Elizabeth Barone's Blog: Elizabeth Barone's Blog, page 17

Just One More Minute, Chapter 1

Rowan peered into the oven, her hand guarded by a thick oven mitt. The scent of chocolate wafted toward her. Though the brownies smelled done, the slightly chocolate-coated toothpick in her free hand told her otherwise. “Just one more minute,” she decided. Pushing the pan back inside, she closed the door.

Brownies were hardly a healthy dinner, but she’d had a long night at work. Usually she didn’t mind her job waitressing tables at the diner. Sean’s regular crowd gently teased her but left generous tips. But Sean’s was also right off the highway, and every once in a while they got drunk strangers. Her soiled clothing was currently cycling through its second run in her old washing machine. After being vomited on, anyone would need a good dose of chocolate.

And wine.

Maybe it was a sign that she needed to get out of waitressing. The problem was, she had no idea what she should do instead. She’d finished her A.S. in May. Given her experience, she could apply for a management position at a restaurant. The pay would be decent, but she just wasn’t sure that she wanted to work holidays and weekends for the rest of her life.

Sighing, she turned away from the oven and grabbed her notepad. With a swipe of her pen, she adjusted the time on the recipe that she was working on. In the three years since she’d started her blog, she had yet to post a recipe for brownies. She was about to remedy that.

Her blog was also an option. Because of it, she earned a pretty decent side income. Between affiliate sales and paid product reviews, she was able to pay her rent, and her waitressing income took care of her bills and other expenses. Now that she was out of school, if she quit her job and focused on her blog full-time, she could easily turn that income into a living. The idea of sitting in her kitchen all day didn’t really appeal to her, though. She liked bantering with her customers at Sean’s. Though her readers left great comments and busted her balls just fine, it wasn’t the same as face to face interaction.

She had no idea what she wanted.

The timer on her oven went off. Her minute was up. She pulled the pan of brownies out of the oven and set it on top of the burners of the stove. Immediately she turned the oven off. Despite the sun having set hours ago, the temperature outside hovered in the upper eighties. It was going to be a brutal summer.

Her father would tell her that she was crazy for baking in eighty-degree weather—and that she needed to add something special to those brownies. She rolled her eyes at the thought, then frowned, pushing away the memories of her childhood. She’d moved to New Jersey almost the second she graduated high school, and she’d never looked back. She was over it and her parents. Mostly.

The brownies had to cool before she could cut them, so she left the oven and ambled into her living room area. As she crossed the small studio, she glanced at a photo on the wall of her aunt Katherine. Her heart twisted. She hadn’t seen her aunt in two years. They talked on the phone occasionally, but things weren’t the same. Too much was unspoken between them.

Closer to the air conditioner, she felt the sweat on her face drying. She sat down on her futon, tucking her legs underneath her. She drummed her fingers on her thigh. She didn’t have cable, and opening up her laptop and surfing YouTube would only make her feel guilty that she wasn’t working on her blog post instead. She bit her lip. Maybe it was time to get cable.

Her phone vibrated against the worn coffee table. Frowning, Rowan leaned forward for it. It was almost midnight. She didn’t recognize the number. Silencing the phone, she figured someone had probably dialed wrong—it happened.

Almost a minute later, a notification flashed across the screen. One new voicemail. Her frown deepened. She’d had enough of drunks for one night. Reaching for the phone, she plucked it off the table. Without listening to the voicemail, she deleted it.

The brownies had cooled for long enough. Hopping off the futon, she returned to the oven. Knife in hand, she brushed a strand of mousy brown hair from her face and began slicing the brownies free. She stifled a yawn. She’d better wrap up her brownie fix soon. She had a morning shift at the diner.

Balancing a plate of square brownies in one hand, she trotted to the refrigerator. She set the plate down and poured herself a glass of milk. She plucked three brownies from the plate and carried her feast back to the futon.

It didn’t take long for her to eat them. With a sigh, she brought her dishes to the sink. Then she opened up the futon. Stripping down to just her tank top and panties, she lay down. She stared into the darkness for a long time before sleep came.

It was Friday night.


When Rowan woke early the next morning, she had another voicemail from the same number. She stared at the screen of her phone for a long moment. The number had a Connecticut area code. While that didn’t necessarily mean anything—she’d bought her phone when she was still living in her home state—she couldn’t ignore the alarm bells going off in her head. Still, she didn’t have time. It was going to have to wait.

She dressed quickly and, on her way out, grabbed a brownie for breakfast. She arrived at Sean’s just as her boss of the same name was unlocking the door.

“Morning,” she greeted him.

He gave her a half grunt, half sigh in response, then a crooked smile. Pushing the door open, he motioned for her to go first. As she passed him, she couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were underlined by dark circles. His long hours at the diner were taking their toll. He’d never been a morning person, but she knew he’d stayed long after they closed the night before, prepping for the next day.

As far as she knew, she was the only server he’d scheduled for the morning. Usually, she appreciated the gesture. Though she knew it was really because he knew his sunrise customers preferred her to the other servers, it was nice to be valued. But early Saturday mornings were always slow. There was no one on their way to work. The sleepy little town caught up on rest and yard work on weekends.

With a sigh, she tied on her apron and prepared for the long day ahead. Even though she and Sean would be the only ones drinking it for the better part of the morning, she made coffee. She set tables with paper placemats and rolled silverware. When she was finished, she brought her boss a cup of coffee and perched on the counter next to him. They sat in silence for several long minutes. While she watched him prepare the register and type up the specials for the day, her thoughts again turned to her impending future. She loved the diner, but it wasn’t exactly a career.

Just before he flipped the sign to open for the day, Sean gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Everything okay, kiddo?”

“Man, I must look bad.” Though Rowan often suspected that he considered her like a daughter, he rarely asked about her personal life. She never asked about his, either, though. She knew he’d come to New Jersey a stray, too, but didn’t know the circumstances.

“You look like you’re in deep thought.” He gave her a smile, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes crinkling.

She bit her lip. He was the closest thing she had to a father figure. Maybe he could give her advice. Taking a sip of her coffee, she watched as he sank into a chair at one of the tables. “How did you decide that you wanted to run a diner for the rest of your life?”

His eyebrows rose. “The rest of my life? Are you trying to punish me?”

“Well, you know what I mean.” Her stomach rumbled. Suddenly she regretted having eaten nothing but brownies in the last twenty-four hours.

One of his eyebrows twitched. “I didn’t really know,” he hedged, hitting the print button on his laptop. Underneath the counter, the printer coughed and spurted. The sheets that would become table tents for the day’s specials spewed onto the tray.

“You ended up here somehow,” she persisted. “What did you decide to do after finishing high school?”

Sean collected the pile of copies and began assembling them. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t finish high school?” she teased.

“No.” His brown eyes met hers.

Feeling her cheeks flush, she managed a small “Oh.”

“Rowan, those were different days. My grades weren’t the best, and I was always getting into trouble for minor things. They didn’t really know what to do with me, to tell you the truth. So I left one day and never went back.” He finished putting together the table tents and began dispersing them to the tables.

She sighed. “I just don’t know what to do,” she said.

“Well, you graduated high school and college, so you’re two steps ahead of me.” His eyes twinkled.

The door opened and the white-haired Mr. and Mrs. Kostenko shuffled in for their morning coffee fix. Rowan grinned at them in greeting and grabbed two mugs. Her day had begun.


Halfway through her shift, she paused for a short break. As she passed Sean at the grill, he handed her a plate of food. “Eat.”

With a nod, she carried her meal to a table tucked into a dim corner of the diner. Lifting her fork, she also slid her phone out of her apron. It was the weekend and she was officially done with school. She shouldn’t spend it alone.

She meant to text a friend from the community college she’d attended, but froze. There were two more voicemails from the Connecticut number. Dread pitted in her stomach. One or two calls she could write off as a wrong number. Four were a whole other story.

Someone was trying to get ahold of her.

Glancing at Sean’s back, she lifted the phone to her ear. “Hello, this is Attorney Damien Ward again,” the voicemail began. “I’m looking for Ms. Rowan Ellis. It is extremely important that you contact me as soon as possible regarding an urgent family matter.” He left his phone number and encouraged her to call him back immediately.

She bit her lip. It sounded important, but she couldn’t discern the nature of the call from his voice. He seemed calm and collected, not the bearer of bad news. And though his Connecticut area code made her inclined to take him seriously, there was a part of her that realized he could be a scam artist.

But scam artists didn’t call repeatedly in the same day, at least not in her experience. Usually they waited twenty-four hours, or called from different numbers without leaving voicemails.

Maybe it wasn’t anything to worry about. If something had happened to her parents or siblings, one of her family members would have called. Not some lawyer. At least, she thought so. Sometimes her family acted so indifferent toward her, she supposed it was possible that they would alert her passively.

The lawyer had said “urgent family matter.” Maybe her parents were getting divorced. But they wouldn’t need her approval for that.

Her brow furrowed. There was that time her father had a questionable relationship with one of his students. A professor at Naugatuck Valley in Waterbury, he’d been spending a lot of time with an eighteen-year-old in one of his philosophy classes. Though rumors flying around said they were having sex in his office, the investigation had been dropped and he’d been cleared. At the time, Rowan’s mother hadn’t even been jealous. She suspected her parents had somewhat of an open marriage. Maybe something like that was going on again, and her father had to go to court.

She wanted nothing to do with it.

Picking up her fork again, she decided not to call Ward back.


Her shift at Sean’s ended at one in the afternoon. She escaped into the steamy summer air and headed toward her car. With the rest of the day wide open, she should hit the beach or do something equally relaxing. Every bone in her body ached for a nap, though. She’d only slept four hours the night before.

She slid into her car and gingerly touched the steering wheel. Grimacing, she pulled her hand away. She turned the key in the ignition and blasted the air conditioning. It didn’t take long for cold air to come out, but it would take a few minutes until the steering wheel was cool enough to touch. She pulled her phone out of the back pocket of her pants and reached for the cord that connected her phone to the stereo. The screen of the phone lit up, the familiar Connecticut number flashing.

Rowan sighed. As much as she didn’t want to get involved with her family’s affairs, she felt bad for wasting the lawyer’s time. It wasn’t his fault that her family was a train wreck. She pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Oh!” He sounded surprised. “I was going to leave you another voicemail.” He chuckled. “My name is Attorney Damien Ward. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve been working.” Testing the steering wheel, she deemed it cool enough to grip. Holding the phone to her ear with one hand, she used her other hand to guide the car out of Sean’s parking lot. Though it was illegal to drive in New Jersey while using a phone without a hands-free earpiece, she’d mastered the art of dropping her phone at the first sight of a patrol car.

“Are you working now?” the lawyer asked in his smooth baritone.

“No.” She turned onto the street and headed toward her apartment.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He hesitated for a moment.

Rowan’s heart pounded in her chest. Suddenly she wasn’t so sure that it had anything to do with her family’s antics. Something awful had happened.

“I’m your aunt Katherine’s attorney. I handle her business affairs, and her estate,” he continued.

Rowan’s heart dropped into her stomach. She swerved onto the shoulder of the road, throwing the car into park.

“Your aunt wanted me to notify you immediately, should anything happen to her. I’m so sorry, Ms. Ellis. Katherine passed away last night.” His voice, filled with regret, was suddenly drowned out by a high pitched ringing in her ears.

A sob escaped her lips. Not Katherine. Though they had their problems, she loved her aunt. Katherine had been the only member of her family to treat her like a normal person. It couldn’t be true. “How?” she gasped.

The attorney sighed. “Cancer,” he said, voice breaking. “She didn’t want anyone to know.”

Tears gushed down her cheeks. She sat numbly, the engine still running. Cold air blasted against her face, but she didn’t feel it.

“The wake is tomorrow night,” Damien Ward said. “I’ve made all of the arrangements according to her final wishes. I’m so sorry, Ms. Ellis.”

Rowan suppressed the urge to scream. This couldn’t be real. Instead, she slammed her fist on the steering wheel. Pain jolted through her arm, but it was nothing compared to the ache in her heart. She would never get the chance to make up with her aunt. Suddenly she felt childish for running away. At the time, she’d felt double-crossed. That job at her aunt’s bakery was supposed to be hers. It was the whole reason she’d gone to a technical high school and studied culinary arts. But her aunt had given it to someone else instead, and Rowan had decided to move on, out of state. She’d barely spoken to Katherine over the last two years. Now she would never make amends. Her shoulders slumped. She’d been so, so stupid.

“Ms. Ellis?” The lawyer’s tone was gentle. “Your aunt wanted to make sure that you were taken care of in her absence. She’s left her house to you. I can meet you before the wake tomorrow to give you the keys.”

She barely heard him. It was all too much. She didn’t want the house. She wanted Katherine.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “I know this is a lot to absorb. But she made it very clear that I was to tell you about the house right away, so that you wouldn’t have to stay with your parents.”

She almost laughed. Even in the afterlife, her aunt was still her ally. Guilt roiled through her stomach. She’d been a stupid teenager. And now she would never be able to fix things.

Read Chapter 2

Just One More Christmas, Part III

Two days left. Rowan had forty-eight hours remaining to get out of her rut. She stared wide-eyed into her coffee mug, one eyebrow lifted in defeated skepticism. There was no way she could fix this in two days. It’d been weeks.

The house that had been her aunt’s enveloped her in silence. Normally, it would be comforting. But it was four in the morning and she should be getting ready for work. Instead, she felt frozen in her seat at Aunt Katherine’s breakfast nook.

What would Aunt Katherine do?

That was the question that kept circling Rowan’s thoughts. As far as she knew, her aunt had never so much as burned a cake. She was sure a young Katherine had her share of botched recipes, but stretching back to her childhood, standing on the same bench she currently sat on while helping “Auntie” mix the batter for banana bread, she couldn’t recall a single mishap. Katherine had a gift. Rowan used to have the same gift, but it seemed as if the universe had changed its mind.

Maybe she didn’t deserve it.

She had, after all, been ungrateful. She’d run away to New Jersey after graduating high school, when her aunt gave her job away to someone else. For two whole years, Rowan hadn’t spoken to anyone in her family—other than a few phone conversations with her aunt. But she hadn’t visited, and she hadn’t called nearly as much as she should have. And then Katherine died.

Just like that.

And now Rowan couldn’t even honor her memory by winning the Christmas cheer contest.

She slumped in her seat and laid her head down on the table. The wood felt cool against her skin. Maybe she was beating herself up too much. Maybe it wasn’t really that important.

“Yeah right,” she mumbled into the table.

Still, life had to go on. She was the owner of a bakery—and it was Christmas time. There were two days left until the competition, and four days left until Christmas. Which meant that Elli’s had lots of orders to fulfill.

Good thing Matt wasn’t burning cookies.

Rowan forced herself to get up from the table. She took her mug to the sink and rinsed it out, smiling as she remembered Katherine’s cardinal rule. There was no time to wash it before she headed out, though. She could just hear her aunt chiding her.

She made it to Elli’s just as Matt pulled up in his pickup. Their routine was familiar, comfortable. She wouldn’t change a thing about their relationship. As she slid out of her car, she wondered if he felt the same. Christmas was, after all, prime engagement season. They’d only been together a few months, though. She grimaced. She thought she knew Matt pretty well, but if he planned on proposing . . .

She shook away the thoughts. Her already building anxiety could not get a full grip on her. She wouldn’t let it.

Joining Matt at the Elli’s entrance, she stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his lips. They were soft, full, and warm. She felt every atom of her skin melting into him, her lips magnetized to his. It felt like it’d been years since their last kiss.

“Come on,” he whispered against her lips. “Time to get to work.”

She pouted. “Just one more minute?”

Grinning, he unlocked the door behind her, then shooed her in. “Nope. It’s time to break that curse.”

Rowan groaned. “I don’t think it can be broken.” Still, she followed him inside.

“I’ll handle the breads and all that,” he said as she hung up her coat.

She lifted an eyebrow at him. “You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not that. I just don’t want you to feel pressured to take care of everything.”

Even though she wanted to argue, she couldn’t deny the little squeeze in her heart at his words. “Okay.”

Matt smirked. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” She donned her pastry chef jacket and rubbed her hands together. Not for the first time ever, she mused, she’d really thrown him for a loop. “Okay.” She glanced around at the kitchen. She didn’t know where to start.

“I’ll let you do your magic,” he said, disappearing into the back hall.

“Wait. Where are you going?”

He closed the office door behind him.

Frowning, she stared. Though she knew it was wrong, everything in her wanted to press her ear to that door and see what he was doing in there. But they were partners—in more than one way. She had to trust him.

She grabbed the ingredients for brownies and spread them out on the stainless steel counter. She couldn’t screw those up. Not very long ago, she’d made her newly perfected recipe for dinner on yet another lonely bachelorette night. She’d spent the evening waiting on drunk customers at the diner in New Jersey that she used to work at. A soft smile touched her lips. She didn’t miss that part of the job, but she had loved that little diner.

It wasn’t her destiny, though.

She set to it, stirring and humming, determined to wow the town with her special brownies. The recipe had even won some blog awards—though she hadn’t found out until a month earlier. She couldn’t even remember submitting it anywhere. Something told her that Matt had done it without her knowing.

Twenty minutes later, when the brownies were in the oven, Matt still hadn’t come out of the office. Rowan hesitated in the middle of the kitchen, debating. Technically it was her office too. Her birthright, even—Katherine had passed the place on to both of them, but she wasn’t Matt’s aunt. She was Rowan’s.

Not that she wanted to stoop down and play that card.

Still, the curiosity was getting to her. From behind the door, she could hear Matt’s muffled voice. He was on the phone with someone. Maybe he was just ordering from their vendors. But then why close the door? There was no reason to shut her out.

If he was going to start the ciabatta, it’d have to be soon. Lips twisted to the side, she wrestled with bursting in or listening in. They’d been dating for several months—six if she didn’t count the two months they were broken up. She’d never had any reason to not trust him.

But maybe it wasn’t about their relationship at all.

Maybe, considering her baking funk, he was looking for another job. Tilly’s Café was going to clobber Elli’s during the contest. And they had seen a decline in business—even if only tiny. If she couldn’t get it together and stop burning things, she’d lose more than her pride.

She sniffed the air.

“Dammit!”

She turned on her heels and darted toward the oven. Yanking the door open, she peered in. What was supposed to be a perfect pan of brownies was an uneven, half-charred mess.

Rowan pulled it out of the oven and tossed it onto the stove. She’d been so preoccupied, she hadn’t been watching the time or paying attention to the scent.

That was it.

She was ruined.

It was all over.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Katherine,” she whispered. She tugged off the pastry chef jacket and tossed it into the laundry bin. Only months earlier, she’d done the same—back when she’d first lost Katherine and found out she and Matt had to take the place over. They couldn’t get along, no matter how hard they’d tried. It was just too painful, given their past. Back then, she’d thought she’d have to go back to New Jersey with her tail tucked between her legs.

If she lost Elli’s after all that, she didn’t know what she’d do. There was no diner in Jersey to go back to. Her old boss, Sean, had sold the building to a certain giant diner franchise and retired on the hefty profit. What had been Sean’s was now a corporate diner with freezer-burned food and below minimum-wage pay.

And she sure as hell couldn’t get a job as a pastry chef anywhere—not with her recent trail of failures streaking behind her.

With a sigh, she left the kitchen, relegating herself to the dining room. At least up front she could put herself to use cleaning the cases, mopping the floors and, when they were open, serving customers.

That was the only solution. Matt would have to take over the baking, and she’d handle all of the administrative and customer service stuff.

Tears pooled in her eyes. She didn’t want to give up baking. It was her first love. Her only love, really—no offense to Matt. She laughed ruefully. Without baking, she was nothing.

Just another girl from New England with a useless college degree and a long record of failures.


Rowan watched her only customers for the evening walk to their car. It’d long stopped snowing, so the parking lot wasn’t slick anymore, but she still worried over them like a mother hen. They were elderly, and she couldn’t not watch them. Mr. and Mrs. Kostenko had been coming to Elli’s long before she’d been old enough to talk, never mind bake. Usually they came in the morning for their first cup of coffee of the day, but lately they’d been coming in the evening for dessert instead. Rowan suspected they were going to Tilly’s for their coffee.
She turned back to the empty front room. Though it was normal for Elli’s to have a lull at this hour, the jealous part of her imagined all of her customers over at the new bakery.

Whistling, Matt strolled into the room. He marched past her and flipped their sign to the CLOSED side.

“What are you doing?” she asked, whirling on him. “And where have you been?” He’d disappeared again, this time from the property entirely.

“Just sit.”

“Not gonna happen.” She crossed her arms. “What is going on, Matt? Are you leaving Elli’s?”

He blinked. “What? I’m not going anywhere. Please, sit.” He gestured to a table.

Brow furrowed, arms still crossed, she walked over to the table and slipped into a seat.

“Put this on.” He handed her a blindfold.

Accepting the silky cloth, she eyed him. “Is this some weird submissive thing you’ve gotten into?”

His lips twitched. “No, but maybe we’ll hang onto it for later.” He waved at her. “Just put it on.”

“Just do this, just do that. So bossy,” she said, but slid the eye mask on. The dining room disappeared. She shifted uncomfortably. Her anxiety was at an all-time high lately. The last thing she needed was to be kept in the dark—literally. “Hello?” she called.

“Just one more minute,” came Matt’s voice.

She heard shuffling around, a hushed giggle, the crinkle of tissue paper. Her frown reversed into a smile, lips pressed together to keep herself from uttering a delighted laugh. He was up to something, but it was nothing like she’d thought. It was something for her. Her heart squeezed in her chest, ribbons of delight twirling through her.

“Okay,” Matt said. “Take it off.”

She hesitated. Whatever it was, she wanted to savor it. To delight in the moment completely. Swallowing hard, she listened. Nothing in the room moved. Not a single hint. She sniffed the air. The only thing she could smell was the soft, warm scent of crisp pine, like a real Christmas tree—almost, but not quite. She pressed her lips together, trying to puzzle it out.

“You can take that off now, Ro. Really.”

“Just one more minute,” she said, and he laughed.

When she’d soaked in enough of the velvety darkness and the mysterious sparkling pine scent, she pulled the blindfold off.

The front room had been transformed into the most romantic Christmas settings she’d ever seen. Fairy lights twinkled in the darkness, creating a bokeh effect and enveloping the room in soft light. A small faux Christmas tree stood in the center, white lights sparkling. Red bows adorned its branches, and under the tree were a pile of gifts wrapped in silver paper. She’d had no idea Matt could wrap.

Most surprising of all were the people standing around the tree.

Matt, his little brother Danny, and Charlotte stood in one cluster—and Rowan’s own siblings stood in another. Though Leo and Mia looked slightly uncomfortable, the Christmas magic that glimmered in their eyes was unmistakable. Even Mia, who ordinarily unrelentingly teased Rowan, seemed content to be there.

“What is this?” Rowan glanced from face to face. Her eyes skimmed over a buffet table laden with covered food warmed by Sterno. Several of the dining tables had been set for dinner, with a small Yankee Candle lit in the center of each—Sparkling Pine, her favorite holiday scent.

Somehow, he’d known.

“This,” Matt said, “is the first annual Ellis-Hayes Christmas dinner. And Butler,” he added, gesturing to Charlotte. She grinned, bouncing a little on her heels.

Rowan tilted her head, then her eyes widened as understanding dawned. “Mom and Dad still go away for their annual cruise?”

Leo shrugged and looked away.

“Of course they do,” Mia said. “We all know they never really wanted to be parents.”

Rowan sighed. She’d felt like she and her parents—especially her father—had come to an understanding. But some people just weren’t family people. She peeked at Matt. Someday, she promised herself, she would create her own version of the family she’d always wanted.

Matt removed the lids to the trays containing food. Suddenly her senses were assaulted by all sorts of delicious scents: roasted potatoes, lasagna, ham with pineapples, and baked broccoli topped with cheese and crumbled Ritz crackers. Her mouth watered.

“Charlotte?” She gaped at her best friend. “Did you do all this?”

“Yep!” Tendrils of red hair bounced as Charlotte did a happy dance. She gestured for everyone to go get food.

Rowan let them all go ahead. She crossed the room to Matt and wrapped him in a hug. “Thank you,” she murmured, her head tucked into his chest.

Cupping her head, he stroked her hair. “Merry Christmas, Ro.”


Stuffed from Charlotte’s delicious dinner, and intoxicated by all the good cheer from gifts being opened, Rowan pushed her chair back. “I’ve gotta walk, or I’ll turn into a ball,” she said, slipping into her comfy new UGGs.

She ambled into the kitchen, running her fingers along the stainless steel counters. Katherine would love that her bakery had hosted so much joy in it. Sighing contentedly, she gazed around the room. Laughter drifted in from the front. A soft smile touched her lips. She never would’ve thought her and Matt’s families would get along so well. Even Mia had behaved, keeping her innuendos to herself and focusing on the family activities.

Maybe there was hope for her and her sister, after all, Rowan mused.

One thing had been missing from their dinner, though: dessert. After such a rich dinner, they would need something light. Fluffy, but delectable. Something reminiscent of the holiday season.

She strolled around the kitchen, plucking ingredients that reminded her of winter warmth from the shelves. Cocoa to mix into a mousse, for the nice hot cup she enjoyed after shoveling out her car. Candy canes to crush, to sprinkle along the top. Her entire body started to hum, her mind already concocting the creation as she went into The Zone—that far off rabbit hole she fell into while inventing new recipes.

Matt sometimes called it her Looney Tunes hole.

Her hands got to work, whipping and crushing and drizzling. She grabbed white mugs and filled them with the creamy creation, sprinkled the bits of candy cane on top, and drizzled it with hot fudge. She stuck spoons into each one and arranged them on a tray.

Then, body vibrating with anticipation, she carried it out to the dining room.

“I know Santa’s not real,” Danny insisted. “Just come out with it already.”

Matt sighed. “All right, fine. But can you just play along for Mom? She’s really looking forward to this. She thinks it’s going to be your last Christmas.”

“You want me to lie?” Danny’s eyes bulged.

“Santa,” Charlotte gently intervened, “is a feeling. You won’t be lying.”

Danny eyed her suspiciously.

Matt turned in his seat, his gaze snagging on Rowan. “What’s this?”

Grinning, she set the tray down on the table. “Oh, just a little something.”

The group passed the mugs around.

“Should I be scared?” Matt asked, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

“Oh stop,” she said. “It’s broken. I’ve killed the curse!”

“I’ll believe it,” Charlotte said, “when I taste it.” Slowly she lifted a spoonful of mousse to her lips.

Exchanging confused glances, Mia and Leo each took a bite.

“This is amazing, Ro,” Matt said. He pushed his chair back and swept her into his arms, swinging her in a circle. “You’re going to crush Tilly’s with this!”

“What’s Tilly’s?” Danny asked.

“A bakery,” Matt said, “that used to be our competition.”


Bouncing from foot to foot, Rowan tried to sooth her frazzled nerves. The Christmas cheer contest judging had begun. The town clerk had already set out, going from business to business with a panel of judges. Though Matt had decorated the inside of Elli’s and strung up lights outside, she was still nervous.
She’d built on her recipe from the night before, this time putting the mousse into clear tall mugs and alternating red peppermint-flavored mousse and the cocoa mousse, with the crushed candy canes sprinkled on top and a whole candy cane tucked into the side. Silver spoons were the final touch. Any minute, the town clerk would come by to taste her dessert. For all she knew, Tilly had come up with something even more dazzling. After all, Tilly wasn’t burning cakes and cookies.

Matt pressed a hot coffee into her hands. “Here. Drink this. Please.”

She shook her head. “I’m already wired.” She put the tall Starbucks cup down.

“It’ll be okay.” He kissed her temple. “Look. There she is now.”

Swallowing hard, Rowan straightened as the door to Elli’s opened. The bells jingled, but she didn’t need an announcement to let her know the town clerk was there.

Lindsay Taylor had been Watertown’s town clerk for years. She’d been the one to approve Katherine’s permit, and she’d helped Rowan and Matt get everything straightened out after Katherine’s death. Rowan shouldn’t be nervous, but she was. So much hinged on the contest.

“Good morning, Mrs. Taylor,” she called out.

“How long have we known each other?” Lindsay clucked her tongue, graying hair bobbing as she shook her head. “Please call me Lindsay.”

“Okay Mrs. Taylor.”

Sighing in theatrical drama, Lindsay made her way to the table where Rowan displayed the mugs of mousse. “These are pretty.”

The judges nodded their agreement.

Taking a deep breath, Rowan passed them around. She wanted to close her eyes, to not see their faces. She’d tasted it, of course, and knew it was good, but still. It was only mousse.

The door opened again, bells knocking into each other.

Tilly burst inside, her usually carefully arranged scarf and hat askew. “Mrs. Taylor,” she gasped. “I was just wondering when you were going to get to Tilly’s. We’re so excited to have you!”

Rowan suppressed a groan. Beside her, Matt squeezed her hand.

Lindsay frowned. “Tilly Grahn?” From her short stature, she had to squint up at the woman. “From over where Victoria’s Chocolate Café used to be?”

“That’s me!” Tilly beamed. Her eyes slid over to Rowan quickly, and Rowan swore she winked.

“Diabolical,” Rowan muttered.

“Ms. Grahn, I was planning on stopping by your establishment last. Do you realize your temporary alcoholic beverages permit has expired? I’ve sent you several notices. I see you’re still serving, though.”

Tilly blanched. “I . . . What?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Grahn,” Linsday said, “but I’m going to have to close you down.”

Eyes bulging, Tilly stared.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my annual dessert.” Lindsay winked at Rowan. “Elli’s Christmas cheer is the only sweet I allow myself all year.” Lifting the spoon to her lips, she took a bite of the mousse. A soft sigh hummed through her lips. “Oh, Rowan . . . This is amazing.” She turned to the judges.

They all nodded in agreement.

“I believe we have a winner.”

Tilly stomped out of the bakery.

Lindsay pressed a Santa-shaped trophy into Rowan’s hands, then sat down at a table with the rest of her mousse.

Feeling as if she might be dreaming, Rowan read the engraving on the trophy. “Mrs. Taylor?”

“Seriously, child. Call me Lindsay! I’m the same age as your aunt.”

“Okay, but Mrs. Taylor, this has Elli’s engraved as the winner.” She held up the trophy.

“Of course it does,” Lindsay said. “Elli’s always wins.” She turned back to her mousse.

“See?” Matt whispered, wrapping Rowan into a hug. “You’ve just got to believe in yourself.”

Leaning into him, inhaling the crisp scent of his cologne, the candles burning throughout the bakery, and the chocolatey scent of the mousse the judges were devouring, Rowan closed her eyes. Between the night before and winning the contest in Katherine’s memory, everything was perfect. She wished it didn’t have to be over so soon. “Just one more Christmas?” she asked Matt.

He lifted her chin and pressed a kiss to her lips. “I thought you’d never ask.”


The next afternoon—Christmas Eve—snow started to fall as they closed Elli’s for Christmas break. Matt walked Rowan to her car, her arm tucked into his.

“So, I don’t mean to impose, but I thought we could pick up some takeout and I’d spend the night. You know, for just one more Christmas,” he said.

She grinned. “I was actually going to suggest you stay over.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay what?”

“We’ll take my truck.” Changing direction, he led her toward the pickup.

“But what about my car?” She glanced over her shoulder at her snow-covered Honda.

“We can pick it up later tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I figured we’d have another Christmas—breakfast with my mom and Danny.”

Tugging her arm free, Rowan threw both arms around his neck. They slid on the slick pavement, gliding straight back into Matt’s pickup. She pressed him into the truck, sprinkling his lips and cheeks with kisses. “How are you so perfect?”

“Oh, just wait,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ve got a whole lifetime to devote to you.”

Though she kind of wanted to swat at him for the cheesy line, she resisted. Besides, it was working. She was practically swooning.

With his assistance, she hopped into the passenger side of his worn pickup. He slid into the driver’s side and blasted the heat. It would be a while before the old truck got moving.

She scooted across the seat and, cupping his chin, turned his face toward hers. “I love you,” she told him, heart thudding in her chest.

She did not expect him to say anything. She hadn’t exactly planned on dropping those three little words. Though she knew they both shared similar feelings, neither of them had ever actually said the phrase out loud. The moment just felt right, though.

Still, part of her hoped he wouldn’t leave her hanging.

A slow grin spread across his face. “I love you too, Ro,” he said, sounding surprised.

Lips curling into a smile, she kissed him. With the snow falling in fat flakes, and the blast from the vents brushing her hair back, the moment was perfect. Their lips met, a slow and familiar dance.

His hands went to her waist, simultaneously drawing her closer and halting their kisses.

“What?” Rowan asked.

He chuckled. “Let’s get to your place.”

As soon as they got to her house, they shed snow-covered clothing and, grabbing the warmest throw blanket from the couch, headed into the bedroom. Matt pulled Rowan into his arms, wrapping the throw around them. Pressed against his chest, her skin to his, she felt more complete than she ever had.

He backed them toward the bed, laying her down gently. Large hands closing around her breasts, he swept his tongue across her lips.

“I love you, Rowan.” His mouth devoured hers.

She felt him pressing urgently against her, the heat from their passion a barrier against the weather outside.

He trailed hot, wet kisses down her throat. “I love you,” he growled.

Her fingernails dug into the bedspread.

His lips sucked in a nipple, tongue flicking it into a firm bud. “I love you.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, Rowan’s eyes fluttered closed. “This,” she gasped, “is the best Christmas present ever.”

Matt trailed kisses down the slope of her belly. “Oh, baby, I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

She smiled contentedly.

As their bodies connected, hearts beating as one, sparks flying between them, she saw dozens of Christmases ahead of them—each more perfect than the last. The circumstances would change. Someday they would be spending their Christmas Eve wrapping presents from Santa. The undeniable love between them, however, would only grow.

Entangled in each other’s arms, they drifted off to sleep, secure in the future they knew they would share.

The End



Thank you for reading “Just One More Christmas,” a holiday short story that takes place after Just One More Minute.

If you enjoyed this free book, please check out some of my other small town romances.

Just One More Minute · enemies to lovers bakery romance
Any Other Love · friends to lovers small town romance
The Stairs Between Us · a second chance divorce romance
set in the same small town

Stagwood Falls: Love in Ink Series
A small town tattoo shop romance
with a close-knit group of friends
Book 1: A Touch of Gold · friends to lovers
Book 2: Tattooed Heart · friends to lovers

Just One More Christmas, Part II

A frustrated cry rang through the entire Elli’s building. Matt straightened from the shelves he squatted next to. He jotted down the number of bags of flour in Elli’s inventory, listening out for further distress. Seconds dripped by, and he started to think maybe Rowan had just stubbed her toe or something. She could be clumsy at times.

Rowan swore, the string of words reaching his ears. “Again?!” she howled.

Wincing, he put down his clipboard and headed out of the little storage room. He found Rowan slumped in defeat next to a burnt batch of candy cane cookies. “Oh no.” He reached out for her, but she turned, shoulders hunching in protective despair.

“I don’t get it,” she sobbed, her hands covering her face.

His heart ached for her. It was bad enough she’d been stuck in a baking rut. Burning Katherine’s special recipe was an assault on everything she held dear. He rubbed her back. “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling helpless.

“I’m cursed,” she cried. “Ruined. I’ll never bake again!”

Matt frowned. He hated hearing her talk like that. He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tight. “Maybe you just need a break,” he said softly, kissing the top of her head. She smelled like her usual vanilla and sandalwood fragrance, but with an additional layer of peppermint.

“No.” She sniffled. “I have to try again.”

She pulled away, and he let her go, admiring her tenacity. Or maybe it was sheer stubbornness. He loved how important baking was to her, how she could whip up recipes out of nowhere. The defeated creature that had been crying a couple minutes ago was not the woman he adored. This Rowan—the one who was already laying out the ingredients for another go—was the person he admired. She just never gave up. He smiled. She’d kick this bad streak in no time.

“No,” she groaned.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’re out of eggs. How can we be out of eggs?” She threw her hands up. “Did I really go through four dozen already?”

Matt pressed his lips together.

She turned and faced him. “I’m killing our inventory.”

“You’re just working through this.”

“I’m a financial disaster!”

“It’s just eggs.”

He watched as she checked the walk-in. “And butter. Oh my God!” She spun on her heels. “You can’t let me do this anymore. I have to be stopped!”

A smile tugged at his lips. “You’re not an abomination.”

“I’m killing baked goods. I’m like a horde of zombies.”

“You’ve been watching way too much The Walking Dead.”

She sighed. “We don’t get a delivery until next week. I’ve gotta go to the store. Again.” She glanced around for her keys.

Matt held up a hand. “I’ll go. You . . . clean something. Or watch something on Netflix. Anything other than beating yourself up.”

“Are you saying that I’m a clean-aholic?”

“Yes. But if it helps . . .” He grinned.

“Maybe I’ll just go get another coffee.”

“Good. And call Charlotte,” he said. Something about Rowan’s best friend always calmed her down. Charlotte was pure magic.

She nodded. Standing on her tiptoes, she pressed a kiss to his lips. As her warmth tingled against his skin, he sighed. Kissing Rowan was magic. His arms automatically twined around her, and he pulled her tight against him. If the opportunity wasn’t so perfect, he would kiss away her worries. But his window was limited.

He pulled away and kissed the tip of her nose. “I’ll be back soon.” He nodded to the tray of ruined cookies. “Toss ‘em. We’ll start over.”

“And what if I ruin them again? How will we win the contest?”

Matt grinned. “We’ll obnoxiously decorate the crap out of the place, and we’ll swoon them all with inflatable Santas.”

She swatted at him with a towel. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

He kissed her again, then grabbed his coat and hurried out of the bakery. Outside, snow was still falling. Maybe he’d get lucky and it’d snow so hard, they’d end up snowed in for the night. Or at the very least, she’d be so into the romantic weather, she’d invite him to stay over her place. But first he had some things to take care of.

While he waited for his geriatric pickup to warm up, he sent out three texts. He almost felt guilty, like he was somehow deceiving Rowan for going behind her back. But he was desperate. He’d had months to prepare for this, yet he’d been completely unable to find the perfect gift for her.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried.

The girl had everything, including an entire bakery full of her favorite baking tools. What Elli’s hadn’t already had, she’d bought during the past six months with her own money. A new mixer came out in November and, before he could secretly buy one for her, she’d bought it for herself. Besides, he didn’t just want to get her a kitchen appliance. She was a strong woman, and even though baking was her passion, she was so much more than that. It’d be like a guy getting his wife of fifty years a vacuum cleaner. She deserved something amazing because she was amazing.

Buying her an engagement ring would be horribly cliché. Everyone got engaged during the holidays. It was almost expected, and when the time came, he wanted to really surprise her. Besides, he wasn’t entirely sure they were ready for that step. Things were good, but they’d barely been dating half a year. There was no rush.

He’d entertained the idea of getting her a promise ring, but he thought it was too soon. Besides, their relationship itself was a promise. Both of them knew they were it for each other. It was just a matter of time.

He needed help—and allies. Going behind her back was his only option.

Three replies came to him and he grinned. His team was assembled and ready. He threw the warm pickup into gear and pulled out of the Elli’s parking lot. Time was ticking, and he needed to move fast. If he took too long at the grocery store, she’d suspect something.


Matt picked up Leo, Rowan’s often surly eighteen-year-old brother. When Matt first got together with Rowan, she hadn’t been on good terms with her family. In the months since, she’d grown closer to them—even Leo. It turned out that, where her sister Mia was constantly trying to take everything away from Rowan, Leo adored her. He once begrudgingly admitted to Matt that Rowan had taught him all about music he wouldn’t have otherwise listened to. That, Matt knew, was a lot coming from the teenage boy.

“But don’t tell anyone I said that,” Leo had said. “I’ll deny it.”

Glancing at Leo, who sat huddled in his black Element hoodie, Matt suppressed a smile. The kid totally didn’t look like the type to listen to Kiiara, BANKS, or anything else his sister liked—especially since Rowan loved dance music and R&B. But he’d admitted it was “interesting” to listen to when he was hanging out by himself after a party, and that BANKS was actually “good at writing lyrics.”

“What’s so funny?” Leo asked, scowling at Matt.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

He picked up his own little brother next. Danny was eleven and Matt was pretty sure he knew the truth about Santa. He figured his little brother needed every drop of Christmas magic he could get. Plus, Danny looked up to Rowan. She let him help her in the kitchen and even allowed him to lick the bowl. Matt’s mom had rarely baked during their childhood. After their dad passed away, she had even less energy to do typical mother/child activities. Danny had missed out on a lot of things. Every time Rowan handed him a spatula coated in raw brownie mix, the kid’s eyes lit up. Matt knew Danny would love to be involved with the surprise.

Danny squeezed into the tiny single seat in the back of the cab.

“You good back there?” Matt asked. The kid was shooting up. Soon he’d be too big.

Danny nodded.

“Seatbelt,” Matt instructed, glancing at Leo to make sure he put his back on. Once everyone was buckled in, he headed toward Frankie’s in Waterbury. It was the only place they could meet that he was positive Rowan wouldn’t go. She might run to Starbucks again or even a book store, but she hated the Chase Avenue traffic. Not that he could blame her. The city was still widening it and the construction choked up the already congested street. Plus, with the holiday shopping rush, it was even worse than usual. Rowan didn’t have the patience for standstill traffic. Matt wasn’t even sure he did. For the first time in months, he wished he had a cigarette.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Leo stick one between his lips.

He yanked it out of the kid’s mouth and tossed it out the window before Danny could see it.

“What—?!” Leo squawked.

Matt jerked his chin in the direction of the backseat and gave Leo a stern look.

“Oh.” Leo actually looked apologetic.

When their dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer, Danny had begged Matt to quit smoking. He’d kept his promise—and tried to shield Danny from other smokers. It bothered his little brother more than usual, and maybe it was a pointless thing to do. There were lots of smokers in the world, and not all of them would get sick with cancer. Danny was probably old enough to know that cigarettes weren’t the true enemy. But still.

The line of cars moved forward a whole ten feet. Matt could see the Frankie’s sign up ahead.

“We could literally ditch this truck and walk over there,” Leo grumbled. “I’m starving.”

Too true. “Me too,” Matt said in solidarity. “But we’re almost there, right Danny?” He smiled at his little brother in the rearview mirror.

Danny crossed his arms. “This traffic sucks.”

Apparently Danny was entering his own surly teenage years.

After what seemed like a century, the line of vehicles moved up enough so that Matt could take the left-hand turn into the restaurant parking lot. He hadn’t had Frankie’s in years. The hot dog franchise and its founding family was a Connecticut celebrity. It’d started off small during the Great Depression and quickly grown into an empire. Occasionally, Matt surmised, good things did come out of the struggling city of Waterbury.

He parked the pickup in the angled slots and jumped out. Too bad he couldn’t tell Rowan where he was. She loved Frankies’s fried broccoli.

Matt, Leo, and Danny strode inside in single file. He was the last in, and as he watched the two boys, a swell of emotion surged through his chest. They were slowly but surely becoming familiar with each other—becoming family. Maybe it was too soon to jump to such things, but he could easily see them ten or more years in the future, doing brotherly things together like playing paintball or going camping.

“We gonna order, or what?” Leo asked, bursting Matt’s daydream.

“Sir?” The young woman behind the counter lifted her eyebrows expectantly. Her brown eyes sparkled in merry amusement. The name tag on her uniform read Joan.

“Sorry.” Matt motioned for Danny and Leo to give their orders, then added his own. Again he thought of Rowan and her love for fried broccoli. If she ever found out he had some without her, she’d make him do the inventory again. Or worse. He gulped. It was a risk he was going to have to take.

It was worth it.

As they waited for their orders, the door opened and Charlotte breezed inside. She ran straight to the counter, throwing her arms around Joan’s neck. Her bright red hair bounced on her shoulders as the two women embraced.

“I haven’t seen you in years!”

“How the hell are you?!”

Matt smiled. It was truly magical, how even the smallest moments seemed so beautiful around this time of year.

“Why are you grinning like a lunatic?” Danny elbowed him.

He sighed. Somehow he was going to have to change the Debbie Downer duo’s moods.

Once the four of them had their food, they squeezed into the only table available.

“Move your elbows,” Danny said to Leo.

“I can’t help that I’m so big and need the space,” the older boy retorted. “Some of us still have growing to do.”

Danny scowled at him.

Charlotte gave Matt a knowing look from across the table. “So,” she said in between bites of her chili dog, “what have we got?”

“Absolutely nothing, which is why we’re all here.” He glanced from face to face. “You guys are just as close to Rowan as I am, if not more. I need ideas. And fast.”

“How about you ask her to marry you?” Leo smirked.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Cliché. You should know better than that, Leo. Rowan needs romance and swooning.”

He made a gagging face, Danny joining him.

Matt chewed a bite of his hot dog, trying not to regret bringing the boys along.

“I think,” Charlotte said, “you’re trying too hard to come up with one great big grand gesture.”

“You’re probably right,” he admitted.

“So let’s focus on finding little things, gifts that she can enjoy or use.” Charlotte pulled a notebook out of her bag.

Matt stared.

“What?”

“I just didn’t realize you carried a purse.”

She lifted an eyebrow at him. “So?”

“Rowan refuses to.”

Charlotte snorted. “Rowan is Rowan. The girl uses her car as a giant bag. Have you seen what’s in her center console?”

He shook his head.

“Dude. She has an entire extra stash of makeup in there, a Phillips and a flathead, a flashlight, and even a wooden spoon. God only knows what she’d need a spoon for while out and about.”

Matt grinned. That sounded like his girl.

“And don’t even get me started on the capsule wardrobe in her trunk. The only reason she doesn’t carry a purse is because there isn’t one on this planet that she can fit her entire life into.” Charlotte tapped her notebook. “Now, let’s focus.” She opened it to a page with a neat list.

“Wow.”

“Girl’s my best friend, Matty. You came to the right person.”

“The OCD person,” Leo said. He and Danny snickered.

Charlotte tossed them an icy look. “Now, I’ve divided this into categories: things Rowan has mentioned she wants, things I’ve noticed she really needs, and things she doesn’t need but would be really nice.”

Matt peered at the list. “UGGs?”

“Every girl needs UGGs, Matty.”

“She already has three pairs. And stop calling me Matty.”

“Yeah,” Danny said. “That’s my name for him.”

Charlotte held up her hands. “Okay, okay. Jeez.” She turned to Matt. “But seriously, these UGGs have a rubber sole with tread. She won’t go slipping and sliding in them.” She beamed.

“Okay. Boots. Great. What am I, her grandma?”

“You’re her boyfriend. It’s your job to keep our clumsy girl safe. And warm. Which brings me to this coat.” She tapped the notebook. “Ro’s allergic to wool, so she has a super hard time finding cute and warm outerwear. But I found one that’s lined with sherpa.”

His eyebrows knit together. “Isn’t that wool?”

“Nope! Sherpa is polyester fleece. Fake,” she added when his confused expression deepened. “Good thing you have me.”

“Yeah. Good thing.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Danny and Leo roll their eyes in tandem. “All right, you two.”

Only Danny looked apologetic.

“Any ideas?”

Danny dunked a chicken tender in barbecue sauce that oozed out of its container. “A Starbucks gift card?”

“Traitor,” Leo muttered.

“That’s actually a good idea.” Matt reached for his phone to start his own list.

“I’m gonna one-up you,” Charlotte said, “and suggest you get her a French press and a five-pound bag of Starbucks coffee. Oh, and a bean grinder.” She tapped her bottom lip with her pen.

Matt tried to envision Rowan going through all of that every morning. She was the most morning person he’d ever met, but the image didn’t fit. “Yeah . . . I’m gonna stick with the gift card.”

“Fair enough.”

“Leo?” Matt nodded to Rowan’s youngest sibling. Even though the kid was annoyed—or at least pretending to be—he didn’t want him to feel left out of the conversation.

Shrugging, Leo crammed fries into his mouth.

“Really? Nothing at all?”

Leo shifted in his seat, the corners of his mouth turned down. “We don’t really do gifts in our house,” he said. His gaze lowered to his burger.

Matt’s chest tightened. “You don’t celebrate Christmas?”

“No, we do,” Leo said. “It’s just . . .” His expression darkened. “Usually my parents go away. Like on a cruise.”

“And they just leave you?” Charlotte gaped at him in horror.

The teenager shrugged again. “Hey, house party, right?” He turned back to his food.

Across the table, Matt met Charlotte’s gaze. It looked like his Christmas mission had just changed.

Part III

Just One More Christmas, Part I

Rowan stared out the almost too-shiny front window of Elli’s. It’d long been replaced since the wild thunderstorm a few months earlier, but the glass was nearly reflective. She suspected it had more to do with Matt’s obsessive cleaning of the window than the actual glass itself.

She sighed. Snowflakes drifted down from the sky, painting the quiet Main Street in soft white. The scene was picturesque—or it should’ve been. Watertown’s Christmas cheer contest was in just three days, and she was nervous.

Actually, “nervous” didn’t even begin to cover it. She’d entered Elli’s—the bakery she’d inherited from her aunt Katherine—with confidence, but that was before The Curse started.

Yes, she was definitely calling it The Curse now.

It was more than a funk. She’d been in baking ruts before—where no matter what she did, she botched every single recipe—but that was years ago when she was still a student. She was a pastry chef—one with certification and her own business. She never messed up the recipes she’d made a thousand times before. It was getting to the point where Matt—her handsome business partner and boyfriend—was taking over her morning work. She was even ruining plain old bread. No matter how carefully she measured, it ended up too salty or completely flat.

She was cursed, plain and simple.

She sighed again and looked away from the pretty town. Normally, snow would cheer her up. It was almost Christmas, after all. But if she couldn’t pull it together, Elli’s would not only lose the competition, but they’d become the laughingstock of the town.

Her shoulders slumped. “C’mon, Aunt Katherine,” she whispered. “Be my angel and guide me or something.”

The bells over the door jingled and Rowan straightened in her seat. A vaguely familiar young woman strode in, a red Starbucks cup in her gloved hand. She was decked out in full winter attire: the world’s cutest knit cap, a red scarf wrapped several times around her neck, and cozy UGG boots. Rowan glanced down at her flour- and chocolate-streaked chef’s jacket. Matt should be up front greeting customers—not her.

“Hello,” she said, managing not to sound like a total Scrooge. “What can I get for you?”

“Hi there,” the other woman chirped. “I’m from over at Tilly’s.” She pointed in the direction of the little café. “I’m just scoping out the competition.” She peered into the display case, not even trying to look ashamed. “All you have are sandwiches? Where are those famous cookies and cheesecakes I keep hearing about?”

Rowan suppressed a groan. Tilly’s Café, to both her and Matt’s chagrin, had opened about a month earlier. The town only allowed three total bakeries, but Elli’s hadn’t had a competitor in years. Everyone loved Elli’s. There was no need for another place like it. But Tilly’s had roared in, taking the space where the old chocolate café had once been. The owners fixed up the inside, repaired the stage, and reinstated the open mic nights and other events the town had loved when Rowan was a kid. Elli’s couldn’t possibly compete with that vibe, considering they didn’t have enough space to add a stage.

There had been no stopping it, though. Technically Tilly’s was well within their right, and the town approved it unanimously. Competition, everyone said, was healthy.

Rowan disagreed.

Composing herself, she lifted her chin. “Gotta keep our secret weapons hidden until the big day.”

“Ah.” The woman lifted a finger. “Good plan.” She held out a hand. “We haven’t met yet. My name is Tilly. Are you surprised?” She simpered, perfect dimples appearing in each cheek.

Rowan shook hands with her and resisted the urge to gag. Tilly was sugary sweet, in that completely fake way that some women adopted. “So you’re the baker?”Tilly scoffed. “Oh no, sweetie, I’m the director. I have people baking for me.” She glanced Rowan up and down. “I’m assuming you’re the baker here. Where’s your director?”

“You’re looking at her,” Rowan said, not bothering to hide her disdain.

“Oh my. That’s telling.” Tilly shook her head and clucked her tongue in disapproval. Straightening, she sniffed the air, her delicate nose wrinkling. “Is something burning?”

Eyes widening, Rowan darted out of the front room and careened into the kitchen. “No, no, no,” she protested, yanking open the oven door. But it was too late. The pan she withdrew and placed on the counter held a dozen nearly black red velvet cupcakes. She slumped against the stainless steel counter.

“Well,” Tilly said from the kitchen entrance, “it’s been a pleasure. I’m really glad I came by.” With one last condescending smile, she turned and left.

Rowan glowered at her back. “I’m really glad you’re a total bitch,” she muttered. She shook her head at herself. That was hardly even a comeback.

“Are you talking to yourself again?” Matt strolled into the kitchen from the back room. He carried a clipboard in one hand and pushed back brown curls from his eyes with his other.

“You were supposed to be watching the cupcakes,” she accused.

“I was?” Green eyes shifted from side to side. “I thought I was taking inventory.” He pointed to the clipboard.

Jabbing a finger at the ruined goodies, Rowan scowled. “Tilly’s owner came by. She was a complete tool.” She crossed her arms.

“Sorry, babe.” Matt put the clipboard down. It clinked against the stainless steel counter. He drew her in for a hug, and she couldn’t help but relax against him. With his green eyes, cherub-like curls, and muscular arms, he was living, breathing Ativan. “Still on that streak, huh?”

She huffed. “It’s a curse.”

“Nah.” Stepping back a bit, he lifted her chin with a warm finger. “It’ll pass. You’re Rowan, Elli’s amazing baker.”

Snorting, she shook her head. “More like Elli’s walking disaster!”

“It’ll be okay.”

“Oh yeah? When? The day after the competition?” She stepped completely away and put her hands on her hips.

“It’s no big deal. It’s just a contest.”

Her eyes widened. “Just a contest? Matt, you must have amnesia. Elli’s has won every single Christmas cheer contest for the past ten years.”

“To be fair,” he said, “that’s only because we’ve been the only bakery in town.”

Rowan’s jaw dropped open. “Are you saying we didn’t deserve those awards?”

He held up his hands. “I’m just saying that there was no one else in our category. It’s been, well . . . a piece of cake.”

“I hate you right now.”

He chuckled and slapped his thigh. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it.”

Rolling her eyes, she turned back to the burnt cupcakes. “This event always meant a lot to Aunt Katherine. Christmas was her favorite holiday.” Tears stung her eyes. Exactly six months had passed since Katherine had suddenly died—well, suddenly to Rowan. She’d had no idea that Katherine was even sick. She’d been out in New Jersey, licking her wounds and hoping to sever her family ties all the way down to her DNA. She’d been so, so wrong.

Matt cupped her shoulders. “I know,” he said quietly. Those green eyes bore into hers, pulling her back from the abyss. He smiled. “What if we go through Katherine’s recipe book? Maybe you just need to try something new.”

“And botch one of her sacred recipes?” She shook her head. “I don’t think I could handle it.”

“Well, it’s better than ruining your own recipes and beating yourself up.” His lips flattened. “Actually, it’d be great if you could just stop the self-flagellation altogether. Ro, you’re a freakin’ magician in the kitchen. Everyone has a bad day now and then.”

“A two-week bad day?” she asked. Still, she bent down and retrieved the cherished recipe book from its spot, nestled in a wicker cube that also housed Katherine’s lucky apron. She eyed the apron thoughtfully. “Maybe I should put that on.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Or . . . not. It’s probably better if I don’t taint it.”

She plunked the recipe book onto the counter. It was a two-inch binder wrapped in a floral pattern fabric. Each of Katherine’s recipes was tucked into a clear sheet protector, written in her looping hand that Rowan had always loved. She flipped it open and skimmed through the contents. “What do you think?”

He drummed his fingers on the counter. “Something we don’t make very often . . . and something easy.”

“Hey.” She swatted at him.

“No offense.”

Shaking her head, she read through the list again. “What about Aunt Katherine’s candy cane cookies?” She tapped the photo with a fingernail that she’d nibbled down to the nub.

“Those are good,” Matt agreed. “She made them the first year I worked here.”

“You mean the year you stole my job?”

“Yeah. That year.” He grinned. “Anyway, she wouldn’t let me touch them. I could only watch. She was so particular about how everything was done.”

“In the best way possible.” Rowan smiled. “She always wanted to make sure you were paying attention, that you really learned how to bake with your heart.”

He nodded, then pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Bake with your heart, babe.” He picked up the clipboard again.

“You’re not going to help?”

“I believe I just did.”

“You know what I mean.” She began laying out the ingredients.

Grimacing, he continued toward the store room. “And hang around you? That’s bad juju.” He strolled away, whistling “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.”

“Brat,” she called after him. Still, she smiled. Despite their rocky beginning, Matt was the best thing that had ever happened to her.

Rolling up her sleeves, she got to work.

She flipped on her favorite Christmas music playlist—a mix of piano-only songs on Spotify. With the cheerful tunes drifting through the kitchen, she started mixing the dough. Mixing was always her favorite part. Though she used a mixer, there was just something so soothing about watching all of the ingredients come together. She combined butter, sugar, egg yolks, and peppermint extract, watching as the paddle stirred the wet components together. Her shoulders loosened and a sappy smile played on her lips.

This was it. She was going to break the curse, if it was the last thing she did.

Switching the mixer to low, she stirred in the dry ingredients. The dough churned, becoming more and more solid with each turn. It was hard to believe that, at one point, she’d been willing to give all of this up.

Once the dough was mixed enough, she shut off the machine and separated it into two equal halves. She swaddled one in plastic wrap and set it aside. Maybe covering it completely was going overboard, but with her luck she’d splash red food coloring everywhere and she’d end up with completely red cookies instead of candy cane-shaped cookies, alternating in red and white.

She hummed to herself as she dyed the other half of the dough red. Already she could see the perfect little candy canes, positioned in the display case so that every other one of them were Js, their sugar sprinkles glistening.

Using her hands, she shaped each ball of dough into a flat square, smoothing the edges into perfection with a bench scrape.

The front door jingled again, and she cringed. “Matt,” she called.

“It’s just me.” Her best friend, Charlotte, practically floated into the kitchen. Her face glowed, and Rowan suspected it had little to do with the cold weather.

“Tell me everything,” Rowan said as she wrapped the squares, “in just one more minute.” She tucked the dough into the walk-in refrigerator, taking a moment to admire her work. Content, she hurried back into the kitchen. “Go!” she told Charlotte.

“Okay, so you remember Amarie?” Charlotte said, unable to hide the goofy grin that clung to her lips like confectioner’s sugar.

“How could I forget?” Rowan tossed everything into the pot sink for later scrubbing.

“Well,” Charlotte drew out the word, “she added me on Facebook a while back.”

“Uh-huh. I remember,” Rowan prodded.

“She hasn’t posted much lately, because of finals and all that, but . . . she’s coming home for winter break!” Charlotte clapped her hands together and bounced on the balls of her feet, her hair flying off her shoulders. Usually dyed one bright color or another, Charlotte had made no exceptions for the holiday season and had turned her naturally blonde locks into cheery Christmas red.

“That’s awesome, Char,” Rowan said with a smile. “So are you gonna make a move?”

Charlotte’s smile faded. She took a deep breath. “She’s still with Jason,” she admitted.

Rowan nodded sympathetically. “We’ll just have to plan a get-together and then you can sweep her off her feet!”

Her best friend shrugged. “I don’t know . . . I mean, I know she’s queer. My gaydar has never failed me. But . . .”

“Jason puts a wrench in the plans.”

“Exactly. I’m not into adultery.”

“They’re not exactly married,” Rowan said, lifting a finger.

“Right, but they’ve been together a while now. Over a year? Maybe even close to two. And I don’t think she knows she likes girls, too, Ro. Like, maybe deep down, but not really, you know?”

Rowan nodded. She slung an arm around Charlotte. “We’ve got to cure you of this crush, babe. It’s only going to tear you apart.”

Charlotte twisted her lips to the side. “I know it. I barely know the girl. I’ve never felt so connected with anyone before, though. It sounds freakin’ stalker-ish.”

“Nah. I get it.” Rowan shrugged out of her chef’s jacket. “How about we go get our Starbucks fix? I’m really craving a peppermint mocha now,” she said, sniffing at the faint traces of the oil on her hands.

Charlotte giggled. “So I take it your streak has ended?”

“I think so,” Rowan said. “I can feel it.” She pulled on her winter coat, a black parka that fell to her knees. Though Charlotte had tried talking her into dying her whole head green, Rowan had gone back to her natural mousy brown—just until the competition was over. She meant no offense to Charlotte, but she’d wanted to be taken seriously, and she was glad now that she knew how put-together Tilly was.

Linking arms with Charlotte, Rowan called out to Matt that they were heading out, and promised to bring him something back. Arm in arm, she and Charlotte stepped onto Main Street. It was at least a mile walk to Starbucks, but with Charlotte she didn’t even feel cold. They chitchatted as they walked, catching up on their lives. Charlotte had started bartending school so that she could be a mixologist at The 545, the lounge she was a short order cook at.

“This way I can chat up cute girls and make some extra money in tips,” she reasoned.

“Makes sense to me.”

Rowan glanced into the windows of the various shops they passed. Main Street was always cute, but it had an even more special vibe during the holidays. Each bare tree was wrapped in white string lights, the lights intertwining and forming a canopy above the sidewalk. It was pure magic, she surmised.

By the time they stepped inside Starbucks, though, her cheeks and nose were numb.

“My treat,” Charlotte said, blocking her from the chip reader.

“No, mine,” Rowan insisted. “You got the last time.”

“So?”

“Plus Matt’s ordering too. C’mon.”

Charlotte stuck out her tongue playfully and gave the barista their orders before Rowan could argue further.

“You,” Rowan told her, wrapping her in a one-armed hug.

“Me.” Charlotte beamed.

They took their coffees and sat down at a table.

“So,” Charlotte said meaningfully, dragging out the word. “Any special Christmas plans with Matt?”

Rowan tilted her head, her eyebrows furrowed. As far as she knew, they were each spending Christmas with their families. They saw each other every day anyway. They could exchange gifts any time.

“Seriously? He didn’t invite you to Christmas dinner with the family?”

“So what? I mean, he doesn’t really have a lot of family. It’ll just be his mom, his little brother, and him. He doesn’t get to spend much time with them.”

Charlotte gave her a flat look. “You guys have been together for like six months now.”

“Four, technically. Actually . . .” Rowan counted. “Three.”

Her best friend rolled her eyes. “Six,” she said firmly. “That month or whatever you were ‘broken up’ so doesn’t count.”

“Either way,” Rowan said, “it’s family time.” She suppressed a groan. “Family time,” to her parents, meant ditching their children just before the holidays for their annual cruise. “What are your plans?” she asked, changing the subject.

“The Butler family tradition: Christmas Eve mass and a stern talking-to about how God hates gays.” She rolled her eyes.

“I’m sorry, love.” Rowan reached across the table and gave her best friend’s hand a warm squeeze. “Any way you can skip?”

“Only if I’m bleeding to death. And even then . . .” She shrugged.

Rowan raised her coffee cup in a salute. “To family.”

Charlotte knocked her cup against Rowan’s. “Happy holidays.” She giggled.

A little while later, they headed back to Elli’s. Full dark had fallen in the meantime and, with it, the temperature. Rowan huddled deep into her coat.

Charlotte walked her to the door and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Good luck with those candy canes,” she said. She hopped into her warm car, thanks to her remote starter when they were still a block away, and waved as she pulled from the curb.

Taking a deep breath, Rowan hurried into the warmth of Elli’s. She hung her coat up, then went into the walk-in.

Matt bent over a shelf, his black Dickies accenting his ass.

“Nice,” she said flirtatiously.

Straightening, he turned and wrapped her in a hug. Full, warm lips pressed to hers. “Aw, look who’s cold. Let me warm you up, baby.”

“In the walk-in?” Rowan lifted an eyebrow.

He smirked. “We could do it in the kitchen instead, if you prefer.”

“Tempting,” she said, twirling away, “but I’ve got a hot date.” She grabbed her chilled dough and took it to her station, leaving him chuckling after her.

Heart thudding in her chest, she eyed the dough on the stainless steel, willing it to cooperate. “All right,” she said. “Let’s break this streak.”

Part II

Tattooed Heart, Chapter 1

“I might’ve looked you up on the ’Gram,” he admitted.

“Looked me up?” I inquired.

“Caught again.” He chuckled. “I saw you outside while I was working, and I got curious about Goldie’s friend.”

“Curious, hmm?” I sat up straighter. I was curious, too, about very scientific matters like, how long could he hold me up against a wall with those ultra-defined arms?

It was 100 percent the heartbreak talking, and I was 100 percent okay with that.

Chapter 1: Big GunSabella

My dad handed me my first tattoo gun when I was fourteen.

“I can’t reach this spot. You do it.”

I laughed. I thought he was kidding. The chicken drumsticks he’d taught me how to season baked in the oven, and the pot of rice and beans he’d also walked me through simmered on the stove. He was supposed to be teaching me how to cook—“Since your mama sure ain’t,” he said.

He took off his shirt and I wrinkled my nose at his hairy armpits. My mom was definitely not the picture of emotional stability, and she’d never teach me how to cook, but she had me shaving at ten and doing my own nails at thirteen. It only highlighted the fact that I lived five out of seven days a week with a very hairy man.

A man who wanted me to ink his latest girlfriend’s name on his ribs, on the opposite side of where my mom’s name had faded into his skin.

“Mira,” he said, putting the tattoo gun in my hand. “You just stretch the skin como esto, and trace.” He demonstrated, stretching the skin on my arm with one hand and drawing a butter knife over it with the other. “It’s easy. Siéntate.”

I scoffed. “No, Papi! What if I mess it up?”

“It’s just some letters. A line here, a line there.”

I gave him a flat look. “That’s cursive.”

“See? You don’t even have to get it straight.” He waved me on. “You can do it. It’s just like all the pictures you draw, except on skin.”

And I’d thought it was exciting when he let me dice the onion for the rice.

“Okay,” I said, drawing out the word while I gave him one last look—to check whether he’d lost his damn mind.

He gave me a nod, wearing the same look of paternal pride and patience he’d rocked while teaching me how to ride a bike. “It don’t matter if you mess it up, because I’m old.”

I grabbed his insulin kit from the top of the fridge.

“I’m not having a hypoglycemic episode,” he said gently.

“I know that.” Unzipping the kit, I sat back down at the table, placing prep pads on a square of table that looked clean. “I’m aiming for a zero infections streak.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and melodious, filling the kitchen as I carefully wrote his flavor-of-the-week’s name on his skin in swooping cursive, pointedly not looking at my mom’s name. He gave me a thumbs up, I pressed my foot down on the pedal, and there was no going back.

I’ve been tattooing ever since.

By the time Goldie found me, I was tattooing in our kitchen but winning big awards. Goldie gave me a chance to really fly, and for that, I’ll be forever grateful. Which is why, when she needed to move back home to Stagwood Falls, I went with her.

Well, that and my thirty-five-year-old, freshly divorced ass needed to get the hell out of the city. Almost divorced. Thanks to Connecticut’s relaxed laws, all I needed was for my ex to sign the papers, and I’d be free. Problem was, he went radio silent the second I left.

Stagwood Falls (population 1,500) was the opposite of the city I grew up in (population 150,000). Main Street looked like the set of a movie—very Instagram-ready. My girls in the city definitely would approve. I was sitting in a bar called The Main Idea—also super cute. It had an arcade in the back and more IPAs than I could ever hope to memorize. Their poor bartender. I’d grown up on blunts and jungle juice, so the novelty of the whole hipster craze hadn’t gotten to me yet.

Goldie, on the other hand, couldn’t roll her eyes far enough in the back of her head.

“Girl,” I said. “Your face is gonna get stuck like that.”

Then I realized she’d just spotted David, her least favorite person at the time.

“You didn’t say he was that hot,” I hissed. David had that olive-skinned, melty-eyed Italian thing going for him, with barber-bladed eyebrows nearly as thick as my thighs, and a hell of a smirk. He only had eyes for Goldie as he neared our table, and I knew my best friend was in trouble.

All that Italian deliciousness quite literally paled in comparison to the guy with him, apparently a close friend if I went by the way they leaned into each other, murmuring something while David ogled Goldie. Tall, dark, handsome, and nameless’s gaze swept from her to me, freezing me in place with dark brown eyes the same deep shade as his skin. They must’ve gone to the same barber, because his brows and beard were just as carefully maintained, all sharp lines to highlight prominent cheekbones that made me want to lick them. Yes, lick. I was that starved. I couldn’t ignore the meal in front of me, not when he walked with ease, carrying broad shoulders that I immediately pictured my hands gripping. He floated to our table effortlessly, as if gliding to me on a trajectory I could neither see nor avoid. While Goldie and David glared at each other, he took my hand in his, and I felt like I’d been electrocuted, nearly missing his name.

“Benton,” he said with a smile that made me forget mine. “Por favor, dime tu nombre.”

My heart nearly stopped. Since pulling up on Goldie’s building a couple weeks earlier, I hadn’t heard a word of Spanish.

“I did a lot of my social worker practice hours in Waterbury,” he explained. “Lots of Puerto Ricans.”

I squinted up at him. “How did you know?” Puerto Ricans tended to spot each other instantly. It was some kind of pheromone. He looked Black, but on the islands, Boricuas came in all shades—even ginger.

“I might’ve looked you up on the ’Gram,” he admitted. “You’ve got a little flag in your bio.”

“Looked me up?” I inquired.

“Caught again.” He chuckled. “I saw you outside while I was working, and I got curious about Goldie’s friend.”

“Curious, hmm?” I sat up straighter. I was curious, too, about very scientific matters like, how long could he hold me up against a wall with those ultra-defined arms?

It was 100 percent the heartbreak talking, and I was 100 percent okay with that.

And Goldie was 100 percent walking to the arcade in the back of the bar—with David. I checked my dark red lipstick in my phone’s camera, then turned to his best friend. “Wanna buy me a drink?”

I hated to waste an outfit.

I looked damn good in my cropped Bitch Craft T-shirt that just read Bitch after I’d gotten my hands on it. Before that night, I was not a one-night-stand kind of girl. That didn’t mean I couldn’t break that rule with Benton. It’d been a good six months since I’d let my ex-husband touch me.

I took a moment to appreciate the view as Benton carried our drinks over. He wore his button-down’s sleeves rolled up, exposing dark muscular forearms wrapped in a swooping cursive tattoo I couldn’t read from that far away. His dress pants hugged his ass, and his beard hugged his jawline. I wanted to koala-hug his body.

I moved over to the same side of the table, making sure to touch his hand as I accepted the drink.

He gave me a knowing, cocky look. “Do you want to actually drink these, or do you want to get out of here?”

We were on the same page. Good. I didn’t need to know about his childhood or what his future plans were. I just needed some dick. Lord knew I’d wasted far too much time on romance.

“So where’s your place?” I asked as we stumbled onto the sidewalk hand in hand. I liked the way our hands fit, how his thick fingers threaded through mine.

He stopped fast and I nearly crashed into him. “I figured yours is closer.”

I laughed. “Sure, if you wanna hang with Goldie’s grandpa.”

My living situation started off a little awkward, but I’d grown up around men. Goldie’s Poppy was a sweet old man, and probably fast asleep for the night, so there was no way I was bringing a guy home. It was way too awkward.

Benton hesitated.

“What, do you live with your mom or something?” I teased. Not that I cared. Until recently, I’d still lived with my dad. For most thirty-somethings, that was probably weird, but not this Boricua.

Benton shook his head.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I live with David’s mom, okay?” Benton said. “So no, we can’t go to my place.”

There we were, in the middle of the sidewalk, debating where to bang like a couple of teenagers. I laughed.

“You don’t have to be a dick about it,” he said, pulling away from me.

“I’m not,” I said through my laughter. “Come on, Benton, it’s funny. We’re like a couple of horny teenagers.”

He scowled. “I’m a grown man.”

I had the giggles so bad. “Come on. Let me buy you another drink.”

He waved me off. “You know what, I’m good.”

I watched as he walked away, his shirt hugging the muscles of his back.

“It’s not a big deal,” I called after him. Either he didn’t hear me, or he didn’t want to, because he kept going until he was out of my sight.

Rolling my eyes, I went in the opposite direction and decided I was already over Stagwood Falls.

One Year Later

I hadn’t meant to stay. I’d planned on getting Goldie settled in and then figuring out my next move. Maybe I’d go back to the city, where I could hopefully avoid my ex. Or maybe I’d get my own place in town, if I liked it enough. So far, I didn’t really like it.

The town was cute, don’t get me wrong, but small, and people stared. It was hard to fade into anonymous heartbreak recovery when everywhere I went, people eyed me. Of course, none of them knew I left New Haven because I got dumped. They were staring at my tattoos, fishnet, and boots. I felt like someone had plucked off all my petals, leaving me stripped of the things I’d once wanted so badly. It felt like everyone could see the grief etched deep into my soul.

So I poured my energy into tattooing, all the while feeling like I needed more. I needed to get back to my roots, to hold a paintbrush in my hand and let everything I felt pour out of me, onto canvas. The problem was, I was booked solid. Since Goldie transplanted her tattoo shop Touch of Gold from the city to Stagwood Falls, my regulars were getting more comfortable with driving out to see me. Plus, we’d been expanding in our new county. Not a bad problem to have, but I wanted time to paint. I needed time to process my pain, but painting didn’t pay the way tattooing did. The only way to squeeze in my hobbies as an adult were to make them part of my work. And I had come up with the perfect solution.

I just needed to get my friends on board.

I needed a win, something that was mine. Goldie had her shop—I was happier than ever tattooing under her roof, and she involved me in more than usual, but it was her shop. I had to tread carefully, balancing friendship with work.

I stood in David’s kitchen, slicing a lemon for my vodka. Or I was supposed to be. It was just us girls for the moment, the guys still in the living room fussing over David’s new gaming setup, and I was using the break from a bloodthirsty game of Cards Against Humanity to work on my magnum opus: a text I’d been drafting for six months. Drafting and dreading. I’d tried being nice. I’d tried giving him space. I’d even tried being stern—using those boundaries that my Instagram therapist was always talking about.

She wasn’t my actual therapist. She was just an account I followed.

“At least AI can’t replace me,” Goldie said. She finished off the faux vodka Collins I’d made us—I used lemonade instead of lemon juice, simple syrup, and club soda—and held her glass in my face.

“Knife,” I reminded her, giving her a sharp look.

“What knife? Less texting, more slicing,” she said, always with the big sister energy.

Goldie and I couldn’t be more different. She was raised by her grandparents, I was raised by my dad. She was all Black, I was half Puerto Rican, half white. She’d left marketing in her mid-twenties to become a tattoo artist, and I’d grown up with a tattoo gun in my hand. Despite our different paths, we were both driven women determined to make it in a male-dominated world, which was why I liked her the moment I met her. Leaving New Haven and coming to Stagwood Falls with her was simple for me: I didn’t want to work at anyone else’s shop, and I definitely didn’t want to stay in a city full of reminders of my biggest failure.

“Until they invent some vending machine thing where you select your piece and it tattoos it on, right then and there, like a 3D printer,” Kinsley—her actual little sister—said.

“Don’t say that.” Goldie fake vomited.

“Oh, it’ll happen,” I said, using the ten-inch knife to twist out the seeds from each slice of lemon.

“Damn, girl, easy with that thing,” Goldie said, “and whose side are you on? Artists or robots?”

“I’m just saying.” Dropping the slices into our glasses, I grabbed ice and the bottles of vodka and lemonade. “It’ll never replace having a real, talented artist design a real, personal piece, though.”

“You say that,” Kinsley said darkly, “but what about all the generative art apps?”

“Hurry with that vodka,” Goldie pleaded. “We need to get past stoned, eerily philosophic Kinsley and bring out drunk, dancing Kinsley.”

“I heard drunk dancing,” Benton said, shimmying into the kitchen. “What’re we dancing to?” Even though I was closer, he took Kinsley’s hand and spun her into a dip.

“We’re dancing?” David pulled Goldie into him, tipping her chin up for a kiss.
Couples. Kill me.

Grabbing my phone, I threw on the last thing I’d been listening to.

“Doja Cat? Really?” Benton complained without even looking at me.

“Whatchu got against Doja Cat?” Antoni backed up on me until his ass almost touched my thigh, then dropped it low, “twerking” in a squat. He was less twerking and more just shaking.

I shoved him away, laughing. “You’re doing it wrong. Let me show you.”

“Please,” he wheezed. “I think I pulled something.” He straightened, dusting his hands on his jeans.

Placing my hands on my hips, I demonstrated. “It’s all in the hips, li’l Ant. Not your back. You were on your way to the ER.”

“Are we learning stripper moves, or are we playing cards?” Benton interrupted, tapping his watch.

“You got something against sex workers? Besides, I was in cheer, not on a pole,” I told him. “Have another drink, or hit that.” I nodded to the blunt Kinsley held a lighter to.

“Some of us have work in the morning,” he said, still not looking at me.

I rolled my eyes. “Tattooing is work. Not my fault the three of you got suckered into the nine-to-five life.”

“We all work hard,” Goldie intervened, “which is why we agreed we need low-key Thursday night game nights, spending quality time together, sans sniping. Right?” She gave me a stern look. I’d never told her about the night Benton and I met, but she was getting more and more curious every time the two of us went at each other.

“Right.” Downing my vodka, I gathered my courage. “Speaking of work, I want to run something past you guys.”

“Running man? I only just got the hang of twerking,” Antoni shouted over the music. He held onto the counter, practicing what I’d shown him and still doing it wrong.

I turned down the music and cleared my throat. “I need all of your help,” I said, looking pointedly at Benton. “Even you.”

“I see we’ve moved on to the drunken dramatics portion of the evening,” he muttered.

I stood taller to show him I wasn’t drunk, wobbling only a little.

“What’s up?” Goldie asked.

My best friend. She’d stood by my side through everything the past six months. Every time I second-guessed myself, thinking I’d made the wrong choice, she reminded me that I’d absolutely chosen right. I’d been more than happy to return the favor by supporting her move to Stagwood Falls, then seeing her through almost losing her building and David. We always had each other’s backs, which is why I had no doubts she’d have mine.

“I want to teach a community art class,” I announced, “and at the end of it, throw an art show.”

All five of them stared at me.

“Like…a festival?” Goldie asked.

“Nothing big, obviously,” I said quickly. “Just something to showcase the pieces my students work on. Our students,” I added. “We could host it at town hall, or even the shop…”

“I’m still on ‘community’ and ‘class,’” Antoni said. “You want this to be a legit town event?”

“Very much,” I said, clasping my hands. “Like for the community. Kind of like an art therapy thing.”

Benton cleared his throat. “You can’t practice without being licensed.”

“I know that,” I told him. “I’m not looking to give anyone therapy. I’m thinking more like in a therapeutic vein.” I struggled for words. Maybe I was drunk.

Antoni scratched his head. “What’s the difference?”

“Therapeutic,” Kinsley repeated. “That too big a word for you?”

“I like big words and I cannot lie.” With a devious grin, he aimed his terrible twerking at her.

“Get your cute li’l white butt outta here,” she said, laughing. I caught the way her gaze lingered on him, though.

“So what do you guys think?” I looked from face to face, already brimming with plans swirling through my head. Ever since I’d first thought of the idea, I practically had the curriculum laid out. I couldn’t wait to get started.

“How will it bring in money?” David asked. “Who’s going to pay for the supplies and stuff?”

“Money?” I repeated. “I was thinking this could be like a free thing. Everyone’s been on such hard times these past few years. I wanted to give back.” I turned to Benton, the town social worker. Surely, he got it. He was always late to drinks at The Main Idea, always staying behind at town hall to finish up “just one more thing” for one of the town residents. As big a baby as he was, he had an even bigger heart.

As much as I didn’t want to admit it.

“We don’t really have any room in the budget for a new program,” was all he said.

“Seriously, guys?”

But someone—probably Antoni—turned the music back up, and a moment later, I heard the slap of cards being shuffled.

I rubbed my temples. I’d thought I had it in the bag.

“Here,” Goldie said, pressing a fresh drink into my hand.

“You really don’t like my idea?” I asked her.

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” she hedged. “It’s just that so much has happened. We’re still getting on our feet here. I just don’t have the bandwidth. Sorry, girl.” Squeezing my shoulder, she left me to my thoughts to join the rest of the group in the living room.

She was probably right. We both had a lot going on. The guys, too—logically I knew Benton wasn’t giving me a hard time for nothing. They had their hands full trying to keep the mayor from selling the lake out from under the town.

“That’s why we need the arts,” I muttered to the empty kitchen.

Almost empty. Kinsley stood at the sink, washing the cutting board and knife I’d used.

“Oh, I got that,” I said, moving to take her place.

“I don’t mind.” She placed them in the drain and dried her hands. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s a good idea.”

“You’d be the only one,” I said with a sigh.

“Pitch it again, when everyone’s sobered up. Maybe take them one on one, like a strategic conquering.” She laughed. “But don’t give up. You know how stubborn my sister can be. You just have to crack her.”

“She is pretty stubborn,” I agreed. “I don’t know. It’s probably better if I leave it be.”

“Just think about it,” she said. “Now let’s go wreck these motherfuckers in Cards Against Humanity.”

As soon as she left, I pulled my phone out again. My vision blurred, just a little, key phrases jumping out at me.

Six months.
Space.
Please.
Move forward.
Please.
Healthy.

I considered adding one more “please,” then decided I’d already used two too many. Every text I sent always resulted in the same thing: a delivered, then read notification, then no response.

Childishly, he thought if he ignored me and didn’t give me what I needed, I’d change my mind and go back to the city, back to him. The problem with that strategy was, I couldn’t. Not in a million years.

Just like I couldn’t abandon my art program baby. I’d convince my friends that it was a good idea. In a time when everyone was hurting, it was exactly what the town needed.

Goldie was stubborn, but I was stubborn en español.

I held my head and drink high and began plotting my takedown.

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Tattooed Heart Cover Reveal

It’s that time again! I’m so excited to share the cover for Tattooed Heart with you!

For this cover, the Kobo Originals team—shoutout to Jessica and Vanessa—worked with Ukrainian designer Miblart to match the cover for A Touch of Gold (the first book in the series). This time, they chose red roses to match Sabella’s character, who’s covered in rose and other red tattoos. The roses once again have a stunning illustrated style, all while remaining alluring yet discreet—fitting for this spicy romance.

For fun, I made a 3D paper version of the cover for a reveal Reel. Check it out on my Instagram!

But first, here’s the official cover, which I’m officially obsessed with.

Tattooed Heart
Stagwood Falls: Love in Ink Series, Book 2

Sabella makes a living covering up people’s bad tattoos, creating art out of regrets and mistakes. When she finds herself divorced from her high school sweetheart turned heartbreaker, she doesn’t just go into hiding; she takes her best friend up on an offer for a fresh start at her new tattoo shop and runs all the way to Stagwood Falls, an idyllic town reinventing itself after its own heartache. It’s the perfect place to hide, and it’s where she finds a new purpose: teaching the healing power of art to a community that’s desperate to move on. Unfortunately, to put her plan into action, Sabella must enlist the help of one sexy, sensitive town social worker, Benton Rhinehart—AKA the guy who wants nothing to do with her after their first encounter ended in hurt feelings and a wounded ego.

Benton gives everything to the people of Stagwood Falls, but the bank still took all he had when the recession hit. Instead of rebuilding himself, he eagerly dove headfirst into solving other people’s problems. So when Sabella comes to him with her community art program plan, Benton doesn’t hesitate to throw himself fully into it, even if that means working with the woman who shamelessly snubbed him the first time they met.

Despite their rocky start, it’s hard to ignore that Sabella and Benton make a great team. Their business relationship quickly turns into a friendship they both desperately need. Even though they’re better off as friends, the more time they spend together, the harder it is to ignore that there’s something much deeper going on. But when Sabella’s ex comes to town saying everything she wants to hear, she has to choose between her heart and her dream. Both feel like the same thing, and choosing wrong is one mistake she won’t be able to cover up.

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ARCs go out November 14th via NetGalley. Get on my email list for updates!

I’m on Kobo Writing Life!

This is a “pinch me” moment, for sure.

This week, I’m a guest on the Kobo Writing Life podcast! I’ve been listening to KWL for years while building my writing career, never imagining that one day I’d be listening to myself. Craziness!

Thank you so much to Rachel, Vanessa, and both the KWL and Kobo Originals teams for this incredible opportunity. I was so nervous going in, because I knew I needed to talk about mental health in the writing community, but it can be really tricky doing so. I once approached a mod in a writers’ forum about starting a thread, and she DMed, “We so need to talk about this stuff—I’ve struggled with mental health, too, even had to take a break—but we don’t talk about that here.” Well, where else are we supposed to talk about it, if not in the same chat rooms we discuss writing while flexing our substance abuse issues?

Thankfully KWL practices what they preach. Kobo truly supports authors, and I’m so grateful for them sharing their platform with me and letting me talk about this important issue.

You can listen everywhere podcasts are available.

When is the next River Reapers MC book coming?

I just got three emails in a row asking about A Lasting Prospect, the fourth (and final?) book in the River Reapers MC series. I never expected this series to take off like this, and I’m so happy you all love Olivia and Cliff so much! Let me answer some of your burning questions.

“Lasting” is coming! The series hasn’t been cancelled. In 2021, I briefly had a pre-order link up for Book 4 and took it down. If you pre-ordered it, you got an email from Amazon letting you know the pre-order had been removed, and you were never charged. (Retailers only charge you when the book is released and available in your device library.)

To give it to you straight, I just barely released A Fatal Prospect in 2021. I was seriously ill with my UCTD, and thankfully I’d already written the book. With the help of my editor Traci Finlay, I got it revised, then self-published.

I hoped I could get “Lasting” written and revised for 2022, but it just didn’t work out that way. I went on medical hiatus and focused on getting better.

In the meantime, I’d started writing a more lighthearted series (but still very much on-brand). I pitched it to Rakuten Kobo’s publishing imprint Kobo Originals, and signed a four-book deal with them. A Touch of Gold was published earlier this year, and Book 2 is coming this fall.

Working with a publisher has given me the opportunity to continue publishing. My team with Kobo Originals handles all the things I struggle to juggle on my own, while I get to focus on writing (and taking care of myself). I’m currently focused on finishing out this contract, and then I can’t wait to return to Olivia and Cliff’s world.

While you await A Lasting Prospect, I hope you’ll check out my small town tattoo shop romance, A Touch of Gold.

If that isn’t your thing, don’t forget that I released a prequel to the River Reapers MC series, the novella Her Mercy. It tells Bree and Mercy’s story, while explaining how the club was founded and why Cliff went to prison.

Speaking of stories, you can read the quarantine chronicles (featuring the River Reapers’ shenanigans during shutdown), and a Halloween special (where the River Reapers throw a spooky bash and “take care” of a rat in the club)—both for free right here on my blog.

And the best way to stay updated on all my books is through my email newsletter.

So stay tuned, because I’m far from done with the River Reapers world. I appreciate you guys so much for being so patient!

A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 1

The second the sun touches my skin on the other side of the barbed wire chain link fence, I am truly free. It doesn’t matter that I have to meet with my probation officer, or that I don’t exactly have any place to go. All that’s important is I’m not rotting within those cement walls anymore.

My twenty years are finally up.

The taxi idles, puffs of exhaust eddying into the cold February air. The dead of winter is a shitty time to be homeless, but even that thought doesn’t dampen my spirits. Prison wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t like being outside. Inside, I was just a caged animal throwing myself at the bars, bruising and bloodying myself in defiance. I was in segregation more times than I can count, and I’m lucky I got out five years early.

I’d kiss the fucking ground if the guy behind the wheel wasn’t already eyeing me warily.

I slide into the backseat, warmth from the heater enveloping me. A sigh nearly escapes my lips. It’s been so long since I was really, truly warm.

Through the rearview mirror, the taxi driver continues to question my sanity. He isn’t prejudiced. “Where to, sir?” he asks, his voice void of any accent. He could be from Anywhere, America. Actually, the United States could’ve sunk into the bowels of hell while I was inside, for all I know. Maybe this accent is the new norm.

I squint at him, trying to decide whether I’ve lost my fucking mind or if this is really the way things are now. He even looks racially ambiguous, with a broad hooked nose, green eyes, and olive skin.

The newspapers I managed to get my hands on were always old, and the old men hogged the lone fucking TV all day. I have no clue what’s going on in the world. Or where I’m going.

Maybe he takes pity on me, because his eyes soften and he clears his throat. “How long have you been in, sir?”

I really wish he’d stop with the sir, but it’s better than what I’ve been called. What I am. Who. “Twenty years,” I tell him.

He nods real slow, then he rubs his chin, the stubble not quite poking through yet. It’s too early in the day. It’s another difference between us. My goatee is scratchy. I didn’t have time to shave this morning.

“Well,” he says finally. “We have a woman president.”

This I knew. I start to tell him that I haven’t been living in a fucking hole, but that would not be true. “Isn’t that something,” I reply.

He shoves the taxi into drive and pulls away from the only home I’ve ever known. I’ve been inside longer than I’d been alive when I went in.

A sliver of panic creeps in. I don’t know how to cook or how to drive a car. It seems ridiculous, pathetic. And I still don’t know where I’m going. I have no one on the outside. At least, I don’t think so.

During the first year, I had visitors. Then they trickled into phone calls, faded into letters, until finally, nothing. I don’t blame them. Twenty years is a long time, and Pennsylvania isn’t exactly close to home.

The taxi driver takes me to a Days Inn. I don’t even bother looking through the glass as we drive through the small town. There’s not a damn thing here.

I use most of the only cash I have left to buy a room for the night, and when I leave the lobby to find my room, the taxi is already gone. Blinking into the winter gloom, it starts to sink in that I don’t have any friends, inside or out.

I’m a goddamn statistic.

But the room has a shower that doesn’t run cold after two minutes, and I take a half hour to revel in my first real taste of freedom. The hot water sluices over hard muscle I’ve been careful to build and maintain. My own mother probably wouldn’t recognize me.

After I step out, I clear the mirror with a hand and take a good look. It’s been a while since I looked at my reflection in something other than a mirror that more closely resembled a dented paper towel dispenser. In the pen, everything is constructed with safety in mind, carefully evaluated to ensure that even the simplest of tools can’t be converted into deadly weapons.

But anything can be a weapon.

Anything.

Even my bare hands.

The goatee doesn’t surprise me. It’s familiar and has kept my face warm for two decades. It’s the crow’s feet at the corners of my brown eyes that make me pause. I’m only thirty-eight, but even though I don’t feel it, I look it. Maybe even five years older.

A frown creases my forehead.

It really shouldn’t matter. I’m not entering any beauty pageants anytime soon. And any woman who might be interested would be quick to run in the opposite direction the second she heard about my record.

She’d be careless not to.

I drape the towel over the hook on the back of the door and stalk out bare as the day I was born. There’s no one here to see me, and I’m not too keen on the idea of changing back into those clothes. They were donated to the prison. Never were mine. The clothes I wore the day I was cuffed are long gone, tucked into some forgotten evidence bin or maybe even burned, since the case was pretty quickly closed.

There was no point in pleading innocence.

I sit on the bed and eye the phone. I might have one friend out there. It’s a long shot, really. But maybe not that long.

Snatching the phone from its cradle, I pause. Try to remember how to call someone whose number you don’t have. I have no fucking idea. I slam the receiver down, wishing I had a pack of cigarettes. Or even one cigarette would do.

I’m about to throw back on those moldy old clothes when I remember. I can call the front desk, ask them. For a second, I feel even more pathetic. I’m like an old man with dementia. I’m lucky I don’t need help wiping my ass.

The outside is so much different than I pictured.

The closer I got to my parole hearing, the more convinced I was that there would be some kind of process. A sort of easing into things for the post-release inmate. When I mentioned it to my C.O., motherfucker laughed at me and handed me a booklet. The morning of my release, he handed me some cash—my total earnings. Twenty years of pennies on the hour, and I can’t even afford a second night at a shithole motel.

I need to make that call, because it’s the only chance I have.

Otherwise, I’ll be right back in within hours of walking out.

Sucking in a breath between my teeth, I pick up the phone again and call the front desk.

A chipper female voice answers—a young voice. “Days Inn front desk. How can I help you?”

“Hey there, sweetheart,” I drawl. My voice is smoked whiskey, smooth but with a bite. “I need to look someone up in Connecticut.”

She draws in a breath, then hesitates. “You’re serious?” Her voice lilts, amused.

I lay it on thick, dropping my voice several octaves—still sweet, but low enough to drop panties. “Yeah, baby. I really need your help.”

A giggle caresses my ear before she can collect herself. She’s definitely young.

I close my eyes for a moment, the memory of another small laugh pricking at me. The anger rises up quickly, fire shooting through my veins. I struggle to stuff it down, to shove the lid on it before it can backdraft, blowing me straight out of the room and right back into Lewisburg Pen.

“What’s the name?” she asks, completely oblivious to the man burning on the other end.

Sucking in a deep breath, I manage to slow it for a moment. “Lucy Demmel.” Saying her name only makes it worse. The panic shoves its way in. I wonder if she’s even alive. If she’s healthy. Safe. Or if she’s just another statistic, too. I jump up from the bed. Pace the room. Wait.

The receptionist spells out our last name, and the sound of tapping reaches my ears. It’s a weird tapping, though—a computer keyboard.

I frown. “Aren’t you going to patch me through?”

She laughs. “I’m looking her up on Facebook. Hold on.”

My eyebrows furrow. Facebook? Before I can ask what the fuck that is, my angel lets out a triumphant “Ah-ha!” and rattles off a number to me. I fumble for the pen and notepad in the drawer, ask her to repeat it, and jot it down.

“Are you sure that’s really her?” I need to know, because I can’t take the disappointment.

“Lucy Demmel,” she says, as if she’s reading. “Twenty-eight, lives in Naugatuck, Connecticut. Went to Naugatuck High School. She’s in a relationship—”

“Wait.” I take another deep breath. “How do you know all this?” The age is right. The town, too. “Never mind,” I say, even as my angel laughs at me. Flat out laughs. Not just amused. She’s almost hysterical. “How does she look?”

The laughter dies. “You’re not, like, a stalker . . . are you?”

I sigh. “She’s my cousin. Same last name. Come on. What does she look like?”

She makes a skeptical sound, like a hmph. “Maybe I shouldn’t have given you her number. Oh shit. Am I going to get fired? Please don’t get me fired. I can’t keep a job—”

Christ. I’ve always been a magnet for headcases. “Shh, baby. I’m not a stalker. She really is my cousin. Check my room records. My last name is Demmel. But don’t call me Clifford, or I’ll . . .” The threat dies on my lips, because it’s not an idle one. I blink, and wonder how long it’ll take for the prison effect to wear off. How long before I’m normal again. I don’t even know who I am anymore, or what normal is.

“She has long red hair. Kinda wavy, like. Real sad green eyes. And . . .” Her pause stretches, almost endless. “A beauty mark or mole thing right near her eyebrow.”

I almost cry with relief. That’s my Lucy.

“Her last post: ‘Strength isn’t keeping your tears locked up when you’re sad, it’s saying no to a marriage proposal from the sexiest, sweetest man alive, even when everyone expects you to say yes. Fuck that shit.'” She snorts. “What?” She whisper-reads it again.

That fucked up sense of humor is Lucy, all the way. I rattle off the phone number back at my angel to make sure I got it right, then hang up.

I pick up the phone again and dial the number. It rings, the connection crackly but real. I almost lose my shit. I don’t know what I’m going to say. Or if she even remembers me. She was so little. Maybe she blocked the whole thing out.

A loud male voice booms into my ear. “PLEASE DIAL THE NUMERAL ONE BEFORE THE AREA CODE. This is a recording.”

I hang up, muttering a “No shit.” Clearing my throat, I try again—this time dialing one. I vaguely remember needing to do that before I went in.

This time, the call goes through. It rings five times, and then my heart stops.
“Hey, you’ve reached Lucy. You know what to do, dontcha?”

The disappointment shoots into me. My shoulders slump and I almost drop the phone onto the floor.

“Please leave a message after the tone. When you are finished recording, hang up, or press one for more options.”

A shrill beep pierces my ears, and I nearly drop the phone again.

“Shit. No, wait. Sorry, Luce.” I pause. Suddenly I really have no idea what to say. “Uh, yeah. Luce, this is Cliff. I don’t know if you remember me. It’s been ages since I got a letter from you. I assumed your parents shut that shit down real fast. Sorry. Well, I guess you’re not eight anymore, so it’s okay to swear around you.”

I’m babbling. Taking a deep breath, I try to make words that won’t freak her out.

“Luce, I know this is asking a lot. And do you even go by Luce anymore? Or do you prefer Lucy?” I rake my free hand through my hair. I’m fucking this up. Majorly. I let out a low, frustrated sound. “Okay, look, I’m at the Days Inn in Lewisburg. Fucking Pennsylvania, Luce. I’m just gonna lay it all out here: I have no money, nowhere to go, and I have to stick around at least long enough to see my parole officer. So maybe . . .”

Suddenly I realize how desperate I sound. But I am.

“Sorry to bother you, Luce—Lucy. Just forget it.”

I hang up.

Dressing, I decide I’m better off spending my time finding a job. If I’m going to get out of this ass crack of a town, I’m gonna need cash—fast. There’s got to be a diner or something looking for suckers who don’t mind bussing tables for minimum wage. And maybe they’ll even overlook my record.

The odds of me finding a job are even lower than finding Lucy. I figure my angel at the front desk can’t possibly save me twice, but maybe she can. Maybe she’s from around here and knows of a place that will hire without asking questions. Or she can at least point me to the closest drug dealer so I can start selling too.

I really will be a statistic if I don’t get my shit together.

My hand is on the door knob when the phone rings. I freeze, then turn in slow motion toward the nightstand where the phone rests. But it keeps ringing, and I have to accept that I’m not imagining it.

I dart across the room and grab it, pressing it to my ear. “Yeah. Lucy?”

“Cliff,” she sobs. “Is it really you?”

A relieved sigh escapes my lips. “It’s me,” I say with a smile. She sounds so different, yet I’d know that voice anywhere.

“You’re really out? I can’t believe it. I thought you had another five years.”
“Yeah, I got lucky. Overcrowding and good behavior.” Mostly. Plus I had a lawyer that was really good at talking judges into dreamland.

“Cliff, holy shit. Where are you? I mean, I know where, but when are you coming home?” She’s talking so fast, I can barely understand her. I love every second of it.

I hate to disappoint her. Even after all these years. “Luce . . .”

I can almost hear her shoulders slump. “You’re not coming home?”

“Not likely. At least, not anytime soon. I’m broke, kid. And I—”

“I’ll PayPal you some money,” she says, and now she’s really talking fast. I strain to understand her, the words like a foreign language. At least her accent is Connecticut.

I let her finish, again wishing I had a cigarette. Something to calm my nerves.

“Cliff? You there?”

Swallowing past the dry lump in my throat, I tell her I am. “I’ve got no clue what you’re talking about, Luce.”

“Okay, just give me your email address.”

She’s going to think I’m an alien, that the games we played when she was a kid were real. “I don’t have one.”

She barks out a laugh. “What? Oh. No Wi-Fi in prison.”

“Wi-Fi?” My head starts to throb.

“Um . . . Like AOL, but wireless.” She laughs again. “Wow, this is so funny. You’re like a newborn.”

It’s good that she can be so positive about this—about anything.

“All right, let me think.” She hums a little. “No email address, and I’m guessing you don’t have a bank account either. Jesus, prison is inhumane. Well, there’s only one solution.”

I shrug, because seeing as how I can barely grasp this Wi-Fi stuff, I’m probably going to be blown away by whatever she comes up with.

“Cliff, text me your address.”

The throbbing between my eyes intensifies. “Luce, I don’t—”

“Fuck,” she yells. “You probably don’t even know what a cell phone is.”

“I know what a cell phone is,” I shoot back.

“Yeah, the clunky TV-remote-looking ones from the early 2000s,” she jokes.

Both of my eyebrows lift. “Everything is different now, huh?” My voice is low, but not that flirtatious purr I used on the girl at the front desk. I sound sad. I need to man the fuck up.

“It is,” she agrees. “But don’t worry. I’m gonna take care of you, reintroduce you to the wild. And teach you how to play Pokémon GO.”

“I know how to play Pokémon,” I grumble.

She laughs again. “This is way different, trust me. It uses GPS and—”

“Okay, mercy. My head hurts.”

Her giggle, however, is a soothing mother’s stroke across my forehead. It reminds me of better times. “I’m gonna come down there, okay?”

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her. I’m supposed to be a man. It should be me taking care of her, not the other way around.

She snorts. “Dude,” she says, “trust me. You need a guide. And I’m currently on vacation, licking my wounds.”

I suddenly remember what the receptionist read to me. “You got married?”

“No,” she says, almost sadly. “It’s against my rules.”

“What are you, a nun?” For a second, it feels like I’ve gone back twenty years in time, like we’re just kids busting each other’s balls.

“Nuns,” she says, “don’t have one-night stands.”

I nearly choke. “I don’t ever want to know about your sex life.”

“You sure? You don’t want to live vicariously? Must’ve been awfully lonely in prison.” I can practically hear her smirking.

“No,” I tell her firmly. A few seconds pass. My voice softens. “Hey, Luce? Thanks.”

Her voice is so small when she finally responds. “No, Cliff, thank you.”

I shake my head, wondering if other people have these kinds of conversations. Sighing, I let her direct the conversation for a few. She rattles off times and schedules, then promises to be at my room before checkout time.

“Please set a wakeup call,” she begs.

“Yeah, yeah.” I smile, though. “Hey, Luce? What’s Facebook?”

Read A Disturbing Prospect for FREE Read Now

A Touch of Gold, Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Proposal
David

I’d been on a roll all morning. I’d just talked to Mrs. Wish—the owner of Wish Grocery and everyone’s honorary grandma—and the second to last person to cross off my list.

“I’m old,” she’d said. “I want to kick back and enjoy my grandchildren—all of them.” She pinched my cheek. “Sure, I’ll sell.”

I’d all but danced out of the store.

Goldie was the last one I needed to convince. I’d stopped by a couple times since I heard she was back in town, but both times she was tattooing. I didn’t want a tattoo, but making an appointment was the only way our very different schedules would align.

The years since high school had been extra good to her, finessing the perfection that had always been Theodora “Goldie” Mosley. The baggy black T-shirt she wore over biker shorts shouldn’t have been sexy, yet it hugged her curves in all the right ways. She’d been pretty in high school. In her thirties, she was downright stunning, her full lips painted purple, complementing her brown eyes and umber skin. Warmth lingered in those eyes as she gave my hand a squeeze. She was giving me all the “ask me out” vibes.

That prolonged eye contact was my cue to say, “So what are you doing for dinner tonight?” Except I was on a mission.

Before I could take her out, I had to cross her off my list.

Or, more specifically, her building.

I was gonna pitch her into selling her building to the town, and then I’d take her out—home run.

Even though I hadn’t been back in town long, I felt that familiar itch to prove myself. When I left, I’d been the kid whose dad died. When I came back, I was the new city planner who’d turned around a dying city. A small city, but still. It had gone from Brass City of the world, to most dangerous city in the state to, under my watch, thriving youthful utopia.

I could do the same for Stagwood Falls.

Fortunately for my hometown, we weren’t even on the list of dangerous places. We were, however, the emptiest Main Street in the state.

Goldie retrieved her hand, using it to tuck her braids behind her ear. “What’re you all deep in thought about?”

Time to get my head back into the game.

“I was just thinking how a lot’s changed since high school, and yet nothing’s changed,” I said. “I mean, here we are, me bugging you while you draw.”

She chuckled. “You were never bugging me.”

And we were back to that lingering eye contact.

When I pitched softball, it was all about timing, position, and speed. I needed to stay in the zone.

I cleared my throat. “How’s your grandpa?”

“He’s good,” she replied. “Torturing Sabella with his old dead bodies story.”

I laughed. “See? Nothing’s changed.”

“How’s your mom?”

“Still trying to convince me to stay with her instead of the house the town is loaning me.” I shook my head. “Never gonna happen. Did you know Benton’s staying with my mom now? In my old room, at that. Sometimes I think she’s trying to recreate our teen years,” I joked.

“I heard. Your mom means well, though.”

“I know.” Sometimes I forgot that Goldie wasn’t just a member of the dead dads club; she also belonged to the dead moms club. The other major difference between us was her parents were killed by a drunk driver, and my dad killed himself drinking. I was lucky I still had a mom, even if she was your typical overbearing Italian.

“How’s your sister?” Goldie asked, her pencil stroking across the page.

“Nic’s good. My niece is keeping her on her toes.” I grinned, thinking of the other night when I stopped by for dinner after work. My four-year-old niece LuLu was the best. That was why I’d moved back home. I’d done the whole living-by-myself-in-the-big-city thing in my twenties, and I’d enjoyed every moment of it. But I missed my family. It was weird not seeing them regularly when I was used to seeing them every day.

“She’s cute,” Goldie admitted. It did something to me, her asking about my family. “I ran into them at the grocery store.”

I raised my eyebrows and she laughed. “What?” I asked.

“Dude, I forgot how much those caterpillars distract me,” she teased. “And those dimples. Jesus.”

“I come by them honestly.” I wiggled my eyebrows, and she laughed again. The sound reverberated through me, settling in my marrow. In high school, I would’ve done anything to make her laugh. She was already beautiful, but when she laughed, pink tinged her copper cheeks and her face glowed. She’d toss her head back, braids flying in every direction, clapping her hands at my joke. In homeroom, I wasn’t just the second shortest kid in my freshman class. I was David Mosconi, the kid who could make her laugh. I still had it. We still had it, that instant connection.

“How are you not tied down by now?” she asked.

I smirked. She could tie me down any time.

But first, it was time to get to work.

Setting the sketch aside, Goldie tapped the screen of her phone a few times. A second later, Mastodon played through speakers I hadn’t noticed mounted to the walls.

“Their newest album,” I said, nodding in approval. “From the singles they released, I thought it was gonna be all over the place in a weird way, but hearing it from start to finish, it makes perfect sense.”

Her head snapped up, gaze zeroing in on me. “Yeah,” she said, surprised. “I thought the same thing.”

“Why are you so surprised?”

“I just . . .” She gave my suit an up and down glance.

“Thought I went all cookie-cutter? Nah. I became a city planner so I could afford concerts.”

“And real Timbs,” she added.

“And real Timbs,” I repeated with a laugh. The two of us were some of the only kids in our high school who didn’t have real Timberlands. Her grandfather and my widowed mom couldn’t afford anything other than Kmart work boots.

Our eyes met, and again I felt that old connection spark back to life. I saw my chance.

And watched as it slipped away.

“Where are you thinking of getting this cat?” she asked. “It’s kind of hard to draw without a reference or at least an idea of placement.”

Tattoos were more complicated than I’d thought.

“You know, I’m not sure.” I cleared my throat. “I’ve, uh, got to think about it a little more.”

“Take your time. Tattoos are forever . . .until I expand enough to get a laser for removal.” She winked. She slid the drawing into a folder marked with my name and, just like that, my hour was up.

We both stood at the same time. I traced her tattoos with my eyes, appreciating the gold line art flowers and geometric shapes that wound around her arms. Even back in high school, she stood out. Like me, she didn’t fit into a single clique. She had purple braids and a crystal stud in her nose, fake Timbs on her feet. I was in love.

“I’m glad you’re back. Stagwood’s gotten really stagnant, so your shop is refreshing,” I said.

“Thank you.”

“I’m gonna refresh Main Street, one block at a time,” I told her. “Starting with this one. Instead of a bunch of empty shops, it’s gonna be condos on top to draw in first-time home buyers.”

She crossed her arms, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Condos?”

“I should’ve brought the concept art. They’ll fit in nicely,” I promised. “I’ve already got all the other shop owners on the block on board. You’re the last one I’m pitching to.”

“Pitching what?”

I leaned against a cabinet. “Sell me your building. The town, I mean. I’ll get you market value and you’ll be set. You can—”

She held up a hand. “Sell you my building?” She laughed. “You’re kidding, right? Where are Poppy, Kinsley, Sabella, and I all supposed to go?”

“Anywhere you want. Once you sell, you can afford to move into the Stagwood Heights neighborhood. It’s right on the lake. It’s beautiful.”

“I don’t care if it’s an actual palace, David,” she said. “There is no way we’re leaving. This building is more than just some dusty old shop to us. It’s our heart.”

I blinked. “So . . . you’re saying no?”

“I’m saying hell no.”

I replayed the last hour in my mind, analyzing where I went wrong. It didn’t make sense. All the other shop owners said yes as soon as I told them how much they stood to make.

That was where I’d dropped the ball. I hadn’t given her actual numbers. She’d thrown me off my game with her pretty smile and those biker shorts on that ass.

“Did I mention your building will sell for two hundred thousand? Cash—a nice down payment,” I said.

But she shook her head at me. “Nope. Never happening.” She lifted her eyebrows at me, as if expecting a rebuttal.

I had nothing.

I’d only counted on winning. It was a rookie mistake—one I wouldn’t make again.

I’d figure out a way to convince her. Maybe she just needed to see the official numbers on paper, in black and white. Who said no to $200,000 cash?

“David?” she called as I neared the lobby.

I turned around, the tightness in my chest loosening into the familiar warm sensation that always took over when I looked into her eyes. “Yeah?”

“It was nice seeing you,” she said softly.

An hour earlier, I would’ve been putty in her hands at hearing her say that. She’d effectively just thrown an L-shaped wrench into my winning streak. I’d been so close to saving our town, bringing us from an outdated lakeside summer tourist attraction to a modern year-round home to artists. I wished she could see what I saw: artisan studios and store-fronts where the creatives lived upstairs. It’d bring new blood to town and save us thousands in costly maintenance of crumbling “historic” buildings.

“You’ll see me again,” I said. “I don’t give up that easily.”

The stubborn tilt of her chin told me neither did she.

Everything Goldie touches turns to gold, so when the building that’s been in her family for generations is in trouble, her family calls on her to help save it. Moving back to her hometown and back in with her family comes with definite perks—like no more rent—and emotional baggage in the form of Goldie’s high school crush turned hottie David. When she sees him again, all those old feelings come rushing back—and are quickly dampened when she finds out he wants to tear down her building to build a “better” Main Street.

For as long as David can remember, Stagwood Falls has been a small-town summer vacation hotspot. It’s the kind of town that will charm the socks off of anyone who decides to drive through no matter the season, and it’s his job to make sure Stagwood Falls stands out on the map all year around. All he needs to do is convince the townspeople to get on board, even if it means making some sacrifices. When Goldie returns to Stagwood Falls, David is immediately drawn to her just as he was back in high school. This time around, he’ll do whatever it takes to get her attention. What David doesn’t expect is for Goldie to be so opposed to his new revitalization strategy that she’s hellbent on throwing a massive wrench in his plan.

A Touch of Gold
Stagwood Falls: Love in Ink Series
Book 1
Kobo Originals

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