Should've Said No Read online

  Should’ve Said No is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept eBook Original

  Copyright © 2015 by Tracy March

  Excerpt from Just Say Maybe by Tracy March copyright © 2015 by Tracy March

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Just Say Maybe by Tracy March. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eBook ISBN 9781101884997

  Cover design: Diane Luger

  Cover photograph: Ammentorp Photography / Shutterstock

  readloveswept.com

  v4.1

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Tracy March

  About the Author

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Just Say Maybe

  Chapter 1

  After three days of sunup to sundown driving in a wobbly U-Haul truck, Lindsey Simms worried that her hands might be permanently stuck in the ten-and-two position. She’d had no idea what she was getting into when she started this road trip. A year of unemployment had led to lots of changes in her life, but this one was the craziest by far: 1839 miles, to be exact.

  Heavyhearted, she’d left her big-city life in D.C. in the rearview mirror just two weeks after she was offered a job in Thistle Bend, Colorado—population 1519. Now she’d finally arrived, the truck packed with everything she owned, small-town life straight ahead.

  Welcome to Thistle Bend, Wildflower Capital of Colorado.

  Lindsey gazed at the sign next to the two-lane road, fighting the emotion welling in her throat. The view might be spectacular—soaring peaks and rolling ranch land surrounding a tiny town nestled in the valley—but nearly everyone and everything she knew were more than a thousand miles away. How could she possibly be happy here?

  At least there’ll be wildflowers.

  And a paycheck.

  She gripped the wheel of the U-Haul as if she were still trying to keep it on the road through the narrow, winding mountain passes. She’d never driven anything bigger than her grandma’s 1970 Cadillac DeVille convertible, the car she’d gotten around in during her high school days in Richmond, Virginia. The memory tugged at the corners of her mouth, coaxing a winsome smile. Spending summers with the top down had brightened her long blond hair with sun-kissed highlights, and kept her slender arms tan. Her mom had always said that Lindsey’s eyes got two shades greener in the summertime.

  Lindsey had left the Cadillac behind when she headed for college in D.C., then landed a job at the Smithsonian and lived in the city—no car required. Thank goodness she hadn’t had that kind of debt hanging over her when she got laid off a year ago. Even so, her slim savings account had dwindled too fast, and she’d found out who her real friends were when she couldn’t afford to go out anymore.

  She squinted at the sky, the sunset painting blazing streaks of orange, yellow, and pink. Around the next curve, a herd of cows blocked the road, leisurely making their way across. She slowed the U-Haul to a stop behind several other cars and SUVs.

  Seriously?

  Windows down, she took a deep breath of the cool, thin mountain air. Eager to connect with someone familiar, she grabbed her phone, snapped a picture of the black-and-white cows, and set it to send along with a text to Becca, her best friend back in D.C.

  My new neighbors. Eat mor chikin?

  LOL. They’re blocking the road?

  Yep.

  Tell them to mooove it or it’s steak for dinner!

  I wish. Miss u.

  Lindsey’s heart thudded, and not just because of the altitude. She might’ve arrived, but this was no place like home. No high-rises. No monuments. No museums. At least until she got the Thistle Bend Mountain Heritage Museum up and running. Despite the fresher air here, she hoped this would be a short detour and she’d get back on track. Proving herself here would pave her way to landing a museum job back in D.C. Or even Richmond. She’d lived her entire life in those two cities. Returning to either place would feel like going home.

  Chewing on a piece of gum that had lost its flavor hours ago, she tipped her head back and stared at the dingy ceiling of the truck cab. Had she lost her mind deciding to come to a place where cows blocked the roads? She’d really had no choice, since she was determined to utilize her degree in Museum Studies, and work in the career field she loved.

  Lindsey rolled her head to the side and caught sight of the envelope tucked beneath her purse on the seat, the return address written in her great-aunt’s pointed script.

  Oscar and Tansy Karlsson

  103 Checkermallow Lane

  Thistle Bend, Colorado 81224

  Lindsey had seen her great-aunt and -uncle only twice in her life, but her grandma mentioned them every so often, mostly questioning how they were able to keep a restaurant in business with only one entrée on the menu.

  “Not everyone likes fried chicken,” she’d say every time without fail. “And if chicken’s the only thing you serve, then why call the place The Canary?” She’d shake her head. “I always figured Oscar’s family was a couple eggs short of a dozen.”

  “It’s a mining reference, Grandma,” Lindsey explained. “Hasn’t the place been open since the coal mining days?”

  “Lord knows how. That restaurant keeps them busy all the time—even with just chicken to cook. But Tansy did it to herself. When she accepted Oscar’s proposal, I warned her she’d be marrying that restaurant, too.”

  Lindsey reached for the envelope and pulled out the card she’d received last week.

  Dear Lindsey,

  Your recent thank-you note was sweet, yet unnecessary. All we did was share the news about the opportunity at the new Thistle Bend Mountain Heritage Museum. You landed the job! We’re excited to have another family member in town, but please remember…no one can find out that you’re related to a Karlsson. Keep that confidential, and things will go well for you in Thistle Bend.

  Fondly,

  Aunt Tansy and Uncle Oscar

  Curious about the all the mystery, Lindsey had called her aunt Tansy to chat. Come to find out, Tansy served on the town council. “You got the job because of your education and experience,” Tansy had said. “Not because you’re related to someone in high places. We want people to give you the credit you deserve. I assure you, things will work out better if you don’t tell anyone you’re a Karlsson.”

  The wording in Tansy’s note had given Lindsey the strange fee
ling that there was more to it than that. It wouldn’t be long before she found out if she was right. Not one for keeping secrets, she’d reluctantly agreed to her great-aunt’s request. She was confident she could prove herself on the job no matter who had put in a good word for her along the way. But Tansy had insisted, and Lindsey didn’t want to be at odds with her great-aunt and -uncle—the only people she kind of knew in Thistle Bend.

  What could keeping the secret really hurt, after all? Lindsey and her great-aunt and -uncle were distant relatives. Tansy was her grandmother’s sister. If anyone cared to—and Lindsey couldn’t imagine why they would—they’d have to do some digging to connect her to Tansy and Oscar Karlsson. Even then, there was no blood relation between them. Lindsey had been adopted as an infant, becoming the only child of her loving and supportive parents. So loving and supportive that they’d offered all kinds of assistance while she’d been unemployed. They’d even invited her to come back and live in her old bedroom upstairs in the white-brick colonial where she’d grown up. Lindsey adored her parents, but at twenty-eight, she was determined not to move back in with them. Dedicated to making it on her own, she had thanked them, pinched her pennies tighter, and declined.

  Lindsey put the card back in the envelope. Since the cows blocking the road were in no hurry, she checked the printed map and directions to the cottage she’d rented. The map of the entire town fit neatly on one page, every street name and landmark legible. She bunched her lips and concentrated on the circle she’d drawn on the grid: 410 Primrose Street. In a mile or two she could park the U-Haul and get started on the journey that would lead her back to D.C.

  After the last cow stepped off the pavement, Lindsey put the truck in gear and rounded the bend, to find a large, reasonably modern school complex set away from the road on her right.

  Thistle Bend School. Welcoming Grades K–12.

  Lindsey read the sign twice, the reality of small town life sinking in. One school for all the kids? The school appeared nice and well kept—flanked by a playground, a soccer field, and a baseball diamond where, at the moment, people were gathered watching an adult softball game. A cacophony of cheers and boos resounded from the field, rising into the twilight. The scene reminded Lindsey of summer evenings she’d spent playing kickball on the National Mall with her team from the Smithsonian.

  Next she passed the modest-sized Center for the Performing Arts, pleased to see that there was one. The front of the building formed a stage, and a large lawn stretched out before it. Signs advertised a summer concerts-on-the-lawn series. Lindsey perked up. Could there be hope that Thistle Bend offered some of the activities she’d enjoyed in D.C., just on a much smaller scale?

  The road led her past a cute Western-style shopping center—a hardware store, a pastry shop, a grocery store, even a movie theater, none of them chains like she’d seen in most of the cookie-cutter towns she’d passed through on her way here.

  “Hmm…Kind of charming.”

  But Thistle Bend really turned on the charm when it came to its main street, Larkspur Avenue. The center of the historic mining town surprised Lindsey, inviting her in, looking like something out of a Western storybook. Colorful Victorian buildings lined the street—pink, blue, yellow. Whimsical gables and awnings accented shops and offices and restaurants, the latter of which also had quaint outdoor dining areas. Bright flowers billowed from hanging baskets at nearly every door, and bloomed in planters along the sidewalk. Aspen trees dotted the way, their leaves fluttering in the breeze, glimmering in the dimming daylight.

  Lindsey relaxed a little. At least the town was cute, and she’d seen some people that looked to be about her age. She’d be okay here for a little while, right? A year, tops.

  One turn took her past an A-frame Catholic church, a bed-and-breakfast, and a park with a babbling creek running through it. She passed well-kept homes, and charming cottages with picket fences and friendly porches. People strolled by, walking their dogs, or pedaled bicycles, none seeming rushed to get anywhere.

  They smiled.

  They waved.

  They looked content.

  Was it possible people lived like this?

  Lindsey took a left and, in less than a block, pulled the U-Haul to a stop in front of what was supposed to be 410 Primrose Street, according to the map. Her heart sank and she slumped her tired shoulders, her gaze shifting from the old miner’s cabin to the map and back.

  No picket fence.

  No friendly porch.

  “No way,” Lindsey murmured.

  But sure enough, next to the front door hung the wooden numbers four, one, and zero. The four had lost a screw and turned upside down. It fit right in with the peeling paint, sagging shutters, and rusty tin roof.

  Home sweet home?

  Clearly the property management company had posted old pictures of a freshly painted house in much better repair. From the looks of it, Lindsey guessed they’d colorized photos taken back in the mining days. The place was more like a shack than a cabin, and calling it a cottage was really pushing it. She thought about the plumbing situation and a flash of panic shot through her. If she walked around back and found an outhouse…

  She took a deep breath, puffed up her cheeks, and blew it out slowly. This is what she got for doing her interview by Skype. A visit here would’ve been a wiser idea, but that hadn’t been in either budget—hers or the hiring committee’s. So here she sat in a big honking U-Haul in front of a dilapidated shack otherwise known as her new home. No wonder the property manager had arranged to leave the house open with the keys inside. Who would go near it?

  Except for me.

  Lindsey had signed a lease, and paid a deposit and the first month’s rent. Now she was stuck with the little shack for at least six months. She pinched her eyes closed for a moment, too realistic to hope that things would look better when she opened them. Night was falling as she got out of the truck, slammed the door with a clang, and headed up the path where a sidewalk should’ve been. The grass was way too high, but on the bright side, wildflowers bloomed in the yard. She could make out the yellow and pink blossoms, even in the twilight.

  Stopping on the rickety front stoop, she reached over to the house numbers and twisted the four right-side-up. But the second she let go, it swung upside down again. Undaunted, she righted the number once more. She pulled the gum out of her mouth, stuck it behind the four, pressed it against the house and crossed item number one off her to-do list.

  Finding the front door unlocked as promised, Lindsey winced as she opened it, afraid of what she’d see inside. Probably the best idea she’d had all day was to show up here at night…or was it?

  Evening light seeped through the windows, enough that she could see an empty living area with wide-plank, hardwood floors, a stone fireplace, and a tiny kitchen beyond. The cabin wasn’t nearly as dilapidated on the inside. A couple vases of those wildflowers might bring the place up to quaint. A dark hallway probably led to the lone bedroom and—please, God—a bathroom.

  Teeth clenched, she swiped the light switch next to the door, but all she got was a click.

  Click, click.

  “Ugh,” Lindsey moaned. She’d need to flip a breaker, and for that she’d need a flashlight. But that would only fix things if the power was actually on.

  “I’m working on that.” The deep voice with a drawl came from the dark hallway, and the man that matched it stepped out of the shadows.

  Chapter 2

  All it took was half-light for Carden Crenshaw to see that the woman people in town were calling “the museum lady” blew his stereotype to smithereens. He’d imagined an older librarian sort. Maybe a middle-aged history teacher type. Surely neither would’ve had his heart galloping like the girl who stood silhouetted in the open front doorway—and Carden’s heart rarely galloped.

  Slender legs in snug blue jeans. Just-right curves in a clingy white tee. Tousled blond hair that begged to have his fingers running through it. The sun had just stepped in t
he door at dusk.

  She gasped the second he emerged from the hallway. The sound shot straight down his spine and spiked lower. It had been way too long since he’d heard a sound like that from a woman like her. Too bad it was because he’d scared her.

  “Sorry I spooked you.” He held up his hands—palms out—and halted, even though he would’ve liked a closer look. “I should have the lights working for you in a few.”

  She gazed at him sharply and squinted. “Are you Dean?” Southern twang with a touch of sass.

  “No, ma’am. Dean found a problem with the lights this afternoon when he brought your keys over. He asked me to come fix it.” Carden hitched his thumb in the tool belt that hung around his hips.

  She pushed her hair behind her shoulder and pressed her fingers to her lips. “Is that the only thing on your list?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “And it’ll only take a few minutes to fix?”

  He nodded slowly. “Hope so.”

  “How long have you got?” She glanced out toward the street and the waning light caught her large, light eyes. Definitely blue or green. Either way, the museum lady was a knockout. “Because if you have some extra time,” she said, “I’ll take a look around. Something tells me I might find a couple more things that need fixing before I move in here in the morning…if you’d be so kind. I can grab a notepad out of my truck and make a list.”

  He looked beyond her at the old U-Haul parked out front. “You drove that truck here?” He just couldn’t see it.

  “All the way from D.C.”

  Carden tugged at the worn bill of his favorite ball cap and pulled it tightly against his head. He struggled to keep the amazement out of his eyes. In his experience, women hadn’t taken kindly to him acting surprised when they did something kind of cool and sort of crazy—but that was exactly the kind of woman he liked. “Hmm.” He worked to hit an I’m-impressed pitch and hoped he didn’t come off as cocky. “That probably took you—”