Story of My Life (Story Lake #1)

by Lucy Score

In the rest of the world, most divorces centered around issues like money, children, and monogamy. In Manhattan, I was willing to bet money that closet space made the top five.

Old Hazel had only wandered out of the apartment looking—and smelling—like this on deadlines. Current Hazel scurried around the shadows of the real world like an anti-hygiene mouse pretty much twenty-four seven.

On the kind of groan that past-their-prime people make when getting out of chairs at home, I stood up. I’d been festering in my apartment for too long if I couldn’t remember the difference between “privacy of one’s own home” and “in the presence of others” noises. I gathered my authory accessories—notebook, pen, laptop, and phone—and headed out into the heat.

It was a shame the universe didn’t tell you when you were in the middle of the best years of your life.

Could you be allergic to the sound of someone’s name?

“I’m seeing the heroine of her own story. Sure, you’re at rock bottom right now. But that just means you’re one chapter away from pluckily pulling yourself up. You can do this, Haze. You’re primed for a comeback.”

“First of all, it hasn’t been a year. It’s been two since you published a book.” I scoffed. “That can’t be right.” “You signed the papers a year ago. But you were fighting it out in court for a year before that.” I blinked. Had I really just “misplaced” two entire years of my life?

“Your Spring Gate books got me through a year of caregiving and the death of my mother. When she was on hospice, we read the entire series together. Even the steamy parts. It was exactly the kind of escape we both needed and led to some of the most meaningful conversations we’d had as mother and daughter.” “That’s…amazing. Thank you,” I managed. Relief. Gratitude. Empathy. Hope. They were all in a wrestling match in my throat. “It meant a lot to me,” she said.

“Not gonna lie, I was kind of surprised to find out the books she curled up with every weekend had so much dick in them.”

You’re always one ‘you can’t do that’ away from a full-blown ‘hold my beer’ training montage.”

That was the thing. I’d had my shot at HEA, and it had blown up in my face. If there was one thing I knew for sure, you weren’t given unlimited chances in love. That’s why they called it “the one.”

Once upon a time, I’d enjoyed brainstorming story ideas with Zoey over wine served in actual glasses. Once upon a time, I’d laughed and showered regularly. Well, okay, maybe not quite regularly on the shower front. Authors maintained a certain slovenly lifestyle that was conducive to focusing all mental energy on fictional, better-smelling people.

Some grumpy, do-gooding small-town hero who got pissed off anytime someone dared thank him for his help. This was classic Hazel Hart. This was pre-Jim Hazel Hart. Awesome. Now I just needed a heroine, a reason why the two of them couldn’t be together, and an entire story tying it all together. Oh, and one of those happily ever afters I no longer believed in. And to write it all in less than five days.

He was older than me, which I assumed also meant wiser. Well educated, charming. He made me want to be the kind of woman he would want. His goals became my goals.

I was officially in Hazel Adventure Mode, which meant taking risks…like driving and buying houses online. And it felt damn good. I felt alive and not just in the one-step-above-comatose way.

Despite the rough start and the throbbing from my forehead, I felt like things were definitely looking up. In my head, I was already sending Book Cam roaring off to rescue our stranded heroine. Of course, Book Heroine…hmm, let’s call her Hazel just for ease. Yeah. Book Hazel wouldn’t have hit the national bird right out of the air. That was not a meet-cute. That was a meet-disaster. But the head-wound thing could still work. Who didn’t love an injured heroine and a grumpy hero playing doctor? Maybe a sprained ankle would be sexier? Less blood, and Book Cam could carry her around with his gigantic muscles.

My post-shower energy buzz waned as my anxiety sputtered back to life. I had to write. Starting today. And all I had was the vague idea to write down everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours but make it sexy and funny instead of mildly traumatizing.

“My mom’s here. I don’t want to listen to her complain for the next month about how disappointed she is in her heathen sons who can’t even be bothered to make sure a woman gets home safely at night.” “Now that, I buy. But you can assure your mom that I’m perfectly capable of getting myself home.” “And I’m capable of eating an entire large pepperoni pie myself, but that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”

The nineteen-year difference was only the third biggest age gap of my mother’s husbands. She claimed she preferred older men, but I always assumed she was just trying to outlive one of them. There was more money in being a widow than a divorcée.

Only my mother would wear a white suit to upstage the brides she was marrying.

I crossed my arms. “Seven p.m. Prepare to be dated.” It was the stupidest threat I’d ever made, and the twinkle in her brown eyes told me it was probably going to end up in the pages of a book.

The worst thing that ever happened to you is still the worst thing that ever happened to you. You don’t have to feel guilty that something even worse didn’t happen. That’s really fuckin’ stupid.”

Startled, Hazel dropped the ladder with a clang. She dropped to a crouch and did a frantic search of the immediate vicinity, presumably for a weapon. “It’s me. Open up,” I said gruffly. I didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed that she took another ten seconds to continue searching for an appropriate weapon before giving up and opening the door.

I’d written plenty of dicks in my day. I’d enjoyed a satisfactory number in real life. With that in mind, I could confidently crown Campbell Bishop’s penis King Cock of both Fiction and Nonfiction. Long, thick, and veined, it bobbed like it was happy to finally be free. I reached for it with both hands.

Secrets in Story Lake were like leftovers stored in a margarine container. They didn’t keep.

After filling my glass, I offered it up. “Anyone?” “People who drink wine are either snobs or drunkards,” Emilie said on a hiss. “I’ll be sure to pass that along to Jesus,” I said under my breath.

I also didn’t really do the words-out-of-the-mouth thing. I was much better at

“But I feel kind of bad skipping off to have sex—if that’s what tile samples is a euphemism for—when the town is on the verge of bankruptcy.” “First of all, I’m not skipping anywhere. Second, life’s uncertain. Have sex first.” “An interesting life philosophy.

We waved, and something about the moment clicked in my head. It felt so…normal. So happy. It felt like a scene I’d write just before everything went to hot garbage and someone ruined everything.

“Hazel, look. We all have a vested interest in your success. Give them another Spring Gate book.” I was shaking my head before he finished his sentence. “You have a vested interest because you’re the one who gets the royalties for the first three books in that series. Because as much as you shit all over my books, my stories, they supported us while you played Mr. Self-Important. The books you called unrealistic ‘mommy porn’ and ‘worthless fluff’ are the ones paying your damn rent right now.”

Stop accepting less than what you’re worth, less than you want.” “I’m not like you. I can’t flit from relationship to relationship.” “Why not? Life is messy, and it doesn’t always look good to others on the outside. But going after what you want is more important than making strangers more comfortable.

Decide what you want. Be relentless in your pursuit of it. Because no one in this world is going to hand you what you want, no matter how much they love you or how well they know you.”

My mother pointed a triumphant finger in my face. “There! That look right there. Nauseated with a hint of fear. That’s love, kiddo.” “No, it’s not. It’s…indigestion.”

Was this what real dating was like now? Sitting quietly waiting to interject something about your own weird interests with someone you had nothing in common with?

I’d spent a lot of time pretending to be writing that week, and apparently pretending to write used the same muscles as actually writing.

Gage and Levi reluctantly came to stand behind Cam. I wasn’t sure if they were there to protect him from everyone or everyone from him. Though judging from their grim expressions, there was also the possibility that the brothers wanted to ensure that they got in the first punches.

Zoey smashed her face to mine and delivered a noisy, alcohol-scented kiss to my cheek. “You guys smell like a brewery and a distillery and a winery had a ménage à trois,” I noted.

“Hazel, I want you to have everything you want.” His voice was like honey poured over gravel. “I wanna be the one who champions you, who inspires you, who protects you. I wanna be the one at your side for all the bad news and the good.”

“I love you,” I said, kissing every square inch of his face. “Guys, I think she’s happy,” Levi hissed. “Either that or she’s eating his face. Did anyone make sure she had lunch today?” Zoey asked.