Dear Reader,
My son had a bully in his class. He’s in second grade, and one of his classmates used to pinch, punch, shove, and kick basically all the kids who didn’t punch back—my son included. It had gotten to a point where the moms of two girls brought their daughters to the pediatrician, worried about a strange disease that caused blue spots on their arms and legs, only to discover they were bruises from pinches. I was at a loss as to what to do. I didn’t want to teach my son to punch back or use violence in return. But I also didn’t want him to get picked on.
The teachers said the bully behaved like that because he was immature and unable to process emotions properly, and this led to his violent behavior. I’m not an expert, but to me, a big part of the problem was that his parents refused to acknowledge the issue. On one side, I understand how it might be scary when your son is the bully; on the other, I think pretending the problem didn’t exist didn’t help him. When one of my son’s classmates got pushed and hit her head against a wall—nothing more serious than a bump, thankfully—the girl’s dad roared. In a civil, non-violent way, of course. Alongside other parents, we sent a delegation to the school’s principal to ensure the situation would receive proper attention.
And guess what happened? The kid’s parents were so determined to ignore the issue that they moved him to a different school. On one side, I was relieved my son would no longer come home with bruises or be scared to go to school. On the other, I felt very guilty about this relief. And sorry for the kid who got taken away mid-year, and also for the families at the new school who will, no doubt, discover bruises on their kids now. And it’ll take them months to figure it out and start the process all over again.
All this is to say that I’m not a fan of the bully romance trope. Fortunately, in my son’s case, the kids were too young for the bullying to stem from genuine malice or an intent to cause psychological harm. Still, I’m really not keen on the bully redemption arc or that darker side of the romance genre.
But you know what I’m into? The fierceness of the roaring dads and moms. That instinct and visceral love that would make you go against a mountain to protect your child. I know I loved my husband a little more when he stood up for our son.
Which is why I love to write fierce and protective single parents as main characters in my novels. And in my latest novel, Rein Me In, Ryder takes the cake for the most unyielding, roaring papa bear. He might go overboard in his protectiveness, but I couldn’t help swooning harder for him because of it. And despite their rough first meeting, Faye can’t help loving him more for it, too—after giving him a proper scolding, of course. This is how the story opens, and I’m so happy to give you an exclusive sneak peek today.
Happy reading,
Camilla
Pre-order Rein Me In
Chapter One
Faye
A man-shaped eclipse obscures the doorway of my classroom. After a day teaching twenty-two first graders, that shadow is the last thing I have energy for; all I want is to close my eyes and enjoy the silence settling over the empty class. Instead, I pull my professional mask back on and compose myself, gearing up for a delicate conversation.
My gaze drifts to the man I asked to meet, surprised he actually showed up after several near misses in the past eight months. He fills the doorframe so completely, he appears like a giant compared to the Lilliputian rows of empty desks with tiny chairs tucked underneath.
He ducks as he comes in, even if the frame clears his height by a few inches. The gesture seems automatic, born from too many encounters with low beams. He removes a blue-and-silver Bobcats cap—the local high school football team everyone in this town is obsessed with—that he presses against his chest like he’s entering a church. The other hand rakes through his hair, chestnut brown and longish, hitting somewhere between his jaw and collar. The attempted combing only makes it worse, or better, depending on how one looks at it. His locks now fall in untamed waves that beg for more fingers to sort through them.
Dust clings to his boots and jeans as if he’s walked straight from the fields into my classroom, which, given the state of his clothes, he probably has. April in Missouri, I’ve learned, means planting season, and this man wears the evidence of a life spent outdoors from the knees down.
But the tight white Henley stretched across his chest is pristine, the fabric straining against lean, flat muscles that must come from physical labor rather than a gym membership.
The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that are alarmingly fascinating. Corded and tan and dusted with the same soft, blondish hair that peeks from where the first two buttons of his shirt are undone. He has a checkered flannel tied around his waist.
When I look at his face, his eyes stop me cold. Framed by dark lashes and set beneath strong brows, they are a blue so deep it borders on violet. It’s the same shade I see every morning when Rhys Evans bounds into my classroom with grass stains on his knees and mischief in his grin.
His father is absurdly hot. Ryder Evans is sex in flannels. A mistake you’d make twice. He’s… just whoa. Better vocabulary escapes me as I stare at him silhouetted in the late-afternoon glow. Dust motes drift through the beams of light, restless as the unsettled thoughts I shouldn’t be having before a parent–teacher conference.
“Miss Rose’s class?” His voice fills the empty room, deep and gravelly—as dusty as his boots. He sounds parched, as if he needs water after spending many hours under the warming spring sun. That scrape of roughness lands somewhere low in my belly.
I give myself a mental shake. I’ve asked him here to discuss his son’s well-being during a potentially difficult school event, not to admire the curve of his biceps or the fullness of his bottom lip or wonder what that scruff along his angular jaw would feel like against my palm.
In my defense, it’s been a long day. Teaching first grade can be more taxing than any grind I put in at other jobs. Hard work that leaves my brain fried by mid-afternoon and my patience tested in ways I didn’t know existed. But it is also so rewarding. I love it. And I love the kids. The satisfaction of shaping their young minds, of seeing curiosity bloom in their eyes and wonder flicker over their faces with every discovery, hearing their laughter and wild questions.
Right, my students.
We’re meeting to discuss one of them. I need to focus on that and not the way his father’s shoulders fill out clothes.
“Yes.” I stand, flattening my palms on the desk. “You must be Rhys’s father. Nice to finally meet you.”
He crosses the room in four long strides, each one making him seem larger, taller. The classroom that feels spacious even with twenty-two seven-year-olds around suddenly seems cramped with just the two of us in it. He extends his arm, but not far; I have to meet him halfway to shake hands. Hard calluses scrape against my softer skin—not unpleasantly. A tingle runs from the point of contact up my arm, spreading over my shoulder and lodging somewhere behind my collarbone.
“Ryder Evans.”
The introduction is simple. Gruff. No wasted words. His hand engulfs mine, dry and firm. The grip is sure, but he doesn’t overdo it.
“Faye Rose.” I let go of his hand and gesture to the adult-sized chair I’ve positioned in front of my desk, the only spare piece of furniture in this room not designed for a tiny person under five feet tall. “Please have a seat.”
He lowers himself into the chair with the air of a man dragged indoors against his will. Shoulders tense and posture stiff. His gaze flicks around the room, over the alphabet charts on the walls, the bin of building blocks in the corner, the colorful rug where the kids gather for story time. He glances at the wall clock next, attitude screaming, Can we make this quick?, then fixes those eyes back on me.
His knee bounces once, twice, before he stills it. A restlessness that suggests I’ve cost him an hour he doesn’t want to give. Or doesn’t have to spare if his track record is any indication.
Ryder Evans hasn’t been able to make a single school event this year, except for the Christmas recital, when I didn’t have a chance to meet with the parents. Despite that, I never got the impression Rhys is a neglected kid. And this man has checked every progress report on the school portal and replied to all school–family communications—sometimes at weird hours of the night that could be early mornings for him.
Rhys’s grandmother has handled all in-person school meetings so far. And his aunt, Becky, is my landlord and a friend. I know from both of them that the Evanses run a busy farm with limited outside help. School hours don’t bend easily around a life like that. Still, this conversation is too delicate for an email. I made it clear I’d rather discuss it with him directly and in person. But I’ll steal as little of his time as I can.
Cutting the meeting short will also limit the drool threatening to disgrace my desk—and my dignity.
“What’s this about?” He cuts straight through any pleasantries I might have offered. “Is Rhys in trouble?”
“No, not at all.” I settle back into my chair, shuffling addition problems and spelling tests out of the way. “Rhys is an excellent student. Bright, engaged, always eager to take part.”
Ryder Evans doesn’t relax; it’s as if he’s waiting for the other boot to drop.
“He’s poised,” I continue, “a little boisterous sometimes, but nothing I wouldn’t expect from a seven-year-old. He knows when to cut the shenanigans and turn serious. I’m very happy with how he conducts himself in class.”
“Okay,” he grunts in a tone that could be satisfaction. His fingers drum against his thigh. “Then why am I here?”
I get the sense that what he wanted to say is, Why are you wasting my time if my kid’s doing fine?
“Mr. Evans, I wanted to discuss an upcoming event.” I’m sweating under a cardigan that’s doing its best to become a wearable oven. “The school is planning a Mother’s Day celebration for next month.”
The change is immediate. His spine stiffens, and those remarkable eyes darken like storm clouds rolling in over the lake. The drumming fingers still.
I plow forward, even if every instinct tells me I’m walking into a minefield. “The mothers of all students are invited to spend the morning in class with their children. There will be activities, crafts, and a small presentation the students have been preparing.
“When I reviewed Rhys’s file, I noticed no one is listed in the mother field on his enrollment forms.”
His mouth flattens into a line, muscle jaw flexing.
“And having never met either parent—”
“Rhys’s mother isn’t around, but he has a father who’s more than enough.” His voice has dropped another octave, gravel grinding to dust.
“Mr. Evans, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“My son lacks for nothing.” He doesn’t let me finish; he doubles down, leaning forward in the chair. “I raised that boy from day one with no gaps or shortcomings. I don’t care what a piece of paperwork says.”
“Of course, I wasn’t—”
“Rhys has plenty of support,” he barrels on. His voice doesn’t rise, but it hardens. “He’s got me, his grandmother, his aunt, his uncle. He’s surrounded by people who love him and show up for him every day.”
A pang of sympathy sweeps across my chest. I’ve clearly hit a nerve, opened a wound that hasn’t healed. I want to apologize, to explain that my intention is to help, not hurt, but Ryder Evans isn’t done.
“The Evans name carries weight in Blue Crescent Harbor.” His tone takes on an entitled edge that grates away my sympathy instantly. “We’ve been here for generations. Our ancestors have built this town, supported it, kept it going when others left. My son is growing up in a good home, with good people, on good land. And I don’t need some out-of-towner teacher questioning what makes a proper family.”
That does it. My tolerance evaporates. I understand being defensive about parenting; I really do. But the condescension in his tone, the dismissiveness, the way he’s bulldozing over me and not letting me speak? No, I’m done. No more drool hazard. Nothing turns me off faster than misplaced male arrogance.
“He’s doing fine even without his mother, and he doesn’t need some manufactured holiday celebration to remind him of what he doesn’t have. He knows he’s loved and valued. We don’t need anybody’s pity.”
He’s on a roll now. I see where Rhys gets his stubborn streak, but the son wears it with far more charm than the father. I consider interrupting, but the set of Ryder’s shoulders and the clipped cadence of his words tell me he won’t pause long enough to let me correct him. Instead, I endure the monologue with a calm that I know will irritate him more than any argument.
“You think because you’ve got a teaching certificate and ideas from whatever city you came from that you know better?”
I lean back against my chair and cross my arms, letting him wear himself out. He’s like one of those summer storms that blow through the Ozarks—thunder and lightning and fury, but ultimately just water. His dismissive, pompous declarations wash over me. Ryder Evans is a bullheaded brute. Full of himself. Insufferable. How does sweet, clever Rhys come from this man? The kid must spend most of his time with Becky and his grandmother.
“The last thing my son needs is to be singled out, made to feel different because his family doesn’t fit into your neat little checkbox on a form. Whatever accommodation or special treatment you’re planning to offer, you can keep it.”
By the time he runs out of steam, the room has fallen into a hush so absolute I can hear the tick of the clock on the wall.
I wait another beat, making sure he’s truly finished, that the storm has passed. Then I uncross my arms with measured calm.
“Are you done?” I keep my tone civil, even while I’m seething. “Because if you are finished, Mr. Evans, I’d like the chance to explain why I called you in.”
###
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Rein Me In: cowboy romance, single dad, enemies to lovers, grumpy sunshine, she has a secret
Fall for Me: billionaire, runaway bride, marriage of convenience, enemies to lovers, only one bed
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WRITING UPDATE TIME
Currently writing:
It’s a second chance romance so there’s angst… book 3 in Blue Crescent Harbor — I wrote a kiss in the rain, that’s all I’m going to say 🤫
Until next time...
xoxo,
Camilla
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