Their story ended ten years ago but one week together on a private island is bringing up all their plot holes and character flaws…

Sadie Canton writes America’s favorite romance novels. She’s created one hit happy ending after another, all while avoiding her own painful cliffhanger.

But she can’t avoid him anymore.

Her sister’s wedding is forcing her to face her demons, her secrets and most of all her best friend turned bitter enemy, Shep Riggs.

The boy she knew is gone and the man before her is angry, arrogant, competitive, and hot as the Caribbean sun bearing down on them. But Sadie planned for this. It’s time to be the hero of her own story, face her past and close that chapter of her life for good.

She’s ready for her villain and his jabs, his smirk, even his eightpack.

What she’s not ready for is Shep’s side of the story, and he’s determined to tell it — rough, unedited, and nowhere near The End.

***

This standalone Heartlanders novel, while fun and fast paced, spans almost twenty years. Fans of sweeping second-chance romances like Every Summer After, Love and Other Words, Ruthless Rival, and November 9 will adore this smart, steamy, full-length contemporary romance.

Prepare for hilarious banter, surprise twists, a happily ever after that more than makes up for almost throwing your kindle across the room, and a sisters group text thread you’ll wish you could join!

PROLOGUE

THE PRESENT
DALLAS, TEXAS

I cannot believe the nerves I’m feeling right now. I might actually be sick. It’s writing, Sadie! You do this every single day—get a grip! But the header of the website, my own website, taunts me.

Sadie Canton, America’s Paramour.

Yikes.

The little pink hearts dancing around my name?

Gag me.

I should’ve taken that down years ago, even if the press is stuck on that nickname. Gwyn insisted, though. She loves it. But as much as I adore her, Gwyn may not be entirely right in the head. She’s in marketing, after all.

Every time I’m mentioned in the media, good or bad, I can track the adrenaline hitting her bloodstream. Her eyes bulge from her skull, and she starts to salivate, literally. In those moments, she always reminds me of a French bulldog—adorable and just a little bit deranged.

She hates what I’m doing now. She wants television interviews, podcast tours, the works. But I don’t want to put this into sound bites. I need to write it out.

Lorelai and Tash agree, my sisters agree—I have to do this my way.

The cursor flashes there, waiting.

Ugh, this is going to hurt.

I swallow and start to type.

Dearest Readers,

I’m not sure how to even begin this post. I’m aware no one reads blogs anymore. But this is important and can’t fit into an Instagram caption. And I want to write to you directly.

I guess I should start with the debacle in the Caribbean and the stint in the hospital a few weeks ago. That was all blown wildly out of proportion by the paparazzi, I assure you. I’m fine. We’re all fine. Although, again, I apologize sincerely to my sister Samantha and my new brother-in-law Emerson.

And I apologize to you, my beloved friends.

I feel I owe it to you, even if—truly—the words I wrote spiraled beyond me, grew bigger than me. You all felt the change, inspired it, even. Still, we’ve shared so many pages, you and I. You choose to hold my rambling thoughts in your hands, when you could hold so many other things, to give my stories your time and attention, and that, to me, is precious.

So I’m sorry.

Because I asked my publicist how many interviews she thinks I’ve done over the years to promote my dozens of romance novels and my handful of movie adaptations. She told me the number is well into the hundreds. If you’ve seen some of them, you know my famous one-liners, you’ve heard about my own romance, you know my stories.

The thing is, for over a decade, in every one of those
interviews . . . 

I lied.

 

CHAPTER 1

ONE MONTH AGO
THE CARIBBEAN

I can do this. I will do this. I can do this for Samantha. I can do this for Emerson. I can do this for myself.

I play the mantra on a loop as the little rusty cab bumps me along the winding road to Cielo Escondido. When Sam told me she and Emerson were going to do a destination wedding, I was surprised. The destination weddings I’ve been to have all been intimate, low-key, barefoot-on-the-beach affairs. Charming, romantic, and small.

Silly me.

Nothing Samantha does is small.

And we are Cantons. While we still feel like a somewhat normal family of Okies with a greeting card business, Canton Cards International has expanded beyond the wildest dreams of my father and grandfather. We are listed in articles about “American Royalty” alongside the Fords and the Waltons.

But we’ve got a big fat load of nothing on Samantha’s fiancé. Emerson Clark is the oldest son in one of Great Britain’s billionaire families, as beloved as actual British royalty.

So when these two say “destination wedding,” what they mean is “we’ve bought out a secluded resort on a private island for six hundred guests for an entire week.”

As my ride pulls past the gate into the palm-lined drive, I see the appeal. The lush grounds boast every color of the rainbow, in every type of flower, shrub, and tree. Each bloom is bigger and more saturated than the last. Leaves of every shade of green sway in the breeze, and I spot lemons, oranges, mangoes, and coconuts as we wind toward the hotel. The land looks wild yet kept. Bursting yet meticulously manicured. Peaceful yet thrilling too.

We pull up to a sprawling main building, an ivory stucco palace that is almost blinding in the afternoon sun. Windows and doors are open, birds and insects harmonize their songs, and the heavy air smells like plums and tree sap. The name of the hotel translates to Hidden Heaven. I get it, I do.

But for the next week, this place is, without a doubt, going to be my personal hell.

Me: Showtime [Crying emoji]

Tash: You are one of the strongest badass bitches I know.

Tash: You got this!!!!

Lorelai: You’re a queen, Sadie. Head high, heels on. Consider this week already handled.

Me: It doesn’t feel handled . . .

Lorelai: Feelings are liars, darling, you know this.

Me: True. Wish me luck.

Tash: You don’t need it.

Lorelai: Who needs luck when you have us? [Kiss emoji]

I take a breath and switch to my other text thread. I hit send, ripping the Band-Aid of this week right off.

Me: I’m here

Sam: YAS!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sam: Now the gang’s all here!

Sam: Sade, come straight to the Honeymoon Villa.

Sam: The rest of you meet us there ASAP!!!

Skye: Since it’s her wedding week, we’re letting her run wild with exclamation points and all caps.

Sam: YEP!!!! =D =D =D

Sam: Just like how on your wedding week, we all left you alone.

Sam: Radio silence for days, remember?

Skye: I do. It was glorious.

Sam: Weirdo!

Sam: !!!!!

Sally: Skye’s face twitches every time her phone buzzes.

Sally: It’s hilarious.

Skye: Not as hilarious as you last night after ONE drink, pipsqueak. I have video.

Sally: What I meant was, can I bring you anything? Drinks for everyone?

Susan: Oh yes please! I’ll have a few of whatever you had last night.

Me: A few? Already? What have I missed?

Susan: The wedding planner’s flights have been delayed. Guess who’s pinch-hitting as coordinator?

Sam: And I love you so much for it!

Sam: And Sal, I already have Juan bringing us various drinks with little umbrellas.

Sam: SO ALL OF YOU JUST GET OVER HERE!

I smile at my crazy sisters and hustle to Sam’s suite as fast as I can with direction from the concierge. I’ve got a ball cap pulled down, sunglasses on, and an oversize sweatsuit to complete my Hobo in Hiding look. I don’t want to run into anyone, especially not before I freshen up.

Since we have the whole island to ourselves, I didn’t bring my bodyguard, and I’m already missing that layer of insulation between me and the world. Dean needed some time off. And really, this isn’t the world. This is mostly family and close friends.

Mostly.

I walk faster.

A tan, fit, positively radiant Samantha opens the door just as I am about to knock.

“Sadieeeee!” she cries as she hugs me hard around my arms before I can lift them.

“She’s in rare form, even for her,” Skye jokes from somewhere beyond the door.

“I am, I really am.” Sam smiles wide as she takes my bags from me. “I’ll have someone take these to your villa down the path. You and Sally and Janie are together. How were your flights?”

“Fine, sorry I couldn’t come in yesterday with you all.”

“We get it, Hollywood. Set life and all that, so glamorous!” Susan says as she meets me with a hug. Sally and Skye join in right after. As I walk deeper into the villa, we make quick work of catching up about everyone’s flights and Susan’s kids’ shenanigans so far.

I finally see the view from Sam’s private patio. It’s unreal. As in, must be photoshopped. The bright aqua ocean kissed by sand so white it hurts my corneas. The beach seems to extend forever in front of us and on either side, interrupted only occasionally by palm tree clusters. This must be the best view on the whole property.

“Okay,” I sigh, staring. “I see how you got Emerson to agree to this.”

“That’s what I said too.” Skye is my most introverted sister, and our soon-to-be brother, Emerson, is even more extreme. He and Samantha are a true grumpy-sunshine-opposites-attract situation that I couldn’t have written better or sweeter if I’d tried. And I might try, if she lets me. My modern retelling of our parents’ love story has become one of my most popular novels to date.

“This view, a few certain bikinis, unmentionable sexual favors”—Sam laughs, and we all cringe while laughing too—“and the promise that he could go hide alone somewhere on this island as much as he needs to or wants to, aside from the rehearsal dinner and actual wedding.”

“And is that where he is now? Hiding up a tree somewhere?” I turn to her, still half giggling and enjoying my mental picture of Emerson Clark hiding from his own friends and family behind a tree trunk. Samantha’s face falls, and the room goes painfully quiet.

Okay, here we go.

“He and the guys are playing volleyball,” she says quietly. Susan and Skye stare at me, while Sally looks between all of us.

“Right. Listen, let’s not be weird about this,” I start, forcing myself to keep my voice calm and my face cheery.

“Sadie, you know Emerson doesn’t have many friends. We couldn’t—”

“Sam.” I dip my chin and almost glare at her. “I know that. Of course. This week is about you guys, not me.”

“Wait, what are we talking about here?” Sally asks.

I put a reassuring hand on the bride’s shoulder. “I’m fine with it. I mean, all of it was like a decade ago! Give a girl some credit!” I widen my eyes indignantly. I turn to Sally. “Shep.” I shrug a shoulder.

“Shep . . . Riggs?” Sally’s eyes go wide at me.

“Not many other Sheps in the world . . . fortunately.”

Sally takes a hair of a step backward. “Gummy bears Shep Riggs?”

My chest immediately aches as Susan nods quickly.

Skye clears her throat. “And Dennis too.”

I sigh. “And Dennis.”

“Wait.” Sally joins us in the miserable reality that is my life. “Two of the groomsmen are your ex-boyfriends?!”

“Ex-boyfriend and ex-fiancé,” Susan mutters, eyeing me. I’m sure she’s imagining how terrible this is for me, and she is spot-on. But I won’t show it.

“Yes. But we are all adults now, and my relationships with both of them are ancient history. Neither of them is bothered, and I’m not either. Really, I can’t believe you guys were worried about this! You know me. I’ve done allll the internal work. I’m fine!” Again, I pretend to be offended at their lack of faith in my total fine-ness. They buy it and take a collective breath. Well, three out of the four. Skye isn’t sure.

Not only is she the most perceptive of my sisters, but she was also in New York with me. She saw some of the carnage, as much as I tried to hide it. In fact, she may have seen more than even I saw myself at the time. I force away the memories as Sam starts to babble.

“Oh, whew! Good, okay. Great! I really was worried because we’ve never really talked about it, and like here they are and here you are and hey-o how about a week stranded on an island together—woohoo!” She laughs, and I do too, feeling my will to live wither with each fake chuckle.

“I knew you’d be fine. It’s not like you haven’t dated or uh, hello! Been engaged! Since then.” Susan starts to relax as she passes us each a drink. I appreciate that while mine is a nonalcoholic cocktail, I still get a paper umbrella.

“Exactly.” They don’t know the whole truth, and they don’t need to. It’s over. The memories, the confusion, the grief, even the hatred—it’s all in the past now. “Moving on,” I say, walking back across the gorgeous villa. “I come bearing sister gifts!”

Samantha gasps. “You did?”

“Yes!” Sally pumps her fists as if she knew this was coming.

“You don’t have to do this every time,” Susan says half-heartedly.

“Yes, she does, we expect it now!” Skye counters. “Gimme!”

I pretend to huff at her. “K, so yours is going back.”

“Going back where?” Skye huffs too. “We know you get these things in your celebrity gift bags, and we’re fine with it. Please give us your Hollywood hand-me-downs.”

We all laugh, and I start passing things out of my big tote bag.

“Sally, a hookup from my agent,” I say, handing her an envelope.

“Holy shit!” Sally yells.

“Language,” Susan says automatically.

“Thank you!” She squeals and hugs me hard after she discovers the four tickets to a Harry Styles concert in Dallas. I don’t personally understand her generation’s obsession with him, but I’m happy to host her and some friends at my apartment after all their concert dreams come true.

“Suze is next, and Skye is right, this was from a goody bag.” I don’t say it was from the Oscars because they will tease me to no end about it.

“Sadie! This thing isn’t even on the market yet! I looked it up!” She gasps as she pulls out a UV light face mask contraption that is supposed to be better than Botox.

“I know. And sister, it’s legit, let me tell you. I got an extra for myself,” I admit.

“How many Darth Vader–type contraptions do you two own at this point?” Skye teases but then adds, “And can you give me any you don’t use anymore?”

“Same!” Samantha says.

“Skye, these weren’t from one of my goody bags, because I don’t get invited to the Grammy’s.” I hand her a small box.

“Another pair of noise-canceling headphones? How many does she need?!” Samantha squawks as Skye pulls them out of the packaging.

“These aren’t just any headphones. They’re like the Rolls-Royce of headphones. And!” She pulls them out of the protective sheath. “They’re neon!” We all ooh and aah over them.

“Lastly, the woman of the hour,” I say, handing Samantha a wide flat box. I watch her face with glee. I had my illustrator, who creates all the wonderful couples that don my book covers, draw Samantha and Emerson. They’re in London, he’s wearing a suit, she’s in her bright yellow dress, it’s gorgeous.

And she’s weeping.

“Sadieeeeeeee, I love it so much!”

“You love my book covers, so I thought it might be special for your own happily ever after.” I sniff into her neck as she hugs me tight.

“Damn. I feel bad for everyone else who bothered with wedding presents,” Skye says as she, surprisingly, turns the moment into another group hug. “No gifts can compare to Sadie gifts.”

“Facts,” Sally says.

My heart warms. I am not around as much as I should be, and I wasn’t around when they needed me the most. We lost a few precious years that I can never get back. But I do see my sisters, and I know them. And giving gifts is a way to remind them of that. To remind them I still get them and accept them. I’m still on their team, and hopefully express that, even though I’ve failed before, from here on out, I’ll always drop everything and run if they need me.

I pull out of our hug and grab my glass. “Okay, enough sappy stuff. Here’s to an amazing couple and a weeklong party all about this gorgeous bride!” All five of us call out cheers and gush over Sam. She is ecstatic. Peak Samantha, as my mother would’ve said. She starts to go over the activities for the week. There are many.

Um, have I been transported to some kind of billionaire-wedding sleepaway camp?

Each day has adventurous excursions in the morning and relaxing methods of recovery in the afternoon. There are classes, various group mealtimes and food options, different entertainment each night, and set quiet hours. Just like summer camp.

Maybe I should have used my I have to be on set excuse for a few more days.

Especially since every single night there’s a themed dinner, starting with tonight. The theme for tonight is the color yellow, and we’re all supposed to meet at the main restaurant in just a couple hours. Ugh.

I excuse myself to get ready, and Sally joins me. I know she wants to ask for more details about Shep and myself. Dennis she doesn’t know, but she’s seen Shep on and off throughout the years, since Susan’s husband, Adam, Emerson, and Shep were best friends in college. That’s how Emerson got the job in accounting at Canton Cards’ offices in New York: because he and Susan are friends. We all went to OU together, even though I was a few years behind them.

Since Sally is still at home in Oklahoma near Dad and Susan and Adam, she’s probably seen Shep around quite a bit. I’m not sure. But instead of asking or volunteering more information of my own, I claim fatigue and duck into my room. She lets it go, thank goodness.

I shower and start to prepare. Mentally, emotionally, physically. I pray too. I need strength. I need peace. I need more hairspray to fight the island’s crazy humidity.

I decide to surrender and go with beach waves. My long, dark blond locks don’t look nearly as nice as they would if my glam team were here, but they’ll do. As will my own makeup job and the tight yellow dress I picked up for this evening.

Funny.

I’d rather face all of Hollywood. Or a live 6:00 a.m. spot on Good Morning America. Or even one of those dreadful Reading My One-Star Reviews segments on one of the late-night shows. Even an awkward dinner with Dennis discussing our failed relationship.

Any of those options sound better than coming face-to-face with Shep Riggs.

_____

 

I look at myself in the mirror. I stretch my spine and push my shoulders back. Unaffected. Content. Successful. Happy. New York Times Bestseller. Producer. Celebrity. Sadie Canton, America’s Dadgum Sweetheart. That’s who I am. That’s who I have to be to get through this.

I slip on my wedge sandals, grab my clutch, and make my way out of my room. Sally and Janie—Skye and Sam’s close friend from New York—must’ve already left. I hold my chin up as I walk the path to the lobby alone. But it doesn’t take long to bump into people from the guest list. Friends of my parents, a distant cousin, a Canton Cards franchisee who’s been with us from the beginning.

Everyone gawks at me a little bit. I understand, as I’ve met almost all my heroes in person now. They never quite live up to my vivid imagination. So I can’t help but wonder if those around me are thinking things like, Her face has a lot more fine lines in person than on Instagram or Her teeth aren’t as white in person as they are on TV or I wonder why she got dumped by that sexy actor from her movie.

I focus on the kind things actually coming out of their mouths rather than the crazy thoughts I put inside their heads. Really, no one is all that worried about me. They’re wondering what crazy thoughts I’m thinking about them. The more I study humans, the more I find we’re all a bunch of raging, insecure narcissists. Yay, humanity!

I do love chatting with Aunt Lee, though, one of my mother’s best friends, who is going on and on about my last movie. She hates the way they changed the ending from how it was in the book. I know, Aunt Lee, you and everyone on the internet.

I see the main dining area coming up ahead of us and excuse myself. I want to shake off these conversations and put on the most genuine smile I can muster before heading in there, so I duck into a small bar off the main lobby. One wall is lined with windows overlooking a pier where some of the resort boats are docked. It looks peaceful out there. I debate pulling off my shoes, throwing them over my shoulder, and making a run for a small boat. I could man it, right? Push off into the sunset, alone?

No. This is for Sam. I take a deep breath.

But the breath catches, before my ears even hear the words behind my back. My whole body senses what’s coming before my brain does. As my mind catches up, my heart constricts. There’s a hint of stupid excitement, almost lifelong wonder, but mostly, the grip on me is one of dread.

“There she is, America’s Paramour.” His voice is deeper and rougher than the last time I heard it. His small-town accent is all but gone now. But the hairs standing on end all over my skin confirm it’s him.

Emotions rush through me as my whole being reacts, hopefully invisibly. I see a slideshow of all the moments with him passing through my mind like a video stuck on fast-forward. Only the first few images are happy. Then there’s only pain.

Shep. Shep. My best friend, my first love, my antihero, my ruin. My everything and then my enemy. I don’t allow myself to startle or gasp or adjust my posture at all. Not one iota. This will not be like last time. I simply turn with a small smile and greet him with his new nickname, like he’s done to me.

“And you, A Wolf in Shep’s Clothing.”

My voice sounds so calm! Easy breezy! Unbothered!

Hell yeah! Good job, Sadie. You got this.

Then I actually see him.

Oh.

He looks amazing. I don’t let my eyes wander past his face, not that it’s hard to keep them there. He still reminds me of a missing Hemsworth brother but with sharper features and blonder hair. Like a Viking. Like a hero. Like a grown man.

Why, God? Why do men get hotter with age? Is he taller somehow?

The small crow’s-feet? The tiny wisps of gray in his sideburns? WHY?

I ignore the irritating, cocky half smile he gives me. I pass over the scar on his forehead and the stubble on his chin. I make myself look square into his eyes.

They’re the same. Damn it. Damn him. One look in the bright green, and I’m caught, trapped in his gaze, frozen. I’m right back there, that night.

I’m fourteen all over again…