Sarina Bowen's Blog, page 13

First Chapter: Booklover

[image error] Chapter One: Where Jamie, one of our heroes, realizes he may have a book kink

“I can’t be . . . who you need me to be,” Raya whispered. Her voice traced and etched lines in my chest, as though her words were carving holes into my heart. 

“I don’t need you to be anything other than yourself,” I whispered back.

She shook her head, tendrils of brown hair falling out of her short ponytail. I resisted the urge to sweep them away from her face. “You deserve more. You always have.”

“Don’t I deserve the one person in my life who makes me laugh? Don’t I deserve the person I want to see when I wake up in the morning?” I reached for her, hoping that if I could only—

Something wet pushes into my stomach just as Brett is getting his head out of his ass and realizing how much he loves Raya, and a moment later a flash of black and white is knocking Brett’s perfect grand gesture right out of my hands. “Darla!” I shout. I dive to rescue my e-reader from the hard cement floor of the barn where it’s landed. Good thing I have a case on it. 

Darla just stares at me, unrepentant. Of course she does—she’s a cow. Chewing her cud and getting me to give up the hay I’m holding under my left arm are a lot more important to her than whether two fictional characters get their happily ever after. 

Dad chuckles from a few feet away. “Jamie, I keep telling you not to read while we feed the cows,” he says. “Remember that book one of them knocked right into a water bowl when you were a kid? You were crushed. Your mom and I hunted for months lookin’ for a replacement.”

I grimace as I finish handing Darla her hay. She tilts her head at me approvingly. “Oh, I remember that. It was that out-of-print book I loved that I found at the used bookstore.” I cried for six days, and Mom and Dad never did find another copy. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be reading in the barn. But I need to leave for my book club meeting soon.” I’ve already read the book we’ll be discussing, Lost Cause by Alyssa Samuel, a few dozen times. But it’s one of my favorites, so I wanted to give myself a refresher. 

“That’s right.” Dad glances down at his watch. “You better get going. Don’t want you to be late. Think you have time to come by later this week and help me out with the gutter cleaner? It’s been acting up again.” 

I don’t have time, actually. I have a test in a few days and a paper that’s almost due, plus shifts at my on-campus library job. But I just paste a smile across my face and say, “Sure, Dad,” because this guy really did once call twenty-two bookstores after a cow tried to eat one of my paperbacks. He nods and waves me out of the barn, and I take off before I end up sucked into another set of chores that make me late for my meeting.

Mom and my sister Lissie are both out somewhere, so I have the house to myself as I shower and get ready to go back to Burlington. I live in the dorms at Burlington University, but with all the help my parents need on their dairy farm it sometimes feels like I still live back at home with them. My roommate Jeremy reminds me of this, while I’m pulling on a clean pair of jeans, by texting: 

do u still live with me? Haven’t seen you in days. COME HOME PLEASE 

I quickly message back: 

Be back tonight. I have my first book club meeting this afternoon 

My phone rings as I’m packing up my backpack. “Did you really join a romance novel book club?” Jeremy demands. 

“Of course I did. I told you I was going to.”

“That’s cool, I guess. The one in that LGBTQ-inclusive bookstore on Church Street?”

“Yeah, Vino and Veritas.” Jeremy and I are both bi, and it didn’t take us long to find V and V after it first opened. I was a lot more interested in the store than Jeremy, though. I’m studying literature and I plan to become a librarian one day after I get my grad degree in library science. Jeremy’s basically majoring in sex and sleep. 

“Maybe I should have joined too. Then I’d actually get to see you. I don’t understand why you want to talk about books on a Saturday, though. Don’t you get enough of that in class?”

“Nah. Most of the classes at Burlington U aren’t exactly focusing on the contemporary romance genre. The other lit majors would probably laugh their asses off if they turned on my e-reader.” 

“Huh. Aren’t all books just books?”

Jeremy is naïve in the best possible ways sometimes. “Literary snobbery is weird, bro. Anyway, I should be back on campus in time for dinner if you want to grab some together. What are you doing this afternoon?”

“I should work on my stats homework. But I don’t wanna. I’ll probably see if Sheila or Robert want to hang out.”

I remember Robert from an awkward morning-after a few weeks ago. The other name doesn’t ring a bell. “Which one is Sheila?”

“I met her last night.” 

She’ll probably be gone before I even get the chance to lay eyes on her. Jeremy and I are complete opposites in so many ways. I spend any free time I have reading novels about true love. Jeremy spends most of his free time trying to find his next hookup. 

“I gotta go,” I tell Jeremy. “I don’t want to be late.” It’s a fifty-minute drive to Burlington from where my parents live in Morse’s Line, Vermont, and I really don’t want to miss this meeting. Plus, I don’t like thinking about how much free time Jeremy has compared to me. His family lives almost three hundred miles away, in Connecticut, and they pay for him to go to school, so he doesn’t even have a job. He can spend the rest of the day lying on the couch in our dorm room, studying or hooking up or reading or messaging or playing video games, with no fear that his father is going to call him and ask him for help with a broken gutter cleaner. 

“Cool,” Jeremy responds. “Don’t get stuck behind any tractors.” Then he hangs up. 

I really hope I don’t. That’s how I ended up late to a philosophy class two weeks ago. 

The drive back to Burlington is mostly interstate. I flirt with the speed limit while I blast old Green Day songs and scenery of melting snow and mud rolls by me. March has definitely come to Vermont. We call this time of the year “mud season” for a reason. Winter fades away so slowly here that the snow we’ve accumulated for months becomes one with the ground and turns into globs of coffee-colored wet dirt everywhere you go. The mud piles freeze and then unfreeze, depending on the day. At least we’re past most of the worst temperatures of the winter. It’s a full forty-seven degrees today—practically balmy, and stubborn slits of sunshine are doing their best to break through a strong cloud cover. Just the fact that we’re above freezing temperatures is enough to have me breaking out in song with Billie Joe Armstrong. You really haven’t lived until you’ve milked cows in subzero temperatures. 

I can’t wait for summer. Summer, in my opinion, is the very best time to be in Vermont. It’s when the whole state seems to wake up and come to life after a dark winter of hibernation. Summer here is swimming in rivers, paddle-boarding and boating on Lake Champlain, eating maple ice cream at Bob’s Creemee Stand, and green grass and hills as far as you can see. Winters in Vermont are long, so you have to drink in every moment of summer you can. 

The only problem is that I haven’t told Dad yet about the job offer I got for this summer. Every time I try to open my mouth and say something, I see his face the day Aaron left. I envision the hard, wrinkled lines of sadness that pulled at his mouth and eyes . . . and then my lips just freeze up around the words. I still have over a month before I have to make up my mind about whether I’m taking the position or not, but the weather right now is reminding me that a month is going to go by quickly. I need to grow up and talk to Dad soon. 

Not today, though. Today I get to sit around and talk about one of my favorite books on the planet in one of my favorite places on the planet. I steer the car off I-89 at the Burlington exit and pass the street I normally take to get to Moo U, which is what everyone calls Burlington University. Church Street isn’t far from the school, and it’s only a few minutes before I’m pulling my truck into a parking spot a short walk away from V and V. 

Church Street is a pedestrians-only street, and every time I set foot on it, I stop and take a moment to just stare at everything around me. On the rare occasions I came here with my family when I was a kid, Church Street seemed wild and magical. Morse’s Line, where I grew up, is a super tiny town right on the U.S. border with Canada. Coming to the big city of Burlington was always an exciting adventure, especially if Church Street was involved. Right now I’m looking down a long, bricked street packed with stores and restaurants on either side. The iconic church that gives the street its name is a few blocks away, and I see more people moving in and around one another than I’d see in a year at the Morse’s Line Quick Stop. Signs are everywhere advertising musical events, sales, and the beloved Burlington Farmers Market. Church Street has always felt like a place of wonder and possibility to me. I thought that feeling might shift or fade once I moved to Burlington for college, but it hasn’t. If anything, it’s gotten stronger. 

I draw in a breath and pull in the scents of The Maple Factory, a bakery and cafe that features maple in almost everything they make. Their crullers are delicious, and the place just happens to be right next to Vino and Veritas, so that’s convenient. I’m definitely grabbing a maple cruller after I’m done talking about Alyssa Samuel’s plot lines.

I quickly move through the groups of people surrounding me and step into Vino and Veritas. V and V is a combination bookstore and wine bar, with the books on one side of the space and the wine bar on the other. I’m a few months away from being able to order much in the wine bar, and I’m not sure it’s open for the day yet anyway, so I navigate through the entrance on my right-hand side and into the bookstore. The first breath I take inside of the store is almost as good as the one I just took outside. It’s that wonderful mix of old paper and leather and vanilla that every good bookshop smells like. That smell is part of the reason I knew I’d love this place the first time I ever walked in. The look and feel of it was another. Vino and Veritas is full of leather couches, soft jazz music, warm-looking old wood, and books everywhere. 

I could spend every hour of every day here, if only I had that kind of time. Which I don’t. Because I’m a full-time student with a part-time job and a family that requires me to be on speed dial for dairy farm emergencies. It’s truly amazing I even made time for this meeting. 

I pull my tuque (French Canadian for “beanie”—living right on the Quebec border does things to your vocabulary) off my head and start heading toward the circle of couches and chairs near the back where the inaugural meeting of The Booklover Club is supposed to take place. I make a quick stop at a shelf of new titles because the store’s got at least three that I’ve been meaning to read. I grab one of them, a nonfiction book about dairy farming, and I take a quick pause to wonder if my wallet can handle a bookstore binge. I’m still reading the inside of the jacket flap when I hear a voice behind me. 

“Can I help you?”

I turn around and try not to do that thing Jeremy says I sometimes do, where I stand there staring at someone or something without speaking. In my defense, I think the problem comes from spending most of my childhood surrounded by cows. Sometimes I just forget how to people. 

Especially when incredibly hot human beings are standing in front of me. Which is happening right now. 

This guy looks exactly like Porter, one of my favorite book characters. He’s in Alyssa Samuel’s gay romance novel Lost Key, and right now I can’t help but wonder if he walked right off the pages of that book and into this store. The Porter lookalike in front of me has sharp, angular cheekbones sitting under hazel eyes and dirty blond hair and eyebrows. He’s got some scruffy wannabe-beard-but-it’s-not-there-yet hair around his chin that’s straight out of the Vermont tourist brochures. His head is covered by a pilling green tuque, and his skin is this olive tone that should be next to impossible for any white guy to have in Vermont in March. He’s wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, which is pretty much the stereotypical Vermont uniform, but somehow on him it manages to look cool and unique. 

And as if all that weren’t enough? He’s carrying a stack of books. 

Some men dream of seeing their perfect lover strutting around in hot lingerie or tiny speedos. I dream of my perfect lover naked, with a stack of books strategically placed in front of them. 

“I . . . uh . . . .” I try to remind myself that I’d like to be able to come back to this store again, so it would be great if I didn’t make a total ass of myself in front of someone whose nametag suggests that they work here. Too bad I can’t read it—it’s gotten scrunched up in a crease in his flannel shirt. “I’m here for The Booklover Club?”

Up until now, the Porter lookalike has had a fairly neutral facial expression. Not angry or anything, but not really happy either. Now the corners of his mouth move up into an immediate smile and his eyes brighten with excitement. 

“Hey, cool, man. I’m one of the founders of the group. Great to see more people are here for it. We’ll be meeting right over there.” He points to a circle of couches and chairs. “I’m just going to go grab us a cheese plate from the wine bar. I’ll be right over.” 

I nod stupidly and put down the book I’m holding. He turns around, and now his butt is taunting me as it moves across the room. 

I usually don’t mind that I never have time to date. I figure I’ll have plenty of opportunity for that once I get to grad school, which will probably be in a much bigger city with a much bigger dating pool anyway. And a lot fewer cows to potentially interrupt any plans I might have. 

But right now, as I’m watching the guy-who-is-not-Porter walk away, I let myself wish for just a second that my life was different. Because it isn’t every day that your wet dream appears in front of you carrying a stack of books.

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Now live in paperback, audio & ebook formats! The audio is narrated by Emma Wilder and Jason Clarke. Hear a sample!

See: Amazon | Apple | Kobo | Nook | Google | Audible 

The dreamiest player on the Moo U hockey team hangs a flyer on the bulletin board, and I am spellbound:

Rent a boyfriend for the holiday. For $25, I will be your Thanksgiving date. I will talk hockey with your dad. I will bring your mother flowers. I will be polite, and wear a nicely ironed shirt…

Now everyone knows it’s a bad idea to introduce your long-time crush to your messed-up family. But I really do need a date for Thanksgiving, even if I’m not willing to say why. So I tear his phone number off of that flyer… and accidentally entangle our star defenseman in a ruse that neither of us can easily unwind.

Because Weston's family is even nuttier than mine. He needs a date, too, for the most uncomfortable holiday engagement party ever thrown. 

There will be hors d'oeuvre. There will be faked PDA. And there will be pro-level awkwardness…

Read the first chapter, or grab your copy at: Amazon | Apple | Kobo | Nook | Google | Audible  [image error]

First Chapter: Boyfriend

[image error]

Abbi

Thursday nights are always busy at Moo U’s favorite bar and grill. By nine o’clock, I’ve been hustling burgers and wings for eight hours. But my apron pocket is full of tip money, so I can’t really complain.

I have one party that just sat down, though—three women about my age wearing matching hockey jackets. “Welcome to The Biscuit in the Basket." I pull out my order pad. “The special salad tonight has spinach greens, apple slices, and a warm bacon vinaigrette. The special wings are Cranberry Almond.”

“Did you say Cranberry Almond?” one of the girls asks, lifting one eyebrow as if she doesn’t believe me.

“You heard correctly.” I lean a little closer and whisper. “Nobody likes them. Stick with the usual favorites.”

“Got it,” she says with a smile. “I’d like a half dozen of the Honey Garlic wings, in a basket with fries.”

“Wait—what are the flavors again?” one girl asks. 

I could rattle them off in my sleep. “We’ve got Honey Mustard, Honey Garlic, Tikka, Thai spiced, General Tso’s, Chili Bacon, Chicken Parm, and—of course—Buffalo style in mild, hot, or wild.” 

And that’s just the regular menu. The chef does a special flavor every week. Whiskey Maple is always a winner. Teriyaki is pretty good. But this week’s special has been a disaster. Making a Thanksgiving-themed recipe was a nice idea, but I can’t give away the Cranberry Almond wings. Not for love or money.

The other two girls make their choices, and I rush the order to the kitchen before it closes. Then I take up a position leaning against the nearly empty bar with my friend Carly, who’s also on shift. She worked the bar tonight, while my section was in the dining room.

“We survived another one,” she says, passing me one of the mints she keeps in her pocket. “What was your best tip of the night?”

“Depends how you look at it,” I tell her. “A six-top tipped me fifty bucks. But my history professor tipped me fifteen bucks, and warned me to look over the Articles of Confederation before tomorrow’s quiz.”

“He gave you a clue?” Carly looks scandalized. “And a fat tip? I think he wants your body.”

“Think again.” I give her a smile. “He was here with his husband and their baby. I think he just felt bad that I was serving his dinner while the rest of my classmates are studying at the library.” 

And the man has a point. I work a lot of hours, and I go to school full time. There’s no time for anything else. But that’s just the way it is.

“Fine, fine. So he’s not going to be your new boyfriend.” Carly drops her voice. “Besides, I know you only have eyes for that crew over there.”

My glance jumps involuntarily to table number seventeen. She’s not wrong. Who wouldn’t be interested in an entire table full of sizzling-hot hockey players? “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

"Uh-huh,” Carly says, eyeing them. Then she lets out a little sigh of yearning. “More for me then.”

“You wish,” I tease. 

“You bet I do, Stoddard. Let’s face it, table seventeen is the best thing about working here.”

Once again, Carly is right. Neither of us can quit until springtime anyway. The owner pays a $1500 bonus to wait staff who work for him for an entire year. I need that money. So I’m going to smell faintly of chicken wings for the next several months, no matter what. 

At least I can ogle the hockey players. Table seventeen is a long, high table surrounded by a dozen bar stools. And it’s usually open by the time they wander in at eight o’clock, after practice. They’re always starving for wings and fries. 

For Carly and me, it’s like a delicious buffet. The hockey team has as many flavors of hotness as The Biscuit in the Basket has flavors of wings. First you’ve got Tate Adler, who’s six feet tall, at least. His flavor is what we’d call Brown-Haired Defenseman Hot. Next to him sits Lex, who’s Pretty Boy Freshman Hot. And then Jonah—the Grumpy Hot Giant. 

And we can’t forget the Twins of Hotness—Paxton and Patrick Graham. I can’t actually tell them apart unless I take their order. Paxton likes the Chicken Parm wings, while his brother goes for Buffalo style with extra blue cheese.

My favorite player of all, though, is Weston Griggs. He’s a defenseman, sporting thick brown hair in a tidy cut. He has a winning smile and inquisitive blue eyes. But he’s also got tattoos that poke out from the sleeves of his T-shirts. 

I’ve had a thing for him ever since he scored Moo U’s first goal at the start of last season. And then my thing became a full-blown crush when he came into The Biscuit in the Basket that night and flashed me a huge smile, called me by name—or at least the name that’s printed on my nametag—and then ordered a dozen wings and a side of coleslaw.

If I were a braver girl, I would have jotted my number onto his bill. But that’s not how I roll. I’m the kind of girl who says nothing but then thinks about him all the time instead.

Weston often shows up in my daydreams. Hey girl, I can’t help noticing how sexy you look tonight. I have a weakness for women wearing T-shirts with hockey-playing chickens on them, shooting a Southern-style biscuit into a net. And even though I can have my pick of the campus women, I like mine wearing a polyester apron just like yours.

I might as well fantasize, right? It’s not like I have a real social life. I spend all my free time here. 

Table seventeen has a big game tomorrow. So it’s a little quiet over there. They’re much rowdier on actual game nights. After a win, they drink beer by the pitcher. And after a loss, they also order shots.

But there are more wins than losses. Moo U is a hockey school, and our guys have brought home more league pennants than any other team in the Hockey East conference. And this year could be big. The team looks great. They could go all the way to the Frozen Four.

They’re decent tippers, too. Especially for college boys.

“Tell you what,” Carly says. “All my other tables are gone. And since you can’t stop watching the hockey players, how about you tip me forty bucks and you can close ‘em out in my place? You know you want to.”

“Forty bucks?” I yelp. “They’re not drinking tonight. I’ll be lucky to break even on that deal.”

“But I’m giving you my eye candy! Duh. And besides—they just ordered two pitchers of beer. It’s someone’s birthday.” Carly chirps. “Weston’s I think.”

“Weston’s birthday,” I say stupidly.

“Yup!” She holds out her hand. “Now pass me forty bucks, and bring the tattooed hottie his birthday beer. You know you want to,” she repeats.

My glance travels, unbidden, to the strapping defenseman at the head of the table. The one whose smile makes my heart go pitter-patter. And now I know when his birthday falls. That will come in handy when we’re married. 

“Earth to Abbi! Are you going to let me go off shift, or what?”

“Fine,” I say, digging two twenties out of my apron and passing them to her. “Go already.” 

"Give Weston my love,” she says with a smirk. “Along with the big moony eyes you always give him.”

“I don't give anyone moony eyes.”

"Just keep telling yourself that.” She winks, tosses her ponytail, and leaves for the night.

Weston must be turning twenty-one, or maybe twenty-two, if he played junior hockey before college. I’m surprised he’s celebrating his birthday so quietly with his teammates. It’s not unusual for Weston to show up here with a girl on his arm. Or on his knee. Or anywhere on his person, really.

It’s a different girl every time. He’s a player in every sense of the word. The women always seem happy to be his girl of the hour, though. There’s always a lot of giggling at table seventeen when Weston has female company.

He likes them giggly. That’s his type, I guess. 

I really have no chance at all.

The bartender wakes me from this daydream by setting two pitchers on the bar, then knocking his knuckles against the wood. Twice. “Carly around?” he calls to me.

“I’ve got it,” I say, darting over to load the beer onto a tray. I carry the pitchers and a stack of glasses to table seventeen. 

There are two freshmen at the table who probably aren’t twenty-one yet. But Kippy, the lazy manager, left a half hour ago, and these guys all walk home. I’m not in the mood to play cop, so everyone gets a glass. 

“Evening boys,” I say, setting the pitchers down in front of Weston one at a time. “This one is the IPA, and this one is the IPL. Enjoy. Does anyone need anything else?”

“Yeah we do!” one of the freshmen shouts. “You know it’s Weston’s birthday? Maybe you should do a striptease for us.”

Oh lovely. I don’t know this jerk’s name, but I make a mental note to remember his face, so I can stay well clear of his hands. There’s enough trouble in my life already.

“Rookie!” Weston barks. “Our server doesn’t need a side of sexual harassment with her job description tonight. Don’t be that kind of asshole. And only an idiot would be rude to the woman who serves your food at least three nights a week.”

I let out a startled laugh, and fall a little more deeply in love with Weston. “What an excellent point.”

But he isn’t done. “Now put ten bucks in the kitty.” He pats the table and waits. 

The freshman blinks. But then he reaches for his wallet. The team kitty is a stash of money that builds all season long. The captain and assistant captains are in charge of deciding which infractions require a contribution. And in the spring—after the last game is played—they choose a charity and make a gift. 

Weston puts the younger man’s ten into an envelope in his backpack. “Now apologize to Gail,” he demands. “Or I’m not pouring you one of my birthday beers.”

The younger guy scowls. “Sorry, Gail,” he says gruffly. “My bad.”

Weston turns his handsome face toward mine and meets my gaze. His is warm and cautiously amused. “How would you grade that apology?”

“Um…?” I’ve gotten a little lost in his blue eyes. “Sorry?”

“I think the kid deserves no better than a B-. But I’ll leave it up to you. Should we let him pass?”

“Sure,” I say, not wanting to make a fuss. “I’ve heard far worse, to be honest." And I wish I could say it was rare. 

"That is unfortunate,” he says softly. “But not tonight, okay? It’s my job to train up the rookies—for the good of Moo U, and for the good of hockey. It’s my sacred, noble mission.”

“Sure it is.” His buddy Tate elbows him. “Last night you said that convincing me to order the Thai wings was your sacred, noble mission.”

Weston shrugs. “A guy can have two sacred, noble missions.”

“Especially on his birthday,” I add. “Cheers, boys. Drink up, because it’s last call.” We close at ten on weeknights.

Then I leave them to it. I need to do some side work so I can leave as soon as they’re through.

By the time I deliver the sorority girls’ food, the candles on the tables are burning low in their votive cups. This is my favorite time of night at The Biscuit in the Basket. It’s peaceful, as the murmur of quiet conversation replaces the dull roar we hear throughout the dinner rush. 

The Biscuit has a cozy, old-time feel, like it’s been here forever. The walls are paneled in dark brown wood, but most of the space has been given over to group photos of Moo U sports teams from every consecutive year since the turn of the last century.

I love to stop for a glance at the oldest photos, with the baseball players in their baggy, pinstriped knickers. And the hockey players with their 1960s haircuts. The women’s team photos start up a bit later, in the eighties. There’s basketball and cross country too.

One thing you won’t find on these walls, though, is a photo of a football team. Moo U doesn’t have one. We’re a D1 hockey school, and we do well in lacrosse and baseball, as well as winter sports like skiing and ski jumping. But football just isn’t very Vermonty. So we don’t bother.

To finish up the night’s work, I take a seat at an empty table and roll silverware for tomorrow’s shift. And I just happen to pick a table that’s within earshot of table seventeen. Eavesdropping is good service, right? I’m easy to find if they need anything. 

Plus, it’s entertaining. The hockey players are making celebratory toasts. “To winning the league this year!” one of the twins says.

“The league?” Weston yelps. “Why not the national championship? Aim high, Patrick.”

“To Professor Reynolds for postponing the Rocks for Jocks test!”

“Wait, really? It was postponed?”

“To cold beer and warm women!” 

That was the obnoxious freshman again. Weston ignores him this time.

“To Weston!” Tate cheers. “Another trip around the sun!” 

“Aw, shucks, guys. You’re all buying me dinner, right?” He sets down his beer. “Speaking of dinner, I almost forgot about my flyers.” He pulls his backpack off the floor and unzips it. He pulls out a folder from the copy shop and flips it open. “It’s time to hang up my sign.”

Tate looks over his shoulder and laughs. “No way. You’re doing that again? Why?”

“Because I love Thanksgiving. It’s my favorite holiday.”

“You could come out to our farm, you know,” Tate argues. “You have a standing invitation.”

“That is a tempting offer, especially because your grandma makes that apple pecan tart with the crinkly edges.” Weston makes a motion with his fingers, as if crinkling imaginary dough. “And the crumble topping is spectacular.” 

It’s so cute I find myself smiling into the silverware bin.

“So what’s the problem, then?” Tate demands. “And if you pick on my grandma’s cooking, I will hurt you.”

“Your grandmother’s cooking is awesome. My problem is with your father’s football picks. I can’t root for the Patriots, man. Besides, this way I’m providing a public service.” 

“What service?” Someone snatches a flyer out of the folder and reads it aloud. “Rent a boyfriend for the holiday. For $25, I will be your Thanksgiving date. I will talk hockey with your dad. I will bring your mother flowers. I will be polite, and wear a nicely ironed shirt. Note: I don’t cook, so I am not able to bring a dish. I'm from out of town, and have no plans for the holiday. But I love Thanksgiving, and would be happy to celebrate with you. Especially if your mother is a good cook. Or your father. I’m not sexist.”

There’s a smattering of laughter and sarcastic applause. 

“You’re charging money?” one of the freshmen squeaks. 

“It’s a nominal fee,” Weston says with a shrug.

“But it makes you sound desperate,” the youngster says.

“Nah, it makes me sound like I value my own time and company. And I always get multiple offers. The fee keeps the nutters away. Only women who really need my help will apply.”

Someone asks: “What if it’s a dude who calls?" And the whole table snickers.

I’m surprised when Weston just shrugs. "That would be fine I guess. Fake love is fake love.”

Twelve hockey players howl with laughter. 

And I am captivated. There’s nothing on Netflix that’s half as interesting as Weston Griggs hiring himself out on Thanksgiving. Boyfriend for Rent. 

I wonder if there’s a rent-to-own option?

“Weston, is this even legal?” one of the twins asks. "Coach will be pretty pissed if you’re busted for solicitation.”

“Does the team have a bail fund?” his brother asks. And then they high-five each other. 

“Don’t twist my good deed into something tawdry.” Weston lifts his perfect, masculine jaw and gives the twins a glare. “My intentions are pure. Last Thanksgiving I had a lovely meal with a sophomore nursing student in Winooski. She’d recently broken up with her high school boyfriend, and her parents were upset about the breakup. God knows why. So I went along and they didn’t mention him once the whole day.”

“Huh,” Tate says. “So I guess she got her twenty-five bucks’ worth in peace of mind.” 

“Exactly. And I enjoyed a lovely turkey—cooked sous vide style, so it was extra moist and juicy. Then her mother rubbed the skin with butter and crisped it up under the broiler. And there was a sausage stuffing with water chestnuts so good I almost cried.”

“Water chestnuts?” Tate shudders. “That’s just wrong.” 

“No, it’s glorious.” Weston puts down his beer glass. “And now I’m hungry again. We’ve got to stop talking about Thanksgiving. It’s a whole week away.”

“You started it,” Tate says with a chuckle. “And the Pats are totally going to win this year.”

“Bullshit,” Weston mutters. “Maybe I should come over just so I can watch your dad cry.”

“Bet you a four-pack of Goldenpour they win,” Tate challenges.

“Deal. We’ll settle up after the holiday.”

Then Weston gets up and hangs his flyer on the bulletin board right by the door.

* * *

They depart forty minutes later, leaving behind a tip of fifty-five bucks. Totally worth it! I yawn my way through the rest of my side work until it’s time to race home to burn the midnight oil for my test. 

But before I leave the Biscuit for the night, I stop in front of the bulletin board. If I hadn’t overheard that conversation tonight, I wouldn’t have looked twice at this sign. Weston didn’t put his name on it. There’s nothing there to advertise the fact that whoever hires Weston on Thanksgiving is getting a date with the hunkiest man on the hockey team. 

I reach out and tear one of the phone numbers off the bottom corner. And then I tuck it into my pocket on my way out the door.

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First Chapter: Footnote

The overhanging bell chimed as the door swung open, letting in a blast of frozen wind. I was slowly getting into the habit of looking up to greet patrons as soon as the tinkling sound echoed through the Busy Bean.

It wasn’t easy. If I was measuring coffee grounds for the espresso machine, I kept focused on that. If I was counting change, I couldn’t look up, too scared to stiff customers or my bosses. Zara, Audrey, and the other employees were pros at multitasking. They were like fireflies of activity, doing twenty different things all at once, including shouting out a kind welcome to the patrons.

I wasn’t exactly good at the whole chipper-greeting thing on a regular basis, let alone in the middle of a task. Besides, a cheerful hello demanded volume and a certain exuberance that I just didn’t have.

It sure wasn’t going to happen with this particular patron.

When I finally looked up to acknowledge the newcomer, I failed to remember a few things.

How to breathe.

Where I was.

Who I was.

My knees forgot how to stand, too. They buckled under me, threatening to twist together like Roderick’s pretzels before they went into the oven. I was a half-baked lump. The only thing I could do was blink. Fast and hard to remove the strange optical illusion standing in front of me.

There was no way in hell this was happening. Not after all this time. Not now. Not here.

And yet…

How many people had eyes the color of a starry night, complete with a twinkle? I knew if I looked hard enough, I’d see a sparkle in the blue depths, a tiny glimmer of stardust floating in the dizzying gaze.

That wasn’t even half of it. There was the smile. The one that was warmer than a preheated oven in the morning. The one that hinted at a dimple that never quite made its way into existence.

Penley Brooks.

He was the only man in the whole world that had all of those attributes. Unless I had finally lost my mind, he was standing in the Busy Bean, grinning at me. Like we ran into each other every day in Colebury. Like we talked all the time.

Like we hadn’t lost touch over a decade ago.

Like I hadn’t left without a word.

My body was still, refusing to move until he confirmed his presence. Maybe he would disappear. Maybe he wouldn’t recognize me.

“Sasha Covey.” He spoke my name like it was a benediction. But maybe that was simply the fizz of hope going off in my heart. I hadn’t felt that in eleven years.

If I had a tongue before, it was gone. Lost. Sacrificed to the gods of deep, rumbling male voices that made kindling out of a woman’s legs. Oh, he had not misplaced his charm. It had doubled. Tripled. Or maybe it was all me. I hadn’t shed my silly crush on him. It came roaring up like time hadn’t made us older.

“Hey, Pen.” Zara beamed at him before arching a brow at me, silently asking me what had turned me into an immobile pile of goo.

“Zara, hey. How’s the family?”

My boss shrugged. “Wonderful.” The oven dinged like a hangman’s bell. “Excuse me. Sasha here will take your order.”

Before heading into the kitchen, she shot me another look. I wanted to reach out and beg her not to leave me alone with Penley, but that would have been too weird. Even for me. I already won the Weird Award daily; I didn’t need to add to my collection of strange exchanges.

I tried to swallow, pleading with my voice to magically reappear, but then he went and did something completely in character. Something that made my gooey body turn to mush.

He leaned on the counter.

That smirk of his was on full display. Was there a spotlight on him? That was the only explanation. No one’s hair shined like that. Was I suddenly allergic to coffee? That was the only reason why my lips were tingling wildly.

A kiss couldn’t reverberate through the decades.

It was impossible.

Scientifically unprovable. Like almost-dimples and stardust eyes.

Kisses didn’t rebound. But then again, I was no expert in first kisses. Or second. Or third.

“How are you here?” Penley’s wonder echoed my own, effervescing in the pit of my stomach.

“I work here,” I answered lamely, even though I knew what he meant. I was definitely not going to tell him how I ended up in Colebury. I’d changed a lot since the last time we saw each other. Not exactly for the better. Penley was the last person in the world who would ever get the truth out of me. It would hurt him too much.

“I can see that you work here.” His smooth laughter glided against my bare arms as he slowly took me in. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Yeah. Same. What can I get you?”

There! A full sentence. Shake it off, Sasha.

Way easier said than done.

Anyone in my position would be blubbering, no matter the expansive vocabulary they might have amassed. It didn’t matter that I read the dictionary for fun as a kid (and an adult). My collection of words evaporated in a puff of nostalgia.

If I’d known Penley lived in Colebury, I would have mentally prepared myself for this moment. I would’ve gone through a million different scenarios. I’d have something memorized. Oh, hey, Pen. Flirty eye batting. How’s it going? Hair flip. Haven’t seen you in ages. Musical giggle. Why, yes, I’m doing marvelously. 

Nope. No such luck. Instead, I stood motionless, seconds away from drooling in his general direction.

“One of those muffins and a coffee with cream and…”

“Four sugars,” I finished for him.

Why? Just why did I have to remember how he took his coffee? Or more to the point, why did he have to smile at me like that?

“You always did have an amazing memory.”

My fingers trembled as I prepared his order. My traitorous digits twitched so much I nearly forgot how to use the cash register. It didn’t help that I had spectators. Zara, not so slyly, watched from the kitchen while Jenny, my best friend, sat on the very edge of the peach-colored couch, memorizing every moment of the exchange.

Please wait until he’s gone to grill me. Do not embarrass me. I’m doing a good enough job of that myself.

I was a grown-ass woman with a degree in psychology. I understood the mechanics of attraction. Did that help me right then? Not in the least. I was a swoony kid all over again, hovering somewhere between thirteen and fourteen.

“I’ll see you around, but before I forget… Parnassia.” Penley Brooks winked at me.

And.

I.

Died.

My achy fingers clenched the edge of the counter. Why why why did he have to go and say that? With a wink? Was he trying to kill me? Was this my punishment? I could see it already. My tombstone would read, Here lies Sasha the Shy. May Death deliver her from her accursed muffled existence and lazy tongue.

The bell over the door announced his departure. That time, my head snapped up to get one last glimpse of Penley. Of course he was looking back at me with a smirk. When the door (finally) closed behind him, Jenny leaped from the couch and ran toward me. Only the counter saved me from her clutches.

Her face was flushed, her eyes wide as she panted for details. She wasn’t exactly boy crazy, but she wasn’t a cloistered nun either. She was somewhere in the middle, vacillating between the two depending on the time of year. Spring was coming, bringing with it summer break. We were headed straight for mischievous wood nymph territory. As always, she’d try to drag me along for the ride. And as always, I would remain firmly in the cloister.

“What. Was. That?” Jenny’s smile broadened with every pause. She turned toward the door as if expecting Penley to walk back into the Bean. “Was that Penley? The Penley? That Penley?”

“I’m wondering the same thing,” Zara joined in. “How do you know the town vet?”

“They knew each other as kids,” Jenny answered for me. “Sasha had this crushing crush on him. She still talks about him, especially when she gets into the sangria.”

Zara grinned. “Well, isn’t that interesting. Did he call you Parnassia?”

“He did.” Jenny hopped up and down, used to talking for me. “It’s a thing they did. It —”

“It’s nothing,” I assured them as I rubbed at an invisible stain on the counter with a rag.

“That was definitely not nothing.” Jenny fanned herself with her hand, looking every bit like a pixie. “The smolder he gave you. Good thing we have a long drive ahead.”

“We’re not going to psychoanalyze every word.”

“But we are,” Jenny insisted. “We both have psych degrees, and my mother is Queen Psych. It would be a waste of our talents not to.”

Zara’s chuckle spoke volumes: better you than me. She had no idea. Jenny, with her exuberance and limitless positivity, was my direct opposite. How we managed to be best friends was one of life’s greatest mysteries.

But not as baffling as my exchange with Penley.

I wouldn’t be reduced to a clucking hen because an old crush had sauntered into my life like a preening peacock. A sexy, manly peacock. I shook my head to clear my thoughts. I didn’t need a full reel of memories playing through my mind. So, of course, that’s exactly what my brain did. It was a wonderful and painful second, where fourteen months flashed by, ending with a small note and a million tears.

“You’re no longer on the clock.” Zara hip-bumped me away from the counter. “Go. Have a fun weekend with your family.”

“The We —”

“I swear to the good gods of the coffee bean, Sasha Covey,” Jenny grumbled in a fairly good impression of Tinker Bell as she retrieved her drink, “if you say that you’re not a part of the Webb family…” She dropped the rest of the threat to take a gulp of her coffee. Her eyes rolled back with a moan. “Damn, but this is amazing coffee.” She held the empty cup up to Zara in a silent cheer before pointing her finger at me. “Now get that cute tushy in the car.” Her brows shot into her hairline, daring me to contradict her.

I took off my apron and folded it neatly as I confirmed my next shift with Zara. Along with her business partner and friend, Audrey, Zara ran the Busy Bean. They were both great bosses. Great women, full stop. Not many people would have taken a chance on someone like me, but they had. So long as I worked hard, they didn’t care about my less-than-stellar history, lack of work experience, and a guarantee that my time in Colebury was numbered. I would do my level best to do right by them.

“See you next week.”

Jenny, who had never met a stranger, waved to Zara. “We’re going to be in the car for almost an hour. You’re going to explain to me where my best friend went back there.”

“You’re bossy.” I sighed, grabbing my overnight bag from behind the counter.

“I am my mother’s daughter,” she shot back as we left the Bean.

In truth, Dr. Margaret Webb wasn’t bossy. She was probably one of the very few people in the world who had a shiny soul. She was the kind of person who truly lived to help others. If Jenny had anything of her mother, it was that. A generosity that made me want to weep sometimes.

Other times, it made me do a full-blown ugly cry.

“For once, I’m really glad you don’t know how to drive,” Jenny declared as she led us to her car. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

If only I had an explanation, but the best I could think of was simply: Penley Brooks.

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First Chapter: Daybreak

“It feels like I’m cheating,” I muttered to myself, tearing the plaid flannel sheets off the bed. The top sheet came easily, landing in a tangle around my feet, but the fitted one gave me a fight, clinging with all its might to the far corner of the California king-size mattress Michael had insisted we buy as a wedding present to ourselves.

I climbed onto the mattress to get more leverage, giving one last tug before the tight elastic popped loose. The sheet shot off the mattress and into my face. I startled and fell onto my back, the side of my head slamming against the corner of the bedside table with a very painful crack.

My vision blurred, bright stars coming into focus in my periphery, and I clutched the sheet against my chest and stayed still, waiting for the throbbing ache in my skull to quiet down. I tried my best to not let my subconscious get the better of me. I’d changed these sheets a thousand times in the past three years, but this was the first time I’d changed them with intent. This orange and brown and cream plaid flannel was not going into the washer, it was going into the trash. 

“The sheets don’t know what’s coming,” I promised myself, pushing up to sit. With a wince, I closed my eyes and reached behind me, testing the small knot behind my ear that had already appeared from my run-in with the side table. 

The sheets didn’t know better.

No one knew better.

And no one would know better because there was no one here.

At that though, I heard a noise in the doorway, and I looked behind me as if it could be anyone besides Gus, my four-year-old Great Pyrenees. He stared at me with his big, dark, brown dog eyes, as if to say, “I know.” 

I let go of the sheets and scrubbed my hands over my face, tracing my fingers over my eyebrows, but then I stopped. Michael used to tell me I only ever did that when I was sad, and I didn’t think I could throw the sheets out if I was sad. I was so tired of being sad. I dropped my hands to my lap and stared at my palms, the plain gold band still heavy around my ring finger, just as it had been since right after I turned eighteen.

Michael and I had only been married ten years before he was taken from me. A brain aneurysm, the doctors in Montpelier said. Completely unpredictable and unavoidable, they said. 

Nothing any of us could have done. 

But wasn’t there something we could have done?

Maybe not to save his life, but couldn’t we have loved each other a little harder? Couldn’t we have taken that vacation to Brazil Michael had talked about since the first time he’d made me watch the movie Up? Could we have maybe not gotten a dog the year before he died so I wouldn’t have to live with a four-legged reminder of the only man I’d ever love? 

No.

There wasn’t anything we could have done differently because none of it would matter. Michael would still be dead, and I would still be here in the same house the past five generations of my family had been born, lived, and died in. And I would still be alone. And I would still be in Burlington, Vermont with thousands of other people who didn’t know a thing about me anymore, but always looked at me with sympathy in their eyes when they saw me.

I didn’t want their sympathy or their casseroles or their condolences. 

I wanted my life back.

But Michael had been gone for three years, and it wasn’t like he’d taken a trip and disappeared. Michael had died, and he wasn’t coming back, and there was no need to keep the sheets we’d fought over buying the day he died. I didn’t need the sheets. I didn’t want the sheets.

I didn’t.

Swallowing back a tangle of feelings that sent my blood pressure through the roof, I stumbled off the bed, grabbing the top sheet from the floor and dragging it behind me as I walked out of the bedroom. Gus trailed behind me, ever obedient and watchful, and I pulled the sheets off the ground as I headed downstairs, gathering the still warm flannel into a ball I clutched in front of my churning stomach. 

My thick wool socks made a sandpaper sound as I shuffled my feet down the stairs, and the third one from the top creaked like it had since before I was born. Down I went, through the dining room and kitchen, into the laundry room and farther still to the garage, only stopping to put on my work boots so I didn’t track dust and motor oil back into the house. 

The garage was degrees colder than the house, one of the major reasons I hated working in the winter, but money was money, and I knew better than to turn it down. I’d gotten a decent sized payout from the insurance company after Michael had died, and I’d invested it carefully. My bank account was substantial enough to get me through the slow months, keep the house running, and allow me to keep doing what I loved most. On the workbench, my stare landed on a hot pink sticky note reminder I’d left for myself about moving up the propane delivery since the tank was running low and a storm was rolling in. Winters were one thing I simultaneously loved and hated about Vermont. They’d been better when I had someone to tuck in with for the night, but that was a lifetime ago. 

Clutching the sheets and straightening up, I stepped into the garage, and I definitely didn’t let my stare linger on Michael’s unfinished 1966 Mustang. I walked past it, pretending the metallic green paint didn’t remind me of his eyes, then I balled up the sheets and shoved them in the trash with a little more force than necessary. 

I’d never liked the sheets, and I’d liked even less that we’d fought over them, but as the years between his life and the present spread, it all somehow seemed less. The fights less severe, the worries less impactful, the love…

That was the one thing that time couldn’t change.

The car, though. I hated that car more every day.

And I hated that it sat there. Shiny and full of promise, if only I could be brave enough to put my fucking hands on it again. 

Michael’d gotten the car when we were in high school, back when we’d been so in love, even though we barely knew each other. Hell, we barely knew ourselves then. We were kids and there was so much we wanted to do. So many places we wanted to go. But Michael had gotten that damn car as a birthday present, and he didn’t know shit about it and neither did his pops. 

My dad had told him to bring it over and I offered to help him get it together, but then there were always sports and finals, and then college, and then we were married and there’d been better things to do with our hands. The car sat and sat and collected dust and rust and then Michael had gone and died, and the car still sat.

Gus barked at me from the laundry room, and I cleared my throat and stomped back into the house. I kicked off my boots and closed the door, twisting the ancient latch so it would stay closed. 

“You’re fine,” I told myself and swallowed thickly when I realized I didn’t need to say it out loud. 

Michael had been gone for three years, and at first I’d had to tell myself the lie a dozen times a day, but it had whittled down and the pain felt like it had softened around the edges. At first, his absence had been a jagged and bottomless hole in my chest, but maybe I’d rubbed at it so much the corners had turned smooth and missing him had become more manageable over time. There’d still be moments, maybe a day or only a breath, where something would remind me, and I’d be back where I’d been.

But most of the days now were good, and that was why the sheets had to go and why the car had to go eventually, too. It wasn’t that I was ready to be in a relationship with someone new, because I wasn’t. But I had to admit it was time to move on. Michael would have wanted me to move on, and I know Gus wanted it, too. If dogs could want human kinds of things. 

I looked down at him and he shoved his head against my palm and barked so I’d pet him, and we sat at the kitchen table like that until my fingers cramped from how long I’d scratched between his ears. 

My phone chirped from the counter beside the sink, and I sighed, standing up to silence it. Both of my knees cracked, an audible reminder I wasn’t in my twenties anymore. Gus let out a sharp bark at the sound of my body failing me, then lay down underneath the table, resigned to the end of his head rubbing. I swiped the screen open, knowing who the message would be from before I got to the counter. It was always one of a handful of people. 

There was Finn, my closest neighbor who owned the farm down the road. He checked in sometimes to make sure I wasn’t dead, which was… obligatory and appreciated. My best and only real friend, Devon, who had a habit of showing up unannounced and leaving just as quietly. More lately though, the messages had been from Emmett, the man who’d saved Gus’s life a few months back when he’d come down with bloat. We’d gotten close over the fact that his wife had died and my husband had died, and close was probably an overstatement. We talked sometimes. We drank sometimes. But he had Tai now, and they’d both tried to come over more than social calls required, always under the guise of checking in on Gus.

It wasn’t unwelcome. At least not anymore. But it was a Wednesday evening and I knew what the text would be—an invite to Vino and Veritas, the LGBT owned wine bar in town, and I knew what my answer would be. I was only a man, after all. 

Tai: V&V.

I pulled a bottle of cider from the fridge and shuffled to the front door, setting everything down on the side table and shrugging into my jacket. It was colder than normal outside on account of the storm that was meant to blow through over the following weekend. The air was crisp and sharp, the sky dark and full of what was to come. I had a pair of slippers near the door and I shoved my feet into them, picking up the cider and phone to shuffle outside. 

I set everything on the rickety table on the long porch and fell down into an ancient wooden rocking chair, kicking my feet up onto the railing and crossing them at the ankle. After I settled, I answered Tai with a no, like we both knew would happen, then I turned my phone to silent and tucked it into my pocket. 

Michael would have been mad at me. He probably was mad at me if he was floating in the clouds somewhere, watching me still. He wouldn’t want me to waste away alone, and neither did I, but getting rid of the sheets had to be enough of a first step for now.

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First Chapter: Afterglow

Mood music: “Head Above Water” by Avril Lavigne

You know you’re pissed when you can smell your anger. When your brain short-circuits, sending out flares and smoke signals in a cerebral mayday of sorts. Since right now isn’t the time—or place—to lose my shit, I attempt some calming breaths. Sometime between my second and third inhalations, it occurs to me that something’s actually burning.

Fantastic.

I drop my phone and make a beeline from the back lawn to my abandoned post in the Busy Bean Café’s kitchen.

A wall of heat slams me when I yank the oven door open. Stuffing my hand in a mitt, I snatch the tray of cookies I’ve burned and plop the sheet on a nearby counter. I shove my spatula beneath one, praying for a small miracle. Yeah, nope. The charred remnants taunt me as I shake my head at the time and ingredients I wasted.

While I was busy arguing with Burlington University’s financial aid department, I completely forgot to set the oven timer. I have some experience working as a barista in my former campus’s coffee shop, but my baking skills are limited to heating pie in a microwave. Namely, the kind with a timer that beeps every few minutes to remind you when something’s done. I have no business operating industrial ovens—or any appliances—that aren’t equipped with a “Hey, are you still with me?” feature. But at least the smoke detectors didn’t go off.

Yet.

I crank the exhaust fan to its highest setting and rub my temples. God, I wish this shitstorm of a day would end.

I knew it would be a rough one when I woke up anxious. That’s never a good sign because it sets the tone for my day, no matter how hard I try to redirect. Sleep is supposed to be restorative, but as the anniversary of my parents’ deaths approaches, my nights have been anything but. The nightmares are intense. Not only am I exhausted, but I’m tired of washing my sweat-drenched sheets each day. Factor in my recent money snags, and I’m a regular ray of sunshine.

My best friend and coworker, Will Barnes, saunters into the back. He sniffs the air and points to the oven’s digital panel. “Hey, Sunny, this numbered gadget here is called a timer.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks, Sherlock.”

“Maybe try using it next time?” He gestures to the cookies I ruined. “That’s a sacrilege.”

“It’s not like I tried to burn them, okay?” Muttering to myself, I scrape the carcasses into a nearby trash can.

“What’s up with you?” Will’s warm, chocolatey gaze searches my face. “You were thirty minutes late this morning, when you’re always early to everything. You’ve been off your game all day. Even Zara noticed when she stopped in earlier.”

Zara Rossi gave me a job at the Busy Bean after I forfeited a full scholarship to my dream college two weeks before the start of fall semester. When I’d left my hometown to attend school in New York City, I hoped it would be a permanent move, but the Big Apple was a bit too chaotic with everything going on in my head. So here I am, back in Colebury, Vermont, taking online classes and burning cookies like a champ. Hopefully, I’ll get my shit together these next few months so I can return to New York in the spring. Sans scholarship, of course.

“I’m having a bad day.”

“Well, duh.” Will clamps a hand on my wrist, halting my carcass scraping. “You’re good. I think you got it all.”

“No, there’s definitely still some on here.” I fixate on a patch of burned dough, rubbing the utensil over the cookie sheet like someone will drown a puppy if I don’t remove every crumb.

He snatches my spatula. “Sunny, look at me.”

“What?”

He waits until our eyes meet. “You tell me.”

“I’m all right.” I force a smile. “Slept like shit, that’s all. Oh, yeah, and the financial aid office lost my file, so Moo U disenrolled me from my online courses for lack of payment.”

His eyes widen. “Shit. That sucks. Did you get it straightened out?”

“Yeah, but now I want to punch something.”

He takes a step back. “What else is bothering you?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure? I can stand here all day.” He points to the kitchen door. “Or at least until the next customer walks in.”

Will has been my friend since kindergarten. He’s not buying my feigned normalcy act. He never does, so I’m really not sure why I keep trying to fake it. One thing’s for damn sure—either I come clean, or he’ll make good on his words and bug the hell out of me all day. William Henry Barnes does persistence like no other.

“I’m waiting,” he sing-songs with an impatient foot tap.

My chest deflates with the world’s heaviest sigh. “Okay, fine. I had a panic attack before work this morning, and I still haven’t been able to shake it.”

He raises a dark brow. “Another? That’s four this week.”

“This seems to be my new normal. Anyway, that’s why I was late.”

“Was it another random one this time, or did something trigger you?”

See, that’s the thing about panic attacks. You don’t get to decide when they happen. I’m adept at avoiding my triggers, but the attacks which come out of nowhere are the bane of my existence.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I had to take a detour on my way to work because of a downed tree. The cop redirected me down the section of highway I always avoid. I was fine until I drove past the site of the accident and saw the little wooden cross someone stuck by the side of the road. Then everything just kinda hit me. I had to pull over until it passed.”

Change is a surefire way to spike my anxiety. When plans change, like this morning’s detour, I lose control of the situation. Losing control freaks me out—almost as much as the unknown and the constant barrage of what-ifs that plague me. It’s like I’m always waiting for that other shoe to drop. Or, in this case, a tree.

Just six weeks ahead of the fifteenth anniversary, passing the accident site cut deeper than it would’ve on a normal day.

Shuddering, I blink back tears and try to force myself back to the present. Unfortunately, despite years of my shrink’s best efforts, I’ve yet to master the techniques of mindfulness.

Will wraps his arms around me. “I’m sorry, Sunny.”

“Thanks. You’d think after fifteen years, I could coexist with my memories like a normal human being.” I pull from his hug and reach for the spatula he confiscated. “I need to get back to work.”

Will holds the utensil behind his back. “No, you need a change of scenery. How about you work the counter and do the barista thing for the rest of the day? I’ll take over back here until the muffins are done. Then I’ll join you out front, and we’ll tag-team it.” He hands me a yellow apron with the café’s logo embroidered on the front. “Put this on.”

“Thanks. I did tell Zara coffee was more my thing. Everyone knows I’m a shitty baker.” I tie the apron strings behind me. “Why would she stick me in the back?”

Zara owns this establishment with her best friend, Audrey Shipley. The Busy Bean is their creative brainchild, and I’m grateful to be employed here. Too bad I’ve only been on the job two days, and my scattered brain has already cost them in wasted inventory.

“The plan is for you to be out front.” Will gestures to the kitchen. “This is part of your orientation. Zara and Audrey want everyone well-versed in all aspects of the place. Especially for times like these when Hot Roddy is out sick.”

Will has a nickname for everyone and a huge crush on Roderick Waites, the Busy Bean’s full-time baker. I haven’t met him yet, but Will deemed him sexy as fuck. We have similar taste in men, so I trust his assessment.

“Does he know you call him Hot Roddy?”

“Fuck no. I have more game than that.”

I snort. “That’s debatable.”

He wags his brows. “I mean, while I’d love to take him for a spin—”

“Too bad he’s taken.” I chuckle and flick his earlobe. “And I’m pretty sure Kieran would kick your ass if you tried to put the moves on his man.”

Will gives a wistful sigh. “Kieran can captain my Shipley too.” 

Roderick’s boyfriend, Kieran Shipley, is a former Busy Bean employee who still picks up the occasional shift to help out when the café is short-staffed. He’s here today, and we’ll likely have him for a few more shifts until Roderick gets over his stomach bug.

My best friend has nicknamed the pair “Kierderick,” elevating their swoon status to his upper echelon of gay couple relationship goals.

I poke Will’s chest. “How about we get back to business before you start air-humping the appliances. And can we please skip the orientation?”

“Nope. Think about it, Sunny. If someone calls out, or shows up late, the rest of us kinda have a clue and can jump in where we’re needed.” Something beeps, drawing his focus to the other oven. “Oh good, they’re done.” He withdraws a tray of muffins and places it on a cooling rack.

“I get it, but I’m not in the right headspace for figuring out how to bake.”

“I know. That’s why I’m telling you to go out front.” He glances at the bumblebee clock on the wall. “Hurry up. Our afternoon rush is about to start. I just have to finish up with these muffins. They’re supposed to get a lemon glaze drizzled over the top.”

I raise a brow at him. “Wow. So, your desire to linger in the kitchen has nothing to do with getting a better view of Kieran?” He flushes and gives me the double middle finger, so I snort. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Kieran is Audrey’s cousin by marriage, so he’ll always be part of the Bean’s extended family. He’s also a stellar artist, which is one of the many reasons Will is enamored with him. Yes, Kieran is gorgeous and has a heart of gold, but the Shipley grump quotient can be a bit high for me.

After growing up under my half-brother’s roof, my tolerance for any level of surliness is virtually nonexistent. Cody is fifteen years older than me, and we barely speak.

“I know you skipped lunch, but have you eaten anything since breakfast?” Will asks, looking me over.

“No, I’m good.”

“Tough titties. Gigi stopped by earlier with a delivery of her Dark Horse Mochaccino cupcakes, and you’re having one. You clearly need a pick-me-up.”

“I’m fine, Will.”

“Bullshit. Now, get your ass out front.”

Knowing better than to argue with my stubborn bestie, I give him a thumbs-up and head for the front counter.

I should probably familiarize myself with the array of delicious pastries, muffins, cookies, and cupcakes on display in the glass cases. Instead, I stare through a leaded-glass window at the Winooski River. I’ve always loved walking along the section of riverbank by the old mill. The expanse of neatly mown grass with clumps of planted flowers is the perfect place for a picnic. Maybe I’ll head down by the river during my break for some running water-induced Zen. I could use a little of that today.

My head jerks toward the parking lot when a silver truck squeals to a halt in front of the door. Despite the windshield’s glare, I can tell the driver is on his phone, flailing his arms and slapping the steering wheel.

Will appears at my side, distracting me with a decadent chocolate creation. “This is the Busy Bean’s signature cupcake. Wait until you taste it.” He grins and sets the plate in front of me, waving his hand with a flourish. “Trust me, it’s fucking life-changing.”

“Oh yeah?” Will shares my enthusiasm for all things chocolate, so—like with his views on men—I trust his opinion.

“Not only is it infused with espresso, but the mocha frosting is to die for. See that gem on top?” He points. “Chocolate-covered espresso bean.”

I stuff a huge chunk in my mouth and moan as the flavor coats my tongue. “Wow.”

“Told you.”

The door opens, and a few customers file in. We get to work filling their orders, moving around one another like we’ve worked together for years instead of days. Every so often, I wrap a napkin around my cupcake and sneak a bite because I can’t help myself. 

Will brushes past me, shaking his head as he peeks outside. “Ugh. That dude’s a moody fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “Maybe we’ll get lucky, and he won’t come inside. What a waste.”

I turn my attention back to the pickup that has been idling for close to ten minutes now. “Why? Is he hot?”

He fans himself with a stack of napkins. “Wait until you hear his Irish brogue. Did I mention he’s a lumberjack?”

I flush and grip the zinc countertop. “A hot Irish lumberjack? Sign me up.”

“Well, maybe not a lumberjack exactly, but he works with wood.”

“When you say, ‘works with wood,’ do you mean how you work with wood, or do you mean like a legit carpenter?”

Will barks a laugh. “He builds shit, Sunny. With wood and tools. Jesus. Not everything I say has a sexual connotation.”

“Yeah, okay.” I jut my chin toward the window. “So, who is he? Someone we know from high school?”

“Nope. He’s in his thirties.” He pours himself a cup of coffee. “His name is Declan something. Even though he’s a regular, I really don’t know much about him. Mr. O’Sexy McFuck hasn’t said two words to me.”

“I don’t know of any Irishmen in Colebury.” Since my dad taught in the Colebury school district, and Cody and I went to school here, I know most of the guys in town. Some of them far better than I’d like to. Shuddering, I steal a sip of coffee from Will’s cup. “Declan, huh? How long has he been in the area?”

“Dunno. Like I said, he doesn’t talk to me, so I haven’t quizzed him for his demographics.”

I smile at the next batch of customers entering the café and watch the pickup for a moment. The driver is still yelling on his phone. “Well, somebody needs to tell Lumberjack Declan to stop driving like a dick and polluting the pristine Vermont air. Who knows? Maybe it’ll be me.”

Will snorts. “Good luck. He’ll bite your head off.”

“C’mon, Big Willy Barnes, you know me better than that.” I elbow him in the ribs. “I bite first.”

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M/M Novels on Sale in the US and Canada!

Hello all! Amazon has decided to put several great M/M titles on sale in the US and Canada. All of these ebooks are 50% off! They are:

Him by Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy

Unguarded by Jay Hogan

Turnabout by Laurel Greer

Daybreak by Kate Hawthorne

First Chapter: Sidetracked

I was sick of driving.

I had driven for seven hours, give or take, for the second day in a row—only stopping for bathroom breaks, food, and a little sightseeing—and I was spent. My back hurt, my butt hurt, and my left arm was sunburned from sitting by the window for two days. I needed a cool drink and a soft bed.

I was somewhere in Vermont when I saw a sign that listed food and lodging at the next exit. It looked like I might have to drive a bit to get into the town of Colebury, but I didn’t care. The sign was all the convincing I needed to pull off the interstate and head toward food.

Once there, I stopped at the first place that called my name.

Some people thought it was strange that I always liked to feel a connection to something, but I liked to think it made my life a whole lot easier. I didn’t have to make as many decisions if I let the universe do it for me. 

I ended up at a cool-looking coffee shop called The Busy Bean Café. I loved coffee—hot or cold—and could drink it until bedtime without it affecting my sleep. Some said I had a gift. I figured I was just lucky.

The outside looked like a lodge with big windows to let in the sun. When I walked into the café, the ambience immediately gave me the warm fuzzies. It was eclectic and my kind of place with mismatched tables and chairs, brick walls, and a wood floor. The beams on the ceiling, covered in chalkboard paint, had drawings and quotes on them.

I was in love.

I stepped in line behind two teenage girls and looked around while I waited, wanting to take in every little detail.

The first thing that caught my eye was a Help Wanted sign. The second was a quote written across one of the building’s beams.

Sometimes, not knowing where you’re going will lead you to where you need to be.

“Huh?” one of the teenagers in front of me asked.

I smiled at her. “Oh, sorry. I guess I was reading out loud.”

She gave me an adults are weird look and turned back to her friend.

I looked back at the quote.

After the last few days, I felt this particular string of words in my soul. 

I had left Richmond, Virginia, two days ago with everything I could shove in my car, hopped on the interstate, and driven. Three days ago, I had been let go from my assistant job because my position had been eliminated when my boss left the company. They weren’t filling his spot, so there was no one for me to assist any longer.

This was after I’d come home from work a few weeks earlier to have my boyfriend tell me that he wasn’t in love with me anymore and no longer wanted to be together.

Since neither of us had found a new place to live and I was now without a job, I’d set out the next morning to find a new place to call home.

And until this moment, I hadn’t found anyplace close to what I was looking for.

There was no author listed with the quote, but I felt like it was meant just for me, and I needed to know who had said it.

I reached for my phone as I heard, “Miss? Miss.”

I realized the person behind the counter was speaking to me and that the two girls who had been in front of me were now sitting over in the corner. 

I gave the woman an awkward smile and stepped forward. “Sorry about that.”

She smiled reassuringly at me. “What can I get you?” the blonde woman asked me.

“I need a large iced vanilla latte and a scone.”

“What flavor?”

“You pick,” I said. I wasn’t feeling a particular one.

“Okay, that’s one large iced vanilla latte and a lemon scone.” The woman grabbed a plastic cup. “Anything else?”

Chewing on my lip, I again looked at the Help Wanted sign, the quote, and then back at the woman helping me. “Yes, I’d like an application and the name of someone who can help me find a place to live.”

I had found where I wanted to stay.

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First Chapter: Doubletalk

Mallory

“Are you on that dating app again?” Stacey asked. 

“You know it,” I answered.

“I don’t get the appeal of going on a dating app to antagonize men. Don’t you want to find love?”

I gagged and shot my best friend and roommate a scathing look. First Spark was the app she was referring to. It was all about finding that first spark with the one. I wasn’t interested in that one bit. Thankfully, it also had a casual hookup section called Blush, which was what I used. It was less sleazy and didn’t have as many weirdos as a regular hookup app since First Spark was legitimate. 

I usually closed all the accounts Stacey set up for me, but I’d stayed with this one. 

“You do get that you write romance for a living, don’t you?” Stacey deadpanned. “I’ll never understand how you do that.”

I heard the unspoken end of her sentence. “And it may be why your books aren’t doing as well as you want.” She’d said it so many times before that there was no point in her voicing it again. She thought I should give romance and dating a real chance. I thought she should mind her own business and keep up with her failed dating rituals. 

I turned my attention back to my phone so I could pick my next victim. The profile picture was of someone in climbing gear, facing the rock wall, so all I saw was his back. His username was “Coby” which was cute. I couldn’t fault him for using a picture that didn’t show his face, either. A lot of people did that, myself included. My profile was a picture Stacey took a couple years ago of the back of my hair in all its curly glory. It’d been a good hair day. I swiped right and prepared my first message. 

Me: Hey! I’m a thief, and I’m here to steal your heart.

I didn’t wait around for a reply since it was hit or miss. Some guys took the bait even though my pickup lines were shitty and better suited for a bar than an online dating app. Others didn’t bother to reply at all.

“Do you think I should ask Zara or Audrey about working at the Bean?” I asked Stacey. 

“Why?” she shot back without looking up at me. 

“Because I spend all day there anyway, I could make some money while I’m sitting there not writing.”

“Still stuck?” She asked.

“Yeah. I can’t figure out why Cynthia and Jerry even want to be together. He’s a class-A prick and she’s completely uninterested in dating. They work better as friends, but I can’t find other love interests for either of them.”

Stacey put her e-reader aside and angled her body so she was facing me. I sat my phone down on my lap. 

“Have you tried changing their personalities or the trope?”

“No. I need to stop avoiding this book every time it gets too hard to write,” I said with a sigh. “It feels like this one is it. If I can figure it out, I’ll make more than a few hundred dollars off one of my books.”

“Mallory,” Stacey said with a hint of exasperation in her voice. “I know you feel that way, but you also feel that way about every book you’ve written so far. It’s time for you to scrap this idea and come up with another one. You’re trying too hard.”

My phone buzzed, and because I didn’t know what to say to my best friend, I picked it up. Coby had responded. 

Coby: Was that a serious inquiry?

Me: Of course. My message made my intentions clear. 

Coby: I’m not sure how to respond to that. 

Me: Okay, how about this: If you were a library book, I’d check you out.

Coby: I didn’t think it could get worse. 

Me: Oh, baby, I’m just warming up. I have so many more I can dish out. 

Coby: LOL

“Why are you smiling so hard?” Stacey asked. 

“I got one to bite.”

She grinned like a fool and joined me on the love seat, demanding to see pictures. Even though she thought I should get serious about dating, she was entertained by my antics and how men sometimes responded to my messages. We went through the pics he had that didn’t show us how he looked in the least. Stacey insisted on choosing the next bad pickup line, and I left my phone with her while I went to the kitchen to start dinner. She may have a point about me trying to date someone, but I couldn’t see that turning out well in the end for me. I took a couple of deep breaths in and out to clear my head before turning on the Bluetooth speaker. 

“Put on my latest playlist, Stace,” I called to her.

She did as I asked as I started pulling out pots and pans. I already knew what I was going to cook: baked chicken, spinach, and brown rice. Our New Year's resolution had been to eat healthier. A few weeks into the new year and we were sticking to it so far. We’d see how long it lasted.

* * *

I stared at the blinking cursor on the blank white page of my document. I hadn’t even typed “chapter one” because I wanted to have a clever chapter title that was also eluding me. 

This story was the one that’d evaded me since I started it five years ago. I always moved on to something else as soon as I got stuck, but not this time. My mentor, Valerie Quinn—bestselling, multi-award-winning author—had challenged me to write at least two chapters for a total of 2,400 words by the end of this week. I’d spent four hours on the phone with her coming up with a new plot and character backgrounds to fit my story. When I’d gotten off the phone, I’d felt invigorated and filled with a sense of hope. I decided to go to bed early last night and get a fresh start on this manuscript today. 

I came to The Busy Bean as soon as possible so I could get my other work done and start on this story. At the moment, I couldn’t live off what I made from publishing my books. Because of that, I also worked as a freelance editor, a virtual assistant, and a social media manager for two authors—Emilia Court Brooks and Jaleesa Wright. I liked that I didn’t do the same thing every week and I got to read books before they were even published. 

I finished all my other tasks by noon, which gave me a good six hours to work on my manuscript. Only I’d been sitting here for the last hour, staring at a blank screen. No words were flowing at all despite having outlined the first five chapters. Valerie had even sent detailed notes from our conversation, but none of it was helping. My head fell into my hands as I let out a low groan. What was it about this story—Imagine Us—that stalled me every damn time? It shouldn’t have been this hard. Stacey’s words from a couple of days ago found their way to the forefront of my brain. She had a point. This may not be that million-dollar idea that would allow me to quit all my side jobs and write full-time. But would Valerie encourage me to pursue it if she thought it was a dead-end?

I let out another groan. These thoughts weren’t getting me anywhere. I needed some sustenance and a break. I pushed back from the table, standing, and stretching out my tight muscles. I turned to head to the counter to order a sandwich and drink for lunch, but my feet didn’t take me in that direction. Instead, they refused to move as my eyes latched on the two men standing and talking at the end of the line. Zeke Armstrong and Daniel Griffin. Two men I despised. 

For a split second, I debated sitting my ass back down and waiting until they left or found seats somewhere far from me, but like hell I was going to do that. This was my town, and I didn’t know why they were here, but they weren’t going to make me cower. I wasn’t that girl anymore, the one that they’d humiliated in front of everyone in our class. 

Zeke and I used to be best friends when we were kids, but when we started middle school, we drifted apart. I dated Daniel when I was a sophomore in high school, and I was naive enough to think he liked me. What he’d done was unforgivable, and I hadn’t dealt with him since we graduated. Daniel, Zeke, and the rest of the popular clique had been the main reason I hadn’t attended our five-year high school reunion. And why I wasn’t attending the next one this summer. 

I let out a hard breath, straightened more, and forced my feet to take me to the line. Of course, Zeke and Daniel had to be at the end of the line. There’d be no separation between me and them as I wished, not that it mattered. Both men’s eyes latched on to me as soon as I started walking, and I didn’t miss the fact that they were checking me out. I’d changed a lot since high school. I wasn’t the dorky girl with too-big glasses and braces who only wore t-shirts with literary quotes or figures on them. There was a chance neither of them would recognize me. A girl could hope. 

I got into the line, standing behind them and crossing my arms. The line moved forward but both guys kept glancing back at me. I could see the gears turning in their heads as they tried to place me. I averted my gaze, focusing on the glass display cases filled with cookies and pastries as if I were actually considering any of them. 

“Ace?”

I bristled at him calling me that and ignored him. That should have made it clear I wasn’t interested in talking to him, but apparently, it meant try another tactic. 

“Rory?”

I still didn’t acknowledge him. 

“Mallory Barrett?”

I braced myself and brought my eyes up to meet his hooded whiskey-brown ones. “What do you want, Zeke?”

“I told you it looked like her,” Daniel said to Zeke. 

I narrowed my eyes at him; I didn’t want to hear his voice again for as long as I lived, but we couldn’t always get what we wished for. I didn’t respond to his comment either, taking the time to get a good look at both guys. Daniel was about six feet tall with fair skin, glacial blue eyes, deep brown, wavy hair with natural blond highlights. He was still as handsome—annoyingly so—as he’d been in high school, but he’d filled out since then and was bulkier. Those blue eyes had drawn me in and cast a spell on me all those years ago, but now they made me feel as cold as they looked. 

Zeke watched me as I not-so-subtly gave them each the once-over. Zeke had always been cute and became more handsome as he got older. His hooded light brown eyes, sharp cheekbones, full lips, and perfect nose had all the girls clamoring for his attention when we were in high school. I was sure being a pro basketball player meant that was still true for him. He’d grown into his body and was several inches taller than he'd been the last time I saw him in person. 

Daniel cleared his throat, ending my perusal of Zeke. I had no interest in either of them, and I hoped this was a stopover for them on their way to somewhere else. 

“I wanted to say hi. It's been a while since we've seen each other,” Zeke said. That deep, smooth voice of his made a shiver want to travel down my spine. I squashed that shit. I wasn’t reacting to him. 

“I’d say it hasn’t been long enough,” I replied, my tone clipped. 

“Come on, Mal,” Daniel stated with what he thought was a charming smile. “High school was a long time ago.”

“Think about what I just said and apply it to that statement too.”

“Ror,” Zeke implored. “We can be civil.”

“I’m being civil. I haven’t cussed either one of you out. And my foot hasn’t connected with either of your sensitive manly parts.”

Daniel whistled. “Damn, the girl knows how to hold a grudge.”

I bit into my tongue to stop from responding. I didn’t want to cause a scene right here in the café. The line moved forward, and Daniel turned back around. Zeke was watching me. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it when he registered the look on my face. I ran my eyes over his too-handsome face, over the stubble on his cheeks, taut neck, and down to his chest. The Henley shirt he wore molded to his muscular arms and chest. A hint of a tattoo peeked out of the collar of his shirt. 

“It was nice seeing you, Rory,” Zeke said, and I brought my eyes back up to his. 

“I wish I could say the same.”

His intense gaze bore into mine for a second longer before he gave me his back. There was a familiarity to it, if I was being honest, but this time, I welcomed it instead of dreading it like I did so many times when we were kids.

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First Chapter: Fireproof

Mason

Colebury, VT

“So you’ve used one of these before, right?” My new boss, a lively, dark-haired woman named Zara, was eyeing me skeptically from behind a coffee machine that looked more convoluted than the new milkers I’d brought in for my goats. 

I hadn’t. But I might have suggested that I had during the short interview process where Zara and her co-owner, Audrey, gave me the impression that they were desperate enough to hire just about anyone with a heartbeat and half a brain, so long as he was willing to learn. 

“Technically, no,” I said. I hadn’t straight-out lied about it before, and I wouldn’t do it now. “But I pulled a few shifts helping out back in the service.” 

Zara turned to face me fully, crossing her arms over her chest and giving me a grin. “Did they have a temperamental Astra in the coffee mess when you were a Marine, Mason?” She patted the complicated-looking machine that occupied much of the front counter.

I took a quick look around the interior of the Busy Bean, the place I’d hoped to begin some secondary employment today in order to bring in a bit of the money that the farm wasn’t currently making. And then I realized I really needed to show Zara why I’d be an asset here, whether I’d made fancy coffee before or not. I needed a flexible side job, one that would still let me take care of things at the farm, and the hours here worked well.

“No,” I said slowly, making a point to relax my hands and shoulders—I had a tendency to clench them and I knew it added to what my sister called my “resting murder face,” which apparently held fast to my expression about ninety-six percent of the time and freaked people out. I blew out a breath, forcing myself to relax. “But I’m a quick learner, Zara, and I hope you’ll give me a chance.” 

“Relax, Mason. Having you here—even if it’s just another body to run plates out front—is great. We’re desperate.” She grinned at me, and I did relax a bit. “When we first interviewed, you said something about improving efficiencies. Audrey and I both think we could use some of that military efficiency around here. Got anything in mind? I mean, I know it’s your first day.” 

I nodded. It was early, and the smell of coffee and baked goods was beginning to warm the air. The sky outside the plate glass windows grew brighter, and I knew we didn’t have a ton of time before the Bean opened for the day. I hoped to still be here by then. 

“Let’s hear it,” Zara said, and she stood just a hair taller, as if she was bracing herself for an assault. 

I could be intense, I knew that, and I forced my posture to remain relaxed, tried to keep my voice light. 

“Just a couple. For one thing, the menu board—“

“Be careful now, that’s Kieran’s baby. He doesn’t work here anymore but he still likes to come in and beautify the board. That one’s his.” She was looking at the huge sunflower that was, admittedly, beautiful but that dominated the board to the point that the menu was an afterthought. 

I smiled, holding my hands up in front of me, palms facing her. “It looks great,” I said. “But it’s not about looks. There’s a lot of stuff up there, and some really loopy writing that takes a few minutes to figure out.” The menu board was a dense swirl of color, the actual offerings of the Busy Bean competing for space around the art.

Zara continued to stare over her shoulder at the board. 

“If you simplified the board, customers could figure out what they want a little faster. It might not seem like a lot, but when the line is to the door, seconds count.” 

She raised one shoulder, as if suggesting I go on. 

“You might also get a hot water tap here, next to the sink. Getting hot water from the espresso machine for non-espresso drinks forces everyone to wait for the pressure and steam to rebuild here.” I indicated the spout of the machine. “And time is money for a little shop like this, right?” 

Her eyes had gone a tiny bit wider. “Right,” she said slowly, glancing at the machine as if it had said something in response. “So you do know a bit about this machine.” 

“I did some reading.” 

She nodded, looking wary, and I knew I had to be careful. This place was Zara’s baby—and Audrey’s. But I could help here, and I didn’t think making coffee would be that hard to learn. 

“I’ve got one more suggestion,” I said, and she looked up at me now, a smile lifting one side of her mouth. 

“Why do I get the feeling you’ve got a lot more than that?” she asked. 

A low chuckle escaped me. She was right, but just because routine and efficiency were the things that kept me sane didn’t mean everyone wanted to hear about them. “I’ll just give you one for now,” I said. 

“Hit me.” 

“You have a lot of regulars. They shouldn’t have to wait in line if you already know what they want.” 

She nodded. “We’ve talked about that. But part of what people come in here for is the personal attention, the banter at the counter, the atmosphere.” 

“No reason they can’t get all that while picking up their drinks at the far end of the counter. You could have them prepay, if you wanted to, or put in a text-ordering system. Or both.” 

Her nose wrinkled. “It’s just a lot of logistics,” she said. “I’m not sure we’re ready to invest in stuff like that.” 

I nodded. Maybe they weren’t, but it didn’t have to be complicated. “I get it,” I said. “But it could be as simple as keeping a tablet there with the shop’s quick-order email account pulled up. Folks can email before they leave the house or from their cars.” 

“So you’re going to manage the line and check email when we’re slammed?” 

I’d come in lots of times before starting today, watched the way things operated behind the counter when they were busy. And when they weren’t. 

“When you’ve got two people up here anyway, one of them can be designated to check. Keep notifications on the device, and there’s an audio cue that an order has come in.” 

Zara didn’t look sold. She glanced up at the clock and then out at the door. “I like you, Mason,” she said. “Even if you do look like you kind of want to kill me sometimes.” 

“I assure you, I don’t.” 

She laughed. “I know. But Amelia told me to give you shit about your resting murder face.” 

Amelia. Of course my sister would have been in here talking about me. It was like we were two halves of one personality—she got all the bright, shiny, social genes, and I ended up with the logic, practicality, and focus. Not that she was flighty or ditzy. She wasn’t. But sometimes she seemed to overlook reality in favor of maintaining an upbeat outlook. I was a little more realistic. 

“Of course she did.” 

“Anyway, let me show you how this bad boy works, and this morning we’ll just have you pulling espressos, okay? Nothing fancy. Master the shots and we’ll move on.” 

I gave her a single nod. A plan. Good. 

As Zara went through the steps of making a simple espresso, I noted them all, both in my mind and in the book I kept shoved in my pocket. 

“You’re not going to have time to refer to your notes,” Zara said, glancing over her shoulder as I made notes. 

“Won’t need to. Writing them down solidifies them in my mind.” 

She didn’t say anything else for a few minutes, and we went on. By the time she was ready to open the doors, I could make a shot perfectly and with precision. 

“I’ll show you how to steam the milk when the early rush ends,” she said, smiling at me with a bit more confidence now that she’d seen I wasn’t going to completely flub the basics. 

As we served the first few customers, Zara introducing me brightly to each one as the new barista, I fell into an easy rhythm that relaxed me. Every other thing in my life might have been hanging by an uncertain thread—the farm, my uncle, my mental state—but the efficiency and routine involved in making shot after shot of espresso felt like certainty. This made sense. 

At least until Zara shot me a strange smile and said, “You know, Mason, every barista we’ve hired so far has fallen in love and left us. You planning to do the same?” 

“There’s not a chance in hell, Zara.” 

I’d already figured out that my life worked best alone, and I had no plans to change that.

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