Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 77936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Then
In high school, Maverick and I were best friends. Inseparable. We shared everything from video games to camping adventures to a first kiss that shattered everything I knew about myself. Our first love was sweet and true and not nearly enough to keep Maverick on the ranch he hated.
Now
Twenty years later, Maverick’s back in town to sell the ranch he’s inherited. As the sheriff, I know losing the ranch will devastate the county. The area needs Maverick to stay. As a single dad with far more than my own heart on the line, I need him gone. Rekindling our friendship would be a Grand Canyon-sized mistake. But then we kiss, and every old feeling comes rushing back.
Now What?
My heart wants Maverick, but my brain knows he’ll leave again. How can I ask him to stay somewhere with so many painful memories? He might be healing day by day, but I struggle to trust in second chances. Is there a way for us to ride off into the sunset together?
Want You Back is book one in a new small-town Colorado cowboy romance series from beloved author Annabeth Albert with Yellowstone meets Schitt’s Creek vibes. It features the return of a ranch owner’s son and the sheriff who never forgot him. Mature main characters, high school friends with feelings to adult lovers, steamy reunion romance, hurt/comfort, found family, and big feels with a standalone HEA guaranteed!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
“True friendship doesn’t fade with distance—it grows stronger with every trail ridden.”
~sign in the Lovelorn Bunkhouse
Chapter 1
Colt
Now
The black luxury import with California plates was begging for a ticket. I’d spent enough years as a deputy in the Disappointment County Sheriff’s office that I accurately clocked the driver doing eighty in a fifty-five even before I used my radar. As sheriff, I didn’t usually get involved with traffic stops, but I was more than happy to make an exception for the out-of-towner. Honestly, my job was way more meetings and personnel matters than law enforcement, and I missed being out in the field something fierce.
The chance to flip on my lights was a fun novelty, as was chasing down the little import. Clearly a tourist because a sports car wouldn’t make it through a single Colorado winter. I did take a moment to admire the zippy handling as the car hugged the curvy county road. I’d first caught sight of the car coming off Highway 491, and if anything, he’d sped up once free of the area’s main highway. The driver took his sweet time noticing me in his rearview, making my admiration slide right into irritation.
The driver finally got the idea to pull over onto a side road shortly before the turnoff for Lovelorn Ranch. Oh. With Melvin Lovelorn’s death a week ago, chances were high that this city slicker was a vulture here to circle. The family had opted not to hold public services, not entirely a shocker for the town patriarch few would miss. However, the Lovelorn Gazette had a pretty little write-up on the front page, and in a state with ranch land at a premium, more than a few savvy real estate types were known to comb obituaries.
I ran the license plate, but as usual, the system was beyond slow. I called in the stop to our dispatch in case I needed backup and asked Dolores to run the plate for me while I went and talked to the driver.
Well and truly irritated, I didn’t have to work to put on my meanest glare along with my cowboy hat as I strode toward the sports car. Always paid to be cautious, so I approached nice and slow, senses on red alert for potential problems. Dude certainly knew the drill, though, both hands on the steering wheel, window already rolled down, gaze straight ahead behind designer sunglasses. Heck, he even had his wallet out and open on the seat next to him.
I couldn’t wait for Dolores to get back to me on those plates. This guy was likely sitting on a stack of tickets in multiple states. No way was I letting him off with a warning.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?” I asked as I approached the driver’s side window. My pulse sped up because this was always a critical moment during traffic stops. If he was armed, inclined to be a runner, or ready to be belligerent, now was when he’d play his hand.
“Reckon I was a smidge over the limit.” The guy had a smooth voice, more Western than the typical California accent. No slur to his speech, but I hadn’t ruled out a field sobriety test. He kept his hands on the wheel, no visible tremor, so I moved my observations to his face. The sunglasses obscured what looked to be a slim, chiseled Caucasian face. Scruffy jawline like he hadn’t shaved since California. Not a kid. Likely somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five, judging by the short brown hair with no signs of gray.