Drama Queen: Nasty Woman, #3 1ds19

Drama Queen

Jill Westwood

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and places are either the invention of the author or are used in a fictional context. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, are coincidental.

Drama Queen. Copyright ©2021 by Jill Westwood.

ISBN: 978-1-948516-10-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without written permission from the author.

Cover design by The Red Leaf Book Design / www.redleafbookdesign.com.

Created with Vellum

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

About the Author

Acknowledgments

One

The woman who has been in the changing room the better part of an hour has finally reappeared. She’s wearing a slinky gold evening dress that hugs her curves, which appear to be mostly manmade. The dress is vintage seventies, a gently-used gem sold to me by one of the society women in town who has a last name with more influence than fortune behind it these days. “What do you think?” My customer is barefooted, but walking on her toes to simulate high heels. She does a slow turn for me, showing off her toned figure. “It’s made just for you!” I say. “You’ve got to buy it. You’ve obviously worked hard for that tight little body. Why not show it off?” She gives me a pursed-lip smile, like the cat who ate the cream. “Pilates six days a week.” I smile as she sashays back into her changing stall. Sold. Even if the dress didn’t look fabulous on her, I’d have found something complimentary to say. With the recent rent hike on my store, I can’t be as honest as my nature inclines me to be. Besides, I can usually find the positive side of anything. Almost every metaphorical pile of shit has a nugget of gold. Take the rent hike, for instance. The increase is due to the fact that my hometown, Foster’s Creek, is having a renaissance, with cute little shops and restaurants popping up on the daily and a burgeoning bluegrass scene taking root. For the first time ever, we were featured as a vacation destination in Old North State magazine, and since then we’ve seen a surge in tourism. Recently, my clientele has gone from hagglers and high school kids to upscale out-of-towners and local hipsters looking for vintage treasures. She reappears wearing her own clothing, her arms full of goods, and I gently close the lid to my laptop. The romance novel I’m working on will have to wait. She sets the items on the glass counter—a pair of red cowboy boots, the gold evening dress, and a sweater embroidered with Santa’s smiling face.

“Adorable sweater.” I start folding it into a neat square. “My husband’s company has a holiday party every year, and they have this ugly Christmas sweater contest.” She says this without a care that she might be insulting my taste in sweaters. “What kind of deal can you make me on all this?” The lady with the three-hundred-dollar Marc Jacobs handbag is gonna haggle with me today. There’s nothing that rubs me the wrong way more than well-todo people who try to bargain their way out of full price. I give her my brightest smile. “Everything is priced as marked, but I think you’ll agree our prices are very reasonable.” My sweetness could give someone a cavity. She picks up the boots and holds them out at arm’s length. “They’re comfortable, but they do have a few scuffs.” Time to go in for the kill. “They’d look great with a pair of blue jeans or a skirt, make a real statement. Not everyone can pull off red cowboy boots, but you sure can.” In my business, you have to know what will sell a client. With some people, it’s making them feel like they’re getting an incredible deal. With others, like this lady, you appeal to their vanity, and I’m going to work over this Barbie doll like my livelihood depends on it. Before she can make a decision about the boots, the bell on the door jangles, and a man walks into the store. “Hello,” I call out. The smile on my lips freezes as I recognize his face. Jim Pittman and I had a brief fling about two years ago. It ended when he told me he met a woman he wanted to date, which was fine by me. We were only fooling around, and I have zero interest in getting seriously involved with anyone. Jim was adventurous in bed, but beyond that we had nothing in common. Now it’s dawning on me why the woman at the looks a bit familiar. She’s the person I’ve seen with Jim from a distance at town events, the woman he ended up with after we parted ways.

“Hey, honey,” she calls out to him. “Come give me your opinion.” Judging by the fact that Jim has the eyes of a panicked horse, I’m guessing she has no idea that he and I share a past connection. If I acknowledge him with the familiarity I’d normally use in this situation, it could raise a whole lot of questions on their car ride home. It could also jeopardize the sale I’m about to make. Jim approaches the counter and puts an arm around her waist. “What did you find?” he asks. She shows him the items, offering to try on the dress for him. “I’m sure it looks amazing,” he says. “I love all of it.” Repressing my natural sassiness, I give him a generic smile. “Your girlfriend has great taste.” Jim meets my eyes for the first time since he entered the store, smiling at me gratefully. He was one of the better men I’ve had in my bed over the years. Always respectful, always honest, at least as far as I know. Before Barbie can commit to purchasing all three items, my old friend Tabby Forrester jogs through the door. Her breath is coming in puffs, and her hair has been blown into some kind of trapezoidal shape. She flops into the chair next to the counter, not noticing the woman appraising her with disdain. “Sweetie, it’s too hot to be exercising outside,” I say. “Not…exercising, Cat.” She pauses to catch her breath. “Came…to talk…to you.” I eye my indecisive customer. “Just let me finish up here.” Tabby’s arrival seems to have taken the wind out of the woman’s haggle because she sighs and says, “Fine, I’ll take all of it. The dress fits me like a second skin.” “It truly does.” I ring up her goods and slide them into a brown paper bag with my store’s name, Twice Nice, printed on the side. “Thank you so much for stopping by today.” I hand the bag to her. “Come on back and see us real soon.”

As she leaves, Tabby stands up and places a hand on the counter, her breath finally settling into a less frantic rhythm. “Sorry to interrupt your sale.” “No worries.” I stare pointedly at her shirt. “You must be stepping out with purpose if you left home wearing Garfield.” Tabby’s wearing her cleaning clothes today—leggings and an oversized Garfield T-shirt that she’s owned since high school. “You’re not going to believe what just happened.” She uses the hem of her shirt to wipe the sweat beading on her forehead. “I’m about to break hotel guest confidentiality, but I can’t help myself.” Tabby and her husband, Everett, own a bed and breakfast about a quarter mile up the road. The Magnolia Inn is a Charleston style home on the historic that manages to be both stunning and dilapidated. They’ve put heaps of sweat equity and all their savings into the place, and since they got a mention in that Old North State article, business has picked up considerably. “Why didn’t you just call me?” I ask. “You didn’t have to run all the way down here.” “I had to see your face when I told you.” She lowers her voice. “No one else is here right now, are they?” I shake my head, but she still bends down and checks under the changing stalls for feet. “What’s up with all the cloak and dagger stuff this morning?” I ask. “Did you watch Killing Eve again? I told you that show is too intense for you.” “No, this is real life!” She splays her hands on the counter, leaving marks I’m going to have to Windex later. “We have a famous guest coming to the inn, but according to Everett I’m not allowed to tell you who it is. So you’re going to have to guess.” When I don’t follow orders, she bugs out her hazel eyes. “Well, go ahead!” My dear friend Tabby can’t keep a secret to save her life, an affliction that I share with her. Most people would see this as a fault. Friends are supposed to be vaults when it comes to secrets. For the two of us, trying to organize a surprise

party is nearly impossible, and when we do a gift exchange, we always know what our presents are before we unwrap them. I damn near pulled my hair out when she spoiled the season three ending of Downton Abbey for me, but I couldn’t really blame her. I live my life like an open book—what you see is what you get—and she does the same. We have nothing to hide. Well, almost nothing. “Is it the governor?” I ask. She shakes her head, and I try again, naming one of our favorite authors. “Diana Gabaldon?” My guesses are ittedly random, but in my defense, she’s not giving me much to go on. “Bigger,” she says. “Bigger than the woman who gave us Jamie Fraser?” She hums “God Save the Queen,” which most Americans would mistake for “My Country Tis of Thee,” but not this Anglophile. I gasp and clutch my heart. “Meghan and Harry? I knew they would get tired of Los Angeles eventually and try small-town living!” She leans toward me. “No, not actual royalty.” Only Tabby wouldn’t laugh at me for guessing that a duchess would bother with a blip on the map like Foster’s Creek. “But she is BAFTA royalty.” “Seriously?” She squees and claps her hands, relishing my torment. “Yes!” “Claire Foy?” I guess. She shakes her head and my voice goes up an octave. “Oh my gosh, Olivia Coleman?” “Bigger!” She’s about to burst from the excitement. “Someone you absolutely adore.” My jaw drops as I consider the impossible. “It’s not.”

“It is.” “Violet Ramsey?” She nods, and we both scream and stamp our feet. My brain can’t even process what she’s telling me, but I know enough to be excited. Once we calm down, I make sure I understand her correctly. “Violet Ramsey is coming to stay at your inn?” “Dame Violet Ramsey,” she corrects. “She rented out the entire top floor, and she arrives next week!” We freak out again, so loudly this time that our screams may be audible at the EMS station across the street. “The paramedics are going to come over here if we don’t settle down,” I say. “And you know Ernie’s looking for any excuse to do chest compressions on you.” Poor Ernie. He’s had an unrequited crush on Tabby since we were kids. Tabby stares off into the distance with a wistful expression on her face. “I hope she’s as wonderful as she appears to be.” I rest my elbows on the counter and drop my chin into my cupped hands. “I know, me too.” In addition to owning the consignment shop, I write historical romance novels set in Britain, and many of my female characters were inspired by characters Violet Ramsey has played over the years. A few were inspired by the actress herself, since she’s as ballsy and brilliant as they come. I never dared dream that I’d meet her one day. “Her assistant made me her as Prudence Entwhistle,” Tabby says. “Hilarious, right?” I grin wide, relishing her cleverness. “Perfection.” Tabby and I are probably the only two residents of Foster’s Creek who would

that Prudence Entwhistle was a character Violet played many years ago in a BBC series called The Parsonage. Prudence was a widow who fell in love with a narcissistic priest, played by the always divine Jeremy Northam. In the end, he chose God over romantic love, and I cried into my pillow while watching the final episode. I’ll never forget how he touched her cheek before walking away into the mist. To make myself feel better, I wrote a short story with a thirty-something spinster who falls in love with a minister, and let’s just say they get a very happy ending in every sense of the phrase. “Violet wants to keep a low profile,” Tabby says. “I had to reassure her assistant that even though I figured out her identity, I wouldn’t tell anyone else she was staying at our place. He kept asking all these questions about points of entry and who had keys to the place. It was freaking me out a little. I told him there was nothing to worry about in Foster’s Creek because, frankly, nothing exciting ever happens here.” “Which leads us to an obvious question.” I tap my bottom lip with my pointer finger. “Why exactly is she coming here?” I love my quaint little hometown, and if you want to shop for antiques, listen to bluegrass, or eat chicken and waffles, it’s the place to be, but it’s certainly not a hot destination for British film stars. “Maybe she read the article about Foster’s Creek in Old North State.” Tabby and I chuckle at her joke. “Or maybe she’s lying low, trying to get a break from the paparazzi.” “She could do that on Richard Branson’s private island. Why come to our town? I know what we need to do.” I reach for my phone. “Internet stalking.” A quick search of a movie database reveals that Violet Ramsey is in preproduction for a currently untitled film. The description merely says it’s a family drama set in the American South. Bingo. Violet is writing, producing, and acting in it, a triumvirate of power that she richly deserves. As her leading lady days came to an end, she started writing and producing more often. Now, in her early fifties, she’s in contention for a directing Oscar for her most recent film. As of late, her personal life seems to be a hot mess, but her career is thriving. “She must be doing research for her new movie,” I say. “But why would she choose our town? Did she stick a pin in a map?”

Tabby’s eyes widen. “Do you think they’ll film it here? Is she scouting a location?” “Who knows,” I say. “This could be the start of your movie career.” Tabby’s cheeks pink up, and she swats me. “Stop it.” She starred in our high school musical two years running and was in several productions in college. Until she and Everett bought the inn, she was doing local theater in Chapel Hill, and her plan was to open a small theater in Foster’s Creek someday. Now that their B&B is taking up all her time, she can’t pursue that dream anymore. I resent Everett for making Tabby give up her dreams, even though it’s not technically his fault. The inn was his idea, but she went along with it wholeheartedly. Still, did he even wonder whether his desire to own the inn would negate her dream of opening a theater? It’s always been about Everett’s life goals and not Tabby’s, and watching their dynamic makes me glad I’m single. “I hope we can get her to endorse the inn when she leaves,” Tabby says. “Maybe she’ll let us quote her in our ads!” “That’s a great idea! You’ll get heaps of business from a recommendation like that.” I try to picture Violet in our town, walking down Main Street, sleeping in one of Tabby’s antique beds, eating pancakes at the Golden Griddle. It seems impossible. The most famous person who ever came here was Vivian Howard, when she dined at one of our new farm-to-table restaurants. Someone of Violet’s status coming to Foster’s Creek is surreal. “You’ll tell me when she gets here, won’t you?” I ask. “Everett isn’t going to try to stop me from meeting her, is he?” Tabby nods reassuringly. “Of course I’ll keep you posted, and I’ll talk to him. The real obstacle will be her assistant. He seems very uptight, and I have a feeling he’s going to be keeping tight reins on her.” I toss my thick, chestnut brown hair over my shoulder. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll just disarm him with my Southern charm.”

Two

My sister Skye eyes the last dessert on the plate—a gooey chocolate brownie I baked earlier this evening. “I’m giving her five minutes, then I’m eating this brownie.” I glance at my Elvis clock, and a swivel of his hips tells me that our household meeting was supposed to begin twenty minutes ago. Unfortunately, we’re still waiting for our middle sister, Fiona, to appear. As my mother likes to say, Fiona was born on her due date, but she hasn’t been on time for anything since then. I take another sip of my lukewarm English breakfast tea and consider Skye’s threat. “Sounds fair. If you’re late to the meeting, you don’t get a brownie. I’ll split it with you.” At that moment, we hear the front door open then slam shut. Skye sighs with disappointment and pulls her hand away from the plate. “She’s here.” We listen to the thuds coming from the hallway as Fiona’s helmet and motorcycle boots hit the floor. She dresses like a biker, but her ride is a light blue Vespa that barely creeps up to fifty miles an hour, and I’m not sure she sees the irony in that. The Vespa was mine until recently, which involves a long story about her DUI and self-imposed hiatus from driving standard motor vehicles. Skye and I listen to the sounds of our sister disrobing before she finally strides through the kitchen doorway wearing jeans and a white tank top that shows off the ink that runs from her shoulders to her wrists. “Sorry, my last client of the night wanted this elaborate Maori tribal design, and it took forever.” Fiona runs a hand through her chopped bob, causing the bangs to stand on end. “Couldn’t leave it to Cash. He’s too green to do something that detailed.” I pat the chair next to me. “Sit down. You’re late, and we have a Halloween party to plan.”

Instead of taking a seat, Fiona opens the fridge and grabs a can of flavored seltzer. Normally, at this time of night, she’d be grabbing a beer, but about two months ago she gave up alcohol. Skye and I were both breathlessly relieved. Over the last few years, Fiona’s drunken hijinks had gone from “hilarious anecdotes” to “alcoholic cautionary tales.” “It never ceases to amaze me when a white-bread Southern boy wants a design like that.” She pops the tab on the can. “He doesn’t even know what it means.” “It’s called cultural appropriation. Hold on a sec.” I pick up my phone and reply to a text from Tabby who’s asking me about Halloween costumes. It’s probably bad form to respond during a family meeting, but I’m a multi-talker. I can have two or three conversations running at once and never lose track of where I am in each one. It’s a gift. Fiona sits down and props her feet on the empty fourth chair. “I just call it assholery.” “ the guy who asked you to do that Chinese symbol he thought meant loyalty, and it turned out that it actually meant noodles?” Skye smiles at the memory. “That was the best.” I rap my hand against the table. “I’m calling this meeting to order. First and only piece of business is our annual McBryde Halloween party. First on our partyplanning agenda is guests. Who do we want to invite this year?” “Does it matter?” Fiona asks. “You know half the town is gonna show up whether we invite them or not.” Skye frowns at her. “That’s an exaggeration. If half the population of Foster’s Creek attended, that would be approximately two thousand people.” Skye is an exacting data nerd, and yes, it’s exhausting. “But word does get around and we could have a few hundred show up this year.” Her estimate is probably accurate. Last year we invited about sixty people and at least triple that number attended. Guests who couldn’t fit inside the house congregated in the yard and the street, which is why the police showed up to give us a noise citation. Some of our neighbors don’t share our love for latenight celebrating on All Hallows’ Eve.

“I’m inviting a couple of friends from work,” Skye says. “Prisha and Sam.” I nod and write down their names, knowing this will probably be the extent of Skye’s guest list. Most of her “friends” are from the online Star Wars community, and she can only identify them by their screennames and avatars. I used to find her social life deeply sad, and I nagged her about going out with me to socialize with flesh and blood people. Eventually, my pushing led to a huge blowup, and I had to accept that Skye and I are simply opposites when it comes to our tolerance for human interaction. She’s happy with virtual friendships, and I enjoy knowing every person in town. I’m not saying I like all of them, but I want to at least be on a first-name basis. “I’m inviting all the same people as last year,” Fiona says, tapping my journal. “I’m sure you have that information in your notes.” I shoot her a hard look. “Everyone except Dickhead Dean, right?” I’m referring to her on-again off-again boyfriend who is no longer welcome inside this house. During their final shouting match in the driveway, he pinned her by the shoulders against my car, which he never would have been able to accomplish if she hadn’t been drunk at the time, and refused to let her go. It was only when I told him I had 911 on the phone that he saw fit to vacate the premises. Fiona downs half a brownie in one bite. “Of course. He knows that I’ll file a restraining order if he sets foot on our property.” “Do not get back together with him before the party,” I warn her. “Or ever.” She gives an irritated huff. “Don’t worry, that’s not going to happen. And I’m going to stay single for at least six months.” Skye mutters under her breath, “We’ve all heard that before.” Fiona sets her can down with a thunk. “I mean it this time.” Despite her smartass nature and independent streak—or maybe because of them —Fiona has always got someone falling in love with her—all genders, ages, and types. Most of her relationships last a year maximum, but Dean is like a cold sore that keeps coming back.

“Are we inviting anyone remotely new and intriguing to this party?” Fiona asks. When Skye and I shoot her a look, she adds, “I’m asking for you two. As I said, I’m happily single.” I brush away the brownie crumbs that have found a landing pad on my ample bosom. “Normally, I’d be all about scouting new talent, but I’m hosting this party. I can’t be bumping pumpkins with some guy dressed as Where’s Waldo when people’s drinks need refreshing.” Skye twists her face in disgust. “And there’s no one in this town I would have sex with. Period.” “Who said anything about sex?” Fiona knocks her knuckles on the table. “Skye, you’re going to kiss someone under the Haunted Hemlock this year.” “Don’t pressure her,” I say, ing my promise to respect Skye’s life choices. Skye slow blinks at Fiona. “Unless the Mandalorian himself shows up at this party, that’s not going to happen.” A few beats before Fiona turns to me. “Who can we get to wear a Mando costume?” Skye slaps Fiona’s arm, but I notice she doesn’t strenuously object to the idea. A metal helmet could do the trick. If Skye can’t see the guy’s face, she might get over her nerves and talk to him. That’s what I love about Halloween—the fact that we can be whomever we want for one night. Not that I personally need a reason to don a costume—my life is pretty much a game of dress-up, which is one reason I could never part with my consignment shop. But Halloween is more than a time for costumes and hayrides. It’s a night when the dead are celebrated, and the line between the world of the living and the realm of the spirits gets hazy. That’s why we lose our heads a little, so to speak, and do things that are out of character. And who wouldn’t love a holiday where you’re allowed to indulge in some of your dark fantasies? At our first Halloween party in this house, I had a hot and heavy make-out session with Dracula that provided a great memory for my wank bank. His neck

bites were unsured. Unfortunately, that was also the year people turned on the garden hose to create a slip and slide in the front yard. They flooded our basement. Since then, I’ve tried not to get too distracted by men with fangs. I tap my pen on my journal. “Focus, people. We’re not getting anywhere. I’m guessing we need to plan for two hundred guests. Eight kegs again?” “Sounds good,” Fiona says. “And that punch you made last year was awesome.” “Upstairs is off-limits.” Skye loves to state the obvious. “I think we should pay Eli’s cousin to watch the stairs. He did a good job last year.” We learned the hard way that guests at a house party will use your bedrooms to have sex and consume a cornucopia of drugs if you don’t prevent it from happening. Eli’s cousin, Tanner, is a cornfed country boy, six feet four and built like a tractor. We paid him a hundred bucks to guard the stairs last year, and although I’m not sure I have that much money set aside in our budget for security at the present moment, it’s probably a necessity. “I’ll give Tanner a call.” I make a note of it in my journal. “What about costumes?” Fiona asks. Her question is directed at me because I’m the one who owns a consignment store and is a quick draw with a glue gun. “I had a thought about that.” I smile at the mental image of the costumes I’ve been brainstorming for several days. “How about we go as the three witches from Hocus Pocus?” I already have corsets set aside at work just for this purpose, but I’m afraid the word corset will terrify Skye so I don’t mention it. “I like it,” Fiona says. “Sounds pretty easy and comfortable. Not like the time you dressed us up as rock, paper, scissors.” “What are you complaining about?” I say. “I was scissors. I damn near impaled Dracula.” “Huh.” Fiona pauses to burp. “I thought it was the reverse.”

As the two of us snicker at her joke, Skye declares, “I’m going as Ahsoka Tano.” My bottom lip juts out in a pout. “I thought we were doing a group costume again. We can’t do Hocus Pocus with only two witches.” “You guys decided that, not me,” she says. “And if you really want to coordinate, we could do a Star Wars theme.” Fiona and I try to respect our sister’s preoccupation with all things George Lucas, but we sometimes worry that her dedication to the fandom inhibits her ability to explore life in our own galaxy. She could probably pilot an X-wing Fighter if one landed in our backyard, but she’s twenty-five and has never been in a relationship. We’re not sure whether she’s even shared a romantic kiss with anyone, and at this point, I’m not sure she wants to. I’ve started wondering if she’s asexual, and maybe I should open up the lines of communication about that possibility. If that’s the case, I want to offer her my . “You just dressed up in Star Wars gear for Dragon Con,” Fiona argues. “Let’s do something else.” “Exactly, and I made the Ahsoka Tano costume for that.” Skye crosses her arms, and I’m reminded of how she used to dig in her heels about things when we were kids. Older sisters can be downright bossy. “I worked really hard on it, and I’m wearing it again.” Fiona sighs. “Fine. It’s you and me, Cat, unless you want to go as the Yoda to my Luke.” “Yoda?” I push my chair back. “You get to be a Jedi, and I get to be a tiny green ghoul?” “Yoda is not a ghoul!” Skye shouts. “Forget it. Y’all figure out your own costumes and leave me out of it.” Fiona smiles at me as Skye storms out of the kitchen. “Some things never change. In fact, very little ever changes around here.” I press my lips shut to stop myself from telling her about a huge change that’s about to happen—Violet Ramsey is coming to Foster’s Creek. The news of her impending arrival has been burning a hole in me all day long. We’re about to get

a visit from a woman who has dined with royalty and kissed the lips of Colin Firth. She’s a trailblazer, a legend, a force of nature. “Why are your eyes all…big and googly?” she asks. “Violet Ramsey is coming to Foster’s Creek.” The words skip off my tongue before I can silence them. “You weren’t supposed to tell me that, were you?” I bite my bottom lip and shake my head, guilty as charged. It felt good to say it though. Now I can revel in my excitement and share my dreams about what our first meeting will be like. Some secrets are so satisfying to release.

Three

On the day Violet Ramsey arrives in Foster’s Creek, I’m in my store, dressed to the nines in a gold and blue silk jumpsuit with a vintage Gucci nautical-theme silk scarf tied at my neck. My hair is swept up in a messy mass of dark curls that are held back by a band of gold silk that was once a man’s tie. I repurposed it when I deemed a dramatic accessory essential to the integrity of the outfit. The nautical scarf is my tribute to Violet’s BAFTA-award-winning role in Far Away Shores, a miniseries about a naval commander and his adventurous wife who sailed the world with him. Violet will never know what I’m wearing, however, because Everett refuses to let me be part of the welcome party at the Magnolia Inn. He did take my suggestion to fill her room with orchids—her favorite flower—and I’m sure he’ll take the credit for it when she thanks him. Far Away Shores plays on my laptop as I work, the volume so low I can hardly hear it. I don’t need to anyway. I’ve got the dialogue memorized. In fact, I’m reciting it right now. Violet was young when she made this series, her hair still thick, long, and nutmeg colored. She wasn’t the most beautiful actress in the world, even back then, but her intelligence, vitality, and charm made her magnetic. When she’s onscreen, you simply cannot take your eyes off of her. I continue sorting through a box of clothing my friend Andie dropped off this morning as I perform Violet’s dialogue, piling the things I’ll consign on one side of the counter and the rejects on the other. Sometimes I think my mouth has to be moving while I work or I can’t get anything done, which probably makes me look a little nutty, but do I care? No, I do not. When the bell on the door jingles, I stop midscript and call out a greeting. “Good morning! Welcome to Twice—” Sweet sassy molassey. The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in person strides through my door. Dark

glossy hair, light brown skin, and a physique that’s impressive even when covered by the finest tailored suit money can buy. I swear, the seam on his pants could slice bread. “Twice Nice,” I squeak out. He’s not small-town hot. He’s not even mid-sized city hot. This man—because he is a man—is Hollywood-grade handsome. His face is a masterpiece of angles and lines, slopes and planes. A sculpture come to life. He has a wide, generous mouth and a strong nose, and I’m dying to see his eyes, which are hidden behind an expensive-looking pair of aviators. The only other man who ever had the ability to stun me into silence with his mere presence was my college British Literature teacher, Professor Grenier, who told me at the end of the course that he wished I’d contributed more in class. My friends who overheard him doubled over in laughter because they’d never seen me at a loss for words. And lightning has struck twice because I am, at this very moment, speechless. He takes over the room as soon as he enters, so magnetic that no one could possibly look anywhere else, at least that’s my excuse. He scans the shop, but his gaze stops when it finds me. At least I’m guessing he’s looking at me. Hard to tell with his peepers hidden, which might be a good thing. Add a fine pair of eyes to this manly mix, and I might out. “Good afternoon. I’m looking for Catriona McBryde.” His accent is English, well-educated, and smooth as an ice rink. He appears to be of Indian descent, and as he steps closer, I get a subtle whiff of what smells like expensive cologne. He couldn’t look, sound, or smell more cosmopolitan if he stepped out of GQ magazine. With every ing second, I feel more country with a dash of bumpkin. The cotton blouse I’m holding slides out of my hands. “That’s me. I’m she.” Why the hell am I suddenly talking like the Cat in the Hat? I straighten up my shoulders and press my chest out. “How can I help you?” He removes the sunglasses and slips them into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “This is your shop?”

Dammmmmn. His eyes are deep set, dangerously dark, and so intense they could spark a fire in a woman’s loins. Right now, I’m that woman. I take a deep breath and steady myself. “Yes, I’m the store owner.” I casually pick up the blouse and place it into the keep pile. At least I’m speaking coherently, but forming sentences is an effort. I can’t imagine why he has walked in my door and asked who I am. Judging by his expensive suit, he isn’t here to try on a cowboy shirt and a string tie. As he approaches the front counter, my body reacts against my will. My heart races and my palms sweat, but I work to maintain eye and a calm smile. He doesn’t need to know the effect he has on me, although I’m guessing my reaction to his looks is common. “I was sent over by…” As he’s speaking, his eyes drift to the laptop sitting on the side counter. Violet Ramsey’s face fills the screen, her eyes full to the brim with tears of anguish. Her husband took a boom to the head during a hurricane, and now she’s in charge of the ship. Mr. Gorgeous looks back over at me, his expression even more guarded than before. “Why is that on?” “Far Away Shores?” I suddenly feel a bit defensive. He may be hot, but he doesn’t get to critique my taste in television shows. “It’s on because it’s a masterpiece. Obviously.” “You’re a Violet Ramsey fan?” he asks. Normally, if anyone else asked this question, I’d explain how I’m a superfan who has seen every movie, bought her autobiography the day it came out, and created window displays based on the costumes in her films. But something tells me to moderate what’s coming out of my piehole right now. Violet Ramsey is in town with her assistant. Tabby described him as overprotective and anxious. The man standing in front of me has a British accent and certainly seems to be tightly wound. “Of course I’m a fan, aren’t you?”

I force myself to casually pluck another item of clothing out of the donation box. Unfortunately, it turns out to be a silk negligee. It’s a flimsy scrap of black fabric with see-through lace in the bosom area, clearly something you don’t wear when you want to get any sleep. He and I both notice what I’m holding at the same time, and my entire body bursts into flames as I slide it into the keep pile. Fine, I didn’t actually combust, but I’m blushing like mad from head to toe, and that is not something I do. There’s something incendiary about this man’s gaze that is seriously lethal. He studies me for a moment before saying in his smooth voice, “Tabby from the Magnolia Inn recommended I come see you. I’m looking for someone who might act as a tour guide for myself and a friend while we’re in the area, and she suggested you might be interested in the position.” I discreetly pinch my thigh to make sure I’m not dreaming. If I’m right about this, Violet Ramsey—a.k.a. Prudence Entwhistle—needs assistance with scouting locations for her film, and I’ve been pegged for the job. Internally, I’m freaking out, but I don’t want to show all my cards to the Prince of Cool. “That sounds like it would be delightful! I’d be thrilled to show y’all around.” I have to bite my bottom lip to keep myself from grinning like a fool. His eyes travel to my mouth, and for a flash I see his facade come down. There’s a sparkle in his gaze and a looseness to his jaw as he stares at my lips and then, just as quickly, the guard goes back up like a shield, and he’s all business. “We can pay you, of course.” Get paid for escorting the luminous Violet Ramsey around my town? I must have fallen asleep and woken up in a fairy tale. Then again, friends don’t take money from friends for being neighborly. “That’s not necessary.” I wave my hand, scattering his concerns to the wind. “You’re in the South. I’m happy to take you on a little tour, show you the sights.” I expect him to smile, which he does not. “I’m guessing she’ll want more than a little of your time. We’ll pay an hourly rate, if that’s alright with you. Would fifteen dollars be acceptable?”

Thrilled as I am to make some extra green, I’m also a bit disappointed to find this turning into such a formal business transaction. Silly me, I was picturing myself becoming friends with Violet Ramsey. Then again, who says that can’t happen? He glances over at the laptop again, a concerned expression clouding his face. He must think I’m one of those nutty superfans who’s going to pepper Dame Ramsey with questions or fawn all over her. I need to distract him from those thoughts. “You actually came to the right person for a tour of Foster’s Creek. I was born and raised here. I left for a short stint in New York City, but couldn’t stay away. Now I own this store and a house downtown. It’s not on the historic , but it’s got loads of charm. It was built in the late 1800s.” “I’m from England,” he says dryly. “We have toilets still in use from the 1800s.” I tilt my head thoughtfully. “As someone who cares about the environment, I have to say that doesn’t seem very water wise.” Ignoring my joke, he gestures to the laptop, clearly fixated on it. “Why do Americans love films about English aristocrats? It’s not like you could possibly relate to people like this.” “Some of the themes are universal,” I argue, for a moment put at ease by a subject I’m ionate about. “The strictures of being a woman in a patriarchal society, the pain of lost and unrequited love.” He watches me intently, and I get distracted by his lips, which are pleasingly full and ripe for a nibble. “Finding one’s voice within a community that wants you to fit into a certain mold…” “What are your hours here?” he says, abruptly changing the subject. “Are you going to have the time—” “I own the store,” I remind him. “I can come and go as I please.” This is patently false. I don’t have any employees, except for my friend Isabelle who works for me three afternoons a week. But if I tell him I have work issues, he’ll find someone else to be Dame Ramsey’s tour guide, and that would gut me. He’s quiet for several seconds, assessing me carefully. “We can offer you twenty

dollars an hour for your services. If that’s amenable, shall we say nine o’clock tomorrow morning?” I want to squeal and jump up and down, but that would scare him away in a hot second. I reel in my excitement and play it cool. “That sounds just fine.” With obvious disdain, he picks up the negligee and rubs a thumb over the black material. His hands are broad and strong, and there are several long-healed scars on the backs of them. “This isn’t real silk.” His pompous tone snaps me out of my reverie over his hands. “Thank you so much for bringing that to my attention. I’ll have it burned immediately.” He stares at me for a long moment, and I refuse to wilt under his gaze. “An American comedian. Excellent.” Then he strides to the door, saying over his shoulder. “Until tomorrow, Ms. McBryde.” “Wait!” I call out. “I don’t know your name.” He slides his aviators onto his face and opens the door before turning back to say, “Kiran. Kiran Madan.” Instead of reminding myself that he was a stuck-up ass, I charge to the front window to watch him strut his fine ass down the street. I expect bombs to explode behind him as he glides away from the carnage unscathed, the tail of his suit jacket blowing in the wind. Nothing like that happens, of course, but I do catch Mrs. Biddle, a local octogenarian, and her caregiver gaping at him as he crosses their path. Their lips part in shock and awe, and I can imagine the intake of their breath and the pitter-patter of their hearts as they absorb the magnitude of his sexiness. I feel you, ladies, I really do. Thank goodness we have an EMS station right across the street because that man is going to be causing arrhythmia all over town.

Four

It is a truth universally acknowledged that sleeping with your next-door neighbor is a terrible idea. After the deed is done, you’re going to be in for many uncomfortable encounters at the mailbox. Exhibit A, I walk outside my house to find my neighbor Baird stretched out on a rickety lounge chair in his front lawn. We had mediocre sex about a month ago, and now I’m doomed to run into him every single time I leave my house. Baird’s gangly body is clad in a pair of nylon shorts, and on his face are a pair of oversized white plastic sunglasses with mirrored lenses. The ensemble suits him, since he’s sort of a crunchy granola/hipster hybrid, but that does not mean I find his style attractive. The worst part is that every time I look at him now, I can’t help but envision us doing the doodlebop. It should have just been one of my least memorable sexual encounters—I started thinking about my quarterly taxes before it was even over—but having to face Baird on the daily means the memory of our naked encounter will never die. The fact that he screamed “Reba!” when he climaxed will stay with me in perpetuity. Was he referring to the country singer? The Phish song? An ex-girlfriend? Maybe someday I’ll ask him, but probably not. He waves at me lazily because that’s how he does everything. Including sex. It’s a dilemma, being a woman with a high sex drive in a small town where the pool of attractive, eligible men is rather small. I’ve made my way through all the ones that I wanted to shag, and now I’m down to the Bairds of the world. It almost makes me wish I had a fuck buddy, although even that type of long-term commitment makes me feel twitchy. “Hey, Baird.” As I stroll down my front walkway, I call out, “You enjoying this beautiful day?” He smiles and links his hands behind his head. Baird is nothing if not imbued with an inflated sense of self-confidence. I’m fairly certain he thinks that I’m pining away for another night with him.

“Sure am,” he says. “I love a summer that lasts into fall.” His pale freckled shoulders are already pinking up. “Day off?” I ask. “Nope, I’m headed to work in an hour or so.” Baird’s main source of income is the grow room in his enclosed porch, but I’m not supposed to mention that to anyone. He’s paranoid about getting caught, understandably. He supplements his weed income as a waiter at a local restaurant called Angelo’s. A cannabis devotee who works in a pizza place—it’s a perfect fit. It’s amazing that with what must be a serious case of the munchies and freeflowing pizza he’s still about a hundred fifty pounds soaking wet. “You headed to your shop?” he asks. “No, I closed up, and I’m taking a vacation day.” I sashay down the sidewalk in front of his house. Even if I’m not interested in sharing another intimate evening with Baird, I don’t mind the way he’s iring my form this morning. I dressed to impress, after all. “Don’t forget that a man with your lack of melanin will burn in an hour of direct sunlight like a vampire with a death wish. Toodles!”

I show up at the front door of the Magnolia Inn at a quarter to nine, and for the first time ever, I find it locked. I ring the bell, and Everett answers the front door with a scowl on his face. I swear he likes me less than the raccoons that keep breaking into the inn’s attic. I’ve seen him be downright affable with other people, but he doesn’t extend that courtesy to me. I suspect he thinks I’m too loud, too brazen, and just too too. Everett is a proper sort of man who chews with his mouth tightly shut and makes love with his socks on. I’m sure he’s not thrilled that I’ve been chosen to escort his special celebrity guest around town. “Good morning!” I sing out to him, entering the house with extra pep in my step. That means I have quadruple the pep of any normal person because I’m already extra-special bouncy. The first thing he does when I step inside the foyer is shush me. Typical. “Next time don’t ring the bell,” he says in a hushed tone. “We’re trying to keep it quiet around here for Dame Ramsey.” I nod obediently, noting that the house is silent except for the tick tock of the grandfather clock in the living room. As if on cue, their bichon frise, Lucy, runs into the room yapping her head off. I can’t help but grin as she circles around me and he attempts to catch her. “Hey, Lucifer.” I whisper this greeting to appease Everett, which is pointless since his dog’s bark could penetrate steel. Everett chasing Lucy in a panic brings me way too much joy. They do a comical loop around the room before he finally succeeds in scooping her into his arms. She quiets down now that the chase is over, her tiny pink tongue hanging out of her mouth as she pants. “I’m seriously going to have to rehome her for a few weeks while Dame Ramsey is here.” He glares down at Lucy. “You wouldn’t be able to take her for a while, would you?” I smile sweetly. “Sorry, my cats would destroy her. They’re the sworn enemies of all canines, especially miniature ones.”

I don’t add that I’m not a fan of toy dogs either, at least not the type that yap and hump your ankles. Last time I was here, Lucy put a run in a beautiful pair of my vintage nylons. My cats have more respect for fashion than that. “I’m meeting Dame Ramsey and Mr. Madan at nine. Should I wait in the drawing room?” I pick a piece of dog hair off my favorite dark wash jeans which I matched with a lavender cashmere twinset that hugs my assets. The sweater set is my tip of the hat to Violet Ramsey’s character in The Parsonage, a woman who seemed to own a twinset in every color. I figured it wouldn’t be obvious to most people, but I’m hoping she recognizes the reference my sartorial choice is making. I’m sure even Kiran Madan, with his scalding gaze, will have no idea I wore this for any other reason than to look fabulous. I have on adorable red peep-toe heels at the moment, but I brought along socks and boots for our first Foster’s Creek adventure. I’m going to let Violet decide what we do, of course, but I have several options for her consideration. “We call it the front parlor not the drawing room,” Everett says, trying to outAnglophile me. We both majored in British literature in college, but I don’t think his academic insecurity is the reason he’s always such a tool toward me. For some reason, he feels threatened by my relationship with Tabby, as if we’re in competition for her affection, even though he’s the one married to her. It’s so adolescent. “Whatever, Everett. I’m going to have a seat.” He hugs the dog to his chest and raises a disapproving eyebrow at me. “ to keep the volume down.” What a butthead. As if I’m going to make more noise than his dog yapping her head off. In a whisper-scream, I say, “Look around, there’s no one here for me to talk to, Everett.” As he walks away, he mutters, “That’s never stopped you before.” After sticking my tongue out at his retreating figure, I settle myself onto the couch, legs daintily crossed, and try to maintain a sense of calm. I can’t believe

I’m about to meet Dame Violet Ramsey, star of stage and screen. My right leg starts jiggling, and I fear that flop sweat is soon to follow. This sweater may have been a bad idea. Since I’m confident and bold, people think I never get nervous, but I’m not immune to nerves. I simply hide my anxiety behind bravado. I can’t do my usual “speak first, think later” routine today though. I don’t want to do or say anything that will offend Violet and end my brief career as her tour guide. She doesn’t strike me as someone who offends easily, thank goodness. Her sense of humor runs toward the bawdy, and during interviews she freely tells stories that expose her foibles and embarrassments. That’s one thing that makes her so endearing to her fans. Her assistant, on the other hand, seems like he has little patience for frivolity, which suggests that we’re not going to get along very well. For the sake of my relationship with Violet, I’ll endeavor to remain on his good side. Sensing the patter of feet on the staircase, I straighten up and fold my hands on my lap, the picture of a true lady. Unfortunately, it’s only a young couple coming down for breakfast. To calm myself down, I open the issue of Old North State that’s on the coffee table. It’s the one in which Foster’s Creek is featured, and I can’t help rereading the article about my hometown. Once again, I’m proud to see that several local businesses owned by my friends are featured in its pages— Joyful Goat Farm, Blue Sage Café, and the Magnolia Inn. The writer painted our town’s image as both weighted with tradition and up-and-coming, which is pretty much on-brand. A few years ago, a midsized tech company moved to North Carolina and opened its offices about a half hour away from Foster’s Creek, which set off a chain of development in the area that reached our little enclave and started a renaissance here. Reading about the young entrepreneurs of Foster’s Creek makes me wish Twice Nice were featured in this spread. I have a ion for fashion, but I need to spend more time on advertising and marketing. Twice Nice’s original owner, my good friend Wren, left it to me in her will when she ed away five years ago from cancer. I was working in the store at the time, and I’d already assumed most of the responsibility for the business while she underwent treatment. When she ed away and left the store to me, I continued to run it as both a tribute to her and a way to distract myself from the loss of my dear friend. For the last few years, I’ve been turning a decent profit, but now that my landlord has jacked up the rent to twice what I’ve been paying, I need to step up my game if I want to survive.

As I flip through the magazine, a sick feeling twists my gut. The Foster’s Creek renaissance, detailed in the pages of this glossy magazine, will bring prosperity to some, but it could also kill long-established businesses like Twice Nice. When rents increase, those of us who can’t pay the price will be destroyed. Gentrification. It’s a sword that cuts both ways. “Good morning.” The person peering down at me is broad-shouldered and stern of expression. Yep, that’s my man Kiran Madan. I toss the magazine aside and smile up at him, knowing my full lips look good in the shade of deep red I painted on them today. Taking in a deep breath, I rise to stand, determined not to let him unsettle me again. “Good morning! So nice to see you again.” I smooth my hair, which I braided into an updo and then hairsprayed with wild abandon. We could get a sprinkle of rain this afternoon, and I’m not risking a frizz incident. “I appreciate your punctuality, Ms. McBryde.” I’m fairly sure he isn’t mocking me, but the accent makes it hard to tell. “Well, I appreciate yours too. Is your friend coming down soon?” I peer around him, trying to get a glimpse of the staircase in the foyer, but he’s a wall of dapper manliness. Looking him up and down, I notice a change in his attire. No suit today, just a pair of dress pants and a white button-down that’s open at the neck showing a sliver of his throat. I don’t know what that small indentation between the collarbones is called, but I’d like to run my tongue over it. I find my fingers playing inside the collar of my sweater before I realize what I’m doing and stop myself. Didn’t take long for my hormones to get themselves into a tizzy again, now did it? “She’ll be down in a moment.” He studies me carefully. “I wanted to speak with you first.” That’s when I notice the manila envelope he’s holding in his hand. I have a bad feeling I’m about to get served. It wouldn’t be the first time. “Are those divorce papers? Because I thought I signed those a long time ago.” He doesn’t smile back at me. “It’s a non-disclosure agreement. I assume you

already know that you’re going to be a tour guide for Dame Violet Ramsey?” I’m glad we’re not playing the game where I have to pretend I don’t know who’s upstairs. “Yes, I’m aware, and let me assure you I’m going to keep it super professional.” I make finger guns and shoot at him. “No hugging, am I right?” He presses his eyes closed for several seconds before responding. “Yes, please refrain from hugging her. In addition, it should come as no surprise to you that she expects full confidentiality. This agreement ensures that you won’t divulge any personal information from your interactions with her. The media can be, shall we say, very persistent.” When I don’t respond, he adds, “They might offer you a great deal of money for information about her.” I stare at him in disbelief. “Are you suggesting that I would sell a story about Dame Ramsey to a gossip site?” “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he says dryly. I draw myself up taller, but we’re still nowhere near eye to eye. “It would be the first time for me, Kiran, Kiran Madan. Meghan Markle’s family may have sold her out, but I’m not that kind of American.” I may not be great at keeping secrets, but I’m not a sellout, and when the truth has the power to hurt someone, I can stay quiet. I haven’t told anyone that Tabby fantasizes about Channing Tatum when she’s having sex with Everett because I know that would be painful for him to hear—even if he sort of deserves it. I never told anyone that Baird sells weed because I don’t want to see him go to prison. I’m certainly not going to sell out Dame Ramsey to TMZ for some quick cash, and I’m offended at Kiran’s suggestion that I would. “Good,” he says. “Then you won’t have a problem with g the nondisclosure agreement.” He hands me the folder and a fancy ballpoint pen that looks like it cost more than the shoes I’m wearing. I take them out of his hands and smile broadly. “Not at all. Now can I get you to sign one of these too? We’re going to be spending time together, and I don’t really want you telling my secrets.”

He stares at me coldly. “Are you hiding many secrets?” “Not exactly. I’m just making a point.” “No, I imagine you tell everyone everything,” he says. I gasp at his insinuation that I’m a blabbermouth, even if he is correct. “You’d be amazed at all the things I think about people, but never say aloud.” I scowl at him pointedly, long enough so that he knows I’m talking about him. Then I tear open the folder with abandon and pull out the papers inside. Flipping through the pages, it quickly becomes obvious that it would take me an hour to read through all of this legalese, and even then I still wouldn’t understand half of it. That’s how the lawyers get you. No one has the time or patience to try to understand these types of documents, so they just sign away their rights. “You might think this is ridiculous,” he says, reading my mind, “but Violet’s life is nothing like yours. You can’t even imagine what it’s like to be hounded by of the press who are eager to embarrass or shame you.” I flip to the last page where there’s a line for my signature. “I understand, but I hope you’ll learn to trust me.” I sign my Jane Hancock on the paper, finishing with a flourish—Catriona Sorcha McBryde. I included my middle name for flair because when you’re about to be in the presence of a movie star, drama feels appropriate. “There, I’ve signed away my life. You probably have the right to claim my firstborn child now, but the joke’s on you because I don’t plan on having kids.” He takes the papers from me, glances at my signature, then inserts them back into the envelope. He has the loveliest nails—translucent and neatly trimmed. I don’t know when I’m going to stop being entranced by this man, but I sure hope it’s soon. “Thank you,” he says, a sliver more warmth to his tone now that he’s gotten what he wanted. I bat my eyelashes. “What exactly is your job, Kiran, Kiran Madan?”

He narrows his eyes at me. “Why do you keep calling me that?” “Because that’s how you introduced yourself to me.” “I see. Well, Catriona Sorcha McBryde.” The words fall from his lips thick and slow, like honey dripping from a spoon. “I’m Violet’s bodyguard as well as her assistant, at the moment, and it’s my job to protect both her person and her privacy. So if I seem a little bit suspicious of you, it’s because I’ve learned the hard way that I need to be.” He takes a step closer, and my breath hitches. “You have nothing to fear from me,” I say. “I’m just a small-town girl with a heart of gold.” I realize a minute too late that the expression people usually use is “hooker with a heart of gold,” and I hope to God it’s an American saying that he doesn’t know. He runs a thumb over his lush bottom lip, daring me to try to look away. “I did a background check on you. If there was anything worth knowing, it would have come up.” My life history races through my mind like a movie on fast forward. There are plenty of questionable and downright bad choices in that mental film reel, but I haven’t broken any laws that the state actually enforces. It’s a little-known fact that performing oral sex on someone else in North Carolina is a class one felony, and I don’t see the police rounding folks up for that any time soon. “You…you what?” The heat that has reached my cheeks has nothing to do with embarrassment. How dare he poke around in the lingerie drawer of my past without even telling me ahead of time. “In America, we give our permission before anyone runs a background check on us. I don’t even know how you did one without all my information. Don’t you need my social security number or something?” His sexy smirk makes me even angrier. “Information these days is easy to get. Hiding things from people, that’s the tricky part.” Hands firmly on my hips, I stare him down. “I don’t have anything to hide.”

“If you have a problem with our procedures,” he says stiffly, “we can find someone else to show us around.” I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’m here for Violet, and this man currently stands between the two of us. If I want access to her, I have to make some kind of connection with him. “From now on, just promise me one thing,” I say. He crosses his arms and rocks back on his heels. “Oh, you’ve got demands? How intriguing.” I know he’s laughing at me for thinking that I have the power to set our . I catch a hint of a smile on his face, which makes me notice that his lips have a cupid’s bow. They’re perfectly kissable. Not that I’m making any plans. Kiran Madan may be hot, but he’s currently a pain in my ample backside. “Don’t do things behind my back,” I say earnestly. “If you want to know something, ask me. I can’t abide deceptiveness, especially in men.” His mouth hinges open in surprise, but he recovers quickly. “Alright,” he says in a voice that’s softer than before. “Fair enough. We’ll both operate on the up and up.” I extend my hand to him. “It’s a deal.” When our palms slide together, a heat sizzles through me, fogging my brain and burning my britches. Irritation combined with lust is a powerful combination, making this one very interesting business arrangement.

Five

Having secured my signature, Kiran heads back upstairs with his paperwork in hand and tells me he’ll return momentarily with Violet. I bounce around the foyer, reminding myself to keep calm and carry on while I wait to meet a woman I’ve ired for half my life. I will not go in for a hug. I won’t even try to shake her hand unless she initiates it. Even though I feel like she’s already a close friend, she sees me as a total stranger, and I don’t want to scare her away with unwelcome familiarity. In summary, I will repress all my natural instincts to show affection. She’s not even to the bottom step when words leap off my tongue. “I’m thrilled and honored to meet you, Dame Ramsey!” Unfortunately, I also add, “Ma’am, I believe there’s a sock attached to your pants.” Violet peers down at her right leg while Kiran leans over and rips off the offending fuzzy sock that was attached by static cling. He hands it to her, and she holds it up for inspection before putting it into her Tory Burch handbag. “Excellent catch. I’ll save that for later in case one of my feet gets cold.” My heart swells because this is exactly the sort of thing I would have expected her to say. She’s unflappable, unstoppable, and unbelievably standing right here in front of me in the foyer of The Magnolia Inn. She extends her hand to me. “Lovely to meet you, Miss…” “Catriona McBryde,” I say. “But, please, call me Cat. All my friends do.” Violet’s ivory silk blouse and black wool tros are paired with low-heeled boots, a chic yet practical, unfussy outfit. Her hair, cut in a crisp bob, is dark brown with auburn highlights. I catch myself ogling the generous-sized diamond studs in her ears, which are obviously real because a woman like Violet isn’t bejeweling her lobes with cubic zirconia.

“Things like that happen to me all the time,” I say. “Just last week I left the house with my skirt tucked up in my nylons. Half the town probably saw my fanny when I was walking to work.” I gasp when I realize what I’ve said. “Sorry, I mean my bottom. I forgot that in England fanny means, you know, lady parts.” Kiran’s eyes widen as I speak about bottoms and fannies, and it appears I might could do more repressing. Thankfully, Violet laughs and grabs my hands. “You’re delightful.” She turns to Kiran. “Isn’t she delightful?” Instead of answering her leading question, he says, “We should get going soon.” She squeezes my hands before letting them go, then smiles at me conspiratorially. “Kiran is always worried about wasting time. I keep trying to tell him that some of the best things that happen in life are unplanned.” Kiran arches his eyebrows. “Speaking of plans, where are you taking us today, Ms. McBryde?” Clearly, he and I aren’t going to be on a first name basis, which is fine by me. It’s her friendship I’m seeking, not his. “I have a few ideas in mind,” I say coyly. “But first you need to answer a question for me, Dame Ramsey.” “Please, call me Violet,” she says. I press my lips together and will myself not to swoon. I’m calling her Violet! “Did you want a historical look at the county,” I say, “or the quirky insider’s view of Foster’s Creek? Because those are two very different tours that require specific plans, gear, and clothing, and I want to make sure I give you what you’re looking for.” “I’d love the insider’s view,” she says. “A closer look at what it’s like to live in this part of the country. None of that nostalgic bullshit. Also, I want to eat like a local. I told my trainer I was coming home a stone heavier from this trip. That is if Mr. Killjoy over here will stop trying to get me to work out with him every morning.”

I glance over at Kiran, whose long-sleeved dress shirt can’t hide the fact that he’s familiar with kettle bells and burpees. I imagine he’s quite the drill sergeant during a workout, the thought of which shouldn’t turn me on, but does. A lot. “We can send you home with some new curves. Good old Southern cooking will do just the trick.” I pop a hip and give it a slap. “Proof of that right here. Whoever said ‘thin tastes better’ never ate my mama’s shrimp and grits or a warm pecan pie from Sweet Caroline’s Bakery.” There’s no self-loathing in the statements I’ve just made. I wasted enough time in my youth fighting my metabolism and trying to be average sized and not plus. My curves are soft and feminine, and they’re not my enemy. “That sounds brilliant.” Violet claps her hands together. “Let’s eat bar-b-cue and hush puppies and put some junk in my trunk. I’ve had a flat ass my entire life. Time for a change, sugar.” The Southern accent she just put on isn’t as offensive as Nicole Kidman’s in Cold Mountain, but it isn’t great. I could help her with that too. Does that mean I’d get billing as her voice coach? The thought is too exciting for words. “I’ll get a sweater, and then we can shove off,” Violet says. She turns to head upstairs, and I call out after her. “You might want to wear something less fancy. We’re going full country today. It might get a little muddy.” She looks back at me and breaks into a slow smile. “Will there be broadshouldered, bearded men wearing flannel shirts and chopping wood?” “Um…you never know!” I try to think of a friend who might be willing to show up at my parents’ place with an axe. Old Bill Higgs who lives next door would be willing to do it, but he’s seventy-two years old and spits tobacco juice into a paper cup. Not exactly the image Violet has in mind. She leaves the room, and I’m alone in the foyer with Kiran. “You’re going, too, I assume?” I try to keep my tone neutral so he won’t suspect that I’m hoping for a negative answer. The man is eye candy, that’s for sure, but

he’s also appalled at my openness and immune to my charms. I’ll have to work around him all day. He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Of course I’m going. Someone has to keep an eye on her.” I turn toward the hallway mirror to apply a coat of lipstick. It’s totally unnecessary—my MAC Russian Red lasts for hours—but it gives me something to do besides stare at his beautiful face and wish his personality were as enchanting. There’s probably some humor and joy inside of him, but I’m definitely not bringing it out. “Oh, I thought you were going with us to keep an eye on me.” I give my lips a smack to blend the color. “What do you mean by that?” I turn back to face him, and his eyes go straight to my mouth and linger there. After a few seconds, he catches himself and looks up, and when our eyes connect, we both silently acknowledge what just happened. He was wondering what it would be like to kiss these ruby lips. I’m intrigued and flattered, but it doesn’t change the fact that the man doesn’t trust me. “You made the suggestion that I want a story to sell,” I say. “Clearly, you think I’m up to no good.” “Don’t take it personally. I deal with her barmy fans every day of my life. The background check and the non-disclosure agreement are standard issue. As for trust, I’ve learned not to extend that towards anyone I don’t know well, especially not people who fawn over movie stars.” How dare he call me fawning. Also, how dare he smell so delicious. His cologne is giving off notes of cinnamon, vanilla, and leather, which raises the question… how do they get leather into cologne? “But this time you’ve signed off on letting a barmy fan take you on a tour of the countryside.” I tuck my lipstick tube into my purse. “Aren’t you a little bit afraid I’m going to go all Deliverance on you? Take you to a deer stand, tie you up with rope, and leave you there?”

“You’ve got quite the imagination, but I guess that comes with the territory for romance writers.” My neck prickles with heat. “How do you know about my books?” He raises his eyebrows. “Background check, ?” He looked up my books and found all those sexy covers with man chests and heaving bosoms. Truth be told, he could be a cover model himself. “I hope you had to purchase all my books for your background check.” I mean it as a joke, but his expression remains serious. “I purchased several ebooks. Vi is reading one of them.” “Are you serious? Dame Violet Ramsey is reading my book?” Without thinking, I latch onto his arm and get a handful of taut muscle. If I weren’t distracted, I’d be enjoying it more. “Which one?” He glances down at my hand holding his bicep. “I don’t know, something about a duchess.” “There’s a duchess in every book in my new series. You have to be more specific.” “Again, the obsession with British aristocracy,” he says wearily. “Mr. Madan.” My eyes bore into him as I give his arm a pinch. “Which duchess?” He sighs deeply. “Fine. She’s reading The Duchess and the Dressmaker.” I squeal and smush my cheeks with my palms. “This is surreal. Does she like it?” “I don’t know. I wasn’t with her when she was reading last night. We don’t actually share a bed, you know.” Unbidden, I picture Kiran and Violet propped up in a king-sized bed next to each other, reading their books like an old married couple. He’s wearing starched

cotton PJ bottoms and a matching long-sleeved top with all the buttons done. She’s in an old-fashioned white cotton night gown of the variety worn by Prudence Entwhistle. His scowl is kind of adorable. “Whatever you’re smiling about, stop.” “Fine, no smiling at you. I just love all these rules.” I look down at his leather shoes. “You might want to rethink that footwear. It rained this week. Gonna be some mud where we’re going. That fine Italian leather won’t last long.” He narrows his eyes. “Where are you taking us?” I can’t contain my joy as I say the word, “Home.”

I don’t need to worry about startling my parents by arriving at their house with a movie star and her handsome companion in tow. They’re in Europe right now, celebrating their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. My mother always wanted to visit Paris, and Dad decided that while they were on that side of the Atlantic, they might as well spend time with his relatives in Scotland. They left a week ago on their month-long holiday, but I receive daily texts containing photos of my mother sitting in beautiful French gardens or standing next to famous statues. She likes to make lewd gestures toward the naked sculptures of men, and I can almost hear my father laughing as he watches her through the phone’s camera. My mother and I are exactly alike, which means I need to find myself a man like Dad who finds our silliness lovable, not embarrassing. I offered to drive us out to the country, but Kiran insisted on taking us in his car, a sleek gray BMW that he rented at the airport when they arrived in North Carolina. When I’d questioned his ability to drive on the correct side of the road, he said that he’d lived in the states years ago and it wouldn’t be a problem. Honestly, I think he just wants to take his fancy car and not my “seen better days” VW Bug. Or maybe he’s one of those alpha-holes who needs to be in control. Either way, I have to it that these leather seats feel like butter against my backside. Violet, who’s in the front seat, turns back to me and says, “This feels like such an adventure. It’s exactly what I needed. I’ve been struggling with this script for ages. Maybe we could even shoot the film here.” “That would certainly be a boon for our little town.” I’m amazed that she thinks the people in Foster’s Creek could provide inspiration for her script. “What made you want to do a movie about the American South?” “Have you read the book Proud Redneck?” She’s referring to a bestselling memoir written several years ago by a young journalist who grew up in rural North Carolina. The book is an exploration of Southern “white trash” culture, and because it came out in the Trump era, it hit the bestseller list. I don’t care for books that perpetuate stereotypes, which I find are inaccurate more often than not, and that writer seemed to delight in them. I rub my sweaty palms on my jeans, afraid that I’m about to blow up my chances

at being their tour guide. “If you’re looking for someone to help you understand the characters in that book, it’s not me.” “Oh no, I don’t want to recreate the book,” she says. “They’re already adapting it into a film. I want to do something different, tell another story of the American South. A woman’s story.” She smiles at me warmly. “And that’s why I need your help. While you’re showing me around your hometown, you can give me the real picture of modern-day North Carolina.” “I’m just one woman,” I say. “You’ll have to meet more folks and get a more diverse view of the place and the people if you want to depict us fairly.” She bites the side of her cheek and frowns. “That’s the tricky bit, isn’t it? Not everyone is as forthcoming as you are.” “You’d be surprised,” I say. “People here will welcome you into their homes and tell you their life stories, if you’ll listen. Next thing you know, they’ll be telling you about their moonshine operation and how their cousins married each other.” She looks like she isn’t sure whether to smile or not. “I’m joking. Those are stereotypes.” “Right, of course.” She totally believed me, and that confirms that I’m doing the Lord’s work here, making sure we don’t end up with another movie where Southerners are depicted as ignorant, backwards, and stifled by their suffocating little lives. Violet is certainly a brilliant woman, but what she seems to know about Southern folks could fit inside my belly button. I direct Kiran toward my parents’ home, which is several miles outside of town. As we by acres of woodland, plowed pastures, and fields for animals to graze, I think about Violet’s film project. On the one hand I’m flattered that she thinks we’re worthy of studying, and on the other hand I’m not sure she’s going to be able to understand us in any depth, not in a short visit. I feel pressured to show her the real Foster’s Creek, but I’m not even sure what that is. Families who’ve been here for generations, immigrants wanting a better life, millennials looking to stake their claim—we’re a complicated blend of cooperation and mistrust. We’re shifting and changing, like the rest of America, and change terrifies a lot of folks.

“What is that smell?” Kiran asks, jolting me from my deep thoughts. I take a whiff and smile. “That’s our midday meal. Brunswick stew being cooked over an open fire. They’re selling it as a fundraiser at the Methodist church.” I prepare myself for a rude comment delivered in a crisp British accent. The smell of hickory wood burning under a cast iron pot of Brunswick stew probably isn’t his cup of tea, so to speak. Traveling in Violet’s circles, he must be accustomed to high-brow delicacies prepared by five-star chefs. He sniffs again. “Smells delicious. I’m ready to eat now.” While I delight in his appreciation for good country cooking, Violet sucks her teeth. “Don’t you dare try to get us off task. You had a huge breakfast this morning, and you’ll have to wait to eat lunch at the proper hour.” Turning to look at me, she adds, “One thing you will learn about Kiran is that he’s always hungry.” Considering his lean, strong body, I have a question that needs to be answered. “So do you have the metabolism of a sea otter or work out for hours every day to achieve physical perfection?” It’s the sassy kind of thing I’d say to anyone without thinking much about it, but when Kiran stares back at me in the rearview mirror, I suddenly feel unnerved. I thought I was getting used to his disarming good looks, but apparently not. “Physical perfection?” he says. “That’s quite a compliment. Not sure I like the sea otter comparison though…” “They need to eat the equivalent of twenty to thirty percent of their body weight every day so they can stay warm,” I say. “And why do you know this?” Kiran asks. “Book research. I thought about writing an erotic pioneer story set in the Pacific Northwest. Turns out that’s not a popular sub-genre so I shelved the idea.” Kiran and Violet exchange a glance, and that’s when I realize perhaps I shouldn’t

unleash all of myself during this first outing. It’s better if I release my unique Catriona McBryde brand slowly so I don’t scare Violet and Kiran away. The problem is, I’ve never been great with slow releasing my personality.

Six

“What a charming house!” Violet exclaims as we roll up the dirt driveway to my parents’ place. I know she’s an award-winning actress and can fake any emotion, but I’m fairly certain she’s responding genuinely to what she sees—a modest but attractive farmhouse in a bucolic setting of rolling hills. The countryside in Foster’s Creek looks particularly lovely on a sunny October morning with the trees waving their banners of red, gold, and orange. The crisp air and the company I’m keeping make me feel more alive than I have in a long time. I didn’t realize how badly I needed a new adventure. “This is the house I grew up in.” I point toward my old bedroom window. “That right there is the trellis I used to climb down to secretly meet the boyfriend my father hated.” “Why did he hate him?” Violet asks. “The traditional reasons. He had long hair and played in a band. He’s a podiatrist now and makes ten times what I do so the joke’s on Dad.” I tap Kiran’s shoulder and point him toward a patch of dirt and weeds. “Park over here.” Nostalgia washes over me the instant my boots hit the ground. Familiar sights bring back happy memories—the tire swing my father hung from a tree, the hutch that once housed Skye’s pet rabbit, the fire pit where we still roast marshmallows and tell stories late into the night. Not much has changed over the years, including the dent Fiona put in the shed when we were pre-teens and decided to teach ourselves how to drive my father’s pickup. I’m not sure if that was her idea or mine, but we both got grounded for it. Violet stands beside me and studies our surroundings. “Is it a real working farm?” “Not anymore,” I say. “Before my parents bought the house, the neighbors

bought up most of the farmland that used to belong to the Pattinson family, the house’s original owners.” “That’s a shame.” The disappointment in her tone suggests she was jonesing to see some real-world agriculture, and obviously I want to give Violet everything her heart desires. If I could present her with a trough to fill or some hay to bale, I most certainly would. “We have four acres and a little fruit orchard,” I say. “And there’s a pond behind the house that we can walk to.” I sound like that overeager real estate agent on Love It or List It. Violet pats my arm, as if to reassure me that my parents’ property isn’t a total disappointment, and I’m struck hard by the reality that she’s here, standing on my front lawn. With a hand to my chest, I say, “I’m truly honored that you’re here today.” Before she can respond, Kiran’s phone rings. He takes it out of his pocket, looks down at the screen, and mutters, “I need to take this.” Violet links her arm with mine, and my body is suffused with joy. We’re clearly going to be friends. Best friends. “I’m thrilled to be here,” she says. “Let’s begin with the orchard.” After retrieving a basket from the porch, we head toward the orchard, which is nothing more than a small plot of land that’s fenced off from the rest of the property to keep out rabbits and deer. I spent a lot of time in there as a kid, making up stories and pretending that the wire fence was the wall around my queendom. “This is it. It’s nothing impressive, but I think the blackberries are in season.” I look over my shoulder and find Kiran trailing behind us, still deep in conversation on his phone. It seems like a good time to fangirl without him noticing. “Violet, I want to tell you how your performance in Transom of Light changed

my life.” “I can’t believe you saw Transom of Light,” she says. “It didn’t even have a wide release in the states. The budget was a shoestring—I don’t think they even paid me. I did it as a favor to the woman who directed it. She was a friend of mine from school.” “I saw it at an art cinema in New York City when I lived there,” I explain. “What about the film touched you?” I sitting in the theater crying my eyes out, then going back to the window and buying a ticket for the next showing. Over that weekend, I saw the movie three times. “Elizabeth’s courage to leave her husband and reimagine her life.” Violet was in her forties when she made that film, and she should have been at least nominated for an Academy Award. I can’t who won best actress that year, but whoever it was, it was a travesty. Violet’s performance was nothing short of brilliant. “The courage she summoned, despite the power he wielded over her—I really felt that. It was inspirational.” I open the rickety gate to the orchard, and she steps through it first. I’m relieved to see that some of the blackberry bushes are still green and heavy with fruit. After all these years, I’m here in my family’s little orchard with a movie star by my side. No matter how big and wild my dreams have been over the years, hoping for this never occurred to me. “I was ending a bad marriage when I made Transom,” she says. “It wasn’t hard to channel those feelings into my acting. Of course, that didn’t stop me from marrying again. Stupid, really. You’d think I’d have learned.” It’s no secret that Violet’s marriage to a famous director ended about a year ago. He had an affair with and subsequently married an American ingénue working on one of his films. The girl was young enough to be his daughter, and the media loves to speculate whether Violet and her ex will run into each other on the red carpet, which always seemed cruel to me. Why do folks get such a thrill out of other people’s misery? I’m lucky that my ex-husband lives all the way in New York City, and I never have to bump into him unexpectedly.

“I saw it when I was getting separated,” I say, taking in the realization that she and I were on similar paths at that point in life. We both came out the other side intact partly because of that movie. Not to be hyperbolic, but Violet and I might be soul mates. “It gave me hope that everything would be alright eventually.” “It always is, but in that moment you feel like your world is ending. I can’t say divorce gets easier with experience. I don’t recommend it.” She plucks a berry off of the bush. “The berries are organic so it’s fine to eat them off the vine.” I take one for myself and pop it in my mouth. The taste is a perfect combination of tart and sweet. “You must have more faith in love and marriage than I do. I was only divorced once, and I’d never get hitched again.” Kiran s us looking distant and distracted. “Something wrong, darling?” Violet asks him before placing another berry in her mouth. “Ummm, delicious.” He fidgets with his shirt cuff. “Nothing for you to worry about, Vi.” She chews and studies him suspiciously. “Tell me.” With a sigh, Kiran says, “Sylvia took care of it. Some tosser got into the Malibu house. The neighbors called the police, and they caught him while he was still inside. Sylvia already went over to do inventory and didn’t find anything missing. Apparently, he was caught with only”—he clears his throat—“some of your undergarments in his pocket.” “Oh dear.” The worried look on Violet’s face makes her look older, less like a celebrity and more like one of us. I read People magazine so I’m aware that most celebs have stalkers and obsessed fans, and I can only imagine the burden of that. “How did he get in? Why didn’t the alarm go off?” “Because the woman you pay to water your precious orchids didn’t set the alarm when she left the day before.” He sounds triumphant about this piece of the story, as if he’d predicted it would occur. “I told you we need to be more careful about who has access to the house.” “Orchids are very delicate and fussy,” Violet argues. “Sylvia would overwater

them like she does with all my plants, and they’d be dead in a week.” “Better the orchids than…” Kiran says ominously. “Fine,” Violet huffs. “I’ll fire the orchid woman, but I’m not sure I know her number anymore. Could you…” “I’ll text her.” Kiran pulls out his phone immediately, as if he doesn’t want to wait in case Violet changes her mind. I feel her mood shift as she pushes aside the disturbing news she’s just received and changes the subject. “This orchard is lovely. I want to take pictures of everything. I’m trying to collect images that will help me later, when I’m revising the script.” “I thought your movie was already set to film next spring?” I forgot that this information came from an online movie database. I hold my breath, hoping she won’t see me as another crazed fan. “It is, and that’s the problem. The script is a mess, which is why I wanted to come to a small town and immerse myself in its culture. Kiran, you know I’m crap at taking photos…” She makes doe-eyes at him and he sighs deeply. “Fine.” She punctuates her next words with hand claps. “House, barn, and this adorable orchard. And anything else you see that might be inspirational.” “Are you posting these anywhere?” he asks. She shakes her head. “These are just for personal use.” Kiran walks a few feet away to begin taking photos of bushes from different angles. He looks like he’s taking the task quite seriously. Honestly, he seems to take everything seriously, and it makes me want to muss up his hair and roll up his sleeves. Maybe unbutton that shirt a few buttons… “You two have clearly worked together for a long time,” I say. Violet cocks her head to the side. “Almost four years. How did you know?”

“You have that vibe.” “I swear sometimes he knows what I’m going to say before I say it,” she says. “It’s almost creepy when he does that.” “My sisters and I are that way,” I say. “We often say the exact same thing at the same time.” “How many sisters do you have?” “Just two.” I pluck off another berry. “They live with me.” “Three adult sisters living together?” Her eyes widen. “That’s amazing. I have three sisters, and we would kill each other if we lived together.” “My mother says we’re like a Tennessee Williams play—a house full of adult women with nary a man in sight. She has her panties in a bunch because no one is giving her grandchildren. There’s actually very little drama in our female household, and we all pull our own weight. I like to think of us as the sisters on Charmed, except none of us are witches and we’re not going to replace Fiona for being a pain in the ass, like they did with Shannen Doherty.” She blinks several times as if I’ve astonished her. “I really should be taking notes.” “Why?” “You have no idea how refreshing you are. So you and your sisters have decided to create a world where men are obsolete?” Kiran pauses his photo session and looks over at us. He’s close enough to us to have heard her last remark, and I wonder what he makes of it. “Not obsolete at all.” I glance over at him. “Men have plenty of uses.” Our eyes catch, and it’s a game of who will look away first. He breaks before I do, which is a sweet little victory. “I wish I could say I was done with men,” Violet says. “But I guess I’m a glutton for punishment.”

“I take offense to that,” Kiran says, his tone surprisingly gentle. “As a man in your life.” Violet tucks her hair behind her ear. “Doesn’t count, darling. We’re not sleeping together so there’s nothing to ruin things between us. Truly, you’re like the father I never had.” Violet and I giggle, and we receive a grumble from Kiran. “You’re hilarious.” Kiran lifts the phone and points it at us. “Stop talking and pose for a photo, you two.” After he’s done shooting pictures and we’ve gathered a small basket full of blackberries, I invite them to take a tour of the house. The original farmhouse is only five modest-sized rooms—a kitchen, living room, bathroom, and two bedrooms. When I was thirteen, my parents added a master bedroom and bathroom in the back, doing much of the work themselves. Even with the addition, the house is only a grand total of fifteen hundred square feet, which didn’t feel like enough space when five of us lived there. Granted, my mother, Fiona, and I have extra-large personalities. “There’s a running joke in our family that if a couple can survive installing windows together, then they can weather anything,” I tell Kiran and Violet as I show them my parents’ bedroom. Violet runs a hand over the bedspread, and all I can think is that Mom and Dad will not believe it when I tell them who was in their house today. Because of the time difference and the fact that they have a packed schedule, we aren’t speaking regularly while they’re in Europe. They don’t even know that Dame Violet Ramsey is in Foster’s Creek. My father’s excitement would be just as fervent as my mother’s because despite his blue collar “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” exterior, he’s actually a whore for PBS. He once said that we’re probably related to Poldark somehow, seeing as he had family who worked in the English mines. I had to remind him that A, Poldark was a fictional character, and B, I didn’t want to be related to a fictional character who was a sexual fantasy. He didn’t much appreciate hearing that. “Who made this beautiful quilt?” Violet asks. “Granny Selkirk.” Even I can hear the pride in my voice. “She was a real artist.”

This is one of my favorite quilts, with its star pattern sewn in fabric the colors of the night sky. “You’re Scottish?” Kiran asks. “On both sides. My father’s grandparents came over to work in the mills. They were from outside Glasgow. Mom’s people were Scotch-Irish, but they’ve lived in these parts since way back. She wanted my sisters and I to have Scottish names, to keep that connection to our ancestors.” “Were your mother’s people farmers?” Violet asks, apparently fixated on someone in my family working on a farm. “I think some of them were sharecroppers. Mom jokes that all our relations were dirt farmers and ditch diggers. I don’t come from money on either side. I was the first person in my family to go to college.” “Sounds a bit like my own story.” Violet’s eyes take on a faraway look. “Some people applaud you for rising above your circumstances, but there are others who resent you for getting out.” I reading about Violet’s childhood—six siblings in a household full of addiction, poverty, and chaos. She and her siblings eventually moved in with their grandparents, and Violet lived with them until she got a scholarship to the Royal Academy. I always guessed that the drama she experienced in her own life informed her performances. You’d think, based on her accent and demeanor, that she was raised in an upper middle-class home, but I guess that’s what acting lessons and voice coaching sessions will do for you. I expect Kiran to be utterly bored by my childhood home, so I’m caught off guard when he pays attention to little details, like the titles of the books on the living room bookshelf and the artwork done by my sister. “Fiona won a lot of awards in school for her art,” I say as he examines one of her watercolor paintings. “It’s you.” He points to the figure in the painting, a young girl sitting on a rock with her feet dangling in the water, loose braid hanging down her back. She’s facing away from the viewer, slightly turned to the side and gazing off into the distance.

“How can you tell?” I ask. His eyes skim over my face and down over my shoulders, and I feel myself flush with heat. I’m accustomed to the male gaze—you don’t walk down streets with curves like mine and escape notice—but the way he looks at me is different from other men. He’s not so much leering at my body parts as really trying to study my features, and that’s a much more intimate experience than being ogled. “The lines of your neck. Your posture. She’s captured you precisely.” He’s right. The painting is of me around age nine or ten, sitting at the edge of our pond on a summer evening. I used to sit there for hours, making up stories in my head that I’d later write down in my journal. My mother would yell from the house for me to come in and take a bath, and I’d act as if I didn’t hear her. Sometimes she’d send my father out to get me, and he’d pretend to be angry, tossing me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I wasn’t a small kid, but he never seemed to struggle to lift me. His arms were the only place I ever felt delicate and light. “You’re a writer and your sister Fiona is an artist,” Violet says. “What about your other sister?” “She’s a scientist,” I say. “But she puts her creativity into her Star Wars obsession. She goes to cons and makes her own costumes.” Thinking about Skye and her Ahsoka Tano costume reminds me of our party. I know it would be ballsy of me to invite Violet, but what the hell. I have nothing to lose, except the opportunity to entertain a legend in my very own home. “My sisters and I are hosting our annual Halloween party. You two should come.” Before Violet can respond, Kiran frowns and says to her, “No way, it’s far too dangerous.” Violet makes a pfftt sound and waves a hand at him. “Codswallop. It will be fine. Is it a big party?” I grit my teeth before itting, “Probably a couple hundred people.”

Kiran barks out a laugh. “A few hundred—Violet, you can’t be serious?” She pats his arm, which I now recognize is her go-to move for placating people. “I know you worry, but you’ve got to let me have a little fun.” “It’s a costume party,” I say. “I bet if you had a good disguise, no one would even know it was you.” Kiran moans and runs a hand over his eyes, and I feel unreasonably guilty for stressing him out. But why is he the one calling the shots? She’s the star, and he works for her. “What are you worried about?” I ask. “This is Foster’s Creek. There are no paparazzi here, and it’s not exactly a haven for BBC fans. I bet half of the people in this town wouldn’t even recognize Violet if they saw her on the street, much less in a disguise. No offense, Violet.” “None taken,” she says. “Although you might be surprised. I have fans in every city and borough.” I’m honestly not sure if she means borough or burrow, because maybe she thinks people here actually live in dugout holes, but I don’t ask for clarification. “Unknown guest list, hordes of people, zero security.” Kiran ticks off his buzzkill list on his fingers. “It’s a terrible idea.” “You’re her security though,” I remind him, “and you’d be there.” “We’ll talk about it,” Violet says demurely. She’s dead set on going to my party, a fact that’s obvious even to someone who has known her less than twenty-four hours, so Kiran must see it too. My heart swells with delight because something tells me Dame Violet Ramsey always gets her way.

Seven

There’s a crowd of folks gathered on the front lawn of the church and more cars arriving by the minute. Round tables are scattered around the area, but most people are standing in small clusters and socializing. The big draw today is Brunswick stew, a church fundraiser favorite. The Stew Master, Vance Chisholm, is moving between the three eighty-gallon cast-iron pots, gently stirring their contents with a large wooden paddle. Underneath the pots are fires stoked with hickory logs, which is why the air for miles is pungent with savory smoke. It’s lunch time so I knew we wouldn’t be their only customers, but I didn’t expect a crowd of forty to fifty people. Knowing Kiran’s concerns about large gatherings, I’m guessing this scene has his panties in a bunch. “I can get us to-go cups,” I assure them. Violet pivots around in her seat and gapes at me. “Are you joking? This is exactly the type of thing I need to experience.” She unbuckles and steps out of the car while Kiran studies me in the rearview mirror. “Let’s keep it low-key.” I arch an eyebrow at him. “I know you’re not going to believe this, but I can be discreet when necessary.” Discreet is probably an overstatement, but it’s already out there, and I’m going to have to seriously rein in my natural tendencies if I want to keep my promise. Without waiting for Kiran’s reply, I hop out after Violet. Kiran steps out of the car, too, and the three of us simultaneously don our sunglasses. “I feel like Britney,” I say, “sneaking in through the back door of the Ivy.” “I was thinking we looked like secret agents,” Violet says with a girlish smile. With a sigh and a flick of the wrist, Kiran locks the car. “Such drama over a cup

of stew.” There are folks gathered in clumps all over the church lawn, and for the first time in my life, I avoid making eye with anyone as I lead Violet over to Vance. Holding in my effervescence feels like trying to suppress a case of the hiccups. Kiran strolls behind us at a leisurely pace, but somehow his long legs eat up the distance, and we all reach Vance at the same time. “Afternoon, Vance!” I peer into the pot. “That stew smells absolutely divine. My mouth is watering already.” Vance smiles at my compliments, which are sincere. “Please meet my friends who are visiting town and have the good fortune to savor this delicious food today. Violet and Kiran, meet Vance Chisholm, the finest stew master in our county.” There’s no flash of recognition in Vance’s eyes, which isn’t surprising. He’s more of a NASCAR guy than a British period drama kind of person. In addition to being a renowned stew master, Vance also plays Santa in our town’s annual holiday parade, the perfect part for someone with a kindly face, generous belly, and long, bushy white beard. “What’s in this?” Violet asks. “Smells amazing.” The stew is simmering in the pot, little bubbles popping on the fiery orange surface. My stomach rumbles, and I press a hand over it. “It’s boneless chicken, potatoes, lima beans, tomatoes, and corn,” Vance says. “Spices, too, of course.” “No squirrels were involved,” I say, glancing over at Kiran. “Sorry to disappoint you.” “Well, I hope the chicken was at least a local,” he says. “We do want the whole small-town experience.” Violet chuckles and pinches his arm. “Stop it.” “You laugh, but it probably was a chicken from a farm nearby,” I say. “Several farmers around here are raising cage-free, organically fed chickens. The local food movement in North Carolina got started in this county and the next one over. We’re not totally backward hicks, you know.”

Vance quits stirring and rests his weight on the handle of the paddle. “Got the chicken at Food Lion. Had it on sale, two for one with a shopper card.” I close my eyes so I won’t have to see the looks on Kiran and Violet’s faces. Still, their amusement is palpable. “Not helpful, Vance.” He laughs and directs us to a long picnic table covered in a vinyl blue and white checked tablecloth where two older church ladies take our money and hand us three portions of Brunswick stew in Styrofoam cups. We also purchase sweet teas, and Violet winces when she takes a sip. “Weak tea laden with sugar,” she says. “Typical. Americans found a way to make even tea unhealthy.” Maybe because I’m a big girl, her comment chafes. When I lived in New York, my new friends at work would comment on how Southern food seemed so fattening. What they really meant was that I was too fat. My husband, Lawson, threw himself into gym workouts and green smoothies and went down two pants sizes. I walked more than I ever had in my life, ate salads like my New York friends, and didn’t lose a pound. When I moved back home, I made peace with my body, eating salads when I wanted them and, yes, drinking sweet tea from time to time. Before I can respond to Violet’s comment, Kiran says, “This morning you told me that you were disappointed the B&B offered oatmeal, muffins, and fruit instead of a proper fry-up. I don’t think someone from the land of fish-and-chips, sausage rolls, and trifle really has room to talk.” Violet harrumphs and flounces off with her tea and stew in hand instead of arguing against Kiran’s accusation. I beam a grateful smile at him and he catches it, the corner of his mouth tipping up slightly in response. “C’mon,” he says, trailing after her. “Can’t leave her alone too long or she’ll find trouble.” That’s at least his second reference to Violet needing a chaperone, and I don’t understand it. Either Kiran is overprotective, which seems likely, or Violet has another side I haven’t seen yet. I hope I’m around when that side emerges so I can be her sidekick.

I guide them over to the uncomfortable metal chairs that have been provided by the church, and together we eat our Brunswick stew with flimsy plastic spoons. These aren’t typical movie star conditions, I would imagine, but instead of complaining, they murmur their appreciation of the stew’s flavor. Sure, Kiran is scanning the area every few seconds like he’s a member of the secret service, but he’s also eating up every last bite. After stopping short of licking the bowl clean, he announces he’s going back to the table to buy himself a slice of pie for dessert. Before leaving us, he gives Violet a lingering look of concern. “I’ll be fine,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “You’ll be twenty feet away, and no one here seems to recognize me.” He mutters something under his breath about difficult women and walks off to claim his dessert. Their relationship is fascinating to me. She’s rich and powerful, and even though he works for her, he doesn’t hesitate to put her in her place. Yet there’s an easy rapport and even affection between them, and judging by the cautious way he allowed me into her presence, I’m guessing he’d do anything to protect her. Several people wave at me, and I can tell they’re curious about my companions but are biding their time so they don’t appear too pushy. They may not recognize Violet, but she still exudes that celebrity magnetism, an invisible force that pulls people into her orbit. And then there’s Kiran, who looks like he stepped out of an ad campaign for five-thousand-dollar watches. Several church ladies are looking a bit overheated, and I don’t think it’s from the fires. The woman at the pie table is beaming, and I have no doubt he’s getting a slice and a half on his plate. Those ladies save the big pieces for their favorites. “Tell me how all of this comes together,” Violet says. “They’ve been cooking the stew all night,” I explain. “Someone has to keep stirring so it doesn’t scorch on the bottom of the pot.” Violet makes a face like I’ve just said they’ve spent the night shoveling coal into a furnace. “That sounds exhausting. Speaking of lack of sleep, I have to tell you that your books have kept me up way past my bedtime. I can’t stop turning the pages.” “Really.” I clasp my hands together and press them to my mouth. “That’s…I don’t even have the words. Thank you so much!”

“Would it be helpful if I mention them on my social media platforms? I don’t create the posts, but my PR team back in London will look at your books and create something lovely if I ask them to.” In British , I’m gobsmacked. She’s only known me a few hours and already she’s trying to my career. The fact that someone as wealthy and powerful as Violet Ramsey wants to help me brings tears to my eyes. I can only imagine what an endorsement from her could do to my sales. “That would be beyond amazing.” Unable to control myself, I reach over and hug her. “Thank you, Violet.” She doesn’t lean into the embrace as much as I might like, but she does put her arms around me and pat my back, kind of like Marilla Cuthbert indulges Anne Shirley’s ionate displays of affection. When I let her go, Kiran is looming over us with a disapproving look on his face. I throw up my hands in defense. “I’m sorry, but Violet just offered to post about my books, and I couldn’t help myself. I had to hug her.” He shakes his head, but I can tell he’s trying hard to fight back a smile.

On the ride back to the B&B, I provide directions, but my mind is obsessing about what those social media posts could do to my sales figures. Should I lower the price on book one of my series to encourage purchases? Take out some Facebook ads to add to the momentum that her recommendation might provide? If I’m lost in my thoughts on the ride back, no one notices because Violet is making notes in a moleskin notebook about her observations at the stew sale. Although I suspect some folks there recognized her, Kiran made us leave before anyone got up the gumption to approach us. “I’m going to have to talk to people eventually,” Violet tells him as we drive back into town. “That means you’re going to have to loosen the apron strings at some point.” Kiran’s response is a noncommittal grunt. After a few days here, he’ll start to see that folks in Foster’s Creek can be trusted. Heck, I feel like he and I have made headway this afternoon. I thought for certain that he’d assume I talked Violet into mentioning my books on social media, but he seemed to believe that it was her idea and not a manipulation. As we stand on the steps in front of the B&B saying our goodbyes, Violet is still reflecting on our day while Kiran waits patiently, hands in his pockets. “Did I tell you that when I went to get pie a gentleman named Chubby invited me to tour the collection at his estate?” she asks. Kiran’s forehead puckers with concern. “I didn’t see you talking to a man.” “You were too busy eating your second piece of pie, dear,” she says. I have to bite my lower lip to keep from laughing, both at the way Kiran tore into his desserts and the fact that Violet thinks Chubby is some kind of patron of the arts. “Collection of what?” I ask her. “His ‘estate’ is a junkyard full of rebuilt car parts that he sells to mechanics.” Her lips part as she considers this piece of news. “I thought he said he was in

antiques.” I raise an eyebrow. “Antique carburetors, maybe.” “I can picture a place like that in a movie, can’t you?” she says to Kiran. “Someone sorting through a mountain of car parts in search of something—oh, maybe a murder weapon! The film I’m writing could be turned into a mystery. Knives Out did so well at the box office.” She leaves me with two kisses, one on each cheek, and a promise to talk again tomorrow. This morning I posted a “Sorry, we’re closed today” sign on the door of my shop. If I’m going to continue with my tour guide duties, I’m going to have to figure out a plan for keeping the store open while I’m away. Maybe Isabelle can work a few more shifts than usual. Violet is only here for a few weeks, and I’m not going to miss this opportunity to spend time with her. “Come by the shop tomorrow,” I tell them as Kiran opens the door of the B&B, allowing Violet to enter first. “We can talk Halloween costumes.” Only one of them looks excited at this prospect. “I’d love that, but Tabby has arranged a tour of a local vineyard for us tomorrow,” Violet says. “How about Saturday?” “Sounds perfect.” As I walk home, I try to think of costume ideas that might be appropriate for the two of them. The first one that comes to mind is a queen and her knight. Kiran is her protector in real life, after all, and she’s certainly royalty in my mind. He has the broad shoulders and chiseled jaw to pull off the knight’s costume, but, alas, I don’t have any chain mail lying around the store. I also need to decide on a costume for myself because those corsets aren’t going to figure it out for themselves.

Skye is huddled over a colander in the sink, preparing the kale salad, as I put together a lasagna for us. “Do you think I should get a trailer for my bike so the cats could go on a ride?” she asks as she works. “They never get any fresh air.” I attempt to unstick two noodles and only succeed in ripping them both into pieces. “You know I love our babies more than anything in the world, but even to me that sounds a little cat lady kooky.” She smiles at me then bends her head over her task again. “Fine, I suppose I don’t need folks thinking I’m any weirder than they already do. Have you thought about when we’re going to the fair this year? I think it closes in a week or so.” She’s referring to our county fair, which is one of the highlights of the fall season. Live local bands, roasted corn on the cob, and best of all the Ferris wheel. I’ve been going to that fair my whole life, and it never gets old. I spoon sauce over the noodles, enjoying the scent of oregano and basil that rises to my nose. “We need to figure that out. I haven’t given it much thought yet.” The truth is that I’ve been too preoccupied to think about the fair this year. By now, I’ve usually purchased advanced tickets and picked out which swingy skirt I’m going to wear. The only years I missed the fair were when I was living in New York. Fiona bangs into the house and saunters through to the kitchen, her hair matted down from wearing her helmet. “Hey, want to help us cook?” I ask. Fiona peers over Skye’s shoulder to see what she’s up to. “Quite the hand job you’re giving that kale.” I have to roll my lips between my teeth so I won’t laugh.

Skye scowls and continues kneading her hands through the leafy greens. “Shut up. Massaging the kale makes it soft and tender.” “That’s the opposite of what usually happens with hand jobs if you’re doing them correctly,” Fiona says. Our giggles further irritate Skye. “You two have the sense of humor of a thirteen-year-old boy.” “I beg your pardon, I had this same sense of humor when I was a thirteen-yearold girl.” Fiona pulls out her phone to check a message. “So are we going to the fair this weekend?” Skye asks. “I want to see the pumpkin Rhett grew. When I was at the farmer’s market last weekend, he said it was five hundred pounds. Can you imagine?” I used to hope that Skye and Rhett, a local boy, would end up together. He’s always talking about organic farming, and her career is in soil testing so they’re both into dirt. Maybe I should try to manufacture a reason to get them together because I know she isn’t going to pursue him. “Very exciting,” I say. “I’m sure it’s gourd-eous. Get it?” “And now we’ve moved on to Dad jokes,” Skye says, but she’s smiling this time. Fiona slides her phone into her pocket and observes my lasagna making activities. “I just ate a bowl of noodles at work.” I wave my hands over the pan in front of me. “Are you serious? I’m making enough lasagna to feed a marching band.” “Sorry,” she says. “I’ll have it for breakfast.” “And people think I’m the oddball in the family,” Skye mutters. “I don’t know if I can go to the fair this weekend,” I say, hesitant to make promises when my plans with Violet haven’t been made. “But we’ll definitely get there.”

“Good, because I’m going to beat the Guess Your Weight guy this year.” Skye probably weighs what I did in the seventh grade. Unlike me, she has a high metabolism. She’s willowy while I’m sturdy, which used to bother me a lot when I was younger. Fiona once said, in her thoughtless teen years, that if someone were asg the three of us positions on a football team, Skye would be a kicker, Fiona would be a safety, and I’d be a lineman. She was a delightful teenager. “How are you going to stump him?” I ask. “Puffy coat and baggy corduroys. I also thought about putting coins in my pockets, but I’m too honest for that.” A smile spreads across my face as I my sister as a kid at the county fair, eating cotton candy and riding the roller coaster six times in a row. For someone who doesn’t like crowds, she always enjoyed the fair. “Good plan,” I say. “You’ll definitely win a stuffie this year.” “It’s not about the prize,” she says with a gleam in her eyes. “It’s about winning.”

Eight

The next day, when Isabelle arrives to do her afternoon shift at Twice Nice, Tabby and I drive to the Trader Joe’s in Chapel Hill for our annual pumpkin spice pilgrimage. It’s a tradition that we both look forward to, as much for the time together as the snacks. Some of our savory and sweet haul will go to the B&B, some will be served at the Halloween party, and a good portion will be consumed as we try on Halloween costumes in my shop. During our car trip, I tell her all about my day with Violet and Kiran, and she fills me in on what’s been happening at the B&B. According to her, they’ve been model guests and haven’t made any weird celebrity demands, like M&Ms with all the greens removed. Violet did request a writing desk and was thrilled with the antique one Tabby moved up from the sitting room. “I bet she’d be happy to promote the B&B after her stay,” I say. “She might even offer to do it without you asking.” “I can’t believe she’s putting your books on Instagram,” Tabby says, a dreamy look in her eyes. “That’s about a million times better than being mentioned in Old North State.” “It’s huge! I’m trying not to get overly excited about what will happen once she recommends my books, but I can’t help dreaming big. It would be wonderful to hire a full-time salesperson at the store to give me more time for my writing.” Tabby and I arrive back at Twice Nice as Isabelle is clo for the evening. “How was business today?” I ask. “Great,” she says. “We had a ton of people come in looking for costumes. I tried to freshen up the window display after selling the Valley Girl outfits.” Isabelle has dressed the two mannequins in leather jackets, pants, and motorcycle boots. One of them is also wearing a leather cap with metallic studs.

“Is this some kind of dominatrix display?” I ask. “Because if it is, I think I might have a whip somewhere around here that you can add to it.” “What?” Isabelle’s pale skin reddens as she s the vibe she’s created in the display. “I was going for fifties era costumes, like the Greasers or something.” Tabby steps toward the window to get a better look at the mannequins. “I that leather bra with the studs. That was Fiona’s, right?” “Back in her wilder days.” I give Isabelle’s shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t worry, Izzy, I love it. It’s very Village People meets The Matrix. Tabby, how about you and Everett go in full BDSM this year?” Tabby laughs and rips open a package of pumpkin spice mini-muffins that she’s set out on the front counter along with our other treats. “Do you seriously think he’d agree to that? Last year he went as Mr. Rogers, and I had to be Daniel Tiger.” “We need to dress you as something sexier this year.” I fluff up her hair. “I’m thinking Bond girl, and Everett can be James Bond. Does he own a tux?” In my mind, it’s not Everett I’m picturing as Bond. It’s Kiran. Tall, broadshouldered, and aloof, leaving a wake of swooning irers as he struts through the casino. He’s been invading my thoughts frequently today, which isn’t unpleasant or surprising. A man that good-looking is hard for a lusty woman’s subconscious to ignore. “No tux,” Tabby says. “But I do think he has one of those T-shirts with a tux printed on it.” In unison, Isabelle and I say, “No.” “What about Ariel and Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid?” Isabelle suggests. “I saw a red wig in the back of the store.” “I also have a mermaid tail around here somewhere.” As I’m trying to where it’s located, Fiona breezes through the door. “Sorry I’m late.” She tosses her helmet into a basket of socks and grabs a handful of pumpkin spice flavored yogurt pretzels. “Baird and his girlfriend

wanted matching yin yang tattoos on their biceps.” My hand flies to my throat. “Baird has a girlfriend? Since when?” There’s one line I don’t cross when it comes to sex, and that’s sleeping with people who are already spoken for. “Don’t worry,” Fiona says, “he was single when you two hooked up. They met three weeks ago at a Grateful Dead cover band concert in Chapel Hill.” Tabby has already heard my Baird story, but I figure now that Fiona brought it up in her presence, I should clue in Isabelle too. She has decamped for the back of the store to look for the Ariel wig, so I have to call out, “I forgot to tell you that I hooked up with Baird about a month ago!” Isabelle’s head pops up over the racks of clothing, and she flares her nostrils like she smells something stinky. “Ew.” I let out a sigh full of remorse. “Unwise, I know.” “Not as unwise as getting matching tattoos with a guy you just started dating,” Tabby says. “Now that’s dumb.” Isabelle walks toward us, the wild red wig dangling from her hand. “Standards, friend,” she reminds me gently. “Standards are lovely in theory,” I say, “but the pool is small and occasionally smells like patchouli.” “That’s why you go outside the pool.” Fiona spreads her arms wide. “Notice how I date people from other towns so I don’t have to run into them at the Food Lion after we break up.” “How’s that working for ya?” Tabby snarks. Dickhead Dean, who Fiona met at a party in Durham, is the elephant in the room. Actually, elephants are cute. He’s the turkey vulture in the room. “Fine, you have a point,” Fiona grumbles. “I’m just saying Cat would have a better chance of meeting guys worth her time if she were willing to look beyond

the borders of Foster’s Creek.” I pull out the bottle of bubbly non-alcoholic cider I’ve been storing beneath the front counter. Now that Fiona is on the wagon, I try not to serve alcohol around her, even though she says she doesn’t mind if I do. This Halloween will be her first one sober, and I’m already worrying about how our party will affect her sobriety. She says it’s fine, but I imagine it won’t be that easy for her. “Do you really think the men are going to be any better thirty miles away from here?” I ask. “I seriously doubt it. More Bairds and Warricks, I’d guess.” Warrick Newton is a local realtor and, more importantly, a total slime ball. Rebound sex with him was my post-divorce mistake when I first returned to Foster’s Creek. Fiona holds her stomach with both hands. “God, now I’m picturing you, Warrick, and Baird naked, and that’s not sitting well with the pumpkin spice.” “It makes you feel bad?” I say. “I have actual memories of those experiences. Not both of them together, of course.” I extend my hand toward Fiona. “Hand me a bottle opener for this thing.” She tosses her keychain my way, and I catch it midair. “Thanks.” “At least you wouldn’t have to run into guys you’ve hooked up with if you dated people from other towns,” Isabelle says. “That’s part of what keeps me from dating. It’s so awkward when you have to see them if things don’t work out.” Tabby tilts her head, her face clouding with confusion. “Shouldn’t you know if things are going to work out with the guys you date? Cause you’re a psychic.” Isabelle runs a tarot card reading business that used to belong to her grandmother, Rita. “That’s not how being psychic works,” Isabelle says patiently. “I can’t see the future. I can only tell you in a general sense what might come to .” “You should go in for a reading,” I tell Tabby. “Isabelle is the best.” I set the glasses on the counter and pour generous helpings of the fizzy drink. The bubbles tickle my nose when I take a sip.

Isabelle takes a dainty sip of fizzy cider before saying, “I don’t know about ‘the best,’ but I like helping people, if I can.” “I want to hear about your outing with the celebrity.” Fiona dips another pita chip. “This hummus has decent flavor but questionable texture.” “After we get moving with the costumes, I’ll tell you about Violet,” I say. “But we’ve got to get going or we’re not going to have anything to wear on Halloween.” Isabelle sets the red wig on Tabby’s head and smooths out the tangles. “What do you think about the Ariel idea?” “Sure.” Tabby runs her hand over her new fluorescent red hair. “But I’d need to find a flesh-colored shirt or bodysuit to wear under the bikini top or I’ll freeze my nips off.” We help Tabby find all the parts of her costume, and then Fiona turns to me. “What are we going as?” I smile secretively and pull a cardboard box out from under the counter. “You’re like a magician with a bottomless hat,” Fiona says. “What don’t you have behind that counter?” “Tom Hardy, unfortunately,” I say with a pouty bottom lip. “But look at these!” I reveal two beautiful under-the-bust corsets, one black leather, one wine-red velvet. The red one has black laces, which I display by running a hand over them. “Aren’t they gorgeous?” “Corsets?” She rubs the back of her head. “What are we going to do with those other than be supremely uncomfortable?” I pull a top hat off the coatrack next to me and pop it onto my head. “You and I are going as Victorian Steampunk heroines Hester and Sybil Faversham.” God, I love a dramatic reveal. Fiona raises up clenched fists. “Awesome!” She turns to Isabelle and Tabby and explains that Sybil and Hester are characters from a book series we both adored.

“They piloted a zeppelin and poked an evil robber baron’s eye out with a parasol. Total badasses.” “Sounds on-brand for you two,” Tabby says. “Great! Now that I have your approval, I’ll put together the costumes.” I start to unlace the wine-colored corset. “I want a monocle and a pocket watch. And I’m Hester.” Fiona crosses her arms as if I’m going to put up a fight. I pat her spiky-haired head. “But of course you’re Hester, silly. I’m obviously a Sybil Faversham if there ever was one.” I pull the corset around my torso and close the front clasps. Then I reach around and tighten the laces on the back. Isabelle whistles at my dexterity. “I’m impressed. You’ve obviously done this before.” I wink at her as I cinch the laces tighter and tie them in a bow. “Costumes can be fun, and not just on Halloween.” “We need to find something for you now,” Tabby says to Isabelle. “I’m thinking Lady Galadriel from Lord of the Rings.” “Ooh, that would be perfect for you,” I say. Isabelle has long, wavy blonde hair and ethereal looks befitting an elf queen. “I like that idea. Cat, do you have any pointy ears lying around here?” Isabelle asks. “Look under that counter,” Fiona quips. I press a finger to my bottom lip. “I might have some leftovers from a mall elf costume someone dropped off years ago. I’d have to look in the back room. Tabby, we also have the elf costumes for the holiday parade.” Tabby, who has stopped listening to me, points out the window. “Isn’t that

Kiran?” We all her in squinting out into the twilight to see if she’s correct. Sure enough, there’s Kiran standing on the other side of the street, looking gorgeous and somewhat perplexed as he stares down at his phone. He has a mailing envelope tucked under one arm. I head to the door without pausing to think first. “Kiran, Kiran Madan?” I call out to him as the bell jangles above me. “What are you doing over there?” He looks up from his phone then casually slides it into his coat pocket before crossing the street, his expression returning to its usual confident aloofness. “I’m looking for the FedEx store.” He holds up the package. “A woman down the street said it was near your shop, but I haven’t been able to locate it yet.” “That’s because it’s in the back of the stationery store,” I explain. “The sign says Paper and Such.” I point down the street. “You were almost there.” I expect him to hurry off, all businesslike, but he doesn’t. “What are you doing this evening, Ms. McBryde?” He shamelessly peruses my corseted form, and my skin prickles under his hot gaze. “Trying on potential Halloween costumes with some friends.” “You’re going for innocent and demure, I see.” The corset combined with my wrap dress creates some impressive cleavage. I plant my hands on my hips and lower my voice to a teasing level. “I think we both know those aren’t the best words to describe me, Mr. Madan.” His eyes rake over me again. “I’ve always said innocence is overrated.” Despite the fact that the temperature has dropped to a balmy fifty degrees, I’m feeling quite warm. Before I can reply to his suggestive comment, he walks away. “Til tomorrow,

Ms. McBryde.” I watch him go, enjoying the rear view of him. Even in dress pants, I can tell he has a tight, firm tush. When I step back into the store, three pairs of curious eyes are on me. “You said there was a guy traveling with Violet, but you did not say he was smoking hot,” Fiona says accusingly. “You didn’t even hear the accent.” I take a long sip of my cider. “It’s over-thetop sexy.” “Oh, we heard it,” Isabelle says. “I got goosebumps.” “He’s got that BDE.” Fiona grabs a handful of pumpkin spice candy corn. “I could tell that from all the way in here.” “What’s BDE?” Isabelle asks. “Do I want to know?” “Stands for Big Dick Energy.” Tabby tosses a pumpkin mini-muffin into her mouth. Isabelle blinks her eyes, speechless for a moment. “Wow, I really need to get current on my acronyms.” “A guy who has BDE has the swagger and easygoing confidence of a man who has a big D and knows how to use it,” I explain. Fiona holds up her phone. “Just Googled Kiran Madan. He used to be a stuntman.” We crowd around her phone and read his IMDb profile. Unfortunately, there are no photos, and it doesn’t give much away except his filmography, which is impressive. He’s worked on films in Asia, Europe, and the US, but nothing in the last five or six years. Why would he give up such an exciting career to follow around a celebrity? Violet is wonderful, but being a stuntman seems like a much more exciting occupation. “Did I mention I invited Kiran and Violet to the Halloween party?” I ask them casually, even though I’m bubbling inside.

Tabby grabs my arm. “Oh my God. Is she coming? Is he coming? Tell us everything.” I smile smugly. “She’s considering it. We just have to convince Kiran that it’s safe.” “So hottie stuntman is coming too?” Fiona gives me a knowing look. “That explains the corset.” “What are you saying?” I ask, feigning indignity. “You want to look good for the man, and why shouldn’t you?” She shakes the last pretzel from the bag. “You’re hot for each other, and there’s no complications because he’ll be gone in a few weeks. It’s perfect.” “He was unbuttoning your corset with his eyes just now,” Isabelle says. “He’s definitely interested.” Tabby grabs my arm. “Do it. For all of us.” Rolling my eyes and heaving a dramatic sigh, I drop my head back. “Fine, I’ll take one for the team.” They laugh and clap, and my confidence rises to the challenge. Sure, he’s the most handsome, worldly man I’ve ever seduced, but I have all the necessary weapons in my arsenal. Witty banter, lingering looks, and a sashay that kills. What really convinces me is the chemistry that already exists between Kiran and me, which my friends picked up on this evening—that zing that happens whenever we’re near each other. I would be a fool not to see where that could lead…

Nine

My sisters and I all have our own little routines on Saturday mornings. Skye is up first and cruises out on her bicycle, racking up fifteen miles or so before my feet have even hit the floor. I’m the next one up, and I typically spend the entire morning writing furiously, fueled by copious amounts of English Breakfast tea. Currently, I’m attempting to wrap up the last book in my Dashing Duchesses series. When Skye returns and gets into the shower, that’s my cue to quit writing and make a big breakfast. Finally, once the coffee is brewing and the smell of food hits her nostrils, Fiona the Crypt Keeper rolls out of bed and graces us with her presence. This morning it’s the smell of grits, scrambled eggs, and bacon that has brought her into the kitchen. She rubs her head, which rumples her bangs into something shaped like the comb on a rooster. “No biscuits?” I pour coffee into her “Tears of My Employees” mug and extend it toward her. “Good morning to you too, Sunshine.” Fiona groans a thank you and takes a sip of coffee. “I thought when I quit drinking I’d be able to stay up late and not feel like ass the next day. I must be getting old.” Skye fills our plates with food, complete with a pat of butter on the grits. “Everyone needs seven to nine hours of sleep a night. What time did you go to bed?” “It must have been late,” I say. “I was up until midnight writing.” Fiona collapses into a seat at the table and lays her head down on top of her arms. Her voice is garbled when she speaks. “I’m not sure. We had a group of guys on Harleys show up right as we were about to close. They all wanted the symbol of their motorcycle club, and they were willing to pay extra so we’d stay open. Cash and Tatiana agreed to stay late with me, but it still took us hours to

finish all six of them.” She yawns broadly. “Turned out some good work, if I do say so myself. And they were great tippers. One of them slipped Tatiana a hundred on his way out.” This isn’t shocking, considering Tatiana is as stunning looking as she is talented at her craft. “Then we were too wired to go home so we went for a drink at Ricky’s. Well, they drank. I sipped seltzer all night.” “I’m proud of you.” I squeeze her arm. “I know it’s hard.” She sighs and pulls at her bangs. “I gave up smokes; I can quit booze too. But yeah, it’s fucking hard. I didn’t realize how much I liked alcohol. Not the taste, you know, just how it made things so much easier.” Skye twists her face up. “Easier? You got in a mess of trouble when you drank.” “I think she means it helped her relax.” I look to Fiona for confirmation. “Yeah. Drinking took the edge off everything. Now the world feels so…sharp. I don’t know. I wish there was some other way to take the corners off of life.” “Gaming,” Skye suggests through a mouthful of eggs. “Works for me.” Fiona snorts. “I don’t think I want to start on another addiction right now.” Skye frowns and looks down at her plate. “You’re fine, honey,” I say. “Fiona just has that kind of addictive personality. If she started playing video games, she’d be holed up in a dark room for twentyfour hours a day, gaming console permanently connected to her hands, pizza boxes collecting in the corner, hair matted and filthy—” “Okay, we get it,” Fiona says grimly. “Writing is my escape,” I say. “You just need to find something healthy to take the edge off. Running? Knitting?” Fiona adds another huge pat of butter to her grits. “I’ll be okay once derby season starts up. That’s a great outlet for my stress.” Fiona is the jammer on a roller derby team. Her derby name is Fee Fifofum, and she’s dead scary on the turns.

“The derby girls are big drinkers,” I remind her. “I’ll be the designated driver, I guess.” She heaves a sigh of acceptance. “Speaking of drunk women, your British lady was at the bar last night.” “Violet!?” I gape at her. “She was at Ricky’s?” “There and walking on a slant,” Fiona says. “We overheard her say that she was at a vineyard all day. Judging by her stagger, she drank her way through the tour.” It’s totally unreasonable to be hurt that Violet didn’t invite me out to drink with her. We spent one day together, and she doesn’t have to include me in all her Foster’s Creek adventures. Still, it stings a little to know she was partying without me, her faithful tour guide. I could have been her wing woman for the evening. Kiran also could have invited me when I saw him on his way to the stationery store. Maybe he saw that I was with friends and thought I wouldn’t be interested in ing them? Or maybe he didn’t know he’d end up at Ricky’s later. “Kiran looked totally unamused,” Fiona says. “He also looked way too fancy pants for Ricky’s. He’s quite the buttoned-up dude for someone who had a stunt career like he did.” Ricky’s is a local dive bar located out on a country road. You go there to shoot pool, get drunk, or hang with friends, but it’s not the kind of place tourists visit so someone must have recommended it to Violet. They could have gone to The Stanton, a new hipster place downtown that calls itself a cocktail bar, which seems a reach for Foster’s Creek but whatever. Kiran would have fit in much better there, and Violet would have too. She must have thought Ricky’s would offer more local flavor, and she would be right about that. “Did you talk to him?” I ask. “Tell me everything.” “Not much. Violet was busy chatting up two of the Grishams, and he was keeping a close eye on her.” “That must have been an interesting conversation,” I say. “Violet and the Grisham boys.”

The Grisham family owns Grisham Brothers Auto Body and Paint—that’s what the faded sign outside says anyway, but no one ever calls it that, even the owners. It’s simply Grisham Boys. You can even make a check out to that name and the bank will accept it so maybe they did legally change the name and not bother with the sign. The Grishams who currently run the shop don’t actually qualify as boys, seeing as they’re in their thirties and forties, and one of them is a woman named Sally. Like their fathers and grandfathers before them, they do all have grease permanently lodged under their fingernails and country accents so thick that even I find it difficult to understand them. What they found in common with Violet, I’d be curious to know, because I can’t think of a more unlikely trio. “You said she’s here to soak up local culture,” Skye says. “Doesn’t get more local than the Grisham boys. They’re an institution.” “When Kiran came to the bar to order Violet another drink, Tatiana decided to shoot her shot,” Fiona says. “He turned her down, but he was polite about it. I mean kind of starchy, but polite.” He shot down Tatiana? She has legs for miles and bee-stung lips that she wasn’t born with. I can’t help feeling like this shows his good taste. Tatiana is beautiful but irritatingly pretentious. She sometimes puts on a light Russian accent, which is absurd since she was born and raised in Fayetteville, North Carolina. She says it’s because her mother is from Minsk. My dad is from Scotland, but you don’t see me talking with a brogue. “What did she say to him?” I ask. “She said, excuse me”—Fiona crosses her legs, takes on Tatiana’s languid body posture, and tries to do the faux Russian accent—“but you definitely don’t look like you’re from around here.” She lays her hand on my arm. “I mean that as a compliment.” Skye and I simulate vomiting. “And he said?” I ask. “I don’t think he knew exactly what she meant by it so he just smiled awkwardly, said thank you, and waited for his order. She looked baffled. Probably the first time she’s been rejected.”

The swell of happiness I feel is absolutely petty and beneath me. I’m not in competition for Kiran, but I’m glad he’s still on the market. Plus, I wouldn’t want Tatiana’s sloppy seconds. Skye chews her bottom lip. “Do you think they’ll really come to our party? It seems like a lot of pressure, trying to impress a celebrity. Does she know we serve homemade punch and hotdogs wrapped in crescent roll strips?” Those mummy dogs I make are seriously the cutest. “Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s not like we have to do anything different or be anything other than ourselves.” “What are you talking about?” Fiona says. “Halloween is the night you get to be anything other than yourself. That’s what makes it so much fun.” I wonder who Kiran and Violet want to be for Halloween. I have a brilliant idea for him, but he’ll have to be alright with showing some leg. For giggles, I pick up my phone and check on my book sales stats. When I see what’s happening in my reports, I gasp like I’ve witnessed a murder. Which is accurate. Because my books are killing it on the charts. I flap my hand at Fiona. “Open up Insta on your phone. Search up Violet Ramsey.” “What happened?” Skye asks, peering at my screen. “What happened is that my sales graph is skyrocketing upward.” I show her the screen. “Violet must have posted about my books!” Fiona pulls up Violet’s and sure enough, there’s an image of my latest book cover. It’s been photoshopped in a lovely graphic that makes it seem like Violet has been reading The Duchess and the Dressmaker while she eats scones and drinks tea. Her post calls my series a naughty, delicious indulgence. A five star read! The woman is a goddess. “I can’t believe this!” I squeal.

Violet, who has only known me a couple of days, came through for me in a way many other people wouldn’t. By putting her seal of approval on my books, she’s given me a huge boost. Women ing women. That’s what it’s all about! I wish I had a way to thank her, other than being the best damn tour guide she’s ever seen. I’m also finding her a hall of fame Halloween costume. I set my forehead down on the kitchen table, needing a moment to catch my breath. After years of struggling and striving, I’ve gotten the break of a lifetime. Violet Ramsey is going to change my life forever.

Ten

By the time Kiran and Violet arrive at my store, I have a selection of costumes set out for them. She looks nothing like the woman I met on that first day at the Magnolia Inn. It would appear that a night at Ricky’s left her the worse for wear. She’s wearing heather-gray joggers and a hoodie, and although we’re indoors, she hasn’t removed her pair of giant sunglasses. As Fiona noted, the older you get, the harder it is to bounce back from a night of debauchery. I’m starting to understand why Kiran feels like he needs to keep a close eye on his boss. He’s fresh and dapper in a charcoal-gray suit and a white shirt that looks devastatingly handsome against his golden skin. He smells fresh, like a clean shave, and my hands tingle with the desire to stroke his smooth cheek. I throw my shoulders back and offer them a hearty good afternoon, to which Violet responds with a flinch. Looks like I need to lower the volume today. “Hello,” Kiran says. “Sorry we’re a few minutes late. Someone didn’t get out of bed until eleven today.” “Not a problem.” I shoot Violet a sympathetic look. “I have Advil if you need it.” I open my arms wide in front of the food displayed on the counter. “And some local goods for you to sample while we look at costumes—Cheerwine, which is like Dr Pepper only sweeter and much tastier, pimento cheese, and pork rinds.” Violet’s face turns a shade of green I’m not sure I’ve ever seen on a human. She holds up a hand, palm out. “Please, no. I can’t even smell food right now.” In my zeal to show off the spread I prepared—and by that I mean unwrapped—I neglected to think about how unappealing it might look to someone with a hangover. “No problem. Kiran, please help yourself to some of the…things I’ve laid out.”

He surveys the food with a skeptical look. “I’m an adventurous eater, but those pork rinds are making even me nervous. Is that hair I see on them?” My mouth falls open. “How dare you, sir. Those are a Southern delicacy. Violet, please have a seat and I’ll get you some water.” “What exactly is the rind of a pig?” He plucks one of the crispy chips from the basket. “I don’t think I want to know.” “And yet I see you’re eating them anyway,” I call out over my shoulder as I lead Violet over to the comfy armchair near the changing stalls. “Reminder, British people eat blood sausage.” “Please!” Violet places her hands over her ears. “For the love of God, would the two of you stop talking about food.” With a moan, she flops into the cushioned seat, letting her head loll back. As a precaution, I use my foot to discreetly slide a metal umbrella stand next to her. Damage control. “Please do something to distract me from my misery,” she begs. Ever the sympathetic one, Kiran says, “You only have yourself to blame. Someone with your intelligence and vast experience with alcohol should know not to follow up an afternoon of wine tasting with shots of Jägermeister. Not to mention the ill-advised flirting with men half your age.” He comes over to stand next to me, a glass of Cheerwine in one hand and a plate of crackers and pimento cheese in the other. Somehow, he will not end up with a speck of that food on his clothing, I just know it. “Me-ow, look at you getting catty,” I say. “Some of the men she flirted with were actually a third of her age,” Kiran adds, “but I’m being nice because she’s unwell.” “Lies!” Violet shouts before grabbing her head. “Don’t make me yell at you, Kiran. It hurts too much.” “I thought about asking you to us,” Kiran whispers, “but I knew it was

going to be a mess of an evening.” A shiver of pleasure runs through me as his breath tickles my ear. So he thought about inviting me out when we ran into each other last night. That’s an encouraging sign, although maybe it’s best that he didn’t follow through. Sounds like Violet was all about the Grisham boys, and he was busy keeping an eye on her. Wouldn’t have been much fun for me. Kiran stays close to me, close enough so that I’m hyper-aware of his shirt fabric rubbing up against my arm. Even though I’m in heels, he’s still a few inches taller. If he put his arm around me, we’d fit together perfectly. I could nuzzle right into his chest and rest my head on that strong shoulder. I let that image float through my head for a moment, enjoying it. I haven’t snuggled with a man in many years because snuggling is part of intimate relationships, and I only have one-night stands or brief affairs. That’s why I’ve had to settle for couch cuddles with my cats or my sisters, and much of that is forced snuggling. None of them are as needy for physical affection as I am except maybe my cat Blanche. She’ll leap on any lap and demand affection, just like her Golden Girls namesake. I press a hand to my chest. “Let the record show that I fully flirting of any kind, as long as all parties are of legal age.” “Is that right?” Kiran asks thoughtfully before taking a sip of his soda. “What kinds of flirting are in your repertoire?” Here’s my chance to show him that I’m interested. In my mind, I hear my friends egging me on, encouraging me to make my intentions known. “I partake in two kinds of flirting.” I run my hand under the lapel of his suit coat and lower my voice so Violet can’t hear me. “Flirting to be fun and friendly, and flirting with the intent to seduce.” He steps closer to me, his voice turning gruff. “And which one is this right here?” My breath quickens in response to his proximity. I didn’t expect him to be so bold with his answer.

“You’ll have to come to the party to find out.” My eyes drop down to his beautiful lips. Would they taste like Cheerwine, sweet and peppery? How would that pillowy bottom lip feel if I tugged it softly between my teeth? By the time I look up into his eyes, I’ve got an ache inside of me that can only be filled by one thing. Kiran sighs, and even though he doesn’t move an inch, I feel him retreating from me. “I’ll be working at the party. Once we’re among all those guests, I’m going to have to stick by Violet’s side. She’s a magnet for trouble these days.” “Ahem.” Violet clears her throat. “I heard my name. What are you two doing over there when I’m all alone over here?” The idea of being totally alone with Kiran sounds wonderful. Unfortunately, he and I are going to be at a crowded Halloween party the next time I see him, and he’s made it clear he won’t be able to slip away. So much for my plans to seduce him. “,” Kiran calls out as I leave him to retrieve Violet’s costume options, “we need to keep her face concealed.” “I’ve got her covered.” I peek out from behind the curtain of the changing stall. “Get it? Covered.” “Hilarious,” he says dryly, but I see the corners of his mouth turn up. I duck back behind the curtain and shimmy my shoulders to release some of the tension in my body. It’s becoming clear that my attraction to Kiran burns hot. It’s certainly more intense than what I felt for Baird, Jim, or any other man I can . That’s a good thing. The more intense the attraction, the better the sex will be, it stands to reason. Something about it also feels a little dangerous, and that’s the part that I don’t like. Or do I? After a few more deep breaths, I drag out the mannequin dressed in a black jumpsuit and matching mask. “Here we have, with a few easy alterations, Catwoman.” One eyebrow rises up above Violet’s sunglasses. “I appreciate the flattery, but I aged out of Catwoman about a decade ago. As Kiran so rudely pointed out, I’m

practically a pensioner. Plus, I never had the glutes to pull off that costume, even in my prime.” I frown at her. “I beg to differ. If I may be so bold, your booty would do fine service to this costume. But if it doesn’t suit, on to the next.” I set Catwoman aside and head back to the stalls for option two. “My booty appreciates your flattery,” Violet says. Mannequin number two is wearing a wedding dress covered in fake blood. “Here we have either dead bride or zombie bride. Either way, we hide your face with a veil and no one is the wiser. What do you think?” Violet studies the costume for a few moments. “This should appeal to me more, considering I’ve been married twice, and both of my divorces left me feeling like the undead.” I squint at her. “So that’s a no?” “It’s a maybe.” She pulls a twenty-ounce bottle of red Gatorade out of her massive purse. “Let’s see what else you’ve got.” My excitement builds as I take out my pièce de résistance, a mannequin wearing an antique lady’s hunting outfit from the Victorian era, complete with a black hat that I’ve fitted with a mesh veil to conceal her face. I bought this outfit at an estate auction several years ago, and I always wanted to wear it for Halloween. The only problem is that it’s around size eight or ten, and I’m not. “That looks like something I would have worn in Folly Hill.” She leans forward to touch the material of the skirt. “It’s beautifully made.” “Isn’t it? You were amazing in that series, by the way,” I say. “Was that really you on the horse?” “Of course. And the horse mistress who taught me to ride sidesaddle was quite a stickler for authenticity. I had to practice for ages before she thought I was good enough. When we first met, she suggested a stunt double, but I refused and learned to do it all myself.” Violet stands and takes off her sunglasses so she can

inspect the costume more closely. “A stunt double, huh?” I turn to Kiran. “That reminds me, I discovered that you were once a stuntman yourself.” I run my eyes over him, wondering if he’s still as agile and flexible as he was in the old days. Lord, I hope so. “Why, Ms. McBryde,” he says, “have you been Googling me?” I press a hand to my chest. “You make it sound so dirty. I was just trying to get to know you better, since you seem to know everything about me. I have to it, I was a bit surprised to find out you were a stuntman in your past life. Who are you under that fine suit and aloof exterior?” “You’d have to get under the suit to find out,” he says quietly. Hot damn. “Is—Is that an invitation?” I stumble over my words, trying to read his expression. Playful or serious? Playful and serious? “You’re the flirting expert,” he says. “Do you think I’m flirting with the intent to seduce or just for fun?” I don’t feel like an expert right now. This kind of chemistry with a man is uncharted territory for me, which means I’m back to beginner status. Okay, maybe intermediate. I glance over at Violet to see if she’s noticed what’s going on over here, meaning that my undergarments have combusted into flames from the sizzling heat of this conversation, but it appears that she has no clue. Before I can respond to Kiran’s suggestive question, Violet says, “Can you help me take this costume off the mannequin so I can try it on?” It takes me a few minutes to gently wrestle the outfit off the mannequin, and by the time I have it in my hands, I’m sweating, both from the physical effort and the feelings Kiran has stirred up inside me. “It’s old and a little bit fragile,” I explain as I hand the dress to her. I’m a bit of a control freak when it comes to my vintage wear. In fact, Violet is the only person I’d let rent this dress for a party. I could probably sell it on eBay

and make a hefty dent in next month’s rent. It’s a mark of how much I love her that I’m willing to let this piece get anywhere near a keg and a fire pit. “Excellent.” She gathers it in her arms and walks into a dressing stall. “We’ll do well together.” I pull the curtains closed for her. “You’re not old or fragile. You’re in your prime and clearly tough as nails. And you’re going to need my help once you get into that thing. Call me and I’ll help you fasten the skirt in the back.” When I turn around, Kiran’s usual composure is back in place. He’s sipping his soda and innocently eating a cracker, as if he didn’t just suggest that I strip off his clothing. “The pork rinds are vile, but the Cheerwine and cheese aren’t terrible,” he says. I narrow my eyes at him. “I notice you still ate half of the pork rinds.” His attempt not to smile creates crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “That says a lot about how hungry I am, doesn’t it?” I’m hungry, too, but not for pimento cheese. “I can order lunch for you,” I say. “There’s a sandwich shop down the street.” I step behind the counter, pull the menu out of the drawer, and hand it to him. As he reads it, two teenage girls enter the store. I’ll be damned if they don’t stop dead in their tracks when they see him. I can’t blame them one bit. You don’t walk around Foster’s Creek expecting to see this kind of display of masculine perfection. Kiran Madan is a whole lot to handle on a Saturday afternoon, especially if you’re in a hormonally challenging time of life. “Welcome to Twice Nice,” I call out to them. The girls wave to me while still side-eyeing Kiran. As they walk through the store, one of them careens straight into my Dead Bride mannequin. She grabs hold of it so she can remain upright, then shoves it away as she recognizes its gory glory. “Careful, sugar,” I say, managing not to laugh.

The girls scuttle off to the back of the store in a fit of giggles, and I walk over to the counter to face Kiran, hands on my hips. “What?” he asks innocently. “Do you always have this effect on women?” I expect him to pretend like he doesn’t know what I mean. Honestly, I can’t stand when beautiful people act like they have no idea how good-looking they are. That way they never have to for all the privileges that come with being undeniably attractive. To his credit, he shrugs and says, “Sometimes. Not on you though.” He must not have realized how flustered I was the day he walked into my store. Apparently, I’m a better actress than I thought I was. Honesty has always been my policy though, and I’m not ashamed to tell him the truth. “I was taken aback by your good looks when you stepped in here, but then you started criticizing my love of British period dramas, and after that you made me sign legal documents and insinuated I was going to rat Violet out to the paparazzi so…” I raise my eyebrows suggestively. “But then you got to know me, right?” he says. “And you found out how charming I am?” I shrug. “You do have your moments.” “Need your help, dear!” Violet shouts from the dressing room. I hustle off to help her secure the fastenings of her hunting ensemble, my mind whirling, trying to make sense of my conversation with Kiran. For someone who’s too busy working, he sure makes time to flirt with me. I hope he’s not one of those men who’s all banter, no action. I set the hat on Violet and pull the netting down to obscure her face. “No one will recognize you, especially inebriated people in poor lighting.” I know what to expect from my partygoers. “I’d love to rent this from you.” Violet preens in front of a full-length mirror, fiddling with the veil. “Now let’s see what we can find for Kiran.”

“I have just the thing.” He studies me warily. “That smile makes me nervous.” “Nothing to be worried about. What I have picked out is perfect for you.” I head into the changing stall that’s farthest away and stare at the mannequin I’ve prepared for him. There’s only one. When I put the outfit together, I felt like it was the perfect choice, but suddenly I’m hesitating, wondering if it’s too much. I pull the mannequin out from the changing stall. “Tah dah!” “Dear God.” His mouth falls open. “Is that a kilt?” Somehow I manage to keep a straight face. “You’re coming to the McBryde house for a party. I think it’s only fair that you dress for the occasion. This kilt belongs to my father. It’s our family’s tartan.” Kiran’s face softens. “It’s your dad’s?” Before I saw Kiran’s reaction, I hadn’t really thought about how loaning him the kilt could be interpreted. It’s an item with significance for my family. It connects to our heritage and traditions. He might think that I’m trying to forge some kind of connection with him by loaning it, but I wasn’t thinking that at the time. I was thinking that I find men in kilts dead sexy. I was objectifying him, just like every woman who sees his perfect face and falls in lust. I’m certainly not going to it that now though. Violet claps her hand together. “He’ll look like Jamie from Highlander! Oh dear, I have to wee, and it’s going to take me ten minutes to get out of this thing. Kiran, try on the kilt.” I assist her once again with the fastenings on her outfit, while Kiran continues staring at the mannequin. Violet disappears into the dressing room to change into her clothing, and I turn to confront him. “What do you think? Are you up for it?” Finally, he answers. “I have a few questions.”

He walks over to stand in front of the mannequin, which means he’s about a foot away from me. Something compels me to inch closer. “Go on.” “First, does your father know I’m going to be wearing his kilt? I don’t want to disrespect your family’s tartan.” I try to suppress a smile. “As you know, he’s not in the states right now, but I emailed him, and he gave his permission for you to wear it.” The actual conversation went like this— Dad: We go away for a month and you’re going through my closet, giving away my clothes? Did you sell the silver too? Me: It was in my closet because I had it dry-cleaned for you. So can he borrow it? Dad: Is he at least a Scotsman? Me: He’s English by nationality and Indian by descent. He lives in London. Do you need his birthday and shoe size too? Dad: I’m not happy about the English part, but fine, he can wear it. Just get it dry-cleaned again if he goes regimental. Kiran and my father are on the same wavelength because the next question he asks me is, “And am I expected to go full Scotsman? You know…” Going regimental and full Scotsman are both euphemisms for wearing nothing under a kilt. As small children, my father taught us about this tradition, and Fiona and I immediately—and secretly—decided to go regimental in our church dresses. When my mother finally figured out what we were giggling about during the service, she was not amused. “I know what it means,” I say. “Go for it, if you’re comfortable letting the boys hang free.” “I think I’d prefer not to seriously chafe the boys, but thank you for lending me

the kilt. I’d be proud to wear it.” His lips slowly curve into a glorious smile, and it makes me swoon. I can only hope that those teenage girls aren’t seeing him right now or I’m going to have to sweep the room for bodies later. He rubs his chin in a thoughtful gesture. “What do you think about having dinner with a man in a kilt before the party starts? That way we could have some time alone. Violet will take forever getting ready anyway.” I come up short of breath. Did he just ask me out on a date? The palms of my hands dampen with sweat. Kiran lays a hand on my arm. “Don’t look so alarmed, Catriona.” I shake my head, trying to dispel the panic surging inside me. “No, I’m fine,” I lie, because apparently honesty isn’t my policy, “but I can’t possibly go out to dinner that night. I’ll be incredibly busy getting the house ready. Maybe you and Violet can come over early and hang out with my sisters and me.” My voice has turned maniacally cheerful. “That would be fun!” You’d think I’d never been asked on a date before. Jim tried to date me before I explained that we were only going to have casual sex, and I had no trouble making that situation clear for him. For some reason, I’m unable to do that with Kiran. Breathless and still in a state of distress, I scurry over to Violet’s dressing stall and direct her to the bathroom. As I hang up her riding outfit, I don’t even let my eyes stray over to Kiran. Dating is not part of the plan. At the party, I’m going to have to make my intentions more obvious. Great sex. Fantasies encouraged and indulged. No strings attached. If he wants to get naked with me, those are the ground rules. No exceptions.

Eleven

Transforming our home into a haunted castle requires quite a lot of effort, not to mention the food and costume work that goes into our party tomorrow night. Rising at the crack of dawn, my first stop of the day is my parents’ shed, where we store all our decorations. Then I order the kegs and run around town borrowing items we don’t have enough of, like lawn chairs and tiki torches. I would love to be touring the countryside with Violet today, but this party isn’t going to happen without my efforts. Meanwhile, Fiona takes off of work to help me, but she spends the entirety of the day messing with the smoke machine, which is broken beyond repair. Skye is at her job, testing ground water and analyzing data, so I’m left on my own to sort through the decorations. By five o’clock, I’m swearing up a storm as I attempt to string orange and purple lights in the branches of our oak tree. The effect of the lights against the night sky will be fabulous if I don’t fall to my death before I finish hanging them. “Hey, Catriona! Getting the house ready?” I turn sideways on the ladder to see Baird strolling up his front walk next to a young woman wearing a halter top, a flowy skirt, and red prayer beads knotted around her wrist. And there it is, a freshly inked yin yang tattoo on her bicep. She bears a strong resemblance to Kate Hudson back in her younger days, but with strawberry blonde hair and shoulders and arms sprinkled with freckles. “You know it. Hope you’ll be there!” I attempt a wave and have to grab onto a branch to steady myself. The girl takes Baird’s hand as they stroll down the sidewalk. He smiles and bends down to say something into her ear. Looks like he found the little miss crunchy to his granola, a much better fit for him than I’d ever be. Locating a branch above my head that’s within reach, I lean forward and toss the lights over it. Fiona is going to feel guilty if I plummet to my death while she’s

screwing around with the smoke machine, although it’s also my own fault for not asking her for help. It’s too late now, as I’m already up here and my phone is at ground level. I want the lights to wind all throughout the tree, and the highest branches are at least three feet above my head. I’ll have to reach up as far as I can, then toss the strand of lights, hoping it loops over its target. As I stretch up, I rise to my toes on the ladder and press my midsection against a thick tree limb to keep my balance. When I feel steady enough, I toss the lights. The momentum of the throw tips me backwards and the ladder tilts with me. I shriek and frantically grab onto the limb with my arms. Before I can scream for help, the ladder slams back into place against the tree and my feet find purchase on it again. Divine intervention or… Breathless and shaky, I turn and look down to see Kiran holding the ladder in place. His eyes are wide and scared, like mine. “What the hell are you doing?” he says sharply. I sag against the tree trunk, hoping he can’t see my legs trembling. “Hanging lights.” My squeaky voice betrays my nerves. “Looks more like you’re trying to get yourself killed.” I take several deep breaths and steady myself emotionally. When I look down again, I’m able to appreciate that for once he’s not in business attire. He’s outfitted for a run, and the breathable fabric of his athletic shirt is clinging to his skin as if he’s worked up a little sweat. The outline of a strong chest is visible, as well as defined biceps that flex as they hold up the ladder. My eyes wander farther down, and hello, I don’t have to wait for the kilt, he’s wearing shorts today. If I attempt a better look at his legs, I’m going to become a fall risk again so I’ll save that until I’m on solid ground. “Thanks for the rescue,” I say. “Good thing you happened to be nearby just now.” “What were you thinking, climbing a ladder without anyone to hold it?” he scolds.

“It wasn’t my finest idea, I’ll it.” I look up at the lights which are tangled in the branches. After all that, they didn’t even make it to their intended destination. “Let me help you hang the lights,” he says. Becoming aware of the sting of new scratches on my arms and cramps in my feet from standing on this ladder for so long, his offer is appealing. As much as I hate to depend on a man, there are times when common sense has to triumph over principle. He’s several inches taller, has a longer reach, and is accustomed to performing daring deeds for a living. There’s much less chance of him plummeting to his death from this ladder than me. “That would be helpful. Thank you, sir.” Kiran holds the ladder steady while I climb down, and I try not to think about the view he’s getting of me from this angle, which is basically all ass. I wore overalls today because that’s what one wears when doing dirty work, but the cut of my dungarees is doing nothing for the shape of my posterior. If a man is getting this type of view of my backside, I’d like to present it in its best light. “You can let go now,” I call down as I descend the last rungs. He doesn’t respond, but I can tell by the stability of the metal beneath my feet that he’s still holding the ladder in place. Even when I reach the ground and stand next to him, he continues gripping one side of it. He seems taller today, probably because I’m wearing high-top sneakers instead of heels. The top of my head only comes up to his chin. “Thanks.” I brush off the bib of my overalls. “Whew. That was an adventure.” He leans toward me, and for a split second I think he’s going in for a kiss. My breath hitches and his face goes blurry as my eyes flutter, preparing to shut. All rational thought departs my brain as my senses get ready for those fine lips to land on mine. Instead of kissing me, Kiran plucks something from the curls of my ponytail, which have a tendency to grab things and not let them go. He holds up a large twig with a waxy green leaf still attached to it. If there is a God, he didn’t see me start to pucker up for him.

“We’ll have to work on your aerial stunts,” he says. Heat radiates off his body from recent exercise, and his face has a glow of sweat to it. Perspiring isn’t supposed to make someone more attractive. Nor should he smell good right now, like citrus and cinnamon, which isn’t the scent of any deodorant I’ve ever seen on the shelf. No one should be this genetically blessed, dammit—it’s simply not fair to the rest of us. “I’d love to learn from a professional. Maybe you can teach me how to roll out of a moving car later. I’ve always wondered how y’all do that.” As I talk, I pat my wild hair, casually seeking out other foliage that might be hiding in it. “For now, if you’d be so kind, just get the lights up there as high as you can so it looks artfully draped. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Fairy lights are forgiving.” He reaches up to take my hand, his eyes darkening with concern. I learned my lesson, and this time I’m not going to expect a kiss, although I’d like one. Turning over my arm, he examines its soft underside. “What happened here?” “A few scratches,” I say, enjoying his warm touch. He captures my other hand and checks that arm for wounds as well, finding the same raw, red streaks on the inside of my wrist. “As a former stuntman, I’m sure you’ve seen worse.” “Hmmm.” He runs his thumbs over my palms, and I wonder what that soft stroke would feel like in other places. His hands are strong but his touch is tender as he checks my injuries with ardent interest. “Looks like it stings. You should clean these scrapes and put some salve on them, then wrap them in gauze later.” The sun is going down, but it’s not the chill in the air that makes me want to press up against the warmth of his chest. The heavy feeling between my thighs is familiar, but there’s also a swirly feeling in my chest that’s less easy to identify. The one is lust and the other is…not something I want to think about right now. I swallow hard and let go of his hands. “It’s really nothing. C’mon, I’ll spot you on the ladder.”

Don’t go attaching feelings to this, Catriona, I warn myself. Don’t mess up what could be a delicious fling. He deftly climbs the ladder and makes easy work of placing the lights across the branches. I enjoy the way his shirt pulls back from time to time to reveal a peek at his bicep and a sliver of his taut abs. It’s delicious torture seeing glimpses of what he looks like under his clothing, a little secret world I hope to be privy to soon, after I make him an offer he can’t refuse. When Kiran is back on terra firma, he brushes his hands together then looks down at me, his dark hair spilling over his forehead. His hair is usually so controlled, gelled back from his face, and this tousled look makes him seem younger. It softens him. “What else can I do?” he asks. “Violet is writing, and I’m not in a rush to get back.” The last thing I want is for him to leave. I haven’t even hinted yet that he should meet me under the Haunted Hemlock tomorrow night. “If you’re willing to stick around, I could use some help hanging the ghost track.” He looks over his shoulder at the house. “Ghost track?” “You’ll see. Unless you’d rather finish your run. I don’t want to take advantage of your kindness.” “Are you joking?” he says. “I’ve already imagined about a thousand ways you could get yourself killed building a ghost track, whatever that is. I’m definitely staying to help.” “I appreciate the help,” I say, “but don’t stay because you’re worried about me. We build it every year and no new ghosts have ever been created in the creation of the ghost track.” I bite my bottom lip. “Did that make any sense?” He smiles and shakes his head. “Strangely, it did.” Fiona jets out the front door, whooping and hollering, and runs toward us across the lawn.

“I fixed it!” She raises her arms over her head, clenching her fists in victory like a prizefighter. “The smoke machine is working again!” “Fabulous!” As peevish as I was about her working on it all day, the smoke machine really does add drama to the staging of our front porch. Sticking out her hand, she says, “We haven’t met yet. I’m Fiona McBryde.” He takes her hand in his, and I’m unreasonably jealous. “Kiran Madan.” “I heard about you.” She glances at me from the corner of her eye. “You meet and exceed expectations.” He raises his eyebrows to silently ask me what she means. “Verbal diarrhea runs in the family,” I explain before turning to my sister. “Kiran is going to help us set up the ghost track.” “Oh my God, I almost forgot about that,” Fiona says. “I want to show you the smoke machine too.” She takes Kiran’s arm and leads him toward her baby. “It has three settings.” We spend the last hour of daylight hanging the wire track that runs from a pine tree next to the house to just above the front door. Then we rig up the ghost that will, at the touch of a button, slide down the wire toward unsuspecting visitors standing on the front steps of my house. It’s really more for the Halloween trickor-treaters next week than it is for the party this weekend. My father, who had a great love of terrifying small children, is the one who created this particular special effect. Without his guidance, the ghost track setup takes more time than usual, but once it’s up and running, it’s worth the effort. Kiran presses the button as we run the ghost track for the third time. “You really go all out for this party,” he says, iration in his voice. “Halloween is our favorite holiday of the year.” I pull my ponytail off my neck and refashion it into a messy bun to cool myself down. “Has been since we were kids.” “We loved to scare each other,” Fiona says with a gleam in her eyes. “We’d sit up at night, trying to see who could tell the scariest ghost story.”

“We’d make haunted houses in our old barn and have seances in our attic with our Ouija board,” I say. “Fiona, the Ghostbusters-themed birthday party you had as a kid?” I turn to Kiran, who’s looking slightly disturbed. “She wanted a Friday the Thirteenth theme, but my mom wouldn’t let her. So she paid me to dress up as Jason and chase around her guests with a plastic machete. My mother was not happy.” “That was a great party,” Fiona says nostalgically. “It’s amazing we had friends after that.” “What are you talking about?” I say. “We were super popular. Everyone wanted to come to our parties back then just like they do now.” “I thought you were a cheerleader in high school,” Kiran says. “I’m getting a very confusing picture here.” “A cheerleader who adored zombies, ghosts, and vampires,” I say. “I’m a complicated woman.” Kiran smiles at me, and my stomach does a flip. “Clearly.” Fiona checks her phone, a frown forming as she reads a text. “Shit. I have to go down to my shop. Some asshole customer is giving Cash a hard time.” Kiran and I say goodbye to her, and I’m secretly glad to see her go. We’ve had fun together this afternoon, but I need some time alone with Kiran to make sure he understands that I’m interested in seeing what’s under his kilt, so to speak. “Have you ever thought of writing gothic romance?” he asks as Fiona drives away on her Vespa. “It would perfectly combine your interests.” I stare at him in amazement. “How did you know? I’ve had this idea for a new series for so long. It’s a feminist take on Gothic horror with lots of sexy ghosts, but I haven’t quite figured out how apparitions have sex. Speaking of period dramas, have you tried on your costume again?” “It fits perfectly,” he says. “I’m still concerned about Violet attending your party though. It has the potential to create so many issues.” Disappointment sits heavy in my stomach, especially after all the fun we’ve had

with costuming and the preparations today, but I keep my voice light. “What’s got you worried?” “Someone could take embarrassing pictures of her and sell them to the media. Hell, a reporter could actually show up at the party and follow her around. It doesn’t sound like you control the guest list.” I tut-tut at his innocence. “Have you ever been to a house party? It’s not like you can totally control anything your guests do.” I tap my lips with my pointer finger. ”Let’s think about this. Do you seriously believe TMZ is going to send a reporter to a Halloween party in Foster’s Creek on the off chance that there’s a celebrity in attendance?” His frown creates a line right above the bridge of his nose. “You think I’m being ridiculous.” “I think that life is short, and you can’t always worry about what could happen. Why not expect the best? You might have a wonderful time at the party. You can also prepare for the worst by sticking close to Violet’s side. I’m sure you have ways to keep her safe in public settings.” It’s Kiran’s turn to scoff at my innocence. “Do you think she regularly walks around in public? She hasn’t done her own grocery shopping in decades. The things we’ve done this past week have been completely out of the norm, and frankly, I’ve experienced quite an uptick in anxiety as a result.” He sighs and runs a hand through his messy hair, and I want nothing more than to wrap him in my arms and give him a comforting hug. His loyalty to her is irable, and I know the task of keeping her safe weighs heavy on him. “I don’t want you to worry,” I say. “She’ll have on her veil. No one needs to know who she is underneath the disguise. That’s the best part about Halloween. You can be whomever you want for one night.” “And who will you be?” he asks. I smile slyly. “That’s a surprise. You’ve already seen part of my costume though. That’s all I’m saying.”

A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. “I have a guess, but I’ll keep it to myself. You may not believe this, but I do like surprises. Well, the good kind. Not teenagers chasing me around with a plastic machete—not that kind of a surprise.” “It’s a good surprise, I promise. And we’ll keep Violet safe.” He nods, but I can see he’s unconvinced. “I should go. Violet and I have dinner plans.” I lay a hand on his wrist, and he glances down to where my fingers meet his skin. “ when you asked me if I was flirting with you to seduce you or just to have fun?” I ask. Kiran blinks, his eyes widening. “Yes, I recall that conversation quite clearly.” “I’m not just playing games, Mr. Madan.” Sure, I could have been less forward, but what’s the point? Confusion isn’t going to get us anywhere quickly, and our time is limited. He moves closer to me, and my hand slides up his arm. “Is that right?” I give his forearm a squeeze, my pulse quickening. “That is my plan. I thought you should know.” His body tenses under my touch. “I’m a little confused.” That wasn’t the response I was expecting, and I pull away from him. “What do you mean?” “I asked you out to dinner, and you looked like you were about to vomit on my shoes,” he says. “Now you’re saying you want to seduce me.” “I said no to a date because I’m not looking to get romantically attached.” My face heats with embarrassment at having to explain this to him. “I don’t need dates and flowers. Just some mutually satisfying sex.” “So what you’re saying is that you only want sex, no emotional connection?” he asks.

My goodness, he’s certainly going to dissect this thing like we’re some kind of case study and not two people with an intense sexual attraction. My embarrassment turns to anger. Why should I be ashamed about how I conduct my life? There’s nothing wrong with enjoying sex outside of a serious relationship. “Friends with benefits doesn’t preclude feelings or emotions. It just means you’re not expecting some kind of long-term commitment or monogamy. That would be unrealistic, especially since you’re leaving here soon and live on another continent.” He shrugs. “For me, sex without a relationship is kind of a been there, done that situation. It’s not interesting to me anymore. At this point, I rather fancy getting to know someone, finding out who they are and what they want in life. What makes them tick. That’s why I invited you out to dinner. When you have intimacy, the sex is always better, don’t you agree?” “No.” I recoil from him. “I don’t. In fact for me, it’s the opposite.” “Sex is better when you don’t care about the person?” he says incredulously. “That’s absurd.” “Did you just call me absurd?” I’m vibrating with anger now. “Not you,” he says crisply, “just your assertion that sex is best when you don’t give a damn about the other person. What are you, a jaded rock star or something?” I cross my arms on my chest. “I think it’s absurd that you want to start dating someone when you’re leaving. What’s your plan here? Get me to fall for you so I’m pining away once you’re gone? What’s the point in that? You move on to some supermodel, and I’m here in Foster’s Creek all mopey and pathetic? Thank you, no.” He stares at me intently, but his eyes are curious now, not heated. I feel naked, like I’ve exposed myself with my words. Honestly, it’s not such an unusual feeling for me, but this time it hurts because it’s a truth I’d rather keep hidden. “I think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves here,” he says softly, and I feel my temper cool alongside his. “You’re cooking up scenarios where I’m breaking

your heart, and in real life we haven’t even kissed yet.” “Maybe we should remedy that.” I sound fragile, not flirty, which is how I feel inside. “You could agree to a fling without strings, and we could have that kiss. No grand emotions attached. Just naked fun between two consenting adults.” “Or maybe you’ll consider my way of thinking.” He skims his hand over my cheek, and his touch lights fires inside me before his warm palm settles on my shoulder. “Maybe you’ll let yourself care for me or it that you already do. Because I already have feelings for you that go beyond my appreciation of your gorgeous body and beautiful face.” He steps closer until there are merely a few inches between us. “And yes, I very much want to have naked fun with you, but I’d like more than that.” He touches his pointer finger to my temple. “I want what’s in here.” He moves his finger to my chest, right above my heart. “And here.” Gulp. I try to keep the quiver from my voice as I say, “That’s a whole lot to ask for, Kiran, Kiran Madan.” He laughs and reaches around to tweak my bun. The one in my hair, unfortunately. “I’m greedy that way. Goodnight, Ms. McBryde.” He strides across my lawn and never looks back, then breaks into a jog, turning into a shadowy form in the twilight. I don’t know where this man came from, but he’s doing things to me that I’m not sure I like. Since when is offering a man great sex not enough? I replay his words in my mind, over and over again, not sure where we left things exactly. What does make sense to me now is why he turned down Tatiana. He’s not interested in picking up women in bars. It’s too easy, too unfulfilling at this point in his life. I can understand how that might get old after a while—beautiful women in every city throwing themselves at you, none of it a challenge anymore. He probably doesn’t have time to cultivate real friendships, since he’s always working and traveling. He mentioned that he doesn’t get to see his family as much as he wants to. Maybe Kiran is lonely. Unlike him, I have friends and family for companionship, and I don’t need a romantic relationship. I guess the question is will I ever let myself want one?

In my dream, I’m the duchess in the opera house sitting in a private balcony at the opera, a young man at my side. He’s my guest for the evening, and with a coy glance over to me, he pretends to drop his opera glasses on the floor in front of my chair. He gets down on his knees, but instead of reaching for the glasses, he reaches for the frothy fabric of my dress and petticoats, ducking his head under my skirts. No one else in the room is one bit the wiser as the young man nuzzles his head between my knees, his curly hair tickling my thighs. He kisses his way upwards until he’s between my legs, licking and kissing my core until I find it nearly impossible to stay in my seat. He continues to pleasure me as I wring the shawl on my lap with my hands, desperate to channel the energy building up inside me while not betraying our secret. Finally, the song soars to its crescendo, the music filling the room, and I let my release happen with a cry that no one else hears. Satiated and breathing heavily, I look out into the audience only to catch the eye of the most devastatingly handsome man in the room. He knows what I’ve done, and regret fills me with a sickening sourness in the pit of my stomach. I’ve made a terrible choice. He’s the one I should have been with, not the young rogue who’s scurrying out from beneath my skirts. The pleasure I felt moments ago was fleeting, and what remains is the heavy darkness of my regret.

Twelve

On the night of our party, the sky is clear and the temperature is in the midsixties—the perfect weather for outdoor revelry. I’m giddy as Fiona and I gather kindling for the fire and sing along to our Halloween music mix at what might be considered an inappropriate volume. The weather is perfect, my costume is on point, and I’ve made a decision about Kiran. I’m going for it. I’m not sure exactly what last night’s dream meant, except that if I don’t act on my feelings for him, I’m going to be sorry I didn’t. If he thinks he can resist Sybil Faversham in a corset, I wish him well. “Did you bring the matches, Sybil?” Fiona asks. She’s really been getting into character this evening, even adopting a new jaunty walk. I totally love it. “Got ’em, Hester.” I pull a book of matches from the pocket of my tight-fitted leather jacket. We’ve been annoying Skye all day long. In addition to our singing, we’ve been speaking in British accents, and Fiona keeps looking at everyone through her monocle. At this point, Skye is ready to impale both of us with her lightsaber. She’ll feel less uptight after a few glasses of the incendiary punch I prepared this afternoon. If anyone lights a match above it, I’m pretty sure we’ll be looking at a fireball situation. Our steampunk costumes turned out fabulously, and they have the bonus of being comfortable too. I’m wearing the wine-colored corset on top of an off-theshoulder white blouse. My full black skirt isn’t actually Victorian era, but it’s able, and I hitched up one side and pinned it with a brooch so there’s a peekaboo of my patterned black stockings and granny boots. On my head, I’m wearing a black top hat decorated with a vibrant peacock feather. I made Fiona’s costume a touch more masculine—brown pants and a tight black shirt under a brown leather corset. Slung across Fee’s waist is a leather belt with metal embellishments and a holster for her ray gun. On her head, she’s wearing

welding goggles, which really make the outfit, in my opinion. It’s times like these I wish we had a costume contest at the party because our outfits are winners. I light the logs in the fire pit, and Fiona slings an arm around my shoulder. “I know I say this every year,” she says, “but I can’t believe we pulled this together.” We survey the scene in our backyard, marveling at what we’ve accomplished in the last week. The hedges are strung with orange and purple lights, the same as the ones I hung in the trees out front. The back deck is surrounded by glowing tiki torches and jack-o’-lanterns seated on old tree stumps. There are metal washtubs full of kegs and a miniature coffin holding plastic cups. Fiona’s beloved smoke machine is on the front porch now, accompanied by eerie music, candles flickering in mason jars, and, of course, the ghost track. “Is it weird to feel like there actually might be ghosts that walk among us on Halloween night?” I ask Fiona. “It just feels that way.” A delicious chill runs down my spine. “I hope they do,” she says. “Ghosts deserve to have a little fun too. I like to think about our dead family and friends coming back to us. Uncle Duane would have loved our Halloween parties.” “Duane was the life of every party,” I say. “He would have been the first to arrive and the last to leave.” We watch the fire start to catch, its flames curling like cats’ tails around the wood. Lots of people will congregate back here, drinking beer, telling stories, and enjoying the crisp night air. We even set up a little sound system and stage for karaoke. “I wonder what Mom and Dad are doing right now,” I say. “Five hours ahead, they’re probably asleep.” “Tomorrow is their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary,” she says. “Can you imagine? Thirty-five years of marriage to the same person?” I bump her with my hip. “We’ve been together thirty years. That’s almost as

long.” “We didn’t have much of a choice about that until we were adults.” “And look at us now.” I gesture toward the house. “Domestic sisterly bliss.” “It’s a pretty great situation.” She glances over at me then back at the fire. “But you might get serious about someone someday and want more privacy. Hell, you might even decide to have a guy move in with you. And that’s okay. Skye and I will be fine.” “What made you think of that?” I ask, surprised that she’d ever considered moving out of this house. “I’m not interested in living with a man, and I’m certainly never getting married again.” “Because of what happened with Lawson?” Her words chafe, probably because they’re true, but I’m not ready to it it. “I’m not freaked out because of my divorce. That’s ancient history.” She gives me a doubtful look. “It is. I barely think about him anymore.” Fiona sighs and kicks the toe of her boot against a rock wedged in the ground. “Just because you don’t consciously think about him all the time doesn’t mean he isn’t still in your head. Believe me, Dickhead Dean messed me up real good.” Any time she talks about Dean, it fills me with rage. Lawson lied to me, and to himself, about who he was, but he was never intentionally abusive. “In what way?” I have my own opinions on the topic, but I want to hear hers. “If I chose to be with someone that awful…then maybe I shouldn’t be allowed to select my own partners. I’m a menace to myself.” I feel her words deep in my bones. I chose to marry a gay man. What did that say about my ability to pick romantic partners? Sure, I didn’t know for certain Lawson was gay, but there were signs that I ignored. The truth was that I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to be aimless after graduation when everyone else seemed to have a plan so I married the person who asked me. I put an arm around her and pull her close. “I trust that you’ll make a good

choice next time because you learned from that experience. You’ve changed, Fiona. You’re not that same person who fell for Dean.” I give her a little shake. “You’re Fiona 2.0. Smarter. Sober. Stronger.” She winds her arm around my waist and leans her head on my shoulder. “Thanks, Sybil. I needed to hear that.” I think I needed to hear it too. “No worries, Hester. Now let’s go annoy Skye by talking about zeppelins and wormholes until our guests arrive.”

As usual, the party begins with a thin crowd and then right around ten o’clock, there’s an influx of people. The music gets turned up, the punch starts flowing, and it’s party time. I’m doling out drinks when I spot someone in the kitchen doorway standing tall and proud in a helmet and armor. “Fiona!” I shout across the room. I point toward none other than the Mandalorian, the one man Skye said could tempt her this evening. His face is obscured, of course—even I know Mando never shows his face—but that only makes him more intriguing and appealing. It’s a quality outfit that could be worn, dare I say, to a Star Wars convention. As usual, my mind races ahead to where this guy proposes to my sister at Galaxy’s Edge two years from now, right in front of the Millennium Falcon or whatever ship Mando flies. She deserves that kind of joy. Fiona spots him and raises her fist in the air as she beams at me. She’s completely surprised by his appearance which means neither of us planned this, it’s simply fate. Or maybe a little Halloween magic. I head to the living room to find my little sister, but get sidetracked when I spot Violet walking through my front door. “Welcome!” I call out to her. “Come on in.” Once again, I’m amazed at how good her riding costume looks. She added a pair of tall leather boots and a riding crop, which she raises to wave hello when she sees me. Kiran is close behind her, looking dashing in his kilt, white shirt, and knee-high socks. The outfit emphasizes his leanly muscled body, but it’s not only his looks that make him magnetic. He’s exuding that Highlander badass attitude, which he comes by naturally. What I thought was arrogance when I met him that first day is simply self-confidence and inner strength. He could be dressed as Voldemort or Tiger King tonight, and he’d still be hotter than anyone else here. Fiona is right—women are going to be throwing themselves at him, but I’m going to make sure he ends up with me. “Your house is incredible,” Violet says before raising her veil and kissing me on both cheeks. “I haven’t been in America for Halloween in years, and I forgot how you lot go all out.”

Kiran pulls the veil back down over her face then smiles at me. ”Good evening, Catriona.” He makes my name sound buttery delicious. I tip up on my toes to give him kisses on both cheeks, savoring the feeling of my lips against his smoothly shaven jaw. He smells incredible, like sandalwood and spice, and it takes all my willpower to place only those two chaste kisses before pulling away. “Hello, Kiran. You look amazing.” His eyes scan over my costume then linger on my corset, and I swear my nipples stand at attention in response. “As do you.” He leans in and whispers, “I’m glad I guessed right.” “I can’t wait to sample your famous punch.” Violet rubs her hands together. “Lead us to it.” I extend my arm toward the living room, which isn’t crowded but is still probably too full for Kiran’s liking. “Right this way.” The crystal bowl of red punch is being kept cold by ice cube eyeballs that bob to the surface when I dip in the ladle. After serving Violet a cup of punch, I make one for myself. Kiran pours himself a glass of water instead. I don’t need to ask why he’s not imbibing this evening. I already know how seriously he takes his work. “How is the ghost track operating?” he asks. “Like a dream. I’ve run it a few times tonight. Nearly scared the pants off of Thing One and Thing Two. If you want to give it a try, you can.” “Maybe in a little while.” His eyes dart around the room as if he’s assessing risks. I try to look at the scene around us from an outsider’s point of view. Certainly, there’s nothing to concern him. My friends Andie and Seth have removed their animal masks and are canoodling on the couch. Fiona is loudly regaling a cute panda bear with the tale about a client who wanted her dog’s face tattooed on her ass. My friend Eli is tossing olives in the air so that Shep, another Grisham boy,

can catch them in his mouth. Some of the olives bounce off his face and roll under the piano, something I need to later so they don’t decompose under there and emit foul smells. ittedly, it’s not a highbrow event, but everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. As we sip our drinks, the Mandalorian strides into the living room, black cape floating behind him, and suddenly I my mission. “I need to find my sister Skye right quick,” I tell them. “I’ll be back. Mingle and have fun!” I make my way through the kitchen, which has gotten exponentially more crowded in the last fifteen minutes. As usual, everyone decided to be fashionably late at the same time. It’s a sea of cheek kisses, hugs, and high fives as I greet new guests and search for my sister. I finally locate her curled up in an Adirondack chair near the fire pit, chatting with our cousin Gaddy who is even more introverted than she is. “Skye!” I curl a finger to beckon her. “There’s someone I need you to meet. Come inside with me.” She looks over at Gaddy who smiles and says something I can’t hear. Reluctantly, she unfurls from her chair and lopes across the lawn. “Who?” Her suspicion is adorable. I hook my arm through hers in case she attempts a getaway. “ how you said you were not interested in hooking up with anyone at this party?” I let go of her so she can enter the back door. “Yes.” She draws the word out like she’s afraid she might regret it. Back inside, I claim her arm again and steer her through the kitchen. “But then you said if the Mandalorian made an appearance, you’d make an exception.” We’re at the entrance to the living room now, and she spots him dancing with a lumberjack and a cheerleader. Good thing I have a grip on her arm because she attempts an escape.

“Nope, no way,” she whines. “Why not? It’s Mando! Live a little, Skye.” She turns toward me, outraged. “You and Fiona paid someone to dress up as him.” I understand why she thinks we’d do something as devious yet well-intentioned as that, and I’m glad I can reassure her that this time we took the high road. “I promise we didn’t. He just showed up here.” She stares at me skeptically. “I swear, Skye. It’s fate.” She turns to look at him again and when she does, he’s looking back at her. At least I think he’s looking back at her. Who can really tell with that helmet? “Sure, we have no idea what he looks like,” I whisper, “but it’s worth finding out.” “Shhh,” she scolds me. “What? I’m whispering.” “Your whisper is not a whisper,” she says through clenched teeth. Not the first time I’ve been told this. I focus on lowering my voice. “Sorry. We have to take this opportunity though. Punch bowl for some liquid courage?” She nods, her eyes still wide and scared. “Punch bowl.” We head over to the refreshments, and she sips a cup of punch while munching on a pumpkin-shaped butter cookie. While she drinks, I scan the room for Violet and Kiran, who are nowhere in sight. I feel a tug on my sleeve and turn to see my friend Andie hiding behind me. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is that Officer Vega?” she says. “Over by the fireplace.”

I look across the room and sure enough, there’s Alex Vega, one of Foster’s Creek’s finest, although he’s not in his police uniform tonight. He’s dressed as Clark Kent with his white button-down halfway open and a Superman T-shirt peeking out from underneath. With the dark-framed glasses, slicked-up hair, and tie askew, he looks more like a hot nerd than a superhero, although I suppose Clark Kent was both. “Sure is.” Then it dawns on me. “Oh, honey, I’m sure he doesn’t even .” When Andie first came to Foster’s Creek she got wasted at Ricky’s Bar and Grill and was still pounding drinks at the closing bell, assuming she could call an Uber. Being from NYC, she didn’t realize that’s not always an option out here. Officer Vega had to give her a lift home in his squad car, and Andie has been hiding from him ever since. She finally ventures out from behind me, and Alex glances over at us, a little smile on his face. “He totally re!” she hisses in my ear. “You’re being paranoid,” I say. “I’m sure he’s had a professional encounter of one sort or another with at least a third of the people at this party.” “Still humiliating.” Andie points across the room toward the Mandalorian. “That’s a great costume.” Skye reaches across me and bats Andie’s arm down. “Don’t point!” Andie questions me with her eyes, and I give a slight shake of my head. “Sorry, Skye,” Andie says. “I’m going to skulk out of here and hide from Officer Vega in the backyard.” As Andie leaves, Skye slams her empty plastic cup on the table so hard that it bounces onto the floor. “I think I’m ready.” I squeeze Skye’s hand. “Just have fun. Walk over there and introduce yourself.” She takes a long breath in and lets it out slowly. “I’m going in.”

I give her a pat on the back as she heads into a battle against her social anxiety. At first, she stands about five feet away from Mando, and I try to will her the courage to get closer. At a painfully slow pace, she sidles his way until they’re about a foot apart. He turns in her direction, and whatever he says puts a surprised smile on her face and makes her shoulders relax. From that point on they’re engaged in conversation, moving closer together, their body language suggesting interest on both sides. I hold myself back from fist pumping the air. Go, Skye, go! I leave my sister and Mando to search the backyard for Kiran and Violet, and sure enough I find my theatrical friend on our makeshift stage with a microphone in her hand singing the karaoke version of The Cranberries song “Zombie.” The stage is only two feet off the ground, which is a good thing because she keeps dancing near the edge, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she’s in danger of falling off. Kiran is standing nearby, watching her with a pained expression as if he is all too aware that she’s about to take an accidental stage dive. Her singing is nothing short of dreadful, but no one seems to mind, particularly not Dale and Jeff, two of the Grisham boys, who are whooping it up for her. When the song ends, they call for an encore, and she smiles and yells to the DJ, my friend Tara, to play “Thriller.” I’ve heard this song at least three times this evening, but it’s always a Halloween favorite, at least it was before Violet sang it. There’s a collective cringe amongst the crowd as she attempts a high note. Since Kiran seems preoccupied with protecting Violet, I move to stand next to Dale Grisham, hoping to discover why he and his cousin are such fans of her. “Great party, Cat, as always,” he says before chugging the rest of his beer. “It does bother me that you didn’t wear costumes”—I stare pointedly at his Carhartt overalls—“but seeing as you appreciate Violet so much, I’ll let it slide.” Jeff leans over his brother to say to me, “She’s awesome, right? That woman knows more about muscle cars than any lady I’ve ever met.” “She’s a muscle car expert?” I look up at Violet who is now doing the zombie dance from the Thriller video.

“Absolutely,” Dale says. “Muscle cars, luxury cars, GTs. She’s a fucking gem. Did you know she owns a 1962 Ferrari GTO? She said if we visit her in LA, she’ll let us drive it.” I try to imagine the Grisham boys in LA, but it’s impossible. They would blend in as well as Kiran at the Brunswick stew sale in his fancy pants and expensive leather shoes. Then again, blending in has never been my style either. “That’s mighty sweet of her,” I say. Dale makes fanboy eyes at Violet. “It really is.” A young woman standing nearby whips out her phone to start filming Violet’s performance. She might not even recognize her as someone famous, but merely sees an opportunity to post an embarrassing party video. Before she can record anything, Kiran darts over to stand directly in front of her raised phone. He says something to her that I can’t hear, and she lowers the phone, her face puckering with annoyance until she focuses in on the man speaking to her. Kiran. Kiran Madan. Faster than a knife through hot butter, her expression melts into simpering softness. He says something that she seems to think is hilarious and pushes her hand against his chest. Knowing Kiran, it was probably a sarcastic remark at her expense, but he used big words and she didn’t get it. I’m not surprised by her interest. Plenty of ladies around the fire pit are eyeing his toned calves in that kilt, but he’s oblivious to their attention, or at least he’s acting that way. Satisfied that Violet is no longer at risk of ending up on YouTube, he stands next to the woman instead of in front of her. She’s clearly still trying to get his attention, touching his arm and whispering things in his ear, but from what I can tell, he’s ignoring her. I can’t lie; it makes me happy to see it. Thriller finally ends—it must have been the long cut—and the Grisham boys help Violet off the stage, probably saving her from a nasty fall and me from a lawsuit. Then Jeff Grisham hands her a shot, which seems like a bad idea, but I’m not her mama so who am I to intervene? Kiran isn’t making a move to stop her either, and he’s basically her chaperone. Tabby and Everett take the stage next and begin singing “Superstition” by Stevie Wonder as I toss another log on the fire pit. Everett is too annoying with his church choir voice and white man dance moves, trying to overshadow his wife’s

beautiful soprano stylings. How Tabby can stand him, I’ll never know. I cruise over to Kiran and bump up against his side. “We’re up next. We’re doing a duet of ‘Somebody’s Watching Me’ by Rockwell.” “I don’t sing in public.” Keeping his eyes on Violet, he slides an arm around my waist. “But I’d love to watch you up there.” I wave a hand in front of his face. “Are you sure you’ll even see me? You seem pretty fixated on your boss.” Kiran looks down at me and pulls me closer. “I’m sorry. I know we’re at a party, but I’m working. I have to keep an eye on her.” “I know.” I snuggle against him as he goes back to watching Violet do another shot with Jeff. If he were drinking this evening, I’d wonder if this new physical affection from him was alcohol induced. “The best we can hope for is that she es out soon, and we can put her in your bedroom for the night,” he says grimly. Considering how green she turned when she was hungover, I don’t really want her in my bed. “Maybe you can take her home and come back here alone.” Kiran’s sigh doesn’t sound hopeful in the least. “Maybe.” As Tabby and Everett exit the stage, I call out my song choice to Tara who gives me a thumbs-up. Tara is only slightly less socially awkward than my cousin Gaddy, which is why she prefers to woman the karaoke machine at our parties. I step up on stage, not realizing that I’m being dogged by Violet until she shows up on the stage next to me and throws an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s do a duet, darling.” Her breath is one hundred proof vodka. Before I can respond, the synthesizer music starts playing, and my hips take on a life of their own. I never could resist a good beat. My friends start whistling and hollering their encouragement, and I feel my stage persona take over.

I point my mic at Kiran. “This song is dedicated to the sexy Highlander.” At least that gets a smile out of him. My singing is only marginally better than Violet’s, but my dancing is far less embarrassing. It’s hard to tell if she’s trying to twerk or if she’s thrown out her back. I spot Fiona and Skye laughing so hard that they’re leaning on each other to stay upright. Kiran is laughing, too, and that makes me ridiculously happy. He deserves to have fun, and it’s my mission tonight to make sure that happens. When the song ends, Violet grabs my hand and as she bows, I curtsey. The crowd in the backyard goes wild, and I look around to see we’re being filmed by multiple people holding up their phones. Kiran, who lost himself in the moment, finally notices it, too, and he’s grim faced again. Dammit. This time there’s nothing he can do about it. Too many people, too many cameras. Even in her drunken state, his disapproval s with Violet. “He looks miserable. Can you be a love and take him off my hands for a little while?” she whispers in my ear. Sweet Moses. Light a match near this woman’s mouth and her breath would set off an explosion. She clasps her hands in prayer. “Please, darling? I need a break from my warden.” I rub her back between her shoulder blades. “Sybil Faversham will take care of this, honey. Don’t you worry.”

Thirteen

Before I can warn Violet that last summer Dale Grisham had a case of crabs that got ed around the county, she dismounts the stage with the speed and agility of a woman half her age and twice her sobriety and heads straight for him. Kiran trails her across the lawn, and I literally leap into action, hopping off the stage and handing my mic to a random guy in a chicken suit. As I follow Kiran in the back door of the house, hot on Violet’s heels, I tug on his arm. “It’s okay to give her a little more leash. She’ll be fine.” Kiran continues moving through the kitchen crowd, trying to look over everyone’s heads. “The last time I gave her a little more leash, she went running with the bulls in Pamplona.” An unseen hand reaches out and gropes my ass, and I jump like a cat on tinfoil. “Hey! Who goosed me?” Spinning around, I spot the likely culprit, a tall man in a gladiator costume, trying to make his getaway out the back door. My guess is confirmed when he calls out over his shoulder, “Hey, sweet cheeks!” Warrick Newton. Sleazy local realtor and error in judgment from my past. Fortunately, several of the band Kiss enter through the back door as Warrick is trying to exit, and he can’t easily escape past four hulking men in spiky shoulder pads. I pick up a candy apple to toss at his helmeted head, but while I’m taking aim, Kiran flies into action. In seconds, Warrick is face first against the kitchen wall, one of his arms twisted tightly behind his back to keep him there. “You owe the lady an apology,” Kiran says through gritted teeth. “Sorry.” Warrick’s voice is strained and muffled, but I feel no pity for him.

Knowing that I’m still nearby, he pleads, “Catriona, get this guy off me.” I could tell Kiran to let him go, but Warrick doesn’t deserve a reprieve. “Honey, I’m going to have him toss you out the back door. I don’t recommend coming back through it, you hear?” Warrick swears and starts to sass me, but I don’t hear much of it before Kiran rams the door open with his foot and launches Warrick outside like shot from a cannon. He lands on the grass with a thud and rolls to a stop. “You heard the lady,” Kiran says. “Shove off.” Warrick swears some more, but he shuffles off into the night with his tail between his legs. That should be the last time he tries to “sweet cheek” me. “That was heroic,” I say, batting my eyes. “But if you’re going to chase down every guy who pinches my ass without asking, it will become your full-time job.” Unfortunately, I’ve reminded him of his actual job, and he gets that worried look in his eyes again. “We need to find Violet. Things go south when she’s this drunk.” I follow him through the kitchen and into the dining room where there’s a game of beer pong taking place, but no Violet to be found. We round the corner into the living room, but she’s not there either. He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead. “Shit. Where is she?” The frustration in his voice makes my chest hurt. He’s on chaperone duty all the time, even at a party on a Saturday night. Does the man ever get a day off? “Let’s see if she ducked into the mudroom.” I pull him back toward the kitchen. “If not, we’ll look on the front porch and in the yard until we find her.” He grumbles but takes the hand I’m offering and follows me back to the kitchen and into the small room that leads to the side yard. It’s the place where I store cat food, sun hats, and rain boots. Currently, there’s no one in it. “Sorry, I thought she might be making out with a Grisham in here,” I say.

Kiran sags against the wall. “This is absurd. I’m chasing around a fifty-six-yearold woman. And no, she’s not fifty-four like she tells everyone,” he says bitterly. “I’ve seen her port.” If Kiran is giving away Violet’s secrets, I know he’s pissed. “Violet is an adult. If someone takes embarrassing photos of her doing karaoke, is that really your fault? Are you supposed to confiscate every phone at the party?” “She makes it nearly impossible to protect her.” There’s a look of defeat in his eyes. He rubs his temples with his index fingers. “I’m getting a headache.” “I don’t think she’s in imminent danger,” I say, “except of possibly making an ass out of herself, same as half the people here.” Before he can respond, Fiona barrels into the mudroom and corners me. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.” She gives me the hard stare that she uses to intimidate people into telling the truth. “Did you invite my nemesis to this party?” I balk at this ridiculous statement. “What are you talking about? Dickhead Dean? Of course not.” “Not Dean.” Her face twists into an ugly expression. “Officer Vega. He strolled into our kitchen a minute ago with his sister Camila.” Poor Alex. No one wants to see him here tonight, but in this case the dislike is mutual. Fiona and Alex’s feud began in high school when he was a junior ROTC cadet and she was a delinquent. In adulthood, their contempt deepened with each speed trap she blew through and every traffic ticket he issued to her. Nemesis is one of the nicer words I’ve heard her call him. “Did most people here receive a direct invitation?” I ask her. “No. Who knows how he heard about it?” “I can guess how he knew about the party.” Color floods her cheeks. “He re issuing us a noise citation last year!” “That was him?” I ask.

I still have a hand on Kiran’s arm, and I feel him tighten up like a spring. “The police show up at your parties?” I grip onto him tighter, afraid he’s about to bolt after hearing the news. “Only some years.” His voice rises an octave. “Some years? How many of them? I can’t have Violet getting arrested at a house party!” Now I’m getting a headache. “Both of you, listen to me. Alex isn’t giving us a noise citation when he’s here as a guest.” I look up at Kiran. “And even if he did, no one is going to get arrested. I think you need to let go and have some fun for one night in your life. Nothing terrible is going to happen to Violet at my house.” He doesn’t look convinced, but I have a few other tricks to make him relax. I turn my attention to Fiona. “And he’s not bothering you, so just avoid him and enjoy the party. Kicking him out will create a big scene and ruin the evening for both of you.” Fiona makes a few irritated clicks and huffs before saying, “Fine, he can stay, but when he catches you in one of his nasty little speed traps next week, don’t come crying to me.” She turns to leave, but then stops and waves her hand in the air. “Oh, and y’all are under the Haunted Hemlock. You know the rules.” Fiona stomps away, and Kiran and I both look up at the bouquet of black leaves tied with silver ribbon hanging from the ceiling. “What rules?” he asks. I’d forgotten where Skye hung the Haunted Hemlock this year. Or did I subconsciously when I led him in here? “It’s our version of Christmas mistletoe,” I explain. “If you’re under the Haunted Hemlock with someone, you have to kiss.” Kiran glances up again and smiles. “Is that why you brought me in here, Miss McBryde? You wanted to kiss me?” I press a hand to my chest. “Who, me?”

“Hmmm.” The sound of that hum in his mouth causes a vibration inside of me from my chest to my knees. Please don’t let him decide he needs to run off again, chasing his boss around the party. I place my hands on his strong shoulders, my fingers playing with the fabric of his shirt. “You should know from your background check that I am a straightforward, pull-no-punches kind of woman. If I wanted to kiss you, I wouldn’t need a silly Halloween trick to do it.” My corset feels tight again as my breathing becomes shallower. “What would you do if you wanted to kiss me?” he asks in a voice that’s low and deep. When I lean toward him, my bosom brushes against his shirt, and it’s sensory overload. My nipples are awake and at attention, and they’re telling the rest of my nerve endings to get ready because good things are coming their way. “I’d just do it.” But I don’t have to because he leans down, wrapping his hand around the nape of my neck and directing my mouth toward his. His lips are as sweet as I thought they would be, and once I’ve gotten a little taste I’m ready to eat him up. Our kisses are slow and deep, wet and a little dirty. I capture his sensuous bottom lip between my teeth for a little nip, and he must like it because he makes a primal noise in his throat before using his other hand to grip my backside and pull me closer against him. At that point, I feel exactly what he’s hiding under his kilt and, dear Lord, I wonder if he’s gone regimental. Our tongues play teasing games as his hand slides up my neck and into my hair. Pausing our kisses, he walks me backwards until my spine is pressed against the wall. I’m standing between a bag of Kitty Kibbles and a mop bucket, but I couldn’t be more turned on if we were in a luxury box at the opera. “Good sir,” I say breathlessly. “Is that your sword I feel or are you just happy to see me?” He buries his head in the crook of my neck and takes a gentle bite. “This is no time for jokes.” I can feel him smiling as he trails kisses down to my collarbone.

When he gets there, he slides my fitted leather jacket off my shoulders, and I wriggle out of it, letting it fall to the floor. As our kisses grow wetter and less controlled, my corset starts to feel too confining. I reach around and try to unlace it to give my lungs more space to inhale air, but it’s hard to coordinate that movement with kissing. And I’m not taking my mouth away from his for anything. “I need to loosen this,” I say breathlessly. “Let me help.” His hands slide down the laces on the back of my corset, straight to the bottom where there’s a bow holding it closed. He gently tugs the string on the bow so it falls open. Then he begins to set me free. His fingers tease open each level of the laces, sliding under the ribbon and wiggling it loose. As he works patiently on me, he lowers his head to kiss my cleavage, his tongue dancing along the seam between my breasts that’s revealed by my off-the-shoulder blouse. It’s about the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced, his mouth kissing and licking as his hands work the laces of my corset. Unable to keep myself from touching him, I untuck his shirt and slide my hands over his rock-hard abs. His skin is warm and smooth except for the line of hair down the middle that runs down into his kilt. He shivers under my touch, and that lights a fire at the junction of my thighs. As soon as I’m free, I want his hands and mouth all over me. I didn’t wear a bra because the corset provides plenty of , but that means once it’s loose, my breasts hang heavy and free. His hands come to the front of the corset, pulling it away so that my breasts are barely concealed by the fabric of the white blouse. My nipples are clearly visible, rosy pink and puckering, begging for his touch. “Yes,” I moan, as his hands begin to pull down the elastic at the neck of my blouse. “Kiran!” Tabby’s scream resounds through the room. We break apart, breathless, to find her wild-eyed in the doorway of the mudroom. Thankfully, the blouse has me at least partially covered, but I quickly pull the corset closer to my chest.

“Come with me!” she demands. “Violet is about to get herself killed or arrested. Maybe both!” As I hurry to throw on my jacket for coverage, I run after Kiran and Tabby, heading toward the living room. It seems like since we went into the mudroom, everyone has converged into this one area of the house—the small space between kitchen and living room. Kiran takes the lead, scattering everyone like paper dolls with his bold strides. Tabby moves behind him and I follow in their wake. Once I have a clear view of the situation, it’s obvious why the doorways and the periphery of the living room are so crowded. Everyone has cleared out of the center to give space to Violet, who’s brandishing her riding crop. Her face is in full view, hat and veil nowhere to be seen. The only other person inside the inner circle is Catwoman, who’s wielding a leather whip and is partially masked and unidentifiable. It’s not the Catwoman costume from my shop, but a cheap party-store version. We’ve got a riding crop and a whip. Under different circumstances I’d be making a joke about this being a freaky dominatrix showdown. Kiran looks positively apoplectic though, and this is no time for humor. I expect him to surge into action, but instead he takes a deep breath and inches forward, his hands up in front of him, palms forward. “Think about what you’re doing, Violet.” His voice is low and tense, but amazingly calm. “It’s not worth it.” “This little tart insulted me,” Violet crows, pointing her crop at Catwoman. “I said she looked like a dried-up old turkey leg,” Catwoman its. “And I apologize for insulting turkeys!” I’d know that screechy voice anywhere. Violet has taken on Brittany Roundtree, Shep Grisham’s longtime girlfriend—not that he’s faithful to her. This is a very bad choice unless Violet wants her earrings ripped out of her head. “I will have my satisfaction.” Violet brandishes her crop menacingly, nearly knocking over a lamp. “On guard.” Violet swats at Brittany just as Kiran leaps into the ring of danger and attempts to grab the riding crop from his boss’s hand. She dodges left and leaps onto a wingback chair in a marveling display of agility for a woman her age.

His calm voice is now scolding and harsh. “Come down from there or I’m tossing you over my shoulder and carrying you out of here.” Oh my. I need him to talk to me in that stern voice later tonight. Kiran can’t see behind him to know that Brittany has raised her Catwoman party-store whip and is about to take a crack at Violet. Fortunately, Officer Alex Vega bursts through the crowd and grabs her arm midsnap. “Get off of me!” Brittany yells as she tries to escape his grasp. They grapple and Alex takes a sharp elbow to the nose. The crowd gasps in response as he stumbles backwards, clearly in pain. Oh shit. Brittany just clocked an officer of the law. Probably not the first time for her. “This is getting out of hand, y’all!” I call out to them. “Everyone needs to settle the hell down.” Violet relaxes her shoulder and drops the arm holding her weapon, signaling that she’s going to dismount the chair peaceably. Kiran takes a step back, but then, instead of stepping down, Violet leaps into the air like some kind of WWE wrestler and lands on top of Brittany. I gasp and grab onto Tabby at the same moment she grabs onto me. The women brawl on the ground, Alex is wounded and out of the melee now, bleeding freely from his nose, and Kiran is trying to separate the women without getting punched, slapped, or kicked. It’s not easy—they’re seriously going at it. Brittany rolls Violet onto her back and mounts her so she can pin her opponent to the floor and pummel her face. Violet holds her arms around her head in what looks like a practiced defensive move. Before Brittany can land many punches, Kiran grabs her around the middle and hauls her off of Violet. I’m tensed with fear because subduing Brittany isn’t going to be easy. The woman fights like a wildcat. Better late than never, Shep Grisham appears and helps Kiran get Brittany pinned to the ground. Violet isn’t a problem at the moment. She’s lying down, breathing hard, and looking like she’s out of gas. Brittany strains against the men holding her down, giving one last jerk of her body to get free. The final kick of

her right leg sends her high heel shoe flying through the air, and we all watch as it sails in what seems like slow motion, arcing high before descending. On the way down, her shoe crashes into the candelabra on the food table. Three tall taper candles topple over and ignite a stack of napkins and the paper tablecloth. The flames are fairly low, and Fiona, who’s nearest the table, grabs a random cup and tosses the contents of it onto the conflagration. Under normal circumstances, that would be the end, but the liquid she tossed onto the flames was 100 proof vodka punch. With a burst of orange and yellow, the flames spark higher. Before I can move toward the kitchen to get the fire extinguisher, Gandalf—also known as my hairdresser, Randall—whips off his cape and smothers the flames. The crowd bursts into applause, and Randall sweeps down into a bow, reveling in his moment of heroism. With the girl fight derailed and Brittany in Shep’s grip, Kiran takes his chance to pull Violet to her feet and hoist her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She doesn’t even resist. He heads for the front hallway without a backwards glance, which kind of hurts, but I understand. Shep has his arms wrapped tightly around Brittany’s waist, but as she tries to shake him off she delivers one final threat. “If you come near Shep again, me and you are gonna mix, bitch!” Even if she’s half ed out, Violet must have heard Brittany’s warning. If she’s smart, she’ll heed it. Brittany was one of the scary girls in high school who ruled the girls’ bathroom and put a hurting on anyone who so much as looked at her boyfriend. And yes, it was Shep Grisham even back then. Dude has been stringing her along for fifteen years. My guests seem both relieved and disappointed that the fight and the fire are over. This excitement will give them something to talk about for weeks to come. Over time, the story will become inflated until they have the women naked and wrestling in mud, and the fire will be an inferno, no doubt. I spot Dale Grisham wearing Violet’s hat, which explains where that got to, and I quickly repossess it. “This was rented,” I tell him coldly. He throws an arm around my shoulder and slurs into my ear, “Don’t be pissed off, Cat. At least it’s a party no one will ever forget.”

I suppose he’s right about that, although the evening was about to get memorable for me in ways that were much more appealing than a living room brawl and a house fire. ing my hosting duties, I check on Alex, who’s alone in the bathroom holding a pack of ice on his face. He’s perched on the toilet seat, lid closed, of course. “Good,” I say. “I was just going to get you something for that nose. How is it?” He lifts the cold pack for a moment, and I realize it’s one of Fiona’s derby socks stuffed with ice. Sweet mercy, I hope that thing was clean before she packed it full of ice and handed it to him. You never know when it comes to Fiona and Alex Vega. “I don’t think it’s broken,” he says. “And I don’t really want to go to the ER and explain what happened.” I can understand why that might be embarrassing, but he must realize that by tomorrow everyone will know that he got punched in the face by Brittany Roundtree. Maybe he’s in denial, and I’m happy to leave him that way. “I’m so sorry, Alex.” “It’s fine.” He leans his elbows on his knees and presses the ice pack on his nose again. “I knew what I was risking when I attended the McBryde Halloween party.” I smile and cringe at the same time. “Maybe we should rethink unlimited access to the party and try keeping it a bit more…controlled next year.” Even with the ice pack in the way, I can tell he’s smiling. “Good luck with that.” Folks begin to migrate outdoors, and it looks like the party is ending, which is fine by me. As the stragglers enjoy one last cup of punch, my sisters and I survey the damage. “I think we lucked out,” I say. “That fire could have been worse, and they didn’t break any lamps over each other’s heads. All in all, we got off easy.”

Fiona pulls the goggles off her forehead, but they’ve left behind indentations. “I’ve seen a lot of crazy things at our parties, but that’s the first time a stripper heel nearly set our house on fire.” Brittany actually does strip for a living. She works at the Wild Nites with my friend Lacey who’s terrified of her. Shep occasionally comes to the club with friends, and Brittany doesn’t want another woman even serving him a drink, much less dancing for him. Do it, and she’ll be waiting for you in the dark parking lot at the end of your shift, which is a conundrum for women who are paid to dance for patrons. “Your friend Violet was out of control,” Skye tells me. “She was drunk,” I say. “Plus, she doesn’t know how Brittany is about Shep.” I’m playing defense for Violet, but I’m starting to question why. She does make poor decisions when alcohol is involved, and that forces Kiran into a babysitter role. It’s not the healthiest dynamic. Skye yawns so wide her jaw clicks. “Let’s clean up tomorrow. I’m exhausted.” “I’ll secure the premises and kick out the lingerers,” Fiona promises us. “I need to make sure the fire pit is out too.” I spot the cute panda bear who Fiona was flirting with earlier this evening lingering in the doorway of the kitchen. I shoot my sister a knowing look. Her eyes go wide and innocent. “I told you, I’m taking a sex sabbatical.” “Uh huh,” I say. “Sure you are.” She doesn’t argue with me, which means she knows as well as I do that her sabbatical is unlikely to last any longer than this corset will stay on my body. I laced it back up after the smackdown in the living room was finished, and now I’m dying to get out of it and let the girls go free. Cozy pajamas are calling my name. As I undress in my bedroom, all I can think about is that spectacular kiss with Kiran in the mudroom. I thought this night was going to end very differently. Now I’m here alone in my room and he’s at the B&B freaking out about Violet’s

behavior making it into the tabloids. Surely, there were people with cameras filming that fight, although I was too preoccupied to notice. Only time will tell what damage will come of all of this, and it’s definitely not going to help with his concerns about her safety. I can forgive Violet for setting my table ablaze, but it’s harder to forgive her for preventing my night of naked fun with Kiran. I really hope he and I will have another opportunity to play unlace the corset before he leaves. Time is starting to run short.

Fourteen

The next morning, the hot moment in the mudroom with Kiran seems like a fever dream, partly because in the light of day our festive party house is an odorous mess. There’s nothing romantic about the lingering smell of stale beer, burnt paper, and sweaty bodies. My slippers cling to the sticky kitchen floor as I walk to the stove to make my tea. Despite all of this, I still smile as I by the mudroom, ing my moments with Kiran under the Haunted Hemlock. Is he lying in bed this morning, thinking about it, too, or is he consumed with regret about coming to the party? It certainly ended on an awful note. It will be interesting to hear how much Violet re about her fight with Brittany, but one thing is for sure, Kiran won’t have forgotten any of it. Skye rolls into the kitchen after I’ve cleared a spot on the counter to make tea and toast. There will be no big breakfast today, since the house is a disaster. I’m dreading the larger cleanup that awaits us. Isabelle, who left the party at eleven, is opening the store for me today, but I won’t make it over there until closing time. I suspect she offered to open this morning so she had an excuse to leave the party early—a true introvert, that one—but I appreciated it. “I need caffeeeeine.” Skye drags her hands over her face. Despite her tired eyes, she looks about sixteen years old in her polka-dot pajama pants and Baby Yoda T-shirt. She’s attempted to wash off her Ahsoka Tano makeup, but her skin is still tinged a light shade of tangerine. No matter how old we get, Skye still looks young and adorable to me. I guess that’s part of being the senior sister. “I can make you tea,” I say. “Or you can make coffee if you can find the French press.” She’d be lucky to locate it among the half-filled cups, plates of food, empty bottles of liquor, and pieces of costumes that were discarded throughout the night. One of the cups I pick up has a pair of vampire fangs floating in it.

I spill the liquid and fangs out into the sink for Skye to see. “Looks like a vampire struck again this year.” “I didn’t even see a vampire at the party,” she says. “Then again I was a little… busy.” I gasp and grab her arm. “You and the Mandalorian?” She smiles coyly. “Maybe.” “Well alright,” I say in my best Matthew McConaughey imitation. Her shrug is too casual, an attempt to hide her excitement. “He’s a gamer too. We’ll see what happens.” “I want to hear all about it as we clean.” We survey the room with matching frowns. Cleaning up the kitchen will take hours, and then there’s the front porch and backyard, as well as the rest of the downstairs of the house. “Tea first.” She scrunches her nose as she pads across the room in bare feet. “Gross. The floor is so nasty.” “I don’t think you want to eat at that table,” I warn her. “I’m planning to stand for my meals until we sanitize that thing.” She sighs and twists her hair into a messy bun, wrapping a hair band around it. “It was a good party, right? People had fun?” I add three scoops of English Breakfast to the strainer inside the teapot then pour steaming water over it. Tea needs to be extra strong this morning. “The last guests didn’t leave until two thirty so I’d say they had fun.” She smirks at me. “I heard you and Kiran were having fun in the mudroom.” I lean my hip against the counter, curious about how word of our make-out session spread. Tabby must have been flapping her gums. “How’d you know about that?”

“From Fiona. She said she talked to you guys in there and was pretty sure you hooked up after she left.” I shrug helplessly. “We were under the Haunted Hemlock. What can you do? It’s tradition.” That’s partly true, although you’re only supposed to kiss. A few more seconds, and my corset would have been on the floor and my hands would have been under his kilt. I sure wish Violet could have waited another hour to have a brawl. “Since when were you traditional?” she teases. “He seems like a good guy though.” “He’s a great guy with a boss who keeps him busy day and night.” I pour us both a cup of tea and stir in milk and sugar. Skye waits impatiently for her mug then gulps it down, as if the caffeine can’t get into her bloodstream fast enough. “You a little hungover?” I ask her. “You were going to town on that punch last night.” Her response is a grunt. “And was Mando cute underneath that helmet?” She sighs and wraps both hands around her mug to warm them. “I don’t know. He refused to take it off. It’s a Mandalorian thing. Then his friends said they were heading to another party, and he left with them.” I tuck my chin to my chest, completely confused. “Wait, I thought you hooked up with him.” “I didn’t say we hooked up,” she says. “We talked for a long time though. Then he asked my screen name for Battlefront. We might hook up in there.” I was hoping to get her out of her bedroom or get someone in there with her, but at least she chatted with the guy and made a new friend. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and my heart flutters at the thought that it might be a message from Kiran. I need to get a grip. Waiting around for a man to call is not something Catriona McBryde has done in many years. The disappointment that pulls inside my chest when I see it’s not a text from Kiran but from Tabby, is another sign that I’m getting dangerously close to betraying my own values. I’m a strong, independent woman. It’s one thing to get

to know Kiran, open up my heart to him a little, and another to get wrapped up in how he feels about me. I click on the message and find that Tabby has sent me a link to a YouTube video. Oh, dear. The video, clearly filmed in my living room last night, includes the beginning of Violet and Brittany’s argument. If the fight was won or lost on swearing abilities, Violet would have been victorious. Brittany cussed more, but Violet had some real colorful zingers. I’m not positive what a “manky twat” is, but it certainly brings a few images to mind. Fortunately, the person filming the video had a shaky hand, possibly because they were getting jostled by others or maybe they were drunky drunk. Still, they filmed the entire thing, right through the point where Violet got hauled out on Kiran’s shoulder. The effortless way he slung her up there is even more impressive when I see it for the second time. There have been over three hundred views of the video already, and it was only posted a few hours ago. Even though it’s going to upset him, I forward the link to Kiran. He’d want to know, and he’ll find out eventually on his own. Better to tell him right away in case there’s something he needs to do about it. On my second viewing, I invite Skye to watch with me. “Should have zoomed in closer,” she says. “You can barely see their faces.” I snatch the phone away. “Helpful critique, Skye. That’s exactly why this is a problem—the poor video quality.” “Hey, I’m just saying it could have been done better.” Heavy footsteps clomp down the stairs, and we stop talking to listen, expecting Fiona to enter the kitchen any second. Instead, what follows is the unmistakable slam of our front door. Skye and I stare at each other for several seconds after the house gets quiet again. She’s tensed like a cat ready to pounce. “Who was that?” she asks. I’m already moving toward the door of the kitchen. “Probably Gaddy. He crashed in the living room.” I wasn’t expecting our cousin to wake up for at least

another hour. We call Gaddy our cousin, but he’s actually a second cousin. My mother’s mother was one of eight kids so the Selkirk family tree is extensive in its branches. When we arrive in the foyer, Fiona is tiptoeing up the stairs looking like a madwoman with smudged eye makeup, matted hair, and a long T-shirt that’s inside out and backwards. “Who was at the door?” I ask her. Fiona stops on the stairs and cuts her eyes toward me, as if she only half understands my question. “Hmmm?” she asks. Skye gestures toward the front door. “We heard the door shut a second ago and”—she turns her head to the darkened living room—“Gaddy is still on the couch.” In fact, he’s snoring loudly. “Oh, that was just me.” Fiona fiddles with the hem of her shirt. “I was checking on the scooter. I forgot to put it in the shed last night.” “Is it alright?” Skye steps over to the sidelight flanking the front door and peers out. “No one took it, did they?” Sweet summer child, she actually believes Fiona. I set a hand on my hip and give Fiona a firm stare, which she wisely ignores. She knows darn well that I’m not nearly as gullible as our little sister. This scooter story is a sham. “It’s fine.” Fiona rubs the back of her head. “Right where it’s supposed to be. Randall is asleep on the glider though. You might want to invite him in for some tea, since the temperature dropped last night.” She jogs up the stairs at a pace she doesn’t usually achieve until at least noon. “I’ll be down right after I shower.” Skye opens the front door and looks toward the end with the glider. “He looks cozy under his Gandalf cloak. Should I wake him up?” “Let him sleep,” I say. “The sunlight will hit him in a half hour or so and that

should do the trick. We’ll get Gaddy up then too.” Fiona is masterful, thinking she can distract us from what’s really happening here. It may be working on Skye, but I’m on to her. She’s hiding something, and my guess is that it’s a girl in a panda suit.

At nine o’clock that evening, when I’m reading in bed, my phone vibrates with a call from Kiran. I haven’t heard from him all day, except for a one-word text of thanks after I sent the video. Part of me was afraid I’d never hear from him again. “Well, hello,” I say. “I was starting to think you and Violet had fled the country already.” “I considered it,” he says dryly, “but Violet is too sick to get out of bed. She feels like death, but don’t feel sorry for her. It’s all self-inflicted, you know.” “So are you going to jet out of here one day without telling me?” I try to keep my voice steady, but a quaver of emotion slips through. I don’t need another man dropping a bomb on me. Been there, done that. “Of course not. I’m sorry. I thought we were joking about that.” I sigh and close my eyes. “We were. I’m just feeling a touch sensitive today. I assume you saw the video?” “Yes, thank you for telling me about it. It’s already taken care of.” I click around on my phone, trying to view the video again, and he’s right. It’s no longer available. I marvel at his ability to handle everything so easily. “That was quick. How did you do it?” “I messaged the video’s owner and used lawyer speak, telling them to take it down or face legal consequences. If that didn’t work, I was going to throw money at them, but fortunately it did.” “You can’t really make someone take down a video like that, can you?” I ask. “Probably not, but they didn’t call my bluff.” I let out a low whistle. “You’re good, Madan.” “I wouldn’t go that far. I should have been watching Violet more closely last

night. I told you I needed to keep a shorter leash on her.” He blames himself for Violet’s shenanigans, and apparently, he blames me too. Personally, I don’t feel a mite of guilt. She’s a grown-ass woman who’s making bad choices, and that’s on her, not Kiran or me. “What exactly happened that was so terrible?” I ask. “Did she lose her job or her driver’s license? Get arrested or evicted? Because those are the consequences regular people suffer when they get drunk and do stupid things. I’m sorry there was an unfortunate video of her online, but she made her own decisions last night, and she’s lucky the cost wasn’t higher.” I’m gearing up for an argument, but instead he agrees with me. “Very true. I should have been looking after her though. It’s my job, Cat.” My heart twists with sympathy for the man. He’s supposed to be guarding her from other people, not from herself. She’s acting like Lindsay Lohan circa 2007, but she doesn’t have the excuse of being too young to know better. Next thing, she’ll be getting a tongue ring and running off to Vegas to wed a Grisham boy. I make a noise of disapproval. “Sugar, first of all, you were looking after her almost the entire time. Plus, she’s a damn adult. I don’t understand this relationship you two have. It’s kind of…” “What?” he says coldly. “Codependent.” After I say codependent, I realize there was probably a softer word I could have chosen, but all the words that come to mind are equally as bad or even worse. Messed up. Unhealthy. Abusive. “Thank you for that psychological analysis. I suppose being a writer makes you an expert on human behavior?” Even though his anger rattles me, I keep my voice calm. “In some respects that’s true. Being a writer makes me a good observer of human behavior, and I can see that the way Violet’s acting isn’t healthy for either of you.” “Intriguing observation. I need to go. My codependent relationship needs

attending to. Good night.” He hangs up before I have a chance to say goodbye, and I still don’t even know why he called me. “Good night,” I say to the dead phone line. With a harrumph, I toss the phone and everything else off my bed so I can flop onto the mattress and yank the comforter up over me. How dare he hang up on me. I flip the pillow, punch it harder than necessary to fluff it up, then throw my head back down on it. I refuse to feel guilty about what I said to him. Someone needs to help Kiran see what’s happening because when you’re in a bad relationship with a boss—or anyone, really—you can’t always see it yourself. Fiona certainly didn’t see it when she was dating Dickhead Dean, and his toxic behavior was ten times more obvious than Violet’s. If Kiran wants me to be subtle and keep my opinions to myself, then he was barking up the wrong tree. Or rescuing a woman from the wrong tree, to put it more accurately. My phone rings again, and I know it’s him even without checking. I have half a mind to let it go to voicemail, but my curiosity gets the better of me. Tossing back the comforter, I lean out of bed until I’m able to pick up my phone from the floor. “Yes?” I say coldly. “I’m sorry.” He gets points for apologizing straightaway. Will it be followed up by a “but” and an excuse? ”What you said brought up a lot of things for me,” he continues. “I guess it hit a little too close to the truth.” “Thank you for apologizing.” I curl up under my covers again. “And I’m sorry if what I said hurt you. I can be blunt sometimes.” “I know it seems like I’m weirdly loyal to Violet, but we have a history.”

“Then tell me about it.” I hear him take a deep breath. “Years ago, I was in an accident on a movie set that ended my stunt career. I spent more than a month in the hospital and several more months in a rehab facility.” “You must have been crushed.” I screw my eyes shut, my cheeks flaming with heat. “I meant that figuratively, not literally.” “Yes, I understood what you meant.” Fortunately, he sounds amused at my gaffe. “I was depressed as hell, as well as nut deep in medical bills. The dream I’d had since age seven of being a Hollywood stuntman was dead. The physical pain was awful, but the mental torture of not being able to work or exercise or do anything I enjoyed, that’s what nearly killed me. I was about to go on disability when a friend of mine asked if I wanted to work for his brother’s company as a driver. Most of his clients were celebrities of one sort or another, and the pay was good.” The thought of Kiran in that kind of emotional pain makes my stomach ache. I had a low point in my life where everything I’d planned turned to dust overnight. In my case, it was probably for the best, but in his, it sounds like he lost more than he gained. “I wish we were in person so I could give you a hug right now.” I hug the extra pillow on my bed in lieu of being able to hold him. “It’s alright, I’m fine now. This was all years ago. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy the hug.” I hear a smile in his voice, and my longing for him increases until it’s almost an ache. “He asked me if I wanted to drive for the actress Violet Ramsey.” He gives a mirthless laugh. “Frankly, I didn’t want the job, but I needed it. I felt like a complete failure, going from million-dollar movie sets to toting around a spoiled actress. At first I said very little to her, but you know Vi. She pried me open like an oyster.” “You do have that hard shell,” I say, teasing him. “But you’re beautiful inside and out.” “Well, thank you,” he says. “She and I became unlikely friends, of sorts. After a

few incidents with an overzealous fan, she decided she needed someone to keep an eye out for trouble so I continued driving for her, but also became sort of an unofficial security agent. You know Violet, it was all informal and vague, but eventually she gave me a new title and I became her bodyguard.” “You don’t carry a gun though.” He laughs again, this time with amusement. “Americans. There are other ways to protect someone.” I picture Kiran holding Warrick’s face against the wall. “I saw you in action when someone pinched my rear.” He grunts and says, “That idiot was lucky I didn’t do worse. Anyway, our work arrangement was going well until she got divorced and dove into a funk. Everyone on her staff rallied around her, but she took to drinking more heavily, going out to parties, shagging inappropriate men. On many occasions she left herself open to getting her photo taken by the rags that love to destroy people’s lives. I had to start chaperoning her in ways I never did before. It wasn’t just about keeping her physically safe; it was about making sure she didn’t destroy her reputation. Then last summer, Violet’s assistant Madeline got married and resigned, saying that she was tired of all the travel, and I found myself picking up that role too. Before I knew it, my whole life revolved around a woman who was acting like a wayward teenager, but I never wanted to complain because I felt indebted to her. She’s been very generous with me, and if it weren’t for her giving me a job, who knows where I’d be right now.” “I have a feeling you would have been alright with or without her,” I say gently. “She gave you a job, but you shouldn’t have to give up your life for her.” “I didn’t really mind not having a personal life in the beginning, but I’m starting to mind it now.” “And why is that?” I ask, hoping I know the answer. “I haven’t met a woman I wanted to date in a long time. Not until I met you.” His words take my breath away. When he asked me out the other day, I didn’t know he had these deeper feelings brewing. I didn’t know how special that invitation was—the first woman I wanted to date in a long time.

“I’ve had so much fun with you these past weeks,” he says, “and I didn’t even realize that fun was what my life was lacking so badly. You’re clearly a favorite in this town, there’s no doubt about that. Everyone wants to be around you because being with you is like standing in a ray of sunshine, if you want to know the truth. I’m sorry if that makes me sound like a sop.” I clutch the comforter in my hands, touched by his words. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.” “I wish things were different.” I imagine him rubbing his hand through his hair, making it fall over his forehead. “After last night’s performance, I’m even more worried about leaving Violet to her own devices. Do you think that Brittany woman is a concern? Will she be back for more?” I want to lie to him, tell him everything will be fine if they stay in town, but I can’t do it. I’ve already gotten them into a pickle because of my Halloween party. “Brittany is a fighter. If you run into her again, especially if Shep is there, I suggest getting out of her way as quickly as possible.” “She had the claws of a tiger on her,” he says, sounding amazed. “She could have had a career as a female wrestler, I imagine.” “How long do you think you’ll stick around?” I try to keep my tone peppy, as if I don’t have a care in the world about his answer, although we both know I do. “At least another two weeks. She received a call from Mayor Dan today offering her the position of grand marshal in your town’s holiday parade. Violet is never one to turn down a ceremonial position or a chance to be in the spotlight, so as you might have guessed, she said yes.” “That’s great news!” It’s lovely that Violet will be in the parade, which is one of my favorite Foster’s Creek events, but that’s not why I’m excited. Two more weeks with Kiran is what has my heart pumping. Violet should be willing to give him a couple of nights off so we can have dinner and perhaps a sleepover. If he doesn’t ask her, I will. “You’ll be in it, too, won’t you?” I ask him. “I’m Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer this year, which is a big honor.” I provide my full name in case he isn’t

familiar with Rudolph. “I get to close out the parade riding in Santa’s sleigh.” Kiran chuckles, and it’s not until I’m silent in response that he realizes he’s made an error. “Oh, you’re serious? I’m sorry, I thought you were joking about dres as a reindeer. Is that something people normally do in parades here?” “Our parade is…unique,” I say. “So I take that as a no?” “My family is Hindu so I don’t celebrate Christmas, and parades have always been something I enjoy more from the sidelines. I’ll be there to cheer you on, though.” “My friends are dres as elves,” I say. “You don’t have to be Christian to be an elf. It’s a holiday parade so we embrace all—” “I got in the kilt,” he says in a sexy, low growl. “That’s all you’re getting from me this year.” The pout on my lips is wasted because he’s not here to see it. “I got you into the kilt, that’s true. The question is, when am I going to get you out of it?”

Fifteen

The next morning, my phone rings, waking me from a deep sleep. Still exhausted from the party night and post-party cleanup, I stretch and yawn before grabbing my phone from my side table, happily surprised to see that it’s Kiran calling. Before I can say good morning, he blurts out, “Violet ran off.” The way he says it makes her sound like a dog who’s jumped a fence. The two of them really need to do something about their dysfunctional dynamic, like spend a couple of hours with a therapist. I grip my phone tighter. “What are you talking about? Where? When?” His tone is a mixture of frantic and furious. “She was up and dressed early this morning, and we talked about spending the day with you. She said she wanted to learn to cook chicken and dumplings, and she sent me to the store for ingredients. When I got back, she was rolling out of here in a pickup truck with the license plate Doodlebug. Do you know who that could be?” “Yep.” I sigh heavily. “It’s Doodlebug. He’s a Grisham boy—one of the younger ones.” “Doodlebug is the name of an actual person? Oh God, she’s going younger than Shep?” I’m glad he can’t see me start to laugh and then rein myself in again. He’s too close to the situation to see the humor in it, but I’ll be damned if Dame Violet Ramsey “running off” with Doodlebug doesn’t deserve a giggle. “Don’t worry, the good news is that we can find her. I’m hanging up, but I’ll call you back in a few minutes, okay?” I feel the need to repeat myself. “Kiran, please don’t worry. Doodlebug is a chucklehead, but he’s a decent guy.” “Alright,” he says. “Thank you.”

He’s totally going to worry. Cordell Grisham picks up the phone at Grisham Boys and booms out a good morning in his unmistakable baritone voice. “Hey, Cordell, it’s Catriona McBryde. I’m looking for Doodlebug this morning. You happen to know where he’s at?” “Oh no,” he grumbles. “Is that boy in trouble again?” “No, no, nothing like that. I believe he’s with a friend of mine, and I need to locate her right quick.” “Good, because I’m about to sign that boy up for the military if he doesn’t get his shit together. He went mudding this morning with Shep and Dale. Left me to work on all these cars and answer the phone. I made Jeff stay behind because I’m not about to—” “Cordell, I’m sorry to interrupt, but this is kind of an emergency. Do you know where they went exactly?” “Hart’s Hollow, I reckon. That’s where they usually get to. You sure he’s not in any trouble?” None that I know of yet. “No, not at all. Appreciate your help, Cordell! I’ll drop off some chicken and dumplings for your family this weekend.” I give Kiran the update on Doodlebug’s whereabouts, and fifteen minutes later he’s picking me up in his fancy car. Fortunately, I ed to tell him to dress casual. Mudding and Italian loafers don’t mix. He’s got on running gear again, that nice cotton/spandex blend hugging his biceps and pecs. I dressed down for the occasion, too, choosing to wear black leggings, a T-shirt, and hiking boots. As he drives, I braid my hair into two plaits while at the same time explaining how to get to the access road that will take us to Hart’s Hollow. “My cousin Spence will meet us there,” I say.

“Why is that?” “You’ll see when we get there.” When we arrive at the turn-off, Spence’s F-series Ford is already parked on the shoulder. His truck is fitted with monster-sized tractor tires, custom suspension, roll bar, and a host of other modifications that make it illegal to drive on the road. On the flat bed is an ATV, a shiny new one I haven’t seen before. Spence is leaning against his truck with one arm balanced on the driver’s side windowsill. When I hop out of the car, he greets me with a wide grin on his scraggly-bearded face. “Hey, cuz.” “Thanks for coming.” I pull him into a tight hug. “Are you kidding?” He gives me a squeeze before stepping away. “I never thought I’d see the day you asked me to go mudding. Is this because you forgot my birthday last month?” Spence is a goofball, and I love him like an annoying little brother. Many of my childhood memories involve sitting on the cool grass on the edge of a pond while Fiona and Spence fished. They liked to dangle their catches from a hook in front of my face before releasing them back into the water. I never could see the point of torturing an animal like that, especially when you weren’t even going to eat it. “What are you talking about missing your birthday? I sent you a card.” “No gift, though,” he says. “I told you what I wanted.” I roll my eyes at him. “Isabelle is not interested in you, Spence.” “She doesn’t know that yet,” he insists. “She needs to go on a date with me before she decides she doesn’t like me.” “She’s a psychic,” I say. “She probably already knows she isn’t ever going to like you.”

Spence honks my nose. “Har har.” Kiran, who’s standing nearby looking impatient, clears his throat. Spence gives him the once-over, from his expensive looking running shoes all the way to his gelled hair. Then he looks at me, curious and maybe a little amused. “This your boyfriend, Catty?” he asks. “This is my friend Kiran.” Spence offers Kiran a fist bump. “Nice to meet you.” “Thank you for meeting us here so quickly,” Kiran says after accepting the bump. “Shall we get going?” Spence shoots me a dubious look. “It’s fine,” I reassure him. “He was a professional stuntman. He can handle it.” Spence’s eyes light up, his regard for Kiran going from zero to sixty. There’s nothing Spence enjoys more than an action flick, and I know what’s coming. “Very cool. Been in any movies I’ve heard of?” “Probably,” Kiran says. “The Final Mission, Blood Pact, Angels of War.” I can’t say I’ve seen any of these films, but I’m more into romance and horror movies myself. “Oh my God!” Spence claps his hands together with a loud smack. “That’s awesome!” “I’ll tell you all about it over a pint later,” Kiran says, “if we can get going right now?” Spence slaps him on the back, “Yeah, man, let’s do it!” I climb into the cab of the truck, taking the middle seat on the bench. There’s a cushion in the shape of a toilet seat waiting there for me. Sweet. I place it under my rump and give it a test bounce.

“Aw, you brought my butt donut, Spence. How sweet of you.” Spence slides into the driver’s seat as Kiran takes the space on the other side of me. “Butt donut?” Kiran asks. I roll one cheek off the pillow so I can show it to him. “This thing right here. Spence knows how to spoil a girl.” “I know you like some extra protection.” Spence clicks on his seatbelt. “Not like you don’t have some natural cushion back there already.” I smack his arm. “Stop being spicy.” Spence throws up his hands, feigning innocence. “That wasn’t an insult. Men like a little something to hang on to. Am I right, Kiran?” “She’s perfect just the way she is,” Kiran says diplomatically. I lean into him and kiss his cheek. “That was the right answer.” Kiran smiles down at me, his first smile of the day, at least that I’ve seen, and my breath catches when it shines on me. He has such lovely full lips, ripe for the nibbling. Before I can get too googly-eyed, Spence hits the gas and swings us onto the dirt path, which is fairly smooth sailing for the time being. I know from experience it won’t stay that way for long. “When will we get there?” Kiran asks. “Hart’s Hollow?” Spence says. “About ten to fifteen minutes.” I pat Kiran’s knee. “Violet didn’t leave the B&B that long ago. It’s going to be fine.” His jaw loosens slightly, but I know he won’t feel safe until he lays eyes on her. Spence removes his hat and scratches his head while still managing to navigate the truck down the increasingly bumpy dirt road. “Why exactly are we going out here anyway?”

“Chasing down a celebrity with a death wish,” I say. My tone is cheerful, but I’m perturbed that Violet has put Kiran through all this. Couldn’t she have taken him along with her or at least told him what she was up to? This rebellious teenager act is getting old. “Is this the lady Dale Grisham’s been going on about?” Spence asks. I think back on Dale’s face as he watched Violet singing at my party. Why couldn’t she have decided to hook up with him instead of flirting with Shep? At least Dale is single. “Probably. Dale seems pretty into her.” “He said she knows a shit ton about cars,” Spence says. “How come you didn’t introduce me to her?” “Spence Jameson, she’s old enough to be your mother!” I crow, invoking his middle name like my aunt does when she’s upset with him. He seems undeterred by this information. “I don’t appreciate how you always want to keep your friends away from me, Catty. How come I’m not good enough for any of them? And don’t say it’s because I’m a manwhore. You’re just as likely as I am to be looking for your drawers in the morning on the way out the door.” I can’t be offended because he speaks the truth. We come from the same bloodline, and I guess the Selkirks had high sex drives and an aversion to lasting relationships. Then again, that doesn’t explain all the married people in our family. Maybe the reluctance to commit is a problem with my generation. Spence and his brother Wade are both single, just like my sisters and me. “Truth?” Spence handily navigates around a pothole with only one hand on the wheel. “I enjoyed screwing around in my twenties, but I’d like to find the right girl and settle down now. Have a few kids. Take the family camping and fishing.” I look back and forth between the men on either side of me. “What is it with all the guys in my life suddenly wanting to settle down and get all domestic.”

“Why are you so against it?” Kiran asks. The truck bounces over a large rock in the road, and I’m saved from finding a good answer to his question. We all get jostled pretty good, and when I bump up against Kiran, my hand lands on his thigh. I feel his quads tense up, so naturally I slide my hand an inch higher. He looks down at my hand then over at me. “You’re very bad,” he whispers. “I like that about you.” I give his thigh a squeeze, then fold my hands on my lap like an innocent little lamb. “It gets burly down around this part,” Spence warns us. “Hold tight.” We hit a divot in the road that sends us bouncing toward the roof of the car, and this time we land hard in our seats. Spence lets out a yeehaw, and I’m thrilled to hear Kiran laughing along with me. I want to hear tales about his stunt days as much as Spence does. That’s the next order of business—lunch and Kiran’s stories after we locate Violet. His fingers thread through mine as we fly along the dirt road. “Never a dull moment around here, is there?” I smile up at him. “We aim to please.”

Hart’s Hollow is only accessible to hikers and people who own a four-wheeldrive vehicle. Even then, you have to be prepared for what you’ll do if your truck or ATV gets stuck in the mud. Foot paths and dirt roads, like the one we’re on, wind through the trees and lead down to a huge meadow. Due to drainage issues, including a nearby creek that overflows during rainstorms, the meadow gets wet and swampy at certain times of the year, and that’s why people choose this spot to go mudding. It’s not a pastime I ever engaged in much, but I’ve certainly been out here a few times—enough so that all my whining earned me the butt donut from my cousins. This meadow is where much of the socializing took place back when I was in high school. People would carry kegs out here on their flatbeds, and we’d all get drunk around a bonfire. Good times. As we approach the meadow, I hear truck engines that sound like they’re straining to get through a mud bog. Violet probably had no idea what she was getting herself into today. Being that it’s a weekday, I’m not surprised to see there’s only two trucks out in the swamp. A pretty day like this on the weekend would be much more crowded. There’s a red Jeep plowing its way through the puddle in the center of the meadow, churning and spewing mud in every direction as it chugs forward. Doodlebug’s black Chevy, trailing behind the Jeep, isn’t faring as well, its tires spinning fruitlessly in the muck, unable to get traction. Both vehicles are filthy, and it’s impossible to see inside their mudsplattered windows to check if Violet is inside either one. Spence nods toward the Chevy. “That’s Doodlebug out there. Reckon your friend is in that truck?” Kiran lets go of my hand and rubs his forehead like someone who has a tension headache. “Yes, that’s the vehicle Violet left in this morning.” As we watch, Spence narrates the action. “He’s putting it in reverse and locking the differential. This should work.” From what I can tell, the truck sinks farther into the mud, making zero progress. “He’s gonna burn out the motor.” Spence throws his truck into park. “That young’un doesn’t know what he’s doing. Lemme go help.” Kiran and I step out of the enger side and onto the grass, our shoes

suctioning onto the wet earth. We’re not even in the thick of it yet. This is merely damp ground compared to what’s waiting out in the center of the meadow. There’s no way I’d walk out in that thing, even if I had the proper attire. Kiran pulls out his phone and tries to call Violet, but she doesn’t answer. “She probably can’t hear the phone over the engine noise,” I say. Kiran swears and sticks his phone in his back pocket. “What was she thinking?” I’m guessing she was thinking this sounded like fun and Kiran would try to persuade her not to go. Spence strides ahead of us, farther into the bog. “Damn fool better stop gunning it or he’s gonna overheat.” “C’mon.” I tug on Kiran’s sleeve, and we follow Spence, trudging closer to the trucks. As we approach the edge of the mud pit, we’re still about forty feet from Doodlebug’s truck. The Chevy’s engine stops racing, and the window rolls down. Doodlebug is at the wheel, all grins and good humor, and he gives us a wave before Violet shoves him back and leans over him so she can speak to us. “Hello!” she yells through the window. “Have you come to rescue me?” I glance over at Kiran whose expression is stony. “Does she think I’m going to ride out there on a horse like a bloody prince in a fairy tale?” he says tightly. When we don’t respond to her question, Violet adds, “Doodlebug thinks it would help if you all could give us a push.” “He meant his brothers,” I call back to her. “They can do the pushing.” Shep and Dale have gotten out of the Jeep and are surveying the situation. Even they aren’t out there offering to lean on the tailgate just yet, and I’m certainly not volunteering. She did promote my books, and under some circumstances I’d be willing to go out there and get dirty, but the Grisham boys are more than capable of handling this predicament.

“Hey, Doodlebug?” Spence calls out. Doodlebug’s face appears in the window again. “Shift into low, go real easy on the gas, and turn your tires to the side if you start to slip. Try that.” Doodlebug salutes and attempts the suggested maneuver. Once again, the wheels spin, and this time they turn to the side, but from what I can tell, they’re sitting in the same spot when it’s over. Spence knits his brows, clearly frustrated by the amateur mudding skills on display. “He’s gonna burn out that radiator. Who taught that boy how to get out of a bog? You expect more from a Grisham.” Dale and Spence wade into the mud and pause to talk to Doodlebug before getting behind the truck. When the engine starts this time, they lean in and push. The truck moves forward an inch or two before sliding backwards and sinking another inch into the ooze. “Gonna need a winch,” Spence mutters. He walks off to confer with the Grisham boys, and I rub a hand over Kiran’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, this happens a lot. They’ll get the truck out eventually.” “But will it be in the next hour?” He’s typing a text while he talks. “She’s got a call-in interview with Rob Lowe’s new podcast at noon. I reminded her about it last night.” I gasp. “Rob Lowe? She can’t miss that.” I’m a huge Parks & Rec fan, and my mom is always going on about how Rob Lowe is her Hollywood Husband. “My one free ,” she likes to joke with my dad. He always answers with, “I don’t need a free , my love, you’re it for me.” Then Mom makes cooing noises and they get all loved up and my sisters and I have to leave the room. I glance down at his phone. Ten thirty. If she’s going to make it back in time for her interview, she can’t wait around for these yahoos to get Doodlebug’s truck unstuck.

“How long will it take them to pull him out?” I ask Spence. “Depends.” He readjusts his hat. “Could be an hour, maybe more. I don’t know what kind of equipment they’ve got. Let me talk to them.” As the Grisham boys and Spence discuss what to do about the matter at hand, Violet pops out of the enger side of the truck, balancing her butt on the windowsill while shouting to us over the roof of the cab. “Can you use that bike to get me out of here?” she asks. I glance at the ATV on the back of Spence’s truck. That’s the “bike” she’s talking about. “It will just get stuck out there too,” I say. “Rob Lowe,” Kiran yells out to her. “At noon. ?” We watch as realization dawns in Violet’s eyes. “Oh, bollocks.” “I think you’re going to have to get your feet dirty,” I tell her. She looks pleadingly at Kiran, but he simply crosses his arms on his chest and glares back at her. I’m not exactly sure what she expects of him, but it’s possible she thinks he should come out there and carry her to safety. If anything is bollocks, that is. With a huff she slides back into the truck, and a moment later she gets out and starts slogging toward us through the mud. It’s slow going and at one point she gets a foot stuck and tips precariously to the side. Managing to keep her balance, she begins again, making it to the halfway point. I can’t help but be a little impressed at her fortitude. Suddenly, she stops moving and her eyes go wide. “I lost my shoe!” she yells. The Grisham boys, who have been busy discussing next steps, direct their attention to her. Shep makes his way over and offers his arm, but it’s no use. She can’t hop on one foot in mud this thick. She has to plod the rest of the way with one bare foot. Shoe or no shoe, she’s going to be covered with dirt. Once you’re that deep in mud, it gets in every crevice. Finally, she makes it onto solid ground

with a triumphant look on her face. “You alright?” I ask, because apparently Kiran isn’t going to. “Of course.” She looks down at her toes. “This will make a great story.” Spence s our group and I can feel the excitement pinging off of him. He lives for mudding drama like this. “Sounds like they have all the equipment they need. They’ll have him out of there in a little while.” He extends a hand to Violet. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m Spence, Catty’s cousin.” “Delighted.” She takes his clean hand in her mud-spattered one. “Is this your truck?” He looks over at his four by four with pride. “She’s all mine. A beauty, right?” Violet sighs. “Yes, I think if Doodlebug’s truck had that kind of suspension, we would have made it through just fine.” She glances back at the Grisham boys who are in the process of putting a strap around a tree so that they can clip the other end to Doodlebug’s truck and haul it out of the mud. “Shame.” “Next time you come out with me,” Spence says, puffing out his chest. “I’ll show you how it’s done.” “We have to take her back now,” I explain to Spence, in case he feels like showing his driving skills off right now. “She has an interview at noon.” Spence rubs his beard. “I can drive y’all, but I don’t think four of us can fit in the cab, and it’s gonna be a painful ride in the flatbed even with a butt donut.” “What about the ATV?” Kiran asks. “I can follow on that.” I don’t like the idea of him riding out of here alone, not when he doesn’t know his way around. “It rides two,” I say. “I’ll go with Kiran.” Spence raises his eyebrows at me. “You want to ride on that thing?” Although I did my share of off-roading in my youth, Spence hasn’t gotten me on

an ATV in years. What he doesn’t realize is that the main attraction of riding on one today is being pressed up against Kiran. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” I say. “Now let’s get that thing down here. Violet can’t be late for her date with Rob Lowe.” Getting the ATV off the truck takes no time at all, and after Kiran and I put on our helmets, he begins to climb onto the seat at the front. I place a hand on his forearm to stop him. “Oh no, sugar, I’m driving.” “What?” Spence and Kiran say together. “I’m driving,” I repeat as I gently bump Kiran aside with my hip. “I know the way back and you don’t.” “And I’m a professional stuntman!” Kiran argues. “Or I was. I should be the one driving. You can point me in the right direction if we come to a fork in the road.” I cross my arms on my ample chest. “You won’t hear me over the engine. What’s the problem? You don’t think a woman can handle this vehicle, is that what you’re saying?” Kiran mimics my pose. “That’s not what I said. I just have more experience driving under difficult conditions.” “Great.” I swing a leg over the seat and put my hands on the controls. “If I have any trouble, you can shout advice in my ear. Mansplain it to me.” I pat the space behind me. “Now get on here. We’re going for a ride.”

That evening, Fiona and I meet Isabelle at The Stanton where we drink fancy cocktails and I regale them with stories of my adventures in Hart’s Hollow, perhaps embellishing a few of the details for entertainment purposes. Having Kiran pressed up against me on the ATV was such an arousing experience that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. His strong arms wrapped around my waist, his broad chest bumping up against my back. The only difficulty I experienced with driving was keeping my mind on the road and not on how delicious it felt to be that close to him. “Good thing Spence was available,” Fiona says when I finish my tales of mud and glory. “He still wants to take you out,” I tell Isabelle. Her face contorts, and I hold up my hands in surrender. “I know, I know. He’s not your type. He is a good guy, though, and he says he’s ready for a relationship—wife, kids, the whole shebang.” “No offense,” she says, “but I don’t see myself dating a guy who thinks noodling for catfish is a good time.” I wrinkle my nose. “Such snobbery. He does have other hobbies.” “Mudding and hunting,” Fiona says. “I doubt either of those is going to win over Isabelle.” I see her point. Isabelle is more into poetry and music than outdoor activities. Still, I feel the need to defend Spence. “He reads books,” I argue. They both raise their eyebrows at me. “Fine, he reads magazines. I’ll have you know, he has a subscription to National Geographic.” “And he has a nice collection of dirty magazines, as well,” Fiona says. “Or he did when we were teenagers.” “How would you know?” I ask. “Found them under his bed one day and spent the afternoon writing boner killer comments in them. He was so pissed at me.” She smiles at the memory as she

takes a sip of her mocktail—a Mango Mule minus the vodka. “Spence actually is a smart guy. Handy too. I just don’t think he and Isabelle have much in common. She needs someone different. A gentleman.” “Aw, thanks, Fee,” Isabelle says. “If you find one, let me know. We can’t all be lucky enough to meet a guy like Kiran in Foster’s Creek.” As if on cue, my phone buzzes with a text from Kiran. Can I call you or are you busy with your girls? “It’s Kiran.” I try not to grin like an idiot as happiness washes over me. “I’m going to invite him here, okay?” “Of course,” Isabelle says. “Tell him to come for a drink and relax.” “He’s wound so tightly,” Fiona says. “Sex would be therapeutic for him.” “Believe me, I’m trying.” I set my phone down and take a long sip of my wine. “There’s never a time we can be alone.” “Maybe tonight is the night,” Fiona says. “We’ll clear out when he gets here.” When Kiran arrives at the bar, Fiona and Isabelle are good on their word, quickly finding excuses to leave us alone. Isabelle has an early morning tarot reading session with an online client, and Fiona has to meet up with a friend but declines to tell us who. Finally, it’s just the two of us. “You left Violet alone?” I ask. “You might want to get one of those ankle tracking bracelets for her, like the kind they use with people out on bail.” The waitress sets down his gin and tonic, and he tosses back a third of it then sets the glass down with a thud. It strikes me that all this time we’ve been together, I’ve never seen him drink alcohol. Maybe this means he isn’t on the clock this evening. I want to shout and shimmy in my excitement but force myself to show some restraint. “She wasn’t always this unpredictable and reckless,” he says. “I told you it got worse after her divorce.”

“Divorce sucks,” I say. “Been there myself, as you know.” “As have I.” My jaw drops at this bit of news. “Really? I should have done more background research on you.” “It was a long time ago, and it wasn’t a tragedy when it ended. She was an actress, and we were apart too much, filming in different locations. It was a fairly amicable split. Unfortunately, Violet’s divorce was very different.” “I know he cheated on her.” I try to whisper, which goes against all my natural tendencies. Kiran has me all paranoid now that someone from a tabloid could be listening to our conversations. “Yes, he cheated, and even after she caught him, he suggested that maybe they could work it out and stay together. He kept her dangling for a long time, so when he finally snipped the thread, the fall she took was quite painful. What you’re seeing now is part of her post-divorce, midlife crisis.” My post-divorce crisis happened in my twenties, and it mainly consisted of sleeping with jerks, like Warrick, and some decent guys who were good for a little fun in bed but not much else. Then again, I probably didn’t give them a chance to prove they were boyfriend material. All of that flitting around from one man to another kept me from getting hurt again, but at this point it’s starting to feel…stale. Damn. I sound like Kiran and Spence. “Warrick, the guy who pinched my ass at my party, was my post-divorce mistake.” I lower my eyes, unable to look at him. “He wasn’t the only error in judgment I made. You know how you said when you have intimacy with someone first, the sex is better?” He nods, moving closer until our knees bump up against each other. “Yes.” “After my divorce, I decided that when you have intimacy first, there’s more of a chance of getting hurt later, and I didn’t want to get hurt again. But now that I’m thinking about it, maybe my ex-husband and I never had true intimacy. He was lying to me and to himself the whole time we knew each other so maybe… maybe I’ve been hiding from something I never really had.” I close my eyes and let go of a long breath. “Or maybe I drank too much wine, and I’m not making

sense anymore.” Kiran covers my hand with his. “Keep going. Please.” I stare into his eyes, which are the color of midnight in the bar’s dim lighting. The alcohol is loosening my tongue, and Kiran is dangerously handsome tonight in a black cashmere sweater with a V-neck. Who knew a little peek of his throat would drive me wild with desire and make me say things I might regret. “I’m saying that I’m scared to get close to someone in a romantic way.” My voice sounds smaller than usual, timid even. “But if you weren’t leaving so soon, I’d want to take that chance with you.” “That’s a lot of ifs.” He laces his fingers between mine, a smile tilting the corner of his mouth, as he continues. “Here’s one more. What if we miss out on something really special by overthinking all of this? We can’t know what will happen in the future. All we know is that there’s something here, right now, and I don’t think we can ignore it anymore. We’ve wasted enough time already.” He brushes my hair over my shoulder and reaches his hand around the nape of my neck. Gently massaging the muscles at the top of my spine, he looks deeply into my eyes, and I know I’m in trouble. Maybe there was a time when this could have been a meaningless fling, but that ship has sailed. I’m into this man right here, and he feels the same way about me. I melt into his touch, a low hum in the back of my throat. He hasn’t even kissed me yet, and I’m purring like a kitten. He leans in and his lips press against mine, warm and inviting. Full and intoxicating. Longing heats up inside me, deep in my belly. When he pulls away, I know exactly what he’s going to say. “We should probably continue this out of public view.” Kiran, Kiran Madan is a man who values his privacy. Without another thought, I wildly wave my arm in the air and call out to the nearest server, “Check, please!”

Sixteen

It’s only a few blocks from the bar to my house, but it feels too far to go without stealing a kiss along the way. When we get to a crosswalk, I point out the red hand signaling that it’s not safe to cross. “We should wait for the light to turn.” Kiran looks in both directions. “There’s not a car in sight.” “Jaywalking is a crime.” I step in front of him and wrap my arms around his neck. My fingers tickle the bottom of his hairline, and he shivers. “Plus, I can think of other things we can do while we wait.” He dips his head down and steals a kiss. His mouth is hot compared to the chilly night air, and his arms twine around me, pulling me against his body. My head is light and giddy, and not just from the wine I’ve consumed. I’m drunk on Kiran. The cinnamon and honey smell of his skin, the sweet taste of his mouth, the hard planes of his body against my soft curves. We kiss and kiss and kiss, and I simply can’t get enough of him. I forget where we are until a car horn blares at us. A woman in the Ford Escort that’s waiting at the red light slides down her window and scowls at us. It’s my tenth-grade social studies teacher, Mrs. Babcock, a sassy-mouthed old biddy if there ever was one. She drops the remains of her cigarette out her window, and when she speaks, she exhales smoke with her words. “Are you two gonna cross the street or stand there playing tonsil hockey all night?” I pull back from Kiran and jeer back at her, “Don’t let us hold you up. This could take a while. But might I ask where you’re going this late at night, Mrs. B?” “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She rolls up the window, hits the gas pedal, and

burns rubber down Main Street. “Who was that?” he asks. “One of my wacky high school teachers,” I say. “Now where were we?” Kiran smiles and takes my hand. “Come on. I’ve had enough PDA for one night. We need privacy.” “I love how that word sounds with your British accent,” I say as we cross the street. “Prev-acy.” “Oh really?” he asks. “What other words do you like hearing me say?” I swing our hands as we walk. “Lots of them. My name, most of all. Catriona.” I try to master his beautiful accent and deep timbre but fail miserably. “I also liked it when you said you were knackered. It sounded so dirty. I kept thinking I’d like to knacker you.” He laughs at me incredulously. “Knacker is not a verb.” “Still, it’s a great word. Sounds like naked and snack combined.” Even though no one else is nearby, he leans in and whispers, “I’d like to make a naked snack of you.” Liking the sound of that, I pick up my pace, ignoring the fact that my dogs are starting to bark. These heels look fabulous, but they’re certainly not comfortable. “Is it strange living in the town where you grew up?” he asks. “I can’t imagine running into my teacher when I’m snogging on the street corner.” “I’m used to it. It can be a burden on some people, trying to live up to the town’s expectations or live down a past reputation. Thank goodness I’ve never really cared what people think of me.” I consider the one secret I’ve been keeping for many years. “For the most part, anyway.” “I guess it’s not so different from Violet’s life,” he says. “Everywhere she goes there’s someone who recognizes her. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to be famous. Seems like a nightmare to me.”

When we arrive at my house, I warn him that my sisters might be awake. The Vespa is on the front porch, and Skye’s Prius is in the driveway, but the house is dark inside, and my sisters are nowhere to be seen. I’m an extrovert who has no desire to live alone, but there are times when you want your roommates to be scarce, and this is one of them. My cat Blanche greets us on the staircase and attempts to follow Kiran into my bedroom. I shut the door in her cute little face because while I adore my cats, she’s not the one I want to get frisky with right now. If anyone is going to leave scratch marks on Kiran’s back, it’s me. Meow. “You can come in later,” I tell her as she cries at the door. Maybe it’s brazen of me to bring him straight to my bedroom instead of inviting him into the kitchen or living room for drinks and conversation, but who’s kidding whom? We made out in a bar and groped each other on a street corner. He didn’t come here to watch late night talk shows with me, and if he wants a glass of water, he can ask for one. Right now, his eyes are telling me he’s thirsty for something else. I glance around at the outfits I tried on earlier this evening, tossed aside on my bed and floor. There’s also a crazy amount of cat fur floating around the corners of my room. Kiran is always so polished, he’s probably also a neat freak. I said I didn’t care what anyone thought of me, and here I am feeling bad about my housekeeping skills. This man has got my head in a spin. “What’s worrying you?” he asks. It’s a fair question, since my eyes are wandering around the room instead of gazing into his. I don’t know how to do this. I’m accustomed to one-night hookups who don’t notice if I have dust bunnies, but that’s not what Kiran and I are doing here, and it’s throwing me off my game. Maybe because this isn’t a game. Gulp. “Nothing,” I lie. “Everything is wonderful.” I cringe as he looks around the room. “You have cats.”

“See, I knew you’d notice the fur balls!” I slap his chest as I say the words, and it doesn’t give at all. The man is solid muscle and bone. I can’t wait to see how nicely that pairs with my softness. Something tells me it’s going to be a perfect combination. “I don’t really care about that right now.” He steps toward me, and for the first time in my life I’m aware of all the pulse points on my body. There’s a drumming sensation in my neck, wrists, and between my legs. “As long as there isn’t a cat hiding in the bed.” “Nope.” I reach for the button on his pants and twist it loose. “I locked them out.” I slide his zipper down, then reach inside for a teasing caress. He stills as I touch him, as if he’s concentrating all his attention on my hands. “I have a suggestion,” he says. “Let’s take things slowly tonight.” “Slowly?” Disappointment kicks open a stadium seat in my chest, and I pull my hand out of his pants. “You sound like the Mormon boy I tried to sleep with in college. I thought we were having naked snacks.” “We are,” he says. “But I want to take time to play with your body and find out what you like.” He runs a finger up my side, tracing the curve of my breast. “What’s the rush?” A spark of worry lights up inside me. I bite down on my bottom lip, trying to stop the words from spilling out, but I can’t do it. I have to ask him. “You’re attracted to me, though, right?” Before my marriage, I never would have asked a man this question, and I hate that I’ve asked it now. I don’t want to be needy and insecure, but it appears that in this particular case, I am. “Very.” His eyes darken with desire as his hands take hold of my hips. “Couldn’t you tell when I kissed you?” “I think so.” Inside, I’m wrestling with how much reality to bring into the bedroom with us. I’m not ready to tell him about Lawson and all the baggage I’m carrying from

that breakup. I don’t want to tell him that after my divorce I went for sex-only relationships because I could be sure that those men were attracted to me. It was just sex—why else were they in it if not for the orgasms? I wasn’t offering them companionship or intimacy. Kiran said he wants more than sex with me, and now he’s saying let’s delay the sex, and it’s all very confusing. “Then let me be clear, Catriona McBryde.” He slips a hand behind my head, and his fingers thread into my hair. Tingles pulse over my scalp as he draws my lips to his for a smoking hot kiss. I flicker my tongue against his, and he moans and responds by using his free hand to grab on to my ass. There’s no one watching us now. No cars driving past, no one busting into the mudroom to interrupt us. Maybe that’s what makes this kiss feel different. We can be as raunchy as we want to be. My hands latch into his belt loops and pull him closer. He tilts his head to fit our mouths together better, and our teeth click before we get it right, our tongues stroking warm and wet against each other. He pulls me even tighter up against him, his hard length pressing against me. When he pulls his lips away from mine, my head gets dizzy, like I’ve stood up too fast. “Okay?” he asks. All I can do is nod yes. In one swift move, he pulls his cashmere sweater over his head and tosses it on the chair behind him. If angels were ever going to break out and sing, it should be when Kiran Madan strips off his shirt. The veins and sinews running along his toned arms. The expanse of golden skin on his chest with a sprinkle of dark hair in the center. The planes of his abs, which—is that a six pack? Damn, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one of those in real life, not on a guy within touching distance. I reach out to smooth my hand over his stomach like I’m in a fugue state. “This is a lot of perfection right here,” I say in a breathy voice. “I’m looking at perfection.” He reaches around my waist, easing me against him again. “Your curves drive me insane.” He lowers his head to kiss me, and I let out a little moan before our lips even touch. It’s an anticipatory sound because I know that he’s about to do things to me that are going to feel very, very good. My dress is in the way of feeling his bare chest, and I’m angry about it.

His fingers slide over the zipper on the back of my dress. “Take this off.” Great minds think alike. I twirl around and pull my hair over my shoulder so he has full access to unzip me. I can feel his heat against my back as he runs his fingers down my skin until he reaches the tab of the zipper. As slowly as can be, he unzips it down to my waist. The cool air hitting my skin does nothing to ease the fire building inside me. I turn toward him again, and he eases the dress from my shoulders, letting the fabric fall away from my chest. As I pull my arms from the sleeves, his eyes follow my movements. I push the dress down over my waist, my hips, and finally to the floor where it pools at my ankles. I step out of it, still wearing my peekaboo heels, thankful that I wear pretty underwear every day, even if nobody sees it but me. Tonight I’m wearing a matching set in a deep indigo with black accents. The bottoms are lacy boy shorts that hug my assets and reveal the lower curves of my generous cheeks. The bra is soft satin and pushes up my girls high and proud. There’s a sweet little black bow in the middle of the bra to hide the clasp, giving it the perfect level of sexy and sweet. “I don’t know how you could have thought I wasn’t attracted to you.” His hands are clenched at his sides as his eyes drink me in. “It’s taking a lot of willpower not to devour you in one bite. But I want to make this good for you. I want to torture you with pleasure.” I lower my chin and look up at him. “Oh my.” I’m going to torture him a little first. Taking my time, I run my hands over the delicate lace of my boy shorts, tracing my fingers down the front of them to where my thighs meet. I let them run over my pleasure zones just briefly enough to hear him gasp. Then, I turn in a circle so he can see the rear view. When I face him again, his eyes are raking over me, as if he’s calculating everything he plans to do to me. I wish I had access to that mental list. Any concerns I had about attraction are fading fast. He reaches out, and I quiver with anticipation. His fingers gently slide the strap of my bra to the side, and he leans down and kisses my shoulder. His lips feel so good, I want them everywhere on my skin. Then he slides off the other strap and runs his fingers over the naked slopes of my breasts. My lips part as I watch him

do his work. He opens the bra clasp and the cups fall to the sides. Instead of ripping the bra off the rest of the way, he leaves it there on my shoulders, and his hands scoop under my breasts to cradle and caress them. I’m the definition of weak in the knees. No one has ever taken this kind of time undressing me. He makes me feel like I’m a gift that’s delicate, precious, desired. He strokes his fingers over my nipples and they pucker at his touch. The warmth between my thighs is becoming an ache now. I want to move his hands there, but then again, I want his hands everywhere at once. “Sit on the bed.” His tone is soft and firm at the same time. “On the end right there.” I shake off my bra, as I walk over to the bed. Perching my ass on the edge of my mattress, I spread my knees wide enough so he knows he’s welcome there, and wait impatiently for what comes next. I’m typically the aggressor, the one with the moves, and this is so different. Thrilling and a little scary, but in a good way. I’m fairly sure I’ll want to do whatever he asks of me, but I don’t know what that is yet. My shoes are still on my feet, and I brace my hands on the bed to keep my back straight, breasts out, and toss my hair, letting it fall over my shoulders. He takes off his shoes and his socks, sheds his pants with a quickness that betrays his eagerness. He’s down to his boxer briefs, his hard cock stretching the fabric, and seeing that gets me even wetter. He steps toward me and lowers to his knees, but there’s nothing submissive about this move. He’s taking what he wants. “Do you know what they say about anticipation?” He starts at my knees and runs his hands upwards toward the main event, and my legs tremble in response. He stops when he reaches the top of my thighs, his thumbs circling, caressing the soft skin on the inside of my legs. I feel like I’m barely breathing, but somehow I’m still alive. “What’s that?” “That the anticipation of a desired event can make us even happier than the event itself.” His fingers massage higher, and shamelessly, I scoot my ass forward a little to meet them.

“Do you believe that?” I smooth my hands over his shoulders then grip them, letting my nails dig in just a little bit. His smile is wicked. “I think we should find out. It’s kind of a win-win situation.” He watches me as he licks his tongue up the seam of my breasts. Then he moves lower to flick one nipple. My breath hitches so he does it again. “You like that.” He’s telling me, not asking. I answer anyway. “God, yes.” He takes my hard bud into his mouth to suck it, and my body jerks in response. As he works my breasts with his mouth, he pushes aside the lace between my legs and slips two fingers into me. I tilt forward to meet his touch, my hands clutching the comforter as he strokes me. Despite the fact that he’s multitasking, he’s still attuned to any change in my expression, a catch in my breathing, a flutter of my eyelids. When I like something, he does more of it. When I buck in response, he whispers encouragement. He tells me to ride his hand. How wet I am for him. How good I feel and smell, and how he wants to taste me. What’s new for me is the pleasure he’s taking in giving me pleasure. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever experienced. He touches a place that makes my head fall back, and I ride on the edge of release, wanting to come but not wanting this to end. Part of it is the hot pleasure coursing through me and part of it is the connection I feel with him. When he pushes another finger inside of me, I’m nearly gone and then, oh God, he pinches my nipple with his other hand, and I’m seeing stars and lights, moaning his name and riding the waves. He doesn’t stop. He moves in farther, angles a different way, and I’m bursting open again. His hand keeps moving until he coaxes the last spasm from me, and I sag forward with a sigh and a shudder. “Are you alright?” he asks. I flop back on the bed, arms splayed at my sides, spent and panting hard. When I open my eyes, he’s standing over me at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips. “If that’s your idea of building intimacy”—I slap a hand over my forehead

—“I’m all in.” He smiles, victorious. “I knew I could persuade you.” He lies down on the bed next to me, draping his arm across my middle. “I’ve been humbled, too, though. Believe it or not you’re the first woman I’ve had to convince to date me.” I roll so we’re face to face and reach out for him. “I believe it.” We start to kiss again, and a hum resonates in his throat as my hand slides inside the waistband of his boxer briefs. Simultaneously, music starts playing, which is either an amazing penis trick or someone’s phone is ringing. “Is that a One Direction song?” I ask. He scrubs a hand over his face. “Violet’s ringtone.” “Not sure how I feel about that.” Reluctantly, he gets up from the bed and crosses the room to retrieve his phone from his pants pocket. “She set it. She’s been in love with Harry Styles ever since she sat next to him on Graham Norton.” “Hmmm, maybe that’s when her interest in younger men began?” I suggest. I can tell by his shoulders that he has already tensed up.“Hello?” I can’t hear her words, but Kiran is tugging at his hair as he runs his hand through it. No doubt we won’t be finishing our intimacy project this evening. “What does it look like?” he asks. Needless to say I’m intrigued. “What’s she saying?” Kiran holds up a finger, suggesting I need to wait. Surely, he knows that patience is not my best quality. What is so important that she called to describe it to him at one in the morning? “Send me a picture of it,” he tells her. Goodness, that could mean so many things, some of them very inappropriate. I’m into a lot of kinky things, but a threesome with Violet is not one of them.

More chatter on her end, and then a ping when the picture presumably arrives. I’m dying to see it. “Alright, let me see what I can find, and I’ll be there in a little bit.” I grab a pillow and place it over my face before releasing a string of cuss words. When he takes the pillow away, he looks as frustrated and disappointed as I feel. “I’m sorry. She thinks she got poison ivy out in the woods this morning, and she’s scratching herself silly.” “How?” My voice is whiny, but I can’t help it. “She was in a truck. The only place she walked was through the mud.” “I have no idea, but she sent me a photo and there is a hideous rash on her ankles. Do you have any hydrocortisone?” I hold out my hand for his phone. “Can I see the picture?” It takes me only a few seconds to make my unlicensed country doctor diagnosis. “Those look like chigger bites. They itch like hell. One summer Spence got them in his groin area, and it was real bad.” Kiran’s nostrils flare in horror. “No more about Spence’s groin issues. What do we do for Violet?” “Antihistamines and cortisone. She’ll be okay in a few days unless it gets infected.” His eyes widen, and I pat his arm to comfort him. “Don’t worry, that’s rare. I’ve got some stuff in my medicine cabinet that should fix her up for tonight. If you want to take her to a doctor tomorrow, I’ll point you to someone good.” Kiran groans. “Why tonight? Couldn’t she wait until the morning to have a skin rash?” I pad to my closet so I can pull on my favorite kimono-style robe. “Flesh eating insects don’t care about your sex plans.” He twists his mouth in disgust. “God, that sounds vile. Honestly, it’s always something with her lately. One crisis after another.”

I tie the sash at my waist, enjoying how the silk feels against my bare skin. “I’ll get the medicine.” I walk over to him and place my hands on his shoulders. “If you want to, you can come back later.” Glumly, he says, “I think we should call it a night. We’ll resume tomorrow evening.” I press two kisses on his lips as my hand sneaks down to caress his package. “I’m going to call you about an emergency tomorrow evening. And you’d better attend to it promptly.” “That is not fair.” He presses his forehead against mine. “Just a preview.” I give him one more kiss, this one lingering, and then take his hand and walk him toward the door. “Making sure you’re clear on tomorrow night’s plans.” “Believe me,” he says in a pained voice, “it’s all I’ll be thinking about.”

Seventeen

“My legs look like they were part of a zombie attack.” Violet is draped across my couch looking like the heroine in a tragic drama, a part that’s right in her wheelhouse. In all fairness, her ankles are chewed up pretty badly. They’re speckled with inflamed red dots that my friend Dr. Jordan Chu confirmed to be chigger bites. Jordan works in the ER, but she had today off so Kiran and I drove Violet over to her apartment to get a diagnosis. He stayed in the car, supposedly to give Jordan space to work, but I suspect he was tired of listening to Violet’s complaining. “It’s been a nightmare,” Violet told Jordan as she inspected the marks. “I look like a leper!” Jordan kept on her usual stoic expression, made the diagnosis, and called in a prescription cream that would help alleviate the itching. As we were leaving, Violet thanked her and tried to slip her a hundred-dollar bill. Jordan politely refused it. “I’m ever so grateful,” Violet said. “I nearly sawed my legs off at the ankles last night.” Once Violet was out of earshot and on her way back to Kiran’s car, Jordan leaned in and whispered, “She’s a little bit…dramatic.” I laughed at this understatement of the century. “I guess you don’t get to be an award-winning actress any other way.” Despite being incapacitated by chigger bites, Violet wanted to come over today to learn to make chicken and dumplings. I have a feeling she’s going to be doing more lounging and eating than cooking. “Zombies eat brains, not legs,” Kiran tells her. His patience sounds frayed, which is understandable. If I had to deal with her twenty-four/seven, I’m sure I’d

be drained too. I tell Violet to sit up so I can shove an extra pillow behind her back. “If you’re not up to making chicken and dumplings today, that’s fine,” I say. “Might be a good day for you to put your feet up and do some writing. Kiran can help me, and we’ll make a video of the cooking so you can watch it later.” She’s not the only one who knows how to act. Hopefully, she won’t see through my charade and figure out that I’m angling for some alone time with Kiran. He nods and presses his hand on her shoulder. “That sounds like a good plan.” He shoots me the side-eye, and it’s clear we’re on the same page. Violet yawns and rolls her shoulders. “I am rather sleepy. Terrible night last night. Maybe I’ll rest for a bit.” “I’ll get your laptop from the car,” Kiran says. “You might want it later.” After he’s gone, I find Violet staring at me with sharp eyes, nothing dopey about her. “Don’t think I’m unaware about what’s going on.” “What’s that?” I ask innocently. “You and Kiran.” She sits forward to plump the cushion behind her back before continuing. “He was here last night when I called. I’m sorry I interrupted you two.” If she’s irritated that he was with me last night instead of at her beck and call at the B&B, she’s hiding it well. She sounds curious more than irritated. I pinch a dry leaf off my violets to avoid her eagle eyes. “That’s all right, no worries at all.” I’m itching to gush about how wonderful I think Kiran is and ask her about all his preferences and past relationships, but I zip my lips. Kiran has made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t like people getting into his business. It’s hard to balance the value he puts on privacy with my habit of spilling all of my personal dirt, but I don’t want to screw things up with him so I stay mum.

“You know I adore him,” she says. “And I already told him that he couldn’t have chosen a better woman to get involved with than you.” Her words are like honey on my tongue, not only because it’s nice to have someone think we’re a good match, but because she implied Kiran chose me. With all the Tatianas in the world trying to lure him into their beds, he wanted to be with me. That sure makes a lady feel special. “Thank you so much.” “Are book sales still climbing?” she asks. “I’ve gotten so many comments on that post about your book.” “Yes, thank you again for that,” I gush. “I’ve had my best month ever. I really appreciate you doing that for me.” She waves away my gratitude. “Glad to do it. What is fame for if I can’t help my friends.” Violet Ramsey and I are friends. The thought of that still blows my mind. Kiran strides into the room and places the laptop on the coffee table. “Here you are, Violet.” He smiles at me, and I bask in the glow of his iration. “Let’s cook.”

I take out all the ingredients, filling the counter with produce, flour, chicken broth, and all the other necessities for making chicken and dumplings. This was one of my favorite meals as a child, a true comfort food. Delivering it will be like bringing folks a big hug. Kiran and I wash our hands side-by-side in the kitchen. We’re close enough so that at one point my elbow bumps against his, and it feels like we can conduct electricity in that tiny point of . Every time we touch, something inside me lights up like a sparkler. I’ve been attracted to men before, but this kind of chemistry is off the charts. Even with my back turned, I’m aware of where he is in a room, and when he gets close to me, I feel like he’s a magnet, pulling me toward him. It’s taking a great deal of willpower to stay focused on cooking when all I want to do is get my hands on him again. Good thing I’ve always been an excellent multitasker. I give his ass a little pat on my way to retrieve the cutting board. “Very unprofessional behavior for a head chef,” he says in a growly voice. “You’d better be careful or we’re not going to get any cooking done today.” He takes the cutting board from my hands and sets it on the counter. “In fact, what if we snuck upstairs instead?” I sigh and run my hand over his jawline, silky smooth from his morning shave. “I wish we could, but this has to get done. We’re cooking for some folks at my church.” I press a lingering kiss to his lips then turn and grab my favorite flowered apron off the peg on the kitchen wall. As he grumps about the fact that we’re cooking instead of getting naked, I select an apron for him. It says Darth Baker on the front and belongs to Skye, obviously, but I know she won’t mind sharing. “One Sunday a month, I’m responsible for making meals for church who are shut-ins,” I explain as I slip on my apron. “I drive the food over to their places and say hello, talk to them for a few minutes, bring a little sunshine into their day.” I may not be the most regular attendee at Sunday services—in fact I’m as likely to practice a little Green Witchcraft with Isabelle from time to time as I am to attend church—but I’m committed to my meal deliveries. My mother has a small

plaque over her kitchen sink that says, Live each day so that at the end of your life, it will have mattered. I think about that a lot. What could matter more than making a hot meal for people who need it and delivering it to them with a smile? “You’re an angel,” he says. “I enjoy it.” I pull out a big knife and hold it up in the air. “And now if you will do the honors, I need that celery diced.” I set the knife next to the cutting board as he rolls up his shirt sleeves, methodically undoing the buttons, folding over the material, and exposing glorious forearms corded with muscle. He catches me staring, and a smile plays on his lips. “You don’t look like you’re thinking about chicken and dumplings right now. Changed your mind about going upstairs?” He’s right. I’m thinking about eating him up instead. My hunger for Kiran grows every minute we spend together. “I would never do such a thing.” I bat my eyelashes for good measure. “I’m just imagining whether you’d make a good hero in my next novel.” “Why do you like writing romance?” he asks. “It’s not a criticism; I’m genuinely curious.” “The obvious reasons, I guess. First of all, I like writing happily ever afters. It’s nice to know you’re giving people a little happiness and hope at the end of every book.” He carefully chops the celery, creating tiny pieces that are perfectly uniform in size. “I thought you didn’t believe in happily ever afters.” “Did I say that?” His words sting a little. “I don’t believe happily ever after has to mean riding off in a carriage with the prince. Happily ever after can mean a lot of things. In romance novels, it means being in a loving relationship, but a person can live happily on her own, in my opinion.” I rinse the carrots under the tap then shake off the droplets of water that cling to them. “Marriage is right for some folks. My parents have been happily married for thirty-five years. But as you know, it didn’t work out so well for me.”

“Were you very young when you married?” he asks. In my mind, I picture twenty-two-year-old me, a girl who is both dangerously over-confident and deeply insecure. I hadn’t learned to love my body yet and was doing self-destructive diets that involved things like eating excessive amounts of grapefruit and fasting on water flavored with lemon juice and cayenne. I shudder to think about the way I abused myself back then. On the other hand, I was also certain I would be a senior editor at HarperCollins by age thirty. “Lawson and I started dating when I was a senior in college and he was in law school. He got a job in a New York law firm after he finished school, and it was either break up or move up there with him. I didn’t have any other plans, and he was hot to get married so I said yes, thinking we’d have a big adventure. I bought all these outfits for work based on what the women wore in Mad Men. I mean, I realized it wasn’t the fifties anymore, but I thought they looked so fabulous.” I laugh at myself, and it feels good. For a long time I cried whenever I thought about those days. “I was all set, but of course you know what they say about the best laid plans.” “I certainly do,” he says. “My own career path didn’t end the way I expected it would either. What happened to your publishing dreams?” “The job was much less glamorous than I thought it would be. They put me in the nonfiction department. Can you imagine? All those wonderful novels to read, and I was plodding through tomes about maritime law and the history of socialism.” “Didn’t you like New York?” he asks. “It’s one of my favorite cities.” “I liked some things about the city, but mainly when I think about that time, all I feel is the loneliness.” I press a hand to my chest. “Like I feel it right here. For the first time in my life, I had trouble making friends, and Lawson worked constantly. I was by myself a lot, and you know how I like to talk. People in New York freak out when strangers try to talk to them.” I sigh and line the carrots up on the cutting board to start slicing them into rounds. “Even if we hadn’t fallen apart as a couple, I don’t think I could have made it there.” “Do you mind me asking what happened with your ex?”

I toss the carrots into a bowl and set down the knife. This is the part of the story I don’t tell many people, but I’m ready to trust Kiran. I want to trust him. “He came home one day and said, ‘Cat, I have something to tell you. I fell in love with someone at work.’ I was heartbroken, and I asked him who it was. He said, ‘Greg, our paralegal.’ I thinking, Greg is a really odd name for a woman.” Kiran grimaces at me, and I bark out a laugh. It feels good to laugh about it with him. “Lawson said we were the last two people to figure out he was gay. Of course, he figured it out before I did.” He sets down his knife and leans back against the counter. “That must have been devastating.” “It was, at the time.” I wait for the phantom pain of heartbreak to spear through my chest, the way it always does when I talk about what happened with Lawson, but nothing happens. “But I’m glad he told me the truth when he did. It would have been much worse if we’d been married a long time or had kids.” “So that’s why you left New York.” “Yes, about a month later. Worst month of my life. I didn’t have enough money to get my own apartment so I had to sleep in a bed with the man who had just itted he wasn’t in love with me and wasn’t even sure he ever was. As soon as my thirty-day notice at work was up, I hightailed it back home, into the loving bosom of my family. I moved back in with my parents and took a job at Twice Nice, which was owned back then by my friend Wren.” “You’re lucky to have that kind of family,” he says. “Mine is spread out all over the UK now, and although I suppose I could go to my parents’ house if I were truly desperate, I don’t think I ever would. They’re both barristers—very busy and important people, even in their elder years. I don’t mean they’re not good parents.” He pauses to think for a moment. “If you need advice on legal or financial matters, they’re the people to call. After my accident, they dealt with the doctors and did all this medical research, called in favors from friends in the medical field to make sure I had the best care. But emotionally…they struggle to give that kind of .” “You can come to me if you need a soft place to land,” I say. “I’ve got every flavor of tea imaginable and the softest quilts to pile on top of you. Lots of warm hugs too.”

His smile turns into a grin. “I believe it.” He walks over to me and places his hands on the counter, one on either side of my body, pinning me in place. My chest presses up against his, and there’s nowhere to run, not that I’d want to anyway. “You said the other night that you might be willing to take a chance with me, change your lone wolf ways. What do you think now?” “I think...” I sigh and put my hands on his waist. My eyes lock with his. “I think I’m already too far gone to do anything else.” He bends his head down and kisses me softly. “Glad to hear it.” I give him another smack on the backside. “Don’t break my heart, Kiran, Kiran Madan. I mean it.” I lean my head against his chest, where I can hear his pounding heartbeat, and he can’t see the vulnerability in my eyes. “I really like you.” He pulls me into his arms and holds me close. “I really like you too. I can’t promise we’ll never hurt each other, but I can promise that I’ll do my best to take care of your heart.” “And always be honest with me. Promise.” “I promise.” If I sense a moment’s hesitation in his voice, I dismiss it, knowing that I’m being overly sensitive. That’s what happens when you have a gay ex-husband. Trust doesn’t come easily to me anymore, but I know I’ve done the right thing placing it in Kiran’s hands. Once we have the prep work done, he sets up his phone to film everything for Violet to watch later. Before long, the kitchen is filled with the delicious smell of onions, carrots, and celery frying in butter. Kiran is an excellent sous chef, and for a long time we work companionably without speaking. Once the homemade dumplings have been dropped into the pot, I set the temperature to a low simmer, and he pauses the camera because all we’ll be doing for the next fifteen minutes is giving the pot the occasional stir, which doesn’t make for exciting video. While I do a bit of cleaning up, he checks on

Violet. “She’s sound asleep,” he says when he returns. “Snoring.” I pour us each a glass of water, then take a seat at the table, happy to get off my feet for a while. Kiran takes off his apron before sitting down in the seat next to mine. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to show you, but”—he looks up at me through his thick dark lashes—“I’m a bit embarrassed.” I place my hand over his. “Does it curve to the left? Got a weird mole down there? Chigger bites?” He laughs and playfully pinches my leg. “No, I’m talking about the thing I’ve been writing.” I nod at him encouragingly. “Ooh, tell me more.” He blushes a little, which is an adorable look on someone who’s normally the picture of cool confidence. “It started out as a memoir about my stunt performer days, but then it turned into a thriller. At least I think that’s what it is. It’s in a rough state, and I’m not sure if I should pitch it altogether. Maybe it’s rubbish.” “I’d love to read it.” I twine my fingers through his. “I’m sure it’s brilliant.” “I don’t know about all that, but I trust your judgment as well as your inability to hold anything back.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You’ll tell me the cold, hard truth albeit in a very sweet package.” He has my number alright. “Thank you, sweetie. I’d be happy to look at anything you want to show me.” I waggle my eyebrows at him. “Anything at all.” “You can’t shock me with your bawdiness, you know. I’ve read your books.” My heart skips a beat. “You have?” “I started with The Duchess and the Dressmaker, and then I read The Duchess

and the Dauphin. Now I’m onto The Duchess and the Dane.” I bite down on my index finger. “Hmmm, that one has some spicy scenes. Prince Christian is a naughty boy.” “They all have spicy scenes. I’ve been wondering about something.” He leans in closer to me. “Have you ever been to the opera?” My chest seizes for a second as I my dream. I don’t want Kiran in the audience, I want him in the opera box with me. “I never have”—our eyes connect and my stomach dips—“but I’d sure like to.” Kiran’s mouth tips into a sly smile. “Excellent. I’ll get us tickets to the Royal Opera House when you come visit me in London.” The warm kitchen now feels positively steamy. I strip off my apron and toss it on the chair next to me. “Is there enough privacy at an opera these days to reenact the scene from my book?” I fan the front of my blouse to get some air on my heated neck and décolletage, and I notice Kiran enjoying the view. Somehow, even in this steamy kitchen, he looks crisp and cool in his white button-down shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. “If we had our own box,” he says. He strokes a finger down the line of my cleavage, and a shiver runs through me. “You’ll come visit me in London, won’t you?” he asks, his eyes searching mine for an honest answer. “Or LA. I think we’re going to head there soon, actually.” “I’d like to come see you,” I say evasively. Most men wouldn’t notice my reluctance, they’d just hear what they wanted to hear in my answer. Kiran, though, he never misses an emotional beat. “But will you?” “You really want to do some kind of long-distance relationship with me?” I ask,

my chest swirling with emotions. “Do those ever work?” I’m asking myself the question as much as I’m asking him. I’ve seen friends fail at dating someone in another state much less across an ocean. In some cases people stray, but it’s not always as dramatic as that. Couples grow apart because they’re not spending time together or get frustrated with having a commitment without any of the perks. Long distance relationships rarely seem to end happily. I pick at a spot of dried maple syrup on the table as I speak. “What if we tried dating, but didn’t force ourselves to be monogamous?” When I raise my eyes, Kiran is studying me with such intensity that I squirm in my seat. “What?” “What is it about monogamy that scares you?” His words sound like a challenge, and I feel the need to defend myself. “I’m afraid that trying to commit to a relationship when we live thousands of miles apart and haven’t even really dated each other is unrealistic and frankly a little nuts. We haven’t even had sex yet, and we’re going to be monogamous? You have to it that seems ambitious.” His smile is a relief. “First of all, I’m hoping to resume naked snacks as soon as possible, but maybe you’re right. Let me propose a different idea. What if we leave ourselves open to dating other people but remain monogamous when it comes to sex?” The idea of Kiran squiring another woman about town puts a sour taste in my mouth. “You’re only suggesting that because you know I don’t date,” I say. “You’d be the one seeing other people.” He runs his hand over my jawline, and I melt into his palm. “Darling, I don’t want to date anyone else either. Why would I?” The timer on the stove buzzes, which is a good way to hide the fact that I have a lump in my throat. Kiran’s sweet sincerity overwhelms me at times. “Darn it, I need to get that.” Before I can rise from my chair, Violet’s groggy voice calls out from the other

room. “Kiran, can you bring me some tea and a Paracetamol?” Kiran sighs and stands up from the table. “Duty calls.” I get to my feet and run my hands through his thick hair, then settle them at the nape of his neck. “You check on Violet, and I’ll attend to the chicken and dumplings. Then we can escape and deliver this food.” Kiran stares down at me, his eyes dark with desire. His arms circle my waist, and his hands settle on my ass. “I want to attend to your dumplings.” Hell’s bells, I need that lady to fall back asleep for two hours. I head over to the stove to halt the irritating noise of the timer and turn off the burner under the pot. My mouth waters from the scent of the broth and the sight of those plump dumplings. It needs to cool a bit before we ladle servings into containers. “Maybe you can get her to take another nap?” I suggest. He takes a deep breath and nods. “I’ll do my best. Paracetamol?” I point him toward the appropriate kitchen cabinet. “Headache medicine in there. I’ll make her some chamomile tea too. Please ask her if she’s hungry. A belly full of chicken and dumplings might make her sleepy.” He searches the cabinet fruitlessly then peers over his shoulder. “Can’t find it.” “Look behind the tampons and Dolly Parton prayer candle.” When he comes up empty-handed again, I head over to assist. I pull out several items before finding the Tylenol, which has fallen inside a neti pot. “Aha, found it.” “Even the contents of your kitchen cabinet are fascinating.” He inspects the sage smudge stick I use for cleansing the bad mojo out of my friends’ new homes. “I have no idea what this is, but I’m sure there’s a story behind it.” Violet’s call rings out again, and Kiran rolls his eyes in response.

“I have lots of stories to share with you, but those will have to wait.” Unable to resist, I pop a kiss on his lips, which puts a smile back on his face. I consider suggesting we slip a Benadryl into Violet’s tea, but hold myself back. We don’t want to accidentally overdose the woman and turn this romantic adventure into some kind of small town murder mystery.

“Who’s next on the delivery list?” Violet asks from the front seat. I’m a little peeved to be relegated to the back seat again, considering this is my project, but I couldn’t exactly push Violet out of the way when she’s paying Kiran to drive her places. After she consumed the medicine, tea, and a hefty serving of chicken and dumplings, she decided she’d in on the food run. Kiran was displeased, to say the least. “Mr. Feeney,” I say. “Last one for the day. Head up the block and make a right on Triumph Drive.” My seniors were happy about receiving a meal today, but they were absolutely thrilled to see Violet and Kiran accompanying me. Kiran received a cheek pinch from Mrs. Lombardo and an unopened bottle of Jameson from Mrs. Rose who said he reminded her of her late husband, Henry, who enjoyed a glass of whiskey from time to time. Mr. Rose was five feet six and bald when I knew him, but maybe he was a babe when he was young. Violet received a copy of Mr. Bishop’s memoir, which he told us he would like turned into a PBS miniseries. She kindly told him she’d see what she could do. “I have a proposal for you, Catriona,” Violet says to me as Kiran drives us to Mr. Feeney’s place. “I am in desperate need of an assistant. Kiran is going to quit soon if I keep making him fill all these roles.” Kiran continues looking straight ahead and doesn’t say a word, so I’m not sure if he knows what’s coming next. I have a feeling I do. “What do you think about taking the job? You’d get to see the world and meet fascinating people. It would provide fodder for your books, and I promise to give you time to write.” Instead of an answer, I have a flood of questions that I barely hold back from asking. Did Kiran know she was going to offer me this job? Is this his way of keeping our relationship going? Why would either of them think this job would appeal to me? As Violet carries on about how wonderful this job opportunity is for me, I sit dumbstruck in the back seat. I have to it, I did behave like a fangirl when she arrived, so she must think that I’d jump at her offer. And it is thrilling to think about chatting up the Toms—Hardy, Hiddleston, and Holland, of course—at a swanky party in London. Ooh, I’d wear my ASOS wrap dress with the flutter

sleeves and the feather pattern. Stunning. It’s a fun daydream, but not what I’m looking for in reality, and Kiran should know that. Still, he hasn’t said a word. Violet doesn’t seem to notice that I haven’t accepted yet as she waxes poetic about the vacation home she owns in Spain with the view of the mountains. “Thank you so much, Violet. It’s a mighty kind offer, but I’m going to have to decline.” “Decline?” she says incredulously. “That’s absurd. Don’t you want to experience life outside of this town?” Met with stony silence from both Kiran and me, she seems to realize her mistake. “That came out wrong. Foster’s Creek is absolutely delightful, of course. I love it here, but there are so many other places to see, people to meet. Don’t you want adventure? You’ve got such a big personality, Catriona, I can’t imagine you limiting yourself—” “Enough, Violet,” Kiran says, his tone harsh. “Enough what? Honesty?” He gives her another hard look, and she harrumphs and turns to look out the window. A minute of awkward silence es, and for once in my life I don’t feel like filling it. My mind is still flooded with too many questions. “I apologize, Catriona,” Violet finally says. I’ve never heard this haughty tone from her, and I don’t care for it. “But I don’t understand why you’re both acting like this is a bad idea. You two are involved now. How is this going to work out if you’re living on different continents?” “That is none of your concern,” Kiran says. The emotional climate in the car has turned frosty, and it’s my nature to want to smooth things over with humor. “We can’t bring this negativity to Mr. Feeney’s house. Group hug when we get there! We’ll make a Kiran hug sandwich.” Violet sniffs and Kiran mutters something under his breath. I don’t want to be the person who comes between them. “Please, y’all,” I say after another minute of dead quiet. “Let’s not argue.” I lean

forward and put a hand on each of their shoulders. “I don’t want Mommy and Daddy to fight.” Violet chuckles, and I catch Kiran’s attempt not to smile. I congratulate myself for smoothing things over for the moment, but I have a feeling that this issue isn’t going to die easily. Violet is a formidable woman, and she’s used to getting what she wants, and what she wants right now is me as her assistant.

Eighteen

Skye, Fiona, and I spend the morning texting each other about everything we want to do at the fair that evening. High on the list are eating fried dough, winning Skye a prize at the Guess Your Weight game, and riding the Ferris wheel. Skye is vexed that Kiran is crashing our sister date, but she’ll get over it. Fiona will be with us, too, so no one is the third wheel. Kiran said he doesn’t mind “escorting the three lovely McBryde sisters to the fair,” which is probably the only time anyone has described Fiona as “lovely” in her life. He and I haven’t discussed Violet’s job offer yet. After our chicken and dumplings drop-offs, the three of us had dinner downtown, and then Violet wanted Kiran on hand for her Zoom interview with some new online women’s magazine called Parlour. She was afraid she couldn’t run the technology by herself, which would be my job at nine o’clock at night if I took the assistant position. No, thank you, ma’am. I also have no interest in moving away from my friends and family, nor do I want to chase around a woman who is clearly having a midlife crisis that’s threatening to ruin her public image. I’m curious what he thinks is behind her offer. Does she think Kiran is considering leaving her and she wanted some bait to get him to stay? Is he considering leaving his job? For his own sake, I hope so. The woman has zero personal/professional boundaries, and his life won’t really be his own until he quits. Business is brisk at Twice Nice until around two o’clock when things hit a lull, probably because a gray, foggy morning made way for a stunning fall afternoon. No doubt people are getting in a hike or bike ride, enjoying these last weeks of perfect weather. As I’m straightening racks, the door chimes and my neighbor Eudora Robinson swings through the front door, smelling of drugstore perfume and talcum powder. Her close-cut steel-gray hair is in need of its biweekly trim, which means she’s probably on her way to Scissor Sisters down the street from my shop. “Afternoon, Eudora!” I call out.

She stays near the shop door, clutching her giant purse to her midsection like someone is going to steal it out of her hands. “Catriona, what’s going on at your house?” I try to if there are any Halloween decorations we’ve neglected to take down. The old ladies on my block can get fussy with anyone who doesn’t undecorate on time. God forbid you’ve got your ghost lawn ornament out when it’s time for Thanksgiving scarecrows and hay bales. “Are you referring to the lights in my trees?” I ask. I haven’t had the heart to take those down yet. They remind me of the day Kiran and I spent decorating for the party. Eudora may have to deal with those lights until mid-December. “I’m talking about the squad car in front of your home,” she says primly, clearly enjoying the fact that I haven’t heard this news yet. “It’s been there for at least an hour this afternoon.” She purses her lips. “Is that Fiona in trouble with the law again?” It’s one thing for Skye and me to criticize Fiona, but no one else better try it. “I don’t think we should jump to conclusions.” I grab my sweater off the chair and tie it around my shoulders. “Maybe someone tried to rob us. I’d better find out.” Mrs. Robinson rolls her eyes like I’m slow-witted. “The police would have called you if you’d been robbed.” I escort her out of the store, my hand gently guiding her birdlike arm. “Perhaps their car is parked in front of my house, but they’re somewhere else.” I flip the sign to closed and lock the door behind us. “There’s surely some simple explanation.” I hurry toward home, glad that I wore practical walking shoes today, meaning wedge heels. I save my sneaker wearing for climbing ladders. There is indeed a police vehicle parked in front of my house, one of those fancy new SUVs the local precinct recently bought for their officers. My stomach flutters with a touch of anxiety, even though there’s probably nothing to worry about. There’s hardly any crime in this neighborhood, not with the eagle eyes of Mrs. Robinson and

the other old ladies who monitor everyone’s comings and goings. Who needs a security system when you have granny patrol. Then I how odd Fiona has been acting lately, meeting “friends” but not saying who they are or where she’s been with them. Maybe she hasn’t been running around with the girl panda bear. Maybe Mrs. Robinson is right and she’s in trouble. Please don’t let her be involved in anything illegal. Don’t let her be drinking again or…worse. If she’s into drugs, my heart will break. Skye’s car isn’t in the driveway, but Fiona’s Vespa is parked near the porch. The heavy weight of impending doom settles in my stomach. She shouldn’t be home yet. We leave for the fair at six thirty, and she said she was working up until the last minute, booked full with appointments. Scenarios of what I might find inside the house run through my head. None of them are good. I sprint up the porch steps and grab the door handle to find that it’s locked. Fiona rarely locks doors when she’s at home, and if the police are in there with her, this locked door makes even less sense. In a hurry, I hunt for my keys in my purse. Once I’ve got the door unlocked, I burst into the foyer, prepared for anything. “What the—” Except this. I stare in shock at Officer Alex Vega, who’s wearing his police uniform except for one important detail. His shirt. He’s holding that in his hands, while his lips are latched onto my sister’s face. “Oh my,” I whisper. They startle and jump apart. Then the three of us stand silent, suspended in the awkwardness of the moment. “Sorry to scare you, Catriona.” Alex clears his throat. “I was just leaving.” He slips his arms into his shirt and begins buttoning. He’s been hiding some nice pecs under there. Fiona’s eyes are wide and scared. “He was just leaving,” she repeats.

Unbelievable. This is why she’s been acting so weird lately. She’s fooling around with her sworn enemy and didn’t want us to know. It wasn’t a panda sneaking out of our house the morning after the party, it was Alex. “You don’t have to leave on my , Alex.” I don’t even attempt to suppress the wicked smile forming on my lips. Now that I’ve gotten a better read on the situation, I’m enjoying every second of it. “Go back to what you were doing, and I’ll get out of your way.” Fiona’s panicked expression morphs into a scowl. “I’m actually expected at my mom’s house for an early dinner.” Alex kisses her on the cheek. “Don’t speed anymore. Next time I’m going to have to ticket you.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy kiss Fiona on the cheek in a sweet way like that. My heart sighs at the sight of it. She deserves that kind of goodness in her life, and Alex is certainly a stand-up guy. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to roast her for sleeping with the enemy, of course. The door clicks shut behind Alex, and I turn to her, my mouth agape. “You dirty dog. It wasn’t panda girl or a drug dealer, it was Alex!” Fiona studies me like I’ve lost my mind. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but this isn’t a big deal. It’s just sex.” I trot behind her into the kitchen because she is not getting away so easily. “Just sex? It didn’t look that way. You were all schmoopie-eyed back there. How long has this been going on? Was it before the party? I need details.” The scales have fallen from my eyes, and I have so many questions now, but she’s not interested in answering any of them. Instead of responding, she grabs a Red Bull out of the refrigerator and tries to push past me. I get into her personal space and place my hands on her shoulders. “Not so fast, sister. I need to know how this came to be. You hate Alex Vega. Scratch that, you hated him. Now you guys are playing naked Twister. Wait, did you two do it in your bedroom, or do I need to sanitize the kitchen counters?” “God, you’re such a pain in the ass.” She cracks open her can and takes a swig. “Yes, we did it in my room and no, you don’t need to clean anything down

here.” My laugh is somewhat of a cackle. “I’m sorry, but this is delicious news. For years, you’ve had nothing but contempt for the guy, and now you’re riding through his speed trap on your Vespa so he’ll chase you.” “Stop, please, I know how pathetic this looks.” Her voice is pleading. “Am I seriously going to have a relationship with Alex Vega?” She rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands. “It started out as hate sex, and now I’m so confused.” I notice she doesn’t call him Officer Vega. Damn, she’s falling for this guy. I soften my voice before asking, “What are you going to do?” “I don’t know. I really don’t know.” She shakes her head like she’s coming out of a trance. “Right now I have to get back to work. The only reason I was able to take time off today was because a client canceled.” “I meant long-term, Fiona. What are you going to do about this thing with Alex?” She hoists her backpack onto her shoulder and heads to the front door. “For the moment, I’m going to focus on giving people beautiful body art and not think about him.” “Good luck with that.” Not an hour has ed today when I haven’t thought about Kiran. Fiona and I are both screwed. “We’ll talk about this later!” Her response is a door slam, but I’ll take that as a yes.

“Is it what you expected?” I ask. Kiran, Skye, Fiona, and I stand inside the gates of the county fair surveying the attractions around us. In the foreground are game stalls hung with stuffed animal prizes in unnatural hues and food vendors selling candied apples, funnel cakes, and other treats. My mouth waters at the scent of confectioner’s sugar and fried dough that mingles with the crisp fall air. Looming in the background are brightly lit rides like the thundering roller coaster, the barftastic Tilt-A-Whirl, and my favorite, the Ferris wheel. Kiran slides on his sunglasses to ward off the glare of the setting sun. “It’s smaller than I thought it would be.” Fiona smirks and channels her inner Michael Scott. “That’s what she said.” “No one has ever said that to me,” he responds. Gulp. Unlike me, Fiona is unfazed by Kiran’s braggadocio. She pats his arm. “Of course not, dear.” It feels natural having Kiran along with us, which is odd. If you’d asked me the type of man who would fit into our house, I wouldn’t have said a British bodyguard who has never been to a county fair and doesn’t understand the meaning of “casual dress.” He showed up at my house in flat-front khakis and another cashmere sweater, this one a gorgeous soft ecru. I don’t think the man owns a pair of jeans. As a person who has been accused of being overdressed for every occasion, this isn’t a criticism, just an observation. Skye is wearing old cords and a flannel shirt under a puffer jacket, and Fiona has on her standard uniform of ripped jeans, a tank top, and a leather moto jacket. I’m the only one dressed to the nines in a twirly skirt, fitted turtleneck, and high-heeled boots that are probably going to sink into the ground or get caught on a rock. “If you’re thinking this is kind of a Podunk operation,” I say, “please understand that this is just our county fair. It’s supposed to be small and quaint in nature. The big state fair happens in Raleigh every October, but you missed that one.”

“I wasn’t complaining. This is perfect.” He slides his hand into mine and gives it a quick squeeze. We’re holding hands in public, which feels coupley and unfamiliar, but not unpleasant at all. I wait for the scared, overwhelmed feeling to hit, the one that will make me want to pull away, but it doesn’t come. Huh. That’s new. “You’d probably like this better than the state fair anyway,” I say, leaning into him. “Fewer crowds and noise. Skye won’t even set foot at the state fair because it gives her hives being around that many people.” “Ugh, the worst,” Skye says. “Just the thought of being hemmed in by the sweaty bodies of the masses.” She shakes like a wet dog. “Dreadful. Alright, I’m off to get tickets. How many do we need?” “A hundred?” Fiona suggests. Seeing my incredulous look, she rolls her eyes. “Fine, just get fifty for now. We can always buy more later.” Skye gives her a double thumbs-up and jogs toward a ticket booth. Her childlike excitement lights me up with happiness. “I’ll get some tickets too,” Kiran says. “I need to win some of these games. I don’t want you going home empty-handed.” “Not planning to,” I say with a wink. “Good.” He saunters off toward the ticket booth, and Fiona and I step to the side of the pathway to wait for them. “A hundred tickets?” I ask her. “How many times are you planning to play Whack-a-Mole?” “There’s rides too. Don’t tell me you’re not doing rides this year?” I shake my head. “Not the Tilt-A-Whirl. You know that ride makes me puke.” Before she can answer, a deep voice from behind us says, “Fiona?” We turn in unison to see an off-duty Alex Vega approaching us with two little girls at his side who are carrying cones of cotton candy bigger than their heads.

On second glance I realize that the girls are twins, nearly impossible to tell apart, somewhere around seven or eight years old. Their mouths are stained blue and pink, and I can only imagine how sticky their hands must be. “What are you doing here?” Fiona asks. “I thought you were hanging with your parents tonight.” Alex looks good in his uniform, but tonight he’s a damn sex-bomb in his jeans and fitted gray henley, playing doting uncle to his adorable nieces. If Fiona doesn’t snap him up, someone else will, that’s for sure. “I was, but then my sister showed up with the girls, and they begged to go to the fair. I figured I’d give Valencia a break and take them off her hands for a while.” He bends down to help one of the twins extract a piece of cotton candy from her pigtail. “We’re headed over to the fun house next.” I shoot Fiona a meaningful look. “You should go with them. You love the fun house.” She furrows her brow, staring down at the little girls like they’re alien creatures. “Not sure how much help I’d be with the kids…” Alex straightens up and says to Fiona, “I don’t need help, but I’d love for you to us.” He looks so earnest and sweet that I’ll feel sorry for him if she refuses. Before she can answer, Kiran shows up at my side and draws everyone’s attention. “Skye is getting a candy apple.” He gives Alex an appraising eye. “Have we met?’ “This is Alex Vega,” I say, “and these are his nieces.” “I’m Lia and this is Emerson,” one of the twins says, gesturing to her sister with her cone of cotton candy. “Fiona is ing them in the fun house.” I speak quickly so she doesn’t have a chance to argue. “Let’s get Skye and do the Guess Your Weight. Y’all enjoy yourselves!”

I pull Kiran toward the ticket booth, leaving Fiona to fend for herself with Alex and the twins. She’s probably irritated with me right now, but she’ll thank me later. “She needed a little push,” I explain as Kiran and I head toward the candy apple stall. Skye is still toward the back of the line. “She likes him, but she’s getting inside her own head about it.” “They’re together?” Kiran turns to watch the retreating figures of Fiona and Alex trailing behind the twins toward the fun house. They have that new couple energy where you can tell they want to touch, but neither one knows if it will be reciprocated so they stay a few inches apart. Have Kiran and I sped past that part? He’s got his arm around me now, and I’m all about snuggling into him. “Yes, and he’s a cop so they make an unlikely pair, but I actually think he’ll be good for her.” Kiran checks a message on his phone. “Violet is reminding me again to take photos tonight.” “I’m surprised she didn’t want to be here.” And relieved too. It’s hard to how excited I was when she first arrived. She still has her moments when I’m stunned by her wit and generosity, but there are other moments when I see the fault lines in her personality. She’s needy and self-centered in ways that are likely common for wealthy and powerful people, but I also suspect that she’s manipulative, which is an ugly trait. Offering me a job was a convenient way to make sure Kiran stayed by her side instead of trading his current position for one with regular hours and the chance at a personal life. Those thoughts have been running through my mind all day, and I feel guilty for assuming the worst of her. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that her job offer wasn’t entirely magnanimous. “She was writing the last act in her screenplay,” he says. “You know how it is when you’re into a writing groove. She was going to order in food, and Tabby said she’d check in on her for me.” “Her chigger bites are all better?” I ask. An exasperated sigh escapes his lips. “They were never that bad, but yes, they’re

looking less inflamed. She can be a bit of a drama queen.” Skye runs over to us holding a long string of tickets in one hand and a candy apple in the other. “Where’s Fee?” “She’s with Alex Vega and his nieces.” I wait for the news to sink in. “What do you mean ‘with Alex Vega’?” she asks. “I mean that I came home this afternoon and found Alex in our foyer without a shirt on.” Skye squints, like she’s trying to do math in her head. “Why would he be there half-naked?” She’s adorably naive, and I love her for it. “He was there with Fiona. Kissing her. I caught them post-coitus.” Kiran grimaces. “Please never use the word post-coitus again.” Skye’s denim-blue eyes widen as she absorbs what I’m telling her. “Officer Alex Vega, the police officer, and Fiona are together.” I nod, but she still doesn’t look convinced. “The guy who told her in high school that she looked like Edgar Allen Poe’s less attractive younger sister?” “That’s the one,” I say gleefully. In his defense, she did have an all-black wardrobe, a perpetual scowl, and a penchant for the macabre. Skye takes a tiny bite of her candy apple. “This is very disturbing.” Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open in horror. “Now I’m a third wheel again! I hate being the third wheel.” “I’m man enough to escort two McBryde sisters around the fair,” Kiran says. He extends an elbow to each of us. “Shall we, ladies?” “We shall,” I say, latching onto his arm. Skye flushes a deep crimson and takes his other arm. “Okay, fine.”

We set off, strolling arm-in-arm, a little like Dorothy, the Tin Man, and the Scarecrow on the way to Oz. I’m obviously Dorothy with my dark hair and twirly skirt, Kiran is the noble Tin Man, and poor Skye, well, that outfit is looking a little Scarecrow. “Step lively,” I tell them. “Skye has a prize to win.”

Nineteen

“Turn around so I can see the caboose.” The man running the Guess Your Weight game assesses Skye’s backside with the eye of a professional. Under normal conditions, his request would seem creepy, but in this case it’s part of the job, nothing personal at all. He’s taking more time with her than he did with the last two contestants, and I’m not surprised. It’s pretty darn hard to tell what kind of shape is under Skye’s baggy clothing. She does one more awkward turn for him, and he calls out a number. With a knowing smirk, Skye steps onto the scale, and sure enough, he’s six pounds over her actual weight. He has to be within five pounds or the contestant wins. Skye lets out a victory whoop and pumps her fist in the air. “Yeah, girl!” I call out to her, even though she really hasn’t done anything except make some pretty hideous clothing choices. She points to a fluorescent pink teddy bear hanging on the peg wall, and the man tosses it to her without ceremony. Clearly, he doesn’t get beaten at this game very often. We move on to other games, and Kiran wins me what looks like a stuffed dog but could be a bear by shooting water into a clown’s mouth. Declaring he’s famished, he makes us go on a tour of the food booths, where we purchase grilled corn on the cob and Kiran also gets a giant turkey leg. Then I insist on buying a souvenir for Kiran so he won’t forget this evening. My gift to him is a trucker hat that I have airbrushed with his name and several purple and pink hearts. To my surprise, he puts it on his head, and I’m the one who makes him take it off. “Fiona wants us to meet her by the Ferris wheel,” Skye says after checking her phone. “Yay!” I take Kiran’s hand in mine. “My favorite part of the evening.” Fiona is alone when we meet her, Alex having taken the girls home to bed a few

minutes earlier. She’s shoving funnel cake in her mouth like a ravenous squirrel. “Things went well?” I ask. She nods as she finishes chewing. “We had fun. Those girls are a trip. I think they blew through all the cash Alex brought with him tonight. They did face painting, got selfie T-shirts, and ate their way through this place. I didn’t even know people their size could eat that much junk food.” Skye cringes. “ the time I puked on the car ride home? Good luck to Alex.” Fiona points at Skye. “Did you play Skee-Ball yet?” “Nope, I was waiting for you.” Fee polishes off the funnel cake and tosses her napkin in the trash. “Let’s go. I told Lia I’d try to win her a stuffed penguin. Emerson won one earlier tonight.” I attempt to hide my smile at her new relationship with Alex’s nieces. This is going to be a good thing for her. I feel it in my bones. The two of them head off, Fiona turning to call over her shoulder, “We’ll meet you guys at the kettle corn stand in a half hour, okay?” I nod and wave to her. Alone at last. I smile up at Kiran, clutching my hands under my chin. “Will you ride the Ferris wheel with me?” He bends down and kisses me. “Of course I will.” Kiran and I stare up at the brightly lit wheel, its rosy-pink lights twinkling against the dark sky. It’s certainly not the tallest Ferris wheel in existence, but during the day it provides a nice view of the fair and the surrounding countryside. In the evening, it feels quite magical. When I was a kid, a ride on the Ferris wheel was always the last thing we’d do as a family before driving home. Tonight, I’m looking forward to snuggling up with Kiran in one of those

little cars. The temperature has dropped since nightfall, and even though I tend to run warm, I’m feeling chilly. Kiran crosses his arms on his chest and eyes the Ferris wheel with skepticism. “Before getting on, I feel like I should ask whether they have to meet any safety standards at this carnival. The man running this ride has approximately six teeth.” “Don’t be a snob. Poor dental health doesn’t make him incompetent. Besides, I can’t believe you’re actually worried about riding a Ferris wheel.” I quirk an eyebrow at him. “Didn’t you leap out of burning semitrucks and jump through plate glass windows in your previous career?” He tilts his head to the side as if he’s still considering his chances of making it off this ride alive. “Stunts are calculated risks. No one is more cautious than a stuntman. Riding this death machine seems unnecessarily reckless, but”—he takes my hand in his and dramatically presses it to his chest—“I’m willing to do it for you, Catriona Sorcha McBryde.” I gaze up at him with the kind of smoldering look my heroine, the duchess, would deliver. “You’re a brave and loyal man, Kiran, Kiran Madan.” I pull our hands down to his side, keeping them linked. “I’ll hold your hand the whole time if it will make you feel better.” He smiles down at me. “There’s no one I’d rather plunge to my death with.” “Geez, who’s the drama king now?” I pull him toward the dentally challenged man who’s extending a hand to collect our tickets. “C’mon, they’re loading up.” Once we’re airborne, Kiran seems to forget his concerns about ride safety. He drapes his arm around my shoulder, and I nestle into his side and claim the space that’s mine. God, I want him to be mine. His cologne reminds me of autumn scents—hard cider and cedar trees—which makes me wonder if he makes a new selection seasonally. His winter cologne might be fir trees and gingerbread, and I hope—I hope so very much—that I’ll get to find out. “Are you cold?” He rubs his hand over my arm, creating even more goosebumps. I shake my head. “Not anymore.”

I rest my head on his shoulder and inhale again, wondering if I’m going to be able to the smell of his skin. Would it be super weird to ask him what kind of cologne he uses so I can keep some around to huff when I get to missing him? As I consider whether the inappropriateness of this question outweighs the fact that he might say yes, the Ferris wheel stops again to let on more engers. “It’s a beautiful night,” I say, taking in the view around us. He kisses my hair, and I hope it smells as good as he does. “It’s a perfect night. I’ll never forget it.” I lift my head and look him in the eyes. “And the night isn’t even over yet.” He kisses me, slowly, sweetly. As our tongues play against each other, I find my body curving toward him. Only the metal bar holding us inside the car keeps me from climbing onto his lap, which is probably for the best. I can read the headline now—“Sex Move on Ferris Wheel Ends in Tragic Death.” “How much longer is this ride?” Kiran asks in a strained voice. “As much as I’m enjoying it, I’d like to take this somewhere more private.” Our car rattles upward again and then jerks to a stop. “They have to fill all the cars with people and then we’ll go around a few times.” He massages the back of my neck, and I’m pretty sure that my eyes roll back in my head like some kind of lust zombie. “Then we’re going to have to make do with these confined quarters until I have more space to do this right.” As our kissing resumes, he strokes his hand over my skirt from my knee to my upper thigh, lighting a little fire along the way. “I can’t wait to touch and kiss your skin.” He settles his hand in my hip crease and gives a squeeze. “Every inch of it.” There’s a warm pulse happening where my thighs meet, and I want his hands to move to it. “That ride operator needs to get this wheel turning,” I say impatiently.

I pull Kiran’s head down toward mine and brazenly tease his lips open with my tongue. He responds with a moan, and his hand moves upward until it cups my breast. Good lord, folks down below are going to get more than their tickets’ worth if we don’t slow down. “Get a room!” a voice shouts from below. I disengage from Kiran and peer over the side of our car to see the one underneath us. I’d know that black mustache anywhere. It’s my friend Andie’s father, Herb, and his new wife, Renata. Renata rolls her eyes like she’s embarrassed about her husband. “Herbie, are you spying on us?” I ask. “You naughty boy.” “Ignore him!” Renata calls out. “This is a night for young lovers. Look at that moon!” He says something to her that I can’t hear and kisses her neck as she giggles. “They’re so cute.” “Adorable,” Kiran says, although he’s looking at me, not them. “Isn’t this damn ride full yet?” As if on cue, the Ferris wheel starts to move faster, and we’re sailing through the air. The soft breeze from the movement of the car cools our heated skin. I swear this must be what heaven feels like, canoodling on a Ferris wheel on a crisp autumn night. Our lips and tongues explore, our hands roam, and it all feels like a delicious dream. Eventually, the Ferris wheel begins to slow down, and we’re the second car to disembark. I step out with wobbly legs and addled brain. As I stumble onto the grass, Kiran grabs my hand and sets off at a healthy jog. I’m not sure where he’s headed, but he’s sure determined to get there. “Hey, I’m in heels!” I remind him. “Sorry.” He slows his pace a tiny bit as we careen over the field. “Where are we going?”

He pauses, looks around us, then pulls me behind the Ag Center, the building where they have the animal exhibits during the daytime. As one might expect, it smells like a barn, meaning farm animals and their droppings. It’s not exactly a scent that’s an aphrodisiac, but the area is devoid of people and lighting, which is obviously its appeal. Kiran backs me up against the barn, pinning my body against the wood siding. He’s breathing hard and so am I, and I doubt it’s just from the jogging. His hands grip my waist, their heat searing through the fabric of my skirt, and I hold onto his shoulders like it’s my job. “I thought I was going to lose my mind up there,” he says, as if the waiting physically pained him. My mouth finds his as our bodies press against each other in a torturous crush of pleasure. “Touch me,” I beg as he showers warm, wet kisses down my neck. I’m swollen and aching with the need for release. “Please.” He deftly pulls up my skirt and slides his hands underneath it. Then he takes one delightful minute to massage my backside before he slides my underwear to the side and begins to caress me. “Good Lord.” I don’t even feel it when my head bangs against the barn. “This isn’t going to be enough.” His fingers find my clit and move over it in a delicious, steady rhythm. “I’m going to be inside you when we get home, and I’m keeping you up. All. Night. Long.” I’m grasping onto his shoulders as he works me up, up, up, like a car heading to the top of the Ferris wheel. This ride isn’t herky-jerky though; it’s a smooth, steady glide. He knows what he’s doing, stroking with a skilled hand until I’m near the very top of the peak. “Don’t. Stop,” I say between gasps. Instead of obeying me, he slows down his pace and changes his movements from strokes to swirls, and I’m taken to a level that I didn’t know existed. Jumping junipers. If getting pleasured by a hot Brit behind an agricultural exhibit is

wrong, I don’t want to be right. Just when I think that the swell of anticipation will kill me, he pushes in deeper and I finally break. Waves of pleasure snap, crackle, and pop through me. I can barely see straight, and I certainly can’t think. Simultaneously, bright lights boom and flare in the sky above us like pink, gold, and blue streamers. My god, has my brain exploded from orgasmic pleasure?! I shake my head to clear it, but the lights don’t stop. Fireworks. They always close out the last evening at the fair with a fireworks display. That means it’s time to find my sisters and go home. If only I didn’t feel too boneless to move. Kiran straightens my skirt over my legs while using his other arm to hold me upright. Another round of explosions hits the sky, this one whistling like a rocket and popping into a blaze of gold stars. My body wilts against him as I smile up at the light show in the sky. I want to take this man to my bed, but I also want to savor and capture this memory for a lifetime. “Are you alright, darling?” he whispers in my ear. I press my cheek against his, feeling the roughness of his stubble from the day’s growth. It feels so good, that little chafing. I want to feel him everywhere on me. “Absolutely perfect,” I say.

After our tryst behind the Ag center, I find that Fiona, Skye, and their stuffed penguin have been sending me selfies and “where are you?” messages. I text them back that we’ll meet up with them in front of the kettle corn stand in five minutes. When Kiran and I arrive, my sisters must recognize my expression as post-orgasmic haze because they both give me knowing looks. On second thought, maybe it’s Kiran’s unusual appearance that tipped them off—shirt half untucked, hair rumpled, and expression heated. He’s usually so fastidious about his appearance, and I like knowing I can send him into this state of disorder. Skye drove us in her car to the fair, and we picked up Kiran on the way, which means we should be dropping him off at home tonight, except that won’t be happening. I’m going to bring him back to my bed again. As if reading my mind, Kiran turns to me in the backseat of Skye’s car and whispers, “Will you spend the night at my place?” The idea of being across the hall from Violet and upstairs from Tabby is only slightly less awkward than going home with my sisters who stay in the bedrooms across and down the hall from mine. Then again, if Violet has another “emergency” while we’re at the B&B, he can go across the hall and help her out, then jump back into bed with me. With that decision settled, I squeeze his leg and let him know I’m on board with the plan. When Skye stops her car outside the B&B, he and I climb out, then I lean back in to tell my sisters goodnight, ignoring the rude gestures Fiona is making with her hands. She’s juvenile, but also accurate. I’m getting lucky tonight. Kiran types the code into the keypad of the B&B, while I stand beside him impatiently tapping my foot. He swings open the heavy wood door, and we tiptoe inside with an unspoken agreement that it’s better if no one knows I’m here. Tabby would come out and chat, which I have no patience for at the moment, and Violet might want to hear about the fair. In the end, it’s a different voice that calls out to us from the sitting room. “Hello, Mr. Madan.” Everett. Ugh. He’s holding some crusty tome that he’s probably not even actually reading. Such a poseur.

“Good evening, Everett,” Kiran says. “I was just catching up on some reading,” he says in response to a question we didn’t ask. He snaps the cover shut on his book and holds it up for us to see— The Aeneid. He’s smiling like he’s been waiting his whole life—or at least his whole evening—for someone to notice him reading such a lofty title. “Did your teacher assign you that?” I ask him. Everett scowls at me. “Some of us enjoy reading great literature, Cat. You might try reading from the canon more often. Weren’t you an English major?” I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, Kiran grabs my hand and starts walking toward the stairs. “Enjoy,” he tells Everett. “Good night, Everett.” I waggle my fingers at him over my shoulder. Kiran motions for me to head up the stairs in front of him. I try not to laugh at the way he shut down Everett, but when I feel his hand take a generous squeeze of my bottom, I can’t help it anymore, and the giggles come out. We reach the second floor and scurry inside Kiran’s room, and before the door is even closed, I’m removing my shirt. In my hurry, I struggle to yank the tight fabric of the turtleneck over my head, and Kiran has to come in for the assist, saving me from my own impatience. When the deed is accomplished, he tosses my shirt across the room where it skids into a corner. After taking a second to ire the twins, he reaches around to unhook my bra and lets it fall to the floor. His eyes darken as he takes in the view. “You’re magnificent.” He fills his hands with my breasts. To be fair, they’re more than a handful, which pretty much describes all of me, including my personality. “I’ve been dreaming about this all day.” My hands attack the closure on his flat-front khakis. “Let’s make those dreams come true. Pants off, sweetie.” Kiran reluctantly releases my breasts and shucks off his pants as I unhook my skirt and let it fall to the floor. His eyes never leave my body for a second as he

undresses. His body is glorious—muscular, lean, and strong. I’ve seen my share of naked men, but my mouth never watered as I watched them undress. I want to lick, nibble, and suck every inch of him. Once we’re both naked, he takes my arms and walks me backwards as he kisses me, until I’m close enough to fall back on the bed. I scoot and shimmy my way into a comfortable position on the mattress as he remains standing, watching me with hooded eyes. “You’re a Rubens painting come to life.” I spread my hair out on the pillow and strike a Baroque-era pose, feeling exposed and ired in the best sense of those words. “Why, thank you. Now get over here and kiss me.” Kiran takes one more moment to ire me before he crawls onto the bed. He starts his kissing at my feet, lovingly pressing his mouth against one of the arches. Then he moves up to the same leg’s calf, peppering it with kisses. When he reaches the knee, I start to shiver because I know what’s coming next—the mother of all tender areas, the inner thigh. He kisses the delicate skin there, his breath warm and his mouth soft. Hearing my whimpers, he moves to the other leg and attends to it in the same way. He’s so close to heaven now that I can only imagine what it will feel like when his sexy mouth reaches what’s waiting for him between my legs. He moves upwards, teasing me with those soft kisses before he strokes his tongue over my folds. I shudder with pleasure as he works, and words roll out of my mouth in honor of his talents. Am I speaking in tongues in praise of his tongue? Quite possibly. My hands grip the sheets as he brings me closer and closer to the edge. Then, right when things are getting orgasmic, he stops and lifts his head. “I’d stay right here all night, but there’s one area I’ve been dying to attend to.” “Kiran,” I whine. “I was so close.” “Sorry, love,” he says, “but we have all night.” I should have known he was going to be into delayed gratification.

Instead of racing to the next erogenous zone, he trails lazy kisses over my stomach, working his way upward. His hands massage over the globes of my breasts. “Will you wear that corset again for me someday?” he asks. I lift his chin with my finger so he’ll meet my gaze. “I’ll make a deal with you. If you don’t tease me for too long tonight, I’ll wear that corset for you tomorrow.” “Can’t promise anything.” His tongue laves my nipple, and it hardens in response. “I’m going to savor you for quite a while. You’re fine wine, darling, not cheap beer.“ A new surge of warmth runs through me as he sucks one nipple between his lips, taking time for swirls and licks, like he has all the time in the world to explore and delight in my body. Just when I’m about to beg for it, he slips a hand between my legs and groans when he feels how wet I am. “Lovely,” he whispers. I resolve that two can play at this teasing game, and I’m not going to come until he’s inside me. I take hold of his cock, and he twitches in my hand. I smile and firm my grip as he watches me, his eyes bright with desire. “Your turn,” I say. As I start to stroke him, he pumps into my hand. He’s rigid and thick, and his breath is coming in short pants. “Put me inside you,” he begs. “Not yet.” My smile is a little cruel. He growls in response, but pistons faster. “I’m not going to last much longer,” he warns me. “We need protection,” I say, cupping his balls just to hear him moan. “Right back. Do not move.” The rough tone of his voice raises the hair on the

back of my neck. What is this man going to do to me? I cannot wait to find out. I’m cold at the loss of his heat as he heads to the bathroom, and my body hums in anticipation of his return. I’m smiling like a fool when he comes back to bed with a foil wrapper, which he opens with one quick rip. I bite my bottom lip as I watch him slip on the condom. “You’ve got hungry eyes,” he says. “I like when you look at me that way.” “Isn’t that a bad eighties song?” He settles over me again, raising himself up on his forearms, a little smile playing on his lips. “Let’s call them your fuck me eyes then.” He gaze burns through me like a wildfire. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. I can’t resist taking a nibble of that bottom lip. It tastes so good, I’ve already decided that it’s my favorite spot. “Go ahead and do it then,” I challenge him. I expect he’ll be hurrying toward the finish line at this point because from my experience men are usually anxious to end the appetizers and get to the main course. And he truly savored the appetizers. To my surprise, he glides his cock over my wetness then leans down to savor one nipple with a swirl of his tongue. He glides over me rhythmically, working me up and bringing me to the place where pleasure reaches complete and total frustration. I’m pulsing with desire, and I need to be filled and stretched by him. Right. Now. Reaching down, I take him in my hand and guide him inside me. A gasp escapes my lips because every inch of my skin has been excited to the point of hypersensitivity. The friction our bodies create as they move together is delicious and torturous at the same time. I can tell he’s still holding back, not pumping as hard and deep as possible, and I thrust upwards to let him know I can take more. I want more. “Deeper?” he asks. “God, yes,” I say with a huff.

And then he drives into me, and it’s raw and powerful, but I’m ready for it. In fact, I want more of him and I wrap my legs around his back to get it. Then he leans up on one elbow for leverage, and with the next thrust, he hits the sweet spot. “There,” I say with a gasp. “Right there.” My mouth gapes open as I get the first pulses of an orgasm that’s going to rock my world. It washes over me, and I know I’m saying his name, but I’m not sure if it’s a whisper or a scream. My body shakes, and he keeps thrusting until he’s falling apart too. I tighten myself around him, wanting his pleasure to be as great as mine, and from the way he cries out my name, I’ve achieved my goal. We’re sweaty and gasping for breath, and I probably look less like a famous painting and more like an ment for electrolyte drinks. I fan my chest, seized by the strong desire for a tall glass of ice water to cool this fire. After a minute, he says, “You’re quiet. I’m not used to that.” Needing , even though we’re right next to each other, I tickle his foot with mine. “Fireworks,” I say, still a bit breathless. “I saw them again.”

When I wake up in the morning, my first thought is that I’m lying under the floral comforter I helped Tabby pick out at HomeGoods. I still like it. Nice weight, soft fabric. Kiran’s masculine form asleep next to me on this girly antique bed with the ruffled bed skirt and floral prints is quite a juxtaposition. I roll onto my side and try to decide whether I should try to get a little more sleep or “accidentally” wake him up for some early morning fun. He’s on his stomach with the bedspread pulled down to his waist, exposing his back and the very top of his backside. It’s a nice view. As I run my hand over his warm skin, I notice something I hadn’t seen last night—a raised scar down his upper back, parallel to his spine. It looks neat and precise, like it’s from surgery and not an accident, although I’m certainly no expert. I trace a finger over the raised line, wanting to know if this is from his stunt accident years ago, wanting to know everything about him. This sick feeling is getting familiar, the one that happens when I think about how I won’t have time to discover all the details of his history before he leaves for London. It makes this moment even more precious, and instead of being worried about the fact that I’ve risked my heart, I’m grateful I took a chance. No matter what happens. I rest my palm on his back and curl up next to him, thinking how he’s more loyal and principled than anyone I’ve ever known. His integrity is the foundation of who he is—that’s obvious from the way he takes care of Violet and how he’s treated me. He stirs and turns his face on the pillow, eyes still half-closed. “Good morning, Miss McBryde.” My name spoken in his sleepy voice and sexy accent is enough to start my engines. I slide a leg over his and scoot closer. “Good morning. I feel like I snuck into my boyfriend’s bedroom with his parents downstairs.” A smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “That’s actually something I did in high school so it’s not really a hypothetical situation—” “Don’t tell me about your old boyfriends.” His hand reaches around to caress my backside. “I’ll get jealous.”

“I’ve noticed you have an affinity for this part of my anatomy.” He hums his approval. “I have an affinity for all parts of your anatomy, but I have to it that your bottom is one of my favorites.” “There’s a lot to love back there,” I say, keeping my tone light. He takes the opportunity to give my cheek a good squeeze. “What do you mean by that?” I flutter my eyes at him. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a big girl.” This is how I handle my weight—get it out in the open with no shame, no apologies, no self-loathing. Take me as I am or not at all. “I’ve noticed everything about you.” His hand runs down the length of my leg, sending tingles across my skin. “Full breasts, lush hips, round bottom. You’re built like a goddess.” He inches down in the bed so he can kiss the base of my throat. “Your cup runneth over with delights.” My sighs turn to gasps as he continues downward, peppering the tops of my breasts with kisses. Suddenly, the words I didn’t know I was holding back spill from my mouth. “I’m falling for you, Kiran. There’s no pressure and no expectations about what happens from here. I just want you to know how much I love being with you.” I didn’t say “I love you,” but I feel as if I did. Suddenly, I’m naked in more ways than one. Terror grips me and tightens my belly. What if I’ve ruined everything, including whatever was about to take place in this bed? “Well, that’s good to know,” he says, suddenly sounding awake, “because I adore you, Catriona Sorcha McBryde. More than I should, considering the circumstances, and less than I will in a day or a week. You’re the best thing to happen to me in a very long time.” A worry line puckers his forehead. “Am I getting too serious?” I shake my head, afraid my voice will waver if I speak. He feathers my skin with a kiss, the gentlest of touches. “I think we can manage

with phone calls and long-distance visits for a while. This is the beginning, I hope, not the end.” I want to believe him, but phone calls and occasional weekend visits aren’t what I want with him. I want to share my days and nights with Kiran, get to know each other slowly and deeply. But maybe a long-distance romance with someone wonderful is better than settling for one-night stands with men who don’t deserve my time. These thoughts war inside my head, and he can see the angst written all over my face. “Don’t overthink it,” he says. “We’ll make it work.” “Okay, if you say so, I believe you.” I say the words with as much conviction as I can muster. His eyes narrow. “Hmmm, I can see I have to do more to convince you.” He takes one of my nipples into his mouth and tugs at it gently, making me melt like warm butter. As my hormones surge, my mind goes blank, and at least for the time being, his promises are good enough.

Twenty

After work, I sit on my front porch and begin reading Kiran’s manuscript. If it’s terrible, I’m going to have a painful time giving him . I’m a master builder of compliment sandwiches—a criticism squashed between two encouraging statements—but Kiran is too sharp to fall for any of my flattery techniques. We’ll have to go through the discomfort of ripping his work apart at the seams so he can build it back better. Fortunately, the story carries me into another world from the very first page, and although I type copious comments in the margins because I’m never short on something to say, I’m certain of two things. Kiran is a talented writer, and he’s got a page-turner of a story right here. Not only am I enjoying his book, I feel like I’m getting to know the man who wrote it. Like many first novels, this one has shades of autobiography to it. The main character, a stunt performer named Carson Kitrell, is much like his creator—a consummate professional, a calculated taker of risks, and a loyal friend and colleague, sometimes to his own detriment. As Carson attempts to assist a troubled young actress who’s being blackmailed by a former lover, I find myself falling more in love with the man who wrote him into life. I didn’t mean to fall for Kiran, but here I am, wallowing in my feelings as I read the words he’s written and seen fit to share only with me. If I do nothing else, I’m going to make sure this book is served to a delighted audience. The world needs to meet Carson Kitrell and, in turn, know the author, Kiran, Kiran Madan, the man I’ve come to adore. Kiran’s star is hiding behind Violet’s, and that frustrates me to no end. Our plans tonight feel like yet another celebration of Violet, but to be fair, she invited Everett, Tabby, and me to dine with her and Kiran this evening to thank us for our hospitality and assistance while she was in town. She’s taking us to a fancy restaurant downtown for dinner. Although I’m not thrilled about spending time in Everett’s presence, it’s worth it to be with Kiran. I have a surprise for him. Isabelle is going to take my shifts at the store tomorrow so he and I can go on one last adventure, goat yoga at my friend Andie’s farm. I figured that would

entertain Violet, since she seems fascinated with farm life, and would be one more zany memory for Kiran to take home with him. Maybe part of me thinks that if he has enough of these unforgettable experiences with me, I’ll be too hard to forget, as well. Then again, when has anyone ever forgotten Catriona Sorcha McBryde? I have my faults, but no one has ever accused me of being unremarkable. You may not like me, but you’ll you met me. At seven o’clock, I put on a wrap dress with a whimsical corgi print, slip on my nude peep-toe heels, and head out the door to Jacqueline’s Bistro. Kiran offered to pick me up this evening, but there’s no point when the restaurant in less than a half mile away. When I arrive, the outdoor seating area is lit up with fairy lights, but no one is out here. November has draped a chill on the evenings. Even me, Miss Hotblooded, is wearing a dark green velvet coat over my dress. My party is already seated, and they’ve saved a chair for me next to Kiran. Tabby and Everett are on the other side of the rectangular table, and Violet presides at the head of it. In the dimly lit room, Kiran’s eyes blaze as brightly as the candles as he studies me. I feel like I’m walking on air as I move toward the table, our eyes a live wire of connection. He greets me with a kiss on both cheeks, and I pull closer, wanting to draw a deep breath of how good he smells. Cologne and soap, expensive and clean. I’d like to tuck my head into the curve of his neck and inhale some more of him, but instead I slide off my coat, and Kiran takes it from me. He hangs it over the back of my chair, which he then pulls out for me. “Your mama taught you right,” I say as I take my seat. I certainly don’t need a man to show me such care, but I do like the way his attentiveness makes me feel inside. Special. Treasured. My father always opens doors for my mother, helps her with her coat, and generally treats her like a queen. I never saw it as a power move on his part because my mother is one of the most strong-willed, outspoken women on the planet, and if Daddy wanted a weak woman for a wife then he sure should have chosen someone else. “We’re just ordering the wine,” Violet says, holding up the leather-bound drink menu. “Any thoughts?” Underneath the table, I rest a hand on Kiran’s thigh, which is warm beneath my cool fingers. “I’m sure whatever you choose will be wonderful.”

He puts his hand over mine and twines our fingers together. When I glance over, he’s iring me again. “You look lovely this evening,” he says softly. “Thank you, sir, so do you.” He’s sharply dressed in a blue suit with a crisp white button-down shirt that shows a delicious peek of his throat. When I turn back to the others, I find Tabby, who hasn’t been kept abreast of all the latest developments in my relationship with Kiran, watching us with wide, curious eyes. Everett’s scowl says exactly what he’s thinking, but I refrain from sticking my tongue out at him, even though he deserves it. “Let’s order the Chalk Hill Chardonnay and Larkmead Cabernet Sauvignon.” Violet snaps the book shut on her decision and lays it on the table. “Now where is that server?” As if summoned, our waitress appears and takes our wine order, as well as Violet’s request for their three most popular appetizers. Tabby and Violet get into a discussion about acting techniques, and I take the opportunity to whisper in Kiran’s ear. “I read some of your book.” He looks stricken. “Was it awful tripe?” “This is hard to it…” I drag out the words, keeping him in suspense. “I love it.” He blinks rapidly. “Really?” I nod enthusiastically. “I couldn’t stop reading, which is why I was a few minutes late. Carson is a delight, and the plot moves along well. I have a few suggestions, but overall it’s wonderful. I can’t believe it’s your first book.” “Well, I have been noodling with it for years,” he says quietly. “I can’t believe you think it’s actually good.”

“Better than good.” “Are you talking about Kiran’s writing project?” Violet interjects. Damn, I need to learn how to whisper. Kiran didn’t want others to know about his writing, although it sounds like Violet is already privy to this information. “What do you mean my writing project?” Kiran asks. Violet clicks her tongue. “Darling, you think I’m oblivious and self-centered, but I see a lot more than you think I do. I know you’ve been working on something on that laptop of yours.” The waitress returns with our wine, which provides Kiran with time to digest this new information about his boss’s powers of observation. After we all have a full glass of either red or white, Violet raises hers in the air. “To friends, new and old.” We repeat her toast, and I take a sip of velvety red wine, enjoying its bite of tartness on my tongue. As our evening rolls on, it’s one of those nearly perfect dinner parties, where the food is delicious, the conversation flows easily, and you feel like your wittiest, best self. The only flaw is that Everett is there, but even he manages not to be completely obnoxious. At one point he asks Kiran about his writing, but only so he can start talking about the memoir he’s working on about their purchase and renovation of the B&B. I nearly gag on my flan as he makes it sound like everything was his idea, downplaying Tabby’s role in the entire enterprise. “How is your script coming along?” I ask Violet, mainly to stop Everett’s monologue. “Almost finished?” A silly part of me wants her to say that no, she needs to do oodles more research and will remain in North Carolina at least another month. Wishful thinking. Violet licks a bite of chocolate torte off her spoon. “Yes, it’s finished.” I expect her to expand, considering this script is the reason she came to Foster’s

Creek in the first place. She says nothing more, though, and when I glance at Kiran to see if he’s also curious about her silence, he looks away and takes a long sip of his coffee. Prickles of heat and discomfort run down my neck. Maybe I should leave it alone, but whenever someone seems to be hiding a secret, I feel it on my skin like an itch that needs to be scratched. “Care to share any details?” I ask sweetly. “Yes,” Tabby says in a breathy voice. “We’re all dying to know anything about the story you’re writing.” “Not quite ready for that yet,” Violet says with a cagey smile. “But I think you’re going to enjoy it.” Tonight has been lovely, and I don’t want to ruin the mood so I try to let go of the subject. The waitress arrives with the check on a little plate, as they do in fancy establishments, and Violet takes out her black American Express card. I study her, wondering how it must feel to have so much money to spend without a second thought. It would be lovely to be able to treat others to dinner and vacations, but perhaps also a little awkward when there’s such an imbalance of financial power. Maybe that’s why the rich befriend the rich. And why Kiran’s relationship with Violet feels…unbalanced and a little unhealthy, at least to me. “You’ll come out to LA or London to visit, won’t you?” Violet seems to be directing her question to Tabby and me, but then her eyes flick toward Everett. “We can have a girls’ weekend.” I try to hide my smug smile at her exclusion of him. “Of course.” “That would be amazing,” Tabby says. “We’d love it. Wouldn’t we?” I wait for Kiran to chime in and encourage this idea, but he doesn’t. For a moment, I’m hurt, but when I turn to him and he smiles at me, I know he’ll issue his invitations in private. He already has. I don’t have to worry about guessing what he wants because he’s already made it very clear. Tabby sighs and settles her hands on her stomach. “I’m going to need a vacation after this parade. I’m exhausted. One glass of wine, and I feel like I could sleep for days.”

“It certainly has claimed your attention these past few months,” Everett says with a critical tone that makes me want to kick him in the shin. No doubt he hates it when her attention isn’t fully on him and their inn. When Tabby shoots him an irritated look for his unive comment, he adds, “And you’ve done an amazing job with it, honey.” Tabby led the committee for the town’s holiday parade this year, and for the first time ever I agree with Everett—she has done a dang good job. Her skills in theater were surely an asset, as she had to find talent, coordinate the timing of each act, deal with set design, and soothe all the egos involved. A few weeks ago, the head of the local a cappella group, the Tone Defs, and the choir director of Good Shepherd Baptist Church were in a quarrel over whether Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas” was too racy for a family-friendly parade. Then there were the high school band directors who all wanted the coveted prize of marching at the end of the parade, right in front of Santa’s sleigh. Tabby had a way of making everyone feel like they got what they wanted, even when they didn’t. “I’ve got my speech all prepared,” Violet says. “I can’t wait to sing the praises of this little town and thank everyone for what they’ve done for me. It will be our last hurrah in Foster’s Creek, won’t it, Kiran.” “Not my last forever.” Kiran lays his arm across my shoulder. “I intend to come back quite frequently.” “Unless, of course, Catriona takes the assistant position.” Violet throws me a knowing look. “What assistant position?” Everett asks, looking affronted that it wasn’t offered to him. “Violet generously offered me a job as her assistant,” I explain, “so that Kiran can go back to guarding and driving.” “Are you considering it?” Tabby asks. I imagine she’s feeling the way I would if the shoe were on the other foot. She wants to be ive, but she’s also considering losing a good friend. “I did think about it.” I look over at Violet. “And I’m so grateful, but this is my

home. I don’t want to leave it. But I’m sure you’ll find someone else. It’s a wonderful opportunity.” Violet rests her elbows on the table and sets her chin in her hands. “You can always change your mind. I’m sure it will take ages for me to find someone else.” Kiran’s sigh after that comment is deep and long.

After dinner, we drop off Violet and drive back to my house. I’m wired from the coffee and conversation and torn between taking him straight to bed and making the night last even longer by offering him an after-dinner drink first. “I think I have some old brandy,” I say as we walk up my front steps and onto the porch. “It’s probably years old and no good, but do you want to sit out here and have a drink?” As I go to put my key in the front door, he stops me with his hand. “Can we sit out here for a minute?” There’s tension around his mouth that wasn’t there earlier this evening. Or maybe it was but I chose to believe he was irritated with his boss. I sit down on the loveseat, knees together, hands folded on my lap like I’m in church. “What is it?” I ask. He takes a seat next to me, and from his drawn expression, I already know that whatever he has to say isn’t going to be good. “We need to talk.”

Twenty-One

We need to talk. Kiran’s words are the same ones my ex-husband Lawson said right before he informed me that he was in love with a male co-worker and had never been sexually attracted to me. I feel like a bowling ball has been dropped into my gut, and I prepare myself for the worst. Kiran has something he wants to tell me, something he’s been holding back. Part of me wants to tell him to say nothing because I don’t want to hear it. As much as I’m all about truth and honesty, I also don’t want anything to change irrevocably, and I know in my bones that it will. “Before you tell me,” I say, “is this something I really need to know?” “You once told me never to deceive you,” he says. “And I have in a way. Not that it was my deception, but I’m privy to it and—” He grips his hair in his hands like whatever he’s holding back is driving him mad. “I need to tell you this, Catriona.” I steel myself, preparing for the worst. If I think of something terrible, maybe what he tells me won’t seem so bad. He has a lover somewhere else. She’s pregnant. With twins. He and this woman are getting married next month because he won’t let those kids grow up without a dad in the house. Once I have a distinct picture of Kiran with his twin children and accidental wife in my mind, I take a deep breath then slowly exhale it out. “Tell me.” “It’s about Violet’s script.” I shake my head, irritated that I was right about that script and thrilled that this isn’t about Kiran’s secret lover. “I knew it. Y’all were acting so weird about that. Please tell me she’s not writing a modern version of the Beverly Hillbillies.” He keeps his hands clenched together. Those beautiful hands that just last night were giving me so much pleasure.

“About a week ago, Violet told me that she was modeling her main character on you.” My hand flies to my chest as I grapple with the idea of being anyone’s inspiration for a major motion picture. “On me? Seriously?” “Yes, she never liked the character as she was, and she rewrote the script almost completely. At first, I wasn’t concerned about it. I could see why she thought you’d make a compelling character.” His brown eyes soften. “You’re smart, charismatic, gorgeous. I’ve never met anyone who has more friends than you do —real friends who adore you, not people who pretend to like you because you’re famous. She asked me not to tell you about it because she thought it would make you less uninhibited around her. Of course, I told her that wasn’t possible. You never hide your true self.” Despite my nerves, I manage to smile. “That’s true, to my detriment sometimes.” I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he knew I was the inspiration for her character before we became intimate. Shouldn’t he have told me at some point before now? As if he’s reading my mind, he says, “I trusted that she was writing something that would be flattering, but then a few days ago she said something that made me think differently. And I started to worry that people who knew you might be able to identify you as the inspiration for the character.” “A few days ago?” I ask. “And you’re telling me now?” He brings his steepled hands to his mouth and takes a moment before responding. The seconds he waits feel like hours. “I know that this looks bad. I should have told you sooner. When I became concerned, I asked to see the script, and she balked, which was odd. She usually tries to force me to read her manuscripts and give her . This afternoon, I took matters into my own hands and opened the manuscript on her laptop while she was on a call in the other room.” “She doesn’t know that you saw it?” I ask. He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. “She knows. I told her that I read it. I may have

overstepped by looking at the manuscript, but I wasn’t going to lie about it. And I was right that she included private information about your life, which she had no right to do. I asked her to speak with you about it, but she refused. Then this evening, on our way to dinner, she took it one step further and threatened to let me go if I told you myself.” I thought I’d sensed tension between them this evening, but I told myself they probably needed space from each other after so much togetherness on this trip. I had no idea things were this bad, which isn’t terribly surprising. She’s an actress, after all, and he tries not to let people in on his pain. “How bad is it?” I ask. “You can read it for yourself,” he says. “I had a feeling that she’d refuse to let you see it so I made a copy of it after I read it. If you give me your email address, I’ll share it with you.” “You shouldn’t have done that. You’re going to lose your job—” He reaches out and grabs my knee. “You’ve been incredibly trusting with her and given so much of your time to this project. What she did crossed a line and, as I said, you deserve to know what’s in the script. And maybe there’s something you can do legally. I have no idea about that, but a lawyer would.” His words send a chill down my spine. “You’re scaring me.” He squeezes my knee before letting go. “I don’t mean to upset you. If you want me to tell you what’s in it, I can.” I shake my head because hearing him summarize the awful way she’s depicted me in this script sounds even worse than reading it. “No, I’ll read it.” I stare down at my shoes, not seeing anything except images of myself over the last few weeks. What has she made of me as a character? What do I look like in Violet Ramsey’s eyes? “I’m giving her my notice tomorrow.” My head snaps up, and I stare at him, blinking in surprise. “You what?”

“I’m quitting, of course. I can’t work for her after this. It’s one thing to work for someone who’s demanding and difficult if they’re a decent person with good intentions, but the way she’s treated you is wrong.” He strokes a hand down my arm. “Don’t look so worried. I’ll get another position, and I knew this had to come to an end soon anyway. I’ve been giving away my whole life to Violet. It was time I stopped.” Whatever is in that script is so bad that he’s left his job over it. I can’t be around him when I read it. The humiliation would be too great. “Catriona?” “Yes?” “Are you alright?” I throw back my shoulders in a pose of confidence. “Of course. I’m made of tough stuff.” His eyes are full of concern, and I know he’s not falling for my act. “Do you want to read it this evening or…” “I think that’s best,” I say. “I need to know what it says to figure out what I should do.” “Alright.” “And I think you should go home,” I say. He closes his eyes, and I know my words have pierced him. “I’m not trying to punish you. I just…I want to be by myself while I process what she’s written about me.” “Call me if you want to, and I’ll come right back over here,” he says. “Even if it’s three in the morning.” I nod and get to my feet. “Okay. You don’t have to worry about me, though. Whatever she’s written, I can handle it.” Since I hit puberty, I’ve been called fat, slutty, loud, ugly—people have no shortage of nasty for women who don’t shrink to fit their expectations of femininity. If I let what they thought of me determine my self-worth, I’d be

miserable. Fortunately, I was born with the ability to discount the opinions of people who weren’t worthy of my time or attention. That doesn’t mean their comments don’t sting, but they don’t cut deep. They only graze the surface because that’s all I’ll allow them to do. Kiran stands up and puts his hands on my shoulders, caressing them. “She’s not even a very good writer, you know. She doesn’t have half your talent.” I smile ruefully. “I’m going to add you to my mailing list, since you’re such a big fan of my books.” “Mailing list?” He steps forward and takes my face in his hands. “Is that how we’ll be keeping in touch? Did I ruin everything?” I bite the inside of my mouth, knowing this might be one of those times I should shut up. “I wish you’d told me sooner,” I say softly. “It hurts knowing you were aware of this for so long and didn’t tell me.” “I know,” he says. “I wish I did too.” “Trust is huge for me.” My throat is tight, and the words are hard to get out. “I want to trust you, but how can I if we have secrets?” “I wasn’t really keeping a secret,” he says. “I was keeping a confidence with Violet.” “How is that different?” He rubs a hand over his face. “I’m not sure. All I know is that I’m so sorry it turned out like this.” “Me too.”

I lie down on the couch and start reading the script right after Kiran leaves. My cat Blanche curls up in a gray and white ball on my lap and purrs as I stroke her fur. People say dogs are man’s best friend, but I swear cats know when a lady needs feline moral . The working title for the script is Jezebel, which leaves little to the imagination about how Violet is going to portray me. Her main character, Ashley, who’s a hairdresser in rural North Carolina, is outspoken and oversexed. At the same time, she’s obviously meant to be a sympathetic character, a person we can all identify with on some level. Like all of us, Ashley has insecurities that mainly revolve around her weight and the fact that people in town think she’s a loose woman. In act one of the script, she’s crushed when she overhears some former high school classmates referring to her as “Smashley” and talking about how she has serviced more guys in town than Jiffy Lube. Ouch. As for whether Violet was concerned that it might be wrong to create obvious connections between my life and Ashley’s, the answer is no. She even wrote a scene where Ashley awkwardly runs into her next-door neighbor, Brad, with whom she recently had sex. I don’t telling her about my one-night stand with Baird, but maybe I did? This is the curse of habitually oversharing— you have trouble ing who you told what. Ashley’s story sails on with a ridiculous mud bogging trip with her harebrained cousin—Spence doesn’t fare too well in this script either. He’s depicted as a dumb redneck with a death wish. I’m so distracted reading about Ashley’s misadventures that I don’t realize the night is slipping into early morning. I also don’t notice Skye come downstairs from her room. By the time I see her, she’s standing over me, and I let out a little scream. “You scared the mess out of me.” I place my hand over my pounding heart. “Sorry. You want some mac and cheese? I’m going to make some.” I check the time on my laptop, which says it’s after two. “In the middle of the night?” “Can’t sleep. My stomach is growling.”

“I’m good, thanks.” I put my eyes back on my screen and start reading again. I’m not ready to talk about this horrendous script or Kiran’s secret-keeping. In an atypical move, I’m going to process all of this before I discuss it with anyone else. Maybe this is the start of knowing when to keep my mouth shut. Skye heads toward the kitchen. “You must be getting some good writing done. You’ve been quiet as a mouse down here. I didn’t even know you were up.” As Skye putters in the kitchen, I reach the next act of the script, where we find out why Ashley is the way she is, meaning screwed up in the relationship department and indiscriminate with her sexual partners. She confides in the lonely widowed mayor that her first marriage ended because her husband was gay. My heart thumps in my chest as I reread the words to make sure I’m not hallucinating. How the hell did Violet find out I was married to a gay man? Sensing that I’m about to experience a panic attack, I lean over and put my head between my knees as my breathing quickens. I told Kiran about Lawson. He must have shared that information with Violet. How else would she know? Tabby and my sisters would never have told her something so private. Not only did Kiran keep Violet’s secret about my appearance in her script, he also shared with her something incredibly personal about my life. Speaking of sex, Lawson is going to flip his wig when I tell him that he’s included in this script, and yes, I do need to warn him. His parents are Evangelical Christians who would disown him if they knew he was living with a man in New York. I’m sure they must have suspicions by now, but people are good at telling themselves lies if and when it suits them. I should know. I married Lawson even after I’d found gay porn on his laptop. Things don’t get any better for Ashley. She gets pregnant by the married mayor and makes the difficult decision to keep the baby. I predicted that the mayor would make Ashley leave town, but in a shocking twist, he’s arrested for the murder of his wife. He disposes of her body by…adding her to the Brunswick stew during a church fundraiser! “That’s really going way too far,” I fume. This script is full of surprises, and all of them make me feel like vomiting.

In the final scene, Ashley names her baby daughter Dawn, as a tribute to the mayor’s dead wife. Damn, this movie is a hot mess. It’s a genre mash-up with storylines that defy belief and test the viewer’s patience. I guess it could work as a quirky indie film if Violet has the right editors, but I’m fairly sure it’s unsalvageable. Then again, I’m too close to the material to have any kind of objective opinion at this point. My guess is that she got in over her head with the scriptwriting process and threw everything at the wall to see what stuck. It’s strange to see pieces of my life written into fiction. Is this how people see me? Is this how Violet sees me? She’s a bold, sexually adventurous woman herself, so it hurts that she would write a script that doesn’t address the fact that only women are condemned for promiscuity. In real life and in this script, men are allowed to screw around and they’re never called whores or jezebels. The promiscuity of the men Ashley cavorts with never gets interrogated. Only hers. I mean mine. Because ultimately this wackadoo film is about me. By the time I get to “the end,” my head and my heart ache. I set down my laptop, stretch out on the couch in corpse pose, and stare at the ceiling, paralyzed by my feelings. I’m almost as offended by her bad writing as I am about the character assassination. If you’re going to write me into a script, at least make it a good one. At some point, Skye pads back into the living room and approaches the couch. I can hear her spoon clinking against the side of her bowl. “What’s wrong?” She sits down on the edge of the couch and puts a hand to my forehead. “You feel warm, but not feverish. Are you sick?” “Not that kind of sick,” I say. She gives me a puzzled look. “What kind of sick are you?” “The kind where you want to crawl into bed and never come out.” “But…you don’t get that kind of sick.” I understand what she means. I’ve always been the one to put on a happy face and keep on trucking. Even after my divorce, I didn’t allow myself to wallow, not for long anyway. I didn’t want people to feel sorry for me so I threw myself into my new job at Twice Nice and started dating men way too soon. Honestly, it

was more rolling around on golf courses than dating. I’m not doing that this time around—no coping by having terrible sex with men I don’t even like. Not because it would make me slutty, but because it won’t make me happy. No, I’m going to try something new and let myself mourn and feel like shit for a while, then kick ass and take names. Maybe I can learn a thing or two from Brittany Roundtree. Now those are words I never thought I’d say. “You know what I’m in the mood for?” I prop myself up on one elbow. “Ice cream.” Skye’s eyes light up. “We have ice cream?” I pull myself off the couch and lead her into the kitchen. “Secret stash in the back of the freezer. I hide it from Fiona or she’ll eat it all.” Skye pads along behind me. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” “After I process everything,” I say, doing my best impression of an introvert. “For now, I’m going to drown my sorrows in Cherry Garcia.”

Twenty-Two

Kiran has two days left in Foster’s Creek before he and Violet fly to LA. We should be spending it together, but instead I’m sleep-deprived and heartsick, listening to the Chicks on repeat while I try to decide what to do with the information that’s been dumped on me. The burning question in my mind is why did Kiran tell Violet about my ex-husband? If I have to, I can accept everyone finding out that embarrassing piece of my personal history. I’m not sure I can get over the fact that it was Kiran who revealed it. My other beef is with Violet. I thought she was a strong woman who survived and thrived inside the sexist film industry and wanted to lift up other women, too, not reduce them to harmful stereotypes. Maybe I should write a novel about a celebrity who falls apart after her director husband leaves her for a young actress. How would she like to discover a thinly disguised version of herself for sale in book stores? I wish I were vengeful enough to do that, but I don’t want to be dragged down to her level. I also don’t want to get sued by someone with a lot more money than me. Although I don’t want to go out of the house, I quickly get tired of wallowing in my misery alone. Fortunately, when you live with your sisters, you’re never alone for long. Before I can get upright, Fiona peeks her head into my room. “Why are you in bed? I thought you were spending the day with Kiran.” She draws back an inch. “Is he in there with you?” I scoot up to a sitting position. “No, he’s not here. Come on in.” Fiona’s hair is wet and slicked back from the shower, and she’s wearing what she calls her lounge pajamas. They’re black and white and skull-themed, like all her favorite clothing. She plops down next to me on the bed, making it bounce. “What is going on with you? Skye said something happened last night, but you wouldn’t tell her

about it.” “How much time do you have?” I ask. “Seriously, this is going to take a while.” “Not due at work for an hour.” She leans back against the upholstered headboard and crosses one foot over the other. “Hit me with it.” Deciding that I only want to tell this story once, I ask, “Is Skye around?” Fiona calls Skye’s name, and she comes bounding into my room, sweaty and pink-cheeked. “I just got back from a ride. What’s up? You feeling better?” I pat the mattress on the side not occupied by Fiona. “Have a seat.” As I recount my conversation with Kiran and tell them about the script in detail, Fiona shows her by punctuating my story with curses. Skye reacts in all the appropriate places with gasps and tongue clicks. Once again, I’m reminded that these two ladies are my best friends and my sister system. I wouldn’t want to do life without them. “You need to find out if Kiran told her about Lawson and how it went down,” Fiona says. “It’s one thing if it came up in conversation and he mentioned it, forgetting it was a secret, and another if she was pumping him for information on you. If he sold you out, he’s a dick.” Skye reaches over and grabs my wrist. “He wouldn’t do that, would he?” I shake my head wordlessly because for once, I don’t have an answer. We only met a few weeks ago. Do I really know him at all? Do you ever really know the man who’s sleeping in your bed? According to many true crime podcasts and my own brief marriage, the answer is no, you don’t. “Call him,” Fiona says. “Better to know the truth and deal with it.” “What are you going to do about the script?” Skye asks. “We can’t let her steal your identity like that. There has to be a law against this kind of thing. Slander? Identity theft?” “Assholery,” Fiona says. “That’s what it is.

“I don’t know what I can do to stop her…” As I say the words, a plan forms in my mind. “…except tell my own story before she can.”

The discussion I need to have with Kiran can’t be had on the phone. He agrees to meet me at my house, and although there’s not enough time to primp, I brush away my deathly hallows breath and imprison my wayward curls in a ponytail. I’m too weary to change out of my pink and white leopard print pajamas so that’s how I greet him. “I’m so sorry,” he says before even stepping inside the house. He’s not in pajamas, but he’s wearing his version of a mopey outfit—flat-front khakis and a black T-shirt that doesn’t look freshly ironed. He hasn’t even shaved this morning so I know he’s out of sorts. Even in his less than perfectly coiffed state, he’s breathtakingly gorgeous. I step aside so he can enter. “Let’s talk.” He takes a seat on the couch in the living room, and I sit in a chair across from him. I don’t want to be tempted to reach out and touch him because this isn’t a problem that can be snuggled away. I need to know if I can trust him, and at this point, I’m not sure. “I read the script, obviously, and I have one question for you.” I cross my arms over my chest and then cross one leg over the other and try to look tough, which is hard to do when you’re wearing fuzzy pink flamingo slippers. “Why did you tell Violet about Lawson being gay?” Realizing that I’m bouncing my knee and making the flamingo bob up and down, I still my leg. His eyebrows draw together. “I never told her that. I assumed you did.” “No, I most certainly did not. You must have told her and forgotten that you did.” “I didn’t,” he says sharply before softening his tone. “Please believe me. I made a lot of mistakes, but that isn’t one of them. My error in judgment was not telling you sooner about the script, but I never broke any confidences with you.” He folds his hands together and studies the rug, as if searching it for an answer. “It wasn’t in the background report I ran on you. It just said you were divorced and that he was a lawyer. Maybe it was someone else, one of your friends or sisters

who told her?” “They wouldn’t do that.” I plant my slippers on the floor and shift to the edge of my seat. “They’ve kept that secret for years.” When you only have one big secret in your life, you know exactly who you told. Fiona, Skye, Tabby, Wren, and Isabelle. Wren has ed so I know damn well it wasn’t her unless Violet is talking to ghosts. Isabelle hasn’t spent any time with Violet or Kiran. Tabby would have already told me if she’d blabbed because she can’t keep it secret when she tells secrets, and my sisters would never say a word about it. Never. “Maybe someone else in town found out and told her.” He stands up and starts to pace around the room, like some kind of detective who’s going to get to the bottom of a case. “I can see why you think it was me, but it wasn’t. Maybe she overheard you telling me? She was in the other room that day we were talking about it.” He crouches down next to my chair, one hand on the armrest, his face etched with concern. “I swear, Cat, it wasn’t me.” I can’t help touching him when he’s this close. I run my hand over his chin, the sandpapery roughness of his stubble chafing my fingers. “I believe you, and at the same time I don’t see how that’s possible. I don’t know what else to say.” “I gave her my two weeks’ notice this morning,” he says. “We’re returning to London in two days. I don’t know what I’m going to do after that, but I don’t want to lose you.” “I don’t want to lose you either.” Tears blur my vision. “I’m just feeling torn up over what’s happening here. I want to trust you, but I’ve been burned before. It’s hard to trust again.” Kiran drops his head and grunts out of frustration. “I’m going to prove to you that it wasn’t me.” I wipe away the tear that has spilled onto my cheek. “I don’t expect you to do that.” “You need me to do that. I’m going to at least fix this part of things.” He gets to

his feet and stares down at me, his face etched with pain. “Don’t give up on us yet. Please.” I nod, and he gives me a sad smile. “You look adorable in those pajamas.” I laugh through my tears. “Thank you. Wait until you see me in my costume at the parade tomorrow.” “I can’t wait.” He lifts my hand and kisses my palm. “We’ll figure this out, love. I promise.” I hope that’s a promise he can keep.

Isabelle studies me as I shimmy the furry brown onesie over my hips. “Good thing they had money in the parade budget for a new costume,” she says. “That old one was looking a little mangy.” Most people wouldn’t stand in the living room of a B&B in their underwear as they wrestle themselves into a Rudolph costume, but most people aren’t me. Tabby made sure the starting point for the parade route would be near her B&B so we could use it for a staging and changing area. The power of her position seems to have gone to her head a wee bit. She’s currently running the streets with a headset and clipboard, barking orders at people, like a general staging a coup. The current crisis is due to an outbreak of mono at the local high school. The Young Equestrians Club in particular was hit hard with the kissing disease, and now there’s no sound buffer between two of the marching bands. “Only you could convince me to wear an elf costume in front of the entire town,” Isabelle says as she zips me up in the back then turns me around to face her. “You look so cute, Rudolph!” I wiggle my butt and do jazz hands with my paws. “I was born for this role. Hand me my accessories, please.” I strap on my red nose and glittery antlers. I told Tabby I wouldn’t take this gig without an LED nose so they found money in the budget for that too. Who says I’m not a tough negotiator? “You’re going to light the way tonight.” Isabelle tweaks my nose. “The kids will love it.” The parade is an evening event, and that’s part of the magic. The floats are strung with fairy lights, and the bolts and wires fade away in the twilight, making everything appear enchanted. As a kid, I always felt like Santa’s sleigh could break away from its float at any minute and soar off into the night sky. It’s a bit of a balmy evening for Santa, though, with the temperature still in the midsixties. “It’s a good thing I wore extra deodorant,” I say, “because this synthetic fur isn’t going to breathe well.”

Isabelle pulls out her phone. “Let’s take a selfie before Rudolph gets sweaty.” She looks adorable in her red and white striped tights and green velvet miniskirt, which I knew she would. I loaned her some sparkly red shoes, and they really bring her costume to the next level, if I do say so myself. Fiona is still changing into her elf outfit. I couldn’t convince shy Skye to dress up as an elf, but our friend Andie has her helping wrangle the goats on the Joyful Goat Dairy float. They’ve brilliantly constructed a float that can be munched by the goats as they drive the parade route. Isabelle clicks a picture of us as Fiona grumbles from behind the bathroom door. “What’s going on in there?” I call out to her. “I can’t believe you talked me into this,” she whines. “I’m not elf material.” “Get out here and let us see,” I say. Fiona trudges out of the bathroom looking grim, and Isabelle and I both try unsuccessfully not to laugh. Her black eyeliner, artfully messy hairdo, and surly expression stand in comic contrast to her cheery elf outfit. When she tries to go back into the bathroom, presumably to change her clothes, I grab her arm. “You look great!” “So festive,” Isabelle adds. I pick up one of the pointed elf hats and plop it onto her head. “There. Perfect.” She studies me in my Rudolph costume then looks Isabelle up and down. “Dammit, why do you two look so cute? It’s not fair!” Before I can respond, Tabby, red-faced and intense, pokes her head in the front door. “We need to get you on that float, Rudolph. It’s show time!” My stomach flutters with excitement because I’m a goober who adores being on stage. It’s not an ego trip, I simply love feeling the adrenaline rush of being part of a communal experience. We might be a small town, but we knock it out for the holiday parade. The streets will be lined with people of all ages, several local high school marching bands will be rocking a beat, and the floats will be on par

with what you’d see in a big city like Raleigh. We don’t do half-assed parades in this town, no sir. We head outside, and Fiona and Isabelle take their places in front of the Santa float. There are at least ten other elves with them of varying ages. Santa and I are the grand finale of the whole parade so this is the end of the line. We have to wait until all of the other acts start marching before we get moving. This is one of the fancier floats since it’s the closing act and the one many of the kids wait for with bated breath. The bottom is fringed with metallic silver fringe that looks like icicles if you use your imagination, and the bed of the float is covered in white crepe paper made to look like snow. Standing in formation on the front portion of the float are three mesh reindeer covered in LED lights, and behind them is Santa’s sleigh, an impressive structure with a bench seat and giant velvet bags that look like they’re stuffed with toys. That’s where I’ll be standing alongside the big man himself. It might seem weird that Rudolph rides in the sleigh, but that’s our town’s weird tradition. “Where’s Santa?” I call out to no one in particular. A few of the elves shrug and crane their necks to look around, but no one seems to spot him. A knot forms in my stomach. Vance, the Brunswick stew master, is our Santa this year, and it’s not like him to bail at the last second. He changed in the B&B before I did, and I ed him coming out on my way inside. I can only pray he hasn’t fallen ill or taken a tumble somewhere, although it seems likely that someone in this crowd would have spotted a Santa in distress. Tabby and her clipboard are at the starting line of the parade, giving the goahead to each group, so I text her my concerns about Santa, praying she’ll check her phone. I’m not sure Rudolph can carry off the grand finale all by herself. The kids are going to want Santa Claus, and the last thing I want today is to get booed by the four- to seven-year-old crowd. In an attempt to relax, I take a seat on the sleigh’s bench and watch one of the other elves attempt to hit on Fiona, but I can’t relax, not with Santa still MIA. “Still no sign of him?” Isabelle calls up to me a few minutes later. “Because Eli says we’ll be moving soon with or without the big man.” My friend Eli is driving the truck that’s pulling our float, and even though he’s pretty laid-back, he can’t wait forever on Santa. With the clock ticking, I decide

to take action. Holding my antlers in place, I hop off the float and march to the cab of the truck. Resting my paws on his windowsill, I tell Eli, “Put out an APB on Santa, and if you see Tabby, tell her I went looking for him and will be back in five.” Then I hustle through the crowd of parade participants, my nose lighting my way. The parade participants are slowly creeping forward as the first acts begin marching. I weave through them, asking if anyone has seen the big man in the red suit. No luck. I’m working up a serious underboob sweat by the time I hear Tabby shout my name. She’s standing on the base of a street lamp, waving her arms like a wild woman. “We found him! Head back to the float!” I shuffle-jog through the crowd, wiping my brow with my paw, and sure enough, there’s Santa standing on the other side of our float. Son of a biscuit, I just ran a quarter mile for nothing. “Santa! Rudolph! Get on that float!” Everett yells. “You need to get going.” Sure enough, there’s a gap opening up in front of us, and as soon as Santa and I hop onto the float, Eli puts his foot on the gas. We’re only rolling along at five miles an hour, but it’s progress. I step inside the sleigh, huffing and puffing, and make a silent promise that next year I’m dres as an elf. Thank goodness I tied my hair up in a low knot because if I had that carpet clinging to my neck right now, I’d be ready to out. I fan myself and glance over at Santa, who is standing in the sleigh with his back turned to me. It doesn’t take but a hot second for me to realize this isn’t Vance. Vance is about five feet ten and wide in the waist, and this man is tall and lean. My dramatic side wonders if someone killed Vance, stole his suit, and is preparing to turn this holiday parade into a blood-drenched nightmare. I tap him on the shoulder with one finger. I’m too young to die. Or maybe this is the real Santa—he does exist and I’m about to witness a

holiday miracle! I know what I’ll be wishing for this year, and that’s a team of pro bono attorneys who are willing to take on my defamation case against Violet. Santa turns toward me, and I gasp. Even with the stuffed pot belly, white beard, and wig, I’d know those luminous brown eyes anywhere. This isn’t Santa, it’s Kiran, Kiran Madan. My knees feel weak at the sight of him, but I manage not to faint outright. “What did you do to Vance?” I ask in a hushed voice. It’s not what I thought was going to come out of my mouth, but then I never really know what I’m going to say next. “I offered to pay him a hundred dollars to let me take his place. He asked my reasons and when he heard them, he was amenable to stepping down.” My breathing is shallower now than when I was running through the streets looking for Santa. “And what are your reasons?” Tabby’s shriek floats up to my ears. “Wave at the crowd!” The noise of the bands and the crowd explode the sound vacuum that existed moments ago when I was in Kiran’s thrall. It felt like we were the only two people in the universe, but in fact we’re in the company of nearly the entire town, and all eyes are on us as we by the sidewalks lined with spectators. As we wave and smile, he shuffles closer to me until our bodies are touching. “My reason for being here, in this ridiculously itchy suit”—he threads a finger into his collar, scratches his neck, and seems to lose his train of thought. “They really could have splurged for better fabric.” I scratch at my chest, which is feeling rashy from the costume’s rough lining. “Tell me about it.” “My reason is that your sister, Fiona, told me what you were planning to do today, and I didn’t want you to have to do it alone. I wanted to be at your side. Even if you decide we can’t be together after this, I still wanted to be here for you today.”

I beam a smile up at him and try to take his hand, but the fact that I now have a paw instead of fingers makes it difficult. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.” A man who’s this true to the people he cares about can be trusted. There’s some other explanation for how Violet found out about Lawson, and someday I’ll figure it out. Right now, it doesn’t much matter. “My pleasure,” he says. “Plus, when in life am I going to get to play Santa Claus?” I’m smiling so hard my face hurts. “It is the opportunity of a lifetime, playing Santa in the Foster’s Creek holiday parade.” “Would it be completely inappropriate for Santa to kiss his deer?” “Reindeer,” I say. “And yes, it would be mighty wrong and could get me banned from the parade in future years.” “Dammit. I’ll have to settle for fondling your bottom when no one’s looking.” “Also wrong, Santa,” I warn him. “We don’t want to scar any children. Are you sure you’re up for this?” Even through the beard, I can see his smile. “Let’s do it.”

Twenty-Three

We continue waving as our float creeps toward the town square where Santa typically greets the crowd and announces that he sees kids when they’re sleeping and knows when they’re awake—basic Santa stalking stuff. The parents cheer and then the kids fight for candy we toss to them, kind of like feeding fish to trained seals. As we round the corner and pull up in front of the courthouse, my pulse quickens. I might love an audience, but this is different. I’m not here to entertain, but to come clean and unburden my soul. An emotional late-night phone call to my ex-husband was what I needed to confirm that it was alright for me to execute my plan. Lawson told me he came out to his parents a few years ago, and they slowly accepted it. They weren’t inviting him and his partner, Kevin, to holidays at their house yet, but they’ve stopped sending Bible ages and telling him he’s going to burn in hell. He called it progress, but I told him he deserved much better from them than that. “You don’t have to keep it a secret for me,” Lawson said. “And it sounds like people in town are going to find out anyway. Although I have my doubts about that godawful movie ever getting made.” We did discuss my options for suing Violet, but Lawson assured me that going up against someone as wealthy and powerful as her would be a disaster. I might be able to tie her script up in litigation for a few years, but it would come at a huge financial and emotional cost. I decided I didn’t need that kind of negativity following me around like a rabid skunk. The courtroom wasn’t the best place to settle this score, but a small-town holiday parade just might be. Eli carefully parks us alongside the curb, and Tabby runs toward us, reaching up to our sleigh to hand Kiran the mic. Kids swarm in from all sides like a small but mighty army, and I notice Kiran and I have moved closer together, as if responding to a threat of danger. Tiny ones ride on their parents’ shoulders to get a better view, and the older ones jockey for position so they’ll have a prime spot for catching candy. The ones in front have their chests and bellies pressed up

against the float, and it looks like they might be climbing up here if their demands aren’t met soon. Behind all of that mess is the town green where bleachers are set up for the local muckity mucks. Violet, dressed in an expensive-looking camel hair wool coat, is sitting on the bottom row of bleacher seats, alongside the mayor and his wife. Before I can deal with her, I have to disperse these kids. After switching off the mic, Kiran turns to me and whispers, “What do I say?” “Tell them the elf on the shelf is watching their every move so they’d better not trample each other to get this candy.” Kiran’s eyes widen. “Santa has snitches?” “You’d better believe it.” He delivers the safety message to the kids, and I hand him a pail of candy canes and grab one of my own. We start tossing candy out to a sea of grubby, grabby hands, and fortunately, things don’t get too out of control. When the buckets of candy are empty, the crowd around us finally starts to thin. Families head toward the events on the village green, like the gingerbread house construction area which is entirely edible and the snowball fight arena with entirely fake snow. I step down from the sleigh, wireless mic in hand, and walk toward the bleachers area where there are mostly grown folks milling about and socializing. The scent of hot cider and donuts tempts me to make a detour, but I can’t do it. I’m a reindeer on a mission. As I approach, I wave to the mayor and his wife, the president of the historical society, the principal of the high school, and other important civic leaders. Violet is there, of course, holding court with her irers. No Grisham boys in sight today, but plenty of other people seem anxious to speak with her. Without stopping to chat with anyone, I bound up the bleachers to the top row. Never underestimate the power of a grown woman running around in a reindeer suit to command people’s attention. There’s a whole bunch of eyeballs trained on me, waiting to see what I’m doing up here above the crowd. I should be nervous, but adrenaline has kicked in and I’m revved up and ready to go. “Before y’all disperse,” I say into the mic, “I want to thank Dame Violet Ramsey for gracing our little town with her brilliance.” The people below me look

slightly bewildered by my impromptu speech, but Tabby starts clapping and others in with her. She doesn’t know about my plan today, but she will always me, one hundred percent. Violet smiles and waves like she’s the Queen of England, not the woman who plans to stab this little town in its proverbial back. In a second, she’s going to get a big surprise. She knows Kiran showed me the script, but she doesn’t know what I plan to do about it. Hell, she probably doesn’t even realize how offensive it was. The applause dies down. “And let me tell you,” I say, “I got a look at the script she’s written, and it is amazing.” Violet’s eyes widen slightly, but she quickly recovers her composure apart from a slight tic in her right eye. Award-winning acting right there. She probably doesn’t want me giving out any spoilers. Just you wait, lady… “I was stunned to realize that I was the inspiration for her main character, and wow, her portrayal of me was surprising to say the least. She seems to think I’m fat, promiscuous, and have a drinking problem. Kind of funny because we all know I don’t drink very much.” I wait for the laughter after my punchline, but instead I’m greeted with looks of sympathy, confusion, and concern. “That was a joke. I don’t much care how she sees me because I know who I am, and I’m fabulous.” I attempt to toss my hair over my shoulder and instead knock my antlers off my head, sending them sailing into the air behind me. Ignoring that gaffe, I continue my monologue. “I am bothered that she chose to reveal something about my life that I kept secret for many years. You probably know that I’m divorced. Well, the reason my marriage ended was that my husband fell in love with someone else. That someone was a man.” There are some dropped jaws and possibly a gasp or two, but lots of people don’t even react. Times have changed. I’ve changed. I once thought that Lawson being gay somehow meant something was wrong with me. Was I too stupid or desperate to see that our relationship was a lie? Was he only pretending to enjoy sex with me? What did it say about me that I was attracted to a gay man? When he finally came to with his own identity, mine was shaken to its core. I kept the reason for my marriage’s demise hidden because I thought that would

protect me from my insecurities. It didn’t. My secret only made me hold on tighter to the negative feelings from that time in my life. The only thing that would truly release me from the past would be facing it, with courage and honesty. “He’s much happier now that he can be true to himself,” I tell the crowd, “and I’m quite happy with my life, too, so it’s all good. But I wanted to be the one to tell you that, not anyone else.” I find Violet and look straight at her. “It’s my story to tell. Mind you, y’all don’t fare that well in her script either. Some of you look like rednecks and bumpkins, and others, well, Mayor Nutley, you’re a coldblooded murderer. Mrs. Nutley, you’re dead. Sorry about that.” Mayor Nutley’s face grows pale, and his wife fixes Violet with a stare that could take down Medusa. Don’t cross Nancy Nutley. She may be itty-bitty, but that former cheerleading coach will come for you. Other people are throwing Violet some shade, as well. There’s a low grumbling among the listeners and plenty of harsh looks, and she must take notice because her eye is twitching double time now. It’s not like me to publicly humiliate someone, but there’s no way I was going to let her glide out of here a hero and then mock us in a feature film. I don’t think so. “I don’t care how Violet or anyone else sees this town. Yes, we have our faults and our flaws, but what community doesn’t? I’m proud to be from Foster’s Creek, and you should be too.” I search for Kiran in the crowd and find him well across the green, surrounded by a horde of persistent children. Despite the distractions, he’s focused on me intently, and I can feel him rooting for me. All I want is to finish my speech and get back to him. “Thank you and happy holidays!” I jog down the bleachers, pull off my Rudolph nose—probably should have done that earlier—and head toward Kiran. Violet, who really should be named after a hardier flower, is striding toward me, ready to cut me off at the , and she looks apoplectic. I should have guessed she wouldn’t back down from a confrontation after what happened with Brittany at the Halloween party. Thank goodness she doesn’t have her riding crop with her today. I’m not one to run from a fight either, so I stop in my tracks and let her approach me. My reindeer tail might be shaking a little, but when it comes down to it, I’ll stand my ground. I’m going to do it for myself, for Kiran, and for Foster’s

Creek. “That was dramatic,” she says in an icy tone, her arms crossed over the front of her coat. “You couldn’t have a conversation with me privately about all that?” I steel my spine, preparing for things to get ugly. “You have a lot of nerve saying that to me. You should be apologizing. I spent all that time showing you around, taking you into my parents’ house, rescuing you from a mud pit no less, and then you shit all over me with that script.” “It’s called artistic license,” Violet says condescendingly. “I didn’t copy every detail from your life, just the ones I needed for the character. You should be flattered anyway. How many people are the inspiration for an auteur? You could have parlayed this into publicity for your books.” She leans in closer and says sharply, “You certainly sunk that golden opportunity.” I stare at her, bewildered. “You’re nuts, woman. I don’t need your kind of help with my career. I did fine before I met you, and I’ll be fine after you get your fanny out of this town.” I plant my hands on my hips. “And yes, I said fanny. Because I’m an American and it means butt here, but you take it any way you want to as long as you take it straight back to England.” I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see Kiran standing at my side. Sure enough, there’s a string of kids trailing behind him. “And you,” Violet seethes at him, “don’t even bother flying back to London with me. In fact, I’m canceling your ticket today. You’re fired, effective immediately.” “Did she just fire Santa?” one of the older kids asks. I turn around, a forced smile on my face. “Of course not. She was just teasing Santa. I hear they’re giving away donuts across the street.” I point toward the food stalls that are set up on the green. “You better hurry on over there before they’re gone.” As a wild pack, they run off, and I swing around to face Violet again. “Firing me is going to hurt you more than me,” Kiran tells her calmly. “You’re now without a bodyguard, a driver, and an assistant.”

She huffs, her eyes flashing with anger. “I’ve been on my own before. I’ll be just fine.” “Good luck to you then,” he says. She’s silent and unmoving for a few seconds, as if she’s considering making one more remark. Then with a huff, she stalks off, heading toward the B&B where tomorrow morning a car will pick her up and whisk her away to the airport. I’ll probably never set eyes on her again in real life, and that’s fine by me. Instead of feeling victorious for standing up for myself, all I can do is pity her. She’s a hurt woman whose husband left her for his ingénue, and now she’s alienated the man who was not only her employee, but her friend and confidant. She’s trying to be strong when inside she’s cracking apart. I shouldn’t feel sorry for her—she messed up big time here—but Lord help me, I do. Other than sycophants and stalkers, Violet only had Kiran, and now she’s lost him too. It’s pathetic, honestly. Kiran slips his arm around my shoulders. Reading my expression, he says, “She had the chance to make things right, and she didn’t. It’s her own fault.” I wrap my arm around his waist. “Why am I suddenly the one feeling loyal to her?” “She has that effect on people. In an hour you’ll be reassuring me I did the right thing.” I look up into his warm brown eyes. “You did the right thing.” He starts to lean down to kiss me then stops himself. We both turn and look behind at the gaggle of children with donuts in hand who have come back to bother Santa again. I can tell from the mischievous grins on the older ones that they know this year’s Santa isn’t really a kid person. “Please help me,” he whispers in my ear. I turn and raise my arms. “Children, Santa is off duty now. If you have any Christmas requests, have your parents write them on paper and deliver them to Twice Nice. I’ll make sure Santa gets all of them. He and I are very close.”

The kids slink off, slowly but surely. Kiran puts his arms around me and rests his forehead on my shoulder. “Let’s get out of here before any more of them spot me.” We start to separate right as Tabby busts between us with a frantic look in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Cat.” I assume she’s talking about Violet’s script and say, “It’s fine. I feel good about what I did here today.” “You’re not furious with me?” she asks. “I didn’t mean to spill the beans. Violet somehow got it out of me.” I gape at her, speechless. “You told Violet about Cat’s husband being gay?” Kiran asks. Tabby nods then grasps my forearms. “I feel terrible about it. Please say you can forgive me.” “Why would you do that?” I ask incredulously. Tears fill her powder-blue eyes. “It just…slipped out.” Over her shoulder I see Everett lurking near the cider vendor, watching us. Suddenly, I know exactly what went down in that B&B. “Everett told her, didn’t he?” I demand. Tabby cringes and nods her head, knowing she can’t even try to lie to me. “Yes, but that was my fault. I told him about Lawson years ago, and I swore him to spousal secrecy. Violet asked him about your divorce—if he knew what happened—and I think it just came out.” Yeah, right. Everett was happy to spill the beans about my ex-husband. If I had time and energy to deal with him, I would, but I’d rather take Santa home with me and get him out of that suit. “We’ll talk about it later,” I say. “I have to get Santa out of here before any more kids try to sit on his lap.” I turn to Kiran. “That’s my spot.”

Tabby scrunches up her face. “Sexualizing Santa seems wrong.” “Maybe to you.” I grab Kiran’s hand. “We all have our kink.” I’m honestly not all that turned on by a synthetic red suit and a fluffy white beard. The first thing I’m going to do when Kiran and I get back to his room is make sure his Santa gear finds a place on the floor. As we walk toward the B&B, I feel people’s eyes on us, and I don’t even care. Are they staring because Santa and Rudolph strolled by them? Did they hear my speech about my ex-husband? None of that matters. What’s important is that Kiran is here with me, and now that his ticket is getting canceled and he quit his job, he doesn’t have to leave town right away. “Can I convince you to stay for Christmas?” I ask as we stroll along. Kiran squeezes my hand. “Another six weeks? Won’t you be sick of me?” “Of course not. Stay with me.” We stop in front of the Magnolia Inn, still holding hands. “Then, when you need to go back to London and look for a new job, at least we’ll have had this time together. We’ll have a foundation.” A foundation. The thing I’ve been scared of attempting with a man for many years. Suddenly, it’s what I want more than anything in the world. “Maybe you can come back with me for a few weeks after the new year.” He kisses me gently on the lips, and his new facial hair tickles my chin. “You said your store’s business slows down then anyway. We can do our writing together. I can be your tour guide around London. What do you think?” I press my lips together and consider that idea for a moment. “You want to show me around your city? I’ll have to run a background check first. Then you’ll have to sign a non-disclosure agreement.” “Is that right?” He arches a brow. “You don’t want me to tell anyone about the things that happen between us in London.” “That will be our secret.” Winding my arms around his neck, I whisper in his ear, “I’ll buy a fancy dress, and you book those tickets to the opera.” “Catriona Sorcha McBryde.” He presses a warm kiss to my neck, and my toes

curl up in my shoes. “London will never be the same after your visit, will it?” “I sure hope not.”

Epilogue

Three Years Later

Kiran and I stand on the sidewalk near the Liverpool Street underground station in London watching a film crew set up a stunt that involves a chase across the rooftops of tall buildings. As I suspected, his first novel, a thriller called Full Body Burn, got him an agent almost immediately. Then the book sold at auction to a major publishing house for six figures. They also wanted movie rights. Knowing how slowly these things typically move, we had no idea that a little over three years later we’d be on a film set with actors and actresses playing the parts of his characters. “This is surreal,” Kiran mutters for the third time today, tightening his arm that’s wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer to him. “It’s happening, honey.” I plant a kiss on his cheek. “I’m so proud of you.” He’s published two more books in the series since the first one came out, and they’ve both been well received by fans and reviewers. Although Kiran and I live in Foster’s Creek, we often travel to the places where his new books will be set, both to sightsee and explore as well as for him to do research. So far we’ve visited Switzerland, Morocco, and Spain. I never thought this girl from Foster’s Creek would ride on a camel, but it happened and we have the photographic proof. I’ve also found the trips to be inspirational and decided to wrap up my duchess books and start a new steamy historical romance series about a group of female spies during the American Revolution. Just because I’m settled down as a one-man woman doesn’t mean my characters have to be any less randy and reckless. “Take some pictures to show your parents tonight,” I remind Kiran. Anil and Reshma Madan are hosting a dinner this evening to celebrate our

marriage, which took place at a courthouse back home in Foster’s Creek a little over a month ago. Neither of us wanted a big wedding to-do, which sounds odd for someone like me who loves a spotlight, but I’ve been married before. Been there, done that with the huge wedding, all the guests, gifts, and fanfare, and so has he. This time the ceremony was all about looking each other in the eyes and promising to be together for a lifetime. It was the single most powerful experience I’ve ever had. We needed witnesses, so my sisters and parents were there, but that was it for guests. Now we’re having a celebration with his family so that they feel a part of our union too. They wanted to book an entire restaurant and invite two hundred people, but Kiran convinced them that a quiet dinner with their immediate family was what we both wanted, although I’m not sure any dinner with me is ever going to be quiet. “Stand in front of the director’s chair over there,” I say, pointing to an area that’s currently deserted, except for a few harried looking production assistants clicking away on their phones. “I’ll take a picture of you.” “Do I have to?” Kiran grumbles, embarrassed by the fact that people might observe our dorky photo shoot, but I encourage him to comply with a swat on the behind and a sweet smile. I want his parents to see what their son has achieved. They’re already proud of him, but I know Kiran has waited a long time to hear them gush and brag about his accomplishments, the way they do with his sisters and brother. They were impressed by his books, but I think his success with the film is even more tangible for them. They can actually go to the theater in a year from now and watch their son’s story on the big screen. I’m going to throw a party for him when the movie is released, but that’s a secret—the only one I’m keeping from my gorgeous husband. Heck, I’ll probably spill the beans beforehand anyway. Once we’re done taking pictures, we watch more of the filming, and I marvel at the stuntman rappelling down the side of a building. Kiran explains to me exactly how the stunt is being performed and all the precautions that are being taken to keep everyone safe. Then I marvel at the fact that he used to do this for a living. “Do you miss it?” I ask. “Not just the adrenaline rush, but all the training and planning?” He watches the performers for another minute before answering. “Sometimes.

Writing about it helps scratch the itch. And I would have retired by now. The body can only take that kind of pummeling for so long.” He twines his fingers through mine. “I’m very happy with my current life. What more could I wish for?” “Chickens?” I ask, batting my eyelashes at him. I’ve been trying to convince him about this for about six months. We both spend most of our time at home now, writing in our offices, and we have the time to take care of a few backyard birds. My store’s current sales team still includes Isabelle and several other young hires. A twenty-five-year-old named Maya with a flair for fashion and a head for business even does most of the buying these days. Other than crunching the numbers, I’m fairly hands-off at this point. With all that extra time on our hands, surely we could care for a few Barred Rock chickens and maybe one or two Welsummers? “Why do you want these birds?” he asks me for the one hundredth time. “We’re not interested in having kids,” I explain patiently. “But I like taking care of things and you don’t want any more cats. Plus,” I pause and look up at him, “free fresh eggs every day. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted eggs that come right from the hen house.” I can tell that he’s wavering. Kiran loves to eat, and one way to convince him of anything is through his stomach. He breaks into the mischievous grin that says he’s teasing me. “What’s going on?” I ask. “I have a surprise for you.” He takes out his phone and scrolls to a text message from our friend Seth. It has a photo of a chicken coop. Not just any chicken coop —a beautiful one that looks exactly like the coop I showed Kiran on my Pinterest page. “What is this?” I ask breathlessly. “Your wedding gift,” he says. “Seth built it this week. Do you like it?” I throw my arms around his neck and start peppering kisses all over his face.

“I guess so,” he says, chuckling. “It’s beautiful! Show me it again.” I ooh and ahh over the coop and then bore him with details about the coop accessories I’m going to buy when we get home. “I can’t believe you did this,” I say. “I didn’t think you were on board with the chickens.” He smooths back my hair and tucks a lock behind my ear. Unruly as ever, it quickly springs loose again. “I want you to be happy, and if taking care of chickens make you happy, then we’re getting chickens.” I throw my arms around his waist and pull him into a tight hug. “You are the very best husband, and I love you so much.” “Not as much as I love you,” he whispers into my ear. “I hope you still love me after you have a chicken coop in your backyard.” We pull apart, and I look up at him. “What are we going to name our feathered children?” “We need to meet them first,” he says. “I don’t think I could name a chicken I’ve never met.” “I was thinking takes on famous authors like Ernest Henningway and Emily Chickenson.” He puffs out a laugh. “That sounds about right for the chickens of two writers. But please don’t call them our children. That’s a bit much for me.” A full-figured middle-aged woman in a red double-breasted catering jacket approaches us cautiously with a book in her hands. I know immediately what she’s after and smile at her so she knows she’s welcome to ask. “Mr. Madan?” she says softly with a lilting Irish accent. “Would you mind g my book?” “Of course,” he says, reaching for it. She doesn’t have a pen so I retrieve one

from my purse. It has a fluffy pink pom-pom on top because why not? She laughs when she sees it and beams a smile at me. “Are you his wife?” she asks. “Yes,” I say, happy to claim him. “She’s a writer.” Kiran’s eyes stray over to me as he signs his name. “Catriona McBryde. She writes beautiful stories.” Sometimes my chest hurts with how much I love this man. “Romance,” I say. Then in a lower voice—because I’m still learning to whisper —I add, “Erotic romance mostly.” Her eyes widen as she takes back her book. “I’ll give it a look.” Kiran chats with her for a few more minutes because he’s always gracious with fans. The success hasn’t gone to his head yet, and I don’t think it ever will. He gets up every morning at an unholy hour and goes for a run, then brings me tea in bed. He cleans out the cat box and helps me hang decorations for every holiday without complaint. He doesn’t drive for celebrities anymore, but once a month he takes me around town to deliver home-cooked food to elderly folks. I guess some people are just grounded and won’t ever change while others let fame and money take over their souls. Speaking of the latter, we heard from Violet recently. She did get her film made, but it went through so many rewrites that Ashley became Tina and bore much less resemblance to me. It flopped at Cannes, bombed in theaters, and received a Razzie award. Even before all that, Violet’s drinking and reckless behavior reached the tabloids. Things came to a head after the movie was released and she and her boy toy, a twenty-four year old model wannabe, were vacationing on a yacht in the Maldives. During a party, she fell overboard and nearly drowned. Kiran heard through friends that after she got released from the hospital for her injuries, she checked herself into rehab. Right before we left for Europe, he received an email from her. She’s doing the twelve steps and has reached the one where you make amends for past mistakes. It was a decent apology, and she included me in it, but Kiran hasn’t been ready to respond yet. I imagine someday we’ll see her again,

but he needs more time to sit with his feelings. As always, I’m the one ready to leap in and forgive, but it’s probably better to follow his lead on this one. “Are you ready to go home?” he asks. “You mean Foster’s Creek or our hotel?” I’ve already slipped my hand into his. The truth is that home has become the place where he is, anywhere the two of us can be together. I still adore my hometown, but if I had to move somewhere to be with Kiran, I would. Packing up three cats and a flock of chickens would be challenging… “The hotel,” he says. “Big party this evening. Are you ready?” “Sweetheart, I was born ready.” Despite the fact that I’ve been on my feet all day, there’s a spring in my step as we head toward our next adventure. I swing our hands as we walk off the movie set and into the streets of London, the late afternoon sun beginning to dip down behind the buildings. In my overactive imagination, it feels like this scene should end with the director yelling “cut!” but I know that this isn’t the end of our love story. It’s only the beginning.

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About the Author

Jill is a native New Yorker who now lives in North Carolina with her family. She has been writing stories both in her head and on paper for her entire life. Her Nasty Woman series was born from a desire to create contemporary love stories that empower women sexually, are body positive, include mutual consent, and celebrate diversity. She’s proud to call herself an author of romantic feminist fiction. Click here to Jill’s newsletter and receive updates from the author and exclusive content only for subscribers.

Acknowledgments

Behind every book I write, there is a crew of people who help bring it to publication. I’m so grateful to my team: My amazing editors, Ann Suhs and Ann Riza of Happily Editing Anns, thank you for catching my mistakes and helping me create a clean final draft. Wilette Cruz at Red Leaf Design, thank you for my beautiful series covers. I know I’m not supposed to have favorites, but this one really captures Catriona so well—I adore it! Georgina Kamsika, I’m so grateful to you for doing a sensitivity read on this book. Any errors or issues that still exist are my fault alone. Nicole Lisa, I hope you know how much your insightful critiques and constant mean to me—love you, my friend! To my readers, I hope this book made you smile, and that Catriona and Kiran found a place in your heart. I always enjoy hearing from you at [email protected].