The Honeymoon Trap Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more Amara titles… Butterface

  Handle with Care

  What Happens in Vegas

  Screwed

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Christina Hovland. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  [email protected]

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Tera Cuskaden

  Cover design by KAM Designs and Christina Hovland

  Cover photography by

  AlexanderZam, trilingstudio, and Seamartini/DepositPhotos

  ISBN 978-1-64063-645-3

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition August 2018

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

  xoxo

  Liz Pelletier, Publisher

  For L.A. Mitchell, writing coach extraordinaire.

  Because she believed in me.

  Chapter One

  William Covington desperately needed a beer and a place to crash. Most of all, he needed a damn rooster to speak. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the sweltering July heat. Dust particles swirled through the air of the dirt parking lot where the KDVX live truck was stationed. The muffled sounds of a banjo from the bluegrass band on the main stage played in the distance.

  He urged the man in the bulky costume to look into the camera and say something. Anything.

  “What does Magic Mike mean to the people of Confluence?” William stepped closer and nudged the guy with his elbow, his arm sinking into the mass of feathers.

  The director’s monotone voice buzzed in his earpiece. “Miracle Mike, not Magic Mike. The rooster’s not a stripper.”

  “Miracle Mike,” William corrected.

  And he was interviewing a chicken. Rooster. Whatever. He held the mic closer to his guest’s glossy orange beak.

  Although the oversize mascot had chatted like a pro before the interview, he now remained silent. Rooster Man apparently took his performance art seriously because he pecked at the air and shuffled silently in place. Festival onlookers shifted backward as the costumed man bobbed his head in the hypnotic way of a chicken.

  A fluff piece about the annual Miracle Mike Headless Chicken Festival was fast becoming William’s journalistic downfall. Years of working his way up through larger and more exclusive news markets should have prepared him for a situation like this. He had investigated Wall Street scandals, extracted information from whistleblowers, and mastered the man-on-the-street interview. Now, in his debut appearance in the smallest television market he had ever worked, he couldn’t get a man in a rooster suit to cough up a sentence. Not even a word. Low-level reporting at the station was meant to introduce him to operations at his family’s television station, not humiliate him in front of the whole damn town.

  In the years he’d been gone, not much had changed in Confluence. The citizens still thrived on all things nutty—especially the legendary bird. A headless Miracle Mike costume, the mayor had decided, might chase off tourists and didn’t leave much breathing room for a full-size man. So the people of Confluence chose to celebrate the Mike of his youth with his head firmly attached. The tourists ate it up.

  The roving rooster made a show of pecking his way through the crowd and flapping his wings. Clearly the bird had his own agenda.

  William scrambled after him, the cameraman following.

  The director buzzed again in his ear. “Get him to talk, Cronkite.”

  Yeah.

  “Will you be running the marathon tomorrow?” William flashed a grin at the camera. He refused to be broken by an oversize cock.

  The rooster paused his movement and stood stiff. Unresponsive.

  William held his permanent smile while jockeying to get a response. “I saw you crossing the road earlier. I’m sure our viewers are curious to know why?”

  “Bwaak,” screeched the rooster.

  William’s hands itched to choke the chicken.

  “Keep it serious,” the director said, low and full of threat.

  William tossed his best what-do-you-want-me-to-do glare at the camera.

  Rooster man inexplicably burst into a rendition of the funky chicken dance.

  William moved out of the way, but the bird bobbed left when his oversize costume feet stepped right, and without even a cluck, he fell face-first onto William.

  Feathers, wings, red chicken feet, and William blended into one dusty jumble. He grunted as he reached for a wing, only to get a handful of feathers. They tumbled to the ground where the rooster lay sprawled—the top half of a William chicken sandwich.

  “There’s the money shot.” The director chuckled. “Cut back to the studio so these two can have some privacy.”

  William stifled his groan. He’d never live this down.

  The man finally rolled off and sat up to brush the dirt from his feathers. He yanked his costume head free. Perspiration soaked his red face. “Didn’t expect that to happen.”

  “Makes two of us.” William stood and helped him to his huge feet. “What was that all about, anyway?”

  Rooster dude wobbled as he stood, tugging the costume head back on. “Method acting, man. Chickens don’t talk.”

  “Gotcha.” The guy had dedication. Couldn’t deny that.

  William picked up his microphone and shook the dust off the KDVX station flag wrapped around it. He seriously needed that drink. Just like that, he had added one more tick-mark to his father’s list of Things William Managed to Screw Up. If he couldn’t handle a simple interview, how the hell would he prove he had the grit to run the family company? His father still hadn’t forgiven the debacle William’s foray into reality television caused, and that was a decade ago.

  It didn’t need to be so complicated. Move back to hometown? Check. Smooth the way to inherit family broadcasting company on upcoming thirtieth birthday? Check. Interview an uncooperative man in a rooster suit? Nope. No
t in the plan.

  William rolled the sleeves of his collared shirt to his elbows. His jeans were covered in dirt from lying sprawled on the ground, and his not-camera-ready stubble itched in the stale summer air. Parched breaths filled his lungs as he helped the crew pack up cameras and load bags of equipment into the news van.

  “Thanks for helping out today,” said Al, the cameraman, as he collapsed a leg on the tripod. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  William shrugged. Lifesaver? No. He hadn’t done anything special. Sure, the reporter scheduled for the interview hadn’t shown so he helped out when the crew was in a pinch. That was teamwork, even if it ended with a chicken on top of him.

  “Hey, you see Parker yet?” William tossed the microphone into an open bag. Over an hour had come and gone since he planned to meet his oldest, best friend here. Parker was his last shot at a place to crash tonight.

  The cameraman grunted and pointed toward the crowd surrounding the news van.

  Parker emerged with a smirk. “That is one baked chicken.”

  In his overpriced suit, Parker had to be roasting. Unlike William, no sign of sweat appeared anywhere. Always dressed his best, Parker exuded Ivy League authority as the station manager.

  “About tonight.” William squirmed a bit.

  “Man, I told you, out by five,” Parker said. “I hate to do it, but I have to. Your dad’s clear on this, and right now he’s my boss.”

  “I can’t believe you’re on his side. He has his hooks in the whole town. I searched everywhere for a place to live today. I couldn’t even get a room at the Pillow Talk Motel.” William scraped a hand over his hair.

  Parker held up his palms and backed away, frustration etched in the lines around his mouth. “I’m Switzerland here. Neutral. I need my job. Talk to him.”

  William ground out the words, “Not happening.”

  “Your call.” Parker shrugged. “See you Monday at the station.”

  Over a decade of friendship, and that’s all William got. He didn’t want to add his family drama to Parker’s plate, but was it so wrong to want a little backup?

  It seemed that everyone in town had received a don’t-rent-to-my-long-lost-son decree from his father. Joe Covington always got what he wanted, and now he wanted to keep tabs on his son by forcing him to move back under his roof. Hell, it wasn’t William’s fault his mother left Crestone Broadcasting to him instead of his father.

  William massaged the ache in his temples as his last option drifted away. Whatever pride he had packed when he moved to Confluence vanished.

  He walked the three blocks to Love’s Travel Stop where he’d left his truck. He lowered the tailgate and sat. Forget about proving to everyone he could run his mother’s company. At this point, he couldn’t even find a place to live. His only option at the moment was a two-hour commute from a hotel in the next county over, but he wouldn’t be surprised if his dad’s influence reached across the state to Denver.

  Nearby, a kid messed around with rocks and a slingshot on the small grassy area bordering the convenience store. A large dog dripping slobber barked and bounded around the boy’s feet. The mutt appeared to be the unfortunate offspring of a one-night stand between Sasquatch and a grimy kitchen mop. At the release of the slingshot, he chased the rock across the patch of lawn.

  Something near the gas pumps caught the mutt’s attention. His ears perked, and he barked once.

  William glanced across the lot.

  A pretty brunette climbed from a yellow Ford sedan and slammed the door. Her long red skirt caught when it closed. Tethered, she engaged in a mesmerizing “Flight of the Bumblebee” dance until she wrestled the fabric free.

  William grinned, disappointed the cloth had surrendered. He wouldn’t have given in so easily.

  She sauntered past him while pulling her long hair up into a clip, exposing the soft white skin of her neck. This woman wasn’t department store pretty, plastered with product and buffed to a shine. No, she was naturally beautiful. Her full lips tipped into an utterly kissable pout, and the way her hips swayed when she moved—mesmerizing. He followed her with his gaze until she disappeared inside the convenience store.

  A golf-ball-sized rock whizzed past his fingertips to ding off his truck bed.

  He glanced to the boy and raised a questioning brow.

  The boy shrugged before he turned to toss rocks toward the creek.

  William thumbed through his contacts on his cell phone. Surely, he knew someone with connections for an apartment, a house…even floor space for a sleeping bag. He glanced up again when the brunette came out of the convenience store. She held a massive fountain drink in one hand while she fumbled with her keys at her car door.

  A loud bang echoed across the lot. Glass fell from the car window, the small pieces falling in chunks to the pavement. A scream ripped from her lungs, and she flung herself to the ground.

  His heart stuttered. He ran to her side and crouched, heaving a hard, fast exhale. “You okay?”

  Blood seeped from a gash where her bare knee had collided with the asphalt. Sticky orange soda and little pieces of gravel littered her clothes. She pushed herself up. The woman was naturally pale, but at the moment, her skin had gone white.

  He grasped her wrist to help her sit. Her pulse raced under his thumb.

  She leaned against him as he helped her to her feet. When she trembled, he placed an arm around her in case she fainted—he didn’t need a rooster replay.

  “What was that?” She scanned the parking lot.

  He jerked his chin at the boy. “Kid over there is shooting rocks with a slingshot.”

  The young kid stood with his mouth gaping. His dog’s tail thumped the grass.

  “A kid? You’re kidding.” The woman blinked hard and pushed hair from her eyes. A scent of orange soda mixed with coconut drifted from her. The women he usually dated preferred designer perfume from pricey department stores, not a siren song of the tropics. Her vulnerable chestnut-colored eyes moved to him, and right then he decided his favorite color was brown.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Lu-Lucy—” She stopped and bit at her lower lip. “Just Lucy.”

  A flicker of recognition sparked in her eyes. Being identified as a TV personality was part of the on-air gig for William, but as a new journalist in Confluence, this was the first time he caught that flash of awareness here.

  “Well, ‘Just Lucy,’ I’m William.” He walked her to a picnic table on the grass.

  She slumped to the bench.

  He pointed at the boy, then snapped his fingers to his side, issuing an official summons. The kid moped to where Lucy sat.

  William kept his words firm. “Something you need to say to the lady?”

  “I—I—” the boy began. “I didn’t mean to break your window. It was just a rock.”

  William crossed his arms. “Where’s your mother?”

  The boy lifted a shoulder. “Don’t got one.”

  William blew out a long breath.

  As if on cue, a brawny police officer bolted from inside the gas station. He stalked toward them with the authority of a sheriff in an old-time western movie. The dog let out a deep wrrrooof.

  “Dad,” the boy whispered, his eyes wide with fear.

  The officer glanced at Lucy, the slingshot, and over to the shattered window. His mouth dropped in an exact replica of the boy’s. “What happened, Simon?”

  Tears spilled down the boy’s face. “It was my rock.”

  The towering cop briefly closed his eyes. “Apologies for my son. I’m Jeff Lawson, Chief of Police here in Confluence.”

  “Chief Lawson, I’m William,” he replied. “This is Lucy.”

  “Call me Jeff.”

  Lucy sat taller. “It’s my car.”

  “Ma’am.” Jeff bowed his head slightly and surveyed her oozing knee. “I’ll see to the window repair, and that knee may need stitches. Real sorry for my boy.”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s just a small c
ut. It’s just my window…” She waved her hand toward the car.

  “I know a guy who’ll replace it.” He pulled out a cell phone and tapped in a few numbers. With only a few words, he arranged for an on-site fix and then shoved it in his pocket. “He’s on his way. I’ll deal with my son and be right back.” He snatched the slingshot with one hand and the back of Simon’s collar with the other. “C’mon.”

  Simon mouthed “Sorry” over his shoulder and tripped along beside his father. The dog trotted after them, cheerful and oblivious. While Simon climbed in the front seat, Jeff opened the back for the dog and slammed the door before climbing into the driver’s side.

  William eyed Lucy and sat beside her as the cop drove away.

  “I can’t believe a kid broke my window.” She bit at her thumbnail.

  He shrugged. “Who else would have a sling shot and a piss poor aim?”

  “An errant hijacker, bandit, or…pirate?”

  He chuckled. Elbows on the table, he leaned toward her. “We don’t get many pirates in Colorado. And bandits and hijackers usually don’t strike this early in the day.”

  “I thought Colorado would be better than this.” The sarcasm didn’t entirely mask her embarrassment. “I’m going to have to move back home if you don’t have pirates here.”

  William grinned. Pretty and funny.

  He moved his hand to her shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “Who can I call for you?”

  “No one.” Something a whole lot like disappointment flickered across her face.

  “Then I’ll stay with you.” Not like he had anywhere else to be at the moment, given his lack of housing prospects. Besides, he was a moth to her flame, or some crazy shit like that. Whatever drew him to her, he wasn’t ready to leave.

  She glanced to him, her gaze flicking to his lips, and the air around them went heavy. The blood in his veins pulsed uneven.

  Her gaze slid to his hand resting on her shoulder.

  What the hell was he doing? He jerked his hand away.

  The moment broken, she dug through her purse and tugged free a makeup compact. A giant black smudge of asphalt darkened her cheek. The clip had dislodged from her pinned-up hair so loose waves fell down her back. He liked it better down.