Sarina Bowen's Blog, page 16

First Chapter: Touchstone

Chapter OnePhoebe

Please don’t let him propose.

I’d been wanting to try the new steakhouse on Fifth Avenue since it opened a year ago, but as I rushed down the final blocks, already late, all I felt was dread. Saturday night reservations were impossible to come by, almost exclusively reserved for wealthy regulars or tourists who knew to book in advance. That meant Drew had pulled some strings to get us a table. And, as The New York Times had pointed out in its most recent list of top-ten romantic restaurants in the city, it was the newest hot spot for proposals.

Please don’t let that be what Drew is thinking.

My stomach flipped as I waited for the light to change, and I checked my phone. Shit. I was officially really late—and I was never late. Ever. Drew was probably pissed. Pissed enough to not propose? Let’s hope.

I bounced on my toes, no easy feat in heels, but the nervous energy had to work its way out somehow. The conversation with Drew replayed in my mind. “Hey, I’m getting back into town earlier than I expected so let’s meet for dinner. I got us a table at Ember.” 

The way he’d brought it up hadn’t sounded romantic. But then, nothing Drew said ever sounded romantic. That was part of why I liked him. Neither of us needed or wanted all the mushy stuff, the hearts and flowers, the moonlight strolls. We’d both wanted the same thing from the time we met five years ago: to open up a hot new restaurant in Manhattan. We’d worked together all this time to make that happen, and our dream was finally months from coming true.

But I didn’t want to marry him. I didn’t want to marry anyone. 

I let the throng of pedestrians propel me across the street, careful not to get my heel caught in the metal grate as I hopped over it and onto the curb. There it was—the sign with the distinctive logo that Drew and I had taken inspiration from when we’d designed the one for our own restaurant. Surely this would just be a nice night out, celebrating the fact that our launch was so close to happening. 

My palms were sweating, and I wiped them on my dress, glad that it was black and wouldn’t show any damp streaks, then grabbed the shiny brass door handle. The interior looked just as it did in the magazine spreads—dark wood polished to a high shine, giving it that old-school steakhouse feel, but with sleek tables and chairs to kick it into the twenty-first century. The host nodded when I gave my name and quickly ushered me to our table, which was small and elegant, with two votives in heavy square glass holders and a single calla lily in a matching rectangular vase. It was also quite possibly dead center in the middle of the restaurant. The overhead lighting seemed to shine a spotlight directly on us. Like we were the main act on some tiny stage.

“You okay?” Drew asked as the host held out my chair, and I slid into it.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t realize how long it would take to get here.”

It was an odd thing to say, and I knew it. He’d managed to get here on time coming from JFK, but I couldn’t make it from our apartment ten blocks away?

“I ordered for us. Hope you don’t mind.”

I did mind. My whole life had revolved around menu planning for the past year, and I loved studying menus and choosing my meals. Before I could answer, the waiter arrived with a platter of oysters nestled in crushed ice with a flight of sauces. I suddenly didn’t mind quite as much. I loved oysters. But a nagging voice in my brain reminded me that people tended to order them for sexy times, and sexy times followed proposals, and...my stomach flipped again.

A different waiter arrived with two Negronis—gin, sweet vermouth, Campari, and an orange twist. Drew couldn’t cook to save his life, but he did know how to order. He raised an oyster shell, as did I, and we clinked them together—a habit we’d started before we’d even begun dating—and I rolled the briny mouthful on my tongue before swallowing. The sip of Negroni, bitter yet sweet, cut through the buttery finish for a moment of perfection.

My nerves settled. A little. Maybe I was just stressed and fatigued from my nonstop schedule. Maybe this was just a nice dinner out. We worked our way through the oysters, pausing only to critique the various sauces, and I let the cocktail smooth out more of my frayed edges. A pleasant buzz enveloped me as I nibbled one of the flatbreads from the bread basket. “That was delicious.”

Drew ran nervous fingers through his short, dark hair. “Glad you liked it.”

“What’s our main course?” 

“I preordered the Tomahawk steak.”

“Mmmm.” Their signature dish had been getting rave reviews, and he knew I’d been dying to try it.

The waiter cleared the platter and dutifully scraped our table to clear any stray crumbs. 

As he left, I noticed Drew staring at me, and the buzz from moments earlier evaporated. My heart thudded. No.

“Phoebe.” He reached for my hand.

Oh, dear god, no.

“I was going to tell you this on the phone.”

Wait, what? No one proposes on the phone, do they? That’s good. Right? So why does he look worried?

“There’s someone else.”

His fingers gripped mine, but I could barely feel them. “What?”

“It’s been going on for a while now. We met when you were down south...”

I’d done a month-long trek through the Carolinas, Georgia, and New Orleans, scouting up-and-coming chefs and local specialty items. In January. It was now June. 

“I’m sorry, what’s been going on for six months?”

“Her name is Samantha. Her father owns the Shivari group of hotels.”

“Wait, the guy who invested?”

The guilt on his face made me squirm. He nodded. “He sent Samantha to negotiate, and one thing led to another. I’m sorry, Phoebs. I am. But I’m in love.”

Oddly enough, relief swept over me. I mean, sure, this was unexpected, but one thing Drew and I weren’t was madly in love, and I honestly didn’t begrudge him happiness. This was for the best. He could get the happily-ever-after he wanted. We’d always been better as business partners than—

“We’re getting married. And...” He rubbed his thumb across my knuckles in a way that made me brace myself. “She’s taking over your part of the restaurant.”

My buzz disappeared completely, along with any warm, fuzzy feelings I’d been having about him finding true love. Rage replaced them, bubbling up from deep inside me and threatening to spill out all over the pristine table. “Excuse me?”

“It just makes sense. She’s not comfortable with us working together, given our history, and her father—”

So much adrenaline pumped through me I was hearing colors. The sound of Drew’s voice mixed red and orange in a way that swirled through me like fire. “I’ve spent years working on this fucking business. You can’t just cut me out.”

Drew couldn’t meet my gaze. “Actually, we can. You and I never had a formal contract. His lawyers—”

His lawyers. Fucking hell. His uber-wealthy future father-in-law’s high-powered lawyers had already taken care of this. They’d taken care of screwing me out of the restaurant I’d breathed and slept and sweated over, screwing me out of my debut as a Manhattan executive chef, screwing me out of the menu I’d spent over a year honing. My mind raced. Oh my god. Our apartment is in Drew’s name. He’d lived there before we got together. How could I have been so stupid as to let this happen?

I tugged my hand out of his grasp and clasped my fingers together under the table. Stay calm. Don’t make a scene. My mother makes scenes, and I will not be like my mother... 

And that was when it hit me. That was why we were at a very public place, at a very public table. So there was no chance of me making a scene.

“Why tell me all this here?” I wanted to hear him admit it.

“Well, I was going to suggest the NoMad, but I wasn’t sure you’d appreciate the pun.”

“Fuck you.” I muttered the words, even though they’d been screaming in my brain on a loop for the last several minutes.

“What?”

I closed my eyes, hearing the blood rushing past my ears. Lightheaded. 

Fuck you fuck you fuck you.

“Come on, Phoebs, talk to me. You know this is what’s best for both of us. I’m sorry it had to be like this, but I really believe—”

Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyou.

“—we’ll both be happier in the long run. Please say something.”

Before I could stop them, the words rolled from my brain onto my tongue and out of my mouth. “Fuck you!” 

My voice was louder than I intended, and I wanted to try to tone it down, but I was no longer in control. I’d floated somewhere outside my body, watching myself and only catching snippets of what I spewed at him. 

“Five years...fucking asshole...all this time...the business...while I’m traveling, you’re...you thief! You disgust me...this was our project, not just yours...”

People were staring at us. I could feel their eyes like tiny beams of heat. 

I hated scenes. Hated them. In an instant I’d become a kid again, watching my mother shriek at her latest boyfriend and throw his clothes out the window as the neighbors enjoyed the show. The familiar heat of humiliation crawled up my neck and flooded my cheeks. I gripped the table hard enough that my nails dented the unfinished wood of the underside. Taking a deep breath seemed impossible, as if I were underwater, or under an elephant, but I forced a slow inhale. Grace. I could exit this with some amount of grace and dignity if I just focused. 

“Fine, Drew. You win. I’ll have my things out of the apartment by tomorrow afternoon. I’m sure you can find somewhere else to stay for the night.”

There. A modest request. The proper amount of strength and control. I pushed my chair back and slowly rose, suddenly knowing what the bomb squad must feel like, because I was acutely aware I could explode with the slightest wrong movement. 

Drew’s eyes were full of pity—the very last thing I wanted to see—and for a split second I thought maybe we could negotiate some sort of truce where we could still be business partners. He cleared his throat. “I’ll need your set of keys to the restaurant. Now.”

I’d thought I was as upset as I could get. I was wrong. My hands shook uncontrollably, but I managed to take all three keys off my keychain and slam them down on the table hard enough to turn heads again. 

Our waiter arrived with a flourish, seemingly unaware that the couple at Table 12 was at DEFCON 1. “Your Tomahawk steak.” 

He held out the gigantic platter with the dinosaur-bone-sized steak. It smelled heavenly. “Would you like me to carve—”

I didn’t let him finish. “That won’t be necessary, Robert. The steak is coming with me.” 

He clearly didn’t understand what I meant until I fisted the steak’s cleanly frenched bone and hoisted the enormous slab of meat so fast he nearly fumbled the serving dish. 

What do you do when you’re full of Negroni, oysters, and rage, and you’re holding two hundred dollars’ worth of perfectly cooked meat? You square your shoulders and walk out. 

* * *

The rest of the night passed in a blur, and before I knew it, sun was streaming through the windows and I was surrounded by boxes.

I should be sad.

That would be the normal reaction to your boyfriend of five years dumping you for another woman. I should’ve been heartbroken. In tears. Devastated.

But I wasn’t. I even knew why. Sure, Drew and I had been perfect on paper. And I knew the saying “good on paper bad in bed”—but that hadn’t been the issue either. I mean, we weren’t Fourth of July fireworks, but we’d sparked. It just hadn’t been love. We’d been...comfortable. Practical. Safe. 

That was what killed me. I hadn’t just known that passion and excitement had to be sacrificed to get comfortable, practical, and safe, I’d counted on it. Trusted it. I’d consciously made that choice, because I’d seen what happened when passion and “love” blew up in your face. My mother was the poster child for those disasters, and I’d been the first witness to every explosion.

I wanted no part of that. To me, practical and safe sounded wonderful. So wonderful they’d turned me stupid. Because when I’d gone into business with my safe and practical boyfriend, I’d trusted him. It never occurred to me he’d screw me out of the deal. That’s why I hadn’t bothered to get anything in writing. 

Yet there I was. No boyfriend. No job. Enough self-loathing-fueled adrenaline that I’d packed up my half of the apartment in one all-nighter. And no coffee because the coffee maker was mine, and I had no idea which box I’d shoved it into in a fit of bubble-wrapped rage.

But the rage had dissipated somewhere between shredding my new business cards and separating my books from his. All I was left with was hurt. Drew might not have been the love of my life—if such a thing even existed—but he had been my best friend. “Had been” being the operative words in that sentence.

I scanned the room to see if I’d forgotten anything and felt tears welling. No. No no no. Crying never helped anything. 

Fuck it. I needed to get out of this apartment. Some air would do me good. Air, coffee, and a bacon, egg, and cheese on an everything bagel—the New York City cure to any shitty night.

Sometime around midnight, full of pricey steak and Drew’s best bottle of bourbon, I’d traded my dress in for my favorite concert T-shirt—Weezer, from the summer I’d interned in Boston—and a pair of pajama pants. 

This morning I was in no mood to change, so I shoved my feet into black Converse low-tops, grabbed my phone from the charger and my tiny dress purse from the night before, and headed out. 

My favorite deli was less than two blocks away and I gave no fucks if anyone saw me looking disheveled. 

The line was out the door but moved quickly. I fidgeted with my phone but didn’t want to check it—a very odd feeling, as I normally lived on my phone. I’d turned it off the minute I got home last night, certain Drew would send messages. I hadn’t wanted to deal with them. 

Once inside the deli, I made my way to the counter, and one of the griddle cooks caught my eye. 

“The usual?” he asked.

“Yup.” 

He gave me a smile that told me he’d summed up my mood by my outfit. I pulled out my ATM card and handed it to Jimmy, the grandfatherly owner. “On the house, doll. You had a rough night.”

Okay, I didn’t look my best, but this was fucking Manhattan. On any given day, you could see people walking down the street in anything from a ball gown to a thong. I glanced down to make sure I hadn’t left the house without pants. Nope. Jammies with black cats in sunglasses, just like I thought.

I stepped aside, waiting for my name to be called so I could get my food and go. A murmur seemed to be moving through the crowd. Everyone was on their phones, looking up at me and smirking.

Had I missed some major news story in my twelve hours offline?

I turned on my phone and watched as the screen lit up. I nearly dropped it when nonstop notifications made it sound like a pinball machine about to tilt. What the hell? How many messages had Drew left me?

As I watched the notices continue to load, my phone rang. My phone never rang. Nobody called anyone anymore. I was getting ready to reject the call, thinking it must be spam, when I saw the name. Audrey Shipley. That was funny. I’d been thinking of her when I’d put on my T-shirt—we’d gone to the concert together. That was the summer we’d become friends. Two culinary students on the loose in Boston. I hadn’t heard from her in weeks.

I clicked Answer. “Hey, how’s my favorite new mommy?”

“Oh my god, Phoebe. Thank god. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Except for the whole no job, no apartment, no life, and everyone-staring-at-me-for-no-reason thing, I was aces. 

“Um…okay. Good. No, that’s great. You’ve got the right attitude. Just ignore this. It’ll all blow over and everyone will be on to the next drama in no time.”

The bell at the deli counter dinged. “Bacon, egg, and cheese and a coffee light and sweet for Phoebe.”

As I reached up to grab the white paper bag and cup, the guy leaning on the counter looked me right in the eye with a smirk. “Ay, meat girl, what? You didn’t have enough steak last night? You need more meat?”

“Excuse me?” I stepped back, and knocked into another customer who was already chuckling.

“I got some meat for you, if you need more.”

His buddy jumped in. “Your boyfriend’s a real gavone. You can do better, sweetheart.”

How do these assholes know about my steak and my boyfriend? I wasn’t quick to panic but my fight-or-flight mechanism had me on high alert. What the fuck was going on here?

“Phoebe.” Audrey’s voice brought me back to my senses. I clutched the phone to my ear and got out of the deli as quickly as possible, but more comments followed as I made my way down the street. And people were… Were they taking pictures of me? “Phoebe, where are you? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. I’m just getting a fucking breakfast sandwich and everyone’s calling me meat girl.”

“Sweetie, have you been on social media?”

“No.”

“Oh, Phoebs. Go straight home.”

“What? Why?”

“Hey, it’s meat girl!”

What. The. Fuck. People were pulling out their phones and following me. I walked faster. “Audrey, this is freaking me out. What’s going on?”

“Sweetie, you’re a meme.”

I almost dropped the phone. “I’m what?”

“Last night at the restaurant some woman live-tweeted your entire conversation with Drew, complete with photos. The one of you walking out with that steak has gone viral.”

“Oh my god.” That explained everything, but it was the most nightmarish explanation I’d ever heard in my entire life.

“How far are you from your apartment?”

“Half a block.”

“Good. Just get inside.”

“Why are they calling me meat girl?”

“That’s one of the more popular captions.”

“Do I even want to know what the others are?”

“No.”

Oh my god.

* * *

I didn’t even remember getting up to my apartment. My hands shook so much it was surprising I’d managed to unlock the front door. They shook more as I scrolled Twitter. “Meat girl” was the tip of the iceberg. They’d found my name and my account.

Phoebe Antoinette Let Them Eat Meat!

I’ve got a bone to pick with you!

Grab your meat!

Fisting the bone!

Where’s the beef? 

Oh, come on, now…

My notifications were dinging nonstop, and I made the mistake of checking them.

Now in addition to the horrifying images of me wielding a Tomahawk steak like a maniacal cavewoman there were pics of me in my ratty pajamas and glasses, with my hair in a messy top-knot and no makeup.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

The sound of a baby crying startled me, and then I remembered Audrey was still on my phone waiting for me to regain my power of speech.

“Aud?”

“I’m here. Two secs. Let me get the baby on my boob.”

I paced the length of the apartment. The apartment I said I’d be out of today. Shit. “I can’t believe this is happening. I told Drew I’d have my stuff cleared out by this afternoon. I don’t even want to set foot outside.”

“Tell him you need another few days.”

I scrolled through more photos, my stomach turning over with each new caption. “How the hell am I going to find a job? Who’s going to hire the crazy meme woman?” 

“Well, actually…”

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Six Priceless LGBT YA Novels

I'm not as widely read in YA as some of my author friends, but the following LGBT YA novels are all utter gems. Skip them at your peril! :)

Two Boys Kissing by David Levithan. Okay, this should read anything by David Levithan, because the man is a genius. But this book wrecked me. It has a really gutsy narrative style, taken from the form of the Greek chorus. But the chorus in question is made up of men who died from AIDS during the 80s and 90s. And I knew these men. So while I was reading it I had the uncanny sensation that friends lost were speaking to me. That might be how I managed to cry on every page. Or maybe it's because the writing is just that good.

Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda by Becky Albertalli. The writing is to die for. This is a pitch perfect story of what it means to be 15 and 16. If you wanted to slap a trope label on the book, it's a coming out story. But it's so much more than that. Ms. Albertalli uses Simon's need to come out as the perfect lens on what it means to be a teenager. Every chapter is priceless. I can't wait for her to write another book.

I'll Give You the Sun by Jandy Nelson. Flawless, amazing writing. This book has about 1000 themes. (Art. Twins. Sexual assault. Death. Divorce. Coming of Age. Betrayal. Family. Ghosts. Addiction. Oh, and somebody is gay.) I'm glad it was never my job to write a synopsis for this book. But READ IT IT'S SO GOOD!

Every Day by David Levithan. This isn't a exactly an LGBT book. But it explores identity of all stripes so beautifully and thoroughly and subtly that it wins a spot on my list. :)

Carry On by Rainbow Rowell. The similarities to Harry Potter are a little distracting. But Ms. Rowell is brilliant, as always. Loved it.

EDITED September of 2017 to add this review of Christina Lauren's Autoboyography. So good!

How to Write a Romance: Chaos and Order

You can always get more pens. But you can’t get more time…

The Rumpelstiltskin Job

My little economist’s brain has always loved the idea that I have a Rumpelstiltskin job—you start with nothing except a blank page and you craft the whole darn thing out of vapor. Straw into gold. The only major investment is my time.

The flip side of this, though, is that time is the most precious resource I have. Fifteen years ago when I decided to make fiction my new career, I am sure I did not fully appreciate the constraints of my personal capital.

Nonetheless, I set about learning how to craft a novel. The result of a novel is completely linear. You take all your big ideas and your imagery and drama, then you distill the story down to a single line of text. If you were so inclined, you could print that sucker on a roll of paper and stretch it out down my country road. Waylaid—the book I just finished—is almost 98,000 words long. So you’d probably end up pretty far on your travels.

(Spinning yarn is essentially the same task—make a fluffy, voluminous thing into an orderly strand. Rumpelstiltskin and I have so much in common.)

The reader should be able to pick up Waylaid and find that it reads seamlessly, from a snappy starting point to its poignant ending. That’s my hope anyway. And when I look back on the graph of my writing progress, it’s very orderly. See?

   

This chart is a liar, though. On any given day I did a lot of deleting and rearranging that the reader should never be able to see. And a peek at the graph of my daily word count tells a more accurate story.

   

Now that’s more like it! There are days of hefty progress, and days where I barely move the needle. And there are days when I don’t write a single word because I’ve printed the whole book out and I’m reading it straight through. I find I have to do that at least twice a book, because it’s hard to hold the narrative arc in your head.

But you stumble toward the finish line somehow. Hopefully the finished product is as smooth as buttercream frosting. And just as tasty!

P.S., a recommendation:

This week I read a terrific blog post by KJ Charles called How to Write a Book When You Can’t Write A Book. It’s a terrific little meditation on making choices in fiction! Don’t miss it.

First Chapter: Playmaker by Sierra Hill

Chapter OneARIA

After a twenty-two-hour drive through some of the barest parts of Canada, en route from Minnesota to Vermont, the last thing I want to do is go to a college party.

I’d rather obsess over the decision which brought me here. 

Besides eating my way through two full bags of venison jerky—courtesy of my mother—drinking twelve bottles of Diet Dr Pepper, pouring gallons of black coffee down my throat, and running through a treasure trove of Spotify playlists, obsessing over transferring schools was what kept me awake on the road. 

And obsess I did.

If someone would have told me this time last year I’d transfer to Burlington University at the start of my junior year of college, I would’ve laughed so hard I’d pee my pants.

Yet here I am, pulling up to my new off-campus house to start over. Leaving my old life behind—my parents, my sister, my friends, my school and my hockey team—and beginning again with a new identity. 

Shoving all my anxiety deep below the surface, I fling open the car door of my packed-to-the-brim Subaru and affix a smile on my face as I step out into the awaiting arms of my longtime hockey teammate and friend, and now housemate, Sophie Ricci.

“I’m so happy you made it in one piece!” Sophie exclaims, rocking me back and forth in her arms. “I’ve been waiting so long to see your ugly face. I was worried you got detained at the border or something.”

I chuckle and cling to her like she’s life support, my arms holding her tight, and letting her embrace remind me I’m not alone. I’ve known Soph since the seventh grade, when we met at an Elite hockey summer camp we attended throughout the years. She was my rock and best friend in my teens, and it’s because of her that I’m here now. 

She also happens to be the only one who knows my real identity and the reason I’ve transferred.

Sophie turns to head into the old, Victorian style, three-story house that will be my new home. It’s owned by her father, and the house I’ll be sharing with five other athletes from the school. This will be the first time I’ve lived with roommates. The past two years of college, I lived at home in Duluth with my family and not in the dorms on the Big Lake University campus.

Sophie latches her hand to my wrist to pull me into the house, motioning me inside.

“Come on. Leave your bags and I’ll get you introduced to everyone who’s here so far.”

We step through the doorway and I get my first look into the sparse main living and dining areas flanking the long hallway entrance. A large-screen TV, a couple of chairs, and two long couches adorn the living room, where at the moment, two giant-sized guys sit playing a video game. Their voices are loud and argumentative, in a way only friends can rib and razz one another. The words “motherfucker” and “cocksucker” are thrown around good-naturedly. 

Soph nods her chin toward the two guys. “That’s Stefan and Langston. They’re twins, both on the lacrosse team. Yo, guys. This is our new girl, Aria. Aria, meet Stef and Lang.”

One of them, no idea which, turns to the side so I can see his profile, but doesn’t let his eyes leave the game. He raises a hand and says, “Cheers, mate.”

The other brother doesn’t turn around, his eyes glued to the TV, his thumbs moving rapidly over the game controller but still manages a, “Hiya, Aria.”

Both have noticeable British accents. Or maybe Australian. I can’t be sure until Sophie clears it up for me.

“They’re from England. Cool guys, very polite and helpful around the house.” She shrugs and leads me into the kitchen. “And I even made an exception on the no pet policy because Stefan has a rodent.” 

My eyes widen at the mention of a rodent. I hate mice. I do a quick scan around the room in the event I see a tail scurrying over the floor, relieved to only find a girl sitting at the kitchen table, who I assume is Sammie Loper.

I’ve never met Sam before. But she and Soph are good friends and Sam is also on our hockey team. She’s a sophomore forward, and grew up in a small town in Alberta, Canada.

Sam quietly watches me, giving me a shy smile and a shrug.

“It’s a wee hamster!” This correction obviously comes from Stefan, the hamster’s owner, who yells it over his shoulder without looking up.

Soph contorts her face and then waves her hand in the direction of Sam. “Whatever. Potato. Poh-ta-to. And here we have the beautiful, talented, and very whipped housemate, Samantha. Sam, this is my good friend, Aria…Huntington.”

I whip my head to Soph who’s eyes bug out in apology. We’d been over it a hundred times if once before. No one here would know me by my real last name.

Sam stands up and crosses the kitchen, leaning in to give me an awkward hug. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Aria. Soph hasn’t stopped talking about you.”

“Only good things, I hope.” I lift a speculative brow at Sophie over my shoulder, who roots around in the fridge, digging inside to pull out some water bottles.

She snorts sarcastically. “I told her you swear and drink like a sailor, leave the seat up on the toilet, and fart in your sleep.”

We all laugh and Sophie reconsiders. “Oh wait. It’s Langs and Stef who do that. Silly me.” 

Sophie hands me a water and I take a gulp. I feel lighter already being in Sophie’s presence. Sam returns to her seat and stares down at her phone clasped tightly in her hand, her eyes glued to the screen as if there’s news of an alien invasion she doesn’t want to miss out on. 

Sophie leans in and whispers in my ear. “She and her boyfriend are already in a fight. She’s waiting for him to apologize.”

“Ah,” I say lamely, silently hoping we don’t have any relationship drama in the house. “Does he live here, too?”

After downing the water in three huge gulps, I realize I’m in need of a bathroom, sooner rather than later.

I follow Soph out of the kitchen, my gaze flicking back to Sam who’s slumped over her phone, head hung low, looking like she’s on the verge of tears.

“Justin, her bf, lives in the dorms but he spends a lot of time here. Come on, I’ll give you the dime tour of the house and then we can get the guys to help bring in your stuff.”

I nod and follow behind, reflecting on the situation with Sam and her boyfriend. Not to judge, but I honestly don’t understand the dynamics of relationships and why girls become so worked up over guys. Having never been in that situation, since I’ve never been in a relationship myself, I can’t comprehend the crazy emotions it tends to bring out. Seems like a lot of fuss over nothing if you ask me. 

This is precisely why I don’t want a boyfriend or a relationship of any kind. There’s too much at stake for me this year. My objective this year is two-fold; to improve my game and help my new team make the tournament next February, and to receive an invitation to join Team USA women’s hockey. 

I’ve got too much invested in my future to be sidetracked by a guy. It’s not worth it in my book. My family drama has been enough of a distraction. 

Sophie points out the various rooms on the main floor as I investigate each one. The one on the left looks like it’s been ransacked. I lift my eyebrows curiously. 

“That’s my bedroom,” she muses with a shrug. “It’s why I don’t share a room with anyone. Sammie and I were roommates our freshman year and truth be told I’m surprised our friendship is still intact. You’ll notice her room is spotless.”

Sure enough, I peer into her bedroom to find it clean as a whistle. Maybe even bordering on obsessively clean. Sophie turns the corner, and we head up a set of stairs leading to the second floor.

“Her dad was military, hence the pristinely made bed. Plus, she’s barely ever home to mess it up, anyway.” She flips on the light switch. “Although, right now, Justin’s being a dickhead to her, so she’ll likely be home tonight. Which reminds me, you’re coming out with us to the party at the hockey house.”

I groan. “Really? Do I have to? I’m exhausted, Soph. That drive was a bitch.”

I glide my hand over the old wood banister as we work our way upstairs, feeling the dents and grooves of the wood grain against my palm. The wood is a dark oak, thick and sturdy enough to withstand the endless cycle of renters in and out of the house over the years. 

We hit the landing where there are bikes, athletic equipment and various other sporting gear strewn about the hallway.

Sophie twists her head back to me. “Yes, you’re going. Take a nap beforehand. You’ll be fine.”

I take a step over a lacrosse stick and sigh. 

“This floor is where the twins sleep.” She takes a deep sniff, her nose scrunching at the odiferous smell. “Ugh, his hamster reeks. Or maybe it’s coming from their bathroom.”

She shakes her head in disgust and we continue climbing one more round of stairs to the top floor where my room will be.

Because I’m so tired, it takes me a moment to latch onto something she said about the party.

“The hockey house?” I ask, my brows lifting skyward.

Sophie stops abruptly, spinning around on the step above me. I catch myself before ramming into her stomach, grabbing hold of the railing to keep from falling backwards. She stares down at me, her expression incredulous as if I just told her Santa Claus isn’t real.

“The hockey house is where most of the hockey guys live and where we hang out for parties. Tonight’s the pre-semester soirée. Didn’t you get the text I sent you earlier? I can’t wait to introduce you to everybody. Including Callan, your new neighbor.”

She hops up the last two steps, landing on the top floor with a soft thump. Then she extends her arms wide, spinning in a circle to indicate the magnificence of the area. 

“Here it is. What do you think?”

I take in the bright and open area, dormers on the front and backside, the roof curving in an arched slope, giving it an attic-like feel. Once again, there are two bedrooms and one bathroom, which I was informed I’d be sharing with my suitemate. A senior hockey player named Callan. Sophie hasn’t mentioned much else about him except he’s from Canada, and isn’t slated to be moved in until sometime before Monday. 

Even the doorknobs are the old, octagon-style Victorian glass knobs. She opens the door to the left as it squeaks on its hinges and inside is a double mattress on a brass bedframe, a five-drawer bureau, a closet and a chair. 

A small window with the paint chipping from the frame is open above the bed, a light early fall breeze blowing inside, the scent of autumn leaves wafting through. 

I smile a genuine smile for the first time in weeks, and say, “It’s perfect, Soph.”

My friend smiles, and she embraces me in a hug. It’s good to be in the presence of a friend who knows what I’m going through and won’t judge me for something I can’t control.

“Awesome. Now let’s go get the lugs off the couch downstairs and get them to help bring your bags up to your room. Spend some time getting settled and then we’ll head to the party at nine.”

I stare longingly at the bed, wishing I could lay down and sleep for a week. But I can’t possibly turn her down since she has been nothing but supportive, and she’s gone out of her way to get me this room so I wouldn’t be stuck in the crappy and overcrowded dorms. I reluctantly nod and give her a double thumbs up.

“Sounds good. I’m in.”

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First Chapter: Playmaker

Chapter OneARIA

After a twenty-two-hour drive through some of the barest parts of Canada, en route from Minnesota to Vermont, the last thing I want to do is go to a college party.

I’d rather obsess over the decision which brought me here. 

Besides eating my way through two full bags of venison jerky—courtesy of my mother—drinking twelve bottles of Diet Dr Pepper, pouring gallons of black coffee down my throat, and running through a treasure trove of Spotify playlists, obsessing over transferring schools was what kept me awake on the road. 

And obsess I did.

If someone would have told me this time last year I’d transfer to Burlington University at the start of my junior year of college, I would’ve laughed so hard I’d pee my pants.

Yet here I am, pulling up to my new off-campus house to start over. Leaving my old life behind—my parents, my sister, my friends, my school and my hockey team—and beginning again with a new identity. 

Shoving all my anxiety deep below the surface, I fling open the car door of my packed-to-the-brim Subaru and affix a smile on my face as I step out into the awaiting arms of my longtime hockey teammate and friend, and now housemate, Sophie Ricci.

“I’m so happy you made it in one piece!” Sophie exclaims, rocking me back and forth in her arms. “I’ve been waiting so long to see your ugly face. I was worried you got detained at the border or something.”

I chuckle and cling to her like she’s life support, my arms holding her tight, and letting her embrace remind me I’m not alone. I’ve known Soph since the seventh grade, when we met at an Elite hockey summer camp we attended throughout the years. She was my rock and best friend in my teens, and it’s because of her that I’m here now. 

She also happens to be the only one who knows my real identity and the reason I’ve transferred.

Sophie turns to head into the old, Victorian style, three-story house that will be my new home. It’s owned by her father, and the house I’ll be sharing with five other athletes from the school. This will be the first time I’ve lived with roommates. The past two years of college, I lived at home in Duluth with my family and not in the dorms on the Big Lake University campus.

Sophie latches her hand to my wrist to pull me into the house, motioning me inside.

“Come on. Leave your bags and I’ll get you introduced to everyone who’s here so far.”

We step through the doorway and I get my first look into the sparse main living and dining areas flanking the long hallway entrance. A large-screen TV, a couple of chairs, and two long couches adorn the living room, where at the moment, two giant-sized guys sit playing a video game. Their voices are loud and argumentative, in a way only friends can rib and razz one another. The words “motherfucker” and “cocksucker” are thrown around good-naturedly. 

Soph nods her chin toward the two guys. “That’s Stefan and Langston. They’re twins, both on the lacrosse team. Yo, guys. This is our new girl, Aria. Aria, meet Stef and Lang.”

One of them, no idea which, turns to the side so I can see his profile, but doesn’t let his eyes leave the game. He raises a hand and says, “Cheers, mate.”

The other brother doesn’t turn around, his eyes glued to the TV, his thumbs moving rapidly over the game controller but still manages a, “Hiya, Aria.”

Both have noticeable British accents. Or maybe Australian. I can’t be sure until Sophie clears it up for me.

“They’re from England. Cool guys, very polite and helpful around the house.” She shrugs and leads me into the kitchen. “And I even made an exception on the no pet policy because Stefan has a rodent.” 

My eyes widen at the mention of a rodent. I hate mice. I do a quick scan around the room in the event I see a tail scurrying over the floor, relieved to only find a girl sitting at the kitchen table, who I assume is Sammie Loper.

I’ve never met Sam before. But she and Soph are good friends and Sam is also on our hockey team. She’s a sophomore forward, and grew up in a small town in Alberta, Canada.

Sam quietly watches me, giving me a shy smile and a shrug.

“It’s a wee hamster!” This correction obviously comes from Stefan, the hamster’s owner, who yells it over his shoulder without looking up.

Soph contorts her face and then waves her hand in the direction of Sam. “Whatever. Potato. Poh-ta-to. And here we have the beautiful, talented, and very whipped housemate, Samantha. Sam, this is my good friend, Aria…Huntington.”

I whip my head to Soph who’s eyes bug out in apology. We’d been over it a hundred times if once before. No one here would know me by my real last name.

Sam stands up and crosses the kitchen, leaning in to give me an awkward hug. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Aria. Soph hasn’t stopped talking about you.”

“Only good things, I hope.” I lift a speculative brow at Sophie over my shoulder, who roots around in the fridge, digging inside to pull out some water bottles.

She snorts sarcastically. “I told her you swear and drink like a sailor, leave the seat up on the toilet, and fart in your sleep.”

We all laugh and Sophie reconsiders. “Oh wait. It’s Langs and Stef who do that. Silly me.” 

Sophie hands me a water and I take a gulp. I feel lighter already being in Sophie’s presence. Sam returns to her seat and stares down at her phone clasped tightly in her hand, her eyes glued to the screen as if there’s news of an alien invasion she doesn’t want to miss out on. 

Sophie leans in and whispers in my ear. “She and her boyfriend are already in a fight. She’s waiting for him to apologize.”

“Ah,” I say lamely, silently hoping we don’t have any relationship drama in the house. “Does he live here, too?”

After downing the water in three huge gulps, I realize I’m in need of a bathroom, sooner rather than later.

I follow Soph out of the kitchen, my gaze flicking back to Sam who’s slumped over her phone, head hung low, looking like she’s on the verge of tears.

“Justin, her bf, lives in the dorms but he spends a lot of time here. Come on, I’ll give you the dime tour of the house and then we can get the guys to help bring in your stuff.”

I nod and follow behind, reflecting on the situation with Sam and her boyfriend. Not to judge, but I honestly don’t understand the dynamics of relationships and why girls become so worked up over guys. Having never been in that situation, since I’ve never been in a relationship myself, I can’t comprehend the crazy emotions it tends to bring out. Seems like a lot of fuss over nothing if you ask me. 

This is precisely why I don’t want a boyfriend or a relationship of any kind. There’s too much at stake for me this year. My objective this year is two-fold; to improve my game and help my new team make the tournament next February, and to receive an invitation to join Team USA women’s hockey. 

I’ve got too much invested in my future to be sidetracked by a guy. It’s not worth it in my book. My family drama has been enough of a distraction. 

Sophie points out the various rooms on the main floor as I investigate each one. The one on the left looks like it’s been ransacked. I lift my eyebrows curiously. 

“That’s my bedroom,” she muses with a shrug. “It’s why I don’t share a room with anyone. Sammie and I were roommates our freshman year and truth be told I’m surprised our friendship is still intact. You’ll notice her room is spotless.”

Sure enough, I peer into her bedroom to find it clean as a whistle. Maybe even bordering on obsessively clean. Sophie turns the corner, and we head up a set of stairs leading to the second floor.

“Her dad was military, hence the pristinely made bed. Plus, she’s barely ever home to mess it up, anyway.” She flips on the light switch. “Although, right now, Justin’s being a dickhead to her, so she’ll likely be home tonight. Which reminds me, you’re coming out with us to the party at the hockey house.”

I groan. “Really? Do I have to? I’m exhausted, Soph. That drive was a bitch.”

I glide my hand over the old wood banister as we work our way upstairs, feeling the dents and grooves of the wood grain against my palm. The wood is a dark oak, thick and sturdy enough to withstand the endless cycle of renters in and out of the house over the years. 

We hit the landing where there are bikes, athletic equipment and various other sporting gear strewn about the hallway.

Sophie twists her head back to me. “Yes, you’re going. Take a nap beforehand. You’ll be fine.”

I take a step over a lacrosse stick and sigh. 

“This floor is where the twins sleep.” She takes a deep sniff, her nose scrunching at the odiferous smell. “Ugh, his hamster reeks. Or maybe it’s coming from their bathroom.”

She shakes her head in disgust and we continue climbing one more round of stairs to the top floor where my room will be.

Because I’m so tired, it takes me a moment to latch onto something she said about the party.

“The hockey house?” I ask, my brows lifting skyward.

Sophie stops abruptly, spinning around on the step above me. I catch myself before ramming into her stomach, grabbing hold of the railing to keep from falling backwards. She stares down at me, her expression incredulous as if I just told her Santa Claus isn’t real.

“The hockey house is where most of the hockey guys live and where we hang out for parties. Tonight’s the pre-semester soirée. Didn’t you get the text I sent you earlier? I can’t wait to introduce you to everybody. Including Callan, your new neighbor.”

She hops up the last two steps, landing on the top floor with a soft thump. Then she extends her arms wide, spinning in a circle to indicate the magnificence of the area. 

“Here it is. What do you think?”

I take in the bright and open area, dormers on the front and backside, the roof curving in an arched slope, giving it an attic-like feel. Once again, there are two bedrooms and one bathroom, which I was informed I’d be sharing with my suitemate. A senior hockey player named Callan. Sophie hasn’t mentioned much else about him except he’s from Canada, and isn’t slated to be moved in until sometime before Monday. 

Even the doorknobs are the old, octagon-style Victorian glass knobs. She opens the door to the left as it squeaks on its hinges and inside is a double mattress on a brass bedframe, a five-drawer bureau, a closet and a chair. 

A small window with the paint chipping from the frame is open above the bed, a light early fall breeze blowing inside, the scent of autumn leaves wafting through. 

I smile a genuine smile for the first time in weeks, and say, “It’s perfect, Soph.”

My friend smiles, and she embraces me in a hug. It’s good to be in the presence of a friend who knows what I’m going through and won’t judge me for something I can’t control.

“Awesome. Now let’s go get the lugs off the couch downstairs and get them to help bring your bags up to your room. Spend some time getting settled and then we’ll head to the party at nine.”

I stare longingly at the bed, wishing I could lay down and sleep for a week. But I can’t possibly turn her down since she has been nothing but supportive, and she’s gone out of her way to get me this room so I wouldn’t be stuck in the crappy and overcrowded dorms. I reluctantly nod and give her a double thumbs up.

“Sounds good. I’m in.”

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First Chapter: Snowballed

Noah

“With the eighth pick of the NHL Draft, Vancouver selects Adam Goodwin of the Arizona State Sun Devils hockey program.”

Okay, it’s showtime. Stand. Smile. Look happy, no—happier. If only my lips weren’t sticking to my teeth. There are cameras everywhere. Not only the sports networks, but everyone’s phones. All they need is one photo of me, not looking completely delighted that my little bro just went in the top ten and I’m toast. People love drama and jealousy. 

And besides, I am happy. Adam worked his ass off, and he deserves this. I watch him envelop our tiny mother in a hug, and then get an embrace and whispered words from our dad. The expression on Dad’s face does me in. He looks delighted… and relieved. He must be thinking, finally a son who made it to the NHL. Like I was supposed to do. My stomach clenches, but I push down the reaction—stay mentally strong.

Adam shuffles his way towards the aisle, hugging our sister Chi who makes him laugh, then me.

He bends to whisper in my ear, “Couldn’t have done it without you, Noah.” 

“I know. Who helped you pad your stats this season?” I reply. Since I’m 22 and he’s 18, this past season was the first time we’ve ever played on the same team. We both had our best seasons ever, but only Adam’s counts. Again I swallow down the bitterness that I really don’t want to feel. He’s my little brother, for fuck’s sake.

Adam grins, then heads down towards the stage. He sheds his suit jacket on the way. When he gets to the stage, he shakes hands with the Vancouver management team, then pulls on the brand new jersey and team ball cap. When he faces the crowd, his smile is blinding.

How many times have I imagined this exact moment: getting chosen by an NHL team, pulling on the jersey, and making my family proud? I must have sighed because Chi squeezes my hand. Time to put my game face back on—hey, you don’t become team poker champion without learning to hide your emotions.

“Excuse me.” An attractive young woman with auburn hair and a French-Canadian accent taps me on the shoulder. I look up and smile. But she doesn’t even see me. She’s trying to get my parents’ attention. She leans over me, sticking her rounded ass in my face like I’m nothing more than furniture.

“Gary? Candy? Could you come with me for an interview with your son?”

My parents rise. I move out of the way so they can follow the woman down to the TV set-up. My father straightens his tie, his face a portrait in pride and joy. My mother doesn’t primp at all, since she already looks perfect. You have to get up pretty early to catch a former figure skater without camera-ready hair and makeup. 

“Usually they only interview the fathers,” Chi points out to me. “As if the mothers did nothing.”

I shrug. Sure, I’ve played with guys whose mothers did all the driving to practices and tourneys, but our dad coached all three of us. Besides, the draft is a tedious day with seconds of excitement followed by minutes of boredom. Who could resist an interview with ice royalty: a former NHL defenseman and an Olympic figure skating champion? 

Chi holds up her phone. “Want to watch the interview?”

“No,” I reply childishly. Naturally, moments later I’m wearing one of her AirPods with a screen shoved in my face.

“We’re so pleased to welcome our latest draft pick, Adam Goodwin, and his parents—former NHL defenseman, Gary Goodwin, and Olympic gold medalist, Candy Sugimoto. Well, Gary and Candy, you must be so proud of your son.”

I tune out. I know exactly what will happen next: my father will link hard work and training to Adam’s success and slip in the name of his hockey academy in SoCal. My mother will be charming and razor smart, as befits her current job as a powerhouse sports agent. And Adam will say something goofy and hilarious. He’s the fun one in our family. Chi’s the smart one. And I’m the serious, responsible one—like oldest siblings everywhere.

But right now, the last thing I want to be is responsible. I want to throw a tantrum like a three-year old. I want to pound my fists and feet on the ground and scream out, “Why is life so fucking unfair?” Well, maybe a toddler wouldn’t use that language. The big Montreal arena feels hot and oppressive. I can’t breathe, and there’s sweat trickling down my back. 

“I’m taking off,” I tell Chi. 

Her eyes widen. “Now?”

“Yeah. Adam’s drafted now. We don’t have to keep hanging out here.” I glance at Dad and Adam’s empty seats. Nobody will even notice I’m gone. 

“I’m coming too.” Chi jumps up, and we both make our way out of the arena. “I’ll text Mom that we’ll meet them back at the hotel.”

Chi is the consummate diplomat, covering my hissy fit so that nobody will lose face. But damn, I want to rebel, even if it’s in a small way. There’s so much frustration in me right now and nowhere to direct it. It’s nobody’s fault that I’ll never get a shot at the NHL. Unless I blame my petite Japanese mother for passing on her height genes. My whole life, all I’ve heard is that I’m too short for a defenseman. Maybe that’s bullshit, because there have been other 5’9” defensemen in the League. Not many, but it’s not impossible. What I know beyond a doubt is that if I were 6’3”, I would have been drafted. Not in the first round like Adam, but some team would have taken a chance on me. I’ve got the skating skills, I’ve got the hockey smarts, and I have the family pedigree.

The Bell Centre is like a rat maze with exits blocked everywhere. As we’re making our way out, someone calls my name.

I turn, and it’s Bart Keller, coach of the Burlington University hockey team. He’d tried to recruit me before I entered college, and he’s the only coach who has kept in touch since then.

“Noah. Good to see you.” He shakes my hand.

“Coach Keller. What are you doing here?” He’s a fit middle-aged man with graying hair and stern expression. Rumor has it that he’s tough but fair.

“It’s a short drive from Burlington,” he says. “I’m here to support a few guys from the team who are in the draft. Also talk to some new guys.”

In other words, recruiting. Probably talking to families with younger siblings, since all the draft year players would already be committed to teams. 

Chi nudges me, and I introduce her to Coach Keller.

“Oh, I know you of course,” he says. “You’re on the national team radar.”

She tries not to smile. Chi’s big dream is to make the U.S. women’s hockey team, and while she’s been close, it hasn’t happened yet. Adam’s a winner, but Chi and I are runners-up—that’s what my dad would say anyway. But at least Chi still has a chance.

“Where are you headed?” he asks us.

“Just back to the hotel,” I say.

“Maybe a little shopping,” Chi adds, because there are many stores on our walk back, and she loves the stylish Montreal boutiques.

“Got time for coffee and a chat?” he asks me.

I look over at Chi, and she nods. “I’ll be fine. See you at the hotel.”

Coach Keller leads the way to a nearby coffee shop. He gets a coffee, but I get a water. Even though it’s summer, I’m still in training. The only seat for two is by the front window where we get to watch the parade of humanity walk by.

“Pretty big day for your brother,” he says.

“Yeah. Adam’s worked hard. He deserves it.” It’s my automatic answer, but it sounds fake as it comes out. Who knows better than a college hockey coach that hard work doesn’t always bring results? Because I’ve worked my ass off my whole life and kept my focus on hockey. Some guys call me robotic behind my back because I’m so dedicated. But what has all that hard work achieved? Here I am—the brother of a guy who got drafted. 

Coach is watching me. He’s a smart guy, but I hope he doesn’t perceive my toxic mix of emotions. I love Adam, and feeling jealousy and resentment burns my guts.

“Let me get right down to it,” Coach says. “We talked about you coming to Burlington to play your final year of Div 1 hockey. I know it’s late, but my offer is still open. You’re doing grad studies in education, and we’ve got an excellent program. Besides, it’s a chance for a fresh start, playing hockey in a place where hockey is king. Not like those sunbelt markets.”

I wince because that’s true. At Arizona State, we get good crowds, but we’re new and an anomaly. When our team goes on the road, I get to see what real college hockey fanatics are like. But Coach Keller’s offer is ridiculous. I’ve played at Arizona State my whole college career. My dad flies in to see games once or twice a month, and he’s good friends with the coach. My future is already set. I’m going to finish my hockey career, get my education degree, and start working at my dad’s hockey academy. The only acceptable detour would be playing hockey in Europe.

Coach keeps talking. “I could really use a guy like you, a mobile defenseman who can score. And you’ve got excellent leadership and teaching skills too, I’ve got some young guys who would really benefit from playing with you.”

There’s still no way, but his flattery is nice to hear. It’s been a long time since anyone said that they needed my hockey skills. Sure, my coach and teammates in Arizona appreciate me, but I’m so reliable that I get taken for granted.

The sales pitch continues. “No disrespect, but for your last year of college hockey, wouldn’t it be nice to play on a team that has a chance to get to the Frozen Four? We won two years ago. And we’ve still got some of those players.”

That’s true. ASU is still developing. In fact, even my dad wondered if I’d show better in a top hockey school. But since he works hard to develop hockey in new markets, the Arizona program fits with that vision. Being close, my dad could be more hands-on with my career and Adam’s.

As if reading my mind, Coach Keller adds, “Burlington is a chance to be your own man.”

He doesn’t even mention my father, but we both know. When your father is a legendary NHL defenseman, everything you do gets you compared to him. And so far, I’ve come up short.

There’s a brief silence as we watch the crowd and sip our drinks. This is a ridiculous offer. Why on earth would I change my plans at the last minute and travel completely across the country to play one year of hockey? Vermont is as far as I could get from my home in Los Angeles without leaving the country. I know no one there, and I know zero about the university. It’s insane. 

Yet something inside me stirs. The idea of being far from family pressure and expectation shimmers like a restful oasis.

“Okay, I’ll come to Burlington,” I say. The words sit in space for a moment like neither of us can believe them.

“Really?” Even Coach Keller looks shocked at his success.

“Yeah. I want a change.” For some reason, I trust him. This offer feels good to me. Lots of coaches tried to recruit me out of high school, but he’s the only one who suggested a transfer when he heard I was doing grad school.

He grins. His smile looks a bit rusty. like he doesn’t use it much. He’s going to be a tough coach, but that’s fine. He pulls out his phone and makes a few notes. “That’s great. I’ll contact the Master of Education program, get all the paperwork done, and send it to you. And I’ll let the team know the good news.” He’s smart, setting things in motion right away so that I can’t weasel out. But I won’t. For the first time today, I feel like I can breathe. 

The coach shakes my hand. “Well, I better get back, make sure I don’t miss any of my players.”

He leaves, and I watch his quick stride as he goes back to the arena. Back to recruit and strengthen his team—my new team now, the Burlington Bulls. 

As I’m walking back to the hotel, I see Chi ahead of me. She’s already got two shopping bags. I speed up and catch her at a red light.

“Hey, Noah.” She holds up the bags. “I got the cutest shoes. And two summer tops. I love the boutiques here.”

“Is there any place on earth you don’t love shopping?” I tease her. I feel so good, floating and free.

“True dat,” Chi agrees. “So, what did that coach want?”

“He asked me to transfer to Burlington for my grad year. To play hockey there.”

“Can you even do that? I thought you had to redshirt one season if you changed colleges.” Chi is in the women’s hockey program at ASU too.

“You can do it if you’re going to grad school,” I explain. 

“Poor guy. What did he say when you turned him down?” She’s not really paying attention to our conversation because there’s a window display calling out to her.

“I didn’t say no.” 

Chi points to a mannequin. “Do you think that color would look good on—wait, what did you say?”

Now I have her attention. “I told him I’d go to Burlington.”

Her eyes and her mouth go round. “What? Why would you do that?”

“I feel like I need a change.” My explanation sounds lame, but it’s all I have. I can’t explain why—for the first time in my life—I’ve made a decision on intuition. Instead of weighing the pros and cons like a judge and getting opinions and approvals, I just did something that felt right. Yeah, it’s completely out of character. I’m the last person to be spontaneous.

Chi stares at me in astonishment. We’re in the lobby of the Hotel Germaine now. It’s a classy hotel—my mother likes to travel first class. The staff smoothly greets us in English and French.

We get into the elevator, and Chi sighs. “You know that Dad is not going to be happy, right?”

I swallow. Suddenly, all the consequences of my decision rise before me: the logistics of moving to Vermont, establishing myself on a new team, and my parents’ reactions. My good vibes burst like a pricked balloon.

* * *

Chi turns out to be wrong. Dad is more than unhappy. He is incandescently furious. 

I wait until after our celebratory dinner at some high-end restaurant. Until after Adam takes off to meet up with some hockey buddies, all of them excited because the drinking age is eighteen in Montreal. Until after Chi has a chance to disappear into her room. Then I deliver my news in my parents’ suite.

At first, my dad only stares at me. Then I notice the flush of color moving up his neck. Oh shit.

“Are you out of your mind?” he asks. “Why would you give up on your college hockey career to move to the middle of nowhere on a team you know nothing about?” 

When he’s mad, he can’t sit still. He rises to his full 6’4”. 

During his playing days, my dad was a feared defenseman. He wasn’t a fighter, but he had an unpredictable mean streak. He would crosscheck, spear, and hack at any opponent who tried to set up in front of his net. Meanness is a quality I lack, as my father has pointed out many times.

That meanness is radiating from him now. He paces the room in pissed off silence. Then he returns to loom over me.

“After everything I’ve done for your hockey career, you’re leaving? Arizona needs you. What’s Andy going to do without his best d-man back there?”

“It’ll mean more playing time for guys like Heely and Binder, or maybe some of the freshmen,” I say. College hockey is like that; the roster changes every year as guys come and go. The team will miss Adam a lot more than me.

“What about my connections? I can still get guys out to see you play. It’s your last chance to get interest from NHL clubs.”

“That train left the station a long time ago.” Damn it, why do we have to keep going over this? Late-developing college players sign with teams after graduating, but I’ve never had an offer. Yet my father keeps insisting that the next season will be different. “Look, Dad, Adam’s been drafted now. Can’t you just be happy that you’ve got one son who’s going to play in the NHL?”

“You could still play pro hockey. Start in the ECHL and work your way up,” he says. But how often does that happen? Maybe a handful of players ever made it through the ECHL to the AHL and then up to the NHL. Besides, the ECHL is a brutal league. As a solid but undersized defenseman, I’d get hit a lot. And the ECHL means fights, and I’m not a fighter.

“Noah.” My mother’s voice is calm. She leaves the hockey stuff to my dad. “This seems like a very unconsidered decision on your part. What’s their grad school like?” School is important to her. She’s the one who encouraged me to go to graduate school when I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do after my arts degree. My dad is the one who saw grad school as one more kick at the hockey can.

“It’s good. The Masters of Education will give me a chance to do specialized studies in sports instruction.” I’d looked over the curriculum when Coach Keller first contacted me last spring, and it’s a decent one. At least as good as the one at Arizona State. Besides, college athletes already have a full plate without adding tough course loads.

My mother shakes her head. “You haven’t even looked into accommodations in Vermont. You and Adam were supposed to share our townhouse next year. This decision is going to cause a lot of extra work for me.” 

My parents bought the Tempe duplex as an investment and a way to solve our housing issues. Adam and I lived together on one side of a duplex last year, while Chi and two friends lived in the other. However, if Adam makes it to the NHL and doesn’t need to live in Arizona, nobody will be complaining about the extra work.

“I don’t think it’ll be hard to rent out,” I say.

My dad slams his hand down on the table, and a potted orchid jumps.

“I won’t let you mess up your life like this!”

“Gary,” my mother cautions him.

“I’m an adult now,” I remind him although I feel about twelve years old. It’s usually Chi and Adam who mess up and get the angry lectures—never me.

“You’re spoiled,” my dad declares.  “You shrug off the townhouse like it’s no big deal. Everything’s come too easy to you.”

I shake my head. That’s not true. I was more than happy to find my own housing, but my parents were the ones who insisted their kids have “safe, comfortable” places to live. 

My father crosses his arms. He’s going to deliver a verbal blow, and I brace myself.

“Okay, hot shot. If you’re so determined to strike your own path, do it. But you’re cut off. No more allowance, no car, no credit cards. We’ll see how far you get on your own.”

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First Chapter: Friendzoned

Chapter one

“Excuse me, but I wanted an iced nonfat latte with one sweetener. This is . . . well, it’s not that. It’s sweeter than anything I’ve ever had. Either way, this isn’t what I ordered and I’m in a hurry. . . so, here.”

Taking a deep breath, I tried to suppress an eye roll as a twenty-something, fairly skinny, long-lashed woman waved the coffee I’d just prepared for her in my face. It was no surprise to see she was wearing a pair of cutoff jean shorts and cutesy hiking boots, her curled brown hair splayed perfectly over the collar of her red-and-navy flannel shirt. It was the exact outfit I could imagine myself wearing if I were on the other side of the counter, living my best life in Vermont rather than slinging coffees for tips.

At that moment, I didn’t have time to wonder about what-ifs as she shouted at me over the noise of the steamer.

Blowing a frizzy strand of my own tangled red hair out of my eye, I said evenly, “That’s what I made. An iced latte with sweetener. Skinny, of course.”

Needing to fill the next order, I grabbed the next mug on the counter—a reusable dark blue Yeti, heavy as a brick, one of those fancy yet crunchy stainless-steel ones.

No surprise. We’re in Vermont, Murphy. A sticker marked americano, extra hot was stuck to its side, and I rolled my eyes for the second time in mere seconds. What’s wrong with one of our paper cups if you recycle it later?

“No, this has two sweeteners,” Little Miss Perfect Nature Lover said, narrowing her eyes. “I can tell the difference. By the way, no need to roll your eyes at me.”

Isn’t everyone in Vermont supposed to be nice?

“That’s not what I meant. I mean, I’m not,” I said as my coworker Roderick hurried behind me, carrying a tray of fresh-baked scones for the pastry display case.

Resisting the urge to snatch a sugary calorie-laden pastry for myself, I tried to catch my breath. Lowering my voice to a whisper, I said, “What I mean is . . . the eye rolling wasn’t for you.” Unable to calm my nerves, I fluttered my hand in front of my face. It was an odd thing to do, and I had no clue why I did it. With Roderick finally gone, I said, “I was thinking about something I had to do later. Here, give me your drink.”

I tried to cover my tracks, hoping that one of my bosses, Zara Rossi, was too busy at the register to hear what was going on. I liked Zara, and I didn’t want to jeopardize this job or her good feelings toward me. She and her business partner, Audrey Shipley, had taken a chance on hiring me with no barista experience.

Little Miss Perfect raised a brow at me. “Well, maybe a little less energy on what you have to do later and more focusing on my drink. How about that?”

Who was this chick? And where did she think she was? Back in Manhattan, I’d expect this type of behavior—sadly, from my old friends or perhaps even myself—but this was the friendly Upper Valley of Vermont.

Reaching across the counter with my coffee-stained hand, I said, “I’ll remake it.”

Back when I’d visited the Busy Bean as a customer, I never acted this way. I’d been taught to always smile like a pretty socialite when meeting new people, to be polite and demure like a woman should be. Most importantly, I was expected to never, ever let my emotions get the best of me. Even when my world had been falling apart, I’d flashed my pearly whites and forged ahead, despite everyone’s best efforts to disparage me.

After a while, the effort to keep up the facade was too much—even for me.

The thing is, I’d been a little sassy in my former life, but I would have never handed the cup over like this girl did. I would have complained to the manager before buying myself a new drink, but the money didn’t used to mean much to me.

Taking the plastic cup from Little Miss Perfect Nature Lover, who obviously wasn’t concerned with the environment like the Yeti drinker downstream, I blew the same errant out-of-control strand of hair out of my face. I’d thought my two weeks of training with Kirk were hard, but manning the coffee bar by myself was a lot harder than I’d imagined. In the meantime, he was probably having a grand time in Costa Rica, while I was sweating it out in front of the mammoth espresso machine.

Without a lot of time to dwell on it, I was mentally going through the steps to make an iced nonfat latte when Zara called my name from across the counter.

“Murphy? Do you have the Americano? We have a doc who needs to get back to patients. I don’t mean to rush you, but hurry this one order.” Her dark hair in a glossy ponytail, tamed and in way more control than my own, drew my attention. I really needed to start putting myself together better for this job.

Looking up for a second, I took in the scene at the Bean. For four o’clock in the afternoon, it was packed. All the tables were filled with smiling, happy-go-lucky Vermonters and tourists. If this were New York, orders would have been shouted over noisy patrons barking for someone or anyone to hurry up. And no doctor would grab coffee on their own in the city. Here in idyllic Colebury, there was a short line at the register, and a guy walking toward the end of the bar.

“Shit.” I snatched my hand away from the steamer, blinking back tears to see a small blister forming. Looking up again, I checked to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.

Nope.

It wasn’t just any guy. Standing before me was Ben Rooney, although a more filled-out (if that were possible), and obviously more mature and grown-up version of the Ben I knew. It had been close to—I counted in my head—fourteen years since I saw him last, but I’d recognize him anywhere. His jet-black hair was still a wild mess, but the dusty scruff along his jaw and the tiniest crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes were new and way, way sexy.

Still, I’d know the guy I’d crushed on for four years anywhere. I’d only recently realized that he’d liked me too back then, but it wouldn’t have mattered. My parents would have never allowed it.

Who am I kidding? I didn’t allow it either.

Anyway, I swooned over the small creases that appeared as Ben smiled back at Little Miss Perfect.

Quickly pouring nonfat milk over the contents of a yellow packet sprinkled at the bottom of a new plastic cup full of ice, I poured in two espresso shots and pushed the drink across the counter. “Here you go. A brand-spanking-new iced latte.”

“Well, the first one wasn’t what I wanted, so you can’t say that.” She cocked her head to the side, mocking me.

I’d never felt smaller, and somewhere deep in my gut, hoped I’d never made anyone feel that way. But I couldn’t bother to argue with her because now I’d gone and foolishly made eye contact with Ben.

The last time I saw him was after a graduation party. It had been one of those fancy catered events with purple-and-gold tablecloths representing our school colors, and hired help in tuxedos running to and fro. Exactly the type of party that always sent up Ben’s hackles. He used to moan and groan about having to attend them when we studied in my room, sitting on the floor with our thighs almost touching and our backs against the side of my bed. I’d kept my friendship with Ben hidden behind closed doors because he wasn’t part of my family’s social circle, and I was never quite sure whether he minded or not.

At that final party, I was eighteen and he was nineteen, both of us bright-eyed about the future in front of us. Ben had been ready to leave for Harvard to play football, and I hadn’t kept up with where he went from there. Truthfully, it later became clear to me what a bitch I’d been, hiding our friendship. He was the only real person I knew back then. As much as it pained me to think of how selfish I’d been when it came to Ben Rooney, that was the old me, and now I was trying to be different.

I am different.

Being thirty-two years old was a world apart from being eighteen, and I was desperately trying to be nicer, kinder, softer. Basically, more in touch with the real world around me rather than the fake high-society world I’d been raised in.

As Ben stood in front of me wearing rumpled scrubs, looking like he needed a few hours of sleep (yet still amazing), I swallowed a bitter cocktail of regret at how my life was currently in the toilet. Ben and I were nothing but missed connections. I hadn’t followed his career, and we weren’t Facebook friends like the rest of the phonies I knew from prep school. But it was good to see he’d obviously shed his poor-boy image.

Then there was me, the fallen socialite. I stood behind the counter, gaping at him like a fish, wearing a pinstriped apron over my white Busy Bean T-shirt, my hair pulled up in a bad excuse for a ponytail. And to top it all off, I was pretty sure my eye makeup was smeared like crazy.

“Murphy?” His brow furrowed as he said my name with confusion, and perhaps a touch of disdain.

Forcing my mind out of its current tailspin, I looked up. “Hi,” I said, raising my recently burned hand in a slight wave.

“Do you have my Americano?” His voice was stern and gravelly, which contradicted with the smile on his face. He was trying to be all business—I’d give him an A for effort. Pointing toward the stainless mug, Ben dismissed my wave and greeting, but at least he’d let the pretty Vermonter go her own way.

“Oh yes, I’ll get it now. I didn’t realize it was for you. Or that you live here . . . I mean, it makes sense. You’re from here.” Despite telling myself to just shut up, Murphy, I kept rambling. “But I always thought you’d stay in the city after college.”

He’d been so kind and thoughtful back then, and always a little too willing to accept the crumbs I gave him.

Ben was a scholarship kid at Pressman Prep outside Boston, a semi-local kid from Vermont who had been given a chance at greatness. A few students were plucked every year from neighboring middle-class communities and dropped into the elite New England preparatory school. Of course, the scholarship kids never quite fit in, but achieving something greater was more their end game rather than being part of the in-crowd.

Wow, Ben Rooney. He’d been a lost puppy when he arrived at Pressman, and I’d used him while at the same time being mesmerized with him. He was so self-assured and smart, cocky in a non-arrogant way.

I’d talked Ben into helping me with biology and calculus, all the while not-so-secretly crushing on him. He never really responded to my crush, so I left prep school feeling like a fool. Only recently did I understand that he’d liked me back then, but pride kept him from acting on his feelings.

In those days, I’d been nice, befriending him in private. But outside of that, we were from two different worlds and not meant to associate. Ben had tried to hide his hurt and disappointment, but his feelings were pretty transparent. Except, I thought he liked me like a friend.

The final blow to our non-relationship was when he took me to the prom. Bradley Burnett had dumped me two weeks before the dance, and I was desperate, so Ben had been nice enough to pick up the slack.

Across the counter from me, Ben cleared his throat once, then again, yanking me out of my walk down memory lane.

“Murph—look, it’s nice running into you. And yeah, I live nearby. I work at the hospital over in Montpelier and have an office in town. In fact, I have to get to the office to see a few patients right now. That doesn’t mean I don’t wish I had time for your theories on why I didn’t stay in the city. I certainly have my own as to why you’re slumming it in a coffee shop in the middle of nowhere. But, really, I have to get back to the hospital.”

“Sure. Sorry, it was just so nice to see you.”

My head felt congested like when spring allergies first come on. A dull ache throbbed in my forehead and ears, the kind of ache that lingered. I wondered why Ben was here in Colebury—at least a half hour from Montpelier—while his blue eyes urgently bore into me, trying to tell me something telepathically. Maybe he simply wanted me to leave him alone.

“Um, my Americano?”

My cheeks burst into flames. “Right. I’m on it.”

Forcing myself to look down at the counter, I made the drink. At least this wasn’t an order I could mess up. My thoughts, typically a jumbled mess of espresso drink recipes, was now swirling with memories of Ben then compared to the reality of Ben now . . . this new version of him.

When I handed him the reusable mug, he tightened the cap and said, “Thanks. You didn’t try to poison me, did you?”

Swallowing my pride, I shook my head. “Of course not. I would never. Plus, Zara wouldn’t be too happy with that. She’s a good one,” I said, the last part a whisper. She’d given me a chance, after all.

“At one time, you did try.” He raised a brow, alluding to the badly spiked punch at Burnett’s after-prom party.

I’d felt compelled to go to that stupid party, determined to show my ex what a good time I was having with Ben. Except, poor Ben got sick and spent the evening puking, and I was at a loss about what to do with him. I’d never been very good at putting anyone else first. After all, I’d never had to.

Ben took a long sip of his coffee, mesmerizing me with the bob of his Adam’s apple. He cleared his throat, drawing my attention away from his corded neck. “Not bad.”

Take that, Little Miss Perfect.

“Wow. Murphy Landon. In the Busy Bean. On the opposite side of the counter than I bet you’re used to being, huh? Tell you the truth, I’d never thought I’d see the day. You doing this,” he waved his hand at the counter, “right here in Vermont.”

He stared at me with equal parts fascination and contempt, probably because I let him get rip-roaring drunk and make a fool of himself way back when.

“It’s an honest job,” I said, “and I happen to need it. Anyway, I thought you were in a hurry, but now you have time to make fun of me?”

I frowned at him, feeling the need to defend myself when I didn’t owe Ben a single thing. After all, I’d come to believe that he hadn’t always been honest with me. Not to mention, Ben was just as guilty about lumping me into stereotypes as I had done with him. Right?

“Oh, I’m sure you need this gig. Like you needed good grades in high school, as if you weren’t going to get into the Ivy League from Pressman. Aw, sorry.”

He ran his free hand through his hair. It happened to be his left, and I made the mistake of noting he wasn’t wearing a wedding band.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” he said. “This is such a shock, seeing you here, and I’m not handling it well. You look good, Murph. Nice to see you. Honestly. I mean it,” he said, holding a hand up as if he were swearing to it.

Mugs were piling up down the counter for me to fill with drinks, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Ben. He thinks I look good? What does “good” mean?

“Good seeing you too,” I said. “Looks like you’re doing well.”

Ignoring my comment and obvious assumption of his status, he said, “I just have to know one thing. Have you had some of the real maple syrup yet? You always were fascinated with it in school.” His lips tipped up into a smile and he chuckled, and he might have sort of winked.

Is he being playful now?

Either way, I couldn’t stop the genuine smile spreading across my face. “From your family’s farm, actually. I saw a big table of it at the farmers’ market when I first got here.”

I stopped for a second and tried to think how long it had been, then I remembered fleeing from New York before the semester ended. I’d left my boss in a tizzy, but my sanity was more important at the time.

“It was back at the beginning of April,” I said slowly. “I bought a jug, and I still have most of it. A teenage boy was running the table, and he must’ve thought I was crazy, staring at the bottle like a magic genie was going to pop out. A tidal wave of memories hit me when I saw it, and I thought back to when you gave me a bottle just like it as a Christmas present.”

Giving Ben a small smile, I said, “I wanted to ask about you, but I didn’t want to bother the kid. He seemed like he didn’t want to get personal. I should’ve, though. I’m sorry about that.”

I couldn’t stop the words pouring from my mouth to save my life. A bad habit my mom had desperately tried to cure me of with her endless Little Miss Manners sessions.

Ben nodded. “My nephew, Branson. He’s a good kid. No worries on not making it personal; it’s been a while. A lifetime, practically.” Ben kept his answers brief, obviously not having the same rambling issue as me.

“A lifetime, right?” I repeated his words, not wanting the conversation to end. “Branson . . . I forgot you have an older sister. I guess she’s married and has kids?”

“Well, thanks for the support of the family business,” he said, ignoring my hopeful conversation starter. This was a different Ben, confidently directing the conversation where he wanted it to go. “Listen, I really do have to go. Guess I’ll see you sooner than later.”

And like that, Ben Rooney walked out of my life again, but this time on his own terms. Sue me, but I risked a glance at his ass in scrubs, and I’d say the years had been good to him.

Wish they’d been as good to me. Yeah, I still looked young and good and all that, but to be honest, I was lost. And it looked like Ben had found . . . everything.

“Murphy, try to speed it up, sweetie, we have a tiny mid-afternoon rush. Everyone wants a coffee with their fresh baked scone, and I need to get home shortly. Audrey is running late to relieve me, and Dave’s waiting for me.” Zara winked at me, trying to lighten the moment, and then turned to see Ben leave. “Date night, you know?”

No, I didn’t know the first thing about date night.

Zara gave me a meaningful smirk, obviously mentally pairing Ben and me together. The old me would try to set her straight, but not this version. I wasn’t controlling everything around me anymore.

At least, I was trying not to. Instead, I moved on to the lineup of cups and settled back into my job, doing my best not to obsess about what I’d wear when Ben came in next.

Whenever that would be?

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First Chapter: Cakewalk

Gigi

“Where in the H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks am I?” Gigi Hawthorne muttered out loud, as if there were someone else in the car. All this time alone was starting to get to her.

Three days.

That's how long she’d been driving. That was how long it had been since she’d left her husband at the altar back in Atlanta. At least, she assumed he had made it to the altar. If there was one thing Bradley was a stickler for it was tradition. There was no way he would have tried to seek her out before the ceremony, even if it was a vow renewal rather than their actual wedding. Not that these vows would have been any less of a sham than their first set. 

Gigi sighed heavily, trying to come to terms with the fact that she had no idea where she was or how she got so lost. Actually, that wasn’t true—she knew how she got lost. She'd taken a wrong turn somewhere around Philadelphia and then another just outside of New York City. Potentially one or two in Massachusetts. Which is what led her into Vermont. At least she was pretty sure that’s how she got here. 

Jesus, now would be a really good time to take the wheel…

Figuring out where she was going had never been much of a problem, but then again, that fancy navigation system built into her BMW had been much easier to use than an app on her phone. Her BMW was also a lot more comfortable than the fifteen-year-old Jeep she’d bought from some random independent car lot on the outskirts of Atlanta. Gigi had said a silent prayer when she purchased it that it wasn’t stolen. The car salesman had been all too eager to accept her paying him in actual cash for her to not worry about such a thing. But she’d needed a car that couldn’t be traced back to her—and preferably one that would blend in with the surroundings—for her fresh start in the great white north.

The two-lane highway she was on was starting to seem like it would wind and stretch on forever though. Did Vermont not believe in road signs? How was a girl supposed to know where she was? The navigation app had alerted her that there was a big accident on the interstate and that the best route was to get off the highway and follow this road. Although now the GPS seemed to have cut out completely. 

“You can do this. You can do this,” she repeated, again out loud, giving herself a little pep talk. You’ve got this. You're a new woman. A strong, independent woman.

“You’ve never done anything on your own, ever, Georgia. What makes you think you can start now?” Her husband’s voice rang out in her mind, in his usual condescending tone.

Late husband. Bradley is your late husband, she reminded herself, rehearsing those words again.  His opinion didn’t matter anymore. Bradley was the past. 

Glancing back at the phone to check the GPS, Gigi was more than a little frustrated to find nothing but a large gray rectangle. The little blue dot was drifting all over the screen, almost like it was possessed. She sighed again, trying not to let the frustration get to her. The last thing she needed was to get all worked up on top of being lost. A quick look around her revealed nothing but more wooded area, same as it had been since she’d gotten off the interstate, other than a break for a few homes or farms. At least she thought it was farms that she passed. What do farms look like in New England? Do they look the same as they do in Georgia? Gigi gripped the steering wheel harder, trying to channel her frustration. There had to be a road sign somewhere, right? She figured it’d be asking way too much for some kind of sign pointing her back to the highway, but maybe, just maybe, there would be a gas station up ahead where she could get directions. 

Suddenly, the steering wheel jerked underneath her hands, and the Jeep’s back end started to fishtail. Oh shiitake, do I turn in or out of the skid? Why don’t I remember this? Slamming on the brakes, jerking the wheel to the right, Gigi prayed she was doing the right thing. The front end seemed to have a mind of its own now, as it stopped on a dime, but her back end was still in motion, sending her into a spin. Gigi could only see the blur of trees and overcast skies surrounding her as if she were in some kind of vortex. She could feel her heart pounding so hard that it felt like it could burst through her chest as she slammed her eyes shut and let out a little shriek. 

A moment later—one that had simultaneously felt like forever and an instant all at once—the Jeep stopped moving. Gigi placed her hand over her heart, feeling its rapid movement under her breastplate as she tried to catch her breath. A quick glance over at the passenger seat revealed that the contents of her purse were now in a pile on the floor, but that seemed to be the only harm done. At least inside the vehicle. Once her heart had calmed a bit, she glanced outside to see if there was any oncoming traffic before opening the door and hopping out. Sliding her eyes along the vehicle, she quickly found the culprit. 

Her rear tire was flat.

“Okay, Gigi, time to learn how to change a tire!” she said, looking up and down the road again. She hadn’t seen another car for miles, but a girl could hope in a moment like this.  Just one question…where was the spare tire?

Grabbing her phone from the car, Gigi closed the navigation app. Stupid thing wasn’t doing anything but eating battery at this point anyway. Typing into Google, “where is a spare tire on a Jeep?”, her heart sank when the screen immediately flipped to a message telling her that there wasn’t service and it would save her search for when there was.

Oh for heaven’s sake! What good is that going to do? What would Scarlett O'Hara do? she thought, taking in a long, deep breath.  She wouldn’t have been stupid enough to get herself into this kind of mess…

Feeling the sting of tears start to prick at the corner of her eyes, Gigi surveyed the scene some more. She couldn’t let herself cry. She hadn’t cried once since leaving Bradley, and she wasn’t going to let something as stupid as a flat tire be what got to her. She was a strong, independent woman. Not that that reminder meant a whole lot right now as she stood on the side of the road, stranded in the middle of nowhere Vermont. If anything, all it was doing was increasing the volume of the little voice in the back of her mind telling her that she was as useless as Bradley used to say.

“Georgia,” his deep southern accent would drawl. “You’re a pretty face and a great hostess. You can organize a luncheon like none other. But when it comes to practical things, maybe it’s best you left that to others more capable.”

“I am perfectly capable of figuring things out!” she’d retorted more times than she could count. But it didn’t matter—he wasn’t listening. He’d made up his mind long ago that she wasn’t good at any number of things, and his mind was not about to be changed. So what if she wasn’t a natural at cooking or cleaning or any of those things normal people did. She’d gone from her parents’ house—that had a staff taking care of all of that—to her husband’s house. The fact that he was more than happy to hire a staff rather than give her a chance to prove herself was not something she could really control. He’d kept such a tight grip on everything that even if she had tried, all she would have been met with was his fist.

Bradley was dead though. At least dead to her. Without him, she was finally going to figure out who GeorgiaGrace Elyse Hawthorne, née Shaw, really was. Maybe not the fun college co-ed version she had been when they’d first got together, but a more mature, grown-up version. She was going to be the sweet, southern widow getting back on her feet after the sudden loss of her husband. While part of her was going to miss being a “lady who lunched,” a bigger part was looking forward to this new adventure. She knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but that didn’t matter. She had something to prove, even if it was just to herself.

The sound of gravel crunching and the hue of flashing blue lights brought Gigi's thoughts back to the present and the still very flat tire in front of her. Swiping away the tears that seemed to have escaped, she turned to see a police cruiser pulling up behind her Jeep. A tall, well-built officer stepped out from the car and made his way over, surveying the flat tire.

“Ma’am,” he said, a slightly southern accent poking through. His accent had been diluted, probably from years living up here, but it was there. A little wave of relief rushed through her at the sound. 

“Officer,” she returned.

“Looks like you got yourself a flat tire, Miss…” he replied, drawing out the end of his sentence, looking for an answer on how to finish it.

“Hawthorne. Gigi Hawthorne,” she said, letting her own drawl shine through.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Hawthorne. I’m Officer Nelligan. Would you like some help?”

“I…um…well. This isn’t my usual vehicle, and I’m just a tad unsure where the spare is exactly,” she admitted, hoping he wouldn’t ask any more questions.

Officer Nelligan let out a little chuckle, seeming to understand. “On these vehicles they are usually part of the undercarriage,” he answered, flicking his finger in an upward motion to indicate where he meant.  

“Oh.” How in the world was I supposed to find that?

Squatting down, he leaned over and peered underneath the Jeep. He placed a hand on the ground to balance himself, before shaking his head and popping back up to his full height. 

“Well, Miss Hawthorne, it seems you are missing a spare tire.”

“Missing?”

“It’s not uncommon. They climb under the car and cut the cable, and make off with your spare.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake.” She’d known the salesman was shady, but no part of her had thought to ask to make sure a spare tire was included.

“Not to worry. We’re only a couple of miles from town. We’ll get you towed to the gas station and have the guys there take a look and see if they can’t patch your tire. You can hang out in the Busy Bean while you wait.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Sure thing, Miss Hawthorne. Now, you wait in your car so you don’t catch a chill, and I’ll radio in for the tow.”

Gigi simply nodded in response, for the first time noticing the slight chill to the air. It had still been in the mid-seventies in Georgia, which was their usual fall weather. She’d known it would be colder the farther north she got, but she hadn’t been expecting quite the drop in temperature she seemed to be experiencing. Climbing into the car, she pulled out a cardigan that she’d packed in the overnight bag that was in the backseat, hoping it would be enough. 

Half an hour later, Gigi found herself sitting in the Busy Bean café, sipping on a cup of coffee. The café was a decent-sized, lodge looking building with large windows that looked out over the river and purposefully mismatched furniture, upholstered in dark, rich colors and funky animal prints, that oddly complemented each other. A plush peach-colored couch sat off to one side, and Gigi thought about how that seemed like a nice spot to curl up and read. The floor was beautiful wide-plank hard wood, the walls were a warm brick color, and the ceiling beams looked like chalk boards. There were fun, snarky sayings written on them, and Gigi couldn’t help but laugh as she read the one right above her—“If I’m silent, I might be furious or maybe I’m just chillin’. May the odds be ever in your favor.” It was the kind of place she would have loved in college, but she and her friends would probably never find their way into now. 

She was finally back in cell phone range, but since Officer Nelligan had helped get her car towed to the gas station, it didn’t really matter much. The new prepaid phone looked almost identical to her old one, just a cheaper version. The kid at the store had helped her transfer all her contacts and pictures over, but there wasn’t really anyone to call. Nor could she hop onto social media. That was the part about running away that she knew would be the hardest. Not having any contact with her old life. But if it meant not spending another moment living in fear of her husband, then it was just the burden she’d have to bear. 

Gigi picked at the pretzel she’d ordered. It was the first thing she’d eaten since breakfast that day, and she should probably be hungrier than she was, but the events of this afternoon had drained her. There would be more food options when she found her way back to the interstate, and she told herself she would grab a real meal then. She had no idea how long her car would take, and the clock on her phone was telling her it was already four in the afternoon. Doing the math in her head, she figured if her tire was fixed in the next couple of hours, then she could still make Montreal tonight. A quick search had told her she was a good bit off course from the interstate, but that once she was back on the highway, it should only be a few more hours until she was there. It would be late by the time she arrived, but at least the journey would be over.

“You know what I’m dying to add to the menu?” Gigi overheard a woman from the next table over. “More sweets. Now that Crumbs is closed, there isn’t really anywhere selling cakes, and the diner wants no part of it.”

“Are you going to do those in all that spare time you have?” another woman asked with a laugh. “Just add ‘Cake Boss’ on top of running this place, cider, the farm, oh…and being wife and mom.”

“As much as I would like to, it’s not feasible for me to do it, and Roderick has made it clear—he doesn’t decorate cakes. Not that I would want to put one more thing on his plate, so we’d have to find someone. Besides, they’d have to be pretty, and I don’t have the special touch it takes to really decorate a cake.”

“Oh, it’s not that hard,” Gigi said, turning toward the two women. She had no idea where her sudden brazenness came from or why she was inviting herself into their conversation. 

Both women looked at her, a little taken aback. Gigi couldn’t tell if she’d overstepped by interrupting or if it was what she had said. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. It just…well, I took a class,” Gigi said, feeling the need to explain herself. “And this master baker taught us all about how to do all the fancy stuff with the fondant and icing. It was easier than I thought! And if I can do it, anyone can!”

“I didn’t even realize such a class existed outside culinary school,” the shorter of the two women said. She was blonde and pretty, with a smile that seemed to light up the whole café. The other woman was tall and slender, with long dark hair that gave her a bit of an edgy look. 

“I won it at a charity auction,” she answered. “I think it was a special, one-time thing that this chef did. But it was so much fun! Here, I can show you pictures.” Reaching for her phone, Gigi pulled up some of the photos on her phone and leaned over to show the women. The first photos she pulled up were of a small round cake with white icing. Around the bottom of the cake were bright, multi-colored sprinkles embedded into the icing to look like confetti, while the top played host to light pink colored roses made from buttercream. 

“This is so pretty! You did this?” the tall brunette asked.

“I did,” Gigi answered proudly. “Here, this one’s better!” Scrolling a bit in her phone, she found the one she was most proud of. 

Handing the phone back to them, she watched as their eyes widened taking in the cake. This one was a little bigger than the last, but still round, and covered in chocolate buttercream. The outside edge of the cake was lined with KitKats, while on top of the cake three little pink fondant pigs were strategically placed to look as if they were bathing in the “mud” of the chocolate buttercream. One pig was sitting in an inner tube, complete with book in hand, while another sat holding a parasol. All that was seen of the third was his rear end poking up out of the frosting. 

“That’s adorable!” the brunette said. “Hi, I’m Zara Rossi, and this is Audrey Shipley. We own the Busy Bean.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m GeorgiaGrace, but you can just call me Gigi.”

“Need a job?” Audrey asked, looking back at the pig cake. 

“Oh,” Gigi said, startled by the question. She hadn’t meant to volunteer anything. “I’m just passing through. I’m on my way to Montreal.”

“From that accent it sounds like you’re a long way from home. Vacation?”

“No, I was recently widowed,” she said, reciting her practiced response. “There wasn't much left for me with my husband gone, so I decided to start over somewhere new.”

“What’s in Montreal?” The blonde’s smile was bright and cheerful, and she seemed genuinely curious. Gigi didn’t know why, but she liked these women, even though they’d barely had a conversation. 

“Nothing specific. I’ve just always wanted to go.”

“Then why not stay here? We need a cake person, and obviously you were just dropped in our laps for a reason.”

Gigi was taken aback by the suggestion. Stay here? In Vermont? 

“I don’t have anywhere to stay,” she told them, not sure if it was an excuse or a plea.

“We’ll help you get settled!” Audrey said. “Just say yes—I want these pretty cakes for the Busy Bean.”

Gigi’s head was spinning. Could she really just stay right here? She didn’t even know the name of the town, and it seemed awfully small. But maybe that was just what she needed. A small town in the middle of nowhere Vermont where she could be anything she wanted. The people here knew nothing about her or her history, so they wouldn’t question her story about being a widow. These women were offering her a job and to help her find a place to live, so she was already off to a better start than she would be in Montreal.

“Okay, deal.”

“Wonderful! You can bake and decorate out of our kitchen here to start since you don’t have a place of your own yet. If you want, you can start tomorrow. Kirk is our morning barista and Roderick runs the kitchen, so we can have them train you on how the whole place works. We should have most of the basics you need to bake, but if there is anything special you need, just let us know and we’ll get it ordered for you!”

“Great! Thank you so much!”

Gigi couldn’t believe that had just happened. Was it really that easy? The more she thought about it, the happier she was. She had a plan. There was just one problem.

She didn’t actually know how to bake…

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How to Write a Romance Novel: Unguarded by Jay Hogan

Episode 3 in the Series!

Join me to hear about Unguarded, and the terrific things Jay Hogan does with:

The Dark Moment. (It’s so dark!)

Research, and

A montage!

First Chapter: Unguarded

“Hey!”

The passenger window rattled in its rust-eaten frame, jerking me awake.

Son of a bitch.

“Piss off,” I grumbled and rubbed my knee, cursing the hand brake before hauling my leather jacket back around my ears in a futile attempt to maintain some body heat, because holy shit, this place got cold at night. The jacket was a typical Dion gift—soft as silk and screaming money, it hit all the right fashion and aren’t-I-a-great-boyfriend notes, without doing a fucking thing toward actually keeping me warm. Mind you, who knew Vermont hit blue-balling temperatures by the last week in September. My piercings were sporting fucking icicles.

“Hey!”

Goddammit.

I kept my head buried and flipped off whoever it was, doing my best not to expose a single inch of unnecessary skin. The fact my fingers still worked was an unexpected bonus since I couldn’t feel a thing south of my knees. An attempted toe-curl only confirmed my fears.

None of this was helped by a pair of painted-on leather pants, less than a whisper thick but which hugged my arse in all the right places; a multi-colored silk scarf with just the right amount of fabulous and minus a single drop of warmth; a neon pink fishnet shirt that drew all the boys’ attention to my perky nipples but whose holes could’ve let a complete Iditarod dog team through with nothing but net; and a pair of pink canvas sneakers minus socks.

But it wasn’t like I’d planned to bolt from the ninety-degree dance floor of Both And, one of the inclusive clubs my fuckwit boyfriend owned, and wake up in arse-crack, bone-rattling icy Vermont, newly single and minus a home.

Single.

Wow.

Could I get a hell yeah?

Quickly followed by a what-the-fuck-have-I-just-done?

Yeah, mostly that last one, since Dion was no doubt curled up in our, his bed in his soulless but ever-so trendy and warm Boston loft, with one or both of the sanctimonious twinks I’d caught him sandwiched between in his club office. On the other hand, I was here . . . somewhere just under the Canadian border and a memory foam mattress short of comfortable.

But shit happens.

Motherfucking, Dion-shaped, cheating, lying, three years down the drain, toad-wrangling shit . . . to be precise.

He’d be laughing his arse off if he knew I’d spent the night in a car. “But what if you break a nail?” was his standard snotty comment whenever I tried anything that might get my hands dirty. “This amount of pretty doesn’t need to think” was another favorite he used with his arsehole mates who regarded me as an amusing dalliance if they even acknowledged me at all. That was apart from the times they were trying to convince me to fuck them behind Dion’s back.

More rapping on the window. “You need to move. You can’t park here.”

A blatant lie, considering I’d been parked here for about six hours. Six ball-chilling, regretting-my-life-choices, uncomfortable-as-shit hours.

“I need you to open up, sir, right now.”

The tone finally caught my attention, and I peeked out from under my jacket, only to wince at the uniform. Fuck. I wouldn’t be buying a lottery ticket any time soon.

I popped the seat upright, managed a quick check in the rear vision mirror, and holy shit, I looked even worse than I felt. I scrubbed at my face and dropped the window just enough to exchange a few words without exposing the poor man to an unfiltered serve of morning breath. Not to mention I smelled like a drag queen’s tuck after a pride parade. Don’t ask me how I know that.

“Yes, Officer?” I mustered the best law-abiding look I could, considering my outfit screamed rent boy more than respectable rural-Vermont citizen. But whether it was my obvious exhaustion, ludicrous attire for the climate, or the tear-carved ravines in my cheeks, the officer’s severe expression softened. It clearly wasn’t his first rodeo.

He gave a puff of a sigh that misted into the car and the corners of his eyes crinkled in a sympathetic half-smile. “License and registration, please?”

“Oh, sure.” I patted my jeans and desperately tried to think where I’d shoved my wallet. Nothing in either of my pockets—no surprise there since a fucking ant couldn’t fit inside without donning some shapewear. Nothing in my jacket either. Shit.

The officer’s brows crunched. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess you’re not a Vermont local?”

“No. I drove from Boston last night.” My gaze swept the car. Where in the hell had I put it? I spied the glove compartment and remembered. But as I reached, the officer’s hand went to the gun on his hip.

“Whoa.” I raised both of mine in the air. “Sorry.”

“Slowly,” he said, his hand hovering.

I did, very slowly.

“You have an accent.”

“Yeah, I’m originally from New Zealand.” The glove box popped open and I carefully retrieved my wallet and papers and handed them over. At least Dion had put the piece-of-shit car in my name.

The officer flicked through and eyed me up and down, clocking my state of relative undress. “If you slept in there, you’re lucky you didn’t freeze.” He arched a brow. “You’re a New Zealander living in Boston, then?”

“Yeah. I was born in Dallas while my dad worked for an offshore oil and gas company, so I’m a US citizen. But I grew up in New Zealand. Came back about three years ago. My passport is at the back.”

He took a look, then returned my wallet. “You working in Boston?”

At fucking up my life? Absolutely. “Not at present.”

“So, what brings you to sunny Burlington?”

Is that where I am? Also, excellent question. I thought about fobbing him off with some cock and bull story but decided against it. He listened politely and nodded in all the right places, barely flinching at the leaving the ex-boyfriend part, which earned him some credit.

“Hell of a night, by the sounds of it.” He frowned. “Are you in any danger?”

“Not in the way you mean.”

He studied me for a minute, then gave a brief nod. “Okay, well this is a dedicated one-hour parking lot, and although I appreciate your situation, you need to find somewhere else to park while you . . . sort things out, understand?”

Only too well. “Right. Sorry. I’ll get out of your hair. Can you point me in the right direction, maybe?”

He studied me for a minute, then sighed. “If you want to park for more than a couple of hours for free, you’ll need to head that way a few blocks.” He indicated further along the road. “And here’s a tip for nothing. There’s a great bakery in the Church Street Marketplace about a hundred yards from here, The Maple Factory. Head down this street and turn left. The street’s closed off to cars for a couple of blocks; you can’t miss it. And you won’t have to sell your soul to get a maple cruller that’ll fill you up until lunch.”

“Thanks.” The small kindness had fucking tears welling in my eyes. Jesus, I was a mess. “I’ll get out of here.”

He gently slapped the door of my car and said, “You do that. And take care. There’s a good hostel in town if you need one. And get yourself some warmer clothes while you’re at it.”

“I will.”

He slapped my door once again and headed out of the parking lot.

I steered my death trap of a Civic toward the free parking and cursed my arsehole of an ex yet again. Dion drove a fucking Mustang, and what had he given me to do his club errands for him? Twenty years of rust and goodwill all wrapped up in a metal can and bumping along on a dubious set of balding tires. On a more positive note, it had spent most of its life parked at Dion’s club which meant I’d had a getaway option after barging in on his cheating arse. So, I guess there was that.

* * *

The Marketplace turned out to be an attractive three or four block outdoor pedestrian shopping and dining mall, and clearly the heart of Burlington’s downtown. I found The Maple Factory easily enough and the maple cruller lived up to the hype. I was still licking my lips five minutes later as I leaned against one of the massive stones that spotted the Marketplace, and tried to defrost my brain. 

Although still a month away, Halloween was already alive and well in the town with a banner advertising something called Nightmare Vermont strung across the Marketplace. Oversized pumpkins crowded retail windows, fighting for space with well-dressed scarecrows and cutesy witches and ghosts, all designed to reel in the kids and empty the parental wallets.

I snorted. The last Halloween event I’d attended had been a clothing-optional private party in one of Dion’s clubs. As far as I was concerned, clothing was never optional, no matter how much Dion wanted to parade me around buck naked in a collar for all his mates to see, and the argument had been protracted and nasty. But it was one of the few times I hadn’t given in and I’d won. The treat basket at the entry door had held a selection of weird and wonderful sex toys to make use of during the night. And the trick part had come in avoiding Dion’s handsy mates who’d apparently decided I classified as one of the treats whenever Dion wasn’t around. G-rated, it definitely wasn’t.

Nightmare Vermont looked a whole lot more fun.

Standing and shivering in little more than fifty degrees, I really, really needed to do something about the threat of encroaching hypothermia. There was just one tiny little problem. When I’d tried to pay for the bakery cruller from my own tiny account, my card declined. For a second, I’d just stared at the machine, my gut clenching. Then when the credit card Dion had given me for emergencies was also declined, I just knew.

That fucking son of a bitch. He’d cleaned me out. In my very first week in Boston, when I was all starry-eyed over this sophisticated man who seemed to worship me, I’d handed Dion my bank details and pin so he could transfer money when I needed it, or so he’d said at the time, and I always kept a spare debit card in the loft. I may as well have bared my fucking throat to his blade.

Which currently left me the three hundred dollars he’d stuffed in my wallet the night before—my damn pocket money for the club—and that was it.

A snort of disgust broke my lips. Jesus Christ, had I really become that guy?

Unfortunately, yes. Twenty-seven years old and some dude’s fucking paid-for arm candy. Pathetic meet just plain embarrassing.

It wasn’t that I needed him, not really. I’d been more naïve than anything. I’d trusted him. Believed I was loved. Believed this was it, the big romance, the be-all and end-all. Believed it enough to follow Dion back to Boston after his holiday in New Zealand. Believed it through the first time I’d caught him fucking some guy in our bed a year later. Believed the apologies, the promises, the dance of a future dangled in front of me. No need to have friends of my own—we were a couple, right? No need to work—he earned enough, right?

No need for monogamy—it’s not like I could just up and leave, right? How the hell would someone like me survive without him?

Motherfucker.

It had been so easy to simply close my eyes and believe. Pretend I didn’t notice the smug looks and pitying smiles his mates sent my way. On some level, I’d known. They said you always did.

Which left me leaning on a rock worthy of a Flintstones movie in the middle of an outdoor shopping mall in a town I’d only just learned the name of, my nipples frozen to my goddamn mesh shirt, and mulling over my foolishness. There was a lot to mull.

I was broke, homeless, alone, and fucking freezing. A quick sweep of the nearby shops revealed a well-known outdoor supply brand that I couldn’t afford to buy a pair of socks from.

A rainbow flag in the window of a bar next to The Maple Factory caught my eye, and I glanced up at the sign. Vino and Veritas. The next-door bookstore sported the same flag and the two shared one entry. Huh.

As I was studying the book display in the front window, lights flicked on inside and a cute guy wearing a brown beanie, flannel shirt, and looking pretty damn country delicious—a gay varietal not frequently seen on the club floors of Boston—appeared through the doors carrying a sandwich board advertising some book thingy. He put the board in place and did a bit of a double-take when he saw me standing there staring. Then his brows raised as he clocked my outfit, and his lips quirked up for a second before he nodded and disappeared back inside with an audible chuckle.

Great. Winning friends and influencing people.

I continued my vigil, ensuring the rock had zero chance of a sneaky escape for another five minutes while I watched Mr. Beanie getting the bookstore ready for customers. But casual interest quickly turned to burning need the minute I saw him warm the espresso machine.

Fuck it. I could afford a damn coffee, maybe even two. How much worse could things get? Not to mention the place had to have heating. I pushed off the rock and made a beeline for the front door.

The coffee was delicious and the heating toasty. Which left me, an hour and a half later, deftly avoiding Mr. Beanie’s—Briar, according to his nametag—slightly concerned gaze as I continued to take up space on one of the sofas located close to a heating vent. I even had a book in hand to look the part—about what, I couldn’t tell you.

The idea he might throw me out seemed a little extreme for a man who looked, if not quite understanding, at least curious.

Like he knew I had nowhere to go.

Like I had Fucked Over By My Lover tattooed on my forehead in big fat neon letters.

I’d have been mortified if I weren’t already too busy freaking out about being homeless and broke.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, again, and I pulled it out to confirm what I already knew. Message 993 from Dion. I’d only bothered scrolling through the first dozen or so he’d sent the night before, before muting and pocketing the thing.

But this latest one caught my attention.

What the fuck are you doing in Burlington?

Shit. I flicked to settings and turned off location services before I texted back. 

In case you didn’t get the memo, we’re done. Piss off.

You’re such a fucking drama queen. It was a mistake. Didn’t mean anything. I’ll take you to Pierre’s to make it up to you.

Fucker. I texted back. 

How is a restaurant going to make up for cheating on me, again? We’re done. Over. Finished.

I canceled your card.

I know.

You don’t have any money.

I’ll be fine.

Don’t be a child. What are you going to do? You need me.

Like a hole in the head. Stop texting me.

I pocketed the phone without reading his reply, but the anxiety ate at me. I didn’t like that he knew where I was, and the phone was under his account. Could he log in and switch it to lost mode and locate me? I had no freaking idea. I needed to ditch it, like I should the car, but I needed somewhere to sleep and I couldn’t afford a new phone, not yet. The car was in my name so he couldn’t say it was stolen, but the phone was a problem.

Dion had never been physical with me, never hit me. It was more that I didn’t trust myself not to cave and let him take me back if he found me. Because he was right. I had no idea how the fuck I was going to survive with no money. He was clearly pissed I’d walked away. And even though I’d told him we were over in no uncertain terms—cue an accurate shot to his head with the glass of Glenfiddich I held while he was still balls-deep in a twink—he’d struggle to believe I’d actually leave.

Which reminded me, I needed to find somewhere to be tested. God knew where the hell Dion’s dick had been and whether or not it had been clothed at the time. Motherfucker.

“Can I get you another coffee?” Briar collected my empty cup and wiped the table.

My gaze shot to those lovely eyes and the gentle smile beneath.

“Cold enough for you?”

I rolled my eyes and glanced to the heavy gray sky, ripe with rain, brooding over the city. “Do you really need an answer?”

His smile broadened. “Figured as much.” He perched on the other sofa and studied me. “I’m guessing you’re not local?”

I snorted. “What gave it away?”

“The accent, closely followed by the shirt.” His gaze lingered on my chest. “Don’t see that shade of pink around here very often, and certainly not at nine on a Thursday morning.”

My turn to laugh. “But it goes so well with my sneakers, don’t you think?”

He chuckled. “Definitely not local. If I had to guess, I’d say Boston city slicker.”

“Touché. You’re good.” It was hard not to like the guy.

“Yeah, well, I’m an old Springfield boy, myself. Up here they call guys like us Massholes.”

I snorted. “They might not be far wrong. But if that’s part of the City of Burlington’s welcome patter, I have to tell you, it needs some work. And to answer your question: New Zealand for the accent; Boston for the last three years. Drove up last night.”

He studied me in silence. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say it wasn’t planned.”

I stared out the window and watched as a pretty woman in her forties drew her coat tight across her chest and laughed to whoever she was on the phone with. “And you’d be right.” I turned back to face him. “Suffice to say my love life took a sudden dive. And why I’m telling you any of this, I have no idea.”

“It’s my disarming personality,” he deadpanned. “You never had a chance.”

I narrowed my gaze. “I’ll bear that in mind.” My eyes landed on a stack of Out magazines on a nearby bookshelf and then lifted to the dark interior of the wine bar. “Is that a gay bar?”

He shrugged. “Inclusive. Same with the bookstore. There’s live music some nights, if you’re interested.”

I shrugged. Hard to see me having money to waste on that. “Cool. And about the clothes thing? There wouldn’t happen to be a thrift shop somewhere close?”

He nodded. “Head that way a block.” He pointed up the mall. “Take a left, walk two blocks, and you’ll find The Wardrobe. Claudia should still have some jackets this early in the season, but I wouldn’t wait. There’ll be a few people headed that way after this cold snap. And while you’re here—” He pulled a card from his pocket and wrote something down before handing it to me. “These are a couple of hostels in town . . . just in case.”

I stared at the names on the card, then pocketed it, wondering how the hell this had become my life. “Thanks. And sorry if I’ve overstayed my welcome. I just—”

“Stay as long as you like.” He pushed to his feet. “How about hot chocolate? We do a really good one.”

“Oh, I can’t aff—”

“On the house.”

My cheeks fired hot. Well, shit. “In that case, thank you.”

“Your welcome. I’m Briar Nord, by the way.” He offered his hand and we shook.

“Tai Samuels.”

“Well, Tai, in case you decide to stay awhile and maybe sample some more of Burlington’s renowned hospitality—” He gave a cheeky smirk. “There’s an unemployment office on Pearl Street just up the road from the thrift store.”

We locked eyes for a few seconds and I felt very seen, like this guy knew something about the mess I was inside. “Thanks. You never know. You don’t happen to need someone around here? I can make a pretty good coffee.”

He shook his head. “We’re good at the moment.”

Shit. “No problem.”

A few minutes later he delivered a steaming mug of excellent hot chocolate and the world looked a bit brighter. The idea of running home to New Zealand was tempting; my parents would make sure I got there, but it also felt way too much like admitting defeat.

Mum and Dad had thought I was making a big mistake with Dion and tried to talk me out of it. Turns out they were right. But I liked living in the States, and I wasn’t ready to leave. There was a whole country outside Boston that I hadn’t seen. Maybe I’d go home eventually, but I didn’t want it to be with my tail between my legs. I just had to work out how I was going to manage that.

I kicked off my sneakers, curled my legs beneath me on the sofa, and watched the world pass by on the other side of the window. People didn’t seem to hurry in Burlington. They ambled, strolled, moseyed, even drifted, but rarely rushed. It was kind of cute.

Which was why my attention was quickly drawn to an attractive man in an outdoor coat that wouldn’t have looked out of place summiting Everest. He was armed with a cat carrier and a troubled expression and headed for the bookstore at a veritable canter.

And he was also, not to put too fine a point on it, fucking gorgeous—every harried, tousled, flustered, mouth-watering inch of him. A little taller than my five foot ten, he looked to be in his thirties with unruly blond waves that caught in his lashes and dipped to his collar, a pale, almost peaches-and-cream complexion and a strong frame, not heavily muscled just . . . solid. The kind of body that could easily cage you against the wall if you were inclined to allow it, which, for the record, I would, in case the question ever came up.

Just, damn. I swallowed a hit of hot chocolate and sighed. The morning had taken a turn for the better.

The man hit the entrance to the bookstore like a cyclone, sweeping inside and straight up to the counter, draughting two old ladies in his wake, both of whom looked a little surprised to have gotten there so fast. Briar greeted the handsome man like he knew him, but try as I might, I couldn’t hear a damn word that passed between them. A minute later, Briar pointed out back and the man with the carrier disappeared down a hallway.

I scooted around in my seat and put my back to the window to watch for his return. Not that I was creeping on him or anything, but it wasn’t like I had other more pressing matters to attend to, and hey, gorgeous guy. Merely appreciating that fact had me feeling somewhat normal for the first time since I’d left Boston.

Behind the counter, Briar caught my eye and arched a brow.

Busted.

I batted my lashes innocently and he chuckled. If the guy wasn’t gay, I’d eat my hat. I may not have much to brag about in my arsenal of life’s attributes, but good looks, a cheeky disposition, a truckload of snark, and an accurate-as-fuck bullshit barometer got me through most of life’s challenges, other than Dion. There, my bullshit barometer had hit a glitch. Or maybe I’d simply not wanted to hear.

By the time the good-looking stranger reappeared with a yowling gray cat in the carrier, Briar was knee-deep in customers, and Mr. Gorgeous was left hopping from foot to foot looking antsy. His gaze swept the shop, landed on me, and paused.

Huh. I sucked in a breath because, damn, if I’d thought he was easy on the eyes before, it was nothing compared to having those baby blues focused exclusively on me. And when they dipped to my mouth for a long second, I deserved a fucking gold medal for not stripping on the spot and asking him to fuck me over the science periodicals on the table next to me. But the way my luck was running, any chance of the guy batting for my team was frankly zero to none and I needed to not add another shit show to my day.

I glanced away and acted as . . . ungay as I could, which, let’s face it, was a complete waste of time so I glossed my lips instead. Never said I wasn’t complicated.

Seconds later, a pair of jean-clad legs appeared in my line of vision and I looked up to find a pair of china-blue eyes studying me. Fuck me, the man was beautiful. Not classic cover material. No killer cheekbones or hard muscle or bedroom eyes. More disheveled cute, with a side order of endearing nerd and a shy smile. Never thought that was my thing, but I was sold.

“Could you keep an eye on this little one for me while I duck to the bathroom?” He placed the cage with the mewling cat on the floor at my feet.

Fresh soap, musk, and something vaguely antiseptic drifted between us, and I forced my gaze down from all that creamy skin to the moth-eaten feline glaring up at me. “Sure.” I cleared my throat. “But you realize it’s in a cage, right? I mean, it’s not going anywhere.” I arched a brow pointedly.

A flush of red brimmed at his collar, and oh god, dimples. “She, and yeah. It’s just that she’s a bit stressed as you can probably tell from the noise. She might be quieter away from the desk and if she can see someone.”

I held up my hands. “Hey, no problem. She’s safe with me.”

He almost sagged with relief. “Thanks. It’s been a day.”

Tell me about it. “You’re welcome. I promise I won’t abscond with . . .” I raised a questioning brow.

He shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Briar found her out back this morning. She was all tucked up in her tummy and not really moving, so he called me to come get her. I’d say she’s been on the streets for a bit, but she let me pick her up easily enough, so maybe someone’s missing her. I’m a veterinarian. Emmett Moore.” He offered his hand.

His clasp was warm and dry, and if I held on a little longer than necessary, no one could blame me. “Tai Samuels. So, Emmett, you’re her knight in shining armor, at least for today. Tomorrow she’ll likely hate you for even presuming she needed rescuing, but that’s women for you, right? Or so I’m told. I wouldn’t know much about that . . . as it happens.” Holy fuck. My gaze slid away in pure mortification. I didn’t ramble or get tongue-tied. Ever.

“Okaaaay.” He looked at me sideways. “Well, I won’t be long.”

He disappeared in a flash of blond waves and denim, and I stared down at the cat who had quieted somewhat and was regarding me with considerable distaste through a pair of piercing blue eyes.

“Hey, don’t get all hoity-toity with me.” I wagged a finger at her. “Unless your arsehole boyfriend threw three years of your life down the toilet by playing guess-whose-dick-is-where with two twinks, a truckload of lube, and Mariah Carey playing through his office speakers, you have nothing to complain about.”

A mournful yowl rang out like fingernails down a blackboard and Briar threw me a concerned look while several customers covered their ears.

“Dion, if you must know.” I answered what I presumed was the cat’s pressing question about the name of said arsehole boyfriend. “And yours?”

Another yowl and I peeled my brain off the ceiling for the second time. “Tom, you say? Well, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but with that name, he’s going to be a bitch to pin down in your part of the animal world.”

She flopped on her side and turned those mournful eyes my way.

“Yeah, tell me about it. Men, right?”

We sat in blissful silence, and I finally risked poking a finger through the grill. After a few seconds of suspicion, she gave it a wary sniff, then jerked back.

I narrowed my eyes. “No need to be rude. You’re a shampoo and spa day short of presentable yourself, so I wouldn’t get too judgy there.”

Her pinched blue eyes dulled and I remembered Emmett said she might be sick.

“Okay, so I admit you might be having an equally crap day,” I said softly and waggled my finger. She took another sniff and let me scratch her under her chin. I felt oddly worthy. “But at least you’ll get to sleep in a warm place tonight.”

“Depends if the shelter has a place for her.” Emmett reappeared beside me.

“Shelter?” I withdrew my finger and gawped up at him, because of course I did. “But aren’t you taking her back to your—” I waved my hand around. “—clinic thingy.”

He bit back a smile. “Yes, for now. I’ll take a look at her, treat her for worms and fleas, get her vaccinations done, and then see if she needs some antibiotics or other treatment. But essentially, she’s a stray, and as much as I’d like to, I can’t keep every stray I get handed. We’ve got a good shelter in town. They’ll do their best to home her. Anyway, thanks for watching her. I guess I should be getting back to the clinic.”

“Oh, right, sorry. Well, it’s been nice to meet you, Emmett.”

“You too, Tai.” He stared at me for a second as if he was about to say something else, then smiled and left, crate in hand. He stopped at the counter briefly to speak with Briar and then headed out without a backward glance.

I sank into the sofa and watched his back all the way up the street and around the corner. There was no denying the man looked good either coming or going.

“You okay?”

My gaze shot sideways to find Briar standing there with a knowing smirk on his face. I scowled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, you don’t.” He grabbed the empty mug and wiped the table. “But I get it. Emmett has great . . . attributes.”

Huh. That answered that. I looked a bit closer. Briar was a handsome man. He didn’t do it for me like the vet did, but he was cute. “He does indeed.”

“I thought I’d check if you were thinking of hanging around Burlington for a bit?”

I shrugged. “I have no clue what I’m going to do past hitting that thrift shop very shortly, so all avenues are open. Why?”

His gaze swept the bookstore, then slid to the Marketplace outside before landing back on me. “Do you like animals?”

I arched a brow. “Excuse me?”

“Simple question. I saw you talking to the cat, so I figured maybe you liked them?”

What the hell? “Sure, I like animals. Doesn’t everybody?” I mean, I didn’t not like animals. I just hadn’t had much to do with them other than an old Collie my parents owned who died when I was four.

“Oh, well, that’s maybe good news.” Briar’s cheeks pinked. “Because Emmett, the veterinarian you were talking to—”

“Emmett of the . . . attributes?”

Briar rolled his eyes. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I? Yes, that Emmett. Well, his receptionist left him in the lurch this morning and he needs help. He asked if I knew anyone who could look after the front desk, answer the phone, maybe help wash a few dogs for the groomer—”

Wash a few what?

“—just for a week until he can get a new person, and for some reason I thought of you.”

“Me? You did?” I was kind of gobsmacked. “And this is because I just scream animal management skills in my pink net top and leather condom trousers, right?”

He snorted. “No. It’s because you scream ‘I need the money with few skills to offer.’”

I gave him my best eye roll. “Everyone’s a fucking comedian.”

He paused and looked me over. “Look, forget I said anything.” He turned to leave.

Shit. “No, wait, please. You’re right. Obviously, I do need the money. And for what it’s worth, I am trustworthy. A week’s work would help a lot, you have no idea. Not to mention give me some time to get my head around . . . a plan.”

He studied me for a moment. “So, you’re okay about the animal thing, then?”

I waved his concern aside. “Pffft. Not a problem.”

I needed my head read. I knew nothing about animals other than they smelled, had nasty teeth, shit everywhere, merino sweaters were the bomb, and chinchilla fur made great ear warmers. Not to mention I couldn’t always be trusted to wash my own hair let alone another creature’s. But regardless of all that, I needed a job, like really, really needed one, and Briar might’ve just saved my life.

Oh, and the vet was crazy hot, so yeah, there was that. Maybe I’d fuck it up, but I wasn’t exactly in any position to turn the opportunity down. How bad could it be?

Briar looked relieved. “Good. I figured it could maybe work out for you both. I’ll call Emmett and let him know to expect you, but you’ll have to take it from there.”

I was so fucking grateful. “Thanks, Briar. I can’t believe you did this.”

“Well, you seem like you could do with a break, and Emmett’s a good guy. He’s had a hard time of it since his wife died four years ago, and he has a cute kid.”

Most likely straight then. Eye candy it would have to be. “I’m just grateful for the chance.”

He nodded crisply. “Good. And if you do decide to hang around, you’re welcome to join our romance book group, Booklovers.”

I bit back a smile. “Romance books?”

His jaw set. “Yeah, romance books.”

“Okay, well, that’s . . . cool.” Holy crap. “Can’t say as I’m a great believer in romance though, so I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

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