Excerpt 1

After Nia told me that Shane Hott is an actor, I watched the first Crown of Spires movies, Lord of Every Sky. It was full of scenes where he was shirtless, badass, and bossy. He’s basically the villain of the first movie—although I get the sense that he’s going to be redeemed later from the way the camera lingers on his…assets. 

Even as I watched, I questioned my life choices. I wasn’t at all sure watching the movie was a good idea because in a town as small as Rush Creek, Shane and I were bound to cross paths.

After I watched him in Lord of Every Sky, I wanted to build a small monument to his torso and worship it…with my tongue.

And now, encountering him in the hallway outside of Hanna’s office, my knees feel less solid than I would ideally like. 

Never trust a guy so good looking he makes you stupid.

So I do what any self-respecting woman would do in that situation. 

I pretend I have no idea who he is. 

I can tell he’s waiting for me to recognize him, giving me a beat to say, Holy crap, Shane Hott!   

After he got on Bridge and turned into a household name, Anthony used to do the same thing. 

Seeing echoes of Anthony in this guy makes me even less inclined to give him what he wants. Another Hollywood fuckboy hopped up on fan worship. It’s the last thing my life needs.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Ivy Scofield,” I say, cool and low key, like I’m introducing myself to the manager at the bank.  

Surprise flickers behind his eyes, but he hides it, extending his hand. I take it. It’s big, warm, and dry and, unfortunately for my equilibrium, attached to a toned, muscular forearm below a rolled shirt sleeve. The shirt itself is a soft-looking blue gray that clings in all the right places to his movie star–worthy shoulders, pecs, and abs. He has long-lashed dark brown eyes paired with a blade of a nose, square jaw, and lush mouth. Against my will, I admit that he’s gorgeous.  

I thought I had permanently rid myself of men who were too good looking to be believed, but apparently not. 

“I think we can help each other out,” he says. Actually, he whispers it. “You, um, mind walking with me?” He gestures toward the exit.

“Should I be worried that you’re a serial killer?”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “I’m not a serial killer. I’m an actor.”

“Even worse.” 

He laughs, which is terrible because it makes him even better looking, all eye crinkles and white teeth and genuine amusement. Then he stops—because I wasn’t joking and he seems to intuit that.

“Even so,” he says, more seriously. “Please. Just…let me walk you out and tell you what I’m thinking.”

I give him a shrug-nod, and we walk out of Hott Springs together to the parking lot. Now I know who owns the Aston Martin Vanquish I parked next to. I know nothing about cars…but Anthony coveted that car: fast, expensive, and—his words—a dream to drive. 

As we draw even with his car, Shane says, “I know you need our barn.” 

I flick him a quick, confused glance as hope buys real estate in my chest. It sounds like he’s implying that it still might be possible. I will do anything to save our theater—not just for me, but for the kids. I know Nia feels the same way. 

“I can get the barn for you.” 

“Hanna said—” 

“Hanna wasn’t looking at the whole picture,” he tells me. “I am.” 

I raise an eyebrow. 

“You need the barn, and I need you to marry me.”

His too-pretty-for-real-life face is deadly serious now. My mouth falls open.

 

Excerpt 2

You know how sometimes you torture yourself even though you know it’s a terrible idea? 

The house is empty. The security guard who Tuck found for me is gone now that the initial buzz about the wedding has died down a bit and Shane’s assistant and publicist have taken control of the messaging. My security detail will rejoin me closer to the wedding and be at my side through all the pre-wedding festivities, but for now, it’s just me. 

I saunter into the living room like it’s nothing. Like I’m not about to do what I’m about to do. This makes zero sense because there’s nobody to pretend for, but… 

Well, all the world’s a stage, and I’m my own best audience.  

I turn on my TV setup. I flip through my choices—I could rewatch Crash Landing on You (one of my comfort binges) or I could start Queen Charlotte…

Still pretending I’m not doing this. 

Or I could watch the second Crown of Spires movie. Dark Skies. The one with the infamous spire sex scene.

It’s a terrible idea. What good could possibly come of it? 

I hover my finger over the remote button.

You know how this ends. 

I cue it up.

And wow.  

All things being equal, I probably wouldn’t be the biggest fan of the Crown of Spires series. I don’t usually love fantasy. But this is a terrific story. The redemption arc for Lord Extyllior is killer…and Shane is playing it to the hilt. Wounded hero with a brutal past, trying his best to be a good person for the woman he loves. And it’s obvious he loves her with every cell of his very, very hard body (and generous soul). 

Lord Extyllior’s one of those men who holds himself back, denies himself what he wants…and then falls really fucking hard. 

And like a lot of women, I’m a sucker for that kind of man. 

By the time their enemies track them down, by the time Lord Extyllior, exhausted near to death from his flight with the woman he won’t admit he loves, is forced to stop and find a safe spot to spend the night, I’m all in. Like, holding my breath, biting my lip, wringing my hands, sweating bullets all in. 

He flies the two of them to the top of the world, to the highest spire in the kingdom. Because that’s the only place he knows they’re safe, and he will stop at nothing to protect her—even though he won’t tell her how he feels about her. (To protect her! Sigh!)

His plan is to lash them both to the spire, back to back, so they can get some sleep, regroup, marshal his forces, and fight. 

But seeing her like that—bound to the spire, the leather straps he’s torn off his own clothes biting into the softness of her skin—snaps the last thread of his self-control. So when she says “Mav—” 

It’s the first time she’s used his first name, Mavryx.

There’s pleading in her voice.  

He can’t resist her, even though he knows he should. She’s so good, and he’s so bad for her. 

It’s because he’s such a bad man that he kisses her. 

And then— 

It’s all over. All the self-denial, all the waiting, all the pushing her away. He’s kissing her and kissing her, and I have to admit, it’s one of the hottest on-screen kisses I’ve ever seen. Like, on fire hot—or maybe that’s me, peeling back the blanket I threw over myself and fanning my face as his hands roam her body, wrapping over the leather strap at her wrists. 

I’m expecting a fade to black, but I should have known better. This is the famous spire sex scene after all, not the famous spire kiss scene. 

Think Bridgerton but hundreds, thousands of feet in the air. Skirts shoved out of the way. Breeches unlaced. Mavryx’s back is aglow with effort, bunching and releasing, and that’s before the camera gives us his gloriously naked ass, demonstrating to the tepid thrusters of this world how it’s done. Every last muscle in his body is taut with effort, his hands gripping the spire over their heads, his wings spread, shoulder muscles carved from stone. 

Holy. Shit. 

And at the same time… 

I hate the camera right now. 

Because as much as I love all the tanned, ripped man on-screen, I’m not seeing what I most want to see. I want the camera on Shane’s face. I want to see his eyelids heavy with pleasure, his pupils blown, his lips swollen, mouth open— 

“Oh, Christ, I’m sorry—” 

Mavryx is on-screen and also in my living room, hands up in the universal symbol of I’m not going to hurt you. Not Mavryx. Shane. Shane is in my living room, and it’s like coming down from a thousand feet up. Rushing back into my body from a hundred yards away. It’s like a collision with the Mack Truck of reality. 

He takes a step back, looking like he, too, has been hit with a truck. “Ive, I am so sorry— I could hear that you were watching something, and I rang and knocked and texted you, but you didn’t hear it—” 

He’s backing away. 

Because I’m sprawled back on the couch, hand tucked between my squeezed-together thighs.

My face flames. I rip my hand away from the soft, hot place between my legs and grab for the remote. But I’m too late. 

“Is that…?” Shane has caught sight of the TV. His eyebrows go way up at the sight of himself in his full-on, reverse-side glory.