Meant to Be Hers

By: Joan Kilby
Some loves can’t be denied

A lot has changed for musical prodigy Finn Farrell since he spent his summers practicing with his piano teacher—and falling for her socialite niece, Carly Maxwell. After blowing his audition for Julliard, Finn turned his back on performing, his romance with Carly collateral damage.

When their paths cross a decade later, it’s impossible to ignore how much they’ve grown apart. But what hasn’t changed is how comfortably they fit, or their heart-pounding attraction. Now a high-powered executive, Carly has a life a world away from songwriter Finn’s, but she has big dreams for both of them, if she can show Finn he’s worth it.





“Are you in your old room?” Finn asked.

“Uh-huh. Down the end of the hallway.”

“I know.”

Carly twisted her head to peer at him. “How d’you know?”

“I used to watch your lit window on summer nights.” He’d ridden his bike across town, from his family’s small home in a poor neighborhood to this heritage home on South Hill—which his mom called Snob Hill. Except that Irene was no snob and Carly…well, she’d never once made him feel lesser because of where he lived or who he was. But her father was an investment banker and Carly seemed to have inherited his drive to succeed in business. Finn had no problem with a good work ethic; he had one himself. But what had Irene said? Carly was pushing herself too hard, working all the time. What did she have to prove?

Carly’s face lit with a delighted grin. “You couldn’t have seen anything. I always drew the curtains.”

“Your silhouette was very sexy.”

“Liar. I was a beanpole.”

Not anymore, he thought. She was shapely in all the right places.





Dear Reader,

Writing this final letter to you is bittersweet—my first published romance novel was a Superromance and the line will always hold a special place in my heart.

It’s only fitting that my final Superromance, Meant to Be Hers, is a book of my heart. In my twenties I lived in a series of group houses where friends, friends of friends and strangers who became friends created a kind of family. We lived together, ate together, drank together, shared the rent and the chores and the ups and downs of everyone’s lives. Just as in Meant to Be Hers, a lot of the socializing took place in the kitchen and around the dining table. In the last group house I lived in I met my husband-to-be. We went from housemates to falling in love to getting married and starting our own family.

Meant to Be Hers is about other things, too—rediscovering a career passion, dealing with loss, navigating a path to happiness and, of course, finding that special person, the one you’re meant to be with.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing the journey with me.

Joan Kilby

PS: This isn’t goodbye. I’m still writing, with many more stories to tell. Look for them at joankilby.com.







CHAPTER ONE

WHERE WAS FINN? Carly Maxwell scanned the funeral guests clustered around her late aunt Irene’s living room for the tall, dark-haired musical prodigy. Finn Farrell had been Irene’s star pupil, his family’s greatest hope and Carly’s teenage crush. He should be here. He’d disappointed her aunt enough during her lifetime. Did he have to add to it after her death?

Carly moved among the guests, pouring tea from a huge earthenware teapot, trying to hold herself together when all she wanted to do was curl up under the covers and bawl her eyes out. It didn’t help that she was still on New York time and jet-lagged.

“More tea, Brenda?” Carly paused before her cousin, a comfortably plump blonde in her early forties who had sunk deep into soft sofa cushions.

“Yes, please.” Brenda’s blue eyes were sympathetic as Carly poured unsteadily into a hand-thrown pottery mug. “You’ve been on your feet since early this morning. Can I take the tea around for you?”

“Thanks, but no,” Carly said. “If I stop moving I might never get going again.”

In fact, she hadn’t stopped the entire week, from the moment she’d heard about Irene’s death. Finn’s Facebook message had popped into her work inbox like a Molotov cocktail, exploding her crammed diary into shards of missed meetings, unreturned phone calls and hurried apologies. Rushing back to her apartment, she’d listened to voice mail messages from her aunt’s neighbor, Frankie, who was worried about Irene’s dog, and Irene’s lawyer, Peter King, who said her aunt had listed Carly as next of kin.

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