I might have found my own grave. Or not, but I don’t have time to figure it out because my sexy neighbor, Owen, is helping me restore an inherited historic estate. But the more we dig, the more my disturbing buried roots surface. I have to confront that grave… and my bombshell family secret. Readers who love Catherine Cowles, Colleen Hoover, and Nora Roberts will fall head-over-heels for Buried Roots by Terra Weiss, a steamy, small town, heroine in danger, cinnamon roll hero, forced proximity romantic comedy mystery.
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I might’ve found my own grave.
Or not, but I don’t have time to figure it out. A perfect stranger willed me his neglected fifty-acre farm, and now, this New Yorker has two weeks to get it sell-ready. With a business to run, I can’t stay in this boondock town a second longer.
But I’ve got it handled—even after a series of suspicious property mishaps. Even after the threatening notes.
My veterinarian neighbor Owen Brooks shows up with a sledgehammer, a wicked sexy smile, and Demon, his appropriately named foster bulldog. But after losing my family, I only rely on myself.
That doesn’t stop Owen and the town of Violet Moon from showing up for me. Maybe family isn’t just blood.
Owen and I can’t deny our magnetic connection as we restore the historic estate. But the more we dig, the more my disturbing buried roots surface. I have to confront that grave… and my bombshell family secret.
Excerpt
Copyright 2023 Terra Weiss
When the driver steps out, I grip the pepper spray on my key ring. So what if he’s tall with a shock of black hair and atrociously handsome? Who cares if he’s wearing a faded t-shirt and rugged jeans, like some Hallmark movie hottie? I know better than to be fooled by looks.
I check the highway, scanning for other cars. Of course, this country road is empty. When he gets closer, I see the oily black streaks on his face, the filth on his hands, and the dirt on his clothes. And he’s wearing mismatched neon socks. That has to be ironic, no? But his smile is wicked sexy when he says, “Can I help you, ma’am?”
Ma’am? Is he for real? I force a smile and a wave when I say, “No, thank you. I’ve got it.” Translation: don’t come an inch closer.
“You’ve got it?” His voice is incredulous.
“Yup. All good.”
His eyes bulge as he stops and glances at my stuck tire. “All good? Looks like you’re in a bit of a pickle.”
On closer inspection, he has muscles everywhere, and the light scruff on his carved jawbone is annoyingly sexy. Which again, will not stop me from pepper spraying his fine ass. Hello, stranger danger—in the middle of nowhere. “Pickle? Nah.”
He rakes a hand through his wavy dark hair. “Look, this isn’t a sexist thing. I have a mother and three sisters who could kick everyone’s ass. But this road doesn’t see much action, and I can’t leave someone out here.”
“I appreciate that, I really do. But I won’t be stuck long. I’m handy.” That’s a stretch. I restore homes, so I am handy, but not with cars.
He raises a brow as he studies my face. “Handy or not, getting a car out of a ditch is a two-person job. At least.” He cocks his head and hitches up his voice a notch when he adds, “Out here, there’s no Triple A.”
“I don’t need Triple A. But thank you.”
His lips tick as they appear to search for a response. “Once I leave, you might not see another car for hours.”
“I’ll figure it out. I’m a New Yorker.”
“Ah. That explains it.”
My hand lands on my hip. “Explains what, exactly?”
“Nothing.” His mouth curves in a patronizing grin.
His amusement pisses me off. It’s really hard not to sound condescending when I say, “I’m sure you’ve got places to be.”
He hesitates before he hitches his thumb over his shoulder. “Okay, then. I’m leaving.”
Our gazes lock, like we’re in a game of eye-chicken. That’s fine, bring it—I don’t mind studying his. They’re part ocean, part storm cloud—sparkle tinged with despair. Like mine. I don’t look away, don’t blink when I say, “I see that, and good for you. Enjoy your day.”
He steps away in defeat. “I’m really leaving this time. You’ll be out here in the backwoods. All by yourself.” Another step back. “When you could have a mechanically inclined, super handy guy give you a hand.”
I put my palms up. “Again—mechanically inclined, super handy hands right here.” I wiggle my fingers and paint on a smile. “Sir.”
“All righty, then. Good luck.” That grin is back. “Ma’am.”
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About Terra Weiss
Terra Weiss is a romcom author with a knack for witty banter and gift for capturing authentic family dynamics. Readers love how her stories steer away from typical romcom cookie-cutter formulas and show how real-life people find real-life love.
When Terra’s not spilling the tea on what happens in the big and small towns that live in her heart, you’ll find her with her spunky daughter, mad scientist husband, wacky and wonderful mother, and the two six-pound dogs that run her house. She enjoys jogging at a snail’s pace, reading from her iPhone, and piling bright orange mountains of squeezy cheese on her crackers.
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