Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 112850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Description:
Mega movie star Slade Whitaker lives under a constant microscope. Fame, fortune, and a global fanbase come at a hefty personal price of keeping his true self tightly under wraps. One he escapes from every year to his secluded West Texas ranch, far from the relentless paparazzi and the dark side of Hollywood.
For Mason Sutton, life used to be simple. Long days spent on the rich Texas soil and the quiet, steady comfort of his beloved rodeo mare, Wildflower. But one tragic afternoon shatters everything, leaving him alone to rebuild the pieces of his life. The last thing Mason wants is a sexy temptation with a great strut wreaking havoc on his broken life.
In the quiet countryside, far from cameras and gossip columns, the line between fantasy and reality blurs. Will they risk their futures for a chance at love, or will the fear of being exposed destroy the one thing that might finally make them whole?
A steamy MM celebrity romance featuring a movie star, a Texas cowboy, small-town heat, emotional hurt/comfort, and a secret relationship that could change everything
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Prologue
Mason Sutton
7 years ago
The ear-piercing squeak of the swinging saloon doors came with all the creaking that only hand-carved more than a hundred-year-old white oak could achieve. How the batwing doors were still attached to the doorframe was a marvel in itself. As far as I knew, the hinges holding the doors in place were forged before the industrial revolution became a thing. Those double-action hinges had stood the test of time but did nothing to help my aching head or tired body. The clanking bells attached to the modern front door didn’t help either.
The culprit who let the doors make all that racket was technically the man who owned this bar. My grandfather, mighty Max Sutton, shuffled across the Texas walnut floor to his carved-out piece of the bar, the place he spent every day since his stroke more than three years ago. The swishing of each booted foot, along with the walker he used, hoisted all the sounds into the high-frequency range, stabbing like a knife into my throbbing head.
Darkness frayed the edges of my vision. My stomach twisted, scrambling me down each rung of the ladder in record time. Passing out, or even worse, spewing the contents of my semi-empty stomach, would be better at ground level. Obviously, replacing light bulbs was a job better suited for tomorrow.
“You drink too much,” my grandfather said in his stroke-inhibited speech pattern. Sometimes it was hard to figure out what he tried to say, and he’d get riled up, slapping the tabletop and raising his voice. Not this time, he was straight up telling me his opinion and the words held clarity I couldn’t mistake. The same sentiment revibrated through my head every day that I woke up in the mind-numbing existence I lived.
I rested my hands on my knees, closed my eyes, and breathed in controlled puffs, trying to get past another roll of my gut. My life was painfully monotonous. This same routine every single day. Something had to give. I counted the seconds until my body behaved.
My family had kept the nostalgia of the bar intact. Not because we needed it this way, but due to the generations of our ancestors who’d owned this property and parcel of land it sat on.
The generations of Suttons had updated the hundred-and eighty-year-old bar over the years. While the Silver Star Saloon kept its vintage appearance, we did have the conveniences of indoor plumbing, climate control, and a modern kitchen.
A trickle of sweat ran down my temple as the next spike of pain shot through my head, causing me to swivel on my heels in search of the first-aid kit to find some pain reliever and anything else that might help.
“Where you goin’?” my father, Les Sutton, called from the entry with another clank of those evil bells. “We got a truck full.”
“Give me a…” I lost the battle and grabbed the bar’s undercounter trash can, burying my head inside while emptying my stomach.
“He drinks too much.” My grandfather’s rough, gravelly voice was louder than before, this time with more clarity.
“He does drink too much,” my mom, Jilly Sutton, echoed. Though her tone hinted at both compassion and concern. Instinct told me that she was headed my way. A cold can of Dr. Pepper and a wet towel were her cure-alls for a hangover. First the soda then the damp rag appeared on the bar top in front of me. “He’s also not of legal age to be drinkin’ at all. We could get in trouble.”
Again, another thing I knew without needing a refresher course.
After a few seconds, I forced myself to man up, not even trying to hide the wince as I ran the rag over my forehead and went for the small sink, splashing water over my face and into my mouth.
“Is Lori here yet?” my mom asked, her hand caressing a comforting trail down my back. Where I’d reached about six feet in height, my mom was a tiny thing, having to lift to reach my shoulders. “Babe, I can get you some breakfast.”
Oh no, absolutely not. With a hard shake of my head, I rejected anything food-related and popped the top on the soda before taking several long gulps.
My mom and I shared a connection that meant something special. She read me like a book, and I didn’t want to hear what she had to say, stopping it before it started. “I won about seventy bucks last night,” I said, rubbing the rag over my wet face. “We ended about seven this mornin’.”
“You’ve been up all night?” she asked, her brow crinkling. “How can anyone play that much poker?”
A smile touched my lips as I rested a palm on the edge of the glazed countertop made of the same walnut as the floor. No one understood the draw of poker until they played, which she never had. Besides, the guys that used our back room for their Thursday night game paid to rent the space. They drank more alcohol than a week’s worth of customers. We profited from the weekly game.