**From New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers comes the next standalone novel in her Swift River Valley *Series,*** THE RIVER HOUSE! In this charming novel about the search for love, home and family, THE RIVER HOUSE takes readers on a journey to an irresistible town they’ll want to return to over and over again. Order your copy today!

Felicity MacGregor loves organizing social events for others but her own personal life is a different story. After a brief but failed attempt at a career as a financial analyst, she returned to Knights Bridge where she enjoys running a thriving party-planning business.

Then Felicity’s life gets a shake-up when her childhood friend Gabriel Flanagan returns unexpectedly to their tiny hometown. Now a high-flying businessman, Gabe always vowed to get out of Knights Bridge, but he is back for the local entrepreneurial boot camp Felicity’s been hired to organize. Together again, they’ll finally have to face each other—and their complicated past.

Gabe and Felicity soon realize their reunion is stirring up long-buried emotions. While Gabe has big plans for his future, Felicity is discovering that hers doesn’t depend on fate—she must choose what’s right for her. But if they can find a bridge between their diverging paths, they may just discover that their enduring connection is what matters most.

Order THE RIVER HOUSE here!

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And don’t miss the first standalone titles in the Swift River Valley series!

SECRETS OF THE LOST SUMMER THAT NIGHT ON THISTLE LANE CIDER BROOK CHRISTMAS AT CARRIAGE HILL ECHO LAKE SPRING AT MOSS HILL A KNIGHTS BRIDGE CHRISTMAS RED CLOVER INN

“Mixing humor, nostalgia, a dose of regret, plus just enough drama to keep things interesting, Neggers’ eighth Swift River Valley novel is a potent friends to lovers story.” ~RT Book Reviews

Gabe went into the master bedroom… He sat on the edge of his king-size bed and dug a small photo album out of his nightstand… Tucked inside was a sheet of Rhodia notepaper he’d folded in half three years ago that past February and hadn’t looked at since. He opened it now and wondered why he’d kept it. A cautionary tale? Hell if he knew.

The note was in two parts, one he’d written, one Felicity had written. He’d written his portion in black Sharpie pen. They were the only pens he used. He was tidy, and he had his rituals. Felicity had resisted anything smacking of order, at least back then.

Felicity,

Meetings in Boston. Back at 5 p.m. Company arrives at 6 p.m.

Hint.

Gabe

P.S. You know I’m right

Then her scrawl in blue Sharpie pen:

I made brownies for you and your “company.” They’re in the freezer.

Enjoy.

Felicity, financial analyst

P.S. We’ll see who’s right

He’d left her that morning scowling at him in his bathroom doorway, wrapped in a wet, threadbare towel. He could have afforded new towels even then, but he hadn’t seen the need. It’d been her fifth day sleeping on his couch, nursing her wounds after getting fired from yet another finance job. She had degrees and knew her stuff, but her heart wasn’t in the work. He’d told her so, not mincing words. Then he’d jotted the note and was on his way. By the time he returned, she’d cleared out of his apartment. She’d cleaned up her pizza boxes, collected her dirty dishes, folded the blankets she’d borrowed, put her sheets and towels in the washing machine and tidied up the bathroom.

His “company” had been a woman he’d invited over to watch a movie. She’d promptly discovered a stray pair of lacy bikini underpants Felicity had missed in the couch cushions, refused to believe his explanation and stormed out of his apartment before he’d had a chance to pour wine. He’d thrown out Felicity’s underpants—damned if he’d mail them to her—and opened the freezer. He’d figured he’d microwave a couple of brownies, drink the wine by himself and put the lousy day behind him. But there’d been no brownies, and he’d realized Felicity had never had any intention of making him brownies. She’d wanted him to open the freezer and not find any brownies.

Spite. Pure spite.

Seemed a bit childish now, but he supposed he’d had it coming.

He’d drunk the wine without brownies, without a date for the evening, without Felicity camped out on his couch with take-out pad thai or another pizza delivery. The next morning, he’d decided the ball was in her court. She was the one whose life was a mess, and he needed to respect what she wanted to do—needed to do. He’d had what he wanted and needed to do, too. He didn’t have time to hold Felicity’s hand through another mess. Nearly a week on his couch had proven that to him. She was a distraction, and he couldn’t afford distractions. Since she didn’t want or appreciate his advice, why push it with her?

And so he hadn’t. He’d let her go.