s…ah…nice,” she finished.
“My mother thinks she can direct my life,” Nolan said. “I guess you’ve heard my father has moved in with me.”
Part-Time Lovers: Clare Chronicles, Book 1 Page 1