What is your idea of a dream trip? Do you go somewhere warm? Or somewhere isolated? Do you dream of a splashy party atmosphere or a romantic rendezvous? Whatever your dream trip entails, it can't hold a candle to Maya's trip in Every Mile a Memory. Although we always hope for the happy ending! And author, Grea Warner guarantees an emotionally satisfying story filled with drama and love!
A chance encounter leads to a road never imagined and the possibility of dreams coming true.
Going on tour with a band was never on Maya Shriver’s radar. But then neither was being a widow in her mid-thirties. And finding happiness again? Well, that was out of the question.
When danger erupts, Maya is abruptly thrown together with Hawk Brannigan—a country singer’s right-hand man. And she finds out that, once again, life can change in an instant. Suddenly, Maya is not only in a new career but she’s also allowing herself to love again.
As Maya begins to unpack her grief and move on, a misunderstanding from the past may cause the couple to travel in different directions.
Hi, Mai.” He greeted me with a hug.
I looked in his eyes, wondering if I could pre-read them…wondering if I could predict the future…if I could tell how everything was going to go…how he was going to react…if it was the last time I would look in those eyes…if that had been our last embrace. “Hi.” I got the one word out.
“I’m glad you’re here. What’s up? What took so long?”
I had originally planned on coming hours before—us spending more of the day together. But a mid-morning phone call had changed all that. I had needed to regroup and take as much charge of the situation as I could before finally making my way to his Tennessee townhome.
“I…I had to take care of some things.”
He had my hand and was leading me through the hardwood hallway into the similarly floored family room. “If
it’s about the move…”
“Come on, sit down.” He started toward the neutral-colored sofa. “I want to talk to you about th—”
“Hawk….” I didn’t sit.
So neither did he. “Maya? What is it? What’s wrong?”
I dropped his hand and turned from him. I looked down at the brown and white Oriental rug, over to the inactive brick fireplace with expansive art piece of the Nashville skyline above, to the beige-carpeted stairs leading up to the rest of the home, and to the door leading to the back yard. Finally, I glanced at the three framed photos of his family. I looked anywhere but at him.
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