Her Road Home is the second opportunity I have had to read Laura Drake's work. Once again I have found Ms. Drake to have tremendous talent writing a very emotionally touching story with compelling characters. I have to admit there were a few times I was reaching for the Kleenex box when reading this book.
Samantha Crozier has been through a lot in her life. She has scars from her past that are controlling her life and not in a good way. I found a deep connection with Sam and wanted to reach out and help her. She has emotional walls that she has built around herself in the process of redoing houses along her travels. She has a tough and strong biker chick exterior but on the inside she is full of deep emotions from her past. When she meets Nick she starts to long for all those things in life she has been running from. A place to call home and a love deep enough to share her secrets.
I adored Nick, this man truly is a gentleman. Not only is he the hunky mechanic that can fix Sam's bike, he has the patience and caring to help Sam try to fix her life. How could you possibly not fall in love with this guy? How could you possibly not fall in love with this guy?
On the whole this book has my kind of mix of drama and romance. I found it to be a very enthralling read that had me turning the pages very quickly.
Ms. Drake does a fabulous job of creating characters that feel like friends and story lines that can really touch your heart. She is certainly on my MUST read list! I can't wait to see what wonderful story she creates for us lucky readers next!
“Where did you learn to cook?”
He carried fresh cut pasta to the stove. “I’m full blooded Italian.” His back to her, he added, “My mom taught me. Those are my best memories – she cooked to Verde and while the pasta boiled, we’d dance in the kitchen.” The soft pain in his voice sounded like a bruise – an old, deep bruise.
He turned, and held out a hand. “Will you dance?”
She stood like a scared rabbit. You don’t want to give him mixed messages.
The violin wove through the music, a crying thread of sadness.
He doesn’t want you, he wants a memory. You could give him that.
She looked up.
His hand hung outstretched. “It’s only a dance.”
His soft smile convinced her. She stepped forward and took his hand.
It was large and warm, the calluses a reminder that this dance partner was also her mechanic. He swept her away, gliding across the kitchen, his steps sure and graceful. He held her classically, giving her space. But his pheromone-loaded working man smell bridged the gap. She took a long breath of him and held it, feeling no guilt – she was doing him a favor, after all. His strong arms supported her but didn’t push; suggesting movement rather than demanding. Relaxed in his surety, her awkward body shifted -- to something petite, fragile, almost graceful. She felt like Cinderella, at the ball. When he spun her, a bubble of joy rose in her chest until it burst from her mouth in a laugh.
If this man loves like he dances, any woman would be toast.
Not that she’d ever know. She stiffened, her fairy tale moment popping like a soap bubble.
He danced her back to the stove and pulled her into a brief, fierce hug. Lips beside her ear, he whispered, “Grazie, bella signora.” He released her, and stepped back.
She curtsied low. She had no idea why; surely it was the first curtsy of her life. But something in the formal passion of the old world music and his courtly manners made her feel . . . womanly.
He turned to the oven, missing her blush. You’re a little old to play princess, Crozier. And a Tiara doesn’t fit under a motorcycle helmet.