Chapter One
Savannah pulled her iPad from her oversized bag and checked to make sure no one was paying attention before opening her email and choosing the address of her best friend, Stacy who dealt in international law and was always on the go.
Hey girl,
I sure wish you were here right now, or at least in the country so I could pick up the phone and call. I don’t even know how to start to tell you what I’m feeling right now so let’s start with the mundane—the “what’s going on” things.
First, the house I’m renting from Charli Judd is so adorable, I made her an offer on it. I mean, it’s a little smaller than what I’d consider ideal, but I found this really great contractor who said I could easily add on. The real point is, I love the place and I hope when you get back to the States you can find some time to come visit.
Cotton Creek is, and isn’t, exactly what I expected. When Analise invited me to come here, I was thrilled. I still feel like I need to pinch myself to make sure it’s real. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read her books and what a fan girl I’ve been. To be able to write with her is like a dream come true.
This place is the quintessential small Texas town. The people are friendly, decent, and honest and of course, everyone knows everyone. If you’re a newcomer, you definitely stand out, but for the most part people are quite accepting and make you feel right at home.
But then I’ve told you all this, haven’t I? A dozen times or so in the three months I’ve been here? Yeah, I’m avoiding diving into what prompted this email. Okay, bear with me. I’ll get there.
So, you remember me telling you all about this huge oil field thing that went bust? Well, it didn’t go bust. It was a fracking site and when there was one issue and fear of water contamination, the owners, the Legacy family, ordered the whole thing to come to a stop.
I have to give them credit. They could have made billions, and yet they let environmental concerns take precedent. Picture me giving them high fives and cheering. They redid everything and now are pumping millions of gallons of natural gas and have retasked some of the land for windmill farms. They’re employing a lot of people and thanks to all that, this and other surrounding counties are flourishing.
Someone even started a dance studio in town. Well, it’s not a bona fide studio. The guy who does it rents out the Legion hall when it’s not being used. And the classes are what you’d expect—you know, learn to ballroom dance, and cha-cha and Salsa and all that jazz. A friend I’ve made here talked me into signing up. I went once and… Well, I went once and we’ll get back to that.
Right now, I’m sitting in the local high school auditorium, watching rehearsal for a musical the local theatre group is doing. Get this. There will be dancing and they will try to make it dirty. Yep, you guessed it. Every woman over the age of 40’s “big sigh” film. I know, I know. No one can ever do justice to Johnny, right?
W R O N G. And I mean O M G wrong.
Which brings me back to what prompted this email and why I only went to one dance class.
Mason James.
Stacy, I swear to God I’ve never seen a man like him before. Well, maybe I have. And maybe it’s not his looks, although he is F I N E (in huge font). But what makes him so lethal is that he is playing the part of Johnny and my God.
HE CAN MOVE.
I mean mesmerize you, turn you into a vibrating pile of female need, make you daydream about all kinds of “dirty.” Honestly, I can’t even blink when I’m watching him. How can a man move that…sexy?
My friend has been bugging me to go back to the dance lessons but I can’t. I don’t just have two left feet around him, I have two left feet in combat boots. With glue on the bottom. Or mud. Thick, suck your feet to the bottom of the muck, mud.
Okay, I can see you. I know that expression and I know what you’re thinking. Why am I getting so worked up over some dude who works in a dance studio? In Bumfuck, Texas, no less. I’m a successful businesswoman and a newly crowned bestselling writer who has sold the film rights to her first novel and the next series that isn’t even published. What’s the big deal with a dance teacher in Cotton Creek Texas?
The big deal is… Mason James makes me want to rip his clothes off and lick him all over.
There, I’ve said it. Ms. I-Don’t-Need-a-Man-and-Never-Get- Horny vanished the day I saw him dance and now sex is all I can think about. And damn it all, for a man who doesn’t even know I exist.
How pathetic is that? Help!!!
Your pitiful friend in Cotton Creek,
Savannah
Savannah’s finger was poised over the button, ready to hit Send, but she paused, stared at the screen for a few moments, and then deleted the email. Writing the confession would have to be catharsis enough; there was no way she was actually going to let anyone read it.
So rather than hit send, her finger moved the cursor to the trash symbol to delete the email. Just then, the music changed. She looked up and damn if she wasn’t frozen, unable to do anything but watch as Mason walked onto the stage.
When he finished his routine, every female there clapped and cheered, and within moments, he was surrounded by women, young and all, all trying to touch him or get closer.
Savannah watched and felt her self-esteem plummet. What was she doing there? She wasn’t a twenty-something nymphet who could gyrate like a top. She wasn’t a dancer or performer, she couldn’t sing, and couldn’t even paint backgrounds.
So why was she there? Was it really for research for a book? For a moment, she considered it, then shook her head, crammed her iPad in her bag and stood. She was supposed to be finding the inspiration for a tale of adventure, action, danger, and chemistry between characters that lit a fire and led to the kind of passion every woman dreams of.
Not the sad tale of a woman who lusted for a man way out of her league.