Page 1 of Lost in the Reins

Chapter One

Paisley

Ineed to pee.

Badly.

Three cups of coffee and Spanx a size too small are not the best combination for a Monday morning meeting with my agent.

“Paisley, I want you to understand that I always want what’s best for you. I’m not showing you this to upset you. I simply want you to see the reality of the situation.”

I wince at the computer screen that she’s turned around on her desk. Six hundred and forty-three Amazon reviews, and she’s somehow found the most brutal ones to use as examples. I grip my leather portfolio tighter, the material creaking in protest as Miranda clicks through to yet another scathing review.

"Here's another gem." Miranda taps her manicured nail against the screen. "'The only authentic thing about these cowboys is how fast I returned this book. Save yourself the trouble and read an actual ranching manual instead.'"

"I did research." The defense comes out weaker than intended. "I watched every season ofYellowstone. Twice."

"Darling." Miranda's sigh could wilt fresh flowers. "That's like saying you learned brain surgery fromGrey's Anatomy."

I blink several times, wishing I would have lied and claimed I had taken ill from last night’s takeout. “I’m a romance writer.” I shrug. “I write fantasies for a living, not memoirs. I don’t need to live an experience in order to write about it.”

“True,” Miranda drawls, “but your ‘fantasies’ must have some authenticity.”

Who says? I mean, a real cowboy probably smells like horse manure after a long day of work. Who wants to imagine kissing that at the door? No one. That’s who. I see no harm in embellishing a little.

“Okay, so I dirty them up a little more and write them in knock-off jeans.” I grin, acting like I just solved world hunger in under a minute.

Too bad Miranda doesn’t return my enthusiasm.

"The market has changed," she says instead, turning her screen to reveal sales graphs that make my bladder crisis seem like a minor inconvenience. "Readers want real cowboys. Real ranches. Real..." She pauses with surgical precision. "Romance."

"I write real romance! Just because my cowboys shower regularly and own more than one shirt?—"

"Your last book had a rancher doing yoga at sunrise." Miranda's perfectly arched eyebrow could win Olympic medals for judgment. "In designer athleisure wear."

"It was a meditation subplot!" I shift in my seat, both from defensive indignation and increasing urinary desperation. "Very on-trend. Besides, who says cowboys can't practice mindfulness?"

"The same readers who are returning your books faster than last season's fashion mistakes." She pulls up another screen that makes my stomach drop faster than my latest rankings. "Face it, darling. Your cowboys are about as authentic as your spray tan.”

I glance down at my streaking fake bronze glow. I knew I shouldn’t have gone with a new brand. Apparently, there was a good reason it was 50 percent off.

“So, what's your solution?" I cross my legs tighter, praying my bladder holds out a little longer. "More dirt? Less yoga? I could give them some dramatic backstory involving cattle rustlers?—"

“We think you need experience.”

My brows rise. “I’m a bestselling author with ten years of writing experience. You really think I need continued education on the art of writing romance?”

“Actually”—Miranda flashes me a frightening smile—“I think you need a trip out West.”

“Like a vacation?” Because I’m down with that. It’s been years since I’ve taken time off. Though, I’d prefer somewhere a little more tropical, where they have those cute little cabanas you can rent. Ah, that would be so magical.

"No, darling. Not a vacation." Miranda's tone could freeze fresh margaritas. "Three months on a working ranch in Montana. Learning what real cowboys actually smell like after a day's work."

My tropical cabana fantasy evaporates faster than my bladder control. "Montana? As in... real cowboys? With actual cattle?"

"Whispering Pines Ranch." She slides a printout across her massive desk like she's dealing cards in a game I'm definitely losing. "Fourth-generation operation looking to diversify into heritage tourism. They've agreed to host a writer-in-residence in exchange for marketing consultation."

"Writer-in-residence?" I stare at the photo of what looks distressingly like an actual working ranch, complete with mud and cattle and probably snakes. "You mean like actually living there? With real cowboys who don't do sunrise yoga?"

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