“My house isn’t a disaster….”
Maya saw where he was headed. “Sawyer—”
“I apparently need a babysitter—” he grimaced over the word “—to make sure my headache doesn’t get worse and that I slap ice on my shoulder periodically. You need a place to stay for a while. I’ve got a spare room I never use. You’d be doing me a favor.”
What other options did she have? She wanted to be with her son, and that would be difficult at best in a hotel room. It could take weeks to find an apartment.
“So, what do you say?” he asked. “Are we going to be roommates, you and me and Joey?”
Maya hesitated. “Okay, but this is very temporary, just until you’re back on your feet and I find a place to live.”
“Temporary, right,” he said, still smiling. “Got it.”
But seeing the satisfaction on his face, Maya wondered if he did.
Dear Reader,
Well, as promised, the dog days of summer have set in, which means one last chance at the beach reading that’s an integral part of this season (even if you do most of it on the subway, like I do!). We begin with The Beauty Queen’s Makeover by Teresa Southwick, next up in our MOST LIKELY TO… miniseries. She was the girl “most likely to” way back when, and he was the awkward geek. Now they’ve all but switched places, and the fireworks are about to begin….
In From Here to Texas, Stella Bagwell’s next MEN OF THE WEST book, a Navajo man and the girl who walked out on him years ago have to decide if they believe in second chances. And speaking of second chances (or first ones, anyway), picture this: a teenaged girl obsessed with a gorgeous college boy writes down some of her impure thoughts in her diary, and buries said diary in the walls of an old house in town. Flash forward ten-ish years, and the boy, now a man, is back in town—and about to dismantle the old house, brick by brick. Can she find her diary before he does? Find out in Christine Flynn’s finale to her GOING HOME miniseries, Confessions of a Small-Town Girl. In Everything She’s Ever Wanted by Mary J. Forbes, a traumatized woman is finally convinced to come out of hiding, thanks to the one man she can trust. In Nicole Foster’s Sawyer’s Special Delivery, a man who’s played knight-in-shining armor gets to do it again—to a woman (cum newborn baby) desperate for his help, even if she hates to admit it. And in The Last Time I Saw Venice by Vivienne Wallington, a couple traumatized by the loss of their child hopes that the beautiful city that brought them together can work its magic—one more time.
So have your fun. And next month it’s time to get serious—about reading, that is….
Enjoy!
Gail Chasan
Senior Editor
Sawyer’s Special Delivery
Nicole Foster
NICOLE FOSTER
is the pseudonym for the writing team of Danette Fertig-Thompson and Annette Chartier-Warren. Both journalists, they met while working on the same newspaper, and started writing historical romance together after discovering a shared love of the Old West and happy endings. Their seventeen-year friendship has endured writer’s block, numerous caffeine-and-chocolate deadlines, and the joyous chaos of marriage and raising the five children between them. They love to hear from readers. Send a SASE for a bookmark to PMB 228, 8816 Manchester Rd., Brentwood, MO, 63144.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter One
This was not the way it was supposed to happen.
None of it—the wind and sleet, the rotten, rain-slicked mountain road, the idiot driver swerving into her lane, forcing her to yank the wheel hard to avoid a collision. The baby coming.
Definitely not the baby coming,
Not now, not here and not six weeks early. Another contraction gripped her, and Maya Rainbow clenched her fingers around the musty car blanket she’d been clutching like a life preserver, fighting the fear that was threatening to become full-blown panic.
“Are you okay? Maya, are you still with me?”
The contraction eased slightly. Taking a shaky breath, Maya managed to fumble her cell phone close enough to answer the dispatcher who’d stayed on the line after she’d called out the paramedics. “I’m still here.”
She didn’t have much choice. Short of crawling out the window—and right now she doubted she’d be able to do anything more gymnastic than sit up straight—she couldn’t get out. Her ancient Jeep Cherokee had skidded off the road, sideswiped a pine tree and ended up almost on its side in a narrow ditch. She’d blacked out. And when she’d come to, bruised and shaken, she’d managed to untangle herself from the seat belt only to discover the driver’s-side door was jammed and the passenger door was wedged against a tree.
Before Maya could call 911, she also realized her baby was coming.
“The paramedics are on their way. They should be there in a few minutes. Try to stay calm and remember your breathing,” the dispatcher’s voice was saying in her ear. “Tell me when you have another contraction.”
“I’m telling you now,” Maya gasped.
It had to be the fifteenth time in the last ten minutes the woman had coached her to breathe, to stay calm, and if she hadn’t been about to give birth sitting in the front seat of her wrecked car, Maya would have laughed. She’d spent the last seven years teaching others to cope with pain without medication, to release their stress and find an inner calm. For months she herself had been practicing all those focusing and pain-control techniques she’d touted to her clients.
But now all she wanted to do
