By Catherine Anderson
Whilst Molly Wells confirmed up at Jake Coulter's ranch, she had not anything yet a few additional outfits, a stolen horse, and a terror of her ex-husband that threatened to rule her existence. She'd heard Jake used to be a real-life horse whisperer-and might be the one guy alive who may aid the gorgeous stallion that her ex-husband had so bitterly abused. yet she had no concept that Jake's skills might paintings their magic on her, with a similar energy to realize her belief, provide her power, and whisper away her inner most fears. "No one writes riveting emotion particularly like Catherine Anderson. Her expertise for delving into wealthy, emotional depths is unmatched." (Romantic instances) "Catherine Anderson is likely one of the top romance writers today." (Affaire de Coeur)
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Additional resources for Sweet Nothings
You know what they say about wise men making it into heaven. html Someone screamed. Molly jolted awake and listened. The sound didn’t come again, and she decided she had been dreaming. She started to roll over but was so stiff her joints felt frozen. She blinked, tried to see. There was only blackness. Where was she? She felt like a hunk of frozen meat at the bottom of a freezer. She hugged her arms, rubbed her sleeves. She was so chilled that her flesh felt numb. Another high-pitched scream rent the air.
He had the cowboy saunter perfected to an art, she’d give him that, his long legs lazily marking off strides, his lean hips shifting loosely. She tried to avoid his gaze, but the closer he came, the harder it was. His shadow finally fell over her. She flicked her gaze to his, couldn’t look away. No maybe to it, the man had a gleam in his eyes. Was he trying to make her nervous? There was an alarming thought, and now that she came to think of it, that made perfect sense. This afternoon, she’d sensed that he was suspicious of her story.
She sank gratefully onto a battered old chair, her heart racing as she tried to focus on the chili. She was acutely conscious of the sounds Jake made across the room, the clunk of firewood, the crinkle of newspaper. Within seconds, he had a fire laid. He took a kitchen match from the box on the mantle, and with one quick snap of his wrist, struck it on the side seam of his Wranglers. Molly had never seen anyone light a match on his pants. She tried to picture herself doing it that way and decided she’d either freeze to death for want of heat or set herself on fire.