Regency Therapy: Jane Austen Vacation Club, #2

By Lisa H. Catmull

Nothing goes the way you planned at the Jane Austen Vacation Club. It's all out warfare in this enemies-to-lovers romantic comedy, the first full-length novel in the series.

 

My publisher invited me to attend an all-expenses paid writing retreat at some posh Regency-era resort. Carole isn't nice like that—there must be a catch.

 

There is. His name is Ryder Hawk, the outlaw leader of the all-male Western writers who work for the same publishing company. He thinks he's agreed to attend an all-expenses-paid week at a dude ranch.

 

Yeah, no. Carole has other ideas. She wants to break into the cowboy romance market. If I want to renew my writing contract, I have to do more than put up with Ryder and his gang of cowboy cronies for a week. We have to write a romance novel together.

 

The problem is, Ryder and I have a history.

 

And it's more like war than peace.

 

Regency Therapy is a closed-door, "sweet" enemies-to-lovers romantic comedy with swoony-worthy kisses, but no spicy content. There's a prequel in the series, but this book can be enjoyed as a stand-alone, as long as you're up for lots of bickerflirting and maybe a few tears along with the laughs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa H. Catmull
• Release date: Feb 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223075813

Book preview

Chapter One

I bump into him in the airport bookstore on purpose just as he picks up a copy of my latest bestseller. Maybe he’ll recognize me.

He doesn’t. Beg your pardon, he drawls.

So sorry. I didn’t see you. I totally did. I’d been surreptitiously checking out the fit of his dark-washed jeans—perfection—and his chocolate brown cowboy hat with matching boots. Ugh. Cowboys. Why do I find them attractive? The black t-shirt stretching across his chest only darkens his flashing mahogany eyes. Are you looking for something to read?

He sets down my book, casually slides a different novel from the rack on the wall and offers it to me. Are you?

A Western? This is the perfect way to meet the handsome stranger. I’d been eyeing the book to check out my competition anyway. Ryder Hawk’s latest novel is in first place on the bestseller list, and my novel is barely clinging to that spot right below him. Always behind. I’ve got to figure out why he beat me—again—before I default on my parents’ mortgage.

But here’s a real-life cowboy, not some fake like Ryder. The fade on this guy’s jeans comes from working. His boots look worn and comfortable, and there are some actual grass stains on one thigh.

The stranger leans down, and he smells fresh like sunshine, bald eagles, freedom, and the American Way. Or maybe it’s just his detergent. I might have gone to bed too late last night, procrastipacking. His deep voice tickles my ear. This one’s quality. You can’t go wrong.

I cave and accept the book, even if my nemesis wrote it. Thanks. I’ll give it a try. What about you? Need any recommendations? I ask innocently, to keep the conversation going. I want to hear why he is looking at my book. Maybe my publisher should be targeting men in their ads.

He smirks as he holds up my new historical romance. Nah, I’m good. I found a bodice ripper to entertain me.

I laugh, then I realize he’s serious. I hate that term. The couple on the cover are fully clothed. They aren’t even holding hands, and the guy’s got a shirt on. It must be a sweet romance.

His eyes narrow, and I catch myself. I’m talking like an author, so I try for an off-hand tone instead. I mean, it doesn’t look like smut to me. It looks pretty tame—no buttons flying or dresses falling off the shoulder.

I’ll take my chances on it anyway. The line moves forward, and the cowboy hands his book to the cashier. He reaches for a bag of beef jerky and a water bottle, then completes his transaction. I can’t help noticing his muscled arm as he picks up his purchases. This guy knows his way around a ranch.

He smiles lazily as he turns to leave the narrow giftshop. Enjoy your book. I’ve heard it’s a good one. His lopsided grin is half smirk and half smolder, and I tamp down my attraction. I hate the cocky cowboy type on principle, especially when they block the candy bar display. I need some peanut M&M’s to get me to Denver, and he is in the way.

Enjoy yours. I can’t help defending the cover. Seamstresses actually used very few buttons on that sort of clothing, and the ones used were sewn on so well that no one could have ripped the bodices. Really. Historically.

He arches an eyebrow, tips his hat, and saunters lazily from the store.

Argh. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut? I just have to get one more word in. The last word.

I pay for Ryder’s book—I can’t believe I’m helping him keep that number one spot on the charts above me—and my consolation M&M’s, then grab a tin of breath mints, for good measure. If there are men like Real-Life Cowboy on the loose, I’ve got to be prepared for another chance encounter. I’ll pass on the onion bagel at the shop next door and see if any other perfectly sculpted men appear.

I walk laps around the terminal as I wait for my flight to board, but Mysterious Cowboy Hottie is the only Adonis. He takes up two chairs, and I feel a twinge of righteous indignation. Of course a cowboy is the kind of guy to manspread in a crowded airport. I step pointedly around his outstretched legs, but he ignores me. I forgive him because he’s engrossed in my book, but still, I wouldn’t have minded spending my last forty minutes flirting a little more.

I’m a romance author. It would be research, and this is a business trip, after all.

I sink into the row of black leather seats a couple spots away from him and flip through Ryder Hawk’s book instead. It’s about the same length as my novel, but I’m already bored by the long descriptions of waving prairie grass and the hero’s saddle bag. What do people see in this guy’s writing?

I skim the first chapter. Cowboy Guy glances over a couple times, and my heart rate ticks up in a delicious way, but what’s the point? Besides, I just read an article on playing hard to get. I want to see if it works—purely for research—so I keep my eyes on the novel. My mind wanders, as I wait to see if he’ll talk to me.

He doesn’t. Stupid article.

I flip to the middle of the book. The rancher is in trouble, and the hired cowboy is going to protect him and his frail, helpless daughter.

Please. That worn-out old plot?

Does the woman have to be helpless?

I grunt, and the Real Deal Cowboy tips his chin. How’s the book?

Fine. I smile and start reading in earnest—no more skimming. Ryder Hawk always outsells my books, the hack, and I want to know why. Carole’s new assistant, Lauren, pits us against each other, releasing our books at the same time, and he always steals the number one spot.

But it’s hard to hate cowboys when they stretch lazily in their black leather seat, fold their arms behind their head, and tip their hat over their eyes, so I can stare at their biceps without them knowing.

I bite back a sigh. If he heard my grunt, he’ll hear me wiping the drool, too.

Lauren—the overly eager new assistant—believes in energy fields and colored crystals and horoscopes, so she doesn’t see our same-day releases as the competition that they are, especially not when Ryder makes sure to send group emails with patronizing notes like, Well done on that number two spot, or Congrats on making the second half of the bestseller list. She thinks we have synergy. Hah. I never return his emails or his backhanded compliments.

I definitely don’t say anything snarky to Lauren. She reports directly to the owner of the printing press, Carole, so I tolerate her New Age talk and try not to point out how incredibly aggressive and not peaceful or synergetic her own actions are.

I turn the page. Now the rancher’s daughter teaches at the local school. Of course she does, and there just happens to be a windstorm, and the hired drifter who comes into town is fixing the roof of the schoolhouse for her.

Give me a break. If Ryder would describe the way the drifter looks when he’s fixing the roof, he might be on to something, but it’s all blah blah blah. Manly strength, blah blah. Oh, thank you, you big lug. Smooch.

I smile to myself and reread the last part.

He writes terrible kisses. This guy needs one of the workshop classes I’m set to teach this week. Too bad for him! Our retreat is only for the historical romance authors.

Cowboy Dude clears his throat. Something funny? Find a good part in your book?

I slam my book shut, but only because he startles me. Not because I’m rereading the kiss over and over. It is awful. The worst. But I might have been imagining the hottie sitting next to me in the role and rewriting the kiss.

I laugh. It’s fine.

Fine? He quirks an eyebrow. You looked mighty interested in something that is only fine.

I don’t want to offend him, since he’s so hot, but he seems genuinely curious. "Fine. It is the kiss scene."

The cowboy grins knowingly.

It’s so bad, it’s funny. I wrap my arms around myself. Stomach-aching-bad.

The cowboy slowly closes his book and shifts on his seat. Really. Tell me about it. Something dangerous glints in his eyes, like I’ve personally insulted him and cowboys everywhere, because I dare to insult his Western. I’ve been hoping to talk to this guy for the last half hour. He finally strikes up a conversation again, and it’s going all wrong.

I don’t read many Westerns, but this kissing definitely needs work, I say.

You think Ryder Hawk needs to work on his kissing. Cowboy Hottie smirks. You’re a kissing expert, I suppose?

I am, actually. It slips out before I realize that I’ve almost given myself away.

His smirk widens to a grin. Mr. Lonesome Broody Cowboy leans in, and his voice deepens to a husky whisper. "And do you give lessons, ma’am? In case I need to work on my kissing?"

My throat instantly goes dry, and my voice vanishes. The nasal voice of a flight attendant screeches through the terminal.

Oh! That’s my flight, I choke out.

Cowboy Dude hitches a laptop bag over his shoulder. That’s my flight, too.

We face each other, and my heartrate kicks up a notch.

He winks. Sounds like we’ll have time for that lesson.

On the plane? My voice travels up an octave. I clutch the cool metal handle of my carry-on to steady myself and avoid his over-the-top flirting. "No, I meant Mr. Hawk’s writing needs work. I don’t know him, and I have no idea what his kissing is like in real life."

The cowboy’s dark eyes rake over my face and linger momentarily on my lips. When you say someone’s kissing needs work, sweetheart, you better be specific. It almost sounds like you’re complaining about the man’s performance, not the book. People might get the wrong idea if they hear you talk that way.

My smile is brittle. This guy sure takes his role as a lover-of-all-things-Western seriously, like he has to defend the kissing ability of cowboys everywhere. Well, you know what they say. Write what you know.

The cowboy tips his hat forward and locks eyes with me. So, you’re saying that Ryder Hawk kisses as well as his books sell.

I stumble on my way to the breezeway, then catch myself. I fumble to unlock my phone’s screen and open the app with the QR code for my boarding pass. I shake my head. Hardly. If Ryder Hawk kisses like he writes, I’d rather lock lips with an octopus. Have you read this part? I flip open the book and read the page. "He kissed her hard on the mouth, and she begged for more."

Stetson Dark-Wash Jean Hottie shrugs, and his mouth tilts in a lopsided grin. "I’m sure a man like Ryder Hawk is writing exactly what he knows. I’m sure women beg to kiss him."

Ugh. I stick out my tongue and pretend to gag, then tap the book in his hand. "I wouldn’t want any man to kiss me hard on the mouth. Now this book you’re reading? That’s the way a kiss is supposed to be written."

A nasal voice comes over the loudspeaker again, and I catch my flight number among the indistinct garbling.

Cowboy Hottie and I walk over and get in line together. He slips my book into his laptop bag, then folds his arms across his chest. You think you know what kind of kisser Ryder Hawk is? There’s a definite twinkle in his eyes, like he’s enjoying our conversation.

I know a bad kiss when I read it, I say. I fold my arms across my chest to mirror his aggressive pose. I’ve studied my body postures—he can’t stand like that and expect to intimidate me, especially not with the first-class line finally clearing out. It’s almost our turn to get on the plane.

But he doesn’t care whether the line is moving. The dude actually pulls my book back out of his laptop bag, flips to a folded down page, and jabs his finger at a paragraph that he has highlighted. HIGHLIGHTED in red. Like a schoolteacher. "At least the book you’re reading has a kiss. This couple hasn’t looked at each other once on this page. I’m halfway through the book, and I’d like to see a little more happening, if you know what I mean." He winks and slams the book, as if it’s case closed.

There’s plenty happening. The main characters brush pinky fingers once in the drawing room. It is a very sexy pinky grab, and there is some seriously hot eye contact in the scene two pages back. That’s why they can’t look at each other on this page—it would give everything away to the jealous and suspicious governess.

I swipe my phone over the reader. They’re probably going to kiss soon in your book, and it’ll probably be amazing. That author is probably really good at kisses.

Cowboy Guy leans in as he scans his QR code. Writing them or living them?

Chapter Two

Oh, yeah, we’re back to flirting now. Mysterious Cowboy Man flips the book over and jams it into his laptop bag.

But then we’re tripping down the metal ramp, and I’m fighting with the handle of my suitcase again, and a couple with three children pass me while I tug and tug and tug. The moment is gone, and so is Hottie McStetson.

What? Is he all horse and no saddle? All hat and no horse? I don’t even know the phrase, but I know rejection when it happens.

I stop at the door of the plane and read another few lines while I wait to board. Trite. Cliché. Someone threatens the rancher, and his daughter works with the hired hand to help solve the mystery. She’s pretty useless, to be honest. She mostly just sighs over the drifter’s muscles, which aren’t even bulging or described in any way to get my heart racing.

It’s got to be men reading this stuff, not women. No woman buys into these outdated stereotypes. Not every woman needs a big, strong, man to save her.

I stop trying to get a glimpse of the cowboy’s muscles five people ahead of me and tug my luggage forward myself. What happened to chivalry? Shouldn’t he be helping? I squeeze down the aisle of the plane until I reach the exit row.

It’s Labor Day, so every seat is filled.

Ah. I settle in my tiny seat and stretch out. Extra leg room. Bliss. Like my pen name. Lucy Bliss. I actually came up with the name on a plane.

Excuse me, miss? A flight attendant startles me. Her cheeks are pink and she’s tugging at her vest, clearly flustered. I look past her, and then I understand. It’s Cowboy Hottie again.

Yes? I close Ryder Hawk’s book. The mystery isn’t that interesting, really. It can wait, even if I do wonder whether the coyotes are out during the day or if someone left a fake trail to scare the rancher away from making a claim at the last minute.

We have an injured veteran here. Would either of you be willing to let him sit in the exit row where he’d have more room?

The cowboy nods his chin. Howdy again. I hate to be any trouble.

He’s got this Matthew McConaughy charm, where he’s humble and confident at the same time. I want to tell him that he’s no trouble, but I’d be lying. The moment stretches out, and then there’s an awkward tension between us. We both know he flirted, then bailed.

The flight attendant looks at me sternly. It’s no trouble. He refused the upgrade to first class when I saw the note on his record. Gave it to the elderly woman next to him. She blushes, then turns her gaze on us. But surely we can find him a little more space back here in coach.

I don’t budge. I booked my flight early just to get this seat, but the man sitting next to me is up in a flash. Thanks for your service, man. He pats the cowboy on the back, and I reluctantly scoot over one seat.

Then I shrug to myself. Whatever. Thank you, airplane fairy. Another two hours of flirting research. I couldn’t be happier.

Real-Life Hottie settles in with a sheepish grin, and it’s hard to imagine how he could be any sexier. A combat veteran, hiding his injury, turning down perks.

Maybe cowboys aren’t so bad. I flash him a smile and pick up my book. I’m not going to be that annoying person who talks his ear off…but if he wants to revisit kissing lessons, I am here for it.

The plane taxies and takes off. It achieves that magical altitude where I can turn on my electronic devices, but I don’t bother with my noise-cancelling headphones or Airpods, just in case he wants to talk—or something else.

He doesn’t. Talk about hot and cold and mixed signals. It’s only a two-hour flight from Sacramento to Denver, but he’s silent the whole way, so I skim Ryder Hawk’s novel for most of it. I’m able to get the basic idea of the plot, tone, and character types. Meh. Only one more kiss, and it is just as bland as the other. Seriously, like they kissed.

Who is this Ryder Hawk guy anyway? I’ve always avoided reading his bio or looking at his picture. I don’t want to imagine the enemy. It would be too depressing if he were some kid genius. I’d rather imagine him as an eighty-year-old man who only kisses his dog on the cheek. ’Cause this dude does not know the first thing about passion.

But I do want to see how the book ends. I mean, it’s not that big a deal, but the time goes faster than I realize, and the romance is kinda sweet. Like, old guy sweet, without any heat.

But here’s the thing. I’ve got to crack his code, or I’m out of a job. My publisher is only offering so many contracts, and I’ve never had a number one bestseller. If my next book doesn’t top the charts, I’m not sure how I can keep up with all the bills. I need an advance, and I need it soon.

Writing is all I know. The thought makes me stress-binge, and the peanut M&M’s make me thirsty, and before you know it, I’ve drained my water bottle… And the scene with the dog might or might not have legitimately brought tears to my eyes. There’s nothing else to do. I’m going to have to climb over him to get to the bathroom.

I set my book down on the faded blue leather seat and half-stand, half-crouch facing Cowboy McHotStuff. He’s reading pretty intently. I tap him lightly on the shoulder, and he jumps, as if I’ve scalded him.

Maybe he’s into the book. I check. Page one hundred and ninety-four. A pretty tense spot, actually. Lord Reginald Yelverton wraps his entire arm around Lady Barrington’s waist to steady her, and accidently calls her by her first name—plus, they’re alone without a chaperone.

He blinks, then stares, and I realize I’m closer to him than I thought.

Eye level.

Lip level.

And we’re a breath apart.

I wobble, and the cowboy steadies me, then quickly drops his hand. Sorry, not interested in lessons. He smirks and starts reading again. I already know how to kiss, darlin’.

The nerve. I am not hitting on him, and no one calls me darlin’ and lives to tell the tale. I glare at him. I need to use the bathroom.

He shifts to the side, a little slowly, and I wonder if it actually is painful for him to sit so long.

I make my way up to the bathroom, still fuming, and try to think of a retort. I want to say something stinging and witty, so clever he chokes on a bite of his fire-flavored beef jerky, then saunter back to my seat and stretch out.

But I have to crawl across his lap to get back into my seat, and that thought stops me cold. I strut down the aisle, watching him the whole way. When I arrive at the exit row, he glances up for a millisecond, as if he can’t help himself, and I see that he’s still on page one-hundred and ninety-four.

He watched me walk up and down the aisle. I smile at him as I start to crawl awkwardly across his lap. He smirks as I make it past his legs and I’m about to sit down.

What?

He shakes his head. Nothing.

I freeze. A smile like that can’t be trusted. I glance down at his lap. My Keds are trapped between his boots, but that’s not very funny.

I smile back at him, and his grin widens. The teenager across the aisle snickers, and I slip into my seat. My heart thunders in my chest, and I close my eyes.

I can still feel the ghost of his fingertips brushing the small of my back as I squeeze past him.

My back.

I carefully cross my legs and glance down—there it is. A piece of white toilet paper is wedged in the waist of my leggings—the piece I used to line the seat.

Bingo. Ryder chuckles.

That’s not nothing. I wad up my paper tail.

That’s a double negative. Hottie McCowboy leans back in his seat. That makes it nothing.

I bite back a smile, because really, is toilet paper an appropriate subject for banter? Was he trying to take it out of my leggings and save my dignity or was he stopping me from stepping on his toes—or was he using the moment as an excuse to touch my back?

Any way you look at it, I’m mortified.

A flight attendant passes by to collect the rest of the trash. I lean across Ryder to jam my toilet paper ball in the trash.

Excuse me, I say stiffly, as my arm brushes his chest.

Mr. Cowboy Veteran All-American smirks. It’s nothing. Then, of course, he winks.

About toilet paper.

I settle into my seat, rummage in my backpack, and spritz some hand sanitizer on my hands. Dark-Wash Muscle Man’s warm chuckles float over as I rub and rub my hands.

Even his low, throaty laugh is sexy. Stupid cowboy.

We soar down through the clouds to a blue sky and a sunny day. The flight attendant opens the door, and people begin to deplane, but I don’t get rid of him so easily. Mr. Chivalry insists on taking my carry-on suitcase down from the overhead bin, and he keeps a firm grip on it.

I’m not sure if he’s using it to