A small town, marriage of convenience romance is coming this week from Claudia Burgoa—kicking off the brand new The Timberbridge Brothers series—and I have a sneak peek for you.
Excerpt
This is probably my new favorite place. The Honey Drop feels comforting, like a warm hug wrapped in the smell of fresh pastries and coffee. The low murmur of conversation blends with the rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine, a gentle backdrop to small-town life. I sink into my usual corner seat, a lavender latte steaming in front of me, and try to relax.
Today, I have a call with Mr. Greyson, the lawyer-slash-family advisor-slash-annoying question asker. I already know what he’s going to bring up. My fiancé. You know, the one who doesn’t exist. Yet.
Okay, maybe telling him I was engaged was a little . . . premature. In my defense, I panicked. You try inheriting a mansion and a maple syrup empire and tell me you wouldn’t lie so you can figure out your next move. Find a husband—or lose it all. I’m a resourceful woman. I figured it would buy me time.
But time is running out, and my so-called fiancé has yet to appear. It’s not like I can hire someone from Husbands ‘R’ Us.
I sigh into my latte, the aroma of lavender and espresso swirling as I take a careful sip. At least here, surrounded by chattering locals, rustic tables, and warm buttery light filtering through the big windows, I can pretend for an hour or two that I have my life together. It’s the little victories.
The bell above the door jingles, and I glance up out of habit. A guy steps inside, and the first thing I notice is that he’s not the usual Birchwood Springs fare. He’s handsome—like, big-city corporate sexy handsome. Light brown hair swept back like it just naturally does that, a jawline that could probably cut glass, and a coat that looks like it costs more than my entire winter wardrobe.
Definitely not local.
He scans the room for a second, his sharp eyes finally landing on me. I look away minding my own business when suddenly, he’s standing right there. Up close, he’s even better looking—like someone plucked him straight out of a cologne ad and dropped him in this too-charming coffee shop.
Perfectly tousled hair, a sharp jawline, and a smile that probably works on everyone but me. His dark eyes flicker with faint amusement, as if he’s already guessed what I’m thinking.
I should be flustered. Any sane person would be flustered. But instead, all I feel is . . . meh. Not the fluttering pulse or the heat curling low in my stomach like it does when Ledger so much as looks my way.
What is wrong with me?
“Is this seat taken?” he asks again, his voice low, smooth, and far too confident for someone who’s just met me.
“It’s empty,” I reply, gesturing at the chair across from me. “You can take it.”
I’m surprised when instead of taking the chair, he pulls it out and sits, the movement somehow both casual and practiced, like he’s used to being noticed. I sip my latte and focus on the foam art—still holding out hope that my heart will catch up to what my brain is telling me. Objectively speaking, he’s gorgeous. Objectively speaking, I should be swooning.
But I’m not.
Ledger’s face flashes through my mind, uninvited and entirely unnecessary, and I have to fight the urge to groan.
Of course, I think bitterly, my hormones choose now to have standards. Very weird standards.
“Not from around here, are you?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His lips tug into a smile. “That obvious?”
I arch a brow. “You look like you belong somewhere with boardrooms and rooftop bars, not small-town coffee shops.”
He chuckles, a low, rich sound. “Fair observation. But I could say the same about you.”
I blink. “Me?”
He gestures vaguely at me with one hand. “You don’t exactly blend in. Something about you says you don’t plan to stay long.”
Is that a compliment? An insult? I can’t tell. Either way, it feels like he’s peeling back a layer I didn’t invite him to touch.
“I . . . you’re wrong. I do plan on calling this home,” I reply, trying to sound breezy as I sip my latte. “So what brings you here?”
He leans back in his chair, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Business.”
Of course. What else would it be? But it’s the way he says it—vague, nonchalant, like it’s not worth explaining—that makes me narrow my eyes.
“What kind of business?”
He doesn’t answer right away, just watches me with those dark, unreadable eyes, like he’s sizing me up. “Maple syrup, I hear, is the pride and joy of Birchwood Springs. Maybe I’m in the market for some.”
I stare at him suspiciously. “You’re here for syrup?”
He shrugs, his smirk widening. “Maybe I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Personally it’s easier to go to the grocery store and buy it. Apparently, there’s a lot more to it.”
“Apparently,” I confirm. “And what else are you planning to do here?”
“Stuff,” he responds.
I roll my eyes, leaning back in my chair. “You’re terrible at answering questions, you know that?”
“And you’re not very good at minding your own business,” he fires back smoothly, though there’s a teasing note in his tone.
My lips twitch, and I hate that I’m fighting a smile. “Touché.”
There’s a beat of silence, the kind that doesn’t feel entirely awkward. He studies me, and for a second, I wonder what he sees—a woman with a half-empty latte and an inheritance she has no idea how to keep.
He stands as the barista calls a name I can’t make out, retrieving his coffee with an easy grace. When he returns, he sits, eyes locking onto mine. “Galeana, right?” His voice is warm, deep, and entirely too confident.
I blink, caught off guard. “How do you know that?”
His grin widens, and he takes a sip of his coffee before answering. “Small town. People talk.”
“Great,” I mutter, swirling the foam in my latte with my spoon. “Whatever you heard is probably not true.”
He chuckles. “Don’t worry. Most of what I’ve heard has been good.”
I glance at him, narrowing my eyes. “And who are you, exactly?”
“Erick Stinson,” he says, extending a hand. “I’m in town for business. Consulting, mostly.”
“Consulting,” I repeat, shaking his hand. His grip is firm but not overpowering, and his skin is warm against mine. “For what?”
“Whatever pays,” he says with a wink, his tone teasing.
I can’t help but laugh, the tension in my shoulders easing a fraction. “Sounds like a solid business model.”
“It works,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “And it means I get to meet interesting people. Like you.”
I raise an eyebrow, but before I can respond, the bell over the door jingles, and the mood shifts instantly.
I don’t have to look to know who it is.
The air practically crackles with his presence, and when I glance toward the entrance, my stomach twists.
Ledger Timberbridge.
He’s standing in the doorway, scanning the room, and the moment his eyes land on me, his expression darkens. He’s in jeans and a leather jacket, his hair slightly messy, his jaw set like he’s just walked out of a storm.
Erick notices the shift immediately. His shoulders stiffen, and his gaze flickers between me and Ledger, like he’s suddenly caught in the middle of a standoff he wants no part of.
He clears his throat, the sound awkward and deliberate. “Well, I should probably get going,” he says, standing and smoothing his blazer with quick, practiced movements. His smile is polite but strained, like he’s already halfway out the door in his head. “It was nice meeting you, Galeana. Maybe I’ll see you around?”
“Yeah,” I say, my tone flat, because what the hell is happening?
Ledger strides over like he owns the place, all confidence and purpose, his gaze locking on mine. I brace myself. By the time he reaches the table, the tension is thick enough to cut with a knife.
“Galeana,” he greets, his voice low and threaded with something I can’t quite place. Amusement? Challenge? Both, probably.
Asshole.
“Ledger,” I reply, tight smile locked in place.
I glance toward the door where Erick has just vanished, like he saw a ghost—or, more likely, Ledger. “Why did he leave when he saw you?”
“What?” Ledger tilts his head, all faux innocence, like he wouldn’t squish a bug.
“You scared him off,” I snap, crossing my arms. “Do you have some kind of ‘menacing’ setting you switch on when I’m around?”
He shrugs and lowers himself into the seat across from me like he’s been invited. He hasn’t. “Stinson always scares easily.”
I frown, thrown. How does he know Erick? He’s a newbie like me, right? He’s just passing through. “You know him? He said he’s new in town.”
Ledger shakes his head with that maddening smirk firmly in place. “Seems to me you need a tour guide. Someone to keep you safe from all the townies who might want to take advantage of you.”
I narrow my eyes, not sure if I’m more irritated by his audacity or his implication. “And you think you’re the guy for the job? My guide?”
“Who better than me? I mean, we know each other pretty well, don’t we, darling?”
I gape at him, torn between throwing the rest of my latte at his head or storming out of the café altogether. How is this my life?
“Unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” he adds, leaning forward, elbows on the table like he’s settling in for a long conversation.
“For what?” I demand, my voice just a little too high.
“For saving you from whatever bullshit Stinson was about to pull,” he replies smoothly, his words laced with that usual arrogance. But there’s something softer beneath it, something genuine that throws me off balance, even as I fight the urge to shove him right back out the door.
“He—”
“Oh, come on. He was here just for you, darling,” Ledger cuts me off, his voice dropping to something that might be considered gentle, if it weren’t dripping with smugness. “How about this: take a car ride with me, and I’ll give you a history lesson while I drive you around. A little town lore. That way, you can save yourself from all the predators you should be worried about.”
I should say no. I should. Because let’s be honest—the biggest predator in this town is sitting across from me, flashing that grin that somehow makes me forget my own name.
But maybe I can have a truce with him. Just for a little while. Information is power, and he knows far too much for me to ignore. Can I trust him though?
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