The Good Ones
PRAISE FOR JENN MCKINLAY’S ROMANCES
“Jenn McKinlay writes sexy, funny romances that will leave you begging for more!”
—New York Times bestselling author Jill Shalvis
“Funny, charming, and heart-stoppingly romantic. Jenn McKinlay is a rising star.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jaci Burton
“McKinlay delivers heartwarming humor at its finest.”
—New York Times bestselling author Lori Wilde
“Clever writing, laugh-out-loud humor, and a sizzling romance. This one is a keeper.”
—USA Today bestselling author Delores Fossen
“Superbly satisfying. . . . A contemporary romance that is practically perfect in every way.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Enchants from the very first page. . . . A sparkling gem of a book that is sure to lift your spirits!”
—RT Book Reviews (top pick)
“Funny and sweet. . . . A book to enjoy.”
—USA Today
“A sweet, endearing, heartwarming read that is perfect for the holidays.”
—Harlequin Junkie
Titles by Jenn McKinlay
Bluff Point Romances
ABOUT A DOG
BARKING UP THE WRONG TREE
EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY
Happily Ever After Romances
THE GOOD ONES
Cupcake Bakery Mysteries
SPRINKLE WITH MURDER
BUTTERCREAM BUMP OFF
DEATH BY THE DOZEN
RED VELVET REVENGE
GOING, GOING, GANACHE
SUGAR AND ICED
DARK CHOCOLATE DEMISE
VANILLA BEANED
CARAMEL CRUSH
WEDDING CAKE CRUMBLE
Library Lover’s Mysteries
BOOKS CAN BE DECEIVING
DUE OR DIE
BOOK, LINE, AND SINKER
READ IT AND WEEP
ON BORROWED TIME
A LIKELY STORY
BETTER LATE THAN NEVER
DEATH IN THE STACKS
HITTING THE BOOKS
Hat Shop Mysteries
CLOCHE AND DAGGER
DEATH OF A MAD HATTER
AT THE DROP OF A HAT
COPY CAP MURDER
ASSAULT AND BERET
A JOVE BOOK
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019
Copyright © 2019 by Jennifer McKinlay Orf
Excerpt of The Christmas Keeper copyright © 2019 by Jennifer McKinlay Orf
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780451492449
First Edition: February 2019
Cover art: Cowboy by Rob Lang / GettyImages; Kitten by Peter Wollinga / Shutterstock
Cover design by Katie Anderson
Book design by George Towne
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Praise for Jenn McKinlay’s Romances
Titles by Jenn McKinlay
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
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 Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Excerpt from The Christmas Keeper
About the Author
For Kate Seaver and Christina Hogrebe.
The two of you share your brilliance with me on every single book and I am ever grateful.
Best. Team. Ever.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Big gushy thanks to my men: Chris, Beckett, and Wyatt. The three of you are my pillars of support, the voices of encouragement I need when in doubt, and the best huggers on the planet. I could never write these books without you. Love you forever.
More thanks to my extended families, the McKinlays and the Orfs, as well as my close friends—your unwavering encouragement and patience are invaluable. Thanks for understanding my struggle with dates and plans and get-togethers. I really do try, I swear.
What can I say about the amazing team of people who help me with the books? Such talent! Such enthusiasm! I am so lucky to have you all—Sarah Blumenstock, Fareeda Bullert, Jessica Mangicaro, Ryanne Probst, Katie Anderson, and Stacy Edwards. It is always a magical adventure to watch a book go from an idea to a fully realized work, and I am just thrilled to have you all with me.
Lastly, for Bea and Leah Koch, the amazing owners of The Ripped Bodice. Your genius helped to inspire this series! Thank you so much!
Chapter One
When Jake took off his cowboy hat and pulled her close, Clare wrapped her arms around him and the two became one. When they kissed she knew they were making each other a promise for today, tomorrow, and forever. Clare sighed. For the first time in her life, she knew that no matter what happened, this man, who was her partner and her best friend, would be by her side. For all time.
MAISY Kelly closed the book, One Last Chance, pressed it to her chest, and sighed. Jake Sinclair, the perfect man—why did he reside only in the pages of a book? It wasn’t fair. She was twenty-nine and none of the men she’d ever dated had been even remotely as caring or charming as author Destiny Swann’s swoon-worthy hero Jake Sinclair.
Knock knock knock.
Maisy blinked. Someone was at the door. No, no, no. She had a book hangover and she didn’t want to deal with the world right now. If forced to, she might curl up in a fetal position right there on the floor and never move.
Knoc
k knock knock.
They weren’t going away. Maisy rose from where she’d been seated on the bottom step of the stairs. In theory, she was supposed to be cleaning out her great-aunt Eloise’s house; in reality she was binge-reading Auntie El’s hoarder’s trove of romance novels. It wasn’t making the task, which was heartbreaking to begin with, any easier.
Knock knock knock.
“All right, all right,” Maisy grumbled. “I’m coming.”
She strode to the door and yanked it open. Probably, if she had bothered to glance through the peephole or one of the long windows beside the door, she would have been prepared, but she hadn’t and she wasn’t.
Standing on her front step, looking impossibly handsome and imposing, was a cowboy. Maisy glanced down at her book. On the cover was the artist’s rendering of Jake Sinclair, in jeans and a white T-shirt, sitting on a picnic table in the middle of a pasture, with a cowboy hat tipped carelessly over his brow. Maisy could practically hear the cattle mooing in the background.
She glanced back up. Jeans, white shirt, and a cowboy hat. This guy had it all going on, except where the artist had left Jake’s face in shadow and not clearly defined, this guy was a full-on 3-D HD of hotness, with full lips, faint stubble on his chin, and quite possibly the bluest eyes Maisy had ever seen this side of the sky. She had a sudden urge to poke him with her pointer finger to see if he was real.
“Mornin’, miss,” the man drawled—drawled!
Miss? Huh, she hadn’t been called miss since she’d started teaching at Fairdale University. Why would he . . . ? She glanced down.
She was wearing her favorite floral Converse All Stars, ripped-up denim shorts, and her old Fairdale University sweatshirt, the one with the sleeves that hung down past her hands, oh, and she had on no makeup and her hair was held back by an enormous pink headband. She probably looked like one of her college students, possibly a freshman.
In that brief shining moment, she was certain if it were possible to die of embarrassment, she would expire in three . . . two . . . one. She gave it a second. Nope, still standing. Damn it.
“Listen, I’m sorry, sir, but whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested—” she began but he cut her off.
“Oh, I’m not selling anything,” he said. He looked bewildered. “This is 323 Willow Lane, right?”
“Yes, it is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back—” She let her voice trail off, hoping he’d get the hint. He didn’t.
“I have an appointment with a Ms. Kelly,” he said. “Or Mrs. Kelly, I’m not sure.”
Maisy closed one eye and squinted at him. She usually reserved this trick for her English 101 students when they asked if they could make up the final exam because they’d had a more pressing engagement, like recovering from their hangover, but she was more than willing to use it on tall, dark, and good-looking here.
She knew she didn’t have any appointments today. That was why she’d indulged herself in a good long reading sesh. This guy was probably a hustler, trying to con her into buying some property insurance or new windows. Ever since she’d inherited this monster of a house from Auntie El she’d had all sorts of scammers climbing out of the cracks in the sidewalk, trying to get her to refinance or buy a security system. It was exhausting.
The man met her squinty stare with one of his own. He shrinkled up one eye and mimicked her look of disbelief right down to the small lip curl. The nerve! Then she saw the twinkle in his one open eye, and she burst out laughing.
He grinned at her and her ire diminished as she noted the cowboy had a sense of humor. Okay, that was a bonus point for him. She decided to give him a break and at least take his name and number. She could call him later and decline whatever it was he was hawking.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “What was your appointment with Ms. Kelly about?”
“It’s about the house, actually,” he said.
Uh-huh. Maisy would bet her front teeth he was going to pitch all the reasons why she should take out a line of credit now.
“My name’s Ryder Copeland,” he said. “I’m a restoration architect, and you are?”
“Ryder Copeland?” Maisy’s eyes went wide. So much for keeping her teeth. “But our appointment isn’t until tomorrow, you know, Tuesday.”
“Today is Tuesday,” he said.
“No, it isn’t,” she said. “It’s Monday.”
“Sorry, it really is Tuesday. Wait,” he said. “Our appointment? You’re Maisy Kelly?”
“Uh.” Maisy stalled. What to do. What to do. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and gave it a quick glance. There was a notification waiting. It said she had an appointment. Right now, in fact, with a Ryder Copeland. She checked the date. Today was Tuesday.
She glanced back up at him. He was looking at her in surprise, as if he didn’t believe she was the owner of this house. She supposed she could fib and say Ms. Kelly was out but he’d figure that out the next time they met. Plus, she was a horrible liar. She blushed and stammered whenever she tried to prevaricate. Truly, it was just embarrassing. Finally, she nodded and whispered, “I’m Ms. Kelly.”
“Pardon?” The man pushed back his hat and leaned in, although he didn’t step any closer, probably knowing that at his height, she guessed him to be about six feet tall, he would tower over her and might scare her back inside the house like a rabbit jumping back into its hole.
Maisy cleared her throat and pushed her square-framed glasses up on her nose. Then she repeated, “I’m Ms. Kelly.”
There. She used her professor voice. That’d tell him who was boss. Sure, that was why he looked perplexed as he studied her. She tipped her chin up, daring him to say anything about her youthful appearance or general slovenliness.
“It’s nice to meet you.” His smile was slow but when it came, it was wide and warm and genuine. He didn’t look put out that she’d tried to give him the bum’s rush. He also did not look like an architect. He looked like a man who’d be more at home on a horse, herding cattle, than drawing up designs for her old home.
Maisy felt her face get warm under his steady regard. She ignored it. Maybe she could redirect him.
“You aren’t what I expected,” she said.
Mr. Copeland’s eyes moved from the pink headband in her short, curly dark hair to her bright floral sneakers, and he nodded. “I’d say we have that in common.”
His tone was as dry as a hot summer breeze and it made Maisy laugh out loud, in a full-hearted chuckle. He grinned at her as if her laughter had been his aim all along.
“I’m Ryder,” he said. He held out a hand that looked like a big old bear paw.
“Maisy,” she returned.
She slid her slighter hand into his, feeling the callused warmth of his palm surround her more delicate fingers. His grip was firm, yet gentle, not trying to prove anything but not treating her like spun glass, either. It let Maisy know without words that he viewed her as an equal. Huh. She liked that.
“Sorry about mixing up the dates,” she said. “Clearly, I wasn’t prepared for our meeting and I apologize for that. I know your time is valuable.”
“No harm done,” he said. His voice was kind, and Maisy glanced up and noticed that his eyes were kind, too. “Your message said you were looking to restore your house.” He stepped back to where he could see all three stories and tipped his head back to take it all in. “I’m assuming this is it?”
“Yes, in all its Queen Anne glory,” she said. She forced her gaze away from his square jaw and the wide set to his shoulders, cleared her throat, and stuffed her fascination with him down deep, squashing it flat by talking in her teacher’s voice. Calm, assured, capable, yes, that was better.
“Built in 1880 by my great-great-great—you get the idea—grandfather Stuart Kelly for his very well-to-do bride Margaret Hanover. Margaret is actually my given name, except it never fit, sort
of like pants that are too long, you know?”
Ryder glanced from the house to her. He looked momentarily confused and then smiled and nodded. “In my experience pants are usually too short, but I get where you’re going, Maisy.”
She liked the way he said her name. It sounded as if he was trying it on for size and liked the fit. Be still her heart.
The last date she’d had was with a geology professor at the university, and while he’d been friendly enough, she’d lost her enthusiasm for the date when he’d gone into great detail about an article he’d just read called “Pedotransfer Functions of Soil Thermal Conductivity for the Textural Classes Sand, Silt, and Loam.” She was certain it had made sense to him, but she’d spent the meal overeating to compensate for not having one word, not even a syllable, really, to add to the conversation.
She had a brief fantasy, truly no longer than a peripheral glimpse into a crystal ball, of having dinner with Ryder Copeland and talking about books, houses, and whether she could wrap both hands around his muscle-hardened bicep or not.
Ryder pushed his hat back and a swath of dark hair fell across his forehead. His eyes really were the purest blue she’d ever seen, like a midmorning sky after a night of rain, surrounded by long dark lashes that curled up at the tips. Again, he smiled at her and Maisy lost her train of thought for a moment.
House! They were talking about the house.
“Yes, well, my great-great—let’s just call him Stuart—was smitten with Miss Margaret, but her father didn’t like him, detested him actually, so Stuart built this house to prove that he could provide for her,” Maisy babbled. She knew she should stop, but like a runaway train without its engineer she was incapable of putting the brakes on the spray of words spewing forth from her lips. “Finally, after Margaret threatened to run away and elope, her father gave in and approved the marriage. The house is almost one hundred and forty years old, and I’m afraid it’s beginning to show its age, like gray hair, crow’s-feet, and a double chin, only it’s manifesting in leaky pipes, faulty wiring, and chipped plaster.”