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Praise for the novels of Mia Sheridan

“Some love stories touch your soul so deeply, they stay with you long after you’ve finished reading.”

—Katy Regnery, New York Times bestselling author, on More Than Words

“There is no love story like a Mia Sheridan love story.”

—A.L. Jackson, New York Times bestselling author

“Heartbreaking…inspiring, uplifting and raw.”

—RT Book Reviews on Most of All You

“Utterly mesmerizing. An exquisite, beautifully written romance.”

—Samantha Young, New York Times bestselling author, on Most of All You

“What ensues is the magnificent story of two kindred, shattered spirits finding hope and partnership and eventually love.”

—Washington Post on Most of All You

“More Than Words is Mia Sheridan at her best! The story of love, heartbreak and second chances…each scene was beautifully written and paired with breathtaking imagery and epic love.”

—Alessandra Torre, New York Times bestselling author

“Mia Sheridan has outdone herself with this beautiful, uplifting story of two broken souls finding themselves and each other. I savored each word of Most of All You. This story will stay with me forever.”

—Corinne Michaels, New York Times bestselling author

“I love the men Mia writes. She’s able to create sensitive real men with insane sex appeal.”

—Renee Carlino, USA TODAY bestselling author, on Most of All You

“Sheridan explores the power of first love in a tale of childhood friends parted and reunited.”

—Publishers Weekly on More Than Words

About the Author

To learn more about Mia Sheridan and see an extensive list of her books, visit her website, miasheridan.com.

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• Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9781038955746

Dedication

To Elizabeth, an angel and a warrior.

prologue

Tuck

Now

Holy shit. What the hell is happening?

Cold sweat broke out across my back as the lights inside the small, chartered plane blinked off and the engine went quiet. I could hear the pilot, Russell, behind the curtain to the cockpit, speaking into the radio with what sounded like growing alarm. I rose from my seat and took a few unsteady steps to the cockpit doorway where I slid the curtain open to see Russell furiously pushing buttons and moving dials. I grabbed the wall to hold myself steady as the plane bumped and jerked, sudden flares of lightning pulsing through the darkened cabin.

“What’s going on?” I asked, voice as shaky as the rest of me.

“The engines and the navigation equipment went down,” Russell said. “Air traffic control cut out and I can’t get them back on the line.”

My heart dipped along with the plane, and I heard a small squeal of fear from behind me where Emily and Charlie were sitting. “Isn’t there a backup system?”

“That’s out too! Copy! Copy!” he called into his headpiece, but again there was no reply. “Shit.”

I ignored Emily’s quiet cries; there was nothing I could do. I had no idea what the hell was going on, and my own fear was mounting as the plane made another small drop. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of Russell’s cheek, punctuating the fact that he was panicked as well.

“Sit down and buckle up. I’ll use the manual controls,” he said, obviously trying to insert a note of confidence in his tone. “We can still glide, but I’ll need to get us down quickly. Brace for impact.”

My heart was racing as I turned back toward my seat. “What’s happening?” Emily asked, eyes wide with fear.

“Something knocked out the engine and navigation system and air traffic control isn’t answering,” I said, my eyes sweeping over her to verify she was buckled in. “He says to brace for impact.” I glanced out the window. The sky had dimmed, and I could see zigzags of lightning in the distance. An unexpected electric storm?

Emily looked straight ahead, grasping the armrests as the plane gave a groaning shiver.

I sat down and buckled myself in just as the plane dipped and then dipped again, my stomach rising and falling quickly as a small piece of luggage went flying past my face. Then the plane took on a bumpy flight pattern and strange milky clouds streaked past my window, splintered by a spidery bolt of white lightning right next to us.

I could hear the muted blast of the wind outside, highlighting the dead silence of the engine.

Brace for impact, the pilot had said. But I didn’t know how to do that other than sitting still and silent, terror pounding through my body.

We plunged yet again, the force jolting and lifting me and causing the seat belt to bite harshly into my hips. For a minute I was afraid the belt would break against the immense pressure. When I turned my eyes toward Emily, she was still gripping the armrests, her face ashen, eyes clenched tight. Next to her, Charlie had his eyes squeezed shut as well and looked to be hyperventilating. The plane began to shake, making a long, shrieking sound as though it was at risk of being torn apart by the rapid descent. My heart slammed, the hair rising on my nape and arms.

Just get us on the ground, Russell. Please get us on the ground.

We bumped and shook and for a moment, the sky went even darker, then seemed to split. The plane lowered again and this time didn’t straighten out for several long seconds. My breath lodged in my throat. The aircraft straightened, and as the nose rose, the sky parted once more, and I glimpsed the ground. It was red and fiery, smoke billowing everywhere. I swallowed heavily, the bony fingers of terror gripping my lungs.

I closed my eyes, focusing on my breath, conjuring the one place on earth that had always brought peace to my soul. I was a child again, the air tinged with the scent of orange blossoms. I lifted my face to feel the kiss of dry heat upon my skin and listened for the ringing echo of my mother’s laugh.

“Tuck.” Her voice. Emily. Not who she’d later come to be, the woman she was now, but the girl she once was. The one I’d loved. “Tuck.” That whisper again, my name floating over her shoulder as she ran through the groves of my memory, dirty knees and tangled hair, her quickened breath interrupted by bursts of giggles, spirit as radiant as the California sunshine. Another dip, another swerve, my memories dissolving in the surge of adrenaline shooting through my veins. My eyes shot open, and I leaned forward, watching helplessly out the window as we descended straight into hell.

chapter one

Tuck

Eleven Years Ago

I hopped the split rail fence, jogging along the creek bed, bending quickly to cup my hands and bring a drink of fresh, clear water to my mouth. A lizard scooted from under a rock, both of us startling each other before he darted away. Upright again, I ran the path I’d used a thousand times, toward the old stable on the east end of our property. The sun was just beginning its descent, purple streaks bleeding slowly across the horizon. Behind me I heard the shouts and laughter of my friends—the children of the farmhands and a couple neighbor kids—goofing off among the citrus groves. Normally I’d be hanging out with them, especially on a summer night like tonight, but more and more recently, I’d craved the quiet of my own thoughts, the time to focus on my dreams.

I was only fourteen, but my grandfather had come from Mexico and settled in California when he was just about my age, and even then, began to map out and work toward his future, the results of which spread out all around me, from the logo emblazoned on the front gate, to the far pasture where our horses roamed. Honey Hill Farm.

The old stable, no longer in use anymore, except for storage—and a secret space I’d claimed as my own—came into view and I raced toward it. A slight breeze rustled the leaves surrounding the structure, and I pulled the side door open just enough to squeeze through into the dim interior. It smelled like motor oil, dirt, and old wood, and though the mingling scents couldn’t necessarily be described as pleasant, they comforted me in some odd way. They spoke of peace, of found solitude, of safety even. This was my hideaway, a place of secret thoughts and dreams that felt as never-ending as the sky, and as bright and sweet as those oranges dripping like jewels from the trees.

There was something different—though temporary—occupying the space, however, and I thinned my lips as my gaze caught on the shiny convertible decked out in American flags and “Phil Swanson for City Council” campaign signs. The restored 1957 Ford Thunderbird was undeniably cool, the pride and joy of the owner of the orange grove neighboring ours, but I’d be glad when Mr. Swanson had backed it out of here, and this all-but-forgotten space once again belonged to me and me alone. That would be this weekend, right before the annual Labor Day parade, where Mr. Swanson planned to drive the car for his campaign. It was only being stored here because he’d washed and waxed it and didn’t have a space to house it as his own garage was undergoing some sort of expansion.

I looked away from the shiny red interloper and headed for the ladder that took me to the loft area. As my head cleared the high-up floor, my eyes widened, shock halting my movement, one leg raised to step to the next rung.

Emily Swanson.

Kneeling in front of the small, round window, next to my pile of books and among the other things I’d brought here, a hardcover open in her hands as she read.

No. Way.

Of all the people that I never wanted to find this spot or rifle through my things.

The burst of anger fueled my movement and I practically catapulted over the top of the ladder, coming to my feet, my head just grazing the ceiling. “What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.

Emily whirled around, fell to her butt, and dropped the book. “You scared me!”

“I scared you? You’re not supposed to be here. You’re…trespassing!”

She scrambled to her feet and then immediately put her hands on her slender hips, one golden brow arching. Despite my indignation, I couldn’t help noting how pretty she was. In fact, just the day before, I’d lain beneath that very window, my head propped on my backpack as I wondered what it’d be like to brush my lips against hers. The memory made heat flood my face like she might be able to read my mind, and my anger flamed hotter. It felt like she’d not only invaded my personal space, but somehow crept into my private thoughts as well. Thoughts about her that sort of embarrassed me, but mostly intrigued and excited me. When I was alone with them. For all my life, our parents had called us the worst of enemies and the best of friends, which I supposed was true. But now…something else was floating around the perimeter of our friendship, something I’d only begun to explore haltingly, secretly. Alone.

Emily stood, smoothing her sundress and brushing off her backside. “I wasn’t trespassing,” she insisted. “I just came out here to see my dad’s car all decorated.”

As if she had part ownership of this stable just because we’d allowed her dad to park his car here for a few days. To be fair, we’d always sort of treated each other’s neighboring orange groves as one continuous property, but I was in no mood to be fair. And anyway, what she’d said was clearly a lie. “Your dad’s car is down there,” I gritted, pointing behind me as though she didn’t already know that.

Emily moved her eyes slowly in the direction I’d pointed and then back to me, smiling sweetly. “I saw the books from below and was curious. I thought some homeless person might be living here. Maybe even a mass murderer or a…cannibal or something. I figured your mom and dad would want to know.” She looked around at the things I’d brought into my private hangout—books, binoculars, a pad of paper and a few pens, a deck of cards—and her lip quirked. A cannibal? Really? No, the little brat had uncovered a secret of mine and could tell I was mad. She was enjoying this.

“Get out before I push you over the edge,” I threatened, taking a step forward, hoping to scare her and wipe that self-satisfied smirk off her pretty face.

“You can’t do that!”

“Watch me.”

She glanced toward the edge, noting, it seemed, that she was nowhere near it, and therefore, not in any danger of being pushed. My baseless threat appeared to anger her more than anything, and with a huff, she bent and picked up one of my books and then held it in front of her. “I should have known these were your books the minute I saw them,” she said, her gaze going to the title of the one she was holding. Roman Aqueducts and Water Supply. Her expression registered dramatic disgust. “Boring books.” She lowered the pitch of her voice, doing a mocking impersonation. “I’m Tuck. I read boring books so I can get more boring. Boring, boring, boring.” I watched, my mouth falling open as I radiated rage and disbelief, and though I wouldn’t have admitted it, a small bit of curiosity. I was never quite sure what Emily was going to do from one moment to the next. She picked up another book, A Soil Owner’s Manual, and held it up to her face, pretending to read, crossing her eyes, taking a few steps one way and then the next in a drunken sort of stagger. “Oh good,” she said. “A book about dirt. I just got even more boring. Just what I was going for. Maybe I can join the Boring Olympics or start a business where I help people who can’t sleep.”

“Boring is better than stupid,” I retorted.

Her mouth set. Her blue eyes sparked fire. Yes, I knew her well enough to know that that was her button. She had trouble in school. Her parents were always on her case about her grades. She was behind in almost everything, except her beloved music class. She picked up one of the hand weights I’d brought up here so I could strengthen my mind and my body, the same way my grandfather had done all those years ago, or so the story went.

“I’m Tuck,” she said, using that same mocking pitch. “I lift weights so I can get even…” she paused to move her eyes over my body “…scrawnier than I already am.” She lowered the weight, crossing her eyes again and pretending to struggle as she lifted it, doing it again, huffing, moving her arm faster as she grunted in a parody of me, attempting to workout. Part of me wanted to laugh at the ridiculous show she was putting on, but the larger part was still raging mad and hugely offended. And so, when she jerked her arm backward and the weight slipped out of her hand, flying over her shoulder and sailing off the edge of the loft, I let out a bark of laughter that died a quick death as the sound of breaking glass exploded from below.

Oh God.

The Thunderbird.

Emily yelped, and we both moved quickly to the edge, going down on our knees and peering over to where the weight had landed, smack-dab in the middle of the Thunderbird’s windshield, shattering it and landing in a pile of shards on what had been the unblemished white interior.

Her father’s pride and joy. The one he’d spent three years restoring to pristine condition.

Emily’s sudden wail pierced the silence and she crawled to the ladder, turning around and descending in a blur of blue sundress and bouncing blond ponytail. I followed, my body still rigid with disbelief, and a fair amount of horror.

Emily’s dad was going to go ballistic on her.

Good.

Emily was standing next to the car, leaned toward the shattered windshield, as though, up close, it might not have been as bad as it looked from high above. She wailed again, tears pouring down her cheeks as she hiccupped and blubbered. “He’s going to murder me,” she cried. “Then he’s going to murder me again!”

I felt a small trickle of satisfaction but resisted the smile I felt tugging at one corner of my lips.

“At least it’s just the windshield,” I said. I didn’t know much about cars, but I figured that could be replaced more easily than if the weight had fallen on the hood and dented the paint and the metal. “He might only half murder you.”

Emily threw her head back and wailed again. “I’m supposed to go to a music camp this weekend. I’m already on thin ice because of my grades. He’ll never let me go now. He might as well just murder me!” She let out another high-pitched sob.

God, she was dramatic. My mom called Emily a “little showboat,” even if she smiled when she said it, affection in her voice. I gave her a glassy stare. “You really are a baby, you know that? You’re going to have to tell him what you did and accept the consequences.”

She deserved this. She really did. This was called just deserts.

Emily hung her head and sobbed for a minute, her shoulders shaking. But then with a shuddery breath, she nodded and looked up at me with her big blue eyes, now red-rimmed and glittering with tears. “I’m sorry, Tuck. I was mean. You’re not boring. At least not all the time.” Then she turned and headed slowly to the door, shuffling as she walked like she was heading for the gallows.

chapter two

Tuck

I waited a few minutes, giving Emily time to get ahead of me so I didn’t have to hear her pitiful sobs. When I emerged from the stable, she was already a few hundred feet away, her pale blue dress and yellow hair standing out against the rust-colored dirt. The sky had dimmed since I’d first entered the building, and far beyond, I could see the dancing flames of the bonfire our parents had lit, a regular occurrence on weekend summer nights. Sometimes we’d roast hot dogs or s’mores. And sometimes Mrs. Swanson would bring out the board games. Those were the nights I’d hear the adults laughing and chattering long after I went to bed.

I trudged toward the firelight, the rising and falling sounds of conversation meeting my ears as I drew closer. There was an ice bucket filled with drinks on the edge of the large brick patio, and I grabbed a soda, popping it open and taking a sip. “Tuck. There you are,” my mother said, smiling and waving me over. I glanced at Emily as I passed her, sitting on the edge of the stone wall surrounding the patio, her head bent, eyes darting to where her father stood talking to mine.

She looked completely miserable. I glanced away, barely resisting rolling my eyes. She really was the most dramatic person sometimes. It wasn’t the end of the darn world. The windshield could be fixed, even if her dad was steaming mad, which he would be. So she’d miss music camp this weekend. Oh well. I didn’t feel the least bit bad for her.

My mom grinned as I approached. “Hey, handsome. Where have you been?”

I shrugged. “Just around.”

“Just around,” she repeated, tilting her head as she studied me in that way of hers that made me feel slightly itchy like she could pluck answers from my head whether I’d offered them or not. “Emily’s always over at the house asking about you these days,” she said. “She says you haven’t been hanging out with her and the other kids very much lately. She says you’ve been disappearing.” My hand tightened on the can as my outrage spiked. Not only was she spying on me, but she was also ratting me out to my mom.

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