It’s a laugh I’d recognize. I’ve definitely never met this woman. I’d remember it, because I know everyone in Chestnut Springs.
“Ma’am? I don’t know how I feel about that,” she says, and I swear I can hear the smile in her voice. I wonder if her lips match the rest of her.
Ellen, who runs Le Pamplemousse, the little gourmet coffee shop in town, smiles at her. “Well, what would you have me call you? I usually recognize every face that walks in my door, but not yours.”
Ah, it’s not just me. I lean forward a little, hoping to catch the name. But one worker chooses this exact moment to grind coffee. Which just makes me grind my teeth.
I don’t know why I want to know this woman’s name. I just do. I’m from a small town, I’m allowed to be snoopy. And that’s all this is.
When the grinding noise stops, Ellen’s wrinkled face lights up. “What a pretty name.”
“Thank you,” the woman in front of me replies, before adding, “How come this place is called The Grapefruit?”
Ellen barks out a laugh and grins from her side of the counter. “I told my husband I wanted to name the shop something that sounded fancy. Something French. He said the only thing he knows how to say in French is Le Pamplemousse. It seemed good enough to me and now it’s like a little running joke between us.” Her eyes soften at the mention of her husband, and I feel a flicker of envy inside of my chest.
Followed by a flicker of annoyance.
The only reason I haven’t grumbled about their slow-as-fuck chitchat is because I’m too busy fighting off a public boner over this chick’s laugh. Under normal circumstances, I’d be pissed that grabbing a coffee is taking this damn long. I told my dad I’d be back to grab Luke—I check my watch—right about now. I need to get back so I can meet with Summer and the person who will hopefully be Luke’s nanny.
But my mind is wandering in ways I haven’t let it in literally years. So maybe I’m meant to just enjoy the ride. The feeling of feeling something.
“I’ll grab a medium, extra hot, no foam, half sweet . . .” My eyes subtly roll back in my head as I tip the brim of my black hat down. Of course, the outsider with the rocking body has to have an annoyingly long and complicated drink order.
“That’ll be three dollars and seventy-five cents,” Ellen says, eyes fixed on the cash register’s touch screen in front of her while the woman at the till digs through her oversized purse, clearly looking for her wallet.
“Oh shit,” she mutters, and from the corner of my eye, I see something fall from her purse to the polished concrete floor at her sandal-clad feet.
Without even thinking about it, I drop into a crouch and swipe the black fabric off the floor. I see her legs turning and rise back up.
“Here you go,” I say, my voice all gravel as a shot of nerves hits me. Talking to strange women isn’t a well-honed skill of mine.
Scowling at them? I’m a professional.
“Oh my God,” she says.
Standing now, I get a good look at her face. My feet root to the ground and my lungs stop working. Her laugh has nothing on her face. Cat-like eyes, arched brows, and milky skin.
She’s fucking stunning.
And her cheeks are fire-engine red.
“I’m so sorry,” she gasps, a manicured hand falling across her rosebud lips.
“No need. It’s fine,” I say, but I still feel like everything is happening in slow motion. I’m having a hard time catching up, still too fixated on her face.
And fuck.
Her tits.
I’m officially a creepy old man. My eyes trail down to my fist, the soft fabric poking out from between my fingers.
She groans as my fingers unfurl. And slowly, but surely, I figure out why she’s acting so horrified over me being a gentleman and picking up her . . .
Panties.
I stare at the scrap of black fabric in my hand and it’s like everything around us goes blurry. My eyes shoot to hers, all wide and green. So many shades. A mosaic.
I’m not known for smiling, but the corners of my mouth twitch. “You, uh, dropped your panties, ma’am.”
A strangled laugh bursts from her as her gaze darts to my hand and back to my face. “Wow. This is awkward. I’m really—”
“Your coffee is ready, sweetheart!” Ellen calls.
The redhead’s face flips away, like she’s relieved by the interruption. “Thank you!” she calls back a little too brightly before slapping a five down on the counter and grabbing the paper cup. Without another glance, she’s making a bee-line for the door. Like she can’t get away fast enough. “Keep the change! See you again!”
I swear I hear her giggling under her breath as she breezes past, clearly avoiding my gaze while murmuring something to herself about this being a good story to tell her kids one day.
I absently wonder what the fuck kind of stories this woman plans on telling her future children before I call out to her. “You forgot your . . .” I trail off because I refuse to shout this across the coffee shop full of people I have to face day in, day out.
She turns to press her back into the door when she gets there and holds my eye for a beat, barely contained laughter touching every feature. “Finders keepers,” she says with a shrug.
Now, she does laugh, full and warm and so damn amused. Then she exits into the sunlit street, hair shining like fire and hips swinging like she owns this town.
She leaves me stunned.
And when I look back down at my open palm, it hits me that she’s long gone, I have no idea what her name is, and I’m still here . . .
Holding her panties.
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A False Start
Acknowledgments
If a year ago someone told me I’d be here, doing this, I’d have laughed in their face. But the world works in mysterious ways, and like the quote at the front of this book says: sometimes the moment seizes you.
What a ride. What an adventure. What an absolute blessing to have stumbled into a career that brings me this much joy.
But this job is only this incredible because so many other people help make it that way.
To my readers, thank you. From the bottom of my heart. Thank you for spending your precious free time reading my stories. For loving them, for sharing them, for blowing up my inbox with your messages. I love it all.
To my husband, you’re the ultimate book boyfriend. You inspire little pieces of my books every time. I love you beyond measure.
To my son, you make me laugh every day. You give the best hugs. I’m so lucky to be your mama. I love you to the moon and back.
To my parents, you always knew I’d figure out what to do with myself. Even when I wasn’t so sure you were right. You’re the two best cheerleaders a girl could ask for. I love you both with all my heart.
To my assistant Krista, I hate calling you my assistant. I feel like you’re just my really cool fun friend who helps me with ALL OF THE THINGS. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
To Lena, you’re my ride or die. My fellow delightful pervert. You make this gig more fun every day. Who else would I say all the inappropriate things to?
To Catherine, you are the most wonderful top secret mentor a girl could ask for. I feel so fortunate to have you in my corner.
To Kandi, you have to be one of my favorite people . . . ever. I will never forget your generosity and your kindness. I can’t wait to pay it forward one day. I’m so lucky to call you my friend.
To Sarah from Social Butterfly, I love our working relationship. But I also can’t wait to eat a waffle penis and do goat yoga with you.
To my beta readers, Amy, Krista, and Kelly, thank you for your hard work and keen eyes. You catch the things my brain is too jumbled to notice.
To my editor Paula, basically… I’m obsessed with you. Haha. Thank you for always being available to bounce ideas off of and joke around with. You are irreplaceable.
To my cover designer Casey/Echo, you worked so hard on this cover and goddamnit, it paid off. Your expertise and opinions are invaluable to me. You also crack me up, so there’s that.
Finally, to my ARC readers and street team members . . . I don’t even know where to start. You make a bigger difference than you’ll ever realize. Every post makes me smile, every review has an impact. I don’t care how many followers any of you have, you’re all wonderful and deserving and I appreciate each and every one of you more than you know.