Except he isn’t. Not really. He’s less forgettable than the rest. His particular brand of irritation dug in deeper under my skin, and I don’t seem able to scratch it off like an itch.
I twist my hair into my usual practical low bun that can survive an entire day in class, I nod at my reflection. Better. It’s not the face of a woman who spent the last hour fuming over Ryder Evans, his blue-violet eyes, or the way his dusty jeans clung to his muscled thighs.
I pull on a coat. Despite the season warming up, the nights are still chilly, and the temperature drops fast once the sun sets. I’ve learned to layer. One of many adjustments to life in Missouri after years in LA.
The drive to Main Street takes five minutes. I could walk it in twenty, but the wind off the lake is vicious tonight. Everything in Blue Crescent Harbor is less than five minutes from everything else, which still feels surreal after years of coping with rush-hour dread and calculating commutes in freeway exits. I park across the street from Shelf Indulgent.
The bookshop glows from within, warm light spilling through the windows. Beyond the glass, figures move around inside, women gathering with mugs in their hands and smiles on their faces. My people. Or as close to “my people” as I’ve found since landing in the Ozarks. I go to them.
The bell chimes as I push through the door, and the familiar scent of mocha, new paper, and the faint sweetness of whatever candle Rory has burning this week wraps around me in a literary hug.
“Faye!” she calls from behind the counter where she’s stationed with an electric kettle and an array of mugs. Her dark bob swings as she turns, red lipstick bright against her pale skin. “Tea or hot chocolate?”
“Chocolate,” I say immediately. “Double marshmallows.”
Her eyebrows lift, but she doesn’t comment. She pours the dark, dense liquid from a carafe into an oversized mug with a cat sketched on the side, tops it with a mountain of white puffs, and slides it across the counter. I wrap my hands around the ceramic, letting the heat seep into my palms.
“Rough day with the tiny humans?” she asks.
“The tiny humans were perfect. It’s the big ones that test my patience.”
“Ah.” She laughs. “Helicopter parents?”
“Something like that.”
The bell chimes again, and Lila Callaway breezes in, her red hair catching the overhead lights in copper flames. She’s in her hospital scrubs under an open cardigan, looking tired but happy.
Rory hands her a chocolate without asking.
“Thank you, I needed this.” Lila takes a sip. “If I had to spend one more minute listening to my father talk about hospital efficiency metrics, I was going to scream.”
“Your family and their medical empire,” Rory teases. “How dare they save lives and make money doing it?”
Lila works as a physical therapist at Blue Crescent Medical Center, the small hospital her family runs. The Callaways are another one of the precious founding families everyone in this town cares so much about.
But Lila, at least, doesn’t flaunt her founder status as if the fact that her great-great-great-grandparents were the first to claim this land makes her better than anyone else. Unlike the cowboy who treated me to a ten-minute lecture on his “legacy,” explaining why his bloodline should impress me.
“It’s not the saving lives part.” Lila shrugs off the cardigan. “But they act like choosing PT over becoming a ‘real doctor’ is a personal betrayal. Apparently, I’m wasting my potential by only getting a doctorate in physical therapy.”
I snort into my mug. “Only a doctorate. The horror.”
“Right?” Lila rolls her eyes. “But hey, I help people walk again instead of prescribing pills and filing insurance paperwork or cutting them open like my brother plans to do. So I’m happy.” She plonks on the couch next to Alejandra, the owner of Dye Hard, the town’s hair and beauty salon. Her black locks are styled in an elaborate braid crown that must’ve taken an hour to perfect.
“Go, girl.” Alejandra lifts her fist in support.
Next to them, Aurora Marino is perched on the couch arm, gesturing with her hands as she talks. She’s the assistant chef at A Slice of Heaven, her family’s pizzeria by the lake. The book club meets on Wednesday nights specifically because that’s when the Italian restaurant is closed and Aurora can make it.
I sit near them.
The door opens again, bringing a small flood of arrivals. January Jensen, our soft-spoken librarian. Carrie Montgomery, the mayor’s wife. Sheriff Ruth Bingham, out of uniform but still carrying herself with an air of authority that says she could arrest anyone even in civilian clothes.
Both the Montgomeries and the Binghams are founders. This town is really into its traditions, its roots, its sense of being built on the backs of certain names. There are five founding families, as the historical plaques that mark every other building on Main Street never let anyone forget. Evans, Callaway, Montgomery, Bingham, and Rockwood.
The only one not represented at the book club is Rockwood. But that doesn’t surprise me. They have a single male heir—Liam Rockwood, the most wanted bachelor in town according to Dye Hard gossip. He’s the brat who enjoys ruining the town’s hearing with the obnoxiously loud rumble of his motorcycle. That black sports bike that roars past my cottage at least twice a week.
The Rockwoods are also the richest family in Blue Crescent Harbor. Billionaires who made their fortune with a chain of outdoor outfitter stores and real estate investments. I’m surprised they never moved to a bigger city. This founders’ birthright pride they all share must be one hell of a glue trap.
Speaking of founding families, Rebecca Evans waltzes in last.
