Sweet Home Montana

About the Author

With big dreams of being a published author since she was an eleven-year-old girl writing Beverly Hills 90210 fan fiction before fan fiction was even a thing, SHANN McPHERSON has been writing angsty, contemporary romances for most of her thirty-something years.

Living in sunny Queensland, Australia, when she’s not writing, Shann enjoys making memories with her husband and cheeky toddler son, drinking wine, and singing completely off-key to One Direction’s entire discography.

Praise for Shann McPherson

“Devoured this captivating romance in one evening without coming up for air … Addictive”

“I was sucked in from the first chapter. I laughed, cried and held my breath a lot”

“Emotional depth, drama, romance, comedy, and witty banter … A delightfully entertaining debut romantic tale that romance fans will certainly enjoy!”

“A great read”

“A hilarious, heartfelt story … A perfect beach, feel-good read”

“Loved this book … So enjoyable”

“Moved me to laughter and tears”

Also by Shann McPherson

Where We Belong

Sweet Home Montana

SHANN McPHERSON

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Shann McPherson

Shann McPherson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © August 2020 ISBN: 9780008381981

Version: 2020-07-02

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for Shann McPherson

Also by Shann McPherson

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For Louis

Prologue

Ten years ago …

I’m the kind of girl who’s been dreaming of her wedding day for most of her life. The dress, the flowers, the groom. When I was a little girl, I used to sneak up into the attic and play dress-up with my mom’s wedding gown from the Seventies, twirling around in the beauty of the last light of day shining in through the tiny windows, catching the dust particles floating through the air like glitter. In that moment, as a wide-eyed ten-year-old with my whole life ahead of me, it was almost as if dreams could really come true.

Fast forward ten years, and here I am, staring at my own reflection, trying so hard to rack my brain as to who the woman looking back at me even is. Sure, she looks like me. She has my honey blonde hair, and the same gray eyes with flecks of blue and gold, but I don’t know her. Standing there in a white dress, gripping a bouquet of wild flowers as if it’s her lifeline, the woman staring back at me is a relative stranger, and for some reason it makes my heart jump up into the back of my throat. I can’t breathe. It isn’t right. There’s something seriously wrong. This is my wedding. I’m marrying my best friend, the love of my life. This is the day I used to dream about. I’m a bride. I’m supposed to be blushing, not barely breathing.

“You ready, sweetheart?”

I jump, pulling myself from the overwhelming thoughts consuming me from the inside. Turning, I find my father standing in the doorway, his imposing frame filling the space. He’s dressed in an impeccable black suit, a matching Stetson—the good one he saves for formals and funerals alike—perched upon his head. He looks handsome, and proud, and my uncertainty quells when I meet his eyes to see such adoration within his penetrating gaze.

I manage a nod, swallowing the lump of trepidation that sits in the back of my throat. Bunching up the heavy lace train of my dress, I cross the room, staring at the hardwood floor with every tentative step I take. Dad stops me. Reaching out, he tucks his forefinger beneath my chin, forcing my eyes to his, and for a long moment he regards me closely, and I’m almost certain he can see straight through me.

“You know,” he begins, his deep voice hushed as he continues, “you don’t have to—” With an imploring gaze, he stops himself, silencing whatever it was he was going to tell me.

“What?” I press, my brows knitting together. I’m almost positive I know what he was about to say, but I just need to hear him say it. If he says it, then I know it can’t be wrong.

But he doesn’t say it. Instead, he presses his lips together in the semblance of a smile, shaking his head dismissively. “You look beautiful, sweetheart. Just like your mother.”

My heart stops at that.

My mother.

I blink a few times as a hazy memory flashes through my mind.

I’m seven years old and I’ve just had a bath, the scent of my favorite bubblegum bubble wash lingers in the damp air. I’m sitting at the vanity in the bathroom and my mother is standing behind me, combing the tangles from my hair, a wistful smile playing on her lips, illuminating her effortless beauty.

“What do you want to be when you grow up, Quinny?” she asks.

I meet her eyes in the mirror, answering matter-of-factly, “A princess.”

She laughs, a musical lilt resonating throughout the space, but then a sudden seriousness comes over her, one that she tries desperately to hide with a forced smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Will you promise me something, darling girl?”

“What is it, Mommy?”

My mother sits down on the bench seat beside me, smoothing the backs of her delicate fingers over my chubby cheek, a faraway gaze in her eyes. “Promise me, whatever you do, never forget to chase your dreams.”

I notice a sadness come over her, one I’ve never seen before. In her eyes there’s a sheen that reflects the soft downlights shining from above the mirror. I blink at her, unsure what she means. And, because I’m only seven, I simply offer a smile, craning up to place a kiss to her cheek. “Okay, Mommy.”

I wish I’d known more. Maybe I could have saved her. Maybe, just maybe, less than a year later she wouldn’t have taken to her wrists with a razor blade.

“Sweetheart?”

I blink hard, shaking my head free of my memory, finding Dad looking at me, concern evident within his inky eyes. As Mom’s haunting words echo throughout my mind, my chest heaves to keep up with my suddenly racing heart. A cold sweat beads at my nape. Tears threaten what little composure I have left. My eyes flit frantically from side to side, for what? I don’t even know.

“Quinny?” Dad steps in, his large hands enveloping my upper arms and gently pulling me closer to him.

I find his eyes, the safety and familiarity within them, and just like that my anxiety dissipates enough for me to catch my breath. “I c-can’t—” I shake my head. “I can’t do this,” I cry.

He stares at me a long moment, studying me, and then he simply nods.

***

I’ve left a bunch of times. I can’t even count how many. In the three years I’ve been away at college, I’ve stood in this very spot in the center of the bustling departure terminal of Great Falls International so many times before, looking my father in his eyes as we fumble our way through goodbye. But never before have I stood here looking at my father with such a resolute finality. This goodbye feels like it might just be forever, and the more I try desperately to swallow that painful lump of emotion that’s wedged its way into the back of my throat, the more the tears sting my eyes.

Dad clears his throat, glancing away a moment before meeting my gaze. He lifts a large hand, scrubbing his stubbled chin, for lack of anything else to do with his hands. “I’ll see you for Thanksgiving.”

I hesitate a moment, averting my gaze from his eyes, which have always been able to see straight through me. And, although I’m almost certain he knows, I can’t risk him seeing the truth. That he won’t be seeing me for Thanksgiving. That I probably won’t even be home for Christmas. That I don’t know if I can ever come back. Not after what I did yesterday. Call me a coward, but my leaving is what’s best for everyone.

I nod once, lifting my chin again, and I force a smile through the overwrought sadness that’s clawing at me from the inside. “Thanksgiving,” I manage, my voice wavering.

He lifts his faded brown Stetson from his head momentarily, ruffling a hand through his salt and pepper hair, which is far more salt than pepper, nowadays, thanks to me. His dark, penetrating gaze steadies me, and in that moment, he says so much with just one look.

“In life, it doesn’t matter where we go, or how long we’re gone for. What matters is that we never forget where we come from, so no matter what, we can always go home.” Royal Wagner is a man of few words. A stoic man who stands at six-foot-three. Imposing and intimidating in every sense of the word. And yet, I find myself completely taken aback by what he’s just said to me. So much so that I can’t possibly stop my infuriating tears from breaking free, trailing down over my cheeks.

Dad closes the distance, his strong arms wrapping around me and pulling me to him. And I go willingly, holding on to him so tight, burying my face into his chest and breathing him in as more tears fall. When the final boarding call for my flight to Newark rings throughout the vast terminal, I find myself instinctively fisting the fleecy material of his vest, gripping it tight as if I can’t bear to let him go. And I can’t. I don’t want to. But I have to.

“I’ll call you,” I say through a sob, my broken voice muffled by his flannel shirt. “Every day.”

Dad presses a kiss to the top of my head, quietly shushing me, and I could stay like this forever in the arms of the man who has always been my hero. But I know I can’t. And, reluctantly, I force myself to pull away. I have to. If I don’t, I might never leave.

I swipe at the tear tracks staining my cheeks with the cuff of my New York University sweatshirt, unable to meet my father’s eyes as I crouch down to collect my backpack from the floor. And with my gaze fixed on the shiny tile, I press my fingers to my lips, blowing him a quick kiss before turning quickly and hurrying toward my gate, unable to chance a single glance over my shoulder in his direction. Seeing him standing there will only break my already shattered heart. And despite the crippling, self-inflicted pain of leaving my father and my whole world behind, I know it’s for the best. It has to be.

Chapter 1

I navigate the Monday morning crowds treading the Fifth Avenue sidewalk, balancing a double-shot Americano, my designer handbag and a thirty-page new-build proposal I was supposed to have read over the weekend for today’s monthly sales meeting. I didn’t read the proposal. In fact, I didn’t even take it out of its perfectly bound folder. And as I hurry into the marble lobby of my office building with a throbbing head, I wish I had read it. Especially last night, instead of consuming an entire bottle of pinot noir while watching Real Housewives reruns like the sad, single, almost-thirty-year-old that I am.

Once inside the packed elevator car, awkward silence ensues as we ascend, save for a few people obliging in amicable yet obviously forced conversation with others they’d probably rather avoid. My cell phone chimes loudly three times, bringing with it a few eye-rolls from the people surrounding me, but I ignore the new messages, flashing an apologetic smile at those around me when it chimes one more time. There’s no way I can manage my phone, coffee, handbag, and documents. Whoever it is can wait.

I stare straight ahead at the mirrored doors, exhaling a defeated sigh of resignation when I’m forced to look directly at my own reflection. The morning rain has caused my honey blonde hair to frizz and my mascara to run. But I shrug a nonchalant shoulder. At least I managed to make it into the office today. My bed was feeling awfully warm and cozy when my alarm went off. I glance up at the floor counter above the doors, watching as it ticks by, mocking me with every floor we pass.

Do I hate my job? No. My job, my life is what most dreams are made of. The perfect apartment on one of the best cobblestone streets in Tribeca. An enviable designer handbag collection, shoes, too. But lately I’ve found myself trapped within a funk I just can’t seem to crawl my way out of. I don’t know what it is. I suppose it could be the dreaded three-zero looming right around the corner.

When the elevator car stops with a sudden and unexpected jolt, I’m knocked by the woman beside me, causing me to lose my balance. And, in a flurry so fast I can’t possibly prevent it from happening, lukewarm coffee is soaking through the delicate silk of my shirt as the documents I was holding on to fall from my hand and scatter across the elevator floor.

I pan down to take in the state of my shirt, to the mess on the floor, as impatient people push past me on their way out of the doors, paying no mind to me or my obvious dilemma.

I sigh, my shoulders sagging in resignation.

Sadly, this is my life.

Did I mention I hate Mondays?

***

After attempting to clean myself up in the bathroom, I’m so late to the sales meeting, I can’t help but feel all eyes on me, looking me up and down with thinly veiled incredulity as I make my way into the boardroom twenty minutes after go-time, slipping into the only available chair right by Mr. Hawkins, the chairman of one of the most prestigious brokerage firms on the East Coast.

My cell chimes twice, interrupting Keith from our marketing department, as he talks to a detailed presentation on the year-to-date advertising spend. When his eyes flit in my direction, I offer him an apologetic nod as I take out my diary, scribing some important points. But then I catch my assistant, Oliver, watching me with wide eyes and an obvious smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth as he assesses the glaringly obvious coffee stain on my shirt, accompanied by my frizzy, unruly hair. And it takes all I have not to throw my pen at his head from the opposite side of the glossy teak table.

***

“What on earth happened to you?” Oliver asks with a chuckle as he hurries behind me on my way out of the meeting.

I flash him a warning glare over my shoulder. “Don’t even ask,” I mutter through gritted teeth, trying my best to cover the brown stain on my silk shirt with my leather-bound diary. My phone vibrates, and I look down at the screen to see a blocked number calling. It’s the sixth time so far this morning and they haven’t even bothered to leave one message. Take a damn hint, buddy. I decline the call, noticing another three new text messages only adding to the myriad other messages already waiting for my attention.

“Is this Versace?” Oliver gasps incredulously, pulling my attention away from my phone as he tugs gently on my blouse.

“Yes,” I answer sharply, stopping momentarily to collect a stack of copies from one of the interns’ desks. “Can you please send for a new shirt from Saks. Black.” I bark my order slightly more abruptly than I had intended before softening the blow with a wavering smile. “I’m sorry. I’m meeting Shareeq at eleven o’clock, and I can’t show up like this.”

With Oliver hot on my heels, I continue through the length of the bustling sales floor, toward my corner office. The office I’ve worked my butt off to secure. The office that means that I’ve made it. Glass walls, glass doors, floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the concrete jungle that is Manhattan, providing an awe-inspiring view of the Chrysler Building reaching high up into the drab gray October sky. It feels like only yesterday I was tucked away in a cubicle by the fire escape doors, head buried in client cold-calling sheets. Now, here I am, in a glass box with a nice view, my name branded across the door in three-inch gold lettering.

“Someone’s a little testy this morning,” Oliver says from behind me, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Yes. Someone is a little testy.” I turn offering a droll look. “In case you haven’t noticed”—I point to the stain on my shirt. “Someone didn’t get to enjoy her morning coffee …”

Oliver chuckles.

My phone chimes again with another new text message and I hold it up in the air between us. “Is there a new listing I’m not aware of?”

He shakes his head with a shrug, taking my diary from me and placing it onto the console table beside the white leather chaise in the corner of the room.

“My phone is going nuts,” I murmur under my breath, shaking my head to myself as I take my seat at my desk. I power up my computer, but when I click on my inbox, reading the subject line of my most recent email received less than an hour ago, an involuntary gasp escapes me, and suddenly it’s as if I can’t even breathe.

Dear Miss Wagner,

I ran into Adam Delaney of CRTJ on Friday evening while I was dining with some associates at the Morrisey Club. We got talking about Prince Street. He raised some valid points about your suitability to take on the project. CRTJ specialize in the new-build market, and they have a dedicated project team for this type of listing.

Mr. Delaney also mentioned that he has firsthand experience with similar developments, particularly in the Tribeca area. He was also the sole listing agent for Broadway Towers, and sold more than 65% of all units at full ask or above within three weeks of the listing date.

Unfortunately, after much deliberation with my team, we feel it is in our best interest to go with Mr. Delaney and his team at CRTJ. I do hope there are no hard feelings. While I believe you’re a tremendous agent, and I can’t wait to work with you on future projects, we just feel Adam and his team will take better care of our needs during this time.

Please feel free to contact my assistant, Leilani, if you require anything further from me.

Kind regards,

Mihir Shareeq, Head of Operations, BSG

“Son of a bitch!”

“What?” Oliver turns quickly, his face fraught with concern as he leans in closely, gawping over my shoulder.

“Adam Delaney …” I say his name in some sort of a daze as I scan the length of the email again and again, going through a plethora of emotions with each and every word. “He just– He just stole Prince Street.”

I’m just about ready to grab my computer monitor and throw it straight through the damn plate glass window, down onto Madison Avenue. My heart races as panic begins to claim me from the inside out, and I look around for something, anything, I don’t even know what.

“He can’t do that!” Oliver shrieks indignantly, his voice pitchy and piercing. “BSG signed with you!”

“No.” I shake my head as the weight of the world comes crashing down upon me. Burying my face in my hands, I could just about cry, and I probably would be crying right now if I wasn’t so pissed off. “They didn’t sign. That was my eleven o’clock with Shareeq.”

Oliver says nothing as a tense and heavy silence rings through the air.

“Can you please go out and get me a coffee from the café downstairs?” I say, smoothing my hair back from my face as I take a deep, fortifying breath, hoping like hell it helps to provide some semblance of clarity so that I can deal with this situation effectively and rationally. “I need to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.”

“I’ll get Shareeq on the phone for you.” Oliver moves quick smart, grabbing me a bottle of Fiji Water from the small refrigerator built into my closet. And that’s what I love about him. He just knows what to do and when to do it. I don’t even have to ask half the time. He’s good in a crisis. Me? Not so much. In fact, I often have no idea what I’m doing. I’m just good at faking it.

I started at Hawkins Group fresh out of grad school with a drive like no other. And in that time, I’ve managed to work my way up the corporate ladder. From intern to assistant, to junior broker, to broker, to senior broker where I’m now in the top ten in all of Manhattan. I’ve fought hard over the years to make it to the top. I’ve sacrificed so much. Almost everything. And I’m damn good at my job. Ruthless at times, or so I’ve been told, but real estate is still very much a man’s world in this city, and sometimes only the strong survive, which is why it is imperative that I keep my cool right now. I can’t allow my emotion to show, despite my internal panic. I won’t let Adam win.

Adam Delaney has had it in for me ever since a client chose me to list his thirty-million-dollar Columbus Circle penthouse, because my pitch was better. Adam went on social media and not so subtly insinuated that I wear low-cut tops and tight skirts just to get what I want. Misogynistic jerk. I began proceedings to sue him for defamation. Our lawyers settled out of court. I won, of course. And ever since then, he’s been vying to take me down one client at a time.

And with this latest stunt, stalking the likes of Mihir Shareeq, coincidentally crossing paths with him at a members’ only gentlemen’s club in the Upper East Side and casually bringing the luxury fourteen-unit new-build development he knew I was signing into conversation, well, he may have just succeeded.

“I have Shareeq’s assistant on the line,” Oliver’s voice rings through the silence of my office.

“Thanks.” I press the flashing button on my handset and wait, ignoring my ringing cell phone as it vibrates loudly on the desk with that same blocked number. I turn it over. Face down, so it doesn’t keep distracting me.

“Miss Wagner?” Leilani, Shareeq’s assistant, comes through the line, her voice deep and sultry.