Sarina Bowen's Blog, page 18

First Chapter: Headstrong by Eden Finley

RAINN

Walking to work is fun. Especially in the snow.

Almost as fun and exciting as being told it will cost six hundred bucks to get a new alternator for my piece-of-shit car.

Yup. Today is just … fun.

Fun. Fun. Fun.

Whoever said positive thinking is the key to happiness has to be talking about a new party drug.

Because this is bullshit.

I would have taken an Uber, but I’m running late and it’s quicker to walk the mile and a half from my apartment. I usually walk, but in this weather, it’s easier to drive. You know, when my car is working.

If it was light snowfall, that would be one thing, but no. It’s annoying sleet that hits me as it falls in pellets, stinging my face. I pull up my scarf, but it only helps a little.

My boots crunch the ice on the sidewalk as I trudge toward Church Street. I used to love the snow, the ice, and everything to do with winter. Now I crave summer.

Even though my shift at the bookstore started five minutes ago, I duck into the Maple Factory and order Harrison an apologetic tea and granola muffin. I grab an espresso to wake myself up and a hot chocolate to warm my frozen insides.

When I get to Vino and Veritas, I have my customer-service smile ready and flash it toward my boss.

He gives me a derisive look.

My face falls. “I know, I know. I’m late. I’m sorry. The car broke down.”

Harrison’s expression softens. “Again?”

I grunt. “New problem this time.”

“You really need a new one.”

All is forgiven when I hand him his coffee and muffin.

“I’d get a new car if I didn’t spend my last five bucks on sucking up to my boss.” My smile is genuine this time, but it’s only because if I don’t smile, I’ll cry.

“Tanner might have some more hours for you in the bar if you’re desperate.” He points next door. “You can grunt at him. He’ll grunt back. Bam, more shifts.”

“Thanks, but I’m exaggerating.” Sort of. I place my drink on the counter and take off my jacket and scarf, stashing them so I can get to work.

I can’t say I thought working at a bookstore and wine bar would be my future when I was a kid, but it pays my bills. Mostly. It’s good for rent and food. There’s just no wiggle room for messed-up alternators.

“A shipment came in today, and because you’ve had a shitty morning, I’ll give you a choice between stocking the shelves or customer duty.”

“Oh, wow, how will I choose?”

“You could always do both.”

I tap my chin. Tough choice. “I’ll take customer duty. I’m trying this new thing where I think positively. If I pretend to be nice, it will eventually make me nice.”

“Fake it until you make it.” He slaps my shoulder. “Let me know how that works out for you.”

A customer walks through the doors.

Time to work.

Mrs. Embry is a regular. She’s in her seventies—at least—and I know exactly what she’ll ask for.

“I’ve run out of men who can’t find their shirts,” she says, as predicted.

She thinks she’s hilarious, and I have to admit, she is entertaining. She only reads romance novels with shirtless men on the covers, and she has to point it out every time.

“Right this way, Mrs. Embry.” I lead her to the romance section.

“I was talking to my online book club, and they recommended …” She glances around the store as if we’re being watched and then leans in and lowers her voice. “Something called MM romance.”

I purse my lips to stop from smiling. “We, uh, do have those books, but, umm, do you know what MM means?”

When I started working here, I had no clue.

She whispers, “It’s about the gays.”

Do not laugh, Rainn. Do not laugh.

It’s hard because her tone is so serious.

“We keep those books over here.”

We move toward the gay romance section, and her little face lights up. “Ooh, what’s better than one shirtless man on a cover but two?”

A chuckle finally escapes.

She reaches for a book, and my cheeks heat.

“That one is kind of … advanced.”

“Oh, you’ve read it?”

“I read all the books that come through the store.”

That’s a lie. I haven’t read every single book, but I make it a point to read this genre.

Both of my bosses are queer, and I work in queer spaces. I figured reading gay romance would give me insight into the LGBTQ community, seeing as I knew next to nothing when I started here. I was worried about saying something homophobic out of ignorance.

I’d never do it intentionally—anyone can love anyone they want—but I’ll admit to not being so aware when it comes to everything rainbow.

The books were definitely … eye-opening. I’ll leave it at that.

Mrs. Embry flips through the book, pausing to read a few paragraphs. “What’s a boy button?”

Loud laughter comes from behind me, but when I turn to glare at my boss, it’s hard not to laugh with him. He’s trying to contain it, which only makes his face look strained, and his cheeks turn pink.

He waves his hand and abandons his spot where he’s putting the new stock out on shelves, no doubt retreating to the back room to compose himself.

“Uh …” I have no idea what to tell Mrs. Embry.

“Whatever it is, this man sure likes it being pegged. I’m sold.” She hands me the book to ring it up at the cash register, and it takes a second for me to process what just happened.

“Are you sure you want this one?”

“This is good.”

“All right.” Can’t argue with a sure woman.

I’ve definitely learned that through my dating life. My sad, pretty pathetic dating life, really.

As I’m making the transaction at the counter, a young guy steps into the store. Probably a college student.

He takes off his beanie and shakes out his light brown hair.

I give Mrs. Embry her book and a smile before making my way over to the new customer. “Hi, can I help you find anything in particular?”

His gaze meets mine, and I can’t help noticing the different shades of hazel in each eye. One is a honey-brown color, and the other is a mixture of green and brown hues.

I try not to stare, because I’m sure he gets questions all the time. Like if he was born that way or got pushed into a vat of radioactive waste.

“I hope you can help me. The library doesn’t have any in, and I’ve been looking online, but it won’t get here in time, and I’m really hoping you have one in stock, and I realize this is probably the longest sentence in history, so I’ll stop talking now.”

I grin. “I might need the name of the book before you stop talking completely.”

“Oh. Right. That would help. Uh, it’s Fundamentals of Agricultural Economics.”

“Sounds like a fun class.”

Either he doesn’t pick up on my dry tone, or he ignores it. “It is. In a constantly changing climate, sustainability in the farming sector is more unpredictable than ever before. Coming up with innovative ways to use natural resources— And I just realized you were being sarcastic. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. It’s good to be passionate about something.”

The passion I once had for life, for my future, for everything, was taken away from me four years ago, and I haven’t figured out how to get it back yet. I’m twenty-six and don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

I had a plan. A smart person would’ve had a plan B. Now the thought of making any kind of plans makes me break out in hives.

“The agriculture section is this way if you want to start looking, but I’ll go check the computer to see if we have it in stock.”

“Thanks, man.”

I’m halfway through typing the title into the computer when movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. The college kid takes off his thick coat, revealing a Burlington U hockey windbreaker underneath.

My fingers freeze on the keys.

Just when I thought this day was getting better, the universe takes a nice big sucker punch to my gut.

I fucking hate hockey.

“Rainn?” Harrison says, appearing next to me.

I shake out of my stupor and turn to him. “W-what?”

“Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Yeah, the ghost of a person I used to be.

I glare at the offending jacket that’s mocking me.

The guy’s big hand runs over the bookshelf. He’s taller than me but not by much, and he has the body of a forward. Sleek, muscular lines and not too bulky. He’s built for speed, not enforcing. I immediately wonder what position he plays and hate myself for it.

Because I shouldn’t care.

I hate hockey.

And if I say it enough times, I’ll believe it one day.

“Want me to take over with this customer?” Harrison asks.

Is it being petty if I say yes? Probably, but I’m going to take him up on the offer anyway.

Harrison’s staring at me with genuine concern, and my voice gets stuck in my throat.

“Found it.” The hockey player slaps a book down on the counter, and I flinch.

“I can ring you up,” Harrison says, taking the book. “Rainn, can you go finish what I started over there?” He points to the new display.

I leave them to it, but when the guy goes to leave, he stops next to me.

“Sorry, did that guy say your name was Rainn? As in Rainn Richardson?”

My face must answer for me, because his lights up.

“Holy shit, no way. This is so cool. You’re, like, a hockey god on campus.”

Was. I was a hockey god. I swallow hard.

“I remember seeing you play when I was in high school, and I was so bummed you were going to graduate the year before I could play on the same team as you. Though we play the same position, so it’s not like we’d be on the same line or anything.”

Center, then.

There are no words that could even begin to tell him to shut up without getting my ass fired, so I give him a curt nod instead.

“What are you doing now? Are you still playing?”

What does it look like I’m doing, genius?

“Your feet were like lightning, and your scoring record …” He keeps going, but it’s all white noise to my ears.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to, uh …” I begin to retreat but stumble in my rush to get away. I bump into the display, sending books flying to the ground. “Damn it,” I hiss.

I bend to pick them up.

He kneels to help, and our eyes meet. For a moment, I’m staring at someone I recognize. Someone I used to look at in the mirror. A young hockey player with awe in his eyes and excitement for the future ahead of him.

I almost hate to burst his bubble.

Almost.

“You want to know what I’m doing now?” I wave my hand around dismissively. “This. This is my life.” Bitterness claws at my throat.

“Wait, this? Only this?” He glances around the store with a confused look on his face. “But—”

“I don’t play anymore.”

The excited puppy of a man finally loses his awed expression, as if I just told him Wayne Gretzky died. Slowly, but surely, it’s sinking in that the guy in front of him is a has-been. A has-been who never got the chance to become a big thing in the first place.

I turn and put the books back on the shelves, hoping he’ll drop the subject.

I’m not so lucky.

“What happened?”

Read the room, dude. I glare at him.

His face falls even more. “Oh. Sorry. Right. Intrusive and stuff. I should, uh … go.”

I try my hardest to be polite as I say, “Hope that agriculture book works out for you. Have a nice day.”

Too bad mine is shot to shit.

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First Chapter Friday: Heartscape by Garrett Leigh

Tanner

“Special of the week is a red from Sparrow Farm.” I zoom the bottle along the bar to the cluster of staff I’ve gathered together. “It’s a Frontenac blend. Full-bodied, cherries and vanilla, and some other fruity stuff I can’t remember. Have a taste if you want and check the board for the notes.”

The spiel is about as good as it gets when it comes to me waxing lyrical about wine. And I’m fooling no one, not even my boss, who rolls his eyes on his way out the door. I don’t give a shit about wine, and he knows it. A few months back, I couldn’t tell one grape from another, or explain how tannin levels affect the palate. I still have trouble with both, but I’m getting better, because I want to be. Somewhere along the line in the last few months I’ve learned that matters—the will to be a better human, not just at wine, but at life.

It’s a work in progress, but I care enough to keep at it.

Most days, at least. And today is one of those days. I slide more bottles on the bar and take my best shot at teaching my crew how to hawk them to the locals and tourists who patronize the inclusive wine bar I’m lucky enough to run. Vino and Veritas. Vino is me—dark leather, rich wood, and rainbows in the window. Veritas is the adjacent bookstore, but I know even less about books than I do about wine.

When the wine briefing is over, I clear away the empty wine boxes, turn the music on, and fetch the cash floats for the registers. The list of jobs in my head gets checked off, task by task, and I settle into the routine I need to keep my brain quiet. I’m good at organizing people. At checking they have everything they need to do the job my boss pays them to do. When I get it right, I can almost avoid the actual bar altogether, but the problem with “right” is that it’s never too far from being catastrophically wrong. Dodging folks isn’t good for me—even strangers who want ten-dollar glasses of Chablis to go with their hipster spiced nuts. They’re nice people, and they want to talk to me, so I do my best to show up.

Smoky jazz music fills the bar, blending perfectly with the wood and leather interior. The space is the living room I’d have if I ever find the inclination to decorate my apartment. It’s cozy, warm, and welcoming to anyone who ducks inside to seek shelter from the chilly fall days.

The rhythm of the night takes hold. Feeling weak, I keep my distance from the bar for the first hour of my shift, collecting glasses instead, and taking out the trash, all the shitty jobs no one else wants to do, but eventually it’s time to rotate staff breaks, and I take my place with a suppressed sigh.

Regulars call my name. Lucky for me, one of them is my brother, checking in on his way out of town.

I bring him a soda. He doesn’t drink wine either. “Heading out?”

Gabriel ignores the glass in front of him, letting me know his appearance has nothing to do with refreshment. “I’ll be back before Christmas. Just wanted to let you know you could, you know, like, call me if you need anything. On the phone, Skype, whatever.”

I snort out a laugh that feels hollow in my chest. My brother is a horrible communicator. He’s saying this shit because I am too, but I never used to be, and he still doesn’t know what to do with that. “I won’t need anything. I’ve got six-day work weeks through the next month, and I sleep all day on Sundays.”

His frown deepens. “You live a blessed life, bro, but do you have to be a dick when I’m trying to be nice? It’s not easy to walk out on you for months at a time.”

Guilt rattles me, a beast that can’t be tamed. Nothing about being my brother should be this hard. My kid brother. Gabi is younger than me. It’s eighteen months, but still. It burns that he feels so responsible for me. That I’ve given him every reason to worry, and it’s not over. “All right, all right.” I step away to pour fruity red wine for another customer and make change, hoping Gabi’s expression will lighten by the time I get back.

It doesn’t, and the sigh I swallowed when I shuffled behind the bar escapes. “Look, I’m sorry. But I’m fine, honest. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy around here, and I promised Eve I’d help her move into that girl-tastic yoga commune next week. She mentioned plumbing issues. I don’t think she was kidding.”

A bare hint of a smile warms Gabi’s earnest features. Eve is his nearlygirlfriend and one true love, and I’m well known for avoiding her as much as I do him. I adore her, but…she’s a lot. For me, at least. Typically, Gabriel has the decency to sigh and leave me alone. Eve stands her ground. She leaves me nowhere to hide, and I’m not always in the mood.

Scratch that, I’m never in the mood. It’s only her kick-ass mac and cheese that pulls me in. That, and the house full of chicks she’s about to move in with. I have zero interest in romance right now, but despite my best efforts to live a quiet life, I’m still a red-blooded bisexual.

I’m also weak enough to crave my brother’s embrace, even if I’m not man enough to tell him I don’t want him to go. That I’ll miss him, like I always do.

I lean over the bar and hug him. He hugs me back and presses his forehead to mine like he did when we were kids and I was the one taking care of him. “Call me,” he says. “Doesn’t matter why, when, whatever. Just do it, okay? I need you as much as you need me.”

He makes it sound like we’re star-crossed lovers, but he’s depressingly right. Our parents have been gone a long time. There’s no one else, and the guilt in my gut kicks up a notch as I recall, unbidden, how close I’ve come to leaving him on his own.

Gabi leaves. I wish he hadn’t, and I wish he hadn’t stopped by at all. I keep moving, fighting shadows. The low lighting of the bar cloaks me, and I remember why I like working here. My team keeps me company even when I forget to speak, and it’s past nine o’clock before I give in and take a minute upstairs in my office.

Silence envelops me, but it’s not literal. As the night draws in, I can still hear the buzz of drinkers and the music. But up here on my own, the pressure of being “on” fades. I suck in a deep breath and drop into the chair at my desk. Wine notes and delivery schedules litter my workspace. Tidying it up has been on my list of things to do forever, but I like it messy. It reminds me I have something to occupy myself with if I need too many of these precious minutes. That I never need to be truly still, even if I’ve convinced myself I like the quiet.

My phone buzzes, breaking my dirge-like internal monologue.

I rummage around on my desk for it, then wish I hadn’t as Eve fills my screen with her bright eyes and kind smile. I hate ignoring her, but I do it anyway, and that makes me feel like shit.

So call her back.

I don’t. I bury my phone beneath more paperwork and go downstairs.

“Yo, Tanner.” Rainn, my favorite part-time bartender, is looking for me. “There’s a bunch of fire trucks outside. Looks like that hostel went up. You’d better check it out.”

Rainn doesn’t waste words, so I take him seriously, and duck under the bar to make my way to the front door.

Flashing lights greet me, along with the kind of milling crowds you always get around a disaster. Grief vultures. I sniff the air and smell smoke, and sure enough, Rainn was right. The backpacker hostel opposite V and V has gone up in flames.

Firefighters pile out of their trucks, running hoses across the street and dispersing the masses. It’s a thrum of activity I don’t enjoy, but the masochist in me remains on the street, gawking as much as the next dude, eyes peeled for casualties.

After a while, it becomes clear that the hostel had been evacuated before the fire took hold, leaving only fixtures and belongings inside. Relief makes me sag against V and V’s old walls. I don’t know anyone at the hostel, but I’ve learned the hard way you don’t need to know a soul to grieve for them. Or feel responsible for the premature end of their life. I lean hard against the wall, dampening anxiety I haven’t earned tonight. A shiver passes through me, but not from cold, and I let my attention wander, cataloguing my surroundings to anchor myself to the present.

The fire is still burning, but the fire crews have it under control. And the crowds have thinned out too; only a few distraught hostel guests remain at the barrier the first responders set out to keep people back. Some of them are arguing with the firefighters—pleading with men who’ve seen horrors they can’t imagine—to go back into the burning building and rescue their gadgets and snowboarding gear they can’t even use yet. It’s irritating enough for me to look away and swing my gaze carelessly until it lands on a set of slumped shoulders. Broad shoulders, that belong to a lone figure crouched on the ground a few feet back from the rest of the hostel residents. He has his head in his hands, and for a moment appears so lost that an emotion I can’t quite name stirs in me.

I straighten up. The man stands too, and seems to give himself an internal shake. Then he turns his back on the flames, shoulders a bag, and walks away, gifting me a perfect view of his face.

And man, what a face. With his golden hair and high cheekbones, the dude is gorgeous. I’m betting he has blue eyes, and long lashes—I can’t see from here—and I’m digging the scruff on his chiseled jaw. I admire the determined set of his strong shoulders too. It’s clear he’s lost something to that fire, and he’s forcing himself to make peace with it fast.

Making peace is a skill I’ve never had. I fester and brood, until the time for healing has passed, and old wounds become permanent scars that keep me awake. Until they don’t and they haunt my dreams too.

But still. The man is beautiful. Perhaps I’ll dream of him instead tonight, because he sure seems like a face I won’t forget.

* * *

Jax

I walk away from the smoldering hostel, resigned to the fact that unless I want to kick it around Burlington in full hiking gear, the sweatpants and hoodie combo I’m sporting are my only clothes in the world. Fuck it. Maybe I’ll go get drunk. At least my wallet is safe in my pocket, and most of my kit—save what I have in my bag—is stashed at work. If I’d lost that too…damn. I can’t contemplate it without my eyes getting hot and my chest too tight.

The urge to head back to HQ and check on my collection of secondhand cameras, lenses, and rigs is strong. Only the reality that I need to find a bed for the night stops me. I don’t fancy sleeping in the currently unheated offices of Wildfoot Adventure. I’m a summer child at heart.

Yeah? Shoulda stayed in California then, shouldn’t you?

Scratch that. Maybe I should’ve stayed on my own side of the Atlantic. Maybe then I’d have more to my name than a couple of cameras and some kick-ass snow boots.

I keep walking with no clear idea of where I’m going. Aside from my boss, I have exactly one friend in Burlington, and she lives in a tiny studio apartment she’s about to vacate. No couch. And a moody boyfriend-not boyfriend who won’t take kindly to me snuggling up to his girl, even if he is rarely in town.

Besides, I’m not the kind of dude who rocks up on his BFF’s doorstep asking for help. I deal with my own shit. It’s easier that way. And it’s not that cold yet. Maybe I’ll head up to HQ after all. My legs are already beat, but I can handle the walk.

As the thought processes, my phone buzzes. I fish it out of my pocket and answer with a sigh I can’t quite help. “Let me guess. You saw the smoke from your window and you’re checking I’m not bacon right now?”

Eve laughs a little. “I know you’re not bacon because I can also see you from my window. Are you okay?”

“Course I am. Not bacon, remember?”

“What about your stuff? Your cameras weren’t in there, were they?”

“No, I left them locked up at the office. They’re safer there even without catastrophic fires. Pretty sure my iPad is dust, though. And I now have even less clothes for you to bag on.”

“I don’t bag on your clothes.”

“Stop trying to get me to wear flannel shirts, then.”

Eve laughs again, and despite the gloom settling over me, I chuckle too. But I must do it real badly, because Eve’s laughter fades fast. “Right,” she says. “Come over to my place. I’ll fix you some dinner and you can have my bed for the night.”

I snort. “As if I’m taking your bed. Where will you sleep?”

“I have a zillion girlfriends.”

“Lucky you.”

“Am I? Thought you’d sworn off the fairer sex for good?”

“I’ve sworn off all the sexes for good, but that’s not really the point. I’m not taking your bed.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to. I’m not your problem. We went to the same uni for six months about a million years ago. We’re not siblings.” It comes out harsher than I mean it to, but I know she won’t flinch. Despite every word that’s just left my mouth, we were close enough once that I probably could sleep naked with her and not get wood. She’s also the only person I can talk to without measuring my words a thousand times first. It’s a habit I’m trying to break, but life keeps getting in the way. And today my life has literally gone up in flames and I’m taking it out on the person who cared enough to pick up the phone. “Sorry I’m such a dick.”

Eve is silent a moment, then she sighs. “You’re not a dick, but I get why you don’t want my help. Do you think I don’t know you?”

“I don’t know what I think right now. I might have to take you up on that flannel shirt, though.”

“And what about a bed for the night? Jax, you can’t wander around Burlington all night.”

She’s right about that, and if I don’t want to turf her out of her bed, I’ll have to spring for a hotel room. But seriously, fuck that noise. I can barely afford to eat as it is.

“Listen,” she says when I fail to answer. “I know a guy who’s got a couch you can probably surf for a few days. He works in a bar, so he’s never home, and he needs the company as much as you do.”

“How can someone who works in a bar need company?”

It’s Eve’s turn to snort. “Trust me, you’ll see. Of course, that’s if he says yes. He’s a grouchy asshole if you catch him wrong. Good luck with that if you do land on his couch.”

Awesome. If there’s one thing less appealing than drowning in kindness, it’s forced proximity with someone who’d rather you were anywhere else. But I’ve run out of energy to argue with Eve. I’d rather kip on a stranger’s couch than rinse my bank account or put her out of her bed. “Okay. Ask him. But don’t make him feel bad if he’s not up for it. I’m not his problem either.”

“Sunshine, you’re not anyone’s problem.”

She hangs up without waiting for an answer. Mindful of the fact I’m getting closer and closer to her studio apartment, I spin around and head back the way I came. The fire trucks are still in the street and smoke lingers in the air. I find a bench outside the bakery and sit, gaze fixed on the damp remains of the hostel. Truth be told, it wasn’t the nicest place to sleep anyway, and I’ve never been particularly attached to my cracked and ancient iPad. But losing my clothes hurts more than I want it to. Board shorts, and ten-year-old T-shirts that have no place when I’m camping in the Vermont wilderness. The jeans I wore on the flight I took from Heathrow to Cali all those years ago. They were all I had of the naive dude I was back then, and I don’t know how I feel about that. I left enough of myself in California.

It’s a while before Eve calls me back. I wrap my arms around myself and fatigue sets in. Even before the hostel fire it had been a hell of a long day. Tracking through the wilderness from dawn till dusk, then persuading my boss that we’re not on a wild goose chase every time we put boots to dirt. He wants to capture the elusive Canadian lynx on film as badly as I do. But he doesn’t want to waste his hard-earned bucks on footage I might not get before my contract runs out in the spring. And I don’t blame him. Stick to squirrels, man.

I shiver. It really is fucking cold. I lean forward and blow on my hands. I’m still thinking about hoofing it back to the office to get my mountain coat and gloves. Or maybe giving in and sleeping under my boss’s desk. It can’t be colder than this, and at least I’d be out of the wind.

A booted foot nudges my leg. “You Jax?”

I blink and find myself lost in the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re round, gold-flecked and grave, and attached to a handsome face covered by the kind of beard I dream about when I’m not up to my neck in mud and snow. Huh. Maybe I am dreaming. It would make more sense than the inked tower of mountain man leaning over me. Though the irritation in his liquid gaze rings a bell. “He’s a grouchy asshole if you catch him wrong. Okay, well fine. If this is my knight in shining armor, I’ll take the grouchy part.

Too late, it dawns on me that I’ve left the guy hanging too long.

I uncurl my body faster than my cold-stiffened back really wants to and lurch unsteadily to my feet as Eve’s friend starts to turn away. My hand lands on his arm by accident—his bare, inked arm. And just for a moment, there’s nothing in the world but my fingers wrapped around solid flesh. Then I come to my senses and regain my equilibrium. I drop my hand. “Shit. Sorry. Yeah, that’s me.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No. I’m Jax.”

Something flickers in the man’s dark gaze, and it’s not humor. He darts a rapid glance to where my hand had touched his arm as if he expects to find a mark, then he stares at me again and the exasperation in his eyes has gone. “I’m Tanner,” he says. “Eve was worried about you. Said you need a bed for the night.”

“A couch will do if you’ve got it, but I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. Besides, I’m not gonna leave you out here with no fucking coat, am I?”

I don’t see why not, as he doesn’t know me from the next guy, but this dude has an intensity so compelling I can’t look away. I can only stare as he picks up my bag and points across the street.

“My place is just over here.”

I don’t move, though I can’t say why.

The man—Tanner—frowns, and a big hand appears at my back, splaying across the bottom of my spine. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you inside.”

He gives me a gentle push. My legs finally connect with my brain, and lacking any better ideas, I do exactly what he says and let him tow me all the way to his place across the street.

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First Chapter: Featherbed by Annabeth Albert

Harrison

Chickens, literal feathered and clucking chickens—not the primed-for-roasting-at-375-degrees kind—were not at all what my Monday needed. But apparently the universe had noted my foul mood and sent fowl. As in, a box of weird-looking chickens currently sitting outside my bookstore’s loading dock.

“Is this a joke?” I asked Oz, our new stocker, who’d come to fetch me to deal with a “situation.” I’d expected a box-cutter injury or damaged goods, not chickens. “Like one of those haze-the-city-slicker things?”

I wasn’t going to be amused if that were the case. Oz was a nice enough younger guy, maybe twenty-five or so, but he’d been with us less than a week, and already he seemed to take great delight in correcting any wrong assumptions on my part about Vermont life.

“No joke. I like being employed.” Oz had a devilish grin. Nothing much seemed to bother him, and even now he seemed more stumped than alarmed. “And I’m more of a sausage guy than a chicken fan, myself.”

“Oz,” I warned, gesturing at the giant, clucking box. “If it’s not a joke, how did we end up with chickens? We’re a bookstore.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what sort of store around here might sell live poultry, but it definitely was not my brand-new bookstore, which specialized in LGBTQ+ titles and merchandise. Nothing feathered, stinky, or clucking allowed.

And these chickens were all three. The two large red-and-white boxes proudly proclaimed, “Live Birds” and had mesh-covered airholes through which we could see the indignant, squawking birds. And smell them. They didn’t look like the happy chickens that graced fast-food ads at all. These were all black and looked to be young. Older than fluffy chicks, but probably not grown enough for Sunday dinner. Maybe these birds were destined to be pets and not served at a table? I heard people did that around here, kept them in their backyards, gave them names. Some of my mother’s new neighbors apparently had a two-story chicken condo in their yard.

Vermont. Not for the first time, I had to shake my head. I’d agreed to my mom’s crazy plan to move to this mostly rural state, but I hadn’t been prepared for the culture shock.

Or chickens.

“Huh.” Fearlessly getting closer to the birds than I would, Oz bent down to examine the boxes more closely. The postal labels were smeared and mangled, like they’d been caught by some machinery. “These are for 4569 Church all right,” Oz said, “but I’d bet it’s supposed to be Old Church Road, down past South Burlington. There are some big farms in that area, including that hot chicken guy’s, I think.”

“There’s a hot chicken guy?” I had to blink.

“Yeah. I’ve seen him around at some of the farmers markets. And from a field trip in high school. His family owns one of those popular multi-season, multi-reason farms where people can learn about animals and buy all kinds of homegrown goods. Want me to call?”

“No. I can do it. I’ll start by looking up the address.” I pulled out my phone to give myself something to do besides gape at the chickens. And because the last thing I needed was Oz thinking I couldn’t handle a crisis.

Not that chickens were a crisis, precisely, but I did try to project professional competency, even in this new-to-me venture. And I also wouldn’t put it past Oz to hit on this chicken guy, and that too would be less than professional.

A quick search on my phone’s browser revealed that 4569 Old Church Road was Puddlebrook Farms, and luckily there was an available public number. Their website featured lots of pictures of scenic meadows, a quaint farm stand, and many baby animals. Including some chicks. Promising. I pressed the link to make a call.

“Puddlebrook.” A deep, masculine voice answered, and damn Oz for putting the hot farmer idea into my head. Despite the sexy voice, this guy was probably over sixty with an impressive lineage of grandchildren.

“Hello. Are you missing some chickens?” I tried for friendly but direct.

“Is this a prank?” The voice softened, more of a tease. Didn’t sound like a retiree. His warm tones made a tickle race up my spine and had me cursing Oz again. I’d always had a bit more imagination than was healthy.

“I assure you it is not. This is Harrison Fletcher, the owner of Vino and Veritas.” It still felt a bit odd, titling myself that way. But the farmer’s skepticism, and my unfortunate reaction to his voice, had my tone shifting to hyper-formal, the way it sometimes did when I was rattled. “We received some chickens. Live chickens.”

The chickens verified my statement when they started in a fresh round of squawking.

“Oh! My Ayam Cemani shipment.”

I assumed Ayam Cemani was the name of a chicken breed. Either way, he’d spoken the name with the sort of reverence I generally reserved for a genuine Monet or perhaps a Jaeger-LeCoultre watch.

“They were delivered to you? How?”

“We’d like to know that too. However, here they are. How soon can you collect them?” That was all I truly cared about, not this man’s potential hotness, and not how this mix-up had occurred. Staging a good portion of the nonfiction section was my goal for the day, and I’d rather not have some errant chickens derail me.

“Well…” The farmer drew the word out, letting me know I wasn’t going to like what came next. “I’m knee-deep in manure at the moment, but I’ll try to be there as soon as I can. Maybe an hour, maybe sooner.”

Ah. The sort of precise time-telling I was coming to expect from country life. He likely meant “when I get around to it,” and I couldn’t help my sigh. “All right, but they’re blocking my loading dock, and I’m expecting a shipment of picture books any time now.”

“Move the boxes if you need to. Just be gentle with the birds, please. They’ve had a long trip up from Virginia.” He sounded way more concerned about the birds’ welfare than my time and hassle. “And whatever you do, don’t take them out.”

“Oh, no risk of that,” I assured him. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about what to do with a chicken.”

“Somehow, I’m not surprised, Mr. Fletcher.” More of that teasing tone, light and without a bite, but I still wasn’t sure how I felt about being a source of amusement for him.

I gave him directions to the store. “See you soon, Mister…” I paused meaningfully.

“Finn. Finn Barnes. I’ll be there shortly.”

Finn. He sounded like a Finn, friendly and down-to-earth in a rural sort of way.

“Finn Barnes will be here to collect the chickens soon,” I informed Oz after he rejoined me in the loading area. “He suggested we could move them, but that’s probably—”

“Great idea.” Oz hefted both boxes of chickens way too easily.

He was the sort of brawny, young guy who didn’t need hours at the gym to be able to bench press a small car. I kept in shape, but my lean build was never going to compete for a spot in a lumberjack calendar like Oz and half the other young men roaming Burlington. Oz headed for the stockroom with the boxes, and I frowned as I trailed behind him.

“Is this wise?”

Oz shrugged. “It’ll keep them warm and out of the way.”

“There you are!” My mother came bustling into the stockroom right as Oz was setting down the chickens. “I want you to see what I’ve done with the children’s area.”

“In a moment. We’re dealing with a chicken situation.”

“Chickens? In boxes?” Her eyes lit up, and predictably, she sank down in front of the boxes, heedless of both her age and her long skirt and emitting the same sorts of noises one might make at a litter of kittens. Mom has a soft spot the size of Connecticut and had never met a cause she couldn’t support or a troubled being she didn’t want to rescue.

“They’re not ours. There was a postal mix-up. A farmer is coming to get them soon.”

“These poor dears. They must be so scared.” She peered into the boxes. “And they’re such pretty babies too.”

“More like loud and stinky babies.”

“We should move them out of the draft.” Straightening, Mom’s tone shifted back to commanding as she motioned Oz closer. “How about that corner?”

“No problem.” Oz started to heft the boxes again.

“Wait,” I cautioned. “It says lift only from the bottom.”

“Okay.” Oz attempted to shift one carton in midair, causing the squawking inside to intensify. Trying to step around my mother, he lurched the other way and—

Riiiiiip. The side came loose.

And from there, everything happened in rapid-fire succession. A chicken escaping. Me trying to catch said chicken and failing. Mom trying to push the box back together so more didn’t escape, but not before a second chicken joined the first in a frantic bid for freedom, racing right over her arm and skirt to scurry across the floor.

“Quick. Shut the door,” I commanded. This was already bad enough. We didn’t need chickens roaming around the store. Or escaping out the loading dock. But I should have made the command clearer because Oz set the boxes down and lunged for the door. And somehow, someway, we ended up with Oz outside the stockroom while my mother and I were left to contend with the angry escapees.

“Should I come back in?” Oz called through the closed door.

“No, we don’t need them running out. You watch the store. I’ll catch the chickens.” I sounded way more confident than I felt, but seriously, how hard could this be?

“Poor birdies.” Mom made sympathetic noises as she tried again to scoop one up. It was not having any of her compassion and quickly scurried behind a stack of boxes.

Luckily, almost all of the stock in the storeroom was still in boxes, but that meant more places for the wily chickens to hide. I carefully shoved a box away from the source of a squawk, but the bird scurried farther into the corner.

“Harrison. You really should have dressed better for this.” She shook her head.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I wasn’t planning on chickens.” I brushed some dust off my pants. Yes, I’d gone more formal than I’d needed for a day of shelving, but we had more employee interviews in the afternoon, and no way was I going to look sloppy when dealing with prospective workers. And I liked looking nice. No shame in that.

Offering her a hand up from the floor, I assessed the situation. “You hold the box ready. I’m going to scoop that one up and drop it in.”

I pointed at the chicken who wasn’t hiding. It looked a little calmer than its frantic twin. Shouldn’t be too hard, especially if I moved slow at first and then scooped quickly. Similar to a lacrosse move I would’ve performed in my high school days. Back then, several coaches had praised my natural grace.

But today? At forty-two? Apparently I’d lost all my grace because my signature slow-and-then-sweep move ended with me in a heap and the chicken scampering away. Rinse and repeat until I was sweaty and one of my favorite custom shirts was dust streaked and clinging to my back.

“They’re so scared. I wonder if a treat would help?” My mother’s boundless sympathy did not seem to extend to my wardrobe.

“They’re chickens. Not puppies.”

“Most living things do better with incentives.” Mom gave me an arch look. “You should try it sometime. I wish you’d find someone to spoil—”

“Mother,” I warned her before she could continue this very old argument.

“Or even just spoil yourself. You need more indulgences.”

“This entire store is an indulgence.” My tone was more frustrated tease than true irritation. It was impossible to rouse anger for the most caring person I knew. We might disagree about what my life needed, but there was no one else I’d have left my city life for. “Okay. Enough playing around. Chickens, I’m coming for you.”

“Don’t scare them!” She moved aside so I could get farther into the stacks of boxes. Ignoring her, I crept up on the closest bird and, miracle of miracles, I managed to snatch it up as it squawked and carried on. However, right as I got a good grip on the bird, the door to the stockroom swung open.

“What’s going on here?”

Breathing hard, I needed a minute to process the newcomer in the doorway. Oz trailed behind the guy, his usual beefiness dwarfed by this burly specimen, who had to be Finn. Tall and clean-shaven, Finn was broad with acres of biceps and muscular forearms poking out of rolled-up, plaid shirtsleeves. Oz hadn’t been wrong at all. This was easily one of the hottest men I’d ever seen. He looked like something out of an antique farming ad, from his build right down to his dusty boots.

“Uh…” I made an inarticulate sound at odds with my years of education. And as I scraped my jaw off the floor, his deep scowl overshadowed his attractiveness. Hot chicken farmer was hot angry chicken farmer, and it was all directed at me. 

“What are you doing to my chickens?”

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First Chapter: Cowboy by L.B. Dunbar

Scarlett

If you told me earlier this evening I’d have a hot, hunky silver fox buried to the hilt deep inside me, I’d have told you that you were crazy. Hell, if you told me it would have happened even a month ago, I’d have said never.

However, I’m losing my mind over a man I met only hours ago.

“So, my friends over there. They dared me to come buy you a drink.” He was all charming and nervous-sweet, and I just couldn’t seem to say no. Then again, I’d been on my third beer at the local establishment called The Gin Mill, a place famous for their Vermont beer selection. My friend and I were celebrating my new status.

Single.

Sort of.

I grunt as his hips flex between my spread thighs, and my hands clutch at his broad back. I’d never done anything like this before, and I don’t expect to ever do it again, but there is no denying how I feel at the moment.

Liberated.

Satisfied.

With his lips on my neck, and his thick shaft balls deep, the man over me means freedom and a bit of recklessness. However, I would not be under him without the approval of my friend. 

Rita Kaplan had been my college roommate, and her nod at the bar encouraged me to speak up when this sweet-talking stranger asked to buy me a drink.

“I’ll see your hello and raise you a take me to bed, partner.”

Probably not what Rita had expected me to say, but she knew I needed this. I’d had a day a week back—a day of all days—but I am not thinking about that at the moment. With the musky scent of sex between us and sticky skin holding us together, this beautiful male specimen surges into me over and over again.

Bull is his name. Bull Eaton. 

Earlier, the Eaton name sounded vaguely familiar, but I quickly dismissed it. In my line of work, the names all run together after a while. Line of work I used to be in, I reminded myself, when we met only hours ago.

Bull is living up to his name in size, girth, and stamina, but he’s also got an anxious charm about him. His midnight blue eyes shifted over to his friends as his large, thick hands slipped into the back pockets of his jeans after he approached me. He rocked on the heels of his boots as he said hello, and his smile did swirly-twirly things to my insides. I did not attribute that sensation to the number of beers I’d drunk, but the slow curl of his lips and the crook at one corner. The silver scruff on his cheeks helped. I’m forty-two, and having a man my age, hitting on me no less, did something for my shattered ego. 

And he’s still doing something to me.

“So deep,” he groans. I’ve never been so full in my life. My eyes roll back, and my ankles cross over his solid thighs, heels digging at the firm globes of his backside. 

“Sweetheart,” he huffs. The word stammers as he rocks into me, taking me to another world. Our position might be missionary, but nothing perfunctory is happening here other than the stars I’m seeing from the orgasms this man has given me. He’s working on my third, and I just don’t know if I can get there.

As if reading my thoughts, he shifts, dragging himself upward so his hard length rubs at my pleasure point in a new way, and I’m gasping for air again.

“Bull,” I moan.

When he followed me to my rental at the Green Rocks resort, I didn’t know if he’d really take me up on my offer or if he’d just intended to escort me home.

“You cannot go wrong with this swanky man,” Rita had encouraged, and I felt like a heel leaving my friend behind. “Honey, this is the purpose of this night.” I needed to lose myself with someone hot, willing, and available. Rita trusted him, which was good enough for me. I promised her we’d find her a man next time.

Bull’s hand cups my lower cheeks, lifting me to adjust the angle and rub his thickness against my clit better. “Gonna give me another one.” It’s not a question or a warning. It’s a tender command. He’s already been more than generous with me. His fingers. His mouth. He wants this orgasm as much as I do, and I have a strong suspicion Bull Eaton could own my heart and soul if I let myself get carried away.

However, before we even got in his truck, we made an agreement with that first kiss outside The Gin Mill.

“Just one night, sweetheart. That’s all we need to sort ourselves out.”

I needed sorting. God, I needed so much sorting. But for tonight, I only needed Bull.

“I can’t . . . I don’t think . . . I’ve never . . . so many.” I don’t make any sense, and he chuckles even harder as he’s moving me against him, sliding himself in and out of me. 

“You will, sweetheart. You’ll see.” 

My arms stretch over my head, reaching for the headboard behind me. I never had a headboard like this before, and it is an investment I seriously need to consider in the future. For now, I curl my fingers around the wrought-iron bars and hold on as Bull works his magic. My toes curl. My back arches.

“Bull . . . I . . . ermygawd.” I’m breaking free again, coming apart at the seams as he balances over me, letting me ride this one out with him inside me. He’s on his knees, hitching my lower body up his thighs, handling me like a prize and taking me for a winning. He’s moving faster than before, and I’m just dust in the wind, floating outside myself and letting him have his way with me. 

“So fucking beautiful,” he stammers, and I smile to myself. He’s been saying it over and over, and I’ll say it again, he’s just so sweet. Even though I’ve worked in the public eye, I’m not used to genuine compliments like he’s given me. 

You taste like honey.

You feel like home. 

Who says such a thing? I reach out for his chest, coasting my hands over the firmness of his pecs. 

“Love your hands on me,” he grunts, thrusting into me, and then he hisses, clutches my hips, and holds me to him. I look down where we’re joined as if I can see what’s actually happening. Instead, I feel it. I feel him, and it’s amazing. The pulse. The pump. He pulls back and slams forward once more, finishing himself inside me. 

Thank God for condoms and the pill. 

He releases my trembling legs and falls over me, balancing on his hands as his chest heaves.

“Sweetheart, once will not be enough with you.” I bite my lip in response, perhaps a little too pleased that he wants me again. “I’m not as young as I used to be, so give me twenty minutes.”

With him still attached to me, our eyes meet, and an additional jolt seizes inside me.

“What was that?” I laugh.

“Aftershocks.” He smiles, one side of his mouth crooking up in a tease. “You rocked me to my core.” 

We both chuckle and then he leans forward to kiss me. It isn’t quick and brief. He isn’t rushing to pull out of me. He isn’t leaving me for his side of the bed. He’s taking his time to kiss me, slow and steady, like he’s grateful for what we just did when I’m the one wanting to thank him.

Emotions wrestle inside me and I fight the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. 

No more tears, Scarlett Russell. After this night, you’re going to be just fine. 

Bull sucks at my lower lip, tugging it as he retreats. Deep blue eyes stare down at me, looking at me like he really sees me. It’s a bit unnerving, but I also like that’s he’s trying to see me, like he wants to know me. 

If I only knew myself. I’m no longer certain who I am, or what I want.

“Twenty minutes, sweetheart?” His eyes ask permission, just like he did earlier. Before he kissed me. Before he followed me inside this rental. Before we did anything. He asked if it was okay with me, and I just couldn’t say no. He could ask me anything, and I’d never turn him down.

“Twenty minutes,” I whisper. “And not a second longer.”

That wins me another tender smile and a quiet chuckle before his lips return to mine, kissing me like he’d never deny me anything.

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Your Questions about the World of True North answered!

What the heck is the World of True North?

It’s 46 books in four different series, all set in Vermont, each one inspired by my original True North series. There are—depending on the book—some overlapping characters from True North. And since this was a team effort, the World books overlap one another, too!

Did you do all this work yourself?

Oh hell no! The unsung hero behind the WOTN is Jane, the series coordinator. Jane worked with me to decide which proposals fit together as a series. It was Jane who edited all the outlines and the blurbs, helping them to shine before they were finalized. And of course the writing was done completely by people who are not me. That goes without saying.

Are they all standalones or should better be read in order?

They are intended to each stand alone. But the authors have taken care to incorporate characters from books released around the same time period as their own. And to that end, we are publishing an “order” for those readers who feel strongly about reading their books in the right order. You can see the order on the Heart Eyes Press website.

Can anyone write a WOTN book?

Yes and no! We originally had 250 applicants. That unfortunately meant we could accept fewer than one fifth of those. 

Are the genres consistent with True North?

Yes! For example, we did not accept any historical or paranormal books, because I didn’t want to confuse readers. I don’t know how to market outside of my genre, either, and I didn’t want to use someone else’s hard work to try to figure it out.

How were the books chosen? Did you approve them all? Did you read all of them ahead of time? 

Blindsided: A Moo U Hockey Romance By Denault, Victoria, Press, Heart Eyes

We began by asking for proposals from those authors whose existing work was in alignment with the World of True North. But those proposals contained some overlap, of course, so we had to winnow even further. We even cut a whole series because we realized that one of my series ideas wasn’t going to work as well as the other ones.

Authors submitted proposals with basic character and storyline elements. From those proposals, Jane and I had the difficult task of deciding which ones fit together as a series. We had to let some perfectly wonderful ideas go, because they would have clashed with other perfectly wonderful ideas.

Then, after we greenlit the books, authors were asked to develop a full outline as they wrote. Jane worked on those outlines to help each author meet their goals. But we did not always get to read and approve the full manuscripts ahead of publication. 

Do all of these books read like your original True North books? 

Nope! And that is kind of the point. Every time I’ve collaborated on anything, the result is always a book that I could not have created by myself. The World of True North will be written by people who have lived different lives than I have. They hold different viewpoints than I do. And their voices sound like them, not me. You may not like all the books. Or you may like them better than you like mine! Only time will tell. 

It’s a world you created, was it hard to let others in?

Yes and no! I’m trapped here in my own little viewpoint, and it’s been awfully refreshing to hear other peoples’ interpretations of Vermont. Now, it’s possible that somewhere in the World of True North, an author will write a line for Griffin or Audrey or Roderick that I don’t like. And there will be moments when an author takes a story in a direction I would not have chosen. But that’s the price of letting other voices in. The payoff is that we’re getting voices from New Zealand, and voices from the American South, and voices from different ethnicities, we’re getting F/F love stories. For that, it’s worth the risk.

Have you enjoyed the whole process?

Yes! Mostly! I mean, define “whole process.” It’s scary to be responsible for publishing someone else’s words. I’ve had some publishing stress dreams for sure. I want to do a good job for both the authors and the readers. Aside from those moments when my little Type A personality got in the way, I’ve loved this process and all the new friends I’ve made along the way.

I also did not enjoy turning away any of my colleagues’ ideas. But since it’s simply not possible to publish all those books, this was a necessary evil. 

I love that Kaitlyn (from Heartland) got her redemption story in Slapshot (by Rebecca Jenshak)! How did it get brought up that she was going to be the heroine in a book? Was it Rebecca’s idea and how did you feel to see her in a new light?

Funny story! Rebecca submitted a brief proposal that reflects the plot line of Slapshot. I read it and then called her to ask, “Hey, do you think you could use Kaitlyn here?” I definitely made Rebecca’s job more difficult this way. Redeeming people is hard. But I knew she could do it and I love the outcome! 

Will you be incorporating details written by other authors between the world in your future books?

Possibly! But please know that I already struggle to keep track of all the details I’ve written by myself. Keeping track of everyone else’s characters is probably beyond my capabilities.

Sweetheart (The Busy Bean) By Mayberry, Sarah, Press, Heart Eyes

Are all the Moo U books going to M/F or are any M/M outside of Vino and Veritas? 

There are LGBTQ hockey players in the World, and those books are “shelved” at V&V. 

I haven’t read the original True North books (except Roommate, which I didn’t know was related). Do I need to read them before starting the WoTN books?

Nope! Each series was designed to stand alone. Moo U and Vino & Veritas are the most new and separate. Busy Bean and Speakeasy will be the most familiar settings to diehard True North fans.

How does Moo U tie in? 

Moo U is the nickname for Burlington University, where Dylan, Chastity, Daphne and Rickie (from Heartland) all attend. But the hockey team, where the Moo U characters play, was not addressed in Heartland, so the Moo U books mostly cover fresh ground.

How does Vino & Veritas tie in?

At the end of Roommate, Roderick and Kieran visit V&V when it has newly opened. So V&V is quite fresh to the series. It came about because I love wine bars and bookstores, and I thought there needed to be an LGBTQ bookstore wine bar in central Burlington. Also, Burlington is a kick-ass little city and it gave me a chance to stretch the World of True North in a more urban direction.

How do the Busy Bean and Speakeasy books tie in?

The Busy Bean gets its start in Keepsake and Bountiful. It’s owned by Audrey and Zara, and both Roddy and Kieran from Roommate work there! In the Busy Bean books, you will meet lots of new employees and customers of the coffee shop as the shop expands and grows.

Speakeasy is created in—wait for it—Speakeasy. It’s owned by Otto, Lyle, Alec and Griffin. There’s a party there in Fireworks, but the actual everyday running of the place was never covered in a True North book. Until now!

Where can I read these World of True North books?

The Moo U series will start off at Amazon KU, as will the Vino & Veritas books.

The Busy Bean books are available at all retailers!

The Speakeasy books are TBD. ;)

First Chapter: Sweetheart by Sarah Mayberry

Haley

Starting a new job is like starting a new relationship—for weeks you’re on your best behavior, smiling your brightest smile, laughing at every joke. Pretending you don’t burp, fart, and have occasional moments of stupidity like a normal person. 

All that effort. All that niceness. That’s why I was braced for an exhausting day when I arrived at the Busy Bean for my first shift. I really needed this job to work out for me, and I was determined to be my most sparkling, eager, and diligent self to show my two new bosses they had made an excellent choice when they gave me the job of barista-waitress in their bustling coffeeshop.

But I hadn’t been prepared for my first day to start with absolute mayhem. I walked through the door to find one of my bosses with a mop in hand, doing battle with a tide of water creeping across the wide pine floorboards. I could hear my other boss letting loose a stream of expletives from the kitchen area, with the deeper register of a man’s voice occasionally chiming in. Chairs had been stacked haphazardly on tables, and a wad of soaked dishtowels formed a soggy barrier in front of the kitchen doorway, funneling the water out toward the seating area and away from the refrigerated display cabinets. 

“Haley, thank God. Grab this while I run over to the apartments to steal all of Ben and Alec’s towels,” Zara Rossi said, shoving the mop handle into my hands. 

“Okay,” I said stupidly.

“Water pipe broke under the kitchen sink. This place was inches deep when I opened up,” Zara explained before disappearing out the front door. 

I mopped like crazy for the next few minutes, wringing water into the bucket over and over, fighting what felt like a never-ending battle. Then a cheer sounded from the kitchen.

“By all that is holy, yes!” 

Seconds later, my other new boss, Audrey Shipley, exited the kitchen, her blond hair dripping. She was wearing an old, faded T-shirt and what looked like pajama pants, both of which were soaked through. 

“Water is off. Finally. Any sign of the plumber?” She pulled up short when she realized she was talking to me and not her business partner. “Haley. Hi. Where’s Zara?”

“She said something about stealing towels from her brothers at the Gin Mill,” I explained. 

“She’s a genius. I was just wondering how we were going to get this place dry enough to open for business.” 

“Can you open with the water shut off?” I asked tentatively. I was no expert on managing a coffeeshop, but running water seemed like it might be one of the basic requirements. 

“The plumber said he’d be here— Ah, there he is.” Audrey dashed toward the door, opening it to greet a burly, bearded man hefting a battered toolbox. 

They disappeared into the kitchen, and I went back to mopping. A few minutes later, Zara came back with an armful of towels, and together we threw them on the floor and started skate-drying, shuffling back and forth across the floorboards with towels beneath our feet. Early morning sunlight was streaming through the leaded glass windows, painting the hodge-podge of antique and vintage chairs and tables with bars of golden light as we shuffled up and down, up and down. 

“Okay, Haley, I think we’re done,” Zara said after a strenuous ten minutes. She pushed her dark hair off her forehead and let out a laugh that sounded more than a little embarrassed. “Welcome to the Bean. What a great introduction.”

“Hey, at least we know the floors are really clean,” I said, because I am a pro at finding the silver lining in every cloud. 

“This is true,” Zara said. 

I started gathering the towels together. “What do we want to do with these?” 

“Let’s throw them in a trash bag. I’ll take them home and wash them.” She checked her watch. “Okay, we’ve got thirty minutes until we’re supposed to open. Audrey.”

It took a couple of seconds, but Audrey emerged from the kitchen, a dusting of flour on her cheek, eyebrows raised as if to say, Why the hell are you screeching my name?

“Go home,” Zara ordered. “Haley and I have got this. I only called you because I knew Griff would have a pipe wrench handy, and you’d get here faster than the plumber.”

Audrey started to argue, but Zara simply pointed a finger toward the door. “Begone, wench.”

Audrey’s mouth kicked up into a smile. “Okay, fine. Whatever. See you at one.”

Zara turned to me once her business partner was gone. “Baptism by fire time, Haley. You up for it?”

“Let’s do this,” I said. 

The next half hour passed in a blur as we went through the Bean’s morning routine at the speed of light. I did my best to anticipate tasks and jump into action whenever anyone asked for anything, hoping I wasn’t messing up. The plumber announced he’d fixed the broken pipe and turned the water back on five minutes before the Bean’s official opening time, and by the time the first customers walked through the door, there was no sign the Bean had been a disaster zone less than an hour earlier. 

I got sucked into the busy rhythms of the job after that, waiting on tables, packing up take-out sandwiches, wraps, and pastries, cranking out coffees on the Bean’s enormous old Astra espresso machine. Before I knew it, it was one o’clock and time for me to clock off. Zara caught me as I was throwing my apron into the laundry bag in the kitchen. 

“Audrey just took the helm. Come have a coffee with me before you head home.” Zara handed me a latte.

“Take one of these while you’re at it,” said Roderick, the Bean’s ridiculously hot baker, passing me an apple and walnut muffin. “You’ve earned it.”

Zara cleared her throat ostentatiously, and Roderick made a show of considering whether she deserved one as well. 

“Oh, all right, I guess you can have one, too.”

“Cheeky bastard,” Zara said with a laugh, accepting a muffin. 

She led me outside via the employee exit, heading for a bench perched at the top of the river bank. I became more and more nervous with every step, mentally reviewing every possible slip-up I’d made that morning. 

Hypervigilance and an almost overwhelming need to find a solution to every problem, even if it had nothing to do with me, were survival skills I learned at a young age. By the time we were both sitting on the bench, I was holding my coffee and muffin in a death grip, grimly waiting for Zara to tell me they’d made a terrible mistake and this would be my first and only day at the Busy Bean. 

“Oh man, it’s good to take the weight off,” Zara said, leaning against the backrest and crossing her feet at the ankles, her long legs stretched out straight. Closing her eyes, she tilted her face toward the sun. 

At just over five feet, I was significantly shorter, so I didn’t try to emulate her. Instead, I simply sat there, my stomach in knots, waiting for the axe to fall. 

“Thanks for being such a trouper today, Haley,” Zara said after a moment, flashing a smile my way. “Not exactly how I planned on showing you the ropes, but you worked the Astra like a champ.”

She lifted her coffee in a toast to me, and I was so busy processing her praise I left her hanging for a couple of awkward seconds before lifting my mug to clink it against hers. 

“Well, thanks,” I said. “I was trying not to mess up too much. But I’ve got a good grip on the table-numbering system now.”

“You’re already the best barista we’ve ever had,” Zara said wryly. “I’ve been jockeying that thing for a couple of years now, and I still can’t pump out the coffees as fast as you.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Since graduating from high school, I’d worked in a series of coffeeshops, cafés, and restaurants. I could probably make coffees in my sleep if I had to.

Zara let out a little yelp, making me start. Then I realized she was staring at my feet, her gaze covetous. 

“Haley. Those boots. You have to tell me where you got them,” she breathed. 

Made from vegetable-tanned calfskin in a warm cognac tone, my flat-heeled ankle boots had a stylized landscape of Vermont depicted in rich greens, russets, and browns painted along the vamp. The brushwork was some of my best, which was why I was not unfamiliar with the look on Zara’s face. I guess you could say I’m used to being a literal walking advertisement for my own work. 

“I made them,” I said. “That’s what I do when I’m not cranking out coffees.”

“Are you kidding me? You made those?” Zara squeaked, stabbing a finger at my shoes as though I’d just claimed I’d singlehandedly built the Space Shuttle in my yard. 

“Yup. I do belts, handbags, and custom shoes and sell them on Etsy,” I explained. 

Zara blinked. “Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever met a shoemaker before.”

“Barista-waitress-shoemaker,” I corrected. 

“They’re really beautiful. Can I ask how much you charge?” 

I shifted uncomfortably on the bench. I always found it hard to answer this question, because I never know how people are going to react when I tell them the price I have to charge in order to cover overhead and labor. People are used to buying disposable, mass-produced fashion footwear, not hand-made, bespoke shoes built to last a lifetime. 

“For a custom pair of boots like these, I usually charge four hundred and fifty,” I said. 

Zara nodded slowly. “That makes sense. A lot of work went into them, right?”

I beamed at her, pleased she understood without me having to explain. “Days.” 

Not to mention the years I’d spent perfecting my craft. 

“So how does a person become a shoemaker, anyway?” Zara asked. “I’m guessing this is not something a person learns off the Internet.” 

“They live next door to one when they’re growing up,” I said. “Mr. Zametti had a workshop in his yard, and I think he got sick of me hanging around and asking questions, so he put me to work. It was supposed to scare me off, but I loved it.”

“So this is your passion,” Zara said, her dark eyes bright with interest. “Is the dream to be able to make shoes full time?”

“I would love to be able to survive off the earnings of my Etsy store.” My declaration came out sounding weird and unnatural, like someone had coached me to say it for a class presentation. Maybe one day I’d get better at asking for what I wanted, but this was clearly not that day. 

“I’m going to start saving my tips,” Zara declared, eyeing my boots again. “I want me a pair of those boots.”

We chatted about Bean business for a few minutes after that, Zara filling me on what I could expect from the coming week. I already knew that either she or Audrey would be there during my shifts this first week to make sure I was getting the hang of things. After that, I’d be tackling all the early opens alongside Roderick, leaving Audrey and Zara free to look after their young families. 

“We had our best month ever last month,” Zara said as we collected our empty mugs and headed inside. “Long may it continue.”

She gave me a squeeze on the shoulder as I grabbed my bag and jacket, thanking me again for pitching in and helping save the day. Her praise—her acknowledgement—made me feel so good I couldn’t keep the smile off my face during the walk up the hill into town. Not a bad first day, even if it had started with a burst pipe. 

It didn’t take me long to get to my place. I lived on a street just off the town green, in a two-story white clapboard house that looked exactly like the doll’s house my sister had when we were kids, down to the dark-gray shutters and the cute front porch. My apartment occupied the entire lower floor, with my upstairs neighbor, Marion, accessing her apartment via a staircase at the rear. 

I let myself in the front door and dumped my things on my bed in the front room. I’d planned on having lunch before getting started on my latest commissions, but the coffee and muffin would keep me going for a while. I made my way down the hallway past the tiny pocket living space with its fireplace, through the even tinier kitchen, and out to the closed-in back porch. The afternoon sun was streaming through the porch’s windows, and the smell of leather, paints, and adhesive hit me in a warm wave. 

I opened the backdoor to let in some fresh air, then got everything organized to work on the custom leather belt I was decorating for a commission. I’d exchanged a couple of emails with the customer before we’d settled on a design that incorporated apple blossoms and delicate leaves.

Dipping my finest brush into white paint, I went to work. The next time I looked up, the sun was low in the sky and I had a stiff neck from sitting too long in one position. The belt was done, though, the blossoms trailing in delicate swirls across deep, rich brown leather. 

It was pretty frickin’ gorgeous, if I did say so myself, and I was confident my customer was going to be very happy with it. I spent ten minutes cleaning my brushes and tidying up my workspace, then locked the porch door and wandered into the kitchen to contemplate dinner. 

A couple of hours later, I was in bed, my alarm set for five a.m. As I drifted off, it occurred to me that I hadn’t felt this good about my life in a long time. 

Everything seemed to be coming together. It was tempting to be cynical and tell myself it couldn’t last, because if life had taught me anything, it was that what goes up must come down. But it seemed like a waste of a perfectly good natural high to rain on my own parade. 

Maybe I was simply coming into my own. Maybe this was my time. 

Whatever was going on, it would be stupid not to enjoy the ride while it lasted.

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First Chapter: Holdout by Jacqueline Snowe

Ryann

Beggars couldn’t be choosers. It would be fine. Probably. I chewed the inside of my cheek and traced the rim of my coffee mug, weighing my options of which one is worse. The smell of coffee filled my lungs as I took a deep breath, gazing around the café. The constant sound of happy chatter eased my mind a bit, and I leaned back onto the wooden chair.

The choice narrowed down to agreeing to this very detailed ad, or staying in the dorm with my live-on-the-edge roommate. The temptation of joining her on the wild side was too much, and with the scholarship being my lifeline to school, I couldn’t chance having it taken away. My purple nails made a small clacking sound on the wooden surface of the table, and the muscles around my neck pulsed with tension. 

Another mess-up in the dorms meant losing the scholarship, which wouldn’t only defeat my dream of becoming a counselor, but it would leave me homeless. That wasn’t something I ever wanted to experience, and god, I could only imagine how my older brother Michael would react. He’d lose it, mess up his scholarship on the team, and try to take care of me.

Yeah, that could not happen.

I stared at the ad in front of me.

Searching for roommate who is:

Clean

No parties

Takes school seriously 

Not a sports fan

Split rent

No noise

Can move in ASAP

I was clean-ish. I never let my milk dry up in cereal bowls, but I’d been known to leave a shirt on a chair. Still, that was an easy fix. No parties was a no-brainer, since they’d gotten me into trouble in the first place. I took school very seriously. So seriously, I was searching to get out of my bad dorm situation one week into the year when every lease and dorm was taken. So yeah, not a problem.

Not a sports fan. Hmm.

I sucked in a breath and took creative liberty with that one. I only watched hockey because my brother was a senior on the Moo U team. It wasn’t like I was a fan—hockey had been shoved in my face since birth and part of who we were as a family. Hockey. It was a way of life, ingrained in who we were. So, I technically wasn’t lying. 

Moving in ASAP was the least of my problems. It would be impossible to find a place closer to campus than this three-story house. Every apartment was booked or already leased so I couldn’t be choosy. Getting out of the dorms was essential, and if I had to live in a closet for the year, so be it.

I’d shoved my stuff into two duffel bags after our RA did room checks, and I’d sweated so much I had pit stains on my red shirt. She didn’t find my roommate’s stash of weed or whiskey, but the sheer panic, no, terror causing my body to freeze wasn’t worth it. I refused to live like that all year. Not with my academic scholarship on the line. I already had a slap on the wrist from the year before, and one more incident would ensure I’d be out of school, alone, and without a plan.

Yeah, that’d devastate my brother. 

With a quick stretch over my head, I tilted my neck to the right and left, getting two cracks in before I typed out my response. 

Hey Daniel,

I’m in. Where do I send the deposit? 

The email sent, making a whoosh sound, and I waited. If I could move in, get settled, and gain my ground, then I would tell Michael. Not a second before, because I didn’t need him playing the father card and trying to take care of me or freaking out. Either option was just as likely, and I needed my brother, not the parental role he tried to fill after we lost our parents.

My email pinged in less than a minute, and I took that as a good sign. 

Ryan,

Here is my account. Once the payment is received, I’ll set the key under the doormat. I’ll be out this afternoon, but feel free to move in. Your bedroom is empty. Text me if you run into any issues. 

D

Thank you, baby Jesus. I did it. I found a new place when there was nothing available and all without bothering Michael. I relaxed into the wooden chair. He needed to stop viewing me as helpless, and getting my own place would be the first step. Money would be tight until I could find a way to make a few dollars, but I had at least a month to worry about it.

The scholarship covered room and board in the dorms and classes—not off campus living, so this new arrangement meant I needed a job. 

“Good news, huh?” My barista, Hannah, walked by with another glass of water. Our campus on the northeastern part of Vermont was beautiful, and the summer air breezed through the open windows. She owned the small café—Beans N Books-- attached to our school’s library. “Your smile is bordering on terrifying.”

“Like Joker terrifying or you’re so jealous of my smile, it terrifies you?” I replied, jutting my chin to the chair across from me. She sat and yawned for a good ten seconds before she shook her head. Her red hair hung loose around her face in an effortlessly beautiful way. “Hannah, be honest with me,” I said, leaning onto my elbows. “Do you live in the café? Like, is there a sleeping bag in the back room or something?”

“It would save me money on gas if I did.” She rubbed her upper left arm. The bags under her eyes seemed darker. She took a deep breath and leaned onto her elbows. “I need good news, so, the smile. Explain it.”

“Found a new place to live,” I said, appreciating the fact our friendship was simple. She was in her late twenties but definitely had an old soul. We were both too busy to hang out beyond the café, but we offered each other an ear, someone to talk to about life. I knew about her struggle being a newly single mom and how her son’s father was awful, while she knew about my scholarship and how much was at stake if I lost the money.

Trusting each other without showing every card or vulnerability was my safe zone. It was where I kept most people besides my brother, and I was okay with that.

She arched one eyebrow, a talent I always wanted but never had, and said, “Is it close to the cafe?”

“Six blocks, don’t worry, I’ll still be here every day annoying you and drinking all your coffee.” 

She rolled her eyes, but her lip quirked up on one side. “When do you move in?”

“Tonight.”

“Uh, that’s fast.” She tilted her head and frowned, worry lines forming around her eyes. “Shouldn’t you meet them first?”

“There’s nothing else in my price range. Nothing. It’s not ideal, but I doubt Captain America needs a roommate, so I can’t have it all.”

She snorted and rubbed her palms against her eyes, reminding me again of how tired she looked. 

“Hannah, seriously, you need some time off.”

She blew out a breath and looked a bit helpless. “All my workers are temps or students who are here for a few months at a time. I can’t trust them.”

An idea took root in the back of my brain, starting as a little flicker, and it grew. “Hire me.”

“What now?” She blinked, slowly, and her nostrils flared. “Hire you?”

“You’ve heard me complain about needing a job the past thirteen months, and I think I can manage my time better this year. You know me more than my roommate did. I’m trustworthy and loyal as hell.” The flicker billowed into a fire in my mind, and I clapped twice, making her jump. “We can compare your schedule with your kiddo and my classes and arrange it so you get some damn time off to rest. Seriously. This is a totally appropriate example of quid pro quo.”

Her pale brown eyes crinkled on the sides as a smile stretched across her face. “Yes. Yes. This could work.”

“No lie?”

“I trust you. Really.” She leaned into the chair and closed her eyes. “The thought of taking a night off makes me want to weep with joy.”

“Let me get settled in at my new place today, and I’ll be back tomorrow with my schedule and planner.” My words tended to slur together when I got excited, partly due to my slight lisp but also because my manic energy caused my brain to move faster than my mouth. 

Hannah sighed and reached over to pat my hand, making me freeze. Overt displays of emotion got me queasy and nervous, but I remained quiet when she said, “Thank you, Ryann. I… I need this.”

“You’re welcome.”

She removed her hand, my muscles relaxing, and she got up as a line formed by the counter. “Good luck with the new roommate tonight.”

I winked at her and logged back into my laptop, pulling up my bank and sending the required amount to Daniel. It was only then that I realized Daniel was not Danielle. Daniel was typically a male name, but their gender didn’t bother me. I grew up with hockey players and Michael. My worry stemmed from the typo I missed in the email. 

Daniel had typed Ryan. With one N.

Not Ryann, with two.

The second N was essential. 

Shit. 

He might think I’m a dude. 

The momentary bliss of finding a place evaporated, and nervous energy had me biting my fingernail and chewing on the skin until I tasted blood. I could send the money to at least guarantee a place for thirty days, but I needed a contract first. 

Daniel, 

To protect myself, I’d like a contract that can be used in court. 

R

R seemed honest enough, right?

Wouldn’t even know how to write one up. We’ll figure it out tonight. I really need the help with half the rent, and I’m assuming you need a place, so it’ll be fine.

He wasn’t wrong. I did need a place, so I had to take a chance that this wasn’t totally going to blow up in my face. My knee bounced up and down as I said to hell with it. I sent him the money, closed my laptop, and packed up my bag.

Daniel was going to have a roommate for thirty days, that was for damn sure. Now I needed to move in and figure out a way to break the news to him that Ryan was very much a girl.

* * *

Before I headed over, I called Hannah and told her the address of the place so someone knew where I was, to be safe. 

The old Victorian house had a wooden staircase up the back to the third floor. It creaked as I put my weight on the first tread, and I gripped the railing, more than a little afraid the structure would crash down, bringing me with it.

My arms hurt from carrying my bags, but I got to the top and reached under the plain doormat with our school’s logo to find the key. Here goes nothing. 

I fumbled a few times but got the key into the handle and pushed my way inside. “Hello? Daniel?”

Nothing. Silence. 

Probably better that way. Gave me time to scope the place out and move in. It would be harder for him to kick me out if my stuff was here. The first thing I noticed was the smell. 

Clean. Lemon-scented cleaner hung in the air, almost like it was masking something. Michael’s room always smelled like that, disinfectant and gross equipment. I turned on the light and made my way past the small foyer to the living room and mini kitchen. One small table with two chairs sat under a low-hanging light. A TV and large couch were the only things in the living room, and there wasn’t a single item out of place. No pillow askew, book left on a table, or cup left on the counter, half-filled with water.

“He wasn’t kidding about being clean,” I said to myself. There were two doors on the right side, one containing a pristine, wrinkle-free bed. I snorted. I could count on my hands the number of times I’d made my bed in my entire life. If this guy expected me to make mine, there would be a war. 

The second bedroom was empty besides a bed and mini dresser. My new home, for at least thirty days. Might as well unpack. I blasted some Taylor Swift from my phone and got to work. I didn’t consider myself a slob, but I wasn’t on the same level as this guy. I might have dust on my shelves, but organizing made me inexplicably happy.

I lost myself in the music, dancing as I put my clothes away and struggled to put sheets on the bed. I wasn’t one to decorate walls with photos, but I did tape up the last family photo we had of Michael, me, and our parents. We wore large smiles and stood in front of our hotel in Florida. Our last family vacation. 

Grief hit me, hard. My counselor had told me this could happen the rest of my life. I’d be fine, and then bam, sadness grew inside my chest and spread through my body, paralyzing me like hundred pound weights were in my shoes. I would never have my parents at my wedding. They would never see me graduate, find a career, or have children. I couldn’t call them just because.

The thoughts got sadder, and I collapsed onto the bed, exhausted from everything. I could take a mini nap before Daniel got back. Yes, that was a good idea. I lay on my side and took three breaths before sleep came. 

“What the hell?” 

I bolted up from the bed, a deep voice penetrating my dreamlike state. I moved. I napped. New roommate. 

“Daniel?” I rubbed my hands over my eyes, the sleep burring my vision for a few seconds. Once I cleared them, I got a view of my roommate as he stood outside my door, hands on trim hips, and a dark angry scowl on a face I knew well. 

Very well, in fact. It was hard to not recognize the sophomore on the hockey team when his face was plastered on billboards and his infamous scowl was a hot topic in the gossip mill.

“Your name is not Daniel. You’re J.D.” Annoyance had my neck tingling. The severity of our situation made the weight on my chest double. My roommate was a hockey player. Shit. 

“You’re not a dude,” he fired back, nostrils flaring as he huffed out an angry breath. “Is this a trick?”

“You tell me.” I got up from the bed and mirrored his battle stance. His jaw tightened as he stared me down, no doubt trying to intimidate me. He had another think coming if he thought a hockey guy could scare me. “I thought Daniel was someone in a pinch who needed a roommate.”

“I thought Ryan was a dude.” He ran a hand over his jaw, distrust and worry flashing across his face like fireworks in the heat of summer. 

“Look, J.D.” I used his nickname because that’s how I knew him, as the young player with a chip on his shoulder and a determined grit that intimidated other guys on the team. Michael had told me a few times that J.D. was almost too intense. “I really need a place to stay. I paid for the month. Give me thirty days to try and find somewhere else.”

He paled and mumbled something under his breath. “I can’t afford distractions. You’re a girl.”

“Wow, well stated.” I laughed, and my breath came out heavier with emotion. “You can’t afford the rent either, so we can figure it out.”

His mouth was set in a hard line, and he glared at me for a beat. “You said you weren’t a sports fan. You know who I am, so you lied.”

I pointed a finger between us. “Neither one is innocent in this. You lied too.”

“Yeah, because I can’t have some puck bunny trying to live with me and mess up my game, alright?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, and when he opened his eyes, there was fire behind them.

I tried to stop the laughter, but the more I tried to muffle it, the harder it came out. I giggled, slapped a hand over my mouth, and soon enough, I had a full-belly cackle going. “Puck Bunny. My god.” I laughed harder. “No, just… no.”

“What’s so goddamn funny?”

“Ask me my last name, J.D.,” I said, stopping the giggle attack and wiping the tears from my eyes. “Do it.”

He looked like he’d rather eat dog food, but he growled, “What is your last name?”

“Reiner. Ring any bells?” I said, smiling as the realization hit him. He furrowed his dark brown eyebrows, studying me, then his eyes widened, and he stood tall enough that his head almost hit the top of the doorframe. “Well?” I wiggled my brows at him. “Want to retract that asinine comment?”

“Michael’s sister. Michael Reiner’s sister.”

“And you get the grand prize.” I clapped my hands, making a real scene about it. “I’m not a puck bunny. I’m not a sports fan. Hockey runs in my blood. I technically wasn’t lying.” I shrugged, waved my hand around the room, and waited for him to say something. The puck was in his possession. 

His hands curled to fists at his sides as he stared at the one photo on the wall. “Does he know about this?”

“No, but he will when I want to tell him and not a second sooner.”

Jonah Daniels did not like that answer. He sucked in a breath, swore, and marched into his room before slamming the door.

Awesome.

This went great.

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First Chapter: Slapshot by Rebecca Jenshak

Kaitlyn

Living in the dorms as a junior is torture. There’s the cramped closet, the shared bathroom, ancient furniture, and dingy walls. And, of course, the total lack of privacy.

It’s especially terrible when you’ve already lived on your own and know the joys of independence and a quality mattress. All those things would be reason enough to miss my old life, complete with apartment, but I also have a roommate issue. An awful, unspeakable, truly shocking roommate issue.

She’s sleeping with my ex-boyfriend.

Listening to your ex have sex with anyone else, let alone your roommate, should be grounds for a transfer to another room. 

It isn’t. I checked.

My RA was very understanding. She used those exact words several times. “I completely understand.” And then she suggested ear plugs or sitting down with my roommate and having an honest conversation about how I was feeling.

A decent suggestion if I had any desire to speak to my ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend. I do not need to add humiliation to the long list of emotions the situation has thrown at me. Anger, sadness, jealousy, to name a few. Moo U was supposed to be a fresh start, not more lessons on coping with heartbreak.

“How long are they going to keep that up?” my friend Vivian asks with an impressed smile on her pink, glossy lips. She sits on my bed, staring at the wall separating mine and Chastity’s bedrooms.

“Judging by the moans, we have another few minutes until they finish.” I don’t look up from my laptop where I read through my notes for my content marketing class. We have a test tomorrow, and I am struggling to focus.

“I don’t know whether to be disgusted or turned on. Are they always this loud?”

“Disgusted and always.”

And here comes the name calling. 

“Dylan. Oh, Dylan.”

This is when I usually blast my music to drown them out. I could almost pretend it was someone else if it weren’t for the talking. Is it too much to ask that they do it at his place? Or use a ball gag?

There may be a wall between us, but a floor, or twelve, wouldn’t be enough. Last week I caught a glimpse of Dylan, my now ex, coming out of the shower naked. He’s not at all hard to look at, and it just made me angry and sad all over again about how things went down between us.

When I got to Burlington University, not so affectionately known as Moo U for the bull mascot, I thought it was a stroke of good luck that I got paired with Chastity as a roommate.

We have absolutely nothing in common, but her hunky best friend was the first look of something good I’d had since I was kicked out of my last college and shipped off to freaking Vermont. 

Turns out he was a mirage, and I was too tired and thirsty from crawling through hell to realize it until he was breaking promises and running off for long weekends to hang with his friend Chastity. I’ve learned the hard way that you can’t rely on things that seem too good to be true.

“Wow. You’d think with the wall between you, it’d muffle it somewhat. But it’s like they’re in the room,” Vivian whispers. I don’t know why. They obviously aren’t worried about people overhearing. “I think I can hear him spanking her ass.”

“She’s slapping the wall,” I supply. It super annoys me that I know their whole sex routine. They don’t vary it up much—though they sound utterly content refining the one routine. A perfect ten from both judges if I’m going by the screaming orgasm followed by silence.

“Lunch and a show. I think I need a jolt of caffeine after that. Do you want to hit the coffee shop before class?”

“Please. I can’t listen to any more of that.”

“There’s more?”

“Give it five minutes.”

“I’m sorry,” Vivian catches herself. “That has to be awful. You know you’re welcome to crash at my place any time.”

“Thank you. I’ll survive.” Whatever this year throws at me, and it’s thrown a lot, I will manage. There’s no other option.

I tuck my laptop into my backpack, and we trek from my dorm to the student union on the other side of campus. For all the ways my time at Moo U has been disappointing, the campus has exceeded my expectations.

My last college in New York was all money and prestige. Just one of many colleges in a big city. Tall buildings crammed together so close to others that it was hard to tell where one campus ended, and another began.

Here, the university is the heart of the city and it shows in every detail. Lush grounds, buildings spread out with room to walk or sit outside. The Vermont scenery is a pleasant addition, too. Fall is here. The leaves have changed and it’s that perfect time of year when you forget how brutal the coming winter months will be and just get lost in the picturesque beauty of it.

I breathe it all in. When life hands you lemons, you make lemonade. When it throws Vermont at you, you put on your favorite boots and admire the scenery.

The Green Bean, the campus coffeehouse, is packed. We stand at the back of the line to wait our turn. Everyone around us is wearing Burlington University green to support the hockey team. They play Michigan tomorrow night. It really pains me to know so much about a sport I despise, but Moo U hockey is a really big deal. I should know, my dad was one of their biggest stars twenty-some years ago.

“What are we doing tonight?” my best friend asks.

Usually by Thursday, we’ve already planned our entire weekend, but since hockey season started the options are dwindling. Moo U is a hockey school. When students enroll, they’re given a schedule of games and a Moo U Hockey bumper sticker with their welcome packet.

The hockey players are gods, and their games are like giant parties for the student body. Or that’s what I hear. I haven’t actually been. Nor do I intend to go.

“We could go out, grab dinner, hit the poetry slam, and then the bars,” she suggests.

“Why bother? It’ll be dead tonight while everyone rests up for tomorrow night’s game.”

“Not everyone. There has to be some cute guys in this town that don’t care about hockey.”

I glance behind us into the sea of green. “Have you looked around? The game isn’t until tomorrow and they’re already pumped to watch them destroy Michigan.”

We laugh together and then it’s our turn at the counter. Vivian orders her usual—skinny cinnamon dolce latte. I peruse the menu. I’m working my way through every flavor and variation to find my favorite. When I was in New York, I was just like Vivian. Always ordering the same thing. My favorite drink was the iced ginger coconut milk. It’s not the same here. Nothing is.

I haven’t found my favorite anything in Vermont yet.

“And for you?” the barista asks before I’ve decided.

“I don’t know. Surprise me. But not what she ordered.” I make a face as I remember the horrid taste of Vivian’s favorite drink.

“Today’s special is the puck drop.” She leans closer. “It’s just a hot mocha, but it has green whipped cream.” Her eyes widen and she flashes me a big smile. “Go Bulls!”

I feel my brows raise, but I manage to keep my snarky thoughts to myself. “Sure, the puck drop sounds fine, but no whipped cream.”

She gives me the total and I hand her my debit card.

“Where’s your team spirit?” Vivian asks with an eye roll.

“The same place yours went.”

“I’m sorry.” The barista holds up my card with a sympathetic look. “It’s not going through.”

The card swiper machine is on the counter between us.

“There must be a mistake. Let me try.” I insert my card and an uneasy feeling settles over me as the word Declined appears on the screen.

“That’s weird,” I say awkwardly to the barista as I start to sweat.

“What’s wrong?” Vivian grabs her drink from the counter.

“My card was declined.”

“Maybe it was stolen, and the bank put a freeze on it.”

“Maybe.” Though as I say it, I don’t believe it. I know I’ve been cutting it close lately, but I didn’t think it was quite this dire.

Vivian uses her card to pay for my drink and we walk to our classes together. She chats away about what she’s going to wear tonight and how she hopes she meets a cute guy. I’m only half listening. That uneasy feeling from earlier has turned into a pit of doom as I scroll through the many purchases on my bank account card. Coffee, coffee, nails, boots… I really should have been more careful, but I didn’t really believe my dad when he said that he wasn’t giving me any more money this semester. I thought he was bluffing, but apparently not. And I’ll starve before calling and telling him I’m broke.

Oh my god, I’m broke.

“So, you’ll come by later and we’ll pick outfits and get all glammed up?” she asks when we get to her art class building.

“Sure.”

“Sure? Wow, well, don’t get too excited about a night out or anything.” She hip checks me playfully.

I tuck my phone back into my pocket. “I’m sorry. I was thinking about my card. I need to get it straightened out. Can we go out tomorrow night instead?”

“Of course. I suppose I could study for my art history test next week.” She makes a face. “Do you want me to come with you to the bank after class? Those people can be scary talking about account closures and fees.” She shudders. I wonder if she’s speaking from experience. The way she spends money, I can very well see how she might reach the end of even a very high credit limit. I don’t really blame her. When people give you everything you want, you start to expect it.

“Thank you, but no, I’ve got this. I have to go somewhere even scarier than the bank to settle this.”

“Scarier than the bank?” she squeaks.

“Way scarier.”

* * *

On the second floor of the student employment office, a woman named Holly ushers me into a seat in front of her messy desk. It’s lined with pictures of small dogs wearing sweaters and cheesy costumes.

I hand her my resume, and she sets it on top of a pile of papers without glancing at it.

“Well, most of the campus jobs have already been filled for the semester, but here’s what I have.” She places a finger on her monitor and slides it across the screen as she says, “Spanish tutor, dining services attendant, and they’re looking for an aide in the early childhood education center.” She looks to me hopefully.

Unless I can learn Spanish overnight, that’s out.

Hair net? Absolutely not.

“I was hoping for something in marketing. That’s my major and I’m applying for this super competitive internship next summer and could use some relatable experience on my resume.” Maybe if I look at this as experience instead of desperation, I can put a happy spin on it.

But Holly does not look like she cares about my hopes and dreams. That would make her one of many.

And I’m out of options unless I want to take a chance that one of the restaurants or bars in Burlington are hiring a girl with no experience at… well, anything.

With a sigh, I ask, “What does an aide do in the education center? Teach colors and play games with the kids?”

“This position is more diapering and sanitizing than teaching. We have actual teachers for the older kids. You’d be working alongside the lead teacher of the infant room doing whatever they need to keep the little ones safe and entertained.” She scrunches up her nose.

Something tells me by the lack of baby photos on her desk and the disgusted look on her face, Holly and I are on the same page about changing diapers. Eww.

“There’s nothing else?”

“I’m sorry. This far into the semester…” She trails on, lecturing me about all the good jobs being snatched up quickly and how I should have started my search earlier. I sit back and take it. I’ve gotten impressively good at zoning out when adults lecture me.

Mostly from my dad.

You’ve been given a chance to start over. Use it wisely. No more games. No more blowing off classes and letting your grades fall. In fact, I’m not adding any more money to your account until I see your first semester grades. Essentials only. I’m serious, Kaitlyn. Last chance to get it together.

I really hadn’t thought he was serious. I’ve had nearly unlimited funds since I was sixteen. You can’t just cut someone off like that. And I have been doing better with my spending. Last week I bought a pair of boots from the half-off rack. If I’d known the boots were the last purchase I’d be able to make for a while, I might have done things differently. Too late now.

“Oh wait.” Her voice lifts three octaves, snapping me back to her droning speech. “A new job just posted. It’s with the athletic department. The hockey team is looking for an equipment manager.”

“Girls’ or boys’ team?”

I already know it’s too much to assume it’d be the girls’ team. That is not the type of year I’m having.

“The boys’ team. If you’re interested, I’d hustle over. It will not stay vacant for long. Would you like me to call Coach Keller and get more information?” She looks so damn optimistic. I guess if your job is hooking people up with employment, this is the moment you live for. Unfortunately for her, I have a long track record of disappointing people.

“No.” I stand. “I think I’ll try off-campus jobs.”

Not today, Satan.

“You’re sure? It’s one of the best paid student jobs at the university.” She adjusts her monitor to show me the hourly pay, all with a smile like she’s found me the golden ticket.

My stomach sinks at the number.

So that’s the cost of selling your soul.

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First Chapter: Blindsided by Victoria Denault

Maggie

Pick up the phone for once, my brain hisses as I hook a left onto North Avenue and force myself to slow down. The last thing I need right now is a speeding ticket on top of everything else. Of course, since I’m headed to the police station I could just pay it when I get there, which would be convenient.

“You are seriously the only person I know who still actually calls people.” My sister Daisy’s voice fills my car suddenly. She doesn’t even bother with hello. “Even Uncle Ben and Uncle Bobby just text. What is wrong with you? If you’re trying to bring back phone calls, like high-waisted jeans or something, give it up.”

“You know who doesn’t text? Clyde,” I say sharply. 

“Because he’s usually drunk,” Daisy says about our grandfather. She’s not being vicious, just factual. “And he dropped the only cell phone we ever gave him into a glass of whiskey.”

“Well he couldn’t text even if he wanted to right now because he’s IN JAIL.” I bark out those last two words as loudly as I can. My eyes dart down to my speedometer and I ease off the gas pedal. 

“What?” Daisy replies, shocked. “Our grandfather is in jail?”

“According to my Tinder date, yes,” I reply as the light in front of me turns red and I’m forced to stop, and curse.

“Your Tinder date told you Clyde is in jail?” Daisy repeats and I can picture her lying on the lounger on the balcony of our dilapidated rental, a textbook beside her, pretending she’s studying when what she’s really doing is soaking up some of the last rays of sun before the fall days turn chilly. “How is this getting more confusing?”

“My Tinder date turned out to be a cop named Matt and Matt was meeting me on his lunch break, in uniform, because—and I quote—chicks dig the uniform,” I explain. 

“Okay so we’re not seeing him again,” Daisy interjects flatly. 

“No. We are not,” I agree and continue. “Anyway, when I told him my last name he got this weird look on his face and asked if I knew an old man named Clyde Todd, because he just arrested him for getting into a fist fight at city hall.”

“Who the hell was Clyde brawling with?” Daisy gasps. “Why was he at city hall? Are you sure it’s not mistaken identity?”

“Clyde Todd, age seventy, owner of the Todd Farm out on Route 2A,” I say and turn into the police station parking lot. I turn off my car and the call cuts out on my Bluetooth system so I grab my phone off the passenger seat next to my purse. “I’m at the police station now.”

“Okay. Keep me posted.”

“Will do.”

I get out of the car and march across the small lot to the squat, one story red brick building. I burst through the front doors and beeline straight to the counter. “Hi there, I’m Maggie Todd,” I say to the officer sitting there. His shirt says Martinez. Burlington isn’t a big city, but I haven’t had a lot of interaction with our police department, so I don’t know him. “Officer Martinez, sir, I was told my grandfather is here. Clyde Todd.”

“Ah yes. This morning’s public disturbance. Don’t know if we’re charging him with disorderly conduct, battery or public intoxication. Maybe all three,” he says easily, like this is no big deal. “Just have a seat over there with Mr. Adler. The arresting officer will see you both in a minute.”

Mr. Adler? That could be a few different men, and none of them would be a welcome sight. I’d been so focused when I walked in I hadn’t noticed anyone else in the lobby. I slowly turn from Officer Martinez to the pine bench against the far wall. Manspreading all over it like he owns it is my least favorite Adler. The one I have to spend every waking hour avoiding because we inhabit the same college campus. Tate Adler. 

He’s glaring at me so I glare right back, and then walk over and sit on the complete opposite end of the bench, pressing myself into the arm so I can be as far away from him as humanly possible. 

I stare straight ahead so I don’t have to see his shock of tousled dark hair and his wide shoulders or  bulging biceps that poke out of his white T-shirt and always look like they’re flexing even when they’re not. But Tate is looking at me. I can feel his eyes still on me and I fight the urge to blush. I’m not embarrassed, but any time I get elevated emotions of almost any kind—from annoyed to sad to elated—my skin tends to pink. The joy of a very pale complexion. I blame the recessive redhead genes Daisy and I were both saddled with. I tap my foot as we wait because I’m so agitated the energy has to go somewhere. 

“Can you not do that?” Tate’s deep baritone fills the room and he drops his head into his hands, elbows on his widespread knees. “Just sit still.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I reply coolly and tap my foot even harder, making sure the bottom of my sandal slaps the scuffed linoleum floor in the loudest way possible. 

He groans to the point of almost growling.

“Am I exacerbating your little hangover? Maybe you shouldn’t have gone on a bender last night.”

“I’m not hungover. I’m just tired,” he replies. “Unlike you, I don’t go to every party on campus.”

I raise an eyebrow at that. I do go out a lot. I’m a college student, enjoying my life. But he’s a college sports star and last year, which was my freshman year as well as his, I saw him with a beer in his hand almost as often as a hockey stick. Not that I was looking for him, but Moo U and the city of Burlington are too small not to notice a guy you’ve known and disliked since birth. Especially when he’s also a hometown hero, which is how a lot of locals see him. Small town boy with big time talent and all that crap. “Why are you paying attention to where I go and what I do? Stalker, much?”

“Hardly. You’re hard to miss with the orange hair and ghost skin and that doppelgänger who follows you everywhere,” he mutters, and my jaw falls open. 

“First of all, doppelgängers are unrelated people who look identical,” I correct him tersely. “And second of all, we’re not twins. She’s a year younger than me and I have freckles, but Daisy doesn’t. I have hazel eyes, hers are brown. And she’s taller by, like, two inches.”

He looks up from the linoleum in front of him long enough to give me an apathetic smile as he shrugs. “If you say so. I’ve never looked at either of you long enough to find a difference. As soon as I see you coming I turn around and walk in the other direction.”

“Really?” I shoot him a smile dipped in acid. “You usually have your head so far up your own ass I’m surprised you see anyone else at all.”

“Are you two going to start brawling like your granddads?” Officer Martinez asks. 

My head snaps back around to the dark oak desk where officer Martinez sits watching us with concern. “Clyde punched George Adler?”

“Why else do you think I’m sitting here?” Tate asks me. 

“Not just punched,” Officer Martinez says before I can answer Tate. “They were rolling around on the marble floor at city hall in front of the clerk. Kicking, punching, biting.”

“Biting?” Tate and I say in unison and then glare at each other before turning back to Martinez who nods vigorously. 

“Oh yeah. Well, there’s no mark but George swears Clyde bit him.” Martinez chuckles but tries to cover it with a clearing of his throat. “I bet they’d have pulled each other’s hair if either of them had enough of it.”

He can’t hide his chuckle now so he excuses himself and heads down the hall mumbling something about going to see what’s taking the arresting officer so long. I turn back to Tate. “What did your grandfather do to get Clyde so upset?”

Tate rolls his eyes. “Oh please, everyone knows Clyde is an angry drunk.”

I open my mouth to combat that claim only it’s true. I could say something like “but it’s noon, not cocktail hour,” but for all I know Clyde had a couple before he left the house this morning. He usually carries a flask in his back pocket, so I don’t really have a leg to stand on. “Well George isn’t exactly known for his empathy and good cheer. At least not where we are concerned. He’s attacked my family verbally as far back as I can remember, so I’m sure he’s the one who escalated it to physical abuse.”

“Your granddad once came to one of my hockey games to yell insults at me,” Tate reminds me, those dark green eyes of his narrowed with disdain. “I was freaking twelve years old and he was in the stands chirping me like I was an NHL star on his most hated team.”

I vaguely remember this story. I would have been twelve too and my uncle Bobby was the coach of the local team that Tate was on. “Yeah but didn’t your grandfather used to show up to practices and scream obscenities at my uncle because he thought you weren’t getting enough ice time?”

“Tate Adler. Maggie Todd,” a voice booms from nearby and Tate and I both jump to our feet. Another police officer marches toward us. He’s big, burly, and frowning. Beside him is Ethel, the town clerk. She’s a tiny little silver-haired lady in a T-shirt with an airbrushed cat on the front. She’s smiling at us, but it’s awkward. The officer glances from Tate to me and back to Tate again. “You had a killer season last year, Tate. First time I can remember that a Burlington defensemen has led the division in shorthanded goals.”

Tate smiles, his shoulders go back and he nods. “Yeah, it was a great season. Although personally, I’d have liked to win the division.”

“That’s what this year is for, right?” The officer chuckles and I want to groan in disgust at this love fest but instead I bite my lip and read his name on his shirt. 

“Officer Humphries, can you tell us what’s going on with our grandfathers please?” I interrupt with a polite smile.

“We’ve got them back there in separate cells so they can calm down. So far neither one wants to press charges against the other,” Officer Humphries explains. “I just finished taking Mrs. Morris’s statement since the incident happened directly in front of her.”

Tate smiles warmly at Ethel. “I’m so sorry you had to witness that. Is there anything I can do, Mrs. Morris?”

Ethel smiles at him like she’s a schoolgirl looking at her crush. “You can call me Ethel, Tate you sweetheart. And you don’t need to apologize. We all know George and Clyde don’t get along, but I certainly never saw them come to blows. I guess it was bound to happen eventually, but I didn’t expect it at the sign-up for the farmer’s market of all places.”

The fall farmer’s market. Of course. I sigh heavily and lift my eyes to the popcorn ceiling of the police station lobby. I asked my dad if he would head to city hall today and sign us up for a booth. The market runs year-round but has seasonal sign-up sheets as a way to help rotate vendors. He has been complaining we aren’t letting him do enough so I gave him this task. He probably wasn’t up for it though and didn’t want to admit it to me so he asked my grandfather, Clyde, to go. 

My dad had a stroke in the spring – thankfully not severe, but it did affect his balance and his energy levels, which is a huge problem for a farmer. My uncles Bobby and Ben, who own a construction business, have begrudgingly jumped back into farm work part-time to help out, but it’s not exactly working out. My uncle Bobby forgot to sign us up for summer and we missed out on valuable income from the busiest market season. And now this. 

“What, exactly, happened?” Tate asks gently and folds his arms over his chest, which is ridiculously broad. 

“Well today was fall sign-up and everything was going smoothly, but then we got down to the last spot.” Ethel raises a hand to her chest like she’s having palpitations. Dear God, leave it to Clyde to traumatize the sweetest woman in Vermont. “George and Clyde were the only ones left in line. George was technically before Clyde. Clyde said George flirted with Katherine Oleson, who let him slip in line behind her, in front of Clyde. George denied it and Clyde called him a lying sack of…doo-doo. But he didn’t use the word doo-doo. And then George gave Clyde a rude gesture with his hands and Clyde yelled something I don’t dare repeat. And then…they just started throwing punches. It happened so fast I don’t even know who started it.”

Now Ethel is fanning herself like she’s about to faint. I step a little closer. “I’m so sorry, Ethel. Truly.”

“It’s not your fault either, honey.” Ethel stops fanning herself and pats my shoulder. “But the fact remains. We have one booth and two farms.”

“I suggested to George and Clyde that they should have to share it,” Officer Humphries says and Tate and I both tense up like we’ve been simultaneously poked with a cattle prod. He notices. “Yeah they both had the same reaction. Why do your families hate each other so much?”

“There’s not enough hours in the day to explain that to you, sir,” Tate mutters. 

“His family stole some of our acreage,” I say confidently.  

“Your family ran a tractor through our fence,” Tate counters.

“The fence George built on our property?” I reply. “And the gas pedal stuck. Even the police said it wasn’t our fault. You running over one of our goats on the other hand…”

“That wasn’t me, it was my cousin Raquel, and it was the middle of a whiteout blizzard so she didn’t see him. And your goat was in the middle of our driveway because you can’t seem to keep them in your own damn field,” Tate snaps. 

I take a deep breath of the stale air in this stuffy room. “It was our first year goat farming. We didn’t realize they were such escape artists. Maybe if Raquel could drive without texting she’d have seen—” 

“Forget I asked,” Officer Humphries interrupts. “The fact remains, though, if you guys can put these ancient grudges aside and share this booth, you both get to sell your products. Win-win.”

“No,” I say flatly. 

Officer Humphries frowns. “Well then, unfortunately I have to tell you that my investigation shows there is no proof that George Adler cut the line. Ms. Oleson pleaded the fifth, and so it’s Clyde’s word against George’s word. So then the booth would technically belong to Adler Apple Farm.”

“What? Wait…”

“Okay then! Now that’s settled, can I take my grandfather home, Officer Humphries? I don’t mean to rush you but I have to get to practice this afternoon,” Tate says, smiling like a Cheshire Cat. I have seen women all over my campus swoon over that smile, but I simply want to rip it off his lips. 

“I’ll release both Clyde and George, one at a time so they don’t get into another tussle. If they brawl again—anywhere, for any reason—there will be charges. Do you both understand me?” Officer Humphries says firmly. 

“Yes sir,” Tate says with a smile. I nod curtly but can’t bring myself to smile. 

As Officer Humphries heads off to retrieve our grandfathers, Ethel gives us a wave and heads out the front door and I turn back to Tate.

“Maybe we should rethink this sharing idea. Snap decisions are never the best ones. We could just keep Clyde and George away from the booth to avoid problems,” I say, backpedaling so hard I’m surprised I don’t break into a sweat. “Daisy and I and that younger brother of yours—Jace—could mend the fences the older generations broke.” 

Tate laughs loud and hard and it makes my hands ball into fists. “I speak for both Jace and me when I say, no thank you. We’re good with keeping the booth to ourselves and the fences unmended.”

If we don’t share that booth with these assholes, we aren’t at the farmer’s market, and that’s a huge chunk of our fall income. And since we already lost our summer market income, it will be a big blow. Daisy is going to flip. My dad is going to melt down. My uncles are going to freak out. I am going to kill my grandfather. 

“Do you even have enough apples to run a booth for three months?” I turn to face him, knowing my face is tomato red because I can literally feel the anger running through my veins like lava. “I know you’ve had some pretty dismal crops the last couple of years. Didn’t you have a bunch of scab apple trees?”

If looks could kill, Officer Humphries would be calling the coroner to come collect my body right about now. “Guess what? Even if we run out of apples and apple baked goods, I will find something else to sell. Hell, I’ll sell my body at that booth before I give it to you.” 

“You’d be better off selling the rotten apples,” I shoot back, but he just smirks because he knows that’s not true. Tate Adler is built like some kind of action movie star—six foot one, tanned a golden-brown from the summer farm work, and the parts of him that aren’t muscled are chiseled. Ugh. Screw Tate Adler. 

“You’ve only got your granny panties in a knot because it was my granddad who got there first,” Tate replies coolly. “If it was your booth, you’d tell me tough shit too and you know it.”

I turn to face him, arms folded across my chest. “You’re one hundred percent right.”

He isn’t expecting that kind of candor and the frown he’s been sporting disappears. Although I would never admit it out loud, even if I was tortured, his cupid’s bow mouth has the potential to be all kinds of sexy…if it didn’t spew the garbage his brain thinks up. “Is this some psychology-major mind game or something?”

“I’m a business major focusing on entrepreneurial studies, just like you. We have a lot of the same classes, like accounting,” I say. Since the semester started two weeks ago, I’ve watched him look up every time he entered the classroom to see where I was sitting and immediately walk to the opposite side of the room, so I know he knows this. “Also, I don’t wear granny panties. Anyway I’m agreeing that yes, I would have done the same thing, but you have the opportunity to be the bigger person here. Come on small town hockey hero, show the world you’re a bigger person than me.”

Was that too much taunting? I know hockey players love a challenge. Uncle Bobby, who was the last local player to get drafted to the NHL, has never turned down a challenge or a dare in his entire life. He swears it’s because of the competitive nature he developed playing hockey. And for the quickest little second, I think Tate might take my challenge. But George Adler appears from the bowels of the station and comes marching up to us. He’s a tall, burly man with a barrel chest and thinning gray hair that used to be dirty blond. His polo shirt and jeans are in good condition and show no signs of the scuffle he had with Clyde, but there’s a slight red abrasion on his chubby right cheek. 

George stops in front of Tate, turning his entire body so that I’m behind his back, out of view, and he says to his eldest grandchild. “I’m sorry they bothered you. I had them call Raquel but she didn’t answer her phone, and they wouldn’t let me leave without supervision. Like I’m a goddamn toddler.”

Tate frowns. “If you don’t want to be treated like a toddler, Gramps, then maybe don’t get into infantile fights. Let’s go. I’m late.”

George and Tate leave without another word or even glance at me. Son of a…

The door to the back swings open again and Clyde appears in all his hunched over, bloodshot-eyed glory. He has the audacity to walk right past me and grumble. “Hurry up. I want to get the hell out of here.”

I follow behind, scowling at the back of his balding head. We’re crossing the parking lot when Matt, my brief Tinder date, pulls into the lot in his police cruiser and lowers his window. “Hey gorgeous! So it was your gramps? That’s wild!”

“Yeah. Wild,” I say tersely. Clyde has kept on marching to my car. George Adler has climbed into the passenger side of Tate’s beat-up pickup, which is only a parking stall away from where I’m standing. So of course Tate has chosen to stand beside his truck and eavesdrop over leaving. Great. Matt smiles up at me and I’m sure he’s leering at me behind those mirrored shades. In the fifteen minutes our date lasted, his eyes kept sweeping from my chest to my ankles, which made me regret the short strappy sundress I’d chosen to wear. 

“So…we should probably reschedule our date, huh?” Matt lowers the sunglasses long enough to wink at me. “We had one hell of a vibe going before you ran off, didn’t we?”

I’m about to tell him the vibe he was getting from me was repulsion but I’m not in the mood for another confrontation or to have a cop in town on my bad side or to give Tate Adler more of a show. So instead I just make a weird sound in the back of my throat and mutter. “Call me.”

“I ain’t got all day, Magnolia!” Clyde barks, and I turn and leave Matt without so much as a goodbye wave. I keep my head tipped down, eyes on the pavement as I make my way past Tate. I do not want to see his reaction to any of this. 

I wait a second, until Tate has pulled out of the parking lot, before pulling out myself. Clyde turns to me and opens his mouth but I slap a hand up between us. “I don’t want to hear it. You can explain at the farm—to everyone—how you got arrested and cost us a spot at the farmer’s market. Until then, not a word, Clyde.”

“Mag—”

“Not. One. Word!”

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