And I’d inherited it?

And the ranch! Christ, how could I have forgotten the ranch that was adjacent to the picture-perfect house? Acres and acres of fertile California land, dotted with sheep, chickens, and the occasional milk cow. And horses. How could I have forgotten the horses? And the quaint old barn where . . . wait a minute . . . horses need tending to. Usually by a . . . cowboy.

A mysterious phone call in the middle of the night, beckoning me from my sleep. A call that awakened my mind with endless possibilities. An adventure? A new beginning? A journey across the land where a new life awaits? One with a . . . gulp . . . a cowboy? Shit. I could gulp a cowboy. Especially if I was about to be starring in my very own romance novel. But could I actually move across the country? I didn’t know a soul in California.

Wait, strike that.

I picked up the phone to call the only person I knew on the West Coast. One who shared the same sense of adventure that I once did.

It was only eleven o’clock in California. Of course, who the hell knew where he might be, knowing his job? I scrolled through my phone, looking at his name, weighing the decision about waiting to call in the morning.

Fuck it.

I called my old friend from high school, Simon Parker.

Chapter two

“Viv Franklin. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hi, Simon. Did I catch you at a bad time? I figured it wasn’t too late to call, since you’ve never been an in-bed-before-midnight kind of guy, right?”

“No, not usually. Although lately—”

“Spare me the details of your love life, except to tell me that you’re still with Caroline, right? You didn’t mess that up, did you?” At our high school reunion last fall, I’d met the woman who’d finally tamed the man that is Simon Parker.

“I am indeed. She’s back at home in San Francisco. Well, actually, home is now Sausalito.”

“Back at home? Where are you now?”

“On a shoot in Cambodia. You’d love it, Viv. I just did a study on the forest taking back the lost temples and cities over and around Angkor Wat. Fucking unreal.”

I sighed, thinking back on my more adventurous days. I’d picked my prospective colleges with my parents, comparing the programs they offered in computer engineering, advanced mathematics, etc. But I also spent some time researching the art programs at those schools. And when I chose a small liberal arts college over the prestigious technical colleges my brothers had attended, I told my parents that a more well-rounded education would make me a more appealing young woman. Read: Your “sixth son” is turning into a young woman, and she needs something beyond field hockey.

So off I went, acing my advanced applied mathematics courses and taking some art classes every semester. By the time I was a junior and declared my official major, computer engineering, I stunned my family with my minor: studio art. I further stunned them when I turned down a summer internship at a rival software firm for a summer program in Italy, studying in Florence. What was even more stunning? I spent a semester of my senior year in Paris, studying at the Sorbonne. I took just enough core classes to satisfy my parents and a figure drawing class just for myself.

Graduation loomed, job offers came in, but it was understood that I’d be following my brothers into my father’s company. So I did what every girl from a wealthy family does: I rebelled. In perfect, by-the-book fashion. I dyed my hair, got several tattoos, pierced some things that were noticeable—and some that were not—and when I walked across the stage to get my diploma I did so in combat boots and a sign on the top of my cap. In masking tape, I’d spelled out:

MOVING TO FRANCE

This was my totally pu**y in-your-face way of telling my parents I wasn’t taking their job, or any job for that matter. I’d secured an internship at a gallery on the Left Bank in Paris, had some money from a trust that kicked in when I turned twenty-one, a travel visa, and a spanking-new backpack.

My. Parents. Were. Livid.

 I. Was. On. An. Adventure.

I apologized to my parents, who initially responded with the threat of disowning me and insisting I was throwing my life away. They eventually ended in tears, fearing I’d lose my head and virtue to a Frenchman. They had no idea that my virtue had been lost years ago in the backseat of my car, The Blue Bomber, but that was neither here nor there. The here was leaving my family behind, to do something no one was expecting. The there was a fourth-floor walk-up in the 11th Arrondissement with two roommates I’d met online and arranged a sublet with.

I had the best time of my life. I lived, worked, and loved in the City of Light. I spoke marginal French but learned quickly, ate delicious food, danced in delicious nightclubs, and had my first delicious sexual encounter with an uncircumcised man. Ooh la la. I took art classes, I rented a studio space, I had passionate love affairs with passionate artists as passionate about their craft and their determination to live a bohemian idealistic lifestyle as I was. I traveled throughout Europe and points farther east, resulting in an unexpected meeting with Simon in Istanbul toward the end of my European adventure.

By now I was well into my romance novel addiction, taking any gloomy day or disappointing date as an opportunity to indulge in steamy and dreamy. But while the heroines in my books all ended up with their happily-ever-after, my love life was falling short. Sex life was off the rails, but love eluded me. I’m a reasonably attractive young gal, great rack, nice legs, and never had any complaints in the sack. But I’d never been—cue sad music—in love before. And no one had ever been—cue sadder music—in love with me. No one had ever taken me in his arms, kissed my sweet lips, and whispered the words I love you.