Meet Me Under The Stars

By KD Proctor

When ratings for her popular DIY show start to circle the drain after the sudden death of her sister, Charlotte “Charlie” Conti has only one mission—to plan a comeback. But her sister had other plans. As part of the will, Charlie must work with *him* to create a memorial scholarship in her sister’s memory. The same *him* Charlie fell in love with three years ago while working at a summer camp.

The same *him* she dumped to protect his heart.
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Sexy British player, Nate Walsh, has sixty days to find a new job or he’ll be deported back to England where he’s no longer welcome. He doesn’t have time to work on a memorial scholarship with *her*. The same *her* who shattered his heart without explanation or warning.
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The same *her* he’s never gotten over.
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Unable to agree on a benefactor for the scholarship, Nate and Charlie challenge each other to a winner-takes-all competition. They both know the only way to win is to turn up the heat and tease one another with the one thing they both want: each other. But as sparks fly, their true feelings resurface. Nate and Charlie must decide if their love is worth the effort or if they'll allow their disastrous past mistakes to destroy their chance at forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookFish Books
• Release date: Jul 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998994116

KD Proctor

KD Proctor loved college so much that when it came time to graduate, she didn’t want to leave. Trading in her textbooks for student handbooks and policy manuals, she began a career in college student personnel and she fulfilled her wish to stay on a college campus forever. Working on a college campus gives her lots of book ideas—but most of all, her mother is just happy she's finally using that English degree. KD is a multi-award winning author and lives in West Central, Minnesota with her husband and fur-kids. Her characters are smart, funny, and always swoony. And yes. They always get their happily ever after.

Book preview

Chapter One

Charlie

If my mother and sister were still alive, they’d both kiss my cheek and say, Honey, you’re a hot mess.

The tabloids plastered along the grocery checkout prove they’re absolutely right.

I rip a bite off the apple fritter I’m devouring, sugary glaze coating my lips. This has to be a new record. I’m not on one cover but four. At least they didn’t use one of those paparazzi shots where they caught me coming out of a restaurant blinded by flashbulbs with my eyes half shut, making me look like I’ve been on a three-day bender.

I sputter out a laugh as I read the ridiculous headline:

Charlie Conti Fired From Home Improvement Network For Scandalous Affair With Hunky Taylor Frank

First of all, those reporters have no idea how long it’s been since I’ve been out on a date.

Second, I still have my job. Barely. I’m technically on an indefinite hiatus, which is network talk for, The quality of work you’re churning out sucks ass, but because you’re still under contract, we can’t fire you. And the quality has nothing to do with Taylor Frank.

The newsprint smudges my fingers as I peel back the pages. I scoff at their sad attempt at reporting. Words like inside source and friends say litter the page. If any of my friends were their actual source, I hope they get a fat payoff and split the royalties with me.

What trouble are you in this week? Wanda teases as she rings up my groceries.

I shrug. Apparently I’ve been fired for a sex scandal.

Oh! Juicy! Was he cute?

They say he’s... I look at the magazine again. Hunky. Never mind that he’s married.

All the good ones are.

Even though my career is circling the drain, when I’m in this tiny Colorado town outside of Fort Collins, I’m not Charlie Conti, star of the popular DIY show Conti’s Cottage. I’m still the seven-year-old pipsqueak with flip-flop tan lines and ratty pigtails who visited her grandparents every summer. Small-town, we-got-your-back life replaces celebrity life. No special favors. No one asking me for a selfie. In fact, life here is so normal and uneventful, the paparazzi don’t even bother following me here anymore.

Exactly how I like it.

I shove the last bite of sugary goodness into my mouth and hold up the empty bag. One apple fritter.

What size, honey? Small or large?

I chuckle. You know I dug through that case and picked out the biggest one.

Just the girl I’m looking for! Sam, the store owner, wipes his hands on his long, black apron. I have something for you.

I’m almost afraid to ask. Knowing Sam, it could be anything from his wife’s award-winning cookies to old power tools he doesn’t use anymore.

Found an old rocking chair. Saw it on the side of the road this morning and thought it might be right up your alley.

A lump grows in my throat. I press my fingers against the hand-stamped disc of pewter around my neck. This community may have my back, but small towns are gossip mills. I’ve heard the whispers. They’re impossible to ignore.

Everyone around here is worried about me.

But as much as they ignore the rumors, when one of their own decorates the magazines at the supermarket checkout every week, there are going to be questions. And I’ve only made it worse. Since I showed up two months ago, I’ve been a bit of a hermit, not interested in anything DIY-related. My skin itches at the thought of getting back in there and creating something.

Sam’s gentle eyes plead with me. Wanda continues ringing up my mountain of purchases, but her side-eye glance burns into my skin. I shove my hands in the back pockets of my shorts, rocking on my heels. If I don’t take the damn chair, people won’t just talk. They’ll show up to my cabin to do some sort of intervention.

Sure. I flash him an extra wide smile. Can I swing by after I meet with Gwen’s lawyer this afternoon?

He beams. You bet. On the way back to the storeroom, he glances at me over his shoulder. Don’t worry about that meeting, kiddo. I’m sure it will be fine.

Easy for him to say. He’s not finalizing his sister’s estate today.

Wanda bags my groceries, babbling away about how cute that chair will look when I’m done with it. I tune her out, absorbed in the fog that has been clouding my brain since my sister died three months ago.

I wish this hazy feeling would fade away, but it doesn’t—no matter how hard I try to get back to normal. When it comes down to it, I’d give every damn thing I own to feel one ounce of the way I did before she died. I’ve mastered the art of Netflix and Chill with my boyfriends Ben, Jerry, and Two Buck Chuck. And while I appreciate everyone being worried about me, I want things to be like they were before Gwen died.

Granted, that would mean Gwen would still be alive. And my mom too.

Thanks a lot, shitty DNA.

I pull into my driveway and pause.

How in the hell did I get here?

I look in the rearview mirror. The bags Wanda packed are nestled in the cargo area. God, I don’t even remember paying for them, loading the car, or driving home.

Christ on a cracker. Things cannot get back to normal fast enough.

Popping the tailgate, I load my hands and arms with every single grocery bag. Come hell or high water, I’m doing this in one trip, even if it means I have to waddle like a penguin and carry a bag between my teeth. I speed walk down the cobblestone path. As I clear the porch steps, the gravel in my driveway crunches, followed by the squeal of brakes. A young kid, who looks like he’s barely old enough to drive, jumps out of the FedEx truck that’s now idling in my driveway.

Sorry dude. Wrong house. I haven’t ordered anything. I grimace as the handles from the bags cut off the circulation to my fingers and wrists.

You Charlotte Conti?

I nod, my biceps straining.

I need you to sign for this please. He holds up a flat-letter envelope. My arms give out, and the bags hit the porch with a loud clunk. A jar of salsa rolls across the deck boards. He dives for it, saving it before it crashes into the overgrown bushes.

Unsure what he should hand me—the salsa, the envelope tucked under his arm, or the electronic scanner thing—he does this weird shuffle, looking at me for help. I roll my eyes and pluck the scanner out of his grasp. I sign, we swap items, and he’s out of my driveway in less than a minute.

I recognize my producer’s chicken scratch on the label, and a cold flood of pinpricks washes over my entire body. As light as this envelope is, there can’t be much more than a sheet of paper inside, and that’s never a good sign.

I pull the tab, slicing the cardboard in half. As I peer inside, my mouth goes dry. My suspicions are correct. There’s only one sheet of paper. It’s textured, high-end, executive stuff. The cream-colored letterhead is crisp, and the contents are nothing more than a few lines.

Three words pop off the page...

...new show host...

I suck in a breath, and my bra squeezes my ribs.

What the everlovin’ hell?

Those rumors can’t be true. I refuse to believe the tabloids were right. I fish my phone out of my pocket, fumbling to unlock the screen. I’d call my agent, but he’s on some hiking retreat in Tibet to find his soul or his chi or whatever he’s calling it these days. I settle for the next best thing—my producer, Stephen.

I pace the front porch praying it doesn’t go to voicemail.

Hold on. His voice is muffled, followed by quick footsteps and a slammed door. Okay. I’m in my office, but I can’t talk long. Donna is on the warpath.

Obviously! Thanks much for the heads up. You know, like a text?

I couldn’t say anything. If they found out I talked to you, I could lose my job, too.

They can’t do this, I hiss through clenched teeth. They can’t put me on hiatus and then replace me on my own show.

I press my palm to my forehead. Who am I kidding? They absolutely could replace me. My sister’s unexpected death three months ago threw me off kilter, and every episode we filmed after that sucked. Stephen raised the white flag of defeat and told me to take some time off. One week later, they came to me with this whole indefinite hiatus thing.

He sighs heavily. Your contract is ironclad.

And that’s bad...how?

They had to dig, but they found a tiny loophole. If you don’t continue updating your YouTube channel, they can claim breach of contract.

How? I stop pacing. My YouTube channel isn’t tied to the network.

Because the network can also claim to be a sponsor. According to the contract, any time a sponsor feels you’re not representing their product, they can claim a breach of contract and cut ties.

That’s the biggest bunch of horseshit I’ve ever heard. I cackle.

It’s weak. But Donna ran it through legal, and they didn’t bat an eye.

I grip my phone case so hard my fingers ache. Donna, or as I call her, The Wicked Witch of the West, has been looking for a way to cut ties with me ever since my mom, and co-host, died from the same condition that took my sister. Why she hates me is beyond me, but she’s never been fond of me or my mom. Nausea hits me hard, threatening to send that giant apple fritter all over my front porch. Like hell if she’s going to fly in on her broomstick and take it all away with a finger snap.

"They can’t be serious. Conti’s Cottage is my brand. I own it. You can’t twist my contract and put someone else into my show. I tuck the phone between my jaw and my shoulder as I unlock the front door and kick the groceries inside. That show has been my blood, sweat, and tears for eight years. I worked my ass off through my mom’s death, going to school full-time and graduating with honors, thank you very much. Even dealing with my sister’s two bouts of brain aneurysms. And they want to take it away? Christ, haven’t any of these people had someone in their family die?"

My heart pounds in my throat. I may be struggling for ideas to keep my show fresh, but I love what I do, and the viewers love me. I’m not letting go without a fight.

I need to meet with someone from legal. Do they have anything open today? I hate going through the network’s lawyers, but Gwen was my lawyer, and since her death I haven’t had the energy to find a new one. Then again, I didn’t think I’d need one so soon.

You sure you want to do that? He drops his voice. It’ll spread like wildfire.

If Donna can go to legal, so can I. I’m an employee. I have that right.

I hear Stephen tapping away on a keyboard. Are you free in about an hour?

No. I’ve got a meeting. The knots in my stomach tug tighter. Anything else?

More keyboard tapping, followed by a heavy sigh. Looks like the earliest I can get you in is next month.

Next month? My mother would scowl at my tone, but I’m not about to apologize to someone who should’ve called to warn me this was happening. I scan the letter again, calculating the date in my head. Christ. That gives me three days before this replacement swoops in and takes my job.

Let me work the phones. Maybe they can rearrange a few meetings, open something up. This will be good for you. Working on a video will help you get your mojo back.

A rush of tingles rolls across my chest. This can’t be any video. This has to be the video. The one that puts me on the cover of home and garden magazines again, not those trashy supermarket tabloids. I shove my shoulders back. I’m making the best damn video they’ve ever laid their greedy little eyes on.

Sam’s rocking chair might come in useful after all.

Chapter Two

Nate

Holy shit. I yank off my sunglasses and set them on top of my head. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

The late morning sun is blinding, reflecting off the river flowing below. I blink a few times, and with my binoculars I focus on a rocky cliff fifty yards out.

Sweet Jesus. It’s her.

Perched there along the Colorado River is the bald eagle I’ve been tracking since I arrived at my school’s research cabin six weeks ago. She’s huge, she’s ancient, and she’s like a ninja. I knew she was in Rocky Mountain National Park somewhere, but even with her GPS tracker, finding her has been damned near impossible.

But now I’ve got her, just as long as this beauty doesn’t bail in the next sixty seconds.

I slow my breathing, forcing my pulse to match it. Reaching behind me, I try to keep the sound to a minimum while grabbing my tranquilizer gun. The slightest noise can echo off these cliffs, and I can’t scare her away. My hands shake as I load the dart into the chamber. Everything my granddad taught me about firing a rifle rings in my head. Aim small, shoot small. Steady breaths. Keep still.

With five days left before summer graduation, I’m one bird away from breaking the Environmental Biology research record at CSU and landing my dream job. That record means more to me than the $80,000 piece of paper I’ll have in my hands when I cross the stage in my cap and gown.

I’ve double-checked the rifle’s sights a dozen times today, so I know my shot is dead perfect. I center my scope’s crosshairs right over a tiny tuft of charcoal-colored feathers above her heart. She turns her head, staring right at me. She blinks like she’s asking, You looking at me?

Damn right I am, love, I whisper.

An engine rumbles in the distance, growing louder by the second.

With my finger on the trigger, I force the air out of my lungs. Ready...set...

Nate...you up here? My name echoes off the boulders.

Like a video in slow motion, the eagle’s wings spread out, showing all six feet of that wingspan from tip to tip. Her eyes flash. She hunches over, and with two quick flaps she takes off.

I fire a half second too late.

Other than my ringing ears and a wasted fast-acting tranquilizer dart, I don’t have a damn thing to show for it.

Goddamn it, Rachel! I slam my hand against the ground. A small cloud of dust pops out from underneath my palm.

She comes to a stop on her four-wheeler. Her lean, tanned legs straddle the gas tank. Her dark hair’s pulled through the opening of the US Forest Service baseball hat she’s wearing.

The events of yesterday flash in my head. Like the way she was stretched out on my cot, buck ass naked, waiting for me in my research cabin.

As I stand, tall grass brushes against my scruffy face. I open the bolt of my rifle; my thumb flicks on the safety.

What? I mutter.

Your British accent always makes you sound so...dashing. She looks me up and down. Except now. You sound like I took away your birthday.

What do you want? I shove my gear into my pack. Her gaze burns into the side of my face. I realize she didn’t know I almost had the bird. But shit, all I needed was two more motherfucking seconds.

All of that and I’m still tied for first place.

This isn’t just about a record. My life requires me to be the best.

A tied score is for pussies.

Are you even going to look at me?

I turn to face her, forcing a smile. Sorry.

Thought you might want these. She hands over a stack of those While You Were Out slips. Being this far into the mountains, there’s zero cell phone coverage.

Is it Cam again? I lean against the gas tank, bumping her knee with my hip. The way she straddles that four-wheeler puts all kinds of ideas in my head. Ideas we agreed on a few months ago when we became friends with benefits.

Taking off her aviator sunglasses, she hangs them from the lowest button of her polo shirt. She leans forward, and I get a nice shot of her cleavage which is perfectly in place by one of those bras that pushes everything right where I like it. A second later, she digs her fingers under my chin forcing me to look her in the eye.

My eyes are up here, asshole.

Then stop showing me things you don’t want me to see.

I shuffle through the first few slips of paper. My research advisor. Cam. Fraternity brothers. Per usual, the messages lack any detail, including one from someone I don’t recognize. Just a name and a number. I scratch the back of my neck.

Ian Bradbury? Who’s he?

She shrugs. Some lawyer. Since you’re packing up your gear, are you done? Because I was hoping we could grab lunch and talk about—

Did this guy... I flip over the message, knowing there isn’t anything on the back. ...give you any information?

She huffs out a sigh. With her manicured thumbnail, she scrapes dried mud off the gas tank. The hair on my arms stands up like it does before lightning strikes. I know what she’s getting at with the whole I was hoping we could talk stuff. Since the Fourth of July, she’s been dropping hints like a Girl Guide leaving a trail of breadcrumbs on a hike—she wants us to be a couple. That’s why she took this park service job, hoping if we spent every day together I’d agree to cross the line.

At least that’s what one of her sorority sisters told my roommate, Cam.

When it comes down to it, she’s great, but she should be with a guy whose head—their brain, not their dick—is in the game. My head isn’t even close to being in the game with her.

It never will be either.

I shove the messages in my pocket, still unsure why this guy is calling. The breeze picks up, and a chill hits my skin. If a lawyer is calling me, it can’t be good. I slip my pack on, tugging down hard on the straps as my mind dives right into the worst-case scenario—my pending work visa.

Rachel has to know something. She loves gossip and I wouldn’t put it past her if she tried to get a little more information out of him. But right now, she’s pulling this you-hurt-my-feelings bit, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

I skim her jaw with my forefinger and brush her lips with my thumb. Moves like this make her putty in my hands and usually get me what I want. Her frown disappears as I lean in to give her a featherlight kiss, and she whimpers. When she tries to kiss me back, I cut it off.

You know my visa goes hand in hand with my research. I can’t risk anything happening to it. You wouldn’t want that, would you?

I sure as hell know that I don’t. One wrong move and my dream job with world-renowned eagle researcher Dr. Nelson Copeland will be toast. He’s shelling out a boatload of money to cover my work visa. Getting that top research award upon graduation isn’t just for me, but it proves I’m worth the time and expense of that mountain of visa paperwork.

Which is why I need Rachel to tell me what the hell is going on.

Her pout returns. I bend my knees so I can look her in the eye. Her shoulders relax but not enough to tell me I’m off the hook.

That’s my cue. Time to be, as she called it, dashing.

What if I told you I’ve been out of sorts since you left my cabin yesterday afternoon?

She rolls her eyes before looking at me.

I barely slept, I say with a bit of a pout.

Poor baby. She dishes out another eye roll.

I brush a few loose strands of her hair behind her ear. She turns into mush when I do that. I can still feel you pressed up against me.

Rachel wraps the strings of my hoodie around her fingers, giving them a tug.

Jackpot. Now we’re getting somewhere.

Rach. This is a big deal. Please don’t be mad at me.

Her features relax, her hand pawing my chest. She’s like every other girl I’ve been with at Colorado State. My pièce de résistance is saying those last six little words. They work their magic every single time a girl is upset with me. Drops their resolve like my British accent can drop their panties.

Every. Single. Time.

I’m not mad. She sighs.

So tell me what this lawyer wanted.

I tried to get more, but he wouldn’t budge. He said he wants you to call him. Like ASAP. She sits up and pats the seat of the four-wheeler. You getting on this thing or what?

That’s it. That’s all I’m going to get, I guess. I grab the rest of my gear and climb onto the seat. She wraps my arms around her waist, forcing my chest into her back. Feel free to do what you do best, Walsh.

I chuckle as she starts it up. I’d prefer not to get into an accident, thanks.

Rachel drives us over the bumpy hillside, and my mind races. Other than my visa status, I’m not sure what else it could be. There’s a snowball’s chance in hell it has anything to do with my eagle research. Since I’m not an American citizen, I had to be vetted within an inch of my life. Dr. Copeland assured me months ago that everything was in order.

Gravel crunches as Rachel hits the brakes and skids to a stop outside of the ranger station. It’s a tiny building, about as big as a one-car garage. I’ve never understood why they even put walls up in this place. It’s not like they provide any privacy.

I walk into the back office and shut the door. With one hip leaning into the desk, I punch the buttons on the phone. The line barely rings when a receptionist answers.

Thank you for calling Bradbury, Schmitz, and Rosen. How may I direct your call?

Hi. I’ve been asked to call Ian Bradbury? This is Nate Walsh.

One moment, please.

I shake my foot, tapping it against the side of the metal desk. This better not take long. I want to get back out there and find that bird again.

Mr. Walsh, this is Ian Bradbury. Thanks so much for returning my call. How are things up at Rocky Mountain National Park? How is your research coming along?

I squeeze my eyes shut. I loathe small talk. One of the many reasons I chose this major is to not only spend time outside but to be alone and submerge myself in research. I bet he walks around the office with a cup of coffee in his hand but never actually does anything. Probably has an ad on TV or the radio promising to get you money from an accident too.

My lip curls. Not bad. I’ve been here for—

Six weeks. I hope you aren’t upset I called. Your friend Cam Richards gave me this number. Gwen Conti left me instructions and told me he would know how to get ahold of you.

My body aches at the sound of her name, and the memories flood back. When my friend Gwen died three months ago, I was out tracking eagles just like today. Cam showed up, escorted by two park rangers to tell me the news. The car door had barely slammed shut, but I knew the surgery failed.

Tossing my baseball cap onto the desk, I run a hand through my scraggly hair and tug at the long strands. Those thirty-six hours were an emotional tornado. I don’t want to relive that again.

It’s urgent that I meet with you, Ian continues. I’m sorry for the short notice, but do you have some time this afternoon to come to Fort Collins to go over Gwen’s will?

My head snaps up. Gwen had a will? Did Cam know she had a will? I push out a slow breath and shake my head. Of course he knew. They were dating and told each other everything. Gwen probably knew when Cam took a shit for Christ’s sake.

I’m sorry you’re finding out about this now. I need to settle her estate. Today is the only day I have for a few more weeks.

I glance at my watch. It’s a forty-five minute drive to Fort Collins, not including the time I need to change and pack up my stuff. Fucking Christ. I just want to finish my research before graduation. I don’t have time for this.

Is there anyway you can come here?

He shuffles something then mumbles to someone. There’s discussion I can’t make out. While he’s making up his mind, I look out the window, scouring the tree line for eagles.

I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can.

I scratch my jaw. So much for getting back out in the field today. My concentration would have been in the toilet anyway. I pluck a pencil out of the cup on the desk to jot down the office directions on one of the message slips. Ripping it off the pad, I shove the small paper in my pocket as we end the call.

Out in the reception area, Rachel’s face is hidden in a gossip magazine. I do a double take.

Reviews for Meet Me Under The Stars

[bookczuk · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Nope. Nothing about this book worked for me. I was seduced by a recommendation from someone I know.