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Chapter One

“Do as I say, not as I do,” Amanda Sparks spouted to her agent as she neared the residential neighborhood where her aunt lived. The throaty rumble of her electric-blue 1976 Corvette never failed to get her heart pumping. With the top down, the music on, and the wind in her auburn hair, she managed to distract herself for a moment from all the reasons she was in Antelope Rock, Wyoming, and the shit show her life was becoming as a result. “I realize I can be the queen of procrastination, but I need you to get this done, like yesterday.”

“Fine—I’ll overnight it to you. I’ll never understand why you insist on a print copy. There is a thing called track changes, you know? Red-penning it is old school and a time suck.”

Her agent, Madeline Fogarty, sounded as put out as ever through the Bluetooth receiver in Amanda’s ear. The woman made a mint off her client’s books, each release doing better than the previous one, so one would think she’d be more accommodating and less exasperated. Between Amanda’s blog, book sales, cable TV show, and social media following, her career was taking off. Add in her podcast appearances, and she was quickly becoming the most popular interior design and life-hack influencer since Martha Stewart—only with nicer hair and no prison record. All she needed was her own daytime talk show on one of the major nationwide networks. That was her next goal, followed by an Emmy Award.

She rolled her eyes. “Be that as it may, that’s how I do things. This is my eighth release with you—you know that. I like carrying the manuscript with me so I can look at it whenever I want.” No response came other than crackling in her ear—the service in the barren wasteland around her was the worst. “You there?”

No answer.

A glance at the radio display confirmed the call had dropped.

“Great. Just great. I’ll have to find a landline and call her back.” She smacked her palm against the steering wheel. “And would you stop doing that!”

She hated when she talked to herself. It was an annoying habit she’d gotten from her mother, and it drove her crazy. Yet, as much as she tried to curb the behavior, it persisted.

A few seconds later, her music kicked back in automatically. Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” poured through the speakers, part of one of her favorite playlists featuring songs from the eighties through the early 2000s. Reaching for the radio—the only modern upgrade she’d allowed in her beloved classic vehicle—she cranked the volume high enough to rattle the windows if they were up.

Slowing for a stop sign, she checked both ways and, seeing no one, rolled into the intersection before flooring it, her tires squealing. She kept singing along without missing a beat. “Cherry Pie” gave way to “Stacy’s Mom.”

It was a beautiful day, and that, combined with some of her favorite tunes, made the drive more enjoyable, even in the middle of bum-fuck Wyoming.

Whoop, whoop.

Flashing red and blue lights in her rearview mirror had her yanking her foot off the accelerator. As if that wasn’t enough to clue her in that she was being pulled over, “SHERIFF” was printed backward above the SUV’s front grille, readable in her mirror.

The smile vanished in an instant. “Well, shit.”

Flipping on the turn signal, she slowed and eased onto the shoulder, cringing as weeds and brush along the road pinged against the Corvette’s passenger-side paint.

Dammit.

Sliding her sunglasses onto her head, she pushed her hair back from her face, then gripped the steering wheel. She waited impatiently for the redneck cop to get out of his SUV and tell her what the hell she’d supposedly done wrong. She’d only been driving about ten miles over the speed limit. Maybe a little more. Back home, cops didn’t pull you over until you were at least twenty mph over, and that should be the standard everywhere. Right?

She eyed his reflection in the side mirror, silently urging him to hurry the hell up. When the SUV’s door finally opened, a tall man stepped out and adjusted a tan cowboy hat that matched his khaki uniform perfectly. And holy crap, he wore both well. She couldn’t see his face in the shadow of the brim, but the way his shirt stretched across his chest, shoulders, and biceps told her he had it going on almost as much as “Stacy’s Mom” did.

Noticing that had her irritation climbing another notch, and she gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white.

As he sauntered closer in what could only be described as a cowboy strut, she forced herself to take a few deep breaths and picture a place she wanted to be—anywhere but Wyoming. Her yoga instructor had taught her the relaxation technique, but for some reason, it didn’t work this time.

Maybe being super polite and sweet would get her out of whatever cockamamie traffic law this joker thought she’d broken. If she were still in her twenties, or even her thirties, and not so damn flat-chested, she might’ve considered unbuttoning her blouse. Not for the first time, she wished she’d gotten a boob job. She could certainly afford one now.

When the cop reached her door, she plastered on an award-winning smile, ready and willing to apologize and promise never to do whatever he thought she’d done again.

“Afternoon, ma’am.” He tipped his hat politely. “Mind turning the music down?”

She did as he asked, conceding he might have a point. It was hard to hear over the blaring music. “Sorry, Officer.” She added a sheepish expression, hoping it would help her avoid a ticket.

Tilting her head back, she tried to get a better look at his face, but his dark sunglasses and the glaring overhead sun kept it out of sight.

“Thank you. And it’s Sheriff Minor. Do you know why I stopped you today?”

“No, sir, I sure don’t. Do you want my license and such?”

Keep smiling, be nice, and he’ll let you go, she told herself. You’re a celebrity now—they get out of tickets all the time, right? A disturbing thought crossed her mind. But what if this hick town doesn’t have cable or internet service, and Sheriff Hottie has no clue who you are? Wait a minute—Aunt Edith has both, so maybe there’s a chance!

“I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”