Skye Canton is focused on her goals: Make it as an artist in New York, quit her day job, finally prove herself to her family back in Oklahoma. Noise canceling headphones on, brush in hand, #livingherbestintrovertlife.

All of which gets blown to bits by a gorgeous, smart, magnetic Texas boy turned Manhattan man-about-town.

Matthew James is full of surprises, tempting Skye to give in and reveal her own secrets. Her bestie, her sisters and even her grumpy cat are on TeamMatt. But he doesn’t fit into her well-drawn plans.

Plus, he’s so smooth and so hot…he reminds her of her past, where she learned the hard way – when there’s this much heat, she’s bound to get burned.

This standalone is a smart, steamy, full-length lovers to enemies to lovers, contemporary romance. It’s a reverse grumpy-sunshine with surprise twists, laugh-out-loud banter, a happily ever after, and a sisters group text thread you’ll wish you could join. This is the first book in the Heartlanders Series.

Things I Should Have Said Excerpt

PROLOGUE

I had all my necessary defenses in place.

Hoodie? Pulled up.

Noise-canceling headphones? On.

Sleep mask? Check.

Turned toward the window? Obviously.

I even caved and took Dad up on his offer for the first-class upgrade because I knew I’d need the time to recuperate after peopling for a long weekend. Which meant there were extra inches of buffer between myself and whomever sat next to me. If they were like me—Please, Lord—they’d take one look at me and read my message loud and clear: don’t even think about it, fellow passenger. They’d sigh with relief, smile to themselves to find another introvert out in the wild, and never look in my direction again. If they were someone like Sam—again, God in heaven, please, no—and wanted to chat, they wouldn’t be able to. Because I couldn’t see or hear them. This was not my first high-altitude rodeo.

But then the turbulence started.

I’m not totally afraid of through the air in a skinny metal death tube. Unless the tube starts jumping and gyrating and threatening to pull apart at those visible bolts everywhere. I can’t be the only one who notices all the bolts. Because everything in there has to be bolted down. In case we start to plummet nose-first to our fiery end.

Even a little bump I can deal with.

These were not little bumps.

The clouds between Dallas and New York were clearly pissed. Maybe they also wanted to nap for three hours, and here we were piercing through them. Why were we? Shouldn’t we have diverted around whatever fresh hell is happening outside? Is the pilot a rookie? He is. Actually, more and more women are becoming pilots—I bet it’s a woman. I’m proud of you, Jennifer, but give the stick to ole Dan next to you, or you’re going to kill us all!

My mental state deteriorated along with my hold on feminism.

I started to sweat. I had to take the sleep mask off. Then I had to turn from the window to open the little knob of freezing-cold jet stream. I sat facing ahead in my seat with my eyes closed, and it was good. It helped. But then Jennifer did something else to piss off the clouds, and we jerked so hard a woman behind me yelled out “Oh, God!”

I’m praying too, lady.

After that, the tiny beam of arctic breeze wasn’t enough. The headphones were making my ears sweat. They had to go. The hood had to come down, and I had to push my sleeves up. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, breathing, wondering if I’d somehow forgotten to put on deodorant.

“Look at the flight attendants,” a voice said beside me.

Crap. Crapcrapcrap!

I was bare, exposed in the soft blue florescent wilderness. Which opened me up to be shot with small talk. Is there anything worse than limping through conversation with a stranger when you’re already trying not to vomit and/or cry? I sighed. I opened my eyes and looked to my right.

Yes.

There was something worse.

Small talk with a hot stranger.

His big brown eyes held mine as he broke up his strong, scruffy jaw with a grin. He had dark brown slightly styled hair and tanned skin that popped against the light blue T-shirt under his gray zip hoodie. He looked about my age, but that could have been due to the relaxed vibe.

“W-What?” I managed to get out.

“Look at the flight attendants. They’re totally calm.”

“Okay?”

“If it were really serious, they would know, and we’d see it on their faces. And they look downright bored to me.”

He had a point. Hot and helpful. Great. How many minutes before I said something awkward?

“I . . . I guess you’re right. Thanks.”

I continued to focus on calming myself before I sweat through my hoodie. Pit stains on a shirt? Acceptable, even for a woman, if small, delicate, almost unnoticeable. That says, “Oh, cute, she’s nervous.” Sweating through a shirt and a sweatshirt? That, however, says, “Oh, wow, that woman has a Niagara Falls–size medical problem. She should seek pharmaceuticals. Look away!”

“Uh-oh,” hot guy in 3A said, still smirking.

“What?” I said a little too loud. Did he know something about our impending death that I didn’t? Was he a pilot? Go help Jennifer, Hot Pilot, I’m too young to die!

“I shouldn’t be helping out a Sooners fan.” He glanced down at my boobs. No, at my hoodie.

“Oh.” I gave him a smile. It was a gray hoodie with my alma mater’s logo printed on it. Subtle. But not subtle enough. The hoodie was huge and super soft, a favorite for traveling. Except it could prompt conversation! Ugh, what was this, traveling amateur hour? The sweatshirt was not going to see the outside of my apartment ever again.

I also realized, in that moment, that my old sweatshirt was not exactly cute or flattering. My plain black leggings were fine, I guess. But they weren’t even my good plain black leggings. And I’d been so deeply tired from the weekend I hadn’t even put on a full face of makeup. I’d put my thick, wavy light brown hair in a top knot and didn’t even put on earrings or eyeliner. Am. At. Eur. Hour.

“Hook ’em.” His grin grew to more of a smile, which was—wow—hard to look away from. It was warm and confident. But I groaned a bit, despite it. Sports small talk was arguably the worst of all the small talk. It’s a ball, they throw it around, catch it, run with it, we get it, very impressive. We’re all very impressed. He gave me a quizzical look in response to my odd groan.

That was when the plane lost a wing.

At least, that’s what it felt like. Some sort of shudder and dip on the left side that made the praying lady behind me cry out to God again. I gasped and gripped the armrests and squeezed my eyes shut. Jennifer, girlfriend, get it together!

And that’s when Smokin’ McSmokeshow gently touched my right wrist. And I forgot about Jenn and the prayers and my sweating and my own name. His warm, calloused hand dwarfed my wrist, and it . . . did things. It did things to my insides that felt a lot like what the angry clouds were currently doing to my ride home.

“Would a drink help?” he asked, as he held my wrist. I looked at my wrist, and he pulled his hand away slowly, as if willing to keep it there a lot longer. I nodded, unable to speak. Which was good. Not speaking meant not blurting something embarrassing. My wrist continued to buzz as he pushed the button for the flight attendant.

The well-endowed attendant, who I named Betty Boop in my head because I am mature, came over to him and flashed him a brilliant smile. Like, a “she clearly whitened her teeth weekly” kind of smile. I vowed not to show my teeth the rest of the flight. I hadn’t whitened in months, and coffee was my main nutrition source. Why, why didn’t I whiten my teeth before this flight?

Wait, what?

Was I having a seizure? Who cares about teeth? Up front, Jenn was trying to end my life. Why was I thinking about whitening strips?

“What can I get you?” the attendant asked from her much-too-pretty face, in a much-too-friendly way. It made me a bit irritated, which made me confused. She’s pretty and good at her job, unlike Jennifer. Let her live her best life, you wacko.

“Heineken for me and a . . . ?” He looked at me.

“White wine.” Her face fell when she looked from him to me, and that made me a bit glad. Because I was losing my mind, obviously. He gave her his card, and I tried to protest, “Oh, no, I can—”

“It’s all right, easier on her to have one bill,” he said, but he winked. I didn’t know until that moment that a wink could be so sexy, that when it greets you, you have to cough a bit. You have no choice in the matter.

“I’m Matt.” He reached out his hand to me.

“Skye.” I coughed back to him, with another small smile. What was with his wizard hands? Why did I feel his hand shake down in my nether regions? Why did I call them nether regions when I am under the age of eighty-five?

“First time visiting New York?” he asked as he angled his body toward me. I braced myself. Okay. Small talk was happening. I told myself to remain calm, say as little as possible, but also maybe smile a bit to combat the resting bitch face Sam said I had.

“Nope, live there,” I said with an easy grin as our drinks arrived. I loved that I actually lived in New York City. It was still a dream come true, even after almost five years. “Thank you,” I said to her, and then I looked back into those . “And thank you.”

“Sure.” He shrugged it off. “So, do you live in the city?”

“Williamsburg.” No, I didn’t live in Manhattan, but I had a view of Manhattan, and I loved that about my little place. The plane shuddered again, and I chugged a couple gulps of wine. Which was a very bad idea, some voice told me from the back of my mind. If there was one thing I did not want to be with a hot , it was loose. Next I’d be telling him I had Niagara pits and he had Harry Potter hands and whatever other mortifying thoughts popped into my head.

“Sorry, would you rather not talk?” he said after I had to close my eyes again. Bingo! Dreamy Drink Buyer was catching on. Except . . . He was so captivating, I actually was forgetting about my impending demise when he was looking in my direction.

“No, um, it’s helping. What about you, do you live in the city?”

“Chelsea.” He nodded and took a sip of his beer. Weirdly, I watched his mouth as he did so. He had full lips and just enough five-o’clock shadow to look intriguing but not sloppy. I felt purple splotches escaping out under from under the neckline of my hoodie as I looked away. He didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he said, “What took you to Dallas?”

“Tulsa, actually. Family.” I took a couple more big sips of wine, but this time it was more about the chatting and less about the death trap. Why did simple questions make me so nervous?

“Oh, Oklahoma, right. Did you go to OU?”

“Yep. Did you go to Texas?”

“Yep. You gonna hold that against me?”

“Of course.” I said it with a smile. I was flirting. It was flirting, right? Because I honestly could not have cared less about football. As a student, I didn’t go to many games because I preferred the extra time in the studio on Saturdays. Still, any living, breathing Oklahoma grad, or even fan, had to hate a Longhorn fan. It was Middle America law.

The last bit of wine jumped around in the glass as the plane reminded me my life was about to be over. I took a deep breath in.

“So why the Big Apple?” he asked, but I was still focused on breathing. “Skye.” He said my name softly, like a caress. It was like he’d touched my wrist again. It was such a strong reaction to such a normal thing, as if I hadn’t been called by my name my whole life. Like he’d given me a new name and just said it for the first time. “Skye. Why the Big Apple?”

I gave him a slight nod of gratitude. “I’m an artist.” I finished off my wine. I was venturing into terrifying territory. I didn’t need to talk about real things with a man who had just given me a new name.

“An artist? So my opposite then.”

I just raised my eyebrows at him.

“Numbers guy. Specifically ones and zeros.” He motioned to my glass. “Want another?”

“No! No.” Whoops. I almost yelled it, causing him to look at me with alarm. “One glass is my limit before—” I cut myself off, but it was too late.

“Before?” He was grinning again.

“Before I snap and start oversharing and word vomiting and saying awkward things you shouldn’t say…even more awkward than ‘word vomiting.’” I sighed. Why did I say vomiting twice? Jennifer, fly this thing faster, angry clouds be damned!

But he let out a little laugh and said, in a voice that was definitely too low and too buttery, “What shouldn’t you say?”

See, this was the problem.

People think awkward like cute, funny Zooey Deschanel awkward. Movies and sitcom awkward. So I just cut right to it.

“You know, not small talk. Big talk. Religion, politics, conspiracy theories, greatest hopes, greatest fears, realizations from therapy, how I’m dripping wet under my clothes.”

Aaaaand there it was.

His eyes flashed wide when I realized what I’d just said.

“Like under my hoodie.”

Flop sweating.

Fantastic.

Couldn’t have just said “It’s hot in here” like a normal person. Zooey Deschanel wouldn’t say flop sweating to a hot stranger. And therapy? Really? I knew I shouldn’t be ashamed to be in therapy. But I still was. I actually had to talk to my therapist about it. Ugh. Cringe Level: 1,000.

But thankfully he laughed, a big hearty laugh, too much for the airplane. It filled all the space, and he didn’t care. Surprisingly, I liked it, even though it was loud. “Well, now I obviously have to know about the conspiracy theories.”

I shook my head and pressed my lips together. I was never speaking again.

He smiled. “C’mon, do you have a tin hat? Are we flying over a flat earth right now?”

I laughed at that. He nudged me with his elbow. Who knew pointy-elbow nudges could be so sexy? “Um, all right, how about the Denver airport?”

“What about it?” He said it low, in a way that I’m sure he didn’t mean to be sensual. But he leaned in toward me just a bit as he said it, so my stomach lurched up into my throat.

I coughed out, “Something shady going on in tunnels underneath. Creepy murals. The devil horse. Google it.”

He pulled out his phone, already connected to the fancy first class wi-fi. “Wow, that is creepy.”

“Right!” As I said it, I moved my arms in exclamation, realizing he’d left his left arm over on my side of the partition. He was still touching my elbow, and if I put my arm down, we’d be touching from elbow to fingertip. I coughed yet again, feeling my elbow on fire. He had to be seconds away from asking me if I had tuberculosis. We’re done with the wine. No more!

A man had gotten up to go to the restroom—to Betty Boop’s horror—and when he passed us, he tripped a bit from how badly the plane was shuddering. My grip went back to my seat’s arms, which Matt noticed. Now my entire forearm was against his. He’d pushed up his sleeves, and a hidden wire of energy now ran down the length where our skin touched. Which sealed the sweaty deal: I could not, under any circumstances, remove my hoodie. I needed the hoodie to remain intact around my blotchy, stenchy, not-cute-pit-stain situation like a Dutch oven shield.

“So. Artist. Like a musician?”

“Like a painter.” I winced a bit. Musician is a much cooler answer than painter. I was well aware.

“Wow, a painter. Where can I see some of your work?” He held out his phone and looked into my eyes as he said it.

But I saw it then.

He was smooth. He was handsome and charming, and now he wanted to see my work. No stupid hot thirtyish guy actually wanted to see paintings by some random chick next to them on the plane. But a man would fake interest to be—ding ding ding—smooth. I didn’t answer at first, because of the realization. But when I didn’t say anything, his face fell in a way that made me feel like a jerk.

“Uh, I guess my Instagram. Skye Morgan. It’s at PaintedSkye, with an e.” He picked up his phone again, and a rush filled me. I wanted him to look, but at the same time, I wanted to jump out of the plane rather than sit there and look at him looking. I was twisted up with both hope and dread at the same time. And I was sure both would show through my hoodie if I lifted my arms.

“Wow, Skye. You’re like a celebrity.”

I snorted. I had about one hundred thousand followers. Okay, exactly 104,300 followers. And I hated that I knew that number by heart. And I hated Instagram, but didn’t, and hated myself for not hating it. And I hated that I had worked so unbelievably hard for those followers when that number was almost nothing in the realm of social media stats.

“Did you just snort?” He looked away from his phone to me. I just put my head in my hand.

Jennifer, just take ’er down! I’ve lived a good life!

But then he grabbed my hand and pulled it down from my face and looked straight into my eyes. And while the simple motion prompted me to stop breathing and involuntarily squeeze my thighs together, it also made me remember. Smooth. Too smooth.

“These are incredible.” He held my gaze and my hand until he looked back to his phone. “I mean, really…Wait, what does ‘The Titles Girl’ mean in your bio?”

Rather than use words, I directed him to an article linked in my profile. I create realist mixed media paintings, mostly thick layers of acrylic, but I always add something extra. My work is hyperrealist, with neon or glitter or metallic finishes mixed in that take the realism over the line if you look closely.

My most recent series, mentioned in the article, was twenty floral works. I went semi-viral for the titles of my pieces. I did a close-up of a pink orchid with a title “I’m Not O’Keeffe, You Perv.” A gorgeous field of wildflowers was named “Gesundheit!” The one that caused a stir on ArtTok—the art community within the app TikTok—had a bright drugstore bouquet of hyper saturated carnations and roses, still in the plastic wrap, with the rubber band and the flower food pouch. The title of the piece was “He’s Just Not That into You.”

Some people actually hated me for that one piece, that I was “too good” for drugstore flowers. They passionately disagreed about my premise. And that was fine with me. I became a known artist that day. Their hatred had actually allowed me to rent a private studio space in my favorite part of the city. Also, they were just flat out wrong. I had been on the receiving end of those CVS flowers.

I turned purply again as Matt read the article next to me. What did it mean, to be incredibly proud of something and also simultaneously want no one to ever see it? Why did we humans long to share our whole souls with someone while also hiding huge pieces of ourselves at the same time? Ooo . . . series idea if Jenn doesn’t crash this sucker: Questions for My Therapist.

“These are all so funny. And smart. And man…I promise not to buy you drugstore flowers.” He looked at me when he said it. He didn’t blink or back down from the idea. His eyes said “I want to take you on a date and get you better flowers.” And he held steady, looking for my reaction. Which I’m sure was a wince or a grimace.

I hadn’t realized with all the elbow-touching and soul-baring (also known as showing someone my work) that we’d already started our descent. Thankfully, after he made his suggestion, my phone lit up with a call from Sam, which I promptly rejected. Not only should I have put my phone on airplane mode, my sisterSo I sent a text, which caused what I like to call a Samstorm.

 

Me: About to land

Sam: YASSSSSS Omg!!!

Sam: You were gone too long!

Sam: I’ve been so bored!

Sam: Let’s go out for dinner! Woooooot!!!!!

 

Matt cleared his throat and spoke into the last sip of his beer bottle. “Lucky guy.”

“What?”

He gave me a tight smile and gestured toward my phone. “I saw the call pop up. Sam. He’s a lucky guy.”

I could’ve told him Sam was my sister, Samantha. But in that moment, I actually did have a lucky guy, Paul. A guy I hadn’t thought of even one time during my death-defying journey with the Brown-Eyed Wonder. So, feeling guilty, I just gave a small, closed smile and looked away. To his credit, Hot Matt changed his demeanor after that. He leaned a little farther away and quit chatting.

I tensed up again as we were about to land. Takeoffs didn’t bother me as much as landings did. Takeoffs were gradual. Landings were jarring and always felt like maybe something was going wrong, and you could be about to die, but no one would really know for sure until all our limbs were on fire. Matt noticed my vice grip on the seat.

“Well, I followed you. On Instagram.”

“Oh, thanks.” I smiled and forced myself not to pull out my phone and look him up right then and there.

“Sure. Can’t wait to tell all my friends that I sat by the next Denis Peterson on the plane.” He smiled wide again. And my breath caught, because his smile was unfairly gorgeous, yes, but also because he quoted the article back to me. He’d actually read it, not just browsed the images.

Was he being thoughtful or slick? I wasn’t sure. The landing of the plane broke my stare because yep, I’d been staring at him. With my mouth hanging open like the village idiot. And he was just staring back, grinning. I smiled and looked down as the plane slowed. Thanks for the save, Jennifer! Sorry for all the crap I gave you. Girl power!

We didn’t say anything else as I put my sleep mask and headphones into my backpack. He pulled his backpack out from the seat in front of him. Then he stretched, revealing a firm wide chest and built arms I hadn’t been able to fully appreciate. He twisted in his seat, and I a glance at the spot where his neatly trimmed hair met his tanned neck. I had the impulse to smooth my hand down his head and massage his flight-induced tension.

Which helped me to realize the plane had been piping crack through the air system.

Had to have been. What else could explain my sudden insanity? I was bothered all over, from looking at a plane stranger’s neck?

We stood eventually, and he went out into the aisle. I went out behind him, and he turned back to me. Our chests were almost touching, and he didn’t back up. He was right on top of me, and not by accident. He didn’t back up or apologize—just looked down and asked if he could get my bag for me.

Smooth was an understatement. This man was liquid. His face was so close to mine I couldn’t think. He was almost smirking, but he was also smoldering. He knew he was affecting me. He put his hand on my shoulder, clearly grinning now, and repeated himself.

“Can I get your bag?”

I managed to nod as he pointed to my hard black suitcase with purple zippers. He moved farther down the aisle to put my bag between us, and I immediately felt the absence of his body’s almost-touch down my entire front. I watched him walk out of the plane ahead of me, taking him in.

His gray backpack covered my view of what I’m sure was a glorious backside, if his chest and arms were any indication. Stylish gray-and-white Adidas popped out from under just-tight-enough jeans. I kept my arms down, realizing I was dripping wet, in all the ways, from just . . . what? An hour of conversation with him? A wrist graze?

It struck me, as two men in suits broke off from our disembarking herd, that I had no idea what Matt did. Ones and zeroes, like computers? Surely not. But he did have on a hoodie a la Zuck. Gross. Tech guys and their soul-sucking apps and gadgets. But Matt didn’t seem gadgety either. So what did he do in Chelsea? Why had he been in Dallas? What was his last name? Did he have a girlfriend? He probably did.

After we got through the gate, he turned to me and said, “It was nice to meet you, Skye.”

As I said, “You too, Matt,” he was already turning to walk away. I hadn’t even thanked him for talking me through my near-death experience. As always, LaGuardia was a packed, hot dilapidated mess, and he was lost in the crowd quickly, because I was standing still.

“Dammit, move, lady! You’re blocking the way!” someone barked at me. Welcome to New York, I thought as I smiled and got back to walking, back to normal. I didn’t let myself look for Matt as I made my way down to the subway. I had had hot liquid like him before. Like whiskey. It had burned going down and coming back up. Never again.

 

Three Months Later

 

“Less than an hour. You already sold three pieces. You got this,” I tell myself in the mirror of the tiny, dark single-use bathroom. I pull my gloss out of my dress pocket and reapply. Thank you, twenty-first-century fashion designers! With a deep breath, I exit back into the gallery.

I love openings, I do. It’s easy to talk about my work and say thank you to supporters. They ask the same few questions, and I have funny answers ready to go. Sometimes buyers ask for a selfie or an autograph, which is a thrill, obviously. I’m living the dream. But also, the nightmare. I simultaneously hate openings and wish I was invisible while they’re occurring. I count down the minutes until they’re over. All the while I’m also hoping time will stretch so that more people will see my work, and so that more canvases will get little red Purchased stickers placed next to them on the wall.

It’s such a blast being me.

I walk over to Janie in the corner, my best friend and faithful buffer. She always comes to my events, happy to stand silently with me by a wall. She also covers for me with Maud if I need to go outside and catch my breath. Maud is my manager, who I notice sealing the deal with a young couple eyeing one of my smaller pieces. She is a total New Yorker: sharp, stylish, genius, ruthless. She pushes me, usually in a good way, but sometimes in a way that requires Janie to step in as a human shield between the two of us. Sam also comes to these, of course, but she’s too busy flitting around making new lifelong besties to help me if I need it.

“Less than an hour,” Janie says with a smile.

“Yep, I’m good.”

“Want another water?” she asks, but my voice leaves me when I look at the door.

It’s him.

He came.

Not that I was planning he would or hoping he would . . . Okay, I was kind of hoping he would. I knew he’d been watching my stories on Instagram from time to time. He didn’t post often, but when he did, they were always group photos. He seemed to have a lot of friends, coworkers, double dates, or business meetings—it was hard to tell. I’d refrained from following him or leaving comments. But dadgum those wizard hands and his gorgeous grin. I couldn’t forget them. So, I’d noticed whenever his profile photo showed up in my notifications if he’d watched my stories or reacted with an emoji. When I’d posted about the reception tonight, I’d wondered if he’d notice, if he’d come.

And now he had, and thank God I’d gone with my signature high-necked dress because I could feel the splotches breaking out across my collarbones…