“This is a very small town, and there are a lot of behaviors that are frowned upon…”
Brooke glanced at Jason, a provocative smile on her provocative mouth. He wanted to taste that provocative mouth.
“Are we having the sex talk?” she asked.
“It’s not a sex talk,” he protested, then rubbed his face where his scar was starting to throb. “It’s more of an anti-sex talk. I know you think you’re attracted to me, but hell, Brooke. I don’t want a woman in my bed because I bought her a shirt.”
It was the wrong thing to say…because off came her shirt. Jason tried desperately not to stare at the twin mounds of taut flesh. He failed.
“It’s your shirt. You think I want to sleep with you because you gave me a shirt? Okay, then. No shirt. No problem.”
He felt his mouth grow dry; his groin started to ache. “Put on the shirt.”
She smiled, ran a hand through her hair, dark against her perfect ivory skin…. “No.”
“Please,” he asked nicely, hearing the crack in his voice.
“No, I’m an adult, capable of following my instincts. And if your shirt is going to get in the way…”
Jason darted his gaze away from her, but it didn’t help.
He was doomed.
Dear Reader,
I come from a very frugal family. As a kid, I never realized this because we had the world’s greatest toys. A mismatched swing set, a yellow rickshaw, and this great brass bell that you had to hand-crank to bong (and yes, it did not ring, it bonged). I still own a chair made out of a tractor seat, and in our den sits a lamp made out of an old water pump.
Eventually, it dawned on me that it was not little elves that were making these toys for us, but my dad. After I was married, the husband and I bought ten acres of land in the Texas Hill Country. And I saw the same enterprising tendencies there.
In Texas, there are a lot of hands-on folks who know how to fix a car, how to saw down a tree, and can do all their own electrical work without missing a beat. I love that pioneer spirit in the Lone Star State, and I took full advantage of it when creating Jason Kincaid.
It’s always hard to say goodbye to all the characters in a series, and this one was no exception. I hope you have loved the Harts of Texas as much as I do.
Best,
Kathleen O’Reilly
Just Give In…
Kathleen O’Reilly
MILLS & BOON
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kathleen O’Reilly wrote her first romance at the age of eleven, which to her undying embarrassment was read aloud to her class. After taking more than twenty years to recover from the profound distress, she is now proud to finally announce her career—romance author. Now she is an award-winning author of nearly twenty romances published in countries all over the world. Kathleen lives in New York with her husband and their two children who outwit her daily.
To the big-hearted people from the big-hearted state.
Texas, forever.
Contents
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
Epilogue
1
EVERY FAMILY STARTED with a house, a mother, a father and a passel of squabbling siblings. Brooke Hart had no father, two unsociable brothers who seemed deathly afraid of her and a 1987 Chevy Impala.
As far as families went, it wasn’t much, but it was a thousand times better than before. Then there was the mysterious message from an estate lawyer in Tin Cup. They needed to “talk” was all that he said, and apparently lawyers in Texas didn’t believe in answering machines and voicemail, because every time she tried to call, no one answered. In her head she had created all sorts of exciting possibilities, and journeyed cross country to see the lawyer, bond with her brothers and find a place to call home, all of which was exciting and expensive, which meant that right now, she was in desperate need of a job. Money was not as necessary as say, love, home and a fat, fluffy cat, but there were times when money was required. One, when you needed to eat, and two, when your three-year-old Shearling boots weren’t cutting it anymore.
In New York, the boots had been cute and ordinary and seventy-five percent off at a thrift store. In the smoldering September heat of Texas, she looked like a freak. An au courant freak, but a freak nonetheless.
As she peered into the grocery store window, she studied an older couple who were the stuff of her dreams. In Brooke Hart’s completely sentimental opinion, the spry old codger behind the cash register could have been Every Grandpa Man. A woman shuffled back and forth between the front counter and the storeroom in back. Her cottony-gray hair was rolled up in a bun, just like in the movies. The cash register was a relic with clunky keys that Brooke’s hands itched to touch. The wooden floor of the grocery was neat, but not neat enough, which
