A city girl fleeing an abusive marriage suddenly finds herself working on a cattle ranch with a sexy but grumpy rancher as her boss in this spicy cowboy romance from the author of Seeing Red and Change of Hart . He’s worried she won’t stay. She’s worried she will. City girl Cecily Kennedy never expected to step foot on a cattle ranch, but when her already strained marriage takes a violent turn, a kind friend offers her a job and refuge at Wells Ranch. Ranch life is hard enough without her new boss, Austin Wells, sending mixed signals about whether he wants her or hates her. But Cecily can’t risk getting involved with her grumpy yet alluring employer—she has nowhere else to go, and getting over her ex by getting under Austin isn’t worth the potential fallout. As far as Austin’s concerned, Cecily won’t be sticking around for long. He’s learned the hard way that nobody ever stays, and the indent on her ring finger makes him certain the sexy city gal is no exception. But when Cecily’s troubled past threatens her safe haven, Austin realizes that somewhere between their trail rides and late night talks, she’s branded herself on his heart. He desperately wants her to stay, and whether or not she feels the same, he’ll be damned if he lets anyone or anything hurt her under his watch. Don’t miss any of Bailey Hannah’s steamy Wells Ranch series: ALIVE AND WELLS • SEEING RED • CHANGE OF HART “As angsty and emotional as it is swoony and sexy, Change of Hart is a second-chance romance that will have readers simultaneously wiping their tears and smiling until it hurts. Denny and Blair are totally captivating!” —Lyla Sage, New York Times bestselling author of Lost and Lassoed “Bailey Hannah’s books are an exhilarating ride. I close each one with my hair blown back and a smile on my face, immediately ready for another.” —Tarah DeWitt, USA Today bestselling author USA Today bestselling author Bailey Hannah is a Canadian romance writer with a passion for strong heroines and rugged men who aren’t afraid to love their women hard. Born and raised in small town British Columbia, you can count on a touch of rural Canadian flair (dirt roads, rodeos, and ketchup chips) in her stories. Bailey lives with her husband, daughter, dogs, and chickens. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, the outdoors, and daydreaming about her characters. Cecily I ’ve spent the better half of the day listing on the back of my grocery receipt all the ways I could kill him. Now, glancing up from the tiny scrawlings to the microwave clock, I light a match and burn the evidence. Perfectly on cue, KJ’s headlights beam through the small window over the kitchen sink. I rush to wash charcoal dust down the drain. “How was work?” My fake smile comes naturally when he walks through the door. Practice makes perfect. “Let’s just say I’m glad to be home.” He plants a rough kiss on my forehead, and I’m pulled into an unpleasant embrace. I suck in the strong cologne as my cheek smashes against his chest, every muscle in my body rigid in his arms. He sniffs the air and I pray the vanilla bean candle’s enough to cover up the smoke. Clearly not noticing anything off, he focuses instead on the brown paper bags from his favorite restaurant. “You’re so good to me, babe. Seriously, how did I get this lucky?” It’s the same song and dance. His pathetic attempt at groveling because we argued before he left for work this morning. Rather, he yelled, and I stood like a statue until he gave up. A similar pose to the one I’m in now, clutching the marble countertop, waiting for an inevitable critique of something. My appearance, the dinner order, the state of the house . . . there’s always something. KJ waltzes toward the restaurant containers and lifts a lid to peek inside at the hundred-dollar sushi order. It’s not even the best sushi restaurant in town—he likes it because it’s the most expensive. Running a hand through his short black hair, he turns to me. “You must’ve been really busy today if you couldn’t even cook.” There’s the comment. “Pour yourself some wine and sit down, babe. I’ll dish us up.” After a brief hesitation, and no further comments from my husband, I open the cupboard. My perpetually shaky fingers wrap around a teal mug. Not the classiest way to drink a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine, but my last wineglass shattered against the dining room wall on Sunday. Nerve endings buzzing with the memory, I fill the mug and tiptoe out of the room. The moment I enter the dining room, I’m drawn to the burgundy stain splashed across the greige wall above the table. Noticeable scrub marks linger where I spent an hour crying and cleaning. I’ll have to swing by the hardware store for some more paint before our Friday night dinner plans with our friends Sara and Mike. God forbid anybody asks why our dining room now has a port-wine-stain feature wall. “F***!” His booming voice reverberates through the walls, and I swear the house shu