CHAPTER 1
Everleigh
“You can do hard things, Everleigh Anne James.”
The determination in my tone, full of thatfake it until you make itbullshit, does little to settle my fraying nerves. I glance at my lounging cat, certain he’s already speared me with a superior eye. But the gray pile of fur, casually perched on the back of my couch, is less concerned about my life choices and more absorbed with soaking in as much sun as possible.
“Appreciate the support, Smoky.”
The tip of his tail flicks in a lazy arc, a solitary gesture of encouragement.
I steel my nerves and reach for my weapon of choice. A tablespoon, because I’m not messing around. Icando hard things. I hold it at the ready, as though I’m about to perform surgery, grip firm on the handle. It reminds me of the game my best friend Macy and I used to play as kids. The one where the whole board buzzes if your tweezers touch the edges while trying to extract a specified body part. There’s a reasonshegrew up to bethe veterinarian while I became the meteorologist.
The half-unwrapped tube of cinnamon rolls mocks me from the counter. The damn thing might as well be a landmine.
“I hate these fucking things,” I mumble under my breath, wishing I’d gone to Grandma Jean’s diner for breakfast instead. Her cinnamon roll pancakes are to die for. But leaving the house would require a bra, a pair of pants, and a level of headspace I’m just not prepared for yet.
I refocus on the tube.
I nearly peed myself unwrapping the outer cardboard layer minutes ago, waiting for the inevitablepopwith each hesitant tug of the wrapper. I was braced for the mini heart attack it’d give me when it exploded open. I was ready. But the stupid cinnamon roll tube had the audacity to stay intact.
“Press a spoon to the seam,” I mockingly mutter at the can. “Might as well be instructing me to cut theredwire and hope the bomb doesn’t go off.”
If I wasn’t afraid of the can exploding on impact, I’d just drop the damn thing in the trash can and forgo my tradition of binging freshly baked cinnamon rolls after a move. If I’m being honest, this ritual intended to make my new place smell like heaven is really just a stalling tactic anyway.
Piles of boxes, suitcases, and furniture crowd the two-bedroom bungalow, leaving me with narrow walking paths and a questionable amount of sitting room. Even my couch is covered in hanging clothes. I can’t for the life of me figure out how Isleptout here last night, other than I likely burrowed underneath it all. But by the time the last box was carried inside, I was dead on my feet. The moment my friends left, I collapsed.
I woke to Smoky—finally brave enough to come out of hiding—smacking me on the nose with his paw.
As seems to be my pattern, I told myself I’d unpack some boxes while my breakfast was in the oven. But if I’m being honest, it’s a bold-faced lie. If history is any indication, I’ll likelyend up in a cinnamon roll coma, passed out on the couch for half the day. When I finally come out of it, I’ll be groggy and antsy to do anythingbutunpack.
Settling in somewhere new is one of my greatest weaknesses. The permanence makes me itchy, which only makes it all the more baffling that Iboughta house in my hometown. I do love Emerald Creek—mostly because it has Grandma Jean and her diner,The Cow’s Moo. But even before my best friend announced she was moving back permanently, I never intended to settle down here. It was a pit stop while my life recalibrated. I’m supposed to be on the road, chasing storms. Or at least I was.
Dark thoughts press against the surface of my memory, battling against the very firmly locked door I’ve shoved them behind. Nope. Not going there.
Not today.
I shake them away, wriggling my shoulders as if that’ll force them into the rear view, and narrow my eyes at the tube. Today isnotthe day that Everleigh James is bested by a stupid can of pastries.
With shaky hands, I clamp two fingers around one end, gingerly turning the tube for a better angle. Sucking in a breath, I hover the spoon just above the faint line and whisper, “I can do hard things.” Squeezing my eyes shut, I press the spoon against the rounded cardboard and brace for…nothing.
“Son of a bitch,” I grumble.
I steel myself for a second attempt, ignoring the way Smoky opens one eye wide enough to glare at me—probably for disturbing his peace—and press the tip of the spoon a little harder against the kryptonite seam.
Nope.
“Oh, come the fuck on!”
I press harder.
BANG!
I scream, jumping a foot in the air as the spoon flies out of my hand. It bounces off the ceiling with an obscenely loud clatter, startling Smoky from the back of the couch She gives me a full body hiss before streaking off down the hall to hide. Hand to heart, I step back and take a breath, only to slip on the rug and stumble backward, landing square on my ass.
Pride utterly shaken—and a bit pissed off—I glance down at the tube still beside me on the floor, discovering it’s still intact. “What the fuck was?—”
A second loudthumpsnaps my attention to the door tucked off the kitchen.
