7
Prologue
“WHERE IS THE CHOCOLATE?” Maggie Barlow stood on her front porch, the door to the three-story mansion that had been in her family for generations open behind her, allowing the cooled air to escape into the hot July night. She watched her best friend since the second grade march up the steps with a pair of four-inch stilettos in her hand. Not a bakery box in sight.
“You need these more.” Olivia thrust the shoes at her.
Maggie looked down at the shiny white stilts she held and frowned. Twenty-four hours earlier, she’d caught her supposedly stable and reliable fiancé with his pants down—literally—and his nineteen-year-old research assistant bent over his desk wearing nothing but a pair of pink, fuzzy handcuffs. She needed double-fudge brownies, not shoes.
In a lime-green sundress and pink platform sandals, Olivia looked as if she’d wandered away from a tropical vacation, not the upscale art gallery she managed. She marched into the foyer. “Come with me. I need to look in your closet.”
“I ended things with Derrick,” Maggie said, following Olivia to the second story. “You thought I was crazy to marry a man because we had similar careers and interests. You said I was making the safe choice and turning my back on love because it was too messy. You hated him. We’re supposed to be celebrating.”
“Oh, we will, but not here. I have a plan.” Olivia led the way to Maggie’s bedroom and pointed to the neatly made bed. “Sit while I find something for you to wear.”
Maggie set the heels on the floor. They were beautiful shoes, but not for her. As a rule, she opted for sensible flats. She looked up as clothing flew out of her walk-in closet. Gray and black suits—boring, take-me-seriously work clothes perfect for a political science professor with a specialty in military studies—landed in a pile on the floor as Olivia searched for something she deemed appropriate for her “plan.”
“You’re lucky there’s a car show at the Hudson Valley fairgrounds this weekend.” Olivia emerged from the closet holding the skinny jeans Maggie didn’t intend to wear outside the house until she gave up linguine Alfredo. Her friend tossed them on the bed and turned back to the closet. “Put these on while I find you a shirt.”
Maggie went over to the growing pile of business suits. Piece by piece, she picked them up and carefully placed each one over the back of her armchair. “Why would we go to a car show?”
Olivia reappeared with a backless green shirt. “The guys there will love your grandfather’s vintage Mercedes.”
“The Mercedes is in the shop. I’m renting a Toyota for the weekend.” Her late grandfather’s car spent about as much time in the shop as it did out of it.
“You could afford a new one,” Olivia pointed out.
“But I love that car. It reminds me of happier times.” Before she’d lost her mother, before her grandfather passed away from a heart attack and before her father returned from war broken, unable to handle the fact that two bullets in the thigh had ended his career with the U.S. Army Rangers. “And why should anyone at a car show care what I’m driving?”
Olivia picked up the clothes she’d selected and held them out to Maggie. “Because we’re going to find you a man. I did a Google search for the top ten places to meet men, and ‘car show’ was in the top five. It outranked baseball games. Now get dressed.”
Maggie froze, the clothes in her arms. “I just ended my engagement. I don’t need to meet another man. I need to focus on work. I have to face a room full of generals at West Point on Monday morning. They’re in town for the president’s speech later this week, and the army’s demanding I speak with them before they’ll grant me access to the team of Rangers I need to interview for my book. This six-man team rode horses belonging to an Afghan warlord to rescue three female aid workers. They’re heroes. Modern-day cowboys. If I can secure these interviews, I’ll be able to share their accomplishments with the world.”
Olivia put her hands on her hips. “You can prepare for your big meeting tomorrow. Tonight we’re going out.”
Maggie shook her head and set the clothes back on the bed. “Liv, I can’t. I have four months to finish this book. My publisher wanted it yesterday. The war is essentially over and my editor is afraid the readers who bought the recent bestseller about the SEALs mission won’t care about what happened during the war once all the soldiers are home. If I don’t research and write it fast, they’ll find another author. They only picked me because I told them I could get access.”
“You have a savings account and a home you own free and clear—you don’t need to work.”
“Thanks to my grandfather,” Maggie interrupted. Her grandfather had been her rock, raising her after her mother passed away while her father was deployed overseas. Her grandfather had been born to wealth and had chosen to serve his country when he could have lived off his savings. In her mind, he’d always been a hero, even though he’d never been recognized for his accomplishments on the battlefield. Unlike her father, who’d received medals and accolades for a military career that had destroyed him.
“But his fortune will run out eventually,” Maggie continued. “And it doesn’t provide the same stability as a career of my own. This could be my breakout book. Aside from my students and colleagues, no one bought my first one.”
“I did,” Olivia said. “But you wrote about a bunch of marines sitting around and waiting. It was boring.”
“It
