Heron's Landing Book 1: Say You're Mine
Автор
Iris Morland
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257K
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She's his enemy, his downfall—and his one last chance at love.
After Adam Danvers lost his wife in a tragic accident, he stopped believing in love. Instead, Adam has focused solely on running his family’s struggling vineyard in the small town of Heron’s Landing.
When Joy McGuire, a beautiful and clever journalist, moves to the sleepy town, suddenly Adam can’t control his intense attraction to her. She’s witty; she pushes his buttons. He wants to shake her as much as he wants to kiss her.
But Joy is a journalist, and Adam hates them all on principle. He saw firsthand how a journalist’s lies destroyed his late wife. Yet as Joy proves that she’s nothing like the writers he’s known, Adam can’t help but give in to exquisite temptation.
Soon a conflagration ignites between Adam and Joy. Yet as secrets unfold, Adam must trust in love or lose the woman who’s awakened his slumbering heart.
Chapter 1
Joy McGuire glanced down at her chipped manicure and sighed. She had a feeling this was going to be an omen for the rest of her week.
The movers weren’t even close to arriving in Heron’s Landing, and Joy had had to sleep on a few blankets and a jacket for a pillow the night prior. Her back aching and her neck sore, she could’ve cheerfully murdered someone when she’d gotten a call that the movers were lost—again—and they wouldn’t be in town until later that evening.
It was nine o’clock AM. At least she’d driven with the majority of her clothes and toiletries, so she could put on clean underwear and wash her face. She just hoped she’d be able to sleep in a bed tonight, otherwise she was sorely tempted to book a room in the one inn this town of two hundred and fifty people hosted.
Heron’s Landing was a far cry from Chicago: tiny and quintessentially Midwestern, it had a single main street with no more than a dozen shops and restaurants, while its main feature was a vineyard on the north side of town. Tourists wandered around, fanny packs and cameras in tow, taking photos of the old-timey architecture. It was the beginning of June, and the day would promise to be a fairly warm one. Cicadas hummed in the trees, and the trills of sparrows and wrens filled the air.
Sometimes Joy wondered if she’d completely lost her mind, moving here. But she’d wanted to start over, and what better way to start over than to move somewhere the complete opposite of what you were used to? Heron’s Landing wasn’t going to have the crime sprees and drug busts like Chicago would, but there were stories here. Joy was rather looking forward to writing pieces on the opening of a new restaurant or how the town came together to fix a senior citizen’s roof. She wanted staid. Normal. Boring. She’d had enough drama to last a lifetime, thank you very much.
So, Heron’s Landing it would be. At least for now. Glancing down at her chipped nail polish, Joy sincerely hoped there was at least one decent manicurist in the town. She really hated to have her nails go bare.
Wandering down main street, Joy found what she was looking for: a café. A café had coffee. And maybe some kind of pastry. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized she hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. She’d been so preoccupied with her lost movers that food had completely slipped her mind. Now her stomach was reminding her of her neglect, and she hoped this sleepy little café called Trudy’s had more to it than just weak coffee and dry biscuits.
“Just one?” the hostess asked with a bright smile, and Joy nodded. The hostess—Grace, she read on her nametag—had her hair in a configuration of braids on top of her head, some falling down already. Her uniform had been haphazardly put on, and her skirt was crooked. Freckles dotted her peaches and cream complexion, and her smile could put any toothpaste commercial girl to shame. “Are you visiting?” Grace asked as she placed the menu in front of Joy. “Just so you know, our pancakes are kinda famous around here.”
“No, I’m here to stay. At least for a little while.” Joy glanced over the menu, but she was so tired that she could barely read the words in front of her.
Grace’s eyebrows rose. “A new person? Oh, we haven’t had a new person since…” She tapped her lip, thinking. “Well, probably not since I came back, but I’m not really new. Just one of the locals who couldn’t stay away.”
“Why’d you come back?” Joy couldn’t help but ask. She’d grown up in Springfield, Illinois, but had been in Chicago for the last few years—but had never really felt particularly drawn to one place over the other.
“Oh well, I just graduated—a degree in studio art—and unfortunately for us artists, it’s hard to make a living on painting and drawing.” The brightness in Grace’s smile turned brittle for a moment, like she hadn’t wanted to return at all, and Joy felt a little guilty for pressing.
“I understand that all too well. I’m a writer. People are always trying to pay me in pats on the back.”
“A writer! I don’t know if we have any around here. Not beyond Mrs. Jenkins, who’s always talking about writing that romance novel about Vikings. But she’s been talking about that for twenty years now.” Seeing the front door open, Grace added, “I have to get these guys, but Terry will take care of you. Welcome to town, Joy.”
Joy ended up ordering the pancakes, and she couldn’t help but agree with Grace: they were damn good. The coffee was strong and hot, and Joy slumped in the well-worn leather of the booth and simply enjoyed the food and drink. She hadn’t really sat down in what felt like weeks: not with packing up her apartment in Chicago, driving five hundred miles south to Heron’s Landing, trying to help her directionally-challenged movers get on the right highway, and then sleeping on the floor last night? It was a wonder she was still standing.
Having finished her pancakes, Joy wondered if she should go back to her apartment above Mike’s general store—yes, a real general store, and Joy had fallen in love with it the moment she’d stepped inside it—but there was nothing there. She couldn’t unpack; she couldn’t set up her new bookshelves; she couldn’t even cook something. She tapped her nails on the plastic tabletop, thinking. Maybe she could go for a walk? Explore the town? But at the thought, her body groaned. What she really wanted was to go take a nap, but that wasn’t really a great idea, given her bed situation.
Beds inevitably made her think of her old apartment, overlooking Lake Michigan. Her bed was a brand-new, king-sized pillow-top with an expensive duvet and matching pillows. It had been a rather large splurge on her part—it wasn’t as if she made a ton of money as a freelance journalist—but she’d always dreamed of a bed just like it. Even the bright white of the duvet hadn’t put her off. Sure, it would be close to impossible to keep clean in the grand scheme of things, but what did she care? It was hers. And it was gorgeous.
Jeremy had made fun of her for it. So I guess this means we aren’t sleeping in the bed? he’d said the moment he’d first seen it. Joy had shown him how wrong he’d actually been soon thereafter.
Joy bit her lip, covering how her body shivered when she thought of Jeremy. She’d left Chicago and her apartment and Lake Michigan and the trains and the bustle mostly because of him. She didn’t want to admit that to herself, but it was true. The second she’d found out he’d been cheating on her with her supposed best friend Regina? Her world had fallen apart. She and Jeremy had been together for five years, and he repaid her by sleeping with the woman she’d loved as much as she’d loved Jeremy. The double betrayal had done a number on her, and because Joy preferred things to be clean and final, she’d cut off the both of them without looking back.
She wished cutting them out of her life had concluded everything. But the wound still gaped and bled, no matter how hard Joy tried to ignore it.
Shaking her head, she set some money on the table and got up, deciding that sitting and thinking about Jeremy wasn’t going to improve her mood. She’d left Chicago for that very reason, and she refused to let his betrayal ruin this fresh start. As she made her way to the door, a man stepped in. He was tall—at least a head taller than Joy—with dark hair and dark eyes. But what brought her to attention the most was how rugged he was, with muscled forearms and a firm jaw sprinkled with stubble. He was also rather dirty, with leaves in his hair, and Joy found herself intrigued despite herself.
“When’s the last time you took a bath? Did you roll in the mud this morning?” Grace demanded, her hands on her hips. She then looked at Joy, her expression changing to one of entreaty. “Let me get you a piece of cake to take home. We always give newcomers some.”
The man made a face. “Since when was that a tradition?”
“Since this morning!” Grace called out from the kitchen.
Joy found herself standing next to the man, and she had to stop herself from staring at him. He wasn’t handsome, per se, but he was striking, in a masculine kind of way. She’d gotten so used to men like Jeremy, who were always perfectly dressed and their hair perfectly coiffed, that she couldn’t help but want to know more about a man who was the antithesis of the men she knew.
Or so she told herself when her heart wouldn’t stop pounding. He was very tall, and very rugged, and his hands—
“I haven’t seen you around here.” The man held out his hand, surprisingly clean despite the rest of his appearance. “I’m Adam Danvers.”
Joy had to tilt her head back to look at him. Damn, he was tall. She was of average height, and Jeremy had only been an inch or two taller than her. But this man seemed particularly giant. He took up the front entrance of the restaurant, his presence overwhelming. She could almost feel his body heat radiating, and her skin prickled.
She realized she was staring, and, embarrassed, finally extended her hand. “Joy McGuire. I’ve just moved to town.”
Adam’s eyebrows rose. “An actual new townsfolk? We haven’t gotten one of those in a while. We get a lot of tourists, but not a lot of people staying here for good.”
“Well, I like to be original.”
Looking her up and down, Adam said, “I can see that.”
Joy suddenly felt self-conscious: her long, purple hair and bright nails and arm tattoo hadn’t been all that odd in Chicago. But here, she was like a cardinal amongst a bunch of plain, hardy sparrows. Well, not that Adam was even remotely like a sparrow. Joy thought he was more like a hawk: watchful, even cunning. There was something in his eyes that made both her heart pound and the storyteller in her want to know more about him. She’d had a few daydreams about finding some hot country guy out here as she drove the five hundred miles from Chicago, but she certainly hadn’t thought she’d meet one on her first day.
“Here you go!” Grace handed Joy the piece of cake, now placed in a Styrofoam container. “It’s fresh out of the oven this morning.”
Joy knew she’d have to eat this soon, as she didn’t have a fridge yet, but at Grace’s happy smile, she didn’t have the heart to tell her as much. “Thank you. I’m sure it’s amazing.”
“Oh, did you meet my brother? This is Adam. Adam, this is Joy. She’s a writer.”
Adam had stuffed his hands into his back pockets, and at Grace’s words, he made a noise in the back of his throat. “A writer? What kind of writing?”
Joy cringed internally. She hated that question—it was almost impossible to talk about with people who weren’t writers because it inevitably led to awkwardness—so she gave her standard answer: “I’m a freelance journalist, actually.”
“A journalist? That’s a first for this town.” Adam’s tone seemed, if not annoyed, at least not particularly enthused.
“I write primarily for online news blogs and magazines. Depends on what kind of stories come my way.”
“So you wait for something bad to happen and then cash in on it.”
“Adam!” Grace looked to Joy. “He’s a bear in the morning without his coffee. Don’t listen to him.”
Joy, though, kept her gaze on Adam, refusing to be cowed. She’d gotten a variety of reactions to her profession over the years, but outright disdain was a rare one. She was torn between outrage and curiosity: what would bring such a reaction from a guy she didn’t even know? Had a journalist run over his dog or something? “No, I wait for something where the truth needs to be uncovered and brought to light,” she explained, her voice edgy. If Joy was anything, she was not a woman easily intimidated. “Are you against telling the truth, Mr. Danvers?”
“If it hurts other people and it’s only for your own gain, yes.”
“Who’s to say I do this only for monetary gain?”
Adam gestured, his mouth curling. “You do this to pay your bills. Sounds like you’re getting something out of the deal.”
Tipping her chin up, Joy crossed her arms. “And are you always this rude to people who have just moved here? Because if you’re the welcome committee, it’s a pretty shitty one.”
“I’m not here to coddle anyone.”
“Coddling is one thing. Being a jerk is another.”
“I’m only saying what I think—”
Grace sighed, loudly. “Adam, will you shut up already? Here’s your coffee—” she stuffed a cup into his hand, “—now get out. Go take a shower, too.”
He looked at Grace, transferring his gaze away from Joy. Joy sighed inwardly, suddenly glad she wasn’t the center of that angry look.
“And you, dear sister, need to learn that an iron is an invention that works.” He pulled out a phone encased in pink and handed it to her. “Also, I came here to give you this. Mom texted me to tell me you left it at home again.”
“Oh, I didn’t even realize—thanks. But you’re still a jerk.” Grace play-kicked him, and Adam held up his hands.
“See you, Grace. See you around, Miss McGuire,” he said in a tone that Joy knew wasn’t at all trying to be polite.
As he stepped outside, she couldn’t help but yell at his back, “It’s Ms. McGuire because it’s 2016, not 1916!” Turning back to Grace, Joy raised an eyebrow. “Your brother always this polite to strangers?”
Grace cringed. “Kind of. He’s never been all that nice in general. Especially not since Carolyn died.”
“Carolyn?”
“His wife. She died three years ago. She kept him from being outright mean, but now…” Sighing, the girl fiddled with her hair. “He’s not been the same, you know?”
Joy did know. Or at least, she understood how heartbreak could mark a person. That didn’t mean she would excuse his rudeness, but it at least offered somewhat of an explanation. “Just assure me he won’t try to run me out of town for posting a story on the Internet.”
“He can try, but I won’t let him. Because you have to show me how you do your nails like that first.”
Joy laughed. “Well, I’ve always paid someone else to do them for me, but I might have to figure it out on my own now. One of the sacrifices of small-town life, right?”
“Dana’s the manicurist at the salon, and I think she could do something like that. Or at least near to it. But she just had a baby and is on maternity leave for a while, so I don’t know when you could get an appointment with her.”
Before Joy could rethink it, she said, “How about you come over to my place for a girl’s night sometime this week? Once I get furniture, that is. I need some quality girl time. And we could even paint our nails.”
“Oh, sure! I’d love to. I’ll bring my famous Bloody Mary’s.”
“Sounds like a deal. I’ll see you later, then?”
Grace called out her goodbye as Joy left the café, the sun so bright overhead that she had to shade her eyes.
What to do now? She could explore the town some more, but tiredness swamped her limbs at the thought. She desperately wanted to take a nap, but without a bed, that might be more pain than it was worth.
Cake in hand, Joy walked down Main Street, looking in shop windows as she passed. Eventually, she got to the outskirts of town and began walking a well-tread path that she thought would lead to the vineyard. The trees burst with color, emerald green in the sunlight, and she hadn’t seen so much color in one place in what seemed like ages. Chicago was all grays and rust, metropolitan and metallic, but here, it seemed like technology hadn’t even really touched it. They had apparently only recently gotten high-speed Internet, but otherwise, the area felt untouched. Virginal, almost. Joy smiled at the thought. The last place she thought she’d end up would be somewhere virginal in aspect, but her heart calmed simply being here.
If she ever thought this had been a poor decision, being in the midst of such natural beauty put those fears to rest.
Her phone rang, and looking at the number, she saw that it was from a Chicago line. Assuming it was the movers—were they lost a third time?—she picked up. “Hello?”
“Joy?”
She stilled, the voice on the other end one she’d recognize anywhere, but not one she ever wanted to hear again. “Why are you calling me?”
“Because you wouldn’t pick up your phone or text me back. Don’t hang up on me. Please?” Her ex-friend Regina’s voice was pleading. Almost like she was about to cry.
Torn between crying herself or telling Regina to go to hell, Joy said in a tight voice, “What do you want, then?”
“I wanted to make sure you were all right. You up and move to the middle of nowhere and we didn’t know if you’d gotten there or if you were okay. Are you okay?”
Gritting her teeth, Joy continued to walk in a random direction, not even heeding the trees or the birds or the creek bed flowing next to her. Everything was eclipsed by Regina’s voice, reminding her of everything she’d wanted to leave behind. “I’m fine. As fine as I can be after my boyfriend cheats on me with my best friend. So yeah, I’m great.”
Regina sighed. “Look, I know I can’t apologize enough—”
“No, you can’t.”
“But that doesn’t mean I don’t still care about you. Jeremy, too. We want you to be happy.”
Joy laughed, a bitter laugh. Regina wanted her to be happy, after she’d destroyed her life? “You have a lot of nerve. I’m not remotely interested in your condescending hopes that I be happy. You know what would’ve made me happy? My best friend not sleeping with my boyfriend.” She knew the words were harsh, cruel. But she hadn’t spoken to Regina since she’d found out about the affair, and they came spilling out, like a dam breaking. “So spare me your attempts at reconciliation.”
Silence on the other end. Then, “Fine. I won’t try to contact you again.”
“Please don’t.”
“Bye, Joy.”
Joy felt nothing as she turned around, walked back to Main Street. She felt nothing as she climbed the stairs to her apartment, as she set the already melted cake on the kitchen ledge. She felt nothing as she kicked off her shoes and as she climbed into her pile of blankets on the floor.
But the nothingness then filled with something: it cracked, the wound gushing blood once again, and tears flowed in a torrent that she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to.
