Excerpt of Nora Roberts Land by Ava Miles

Meredith Hale scanned the bookstore window. There it
was—the new Nora Roberts book—the cover a bold,
powerful landscape of sky and water.

Her superhero alter ego, Divorcée Woman, couldn't override
the rash of goosebumps on her arms or her knotted stomach.
Meredith patted the red lace La Perla bustier hidden under
her black suit jacket and took one hesitant step closer to
the glass, her breath hitching as she scanned Nora's
prominent display. She imagined Divorcée Woman telling her
to suck it up. It was only a bookstore after all. It wasn't
like she had to take a bullet for the president or anything.

She'd gone cold turkey on Nora's books a year ago, when her
ex-husband, Rick-the-Dick, threw Black Hills at the wall,
snarling that her favorite author had given her an
unrealistic view of love. "Out marital problems are her
fault," he said. "She's made you believe in happily ever
after—something any adult knows is a myth. Grow up."
Then he packed his custom-tailored suits and slammed out
the door of their swanky Manhattan apartment.

At first she'd thought maybe he was right. But she missed
Nora's books. And not reading them hadn't made the whole
divorce thing any easier on her. It hadn't made the panic
attacks go away.

She wanted her Nora Roberts back, dammit. It was time to
reclaim her life.

Unfortunately, just looking at the cover had her hovering
on the edge of a panic attack. Her hands grew clammy. She
wiped them on her black suit and dug into her matching purse
for her cell phone. Her sister would be able to talk her
into going into the store. After all, Jill could talk anyone
into anything.

"Hey, Mere," Jill greeted, the ever-present sound of her
favorite band, Abba, in the background. Jill wanted to live
life like a dancing queen.

"Hey," she said, making sure to sound calmer than she was.
"How's business at the coffee shop?"

"Well, after a regional dairy salesman tried to talk me
into changing my store's name from Don't Soy With Me to
Don't Milk Me, I'm about ready to bash my head against the
espresso machine. He was so dense. I tried to explain it's a
play on words, but he just blinked like one of those dairy
cows and went, ‘Oh.'"

Meredith's panic slowly eased. Jill and her stories were
always a comfort. "Being in New York, I don't run into too
many milk salesmen. Does he wear a special outfit?"

"No, thank God. Speaking of milk, did you get my present?"

Ducking closer to the store window so she wouldn't be mowed
down by a rush of pedestrians, Meredith said, "You mean the
coffee mug with the line, ‘You're My Udder One'?"

"Yes. I tried to appease the milk guy by telling him I'd
put those mugs out for display, but he wouldn't leave. He
even offered to teach me how to milk a cow. I think he was
hitting on me."

As Meredith muffled her laughter, a passing banker gave her
a disapproving stare. His shoes, belt, and briefcase
matched—the Wall Street uniform. "And I thought my
love life was pathetic."

"What love life?"

"Funny. Speaking of which, I'm outside a bookstore. I woke
up this morning and decided I want to read."

"Oh, honey, I didn't know you were illiterate."

"Hah." She eyed the rush of people heading in and out of
the bookstore on 82nd and Broadway.

"Okay, take a deep yoga breath. Jeez, Mere, you sound like
Great Aunt Helen when she put down her oxygen to steal a
swig of Grandpa's scotch at Christmas."

"Right. Breathe." Was her vision blurring? "I'm taking a
step."

"Oh, baby, I wish mom and I were there to see it."

Her sister's wicked humor cut through the fogginess in her
head. Meredith wasn't sure she was in her body anymore, but
it moved when she walked. Her hand managed to open the
door. She walked in on legs wobbling like an untangled yoyo.

"Are you inside yet?"

She squeezed into a book aisle as people cruised by. "Yes."

"Welcome back to the land of the reading."

Was there anything more comforting? "Thank you. I'm
standing by the thriller and suspense section. Makes me
think of Grandpa. He's convinced there's some sort of
conspiracy going on at the university. I'm researching the
college drug trade for him on the side. Maybe I should buy
him a John Grisham book instead."

"I know! He keeps pumping me for information about the
parties I've gone to. I told him people drink too much and
puke. End of story."

"Tell that to his infernal journalism gut." Not that she
could point fingers. Hale DNA had given her one too.

"I know the fam's grateful you've been helping out with the
paper after Dad's heart attack," her sister said, "But
Dad's still working too hard. He loves that paper like it's
a child—just like Grandpa."

"I know, Jill." Suddenly guilt pressed down on her, its
force almost as strong as the panic. She was helping, but
she wished she could do more. Sometimes being long-distance
sucked.

Her sister cleared her throat. "I don't know how to say
this, but you need to know. Sorry the timing's not great
with the whole one-year-divorce anniversary thing, but..."
Her sister's breathing went a little ragged on the line.
"The doctor's concerned about dad's progress and wants him
to take some time off. Mom hasn't wanted to ask you, but
someone needs to help Grandpa. I know he can run circles
around us all, but he's in his seventies. Is there any way
you can come home to help out for a few months? I'd do it,
but I have zero journalistic instincts. Plus, I have Don't
Soy with Me to run."

"Come home?" She bumped into a book display, and a whole
parade of James Patterson hardcovers slid to the floor. Her
lungs seemed to stop at the thought. "I can't breathe...and
I really want to." She gulped in air. "