Her Rebel to Kiss

By Debra Salonen

Don’t look down and don’t give up.

Justin Oberman‘s credo for living his adventurous–some might say death-defying–life to the max served him well until the unfortunate outcome of a climb made him walk away from the sport he loved. A lucrative new job offer could pave the way to a more traditional life in Marietta, Montana, where his two best friends have fallen in love with the women of their dreams. But settling down always seemed more daunting than Everest and not worth considering until a mysterious lady in red walks into his life on New Year’s Eve. Suddenly, that happily-ever-after stuff Flynn and Tucker have been raving about looks within reach.

The first fall is always the hardest.

Nikki Magnesson Richards has loved Justin Oberman most of her life. First, from the safety of her brothers’ old tree house. Later, with unrequited teen-age angst. Her poorly thought out attempt to get him to notice her cost them both dearly. Now, a dozen years later, her fairy godfather boss has orchestrated the most romantic meeting possible–the Big Sky Mavericks Masked Ball for Charity. A kiss at midnight with her very own Prince Charming isn’t too much to ask, is it? But what are two star-crossed lovers supposed to do when one kiss isn’t enough?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tule Publishing
• Release date: Jan 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781943963904

Debra Salonen

Susan was born with a book in her hand. Okay, maybe not quite, but she did begin reading at the age of four and hasn't been able to stop. Her mother enrolled her in the Weekly Reader Book Club before she went to school, and provided her with books in all shapes, sizes and genres. Born and raised in northwestern New Jersey, Susan grew up in a houseful of readers. Trips to the library were frequent, and she always participated in summer reading programs and read-a-thons. (Though getting sponsors, if they knew her voracious appetite for books, wasn't always easy.) Named valedictorian of her high school class, Susan also cowrote the school's alma mater - and married her cowriter/high school sweetheart after college. With a love of books and schooling, it was only natural that she become either a teacher or a writer. And she's been both. Graduating from Douglass College - Rutgers University - with a B.A. in psychology, and certified to teach early childhood/elementary school, Susan went on to a nine-year elementary teaching career, teaching second and fourth grades. Her favorite part was passing on her love of reading and books to a new group of eager students each year. She left New Jersey in June of 1996 to follow her husband's career, which first took them to Clarksburg, West Virginia, and then a year later to Erie, Pennsylvania, where they still reside. Erie is the setting for her first novel. Getting her teaching certificate in Pennsylvania turned out to be more hassle than Susan wanted to deal with, so she taught in a private school for one year, then homeschooled her own son for a year, then turned to writing in an effort to restore her sanity, having discovered that instructing one child of her own was far more challenging than teaching 25 kids who belonged to other people. She admires the people who can homeschool and do it well. In December of 1999 she was facing her 35th birthday and the turn of the century. She knew it was time to set some goals, to figure out what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. The goal she set was to sell a novel to a major publisher within five years - before her 40th birthday - but she reserved the right to reevaluate the goal in five years if she hadn't succeeded. In January of 2000, she enrolled in an online class on "Writing and Marketing the Category Romance," started her first romance novel and was off and running. She submitted The Baby Plan to Harlequin Superromance in April of 2001. At the end of August the full manuscript was requested, and the "hear-by" date was set at April of 2002. In February of 2002, Susan Gable got "The Call" from Harlequin. In November of 2002, she held the culmination of her dream in her hands. "I do believe dreams can come true," she says. "You just have to work hard at it. It's not enough to just dream it. You have to go after the dream with a plan for success. Henry David Thoreau said, 'If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.' And I really believe that." What are her hopes for the future? "To keep writing and selling books. And hopefully to have readers enjoy reading them as much as I do writing them. It's just as much fun on this side of a book." Any regrets at this point in her career? "That my sophomore English teacher, Mr. Solomon, didn't live to see this. He always hassled me about starting sentences with conjunctions in my creative writing assignments, and I'd tell him that published authors did it all the time. He told me when I was a published author, then I could do it, too. Look, Mr. Solomon. I can start a sentence with a conjunction now."

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Dedication

To my fabulous readers who have been part of the Big Sky Mavericks experience. Your enthusiasm, encouragement, friendship and reviews have meant the world to me.

Dear Reader,

Note to self: if you call your hero a rebel in the title, expect him to give you trouble when you go to write his story. Sigh.

Actually, I loved Justin...once I got to know him—and figured out what drove him to risk life and limb climbing mountains. He’s a complicated man so, naturally, his love interest had to be a challenge, too. And to level the playing field and give love a chance, I decided they needed to meet at a masked ball. This was such fun to write it needs to become a tradition. Let’s all meet in Marietta next New Year’s Eve—masks required.

HER REBEL TO KISS wraps up phase II of the Big Sky Mavericks series, but I left the door open for new spin-offs because I’ve come to love these characters so much they feel like family. I hope you have, too.

Until next book,

Deb

Prologue

Nicole Richards pressed her forehead to the porthole-sized round window, straining to catch the hint of sunrise beginning to lighten the edges of clouds miles below the small but luxurious jet. They’d left Paris later than they’d wanted. Meetings that ran long. Traffic every bit as dense and congested as L.A.’s. She was bone tired but sleep eluded her.

Your mind won’t turn off, huh? her travel mate and boss asked from the fully reclined seat across from hers. Mine, either.

She turned her head to look at J. Angus Hooper, a man some called genius, some a crackpot economist who got lucky. Nikki knew he was a little of both. At eighty-one, Angus resembled a hobbit more than a captain of industry, and yet his diverse holdings circled the earth, his wealth routinely placing his name on the Forbes’s wealthiest Americans list. He was also one of the kindest, shrewdest, and most unpredictable men she’d ever met. He often admitted he lived to keep her on her toes.

A reference, she believed, to their initial meeting a dozen years earlier. When half the doctors on staff at the rehab hospital where they each were residing—for different reasons—told Nikki she’d never walk again, J. Angus said, Baloney. With a contagious air of optimism and zeal, Angus almost single-handedly bullied her into getting out of her wheelchair and pushing through the pain to the point where she could walk without help.

She liked to say their friendship was forged in mutual anguish. J. Angus had been recovering from his second stroke at the time, and shouting orders at Nikki had, remarkably, given him back his power of speech.

I’ve been lying here thinking about missed opportunities and all the what-ifs that go with that sort of thing. Do you ever wonder where you’d be if you’d kissed that one person who got away but took a piece of your heart with her? His chin turned. Or him, in your case.

A name sprang to mind. A face. Her first crush. Not as often as I did I in my late teens, she admitted truthfully. I like to think I’ve grown up a bit since then.

Pah. Maturity only counts in horseshoes.

Her lips curved despite the energy the effort took. His unique type of mondegreens usually hid a much deeper meaning, but she was too tired to probe. Instead, she gave him what he wanted. A name. The boy she’d secretly pined for her entire teenage years, until she acted on her desire and ruined both their lives.

Justin Oberman. The boy next door. Cliché, huh?

Clichés are shared human experiences that everyone can relate to. What happened?

He was two years older than me and barely knew I existed...until my freshman year of college. I crashed his climbing party and fell off the side of a cliff.

The old man’s eyes went wide. "He’s that boy."

She stared at the ceiling, remembering the image imprinted on her mind. Justin Oh. That’s what all the girls called him. A true rebel with a style all his own. Not goth or grunge. He made Patagonia cool.

He’s the boy who carried you to the helicopter after you fell.

A statement of fact. An act of heroic selflessness that made him Superman in her eyes. Sadly, his act of kindness cost him so much she could barely bring herself to think about that shameful period of her life.

Instead, she closed her eyes and remembered how safe she’d felt in his arms. The reality of the moments after she fell—the blood, the pain, the panic in the eyes of her friends—had become dim and slightly out of focus over the years. Instead, she remembered with crisp intensity the look of compassion in Justin’s beautiful, gray-green eyes.

His chest had been heaving from the exertion of carrying her across a minefield of shale and bowling ball-size boulders. Rivulets of sweat had trickled down the side of his face. She’d wanted to reach up and brush away the drops but the line of communication between her brain and her extremities hadn’t been working. Her first inkling of what was to come.

You’re going to be okay. He’d told her. Don’t you let anyone tell you otherwise.

She couldn’t remember falling, but she’d fallen completely, utterly in love during Justin’s—some said misguided and dangerous—rescue attempt. Unfortunately, everything went downhill from there and she never saw him again.

She wondered if she ever would.

Probably not, she thought.

But when she closed her eyes, she pictured Justin’s strong arms wrapping her in the sort of hug that shut out all the trials and turmoil of the world. A girl could dream. And the man of her dreams was a fantasy, nothing more because the real Justin Oberman had every reason in the world to hate her.

Chapter One

"I won’t wear it and you can’t make me."

Arms crossed, shoulders braced for a fight, Justin Oberman eyed the ridiculous object Flynn Bensen held out for Justin and fellow friend Tucker Montgomery to see. All three stood just inside the entrance of the gloriously festive ballroom of the Graff Hotel in Marietta, Montana.

Despite his serious tone, Justin hoped they wouldn’t have to resort to a firefighter method for solving disputes. They’d look pretty silly wrestling around in tuxedos as well-dressed New Year’s Eve revelers filed past.

Quit being such a baby. Flynn chided. My wife-to-be worked her butt off to make the Big Sky Mavericks’ New Year’s Eve Masked Ball happen. I promised Kat we’d all three show up in tuxes and masks. Are you going to make a liar out of me?

Guilt—a surefire pipeline to Justin’s gut. As his best friend no doubt banked on. Not to mention the fact Justin liked and respected Flynn’s fiancée, Kat Robinson. Kat had been through a lot and somehow managed to land on her feet—sense of humor intact. Plus, she had a bright—if challenging—kid to show for it. More than loner, ever-the-rebel Justin could claim.

What’s the big deal? Tucker asked, adjusting the French cuffs of the pearl white shirt he’d had made in Italy during his American Male glory days.

The damn thing still fit like he’d just walked out of filming a James Bond movie, Justin noticed.

It’s not like anyone will recognize you in a tux, anyway. Hell, I’ve known you for ten years and I’ve never seen you this dressed up.

He glanced Justin’s way. Lookin’ good, by the way. Don’t go anywhere near my girlfriend.

Justin exchanged a what’s-he-talking-about look with Flynn. As if the glorious Amanda Heller had eyes for anyone but Tucker. Since moving back to Marietta earlier in the month, the two had been practically inseparable.

Love did that to a person. Watching his two best friends fall in love and go through the challenges of establishing a solid, lasting relationship had made Justin take serious stock of his life. Could he ever expect to find a partner willing to embrace his seasonal gypsy climber/wildfire hotshot life? The climber part meant eschewing traditional hearth and home comforts to risk said life on months-long climbs to some of the world’s highest peaks.

Doubtful. And despite his friends’ apparent success in recent matters of the heart, Justin could point out just as many epic failures. MaryBeth, his eldest sister, was on her second marriage, and Georgia, two years her junior, divorced her husband after a couple of years of constant drama. Her current live-in boyfriend was not allowed to use the M-word.

Justin liked to say a good climber never fell—and the same rule applied to a good lover.

A tuxedo is one thing. This ridiculous piece of crap is something else. He gingerly examined the dramatic, black satin half-mask, which sported a hawkish proboscis and faux sapphire eyebrows. It was expertly made, he conceded. And the red satin lining was a nice touch—very high end, but it belonged in one of those period romance novels his sisters used to read out loud at the dinner table.

Who decided overt flamboyance was a good idea?

I did, a woman’s voice said from behind them. Are you questioning my artistry?

Justin pivoted, his face burning. He nearly put on the mask to cover his blush. He hated when his rusty social skills came across as being less than chivalrous. Especially in front of his two best friends, whose grins proved how much they enjoyed seeing him squirm in the face of Bailey Jenkins-Zabrinski’s puzzled expression.

"My crafters and I made most of the masks, including the one in your hand. We called that one Hawk of the Town. We were going for a Romeo and Juliet sort of charm with a hint of whimsy. Do you really hate it?" She sounded more curious than hurt.

Hate? No. He lied. It’s beautifully made. The mask is great. Very clever name. It’s me, Bailey. I’m not a big party guy.

Understatement. Tucker tried to mask the word with a fake cough.

Justin ignored him, still searching for a diplomatic way out of his embarrassment. And I’m definitely more of a minimalist. Jewels? Me? Umm...not my style. But, you definitely have an air of Juliet about you.

Her floor-length aquamarine gown matched an even more exotic, over-the-top mask of silver sequins and feathers, which she held loosely in her hand.

Thank you. But isn’t that what this night is all about? Extreme generosity. Over-the-top fun. Unexpected possibilities. Maybe, just this once, you could play along and pretend you’re not Justin Oberman. Tonight, you’ll be a nameless, faceless stranger in a beautifully ostentatious mask.

He gave the mask a second look. He had to admit, he liked the idea of being anonymous—especially after the past few months of having his name dragged through the mud within the international climbing community. Even given the fact a New Zealand court had exonerated him in the death of five climbers, the phone wasn’t exactly ringing off the wall with new sponsorship offers.

Maybe I can.

Her smile told him all was forgiven. Nobody I know has ever been to a masked ball, she said, touching his upper arm. Tonight, you can be anyone you want.

I like the sound of that.

At the very least, he’d be adding a warm body to the headcount, which would make everyone involved in the Big Sky Mavericks Philanthropic Group happy. He’d eat, drink, and make merry for a few hours then slip away before midnight so he didn’t have to worry about not having anyone to kiss.

You’re right, Bailey. Maybe your mask will make me less of a curmudgeon.

She dropped a quick, friendly kiss on his cheek. My work here is done. She blew kisses to the other men then hurried away to check on another group poised to enter the ballroom.

I have a feeling this is going to be an outstanding year for each of us, Tucker said, his eyes lighting up. And there’s my reason why.

Justin and Flynn turned to watch a woman in a white floor-length sheath, which shimmered when she moved, pick her way through the crowd toward them. She might not have been a model in real life, but she definitely carried herself with runway style and grace. Amanda went back for the masks Ona sent from ’Nawlins. We got a little distracted at the last minute.

Tucker’s roguish grin made it clear what had distracted them—sex.

Ona, Tucker’s grandmother in New Orleans, had sent Flynn and Justin chicory coffee and bottles of Love Potion #9 cologne for Christmas. On a whim, Justin had given the scent a try tonight. I wonder if it will work.

Gentlemen, Tucker said, starting away. I’ll see you later. I believe we’re at Mia and Ryker’s table.

Speaking of Ryker, Justin said, watching Tucker wrap Amanda in a loving hug. How’s your brother doing? Does parenthood agree with him?

The two Bensen brothers had relocated to Montana separately—Ryker, first, then his older brother—but they’d each found Marietta to be a perfect fit. If Justin were the type to be envious of a friend, Flynn’s current situation checked every box. He’d fallen into a great job that he loved and excelled at. He claimed to have found his soul mate in Kat. And nine-year-old Brady provided the perfect way to ease into fatherhood—unlike the trial-by-newborn-twins his brother was experiencing.

Justin hadn’t belonged anywhere for a very long time. By choice, he had to remind himself. Why he’d started to question those choices over the past few months, he couldn’t say.

Ryker’s great. Exhausted. Deliriously in love with Mia and the babies. Tonight’s their first outing as a couple since the twins were born. Justin thought he detected a hint of something cryptic in Flynn’s voice, but instead of divulging any secrets, his friend added, Love works wonders.

Typical Flynn. Private. Introspective. Eyes on the bigger picture.

That’s certainly the case where Tucker is concerned, Justin said as Tucker and Amanda passed by, completely lost in each other. Justin had suspected for a long time their mutual friend had a secret depth hidden beneath his loud, boisterous American Male dancer persona. Finding Amanda had been the catalyst to bring that other aspect of his personality to the foreground, and, honestly, Justin liked this less frenetic, happy, and confident Tucker better.

So, I have a few minutes while Kat’s doing some last minute fine-tuning, Flynn said, donning his simple, black, Lone Ranger-type mask. Shall we sample the champagne while we’re waiting for this thing to kick off?

Justin tested his mask’s elastic band to see how much give it had before he slipped the thing over his head. Surprisingly, the molded shape rested easily against his cheekbones and the large eye openings didn’t impede his vision in any way.

Okay. I can handle this for a couple of hours. At least, it’s only on the top half of my face. He’d spotted a few newcomers sporting elaborate, Freddy Kruger-type masks.

They gave their names to the attendant at the door and stepped inside the ballroom. Subdued lighting couldn’t hide the glitter and wow-factor the decorating committee had created.

Fancy, Justin said, looking around. This is really something. I’m starting to get what Tucker meant when he said the place resembled a Pinterest page on steroids.

Not that Justin had a Pinterest page, but when he’d visited the Big Sky Mavericks’ office before Christmas, Kat had shown him a few of the pages she’d used to grab ideas for tonight’s gala.

Wait till midnight. Flynn pointed upward. Lightweight netting held huge bags of gold, silver, and white balloons against the thirty-foot ceiling. Kat says there are two thousand and sixteen. He snagged two champagne flutes from a tray sitting on the bar and handed one to Justin. The balloons are going to be released at the stroke of midnight to cascade over the kissing revelers.

Impressive.

I agree. But that’s nothing compared to the menu. Wild boar, bison steaks, duck breast, ostrich fillets, two kinds of fish and I can’t remember what else. Austen calls it—Late Montana Robber Baron.

They touched glasses and nodded an unspoken toast before taking a drink. The crisp, dry but surprisingly smooth liquid slid down Justin’s throat with ease. Normally, he wasn’t a big drinker. Most people probably considered him an ascetic with a tendency toward abstinence. In truth, he was simply very picky. When he did imbibe, he preferred aged, single-malt scotch. And