Sarina Bowen's Blog, page 17

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.”

Get it at Amazon or add it to your Goodreads TBRCheck out more from the World of True North

How to Write a Romance Novel: Fighting for Everything by Laura Kaye

Welcome back to How to Write a Romance Novel

Today I’m talking about Fighting for Everything by Laura Kaye. Specifically:

Are romances formulaic? (Spoiler: not enough that this job is easy!)

How to write an alpha hero who’s not an asshole and

First Chapter: Turnabout

CARTER

Few things are as satisfying as cracking open a box of freshly printed cardstock.

The rip of the seal. The tang of new paper. The thirty-two-point thickness, smooth under my fingertips. Each black letter proving I’ve earned the corner office I’ve yet to properly settle into.

Sure, my dad will sneer at the business cards being printed digitally instead of inked by hand with one of his antique letterpresses.

I’m willing to overlook this “flaw.”

The lack of bespoke debossing doesn’t change the fact Carter Prescott is emblazoned right above the VP title I’ve worked my ass off to achieve.

I tap one of the red-seamed edges of the card on my desk and shake my head. I can’t hand them out. The double thickness isn’t standard OfficeMart corporate branding. These are just for me.

Dickhead posturing through stationery? Certainly, but I’ve waited years for this. Sue me if I got a little carried away.

And forgive me for wanting to mail one to my dad. With a handwritten note like he prefers.

Thanks for the motivation. I couldn’t have done it without you telling me I shouldn’t do it.

The rending of garments when I sold out to Soulless Big Paper (™ Francis John Prescott) could be heard all the way from his Vermont artisan shop to Montreal.

I stand and slowly circle my brand-spanking-new office, puzzling over how to set up my furniture. If I angle my desk along the far wall, I’ll get a view of the spires of the Notre-Dame Basilica and the green swaths of the parks on L’île Sainte-Hélène. I’d have set it up to face the Gay Village in the distance, enjoy the vivid rainbow stripe of the plastic-ball street ceiling that stretched for a kilometer, but the installation got taken down a couple of years ago.

When the balls went up for sale, nostalgia demanded I buy a string of each color and drape them on the balcony of my condo in a rainbow of my own. It was for charity after all. And I had a lot of good times during the couple of summers when the strands turned the street into a magical queer grotto.

Maybe I’ll fix a few of each color onto some fake stems and create a bouquet for the bookshelf running along the doorless wall of my office. A little hey, this is who I am under the guise of local memorabilia.

My cell buzzes in the pocket of my suit pants. I pull it out. Imprescott Designs.

Shit. Dad’s calling from work? Maybe he’s actually going to congratulate me.

An odd warmth spreads in my chest, and I answer. “Dad, hey—”

“Carter.” He sounds oddly emotional. “Do you have a minute?”

To hear him acknowledge my success? Always. “Sure, what’s up?”

“Your mom—”

He doesn’t finish.

My stomach plummets, and my earlier cockiness dissolves into sludge. “Is she okay?”

“She… She…”

Mom’s only fifty-nine, and she’s spent her life eating steel-cut oats and kale. I can’t imagine her in anything but perfect health. But Dad is choking so hard on his words that I’m running through all the possibilities. Heart attack, stroke, cancer—fuck, maybe a car accident—

“She left me,” he finally mumbles.

What? It’s not a terminal illness or death, but it’s still unexpected. I skirt around my desk and ease into my chair. My knees are still shaking from my trip down worst-case-scenario lane.

“Left you? For good? Where are you?”

“I… I don’t know.” He pauses. “I mean, I don’t know if she’s gone for good. I know where I am. At work.”

Of course. A waste of breath, that question. He’s probably in his cluttered office, bewildered and running a hand through flyaway blond hair that’s in need of a good comb. I’m also cursed with it. Hence, keeping mine trimmed AF. I polish my glasses more than once a century too. And I purged all my T-shirts sporting the logos of various Burlington annual festivals the minute I got my first real paycheck.

“What did you do?” I ask.

“I…” He clears his throat. “Nothing.”

“It can’t be nothing. You’ve been married for almost forty years. People don’t just up and leave for no reason.” People leave because of good reasons, like being offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to work in a breathtaking, cosmopolitan city.

And when a boyfriend decides he’s not willing to move, not willing to take the risk to be together, well, that’s on him.

“No.” Dad’s tone is defeated. “It really was nothing. As in, ‘Francis, you’ve put everything into the letterpresses and nothing into this fucking marriage since before I went through menopause. And I’m done.’”

“That’s a shitty kind of nothing, Dad.”

“She’s right, isn’t she?”

“I honestly don’t know.” I’m typically only home for holidays, when everyone’s on their best behavior. Granted, “best behavior” usually involves my dad getting too deep into the pot of mulled wine at Christmas and calling me a corporate mouthpiece, but him taking umbrage with my career choice is well established. I’ve never gotten the impression there was animosity between him and my mom.

I picture the sunny kitchen without Dad puttering around, making molasses-thick coffee, and the garden without Mom lost among her dahlias. A lump fills my throat. I can’t fathom them not being together.

Guilt grips me. If I’d managed to sell him on the business plan I crafted from sweat, tears, and hubris during my MBA program, had convinced him to bring the shop into the twenty-first century, would he be going through this?

No point in running presses from the 1900s like they’re products of the 2000s, Carter. Respect the history.

Right, this isn’t on me. It’s one more example of my dad being a stubborn ass.

I was right to walk away from Imprescott Designs.

Heat creeps up my neck, the residual kind from past arguments that lies deep in your belly, just waiting to emerge and snap with ferocity.

“It’s not the first time you’ve let the business come between you and a family member.” The accusation tumbles from my lips before I can edit out the obvious bitterness.

“Jesus, Carter. I didn’t call for you to unload on me too.”

“Then you should have called Jill.”

“Your sister’s not speaking to me,” he admits. “Taking your mother’s side. Keeps texting me, asking how I want her to answer Cypress’s questions about whether or not Gran loves Pops anymore.”

My eyes widen. “I should get ahold of Mom.” No way am I getting between them on this, but I want my mom’s side of the story and to see if she needs me to support her.

He sighs. “You can try. But she… she left for Paris last night.”

I almost drop my phone. When was the last time my mom had traveled farther than Boston?

“With no warning?” I say.

“Claims she’s tired of waiting for me to unchain myself from the Vandercook.”

The visual’s fairly accurate. My dad spends more time wearing his leather apron and fussing with his cast-iron letterpresses than not. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants to be buried with his beloved machines, let alone be unchained from them while he’s still upright and breathing. It’s not hard to understand where Mom’s coming from.

A corner of my mouth creeps up. I’m proud of her. I can envision her wandering through the Latin Quarter, eclectic skirts and scarves swirling as she nibbles on a pain au chocolat. Whenever I’m in Paris on business, she always asks me to eat a new kind of pastry and send her a picture. And if her goal right now is to finally live out all the travel on her vision board, I’m here for that. I’m all about laser-focusing on the future and knocking things off the to-do list.

My gut’s still uneasy.

“Dad…”

He sniffles.

“Maybe you should unchain yourself from the Vandercook. Take some time off.”

“You haven’t taken more than three days off since you started working for that sellout of a company,” he says. “So maybe you shouldn’t point fingers.”

It’s such a common refrain I’m immune to it.

Almost.

“This isn’t about me. I’m not letting anyone down by working.” Anymore. “You are. And isn’t fixing things with Mom worth taking drastic action?”

“Again, that’s rich coming from—”

“Again, this is not about me. I’m not committed to someone. You are. So do the fucking work.”

The defeated hiss he lets out almost bursts my eardrum. I wince.

“I don’t know how,” he admits.

I blink long. I’m not used to him being anything but a thousand percent certain his way is right.

“Well, Dad, maybe ask her—”

“Carter!” A head pops into my doorway. Anne-Emmanuelle, one of the directors on my merchandising team, is a little out of breath. Her hair twists bounce like she ran from the conference room. “Notre meeting. Est-ce que tu viens?”

There’s nothing like Montreal franglais, especially when it’s delivered in Anne-Emmanuelle’s Guadeloupean accent.

Meeting. I jolt, checking my watch. Shit, I’m late. I hold my cell to my chest. “Uh, j’ai un urgence familiale. Peux-tu faire un excuse pour moi? J’ai besoin de, enh… Cinq? Non, dix minutes.”

Her dark eyes go saucer-wide, probably at the mention of a family emergency. She nods that she’ll pass along my assurance I’ll be at the meeting in ten and scoots away from view.

I refocus on my dad. “You need a plan.”

“I’m keeping you from work,” he says.

It’s between the hours of seven a.m. and eight p.m. Of course he’s keeping me from work. “Yeah, Friday afternoon merchandising team meeting. I’m still in the process of establishing myself in my new position.”

“Your new— Oh right.” His voice flattens as if it’s a disappointment that his son is one of the youngest VPs ever hired by OfficeMart, one of the most profitable global office-supply companies currently in operation.

What am I saying? For Francis Prescott, it’s more than a disappointment. It’s a betrayal.

It’s no secret he’d be prouder of me if I were back in Vermont, with ink streaked across my old, cow-emblazoned I’ve got the moos like Jagger T-shirt.

I’ll admit I didn’t throw that one out. It’s in a drawer somewhere, probably underneath my collection of pocket squares and the Burlington University water polo hoodie I nicked off a man I pretend to forget.

The thought of the last time I wore it—the last time someone took it off me—sends a flood of something as bittersweet as my dad’s coffee through my veins.

Not regrets.

I don’t have regrets.

My dad will though, if he doesn’t fix things with my mom.

And if I don’t offer to help, I might too.

“What can I do, Dad?”

“Figure out a way to duplicate me so I can chase after your mom?” It’s clearly meant to be a joke, but the watery tone steals its punch.

And it shouldn’t be a joke. He should be chasing after my mom.

“Your assistant can’t handle a week without you?”

“It’s always a zoo… Contracts out the ying-yang. A big one I need to finish up today, for one.”

More like an owner who frequently double-books himself and is allergic to using a computer for anything but design work, so the sole employee he can afford spends half his time fighting managerial inefficiencies.

I picture Dad’s record-keeping system—a tattered Blundstone box from a pair of boots I owned in high school—and my blood pressure spikes.

“Could… Could you come pitch in?” he says.

I must have misheard him. “I’m sorry. You want me to work for you?”

“I’ve always wanted you to work for me.”

I grit my teeth. That argument got stale around the time Beyoncé was telling the world to put a ring on it.

But he’s not asking for a lifetime commitment here. He knows I have no interest in playing his lackey while he bumbles his way to a marginal profit. “You want me to come home for a few days? Cover for you while you chase after Mom?”

“Would you?”

“Well…” The lump is back. I swallow, trying to make it dissolve. The sliver of shared space in the Venn diagram titled Carter Prescott vs. Francis Prescott is about a millimeter wide.

That doesn’t mean I want him to be lonely and work himself into a stress-induced grave.

Nor do I want my mom to be unhappy or for my sister to have to explain to her kids why Gran and Pops can’t both come to their birthday parties anymore.

“I should be able to swing a bit of time off.” As much as Dad likes to go on about my company being soulless and the root of all evil, HR is understanding when it comes to family emergencies. Executives have worked remotely before. I’m new to my position, sure, but with my track record of taking all of one week of vacation a year, they’ll know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary. “If I come home, do you promise to grovel like you’ve never groveled before? Actually try to figure out what’s wrong and do something about it?”

“I probably can’t fix it.”

“There are unfixable problems.” Like, say, your boyfriend taking your dad’s side when you propose a way to expand the family business. “But there are fixable ones too. Just be prepared to come up with some Patrick-Swayze-pulling-Baby-out-of-the-corner levels of brilliance. I can manage the business, but the relationship work is up to you.”

He goes silent for a few seconds. “What about Auden?”

“What about him?”

“Can you work with him?” Dad’s tone is doubt-ridden. “He’s still—”

“I won’t be home long enough for my history with Auden to be an issue. Go to France. Fix things with Mom. I’ll step in.”

Whether I’ll be stepping in knee-deep shit remains to be seen…

Sarina’s note: and then he’s face to face with the love of his life, who has a hot Scottish accent. And ZOMG THE TENSION!

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First Chapter: Darkroom by Kate Willoughby

Chapter One

Even though the first day of fall semester here at Burlington University wasn’t until tomorrow, I was in serious study mode. I wanted to become a doctor and planned to take the Medical College Admissions Test, or MCAT, in January. The MCAT is one of the hardest standardized tests known to man and I was supposed to spend between three and four hundred hours preparing for it, in addition to all my regular college coursework.

Unfortunately, I’d been so engrossed in my studies tonight I hadn’t realized the time. It was almost eight o’clock, my stomach was painfully empty and I had nothing in my Carter Hall apartment but a pack of sugarless gum. 

There was one campus cafeteria still open—The Marketplace—but I’d already taken off all of my makeup. 

For most people, this would not be a big deal, but I was born with a large, irregular reddish-purple birthmark, called a port-wine stain. It covered the upper left quadrant of my face and made it look like I lost a no-holds-barred game of paintball. My white parents adopted me from the Chinese orphanage where I’d been abandoned, presumably because of this birthmark. My mom assures me there was a time when I didn’t care what people thought about my face, but I don’t remember it. I only remember being teased and stared at and eventually deemed too different to include in the group. 

Until I started wearing makeup. 

These days, my normal beauty routine took a half hour. Tonight, I didn’t have that kind of time. The Marketplace was going to close soon.

I put on an oversized Mickey Mouse hoodie and wrapped a scarf over my nose and mouth. When I added sunglasses, virtually none of my face was visible. Hopefully, I’d be able to go in, grab something—anything—check out and leave without anyone noticing me.

I was good to go all the way to the dining hall, keeping to the shadows like a thief. But once I got to the brightly lit building, it was a different story. I checked my reflection in the glass double doors before entering and almost didn’t recognize myself. Dressed as I was with my arms wrapped around myself and a slightly hunched posture, I looked timid and afraid, like I was the victim of a bad home situation. This wasn’t me. Not anymore. I hadn’t looked like this since I was thirteen, about to face another day of teasing and bullying.

Appalled, I immediately straightened my posture, lifted my chin and entered the building with my normal amount of confidence. 

In an effort to make a healthy choice, I perused the array of salads. There was one chicken Caesar and one Greek. They both looked a little wilted, so I headed over to the pizza by the slice area. My family owned a successful pizzeria, Slice of Heaven, back home, so I was a bit of a pizza snob, but given the choice between wilted salad and pizza made with substandard dough in a less than ideal oven, I’ll pick pizza every time.

The pepperoni looked like a safe bet. Even though they were generous slices, I got two—one for tonight and one to save in the fridge for tomorrow. Thinking I was home free, I was turning toward the cashier when I collided with someone. 

A tall, very solid male someone.

The bowl on his tray upended as it hit the floor, detonating with a spectacular splash of hot chili. A large helping of cornbread bit the dust, too, as his spoon and my pizza slices skittered several feet away. Worst of all, he had a large drink that slid into his chest with quite a bit of force, enough to cause the contents of the cup to geyser up into his face.

People turned and gasped. I stood there, horrified, speechless.

As our eyes met briefly, my heart rate tripled and my mouth went dry. 

Shit. I knew this guy. 

He was Hudson Forte, darling of the hockey team. Tall, with blue-eyes and sun-kissed blond hair, he looked like he’d been plucked off the beach at Malibu. Freshman year, I caught him and my ex-roommate, Blair, just finishing a nooner in the dorm room she and I shared at the time.

He was just as ripped now as he was then.

His root-beer-drenched shirt clung to every muscle on his rock-hard torso. A pool of soda swirled around on the tray he was still holding. People were gaping at the spectacle. His friend had his phone out and took a picture of him as he set the tray of root beer aside.

“I’m so sorry,” I exclaimed, my voice muffled by my scarf.  “I didn’t see you.” 

“Hey, accidents happen,” he said, giving me a concerned smile. “No harm done. You’re all right, aren’t you?”

“Me? I’m fine. Just embarrassed.” 

As he peered more closely at my face. I realized my scarf had slid down a little and I jerked it back into place, hoping he hadn’t noticed my birthmark. 

Unfortunately, what he said next confirmed he had.

“You’re absolutely sure you’re okay?” he asked in a low voice. “Because if you need, um, support or protection or anything, there’s a confidential victim’s advocacy program on campus. I could get the number for you, if you need it.”

This used to happen all the time. People would see my purple, moon-surface birthmark and think I was being abused by one or both of my parents. Even people in the medical field were sometimes unaware that port-wine stains existed. My dad always tried to joke around and say, “You should see the other guy,” and my mother would usually try to explain that it was a vascular birthmark, but I used to get angry and defensive. Thanks to them, I’d grown up in a loving home with parents who barely even raised their voices to me, let alone their hands, and I wasn’t about to tolerate anyone suggesting otherwise.

And yet, I had to forgive this guy. Now that I was an adult, I was more able to see things from a stranger’s point of view. He was coming from a place of concern, not accusation.

I gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m not being abused.”

“I didn’t say you were.” But he didn’t look convinced. I couldn’t blame him. On TV and in the movies, the victims always denied it, saying they fell down the stairs or ran into a door. 

“But you’re thinking it. I can tell,” I said. “I swear to you I’m not being abused. I know the number for Campus Advocacy. It’s on a poster in my dorm and I promise, if I ever need it, I will call. Honest.”

One of the cafeteria workers came with a mop and started cleaning up the mess.

“If you’re sure…” he said, still frowning.

“I’m one hundred percent sure. Do you want me to pay for your clothes to be cleaned? Or buy you a new shirt? Because I’d be happy to…”

He shook his head. “No. This is probably the oldest T-shirt I own. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay, cool. See you around,” I said and left. 

But I felt his eyes on me all the way to the exit.

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First Chapter: Halftime by Kim Findlay

Sebastien

Sophomore year is going to be so much better than freshman year. For starters, I’m entering the arena at Burlington University to watch the freshmen at their first on-ice practice. Last year, I was in the locker room sweating my balls off, wondering if I was going to make it or not.

I mean, I knew I should make it. I’d done well on my Junior A team back in Canada before earning a scholarship here, but sometimes my nerves got the best of me. When I was in a new situation, I was always afraid I wouldn’t be wanted.

This year, I wasn’t new. I spotted a bunch of the guys sitting a few rows up, so I headed to join them. I felt my phone buzz and pulled it out of my pocket as I climbed the steps. I smiled when I saw it was my girlfriend texting me a photo.

That’s another thing that’s going to be better than last year. This time last year, I didn’t know it, but I was about to lose my girlfriend. Faith had been a senior in high school. She’d wanted to break up when I left for college, but I’d convinced her long distance would work.

Long story short, it didn’t.

This year, it’s different. Holly and I started going out the end of our freshman year, and being a lot smarter, we took a break over the summer. We reconnected a few days ago and decided to get back together.

Much better way to handle things. I’m learning.

I sat down beside my teammates, still looking at the photos Holly sent me, and got some teasing from the guys. That was the other thing that was so much better this year. I knew these guys. After a year together, we’d bonded. We were family. I didn’t have any other family worth talking about.

“Is that Holly texting you?” Cooper, a junior defenseman, asked. He’d adopted me last year after the big breakup with my girlfriend. I’d needed somebody then, and he’d come through, in aces. I owed him.

I nodded, flipping between two photos Holly had sent me. She wanted to know which I liked better. Hell if I knew. I mean, the photos weren’t that clear, and she looked good in both of them.

“What’s she sending you photos for when she’s not naked?” Cooper leaned over my shoulder to look at the photos. I elbowed him. Cooper’s a player, the off-ice kind, so not really a guy to ask for advice on relationships.

“She wants to know which one I like.”

He shrugged. “Whichever one shows more skin.”

I shook my head, then took another look at the photos. Maybe he had a point.

Next thing, Holly sent me two more photos, and I was looking for a way to bail. I wasn’t Dr. Phil, but I could see a lot of ways this could go bad if I picked the wrong one.

I heard a whistle from Forts, our captain, and looked up. Our freshmen weren’t on the ice yet. The women had first dibs on the ice today. I didn’t pay a lot of attention to the women’s team, because my ex, the one that broke up with me last September, played hockey. Nothing against the Moo U women hockey players, but I didn’t need the reminder.

The guys were watching one of the goalies on the ice. The women had wrapped up most of their practice, best I could tell, and were just shooting at the net. And the one player? The goalie?

Damn, she was good.

Really good.

Déjà vu good.

I didn’t know how to describe what was happening to me. My cheeks were warm, but my body was cold. My stomach was ready to hurl my lunch, and an unseen weight pressed down on me.

And through it all, I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

I knew it was her without seeing the face hidden behind the mask or the name on the back of her jersey. I knew those moves, the way she slid across the crease, the quick flick of her blocker to deflect a shot. She was even better than she’d been a year ago. No wonder the guys were watching her. She didn’t play like a freshman goalie. She was confident and focused and…

And she hated me.

“Who’s that?” I heard Cooper say, and there was no doubt who he was talking about. There were six of us sitting there, and all six of us were watching her.

Just her.

“Dev.” I heard my mouth speaking but had no memory of making it happen. “Her jersey says Devereaux, right?”

I figured it out. I was dreaming. That was why I felt so weird. That was why my mouth was spitting out words when I hadn’t given it permission to. It was some weird dream, probably connected to this being close to the anniversary of our breakup. I waited it out, knowing I’d wake up long before I had to see her face. Sure, this dream felt almost real, but it couldn’t be, because Faith would never come to Burlington, not when she knew I was here.

Of course not.

The coach blew her whistle, and the goalie turned around, Devereaux written across the back of her jersey. Number thirty-one. Faith’s number.

Because in my dream, I hadn’t changed anything.

“Shit, Seb, you know her?”

Dream Cooper was surprised by this, as apparently were the rest of the guys on the team. But it was okay, I’d wake up soon.

“Yeah, she played in the same town as I did as a Junior.” Fortunately, dream me was smart enough not to say I knew her, as in naked knew her. Did not want to talk about that.

Instead, dream me rattled on about something else. “First practice on the Mav’s, we all tried to score on her. I think about two shots got in out of at least a hundred. She’s good.”

Dream Cooper got a glint in his eye, and I knew he was about to get up to some stupid shit. Cooper was the biggest contributor to our kitty. We threw in money when we did something we shouldn’t and gave it to a charity at the end of the year. Good thing this was just a dream.

“Really?” Dream Cooper wasn’t giving up on the idea. Real Cooper was just the same.

“Yeah, she played on the guys’ teams until she wasn’t allowed to anymore.”

Cooper turned to the rest of my dream teammates and said, “Let’s go guys. The freshmen need to see if they can do better than Seb’s sorry-ass Junior team.”

They all agreed, got up, and headed down to the ice. Dream me stayed put, waiting to wake up. It was definitely time for this to be over. My phone buzzed again, and I saw Holly had sent more pictures. I looked at them, wondering why I was so interested in women’s fashion in a dream. And it had to be a dream, right?

I shook my head. Down by the ice, Cooper called Faith. She skated over and tugged off her helmet. Sweaty hair surrounded her face, and the long blond braid fell down her shoulder. She pulled her arm over her forehead, wiping off the sweat. Like she did every damn time. And the bubble I’d created by telling myself this was a dream popped.

My hands started to shake. The phone buzzed again, but now I felt like I really was about to hurl. I found my feet and headed away from the ice, away from my teammates, away from her. I came to in the hallway, leaning against the wall like I’d fall down if I tried to stand up straight. I breathed in and out, concentrating on keeping my food inside me.

What the everlasting fuck?

Faith was here? Why the hell would she be here? She knew this was where I’d gotten a scholarship. This was my school.

Shit. Sophomore year had just gone to shit.

* * *

Faith

Not every day was a good day. Some days, I couldn’t stop a beachball coming at my net. I didn’t have many of those days. I was good. So good that I’d been offered scholarships to a lot of schools. I’d had choices. My dad and I had gone over all of them, making up a pro and con list. The biggest pro was getting ice time.

I was a goalie. When my team was on the ice, there were five skaters and one goaltender. A team would normally run four forward lines and three pair of defensemen every game. That meant eighteen or more skaters would play in a game, and only one goalie. The backup goalie would only come in if the starter let in a slew of goals or got hurt. Bottom line? There weren’t a lot of goalies on a team’s roster, and they didn’t all get to play.

It was important that I had the chance to be in net for games. I was going to play hockey professionally, so I needed to show what I could do while I was at college. Dad and I looked at a lot more than team records and facilities. We checked out what the rosters were like, how deep they were with goalies both playing and ready to play.

The best shot to play was at Burlington University, known as Moo U. Moo U’s starting goalie had graduated last year. Her backup, Claire Anderson, was a rising senior, and this was her last year playing. They didn’t have any other goalies ready to start. Of course, the biggest con about Burlington was my ex. I knew he must be playing here this year, that is unless my darkest wishes had come true and he’d lost a leg or something. I’d been careful not to hear or see anything about him.

Bitter much? Yeah, I was.

I couldn’t tell my dad I didn’t want to go to Burlington because my ex had cheated on me. That wasn’t a topic we discussed in our house.

And hell, I wasn’t going to let my ex decide my future. I needed to put my hockey career first. That meant ignoring anything to do with him and taking care of myself. I’d been ignoring him for a year. I could keep it up. So I’d taken the offer from Burlington.

I’d been here on campus for a couple of days now. I was learning my way around, getting to know my roommate, and had seen no signs of my ex. So far, so good.

Today was our first practice. It was just the freshmen on the ice, though I had noticed some people sitting watching us. I knew some of them had to be some of my upper-class teammates. I was looking forward to meeting them, but first I needed to impress them with my skills.

If I could show them I was the goalie they needed, they’d be predisposed to like me.

Women playing hockey did not get all the perks and advantages that the guys got. We had to play for the love of the game, and we were all fiercely competitive. We had to be, or we’d all give up.

Fortunately, I was having one of my best days. First, we did some drills. Most of those were for the skaters. We goalies had different needs and did a lot of exercises and practice on our own. There was another freshman goalie here, but it soon became blindingly obvious I was better. I had to be. If I was going to be a professional, I had to be better than everyone. Because I didn’t want to play with women. I wanted to play with men.

My favorite part of the rookie exhibition was at the end, when the skaters took shots, and the other goalie and I did our best to stop them. This was what I lived for. And today everything was going well. The puck had slowed down, and I saw everything coming. I knew it would be harder with the rest of the team, with the better, more-experienced players, but for now, I let my mind go into my zone.

There was nothing but me and the puck. It was a battle I’d been fighting as long as I could remember. And today I was winning.

The whistle blew, and the shots stopped coming. I stood straight, flipped up my visor, and turned to suck some water through the straw in one of the bottles I’d left on the net. I was coming back to reality now, my body coated in sweat, my muscles vibrating from released tension. This was the closest I’d been to a game in weeks, and I was buzzing, still ready to go. The rest of the players had already started toward the locker rooms. I gathered my stuff and started to follow them when I heard someone shouting my name.

“Devereaux!”

I hadn’t expected someone to call me out like that. My coach had called on me during practice, but this was a male voice, not Coach Cray’s. I hadn’t been here at school long enough to get to know anyone not connected with my team. Maybe it was bizarre, but I only knew women on campus so far.

It was definitely me they were calling though. There were five guys down near the ice, and it wasn’t hard to figure out they were hockey players. They were big and fit, built the way they needed to be to play my sport. Plus, they had that air of confidence that the men’s teams swaggered around with. Moo U didn’t have a football team, and the hockey team was the jock royalty on campus. The men’s hockey team, of course. My roommate had already checked them out and told me more than enough about them. I knew the rookies for the men’s team were next on the ice, so these guys were obviously here to check out the new blood, just like the women had been here to watch me.

Not gonna lie, for a minute, I checked every face, making sure none of them were my ex. I hated that I reacted that way, but I hadn’t completely gotten over him. At least, not to the point of not caring about him. Maybe I should break my own rule and check whether he was still here, or if he’d managed to get dengue fever. Or leprosy. When none of the faces were familiar, I relaxed and skated over to see what these guys wanted.

I tugged off my helmet. I knew my face would be flushed and my hair would be sticking to me with sweat, but I didn’t let that bother me. I had no romantic interest in any of them. I’d promised myself not to date an athlete and gone against that once. I wouldn’t again. I shook out my hair, wiped my face, and waited to hear what they wanted. Best case, they’d tell me I’d played well, because damn it, I had. Worst case, smack talk. I could handle both.

“Hello, ladies. How can I help you?”

I might as well start the ball rolling. I’d played with boys before. I didn’t need them to like me, but I did need them to respect me. And in the locker room, trash talking could earn respect.

“Cute,” said a tall blond. He appeared to be the leader of the group, and I took note. He was leaning against the boards, confidence oozing out his pores. That was fine. I was just as confident.

“I hear you think you’re pretty good.”

I could work with this. I shook my head. “Nah, I know I’m great.” I gave them my widest smile.

Blondie smirked. One of the other guys looked shocked. I focused on Blondie.

“I also hear you think you can take on men.”

A snort from behind him let me know they’d caught Blondie’s double entendre. Again, nothing I hadn’t handled before. It was a challenge to see what I could take.

“Are you asking me for a date, Blondie, or do you want to play hockey?”

He ran his gaze over me, so I did the same to him. He wasn’t going to see much. I was covered with pads. I could verify that he was fit and had money to spend on clothes, but the appraisal was a gesture, not interest on my part.

No athletes. Especially not hockey players. Assuming any offered.

Blondie crossed his arms and cocked his head. “Think any of these freshman or rookies can score on you?”

A couple of guys had made it onto the ice. I was the only one from the women’s team still around.

I ignored the look on his face, the smirky do-you-get-what-I’m-suggesting look.

“They won’t be able to get the puck past me, unless they’re very, very lucky. And I don’t think any of them are that lucky today.”

A big grin creased his face. “Okay, then let’s do it.”

I blinked. “Seriously?”

He stood up. “Unless you’re just talk?”

I jerked my head at the male coach who’d just stepped onto the ice. “If he’s okay with it, then bring it.”

Blondie called out, and the coach skated over. Not hard to see that Blondie had some clout on the men’s team. I wondered if he was a senior or junior.

“Hey, Coach Garfunkle. Can we have a little fun here? Devereaux here is pretty good. Maybe the new guys can give her some more practice and see if they can get the puck past her?”

I thought there was a good chance the coach would blow off the idea immediately, but instead, he looked at Blondie, then at me, and then stared out over the ice at who knew what.

“Sure, Coop.” He nodded. “We’ve got a few minutes before we need to get started here.”

I took another gulp of water before putting my helmet back on. “Watch and learn, ladies!” I taunted as I skated back to the net.

I could talk a good game with any of the teammates I’d had, boy or girl, and the ones I’d played against. That was part of the whole scenario. But unless it was a bad day, I could back it up. And today was a good day. These guys, dressed for the first time as the Moo U team, were anxious to look good for their coach and teammates. They’d brought their A game. But I had an A-plus game going.

It’s not that no one could score—but almost no one did. I wasn’t perfect even on my best day, but only two pucks got past me, and one of those bounced off the post, hit my back, and went in. On more than fifty shots, that was acceptable.

I still wanted the other one back.

As much fun as it was, they did have a practice to run, so the coach whistled, the guys gathered around him, and I was left alone in the net. Again, I gathered up my stuff, pulled off the helmet, and prepared to skate over to the women’s locker room.

“Devereaux!” It was Blondie, Coop. “Not too shabby.”

I pulled my hand out of my glove and scratched my nose with my middle finger. I heard the guys laugh, and I skated off the ice with a smile.

Fifteen minutes later, I was in my coach’s office, and I wasn’t smiling.

“Why are you here, Ms. Devereaux?”

I’d been told to stop and see her before I left. I wasn’t sure what was up, but I’d knocked on her door as soon as I’d showered. No one wants to be on their coach’s bad side. She told me to come in and then glared at me. Apparently, she hadn’t asked to see me to say I’d done a good job in practice.

I wasn’t sure what answer she was looking for, so I went with my honest response. “I’m here to play hockey.”

She leaned back in her chair with her arms crossed. “With which team?”

Oh shit. I could only give one answer. “The women’s team.” Obviously.

“Then why were you on the ice with the men?”

I didn’t know this woman yet. I didn’t know if she had a sense of humor. I didn’t know if I was totally screwed. “It was a kind of joke.”

“A joke? Do you think our team here is a joke?”

Shit. Shit. Shit. “No, ma’am. It was something the Junior team did back home, a thing for the rookies. To show them that a woman could stop them, so they didn’t think—”

“I don’t know or care what you did ‘back home’. I’m worried about what you do here. I don’t need one of my players being a ‘joke’ for the men’s team. Maybe it’s different ‘back home’, but here, we’ve had to fight for everything we have in the women’s hockey program. I don’t need to lose ground because a freshman wants some attention from the boys.”

My mouth dropped open. Attention from the boys? Did she think I was desperate for them to like me? “With all due respect, ma’am, I didn’t want their attention. I wanted them to know that a woman can be just as good at hockey as they are.”

Coach’s eyes snapped with anger, and she leaned forward, an angry expression on her face. “Just as good at hockey? I don’t need an overconfident freshman on a mission to show the world she’s just as good at hockey as the men. I need team players, players who want to be here, who want to play women’s hockey. Yes, Ms. Devereaux, I know you’ve played with the boys. And I know who your father is. And I don’t give a flying…fig. If you’re playing here only because there isn’t a ‘boys’ team that will sign you, you can pack your duffle and go. I have no room for divas and egos on this team. You’re good, Ms. Deveraux, but if you’re not a team player, you’re no good to me. If you come back to our next practice, I expect a better attitude. Think it over. And close the door on your way out.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

By the time Coach was done ripping me a new one, the rest of my teammates were gone. I packed up to leave, feeling like I’d just tanked my entire future.

Fuck!

I wondered how she’d found out I was playing with the guys. I wondered if one of my teammates had seen me and told her. Did the whole team hate me now, or just my coach? How could I fix this? When I’d had trouble with teammates before, there’d been an easy solution. Play better. Because when a team was winning games, everything tended to go more smoothly. But now, if I played well, was everyone going to think I was just doing it to show the guys I was as good as they were? Because I wished I was playing with them?

Truthfully, to reach my goals, I couldn’t be as good as the guys, I had to be better. And I couldn’t do that unless I played.

Fuck.

I wished I had someone to talk to, but I didn’t know my teammates yet, and they might already hate me. Obviously, talking to my coach was out. I wasn’t calling my parents. I didn’t need my dad interfering. I slammed out of the locker room, mood a complete 180 from when I’d left the ice a half hour ago. I was blinking back tears, because I could not be the emotional girl as well as the show-off.

I was tired and upset and angry and ready for this day to be over already. I wasn’t looking where I was going and ran into someone. A tall, hard, masculine someone, because it was just that perfect a day. I muttered sorry and stepped to the side, wanting nothing more than to get to my room where I didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing me while I tried to come to grips with what had just happened.

“Faith?”

I froze. This could not be happening, not today. Did I torture some orphans in a past life, or kill kittens? I knew that voice. It belonged to the one person I didn’t want to see ever again.

“Faith?” He said it again, so staring at the ground was apparently not going to make either of us disappear.

I drew in a long breath and slowly raised my head.

It was him. Seb, the cheater. He looked shocked, like I was the last person he’d expected to see.

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First Chapter: Bombshells

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Listen on this web page. Or scroll down to read Chapter One!

September

ANTON

It’s a Wednesday afternoon during the preseason, and I should really be in the locker room. But I’m standing in an office in the Bruisers’ headquarters, waiting to find out if I still have a NHL career.

Practice starts in thirty minutes. If they wanted me down there, I’d already know, wouldn’t I?

My hands are clammy and my heart rate is erratic. So this is what it feels like when fate brings the hammer down. If only I could go back in time and make better choices. I wouldn’t be standing here sweating.

Couldn’t they just fire me already? I’m dying here.

Prayer probably won’t work, even if this is one of those moments when I’m tempted to bargain with God. What would I even say? 

Dear Lord—I’m sorry for all the cockiness I displayed last year. You know my stats were great during my rookie season. But then I kinda self-destructed. 

I’m sorry I didn’t leave the bar earlier all those times when I should have. I’m sorry about missing the team jet that time in Arizona when I had no business being so hungover in the middle of a road trip. 

On the matter of a certain compromising photo, I think we can both agree that the incident with those women was not really my fault. But I do apologize for putting myself in that situation and allowing for that tacky result.

But I am most sorry for the worst sin of all—squandering all those opportunities. You gave me a shot at greatness. But I started my second season on the struggle bus. And after that disastrous game against Chicago, you (in your infinite wisdom) sent me down to purgatory—aka the minor league team in Hartford. I had to watch on TV while the Bruisers went to the playoffs.

This summer I repented. I ran seven miles every day, even on the ones when New York City was as humid and gross as a used practice jersey.

I didn’t skip a workout in the gym, either. In the evenings, I’ve drunk only a single light beer. Did you ever hear the joke about how light beer is just like sex in the bottom of a canoe? Because it’s  fucking close to water.

Oh hell! I can’t even pray like a grownup. I just told a dirty joke to God.

Just then, the door swings open, and my heart plummets as Hugh Major walks into the small room, chest out. He’s followed by Eric, my father’s cousin, who is also my agent. 

And Eric looks grim. 

Oh shit. This is really happening. 

Up until this very moment—when I saw that look on Eric’s face—I still held out some hope that, after my strong showing at training camp, they’d give me one more chance.

Fuck my life. I deserve this. But it’s still going to bite the big one.

“Well, son,” Hugh says as Eric shuts the door. “You sure had some trouble last season.” 

“I know, sir,” I say evenly, because a man doesn’t cower from his fate. “My production was not up to my own standards.” 

“Nor mine,” he agrees, even as a cold drop of sweat makes its way down my back. “You’re capable of so much more.”

“And I’m going to prove it, even if I have to do that in Hartford.”

“Huh.” He frowns at me. “How about you do it downstairs on the practice rink instead? We’re going to roster you. But you’d better give us something to show for it.”

“Yessir,” I say, my ears ringing with confusion. Did I just hear that right? I’m staying?

I glance at Eric’s stern glower for clarification. Why does he look so dark when… 

His lip twitches. Then it twitches again.

That Bastard! He knew how this was going to go. He was just fucking with me. 

“Keep your head down, kid. You know you’ve got to,” says Hugh.

“I can,” I insist, dragging my gaze back to his. “I got this.”

“Then get down there and show us all.” He gives me a nod and—done with me now—lets himself out of the room to deal with someone else’s drama.

I don’t breathe until he’s gone. I’m drenched in cold sweat. And Eric, that fucker, is chuckling silently. “You jackass!” I hiss. “I about sharted myself just from the look on your ugly face when you walked in here.’’

“I know,” he says with a snort. “It was priceless. And no less than you deserve. Honestly, Hugh should have yelled a little more and thrown some furniture around. Maybe that would put you into the headspace you need this season. “

“But I am in the right headspace,” I insist. “I’ve been there since I got sent down to Hartford in March. Now I’m fitter than I’ve ever been. Even since high school, when I was in lust with a distance runner.”

Eric shakes his head as he opens the door to shoo me into the hallway. “Let me guess—you ran half-marathons every day just to get into her spandex?” 

“Yes.”

“Did it work?” he asks as we head for the stairs leading down to the historic lobby of the renovated warehouse where the Brooklyn Bruisers make their home. 

“Oh, sure,” I recall. “Totally worth it. She was skinny, but man did she have stamina.” But I’m getting off topic. “This time I ran for me, though. Nobody will be able to outskate me. I’m fit and ready. They won’t be sorry they took this chance.”

Eric stops in the middle of the grand lobby, beneath the video screen showing highlights from last season. “That’s the problem. It’s your third season. They shouldn’t have to feel like they’re taking a chance. You’re not a rookie anymore.”

Well, ouch. “Yeah, no kidding. But things are already different.” I swipe open the door that leads to the practice facility.

“Tell me how,” he says as we enter the tunnel.

“I already told you my new rules.”

“Say it again,” he says. “Loudly. So the gods of hockey can hear you.”

Man, I love Eric, but I hate being treated like a kid brother. There’s no getting around it, though. He was this team’s first Bayer. It’s not his fault that he had to retire at the top of his game, after too many knee surgeries. 

They picked me up that same season, so my nickname became Baby Bayer, and I can’t seem to shake it. I don’t enjoy the constant reminder that I was the second-choice Bayer.

Then again, my behavior last season helped the name stick.

This year will be different, though, because of these rules I made for myself. “No boozing,” I grumble. “No whoring.” Eric smirks. “And no scandals.”

“Good,” he says. “It’s a start. Although rules are what you make of them. And none of those three things is the real problem. It’s focus, Anton. And we both know it.”

“Yeah.” He’s right. But so am I, because the rules are meant to give some structure to my life. They’ll make me into a different man. A better man. 

A man who can focus. 

At the bottom of the tunnel, I swipe myself into the last secure door at the edge of the training complex. “I gotta suit up now.” 

“Good thing,” he says cheerfully. “Have a great practice.” 

“I will.” Seriously. I’ll never take this for granted again. Every time my ID card lets me through this door, I’ll say another hallelujah. “You’re still a shit cousin for making me sweat it, by the way.” 

“Maybe.” He walks away laughing.

* * *

In the dressing room, I head for my locker. It’s right where it used to be, between Drake and Campeau. I’m so ready to buckle down and skate. And I won’t stop until we win the cup in June. 

“You’re late, Baby Bayer!” O’Doul calls. “Change, already.”

“Sorry,” I say, preferring not to explain where I’ve been. “Let’s do this, boys!” I slap Drake on the back. “Who’s ready to skate until we puke?”

“You talk a good game,” my friend replies, pulling up his socks. “But I bet you’re really just planning the first big prank of the season.”

“Nah,” I say, tossing my T-shirt into my gym bag. “I’ve retired the whoopie cushion and the rubber chicken.” This will be the year that the hockey blogs know me for my stats, not my reputation as a party boy. 

It’s time to settle down. Hell—it’s past time. “Where’s my jersey?” I ask, glancing around the room. It’s not at my station. And I feel an honest-to-God shiver, like the hockey gods are reminding me one more time that nobody owes me a seat in this room.

“Oh, uh,” Drake says, frowning. “Jimbo only made it half way around before something came up.” He points at a rolling laundry cart in the center of the room. “I found mine in there.”

“Thanks, dude.” I slap my upper body pads on and then cross to the cart. Sure enough, there’s my practice jersey right on top. BAYER it reads, number 70. “One better than 69,” I used to tell the ladies in the bars after games.

I reach for the jersey. But just as my fingers close around the fabric, a hand comes shooting up from beneath the other laundry in the cart and grabs me by the wrist. 

I shriek like a teenage girl at a Taylor Swift concert. 

The room erupts with howls of laughter.

“MOTHERFUCKER!” I yell as Castro stands up in the cart, shedding a pile of jerseys. Then I clutch my chest, where my heart is beating wildly. “You will PAY, asshole!”

He doubles over laughing. “Anyone get it on video?”

“Oh ya,” says the rookie Wilson in his big Wisconsin accent. He’s clutching his phone and laughing. “That’ll be a classic. You jumped a yard, Baby Bayer. Shoulda gone out for basketball.”

“Assholes,” I grumble, lifting the damn jersey over my head. “You all think you’re so funny.” The whole room is still laughing, even Ivo, the Finnish kid who barely understands anything we say. 

I stomp back to my gear and put on my hockey shorts. 

“Oh, man,” Drake says, wiping his eyes. “What a way to start the season. How you gonna pay Castro back?” 

As soon as I hear the question, my subconscious is making plans. I could steal that lucky peanut-butter sandwich he eats before every game. He might open it up and find a damp sponge in there instead. Or—since we live in the same building and share a laundry room—I could put a new purple T-shirt in his whites laundry and turn all his underwear lavender.

But wait. No. 

Slowly I turn to Drake. “I’m not.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to get him back. I’m done with jokes and pranks,” I tell him. Even if revenge does sound nice, because my heart rate is still elevated from Castro’s jump scare, my focus needs to be elsewhere.

“Sure you’re done.” Drake rolls his eyes. “You can tell me all about it tonight when we go out.”

“Where?”

“Some warehouse party in Long Island City. Doors open at midnight but the real fun doesn’t start until one, prolly.”

But I’m here to skate. I didn’t bust my ass all summer to get drunk at a warehouse party. “Maybe next time,” I tell Drake. And then I pat him on the shoulder and grab my skates.

* * *

The first thing I see when I walk out to the main practice rink is a whole lot of journalists and photographers. They’re here to preview the new team roster and check out the new, expanded practice facility. 

“Bayer! Over here!” a photographer calls. I give him a wave and a smile. I’m so juiced for the new season and a new chance to prove myself. The circus-like atmosphere only feeds me.

The second thing I see is our head coach. 

“Anton!” Coach Worthington lands his piercing gaze on me. “Good showing yesterday at the track. I had no idea you could sprint like that.”

My chest practically expands from this compliment. “Thank you, sir. I worked hard this summer.”

“It shows. I was impressed. This is the year you settle down and put up the stats you’re capable of.”

“Yes, sir. That’s going to happen.”

“I have some ideas.” There’s a glint in the older man’s eyes. “We’re going to practice a couple different defensive pairings this year. You’ll skate with O’Doul in some preseason games and Tankiewicz in others. Gotta keep ’em guessing. We have so much strength on the blue line. Let’s make it all count.”

“Yes, Coach. I can’t wait.” His optimism is contagious. Everyone is buzzing about how this will be a big season for us. It was only a few years ago when the Bruisers were moved to the city and rebranded as a Brooklyn team. The GM got fired, and then the coach, too. 

Everybody said Nate Kattenberger was a fool, that an internet billionaire couldn’t make a world-class hockey team out of his pricey investment. 

They were wrong. 

Nate is only part of our story now. Now there’s Rebecca Rowley Kattenberger—his wife—who owns the team. We’ve got a terrific GM, a great staff, and twenty-three players who are determined to get back to the finals this season.

Thank you, Jesus, for making me one of them. And I’m sorry about that dirty joke earlier.

I know I’m lucky to be standing here in this state-of-the-art practice rink in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. It’s a bit of a zoo today because the team is holding an open practice. There are little kids in the stands wearing purple Bruisers jerseys. And photographers angling their giant cameras toward the ice.

Practice hasn’t started, and most of the guys aren’t out here yet. But out of the corner of my eye, I see an unfamiliar skater in full goalie padding. My attention is snagged by the fluid, strong strides of his skating. Goalies have to be phenomenal skaters, but there’s something really stylish about this one. I wonder who he is. Some college kid getting a tryout? A draft pick I haven’t seen before? 

“We’re going to run a lot of back-checking drills,” Coach says. “Our whole season could hinge on how many fractional seconds it takes us to recover a lost puck.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” I agree. 

The goalie has reached my end of the rink now, where there is a little girl smiling and waving at him. He comes to a fluid stop in front of the plexi. He scoops a puck up off the ice and then shows it to the little girl, sending her into paroxysms of joy. He tosses it over, and the little girl lets out a whoop and leaps for it.

I smile as a reflex, because I was once that kid, desperate for a moment’s contact with one of my idols at the rink. 

But then? The goalie unclips his helmet and hauls it over his head, revealing a head of long, thick hair. Hold the phone—this goalie is a girl. No—a woman. With rich brown hair and lush olive skin. She shakes out her hair, which seems to be in the process of escaping whatever braid or ponytail that had confined it. Then she smiles, giving the little girl a wave.

And I can’t fucking breathe. Her smile lights up her eyes, which are a warm brown. She is like the living, breathing picture of female perfection. 

In a goalie’s pads. Fuck me. 

“Anton Bayer,” Coach snaps. “We were having a conversation. And now you’re staring at a girl.”

Dazed, I look back in his direction. “Sorry, sir. I just didn’t realize…” The sentence has no rational conclusion. I just didn’t realize that a ten-second look at a woman from ten yards away was enough to make me feel so much. Curiosity. Intrigue. Hunger, even. Who knew I had a thing for goalies?

“Yeah, the Bombshells’ season is starting up at the same time as yours,” Coach says. “It’s going to be an adjustment sharing this facility.”

“Exactly,” I agree, as if I’d been thinking the same thing. And in truth, I had forgotten all about Rebecca’s investment in women’s hockey. “The, uh, new renovation looks great, though.” 

Coach grunts his agreement. Over the summer, they’d done a lot of work on the practice facility. The full-sized practice rink—where I’m currently making an ass of myself in front of Coach—got five hundred additional seats and a new, high-tech roof. There’s a new stadium-worthy scoreboard hanging from the ceiling. 

And—this is the wildest thing—an entire new story was constructed on top of our state-of-the-art locker room facility. So our dressing rooms are still there, but there’s a new suite for the women’s team above us. 

I’d known all that. It’s just that it hadn’t really sunk in that there’d be actual women here in the building with us. And I really hadn’t anticipated that my brain could be stolen by the goalie on day one. 

Lordy, I’m going to have to watch myself. Coach was absolutely right when he said this is my year to settle down and contribute. It isn’t just my sprints that I’ve been training. It’s my mind. I need to be tougher than I’ve been. 

Focus, man. Come on.

Coach checks his expensive watch. “Let’s do this, Bayer. We’re starting. Get out there.” 

I vault over the wall to get in a couple of warmup laps as my teammates troop down the chute to join me. I lean into my glide, lengthening my stride and stretching my legs. But as I round the ice, something silver glints at me from the surface. I stop, lean down, and remove my glove to pluck some kind of hairpin off the ice. It must have escaped when the world’s most sensuous goalie shook out her hair.

So much for avoiding her. I straighten up and skate hastily toward the end of the rink where I’d seen her disappear. And there she is, helmet under her arm, watching my teammates warm up. She’s wearing a frown now, which puts a crease in her forehead. I have the urge to smooth it out with my fingers.

But that would be creepy and weird, so I speak to her instead. “Excuse me, miss? I think you might have dropped this when you were giving that little girl the puck. Nice move, by the way. You made her whole year.”

The beauty turns, and her eyes widen slightly. “Sorry. Are you speaking to me?”

“Yeah. I don’t know your name. But I found this on the ice.” I hold it out, and her eyes widen again. 

“O-oh,” she stammers. “I didn’t…” She catches herself. “Never mind. thank you. I hope you didn’t trip on it.”

“Nah. No worries.”

She reaches out and takes the pin from me, brushing my palm with her fingertips. And just that small contact ripples through me like an electrical current. “Welcome to Brooklyn,” I hear myself say in a husky voice. “Was today your first practice?” That would explain the number of journalists.

“Yes,” she says with a quick smile that I feel right in the center of my chest. “Was it that obvious?”

“What? No.” I laugh. “I didn’t see any of it.” 

Behind me, an assistant coach blows the whistle, calling for the first drills. 

“But I’m about to have my own practice now,” I add.

“Well, good luck to you, then. I hope it goes better than mine.”

“Thank you.” Still, I linger a moment longer, staring into those soft brown eyes. “You have a nice day,” I say stupidly. Then I force myself to turn and skate away. 

I didn’t even get her name.

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First Chapter: Hideaway by Rachel Lacey

Phoebe

The door closed behind me with a soft click, and I leaned against it, one hand clasped around the handle of my suitcase. The house looked exactly like I remembered, with floral-papered walls and thick piled carpet that squished beneath my shoes. It smelled the same too, spicy undertones of the incense my grandma used to burn, mixed with the musky scent of dogs. I almost expected to hear Grandma’s voice calling from the kitchen and Comet’s friendly bark as he rushed to greet me.

Today, the house was silent. Dust motes danced in the air where a shaft of sunlight cut across the entryway from the front window. And behind the familiar scents, there was a staleness that came from the house having been closed up for more than six months. I pushed the suitcase ahead of me as I walked into the living room. Its wheels snagged in the thick carpet, and I stumbled against it, banging my shin.

“Dammit,” I whispered, rubbing my leg. My voice disturbed the absolute silence inside the house. I wasn’t used to quiet, having just left Boston and then singing along to my favorite music in the car during my drive to Vermont. My ears seemed to ring with the absence of noise. This was why I’d come, though, not only to clean out my grandmother’s home, but to be alone, to hide out here in the middle of nowhere while I waited for the shitstorm back home to die down.

After three and a half hours in the car, my bladder was pretty unhappy with me, so I went down the hall to the guest bathroom, leaving my suitcase stuck in the carpet. The little bowl of potpourri by the sink was still there, keeping the room fresh despite the layer of dust on the surfaces. I freshened up, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I knew what I’d see if I looked. My eyes were shadowed from too many sleepless nights, my curly hair limp from having dried in a ponytail during my drive. My clothes were probably wrinkled too.

With a sigh, I walked to the living room to retrieve my suitcase, hit by an unexpected wave of nostalgia as I swept my gaze around the room. My grandma’s shelves were filled with the same family photos and knickknacks that had been here for as long as I could remember. There was the sparkly rock I’d brought home from a hike when I was seven, sitting proudly next to a photo of me and my grandma.

“I miss you, Grandma,” I whispered. She’d died in her sleep last fall, taken without warning by a massive heart attack. I’d always thought that was the best way to go, except she’d been way too young and none of us had gotten the chance to say goodbye. The door to her bedroom was closed now, and I couldn’t bring myself to open it, afraid of what I might find. Were her glasses still sitting beside the bed? Had anyone washed the sheets?

Instead, I pushed my suitcase to the guest room across the hall, the room that had been mine for so many summer vacations during my youth. It looked the same too, with a blue-striped quilt on the bed and white lace curtains, although the air here was unpleasantly stuffy.

I went to the window and unlatched it, giving it a push. Nothing happened. This window had always been tricky. I crouched, lifting from my knees as I pushed upward, finally raising the window a few inches with a dull squeak. Fresh air flowed into the room, warm and lightly scented by my grandmother’s rosebushes.

That was a pleasant surprise. I’d been afraid they might have died, left unattended during a harsh Vermont winter. But as I gazed out the window, the backyard looked well-tended. The grass was recently mowed, and the rosebushes I could see from the window were neatly pruned. Had my dad hired someone to keep the place up? If he had, he hadn’t mentioned it to me.

I turned away from the window, and my gaze caught on a framed photo on the dresser of two little girls with their arms around each other as they twirled in a field of tall grass. That field was just through the woods out back, and those girls…

I pressed a hand to my heart. I’d come here for an escape, but I’d forgotten how many memories this house held, memories I wasn’t ready to face yet. I sat on the bed and checked my phone, finding texts from my best friends Courtney and Emily, as well as one from my mom, all checking to make sure I’d arrived safely.

I miss you already, Courtney had written. FaceTime later?

Sending you so many hugs, Emily said.

Drive safely, and let me know when you get there, from my mom.

After sending each of them a quick reply, I left my suitcase in the bedroom and went down the hall to the kitchen for a glass of water. The dishes were all clean and put in their right places. Who had done that? Had my dad cleaned the house when we’d come up for the funeral in November? I’d stayed behind at the hotel when he came here, not ready to see this place without Margery in it.

I filled a glass at the sink and gulped down about half of it, parched from my drive. Then I peeked into the fridge, not sure whether it would be full of old, spoiled food, but it was empty. I’d have to go shopping before dinner. In fact, I was already hungry, but I wasn’t ready to get back in the car just yet.

Instead, I put my glass in the sink and went out the kitchen door, descending three worn wooden steps onto the patio. The rosebushes that ran along the back of the house bloomed with big pink, red, and white blossoms. More roses climbed a trellis over the patio, with two white Adirondack chairs beneath it.

A path ran down to the stream at the edge of the yard, where a small wooden bridge connected it to the hiking trail leading into the woods. As a girl, I had loved to explore those woods. Were the trails I’d tromped down so many times still there?

As I inhaled the fresh country air, I felt myself relaxing for the first time in weeks. This was exactly why I’d come to Vermont. I needed the peace and quiet here, the solitude, far from the stress of the city. I needed to be alone for a little while. I’d even deleted all the social media apps from my phone, hoping that by the time I reconnected with the larger world, my notifications would no longer be a hotbed of attention I’d never asked for or wanted.

Something moved in my peripheral vision, and I turned just as an animal rushed out of the woods, dashing toward me. I inhaled, adrenaline bursting through my veins as the shaggy black creature crossed the yard, my mind screaming bear a moment before it barked.

Oh, thank God.

The dog ran at me, and I didn’t even have a chance to recover from my shock before it planted its front paws on my leg, tail wagging. It was enormous, with bushy black fur like a…well, like a bear.

“Jesus,” I muttered as I gave it a cautious pat. I liked dogs, but the way this one came racing out of the woods so unexpectedly had scared me. My heart was still pounding. Was it a stray? There was a red collar around its neck, so maybe not. Before I could look for tags, I heard a woman’s voice calling from the direction of the hiking trail.

“Minnie!”

The dog turned its head to stare in the direction of what was probably its owner calling for it, but could an animal this big really be named Minnie? I gave it a gentle nudge since its front paws were still propped against my leg, and it dropped to all fours, panting.

I frowned. This was private property. Why was someone hiking on my grandmother’s land? That was rude, even if the house had sat vacant for a while.

“Minnie!” the woman called again, and the dog dashed in her direction, letting out an excited bark.

I planted my hands on my hips as a tall woman with hair the color of cinnamon came striding out of the woods with another dog at her side. My heart—which was still pounding—lurched for an entirely different reason, because oh, I knew that stride, that smile, that hair.

I’d known her as a little girl, skipping through the field on the other end of this trail, and for one memorable summer when we were sixteen, she’d been more than my best friend. She’d been my first love, the girl whose kiss made me realize I didn’t like boys.

I swallowed roughly, my throat gone dry. “Taylor?”

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A sample from Bombshells! How Anton met Sylvie

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Narrated by Patrick Zeller and Desireé Ketchum. Grab Bombshells at: Audible | Amazon | Apple | Kobo | Nook