Chapter One
Lola
Pretty sure a party in the orchard after midnight counts as trespassing, Firebird.
You gonna tell on me, Roman?
No, but if I’ve not dragged your ass back home in ten minutes, Mase will.
My brother needs to break more rules.
Or maybe you need to break less.
- Conversation between Lola, age 15 and Roman, age 22
Old Man Gregordrops the keys into my palm and my heart hammers my ribs. “It’s really mine?” I ask, needing to hear the words.
Gregor grunts. “It’s yours. I don’t want to hear about no trouble though, kid.”
I shake my head so hard my ponytail whips my cheeks. “No, sir. I’ll look after the place. I promise.” Not that there’s actually much to look after at this point.
The shop floor is little more than scuffed linoleum stacked with empty, metal shelving units and the walls are a sickly green studded with holes and spackle. It’s a far cry from the coffee shop I want to turn it into, but the fact that I’ve managed to find someone who will rent to me with the reputation I have in this town is astounding enough. I can deal with the hospital green walls and a grumpy landlord.
Gregor, the verbose man that he is, grunts again then leaves through the backdoor of the shop. It rattles shut and the crack in the glass snakes farther up the pane, but even that doesn’t stop the grin I’ve been biting back from breaking free.
I look around the dusty shop.
This is really happening. The completed paperwork is right there on the beat-up counter. I scan over our signatures once more just to make sure and my heart swoops along the curves of each letter. I don’t exactly have the best track record for making wise decisions, but I made a promise to myself I wouldn’t let that get in my way. Forget the haters. I am not the same, reckless kid I used to be. I am LolafuckingFord and I can do this.
I take out my phone and send a message to the guy who’s to blame for my obsessive love of coffee and everything it’s led to. Mix freshly brewed Brazilian coffee with a dangerously hungover girl and you get one life changing revelation. Or you do in my case at least.
Lola: Want to see my new shop?
I send some photos of the place even though I doubt I’ll get a reply because while I returned to my hometown three weeks ago, Scott is still traveling the world.
I spent six years doing the same thing, avoiding Pine Rock like my life depended on it. Being back here hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing but the metal teeth of the keys are firm in my palm and I know I made the right decision. It’s time to stop running.
I tuck the paperwork under my arm and step out the front door of my new shop right onto Main Street.
Despite being away for so long, it still smells of home here. The salty sea-breeze and the summer heat bounce off the paving stones and wrap around me, the scent memory soothing me to my bones. I loved the years I spent traveling but nowhere in the world smells quite like this. Pine trees and salt. Fried donuts and sand.
I twirl the keys around my finger, my excitement starting to rise again, but apparently my emotions are having a theme park day because the second I seehimall that excitement drops like a rollercoaster. Hard and fast.
Roman Banks. AKA my brother’s best friend. AAKA the man I can’t look at without remembering the whole reason I left this town.
My heart can’t decide whether it wants to race or flip and it’s making me a little dizzy. I press a hand into the old red brick that all the shops on Main Street are built from, the striped awning above Tea’s Bookshop keeping me in the shade as I focus on my breath.
Roman strolls down the street towards me, a cowboy hat pulled low over his brow as he reads a book with the front cover bent back. I just stand there, my feet glued to the sidewalk.
Roman is my kryptonite. Has been ever since I was a pre-teen with my very first crush. He’s changed a little over the years,his brown hair half a shade darker, the shadow of scruff on his jaw making him seem older. But he’s still got his nose buried in a book and he’s wearing his trademark checked shirt. I can’t see his eyes from here, but I don’t need to, the devastating ocean blue will be forever imprinted in my mind.
My gaze follows his hand as he tucks his book in his back pocket, and that’s when I realize he’s about two seconds away from looking up and noticing me.
Shit.He can’t see me here.Ican’t seehim.Not when every thought of Roman reminds me of what happened that night. Of biker jackets and bonfire smoke. Of nauseous touches and waking up with blood.
Roman gets closer and my damn feet finally do what I tell them to and move. Except a trio of tourists spill out of Tea’s, blocking my path, their arms stacked full of vintage books. I reel back, shielding my chest with the folder and dart across the street, only narrowly avoiding becoming car splatter.
I set my panicked gaze on the navy and white umbrella in front of me and the four foot nothing wrinkled face of the woman below it.
