“You did it when you were supposed to,” I replied, rinsing the last dish. “And who the hell makes stuffed peppers for a kid? You should be reported; that’s just wrong.”
“It did feel very fated—coming back home after all these years, stumbling into Leo and his nuts . . . maybe it was supposed to happen.” Dreamily she came to rest next to me at the sink. “Think Oscar might stumble into you with his nuts?”
“He’s a dairy farmer,” I said, laughing. “I’ve been more focused on his milk can.”
Roxie snorted. “He is ridiculously good-looking.”
“I know!” I cried, turning to face her and leaning against the sink. “He kissed me.”
“Shut up.”
“I sure won’t. He kissed me in the barn. And he told me I had a great big ass.”
“Whoa, what?” She looked around for a torch and a pitchfork.
“Easy, stand down. He put a comma in exactly the right place.”
“He didn’t put anything else in the right place, did he?”
I smiled. “Not yet.”
“Well, thank God. It’s been messing with my head to think that there was a man out there that Natalie Grayson couldn’t snare. It was, like, a whole new world order.”
“Oh stop it.”
“Seriously, there’s never been a guy that you couldn’t figure out, sort out, wrap around your finger, and make him move heaven and earth just to be with you.”
I swallowed. “Come on, Rox.” I turned back to the sink, rinsing out the final bit of suds as she prattled on behind me.
“You’ve always been the Dude Whisperer. You can see right through them, decide what makes them tick, then relax and enjoy, knowing that they’re yours for as long as you want. No man stands a chance with Natalie Grayson.”
I turned the water on full blast and added the disposal to further muffle her words. I knew my way around men, it was true. But that hadn’t always been the case.
Not in the least.
Chapter 9
Sundays in Bailey Falls are the thing that small-town dreams are made of, especially in the fall. I snuggled into a gray cashmere sweater, skinny jeans, and my Chanel black leather thigh-high boots and practically danced down the front steps of Roxie’s farmhouse that morning, bound for another breakfast meeting with Chad Bowman.
Doesn’t everyone wear thigh-high boots to a pancake breakfast?
Roxie was sleeping in. The diner was closed on Sundays, her food truck was closed as well, and she usually spent the afternoon over at Leo’s.
Which meant I had the day, and her old Wagoneer, to myself. I prided myself on being a city girl who could actually drive, something that not all native Manhattanites can do. Between the subway, cabs, and town cars, there was no need to drive oneself, so many city girls never learned.
I learned to drive in this very car, Roxie’s old Jeep Grand Wagoneer, in California, so I was quite at home behind the wheel of the giant old boat.
As I drove into town, I took the time to enjoy being alone. In the wild. Crimson trees danced overhead, their leaves begging off and rioting to the earth below. The air was crisp, clean, and even though there was a constant tickle in the back of my throat (the smog perhaps finally giving up and making way for the clean?), it tasted glorious. I felt so good it almost made me forget how I’d tossed and turned the night before.
Equal parts woodland symphony followed by crushing spooky silence, accented with a side of reliving that incredible kiss over and over again, meant I’d been unable to sleep until way past two in the morning. I’d sleep well tonight back in the city, where I belonged.
But I had to admit that despite the inherent sleeping problems, there definitely was something about this little town. As I drove through the downtown area, all six blocks, I watched as families and kids made their way in their Sunday best to the three churches on their busy street corners. Everyone was laughing, everyone was smiling, as if there were some kind of Mayberry addiction. I had to admit, I’d like a taste. People waved at each other—they actually waved! Calling out greetings, shaking hands, and patting each other on the back—there was such an air of conviviality, a friendliness that seemed woven into the very fabric of Bailey Falls.
I parked the car diagonally along Main Street, only a block away from the town square and the coffee shop where I was meeting Chad. As I walked, I pondered.
Were all small towns like this? If I lived here, would I become as friendly? Would I smile and nod and greet everyone cheerfully? Would a stranger patting me on the back become commonplace, or would I have to stifle the urge to mace, knee, and run?
As the coffee and pastry shop’s overhead bell jingled, I sighed and breathed in deeply. A Whole Latte Love was a gorgeous brick building situated on a corner of Main Street, occupying a great slice of real estate. It boasted magnificently high ceilings capped off with bronze tin tiles. The walls were peppered with seventies music posters that were framed and lit like the best art in the museum.