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  Granny Cordelia clears her throat before she stands up, clutching her carry-on. She fixes her gaze on me. "Let me leave you with these words of wisdom, Dearie. Everything works out in the end. Remember that."

  Those were the last words she spoke to me before she moseyed her way off the plane and into the terminal. What is she talking about? Did I give off some my-life-is-in-shambles vibe? Because that couldn't be further from the truth. Just great, Alyssa, you’re even lying to yourself now.

  In all actuality, my life has turned to shit, all thanks to one clumsy mishap with Andrew Wallace. That’s right; he’s the guy from that Travel Channel show, Whisk Me Away. I was finally promoted from working a remedial desk job purchasing his plane tickets, making his dinner reservations, and booking his five-star hotels, to a job that I could actually be proud of. My official title was Junior Travel Historian, which is basically a glorified fact checker who makes sure that Andrew doesn’t say something incorrect on the air.

  I was finally going to get out of New York and travel, just like I always wanted. But then I met Andrew, and everything changed. He flew in a few days ago, the day before our flight left for Spain. He emailed me that morning and asked me if I could meet him to discuss some of the facts on the Spanish sites we would be visiting. I was super nervous and enthusiastic when I met him at the Sushi bar he recommended.

  Everything was going well until it wasn’t. One important tidbit you should know about me before I continue, I’m a grade-A klutz. I can’t help it if my feet like to trip and my hands like to knock things over accidentally. I mean, who’s fault is it anyway if somebody asks me to pick up their child’s birthday cake and the steps leading up to their apartment attack my feet out of nowhere? It’s not my fault their elevator was temporarily out of order. This is all hypothetical, of course. I didn’t scream in horror as I watched Captain America plummet to his doom in slow motion. ‘Cuz that would be ridiculous.

  To make a long story short…ish, I knocked my wine glass over, and it spilled all over his suit. I apologized profusely and offered to pay for his dry-cleaning bill like anyone would do in that situation. He said not to worry about it. No harm, no foul…right?

  Wrong! Imagine my surprise when the very next day, I saw a news article that read: Wallace’s Hidden Mistress Throws Wine! Those lowlife scum working at that gossip newspaper somehow snapped a picture that night that made it look like I threw my wine at him on purpose. I was mortified when I saw it. About an hour after that, I received a phone call from the Travel Channel’s PR department saying that I am a liability and am henceforth terminated from the network.

  I shouldn’t have even accepted that position there in the first place. If I knew back in my college days that when I accepted the internship with the Travel Channel that I wouldn’t actually be traveling, I would have given that job a hard pass. Then I also wouldn’t be in this predicament right now. Well, you live and learn, right?

  All because of a little spilled red wine, I’m now unemployed and flying back home to Sandy Heights. I don’t know how long I’m planning to stay but considering that I don’t have any ropes tying me down in New York anymore, it might be best to leave my options open. Albeit, I applied for a teaching job at Colombia University, but the odds of landing that position are like one in a million. Needless to say, I don’t have high hopes for it.

  Logan, my older brother, called me last night to warn me that my ex-boyfriend, Darren, still lives in town. I don’t know why, but I always figured he would move back to London after graduation. Evidently, I was wrong. I don’t necessarily know how I’m going to avoid seeing him in our humble small town, but I just know that I have to. Running into him is not one of those options I want to keep open.

  Chapter Three

  Aly

  Here it is. Sandy Heights in all its glory. With the sabal palm trees towering over the town, stretching across the Eastern coast of the beach. The smell of my childhood and everything that encompasses it wafts through the air with the hot summer breeze. If you bottled the scents of sunscreen, fresh sea breeze, and salt air, you would have the smell of my childhood. It may not sound like an intoxicating smell to many, but to me, it's the greatest scent on Earth. It's home.

  As I walk down Sea Turtle Boulevard, I realize just how much I've missed this place. The comfortability, the familiarity, the buildings, the beach, and the people. God, how I've missed seeing Mr. Jones sitting on the steps outside of his cafe, a cup of Joe in one hand, and a newspaper in the other. I check my phone. Exactly seven o'clock, just like old times. Mr. Jones always was a man of habit. Glad to see some things never change.

  His brown eyes peer at me over the black ink of the Sandy Heights Gazette. His brows furrow in concentration.

  "Well, I'll be damned. Is that little Miss Aly Lance?" His voice sounds frailer in his old age, but not by any means weak. It's just not as strong and demanding as I remember it being, but still deep and powerful in its own right.

  Mr. Jones pats the spot next to him on the concrete step, gesturing for me to sit next to him. Although I'm wearing a skirt and would rather not plop my ass on the frigid concrete, I decide to humor his request anyway. Besides, he was my first boss back in the day. I guess obeying his requests is still hardwired into my brain somehow, even after all these years.

  I mosey my way up the three steps and sit right next to him on the landing platform right outside Jones' Joe. He turns to me, a smile stretching widely across his face.

  "Well, if it isn't my most favorite Lance," he drawls out, his lovable Southern twang still detectable in his voice.

  I blush at the compliment. A girl could get used to such niceties. In the city, the only compliments I receive are catcalls. Whistles. Shouts. Nice ass. Sweet tits. All things that I'm tired of. I don't even consider them compliments anymore. Compliments are supposed to make you feel better about yourself, not objectified. Things like you have beautiful eyes or a gracious smile. Those are compliments.

  I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and take his hand in both of mine. "And if it isn't the best damn boss I've ever had."

  I watch as the blush creeps its way to his cheeks.

  "You were always too good to me. I ain't ever find an employee as hard of a worker as you were. Damn shame too." Mr. Jones takes a sip of his coffee before he continues. "So, tell me, Aly, how many stamps did you get on your passport? 'Cuz I reckon you wanted to travel the world, right?"

  I can't mask the disappointed expression that etches itself across my face, causing me to bow my head in shame. The truth is…he is right, and I'm embarrassed. I was always such a planner in my youth. I set giant goals and was foolishly optimistic. But in reality, I haven't even left the country once. My passport has zero stamps in it. In hindsight, my world traveling goals just weren't realistic. They were an idealistic fantasy that didn’t align with a steady paycheck.

  "In all honesty, I never left New York. I decided to focus on school and ended up getting a master's degree in history and anthropology."

  "You never traveled? That's all you talked about forever." She buts into the conversation, causing me to jump in surprise.

  I turn my head to the street as Ms. Abney struts toward us, swaying back and forth with each stride—her signature walk. She is wearing one of her infamous little hats, similar to those worn at a royal wedding in England, pinned slightly askew on the crown of her head. From what I can see, she hasn't aged a bit. But that could be because she looked twenty years older than she was back then. So, I guess now her age finally caught up with her face.

  In classic Abney style, she is accessorizing her fuchsia jacket—which she wears like a cape, letting the jacket's arms dangle rather than putting her arms through them—with a pineapple broach. In all my life, I've never seen her without it. She wears it to signify that she is the mayor, whose house resides on Pineapple Street. We hold elections every two years, but from what I can remember, nobody has even wanted to run against her.

  I shouldn't
be surprised that she just appeared out of nowhere. That's kind of always been her thing. Ms. Abney is the know-all of Sandy Heights. In other words, she is the gossip queen. Being that she owns the Sandy Heights Gazette, she makes it her business to know anything and everything that is happening inside the county line. And just my luck, my confession will probably make the front page. Haven’t I dealt with enough gossipy shit lately?

  I stare at her in silence, not wanting to say anything that she could use against me later. It's one thing to spread it all over town. It's another to plaster it on the front page. Ms. Abney takes the hint and redirects the conversation.

  "Aly Lance. Look at you. All grown up."

  "That's kinda what happens, Tabitha," Mr. Jones snarls, his voice oozing with annoyance as he rolls his eyes.

  She waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, pipe down, Howard. You grumpy old man."

  Mr. Jones exhales his frustration.

  "So, dear, did I hear you correctly? You have a history degree?"

  I nod.

  "Wonderful," she exclaims, clapping her hands together repeatedly.

  I see the gleam sparkle in her eye. That's never a good sign. Ms. Abney isn't just the Chatty Cathy of Sandy Heights, but she's also a self-proclaimed matchmaker. And that gleam signifies that she is concocting some kind of scheme like a witch does a potion. Fun fact: when I was younger, Logan convinced me that she was a witch. One that was going to eat me Hocus Pocus style.

  I am almost too afraid to ask, but I foolishly do it anyway. "What's so wonderful about that?"

  "Well, you didn't hear this from me," she pauses for dramatic effect. I swear, those seven words are going to be engraved on her tombstone. "But Dennis Bradbury. You remember him, right? He's like in his late seventies. Bald. Green eyes. Beer belly that looks like he swallowed a bowling ball that he can't digest."

  I nod, giving her the green light to continue with her story.

  "Anyway, he had knee surgery a few weeks back. This week, he was caught by Ray. You remember Officer Ray Tanner, right? He was a few years ahead of your brother, Logan, in school. So, Ray found Dennis behind the wheel of his Fiesta under the influence of painkillers. Can you believe it? Poor Ray had no choice but to give him a DUI and revoke his license."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, Tabitha. Get to the damn point!" Mr. Jones is clearly losing his patience. I don't blame him. I'm almost right there with him.

  "I'm getting there, you impatient fool. Well, Dennis worked at your alma-mater, Aly." She points a finger at me. "But he didn't just work there. He was a history professor. That being said, Sandy Heights University is now in the market for a new one. And you'd be so perfect for it. I can get you an interview tomorrow with just one phone call. So, what do you say?"

  Knowing Ms. Abney as well as I do, or did, I bet anything that this is some kind of trap. Or one of her schemes. I just don't see what's in it for her yet. On the other hand, I could really use a job, all recent events considered.

  Hesitantly, I decide to jump right into her trap with both eyes open. "Alright, make the call."

  "Splendid! He's gonna be so happy to see you."

  I arch my brow skeptically. "Who is?"

  "Why Dean Chambers, of course. He has been hopelessly scouting for people all week. And the semester starts on Monday." She was quick to answer, but that doesn't mean I believe that is whom she was referring to. "I will go back to my office and make the call right now. I'll meet you at Ring My Bell Bakery at six and catch you up. Toodles."

  With a finger-fluttering wave, Ms. Abney sways her way back down Sea Turtle Boulevard.

  Mr. Jones wraps his arms around me and gives me a tight squeeze. "Welcome back, Aly. I was hoping that when your brother and mother moved back here, that the rest of you Lances would follow suit. This community sure has missed y'all."

  "Thank you, Mr. Jones. But I'm not quite sure if this is a permanent move or not yet. It’s complicated, to say the least.”

  It saddens me to see the look of disappointment cross his face at my admission. "Well, it's nice to have you back. Even if it's for a little while."

  Chapter Four

  Darren

  A cold sensation presses against my hand, the frigid temperature sucking all the warmth from my body. I open my eyes to find Wyatt nudging his snout into my palm. At least that's better than how he woke me up yesterday when he hopped on my bed and breathed in my face. That's most definitely not the best start to any morning.

  Wyatt keeps pressing his nose against my palm as I slowly pull my arm back onto the bed. "Okay, I'm up. I'm up."

  Who needs an alarm clock when you have man's best friend?

  I tug the covers off to the side and swing my legs onto the hardwood floor of my bedroom. Wyatt starts to bark in excitement. He knows it's breakfast time. Unlike me, that's his favorite meal of the day. He starts jumping in the air but ceases when he sees me bring my finger to my lips.

  "Kelsie might still be sleeping, Wyatt." He nods in understanding. I've said it a billion times, but my dog is bloody brilliant. I swear he understands me better than I understand other people sometimes. Granted, I'm a foreigner in this country. I have an excuse. But technically, Huskies are from Russia. That makes him a foreigner too, I suppose…but let’s not go there.

  We slowly walk out of my bedroom and toward the kitchen. Wyatt waits patiently by his bowl on the floor as I make my way to the Keurig, also known as the Tea God. I start to brew a cup, letting the intoxicating aroma waft throughout the kitchen as I bend down to fill Wyatt's bowl.

  "Good morning." Her peppy voice shocks me, almost making me spill dog food all over the floor. Looks like Kelsie isn't asleep after all.

  I'm not going to lie; I'm still not used to having her around. She was living with her boyfriend just last week, but when they broke up, he kicked her out. Shortly after that, she came to me and vented her issues. Being the kind and considerate gentleman my mum raised me to be, I offered her a place to stay until she finds a place of her own.

  I first met Kelsie when I was out drinking with my mates. They tried their best to set me up with her, but I wasn't into it. Don't get me wrong; Kelsie is very attractive. With her long chestnut hair dyed purple at the tips, her mocha eyes, and her curvy-in-all-the-right-places figure, one could say she is a knockout. An eleven out of ten. But what can I say? She just doesn't do it for me. I've done the date an American thing before. It didn't end all too well for me.

  And now, being that she is a grad student I hired to be my teaching assistant, dating her would be even more of a headache than I thought it to be back then. Now, she is my right-hand woman. My second in command. The woman whom I would be lost without. Let's face it, without her, I wouldn't be able to do my job. She is essential to both my job…and me. Kelsie, with her spitfire personality, is an acquired taste, and I have grown to value our friendship.

  Not to mention, I don't dip my wick where I work. A motto I—and believe every gentleman should—live by. It prevents us from getting into unnecessary trouble. Essentially, that's all dicks are. Trouble. No exceptions.

  "Morning," I reply as I rake my hand through my messy hair. My voice is still groggy and scratchy from last night's sleep.

  I glance down to find Wyatt's blue eyes staring up at me, waiting for my permission to start eating. I swear this dog is too good to me.

  "Go ahead, mate." I nod my head in his direction. A few seconds later, Wyatt is diving into his bowl, snout first.

  "Thanks again for letting me stay here." My eyes give her a good once over. Kelsie really is a nice view to wake up to. Her hair is in a messy top-knot while she is dressed in yellow boy-shorts and a light blue tank. But like I said, she's just a friend and a coworker. And we will leave it at that.

  I rub the sleep from my eyes before I grab my mug, bring the rim to my lips, and take a much-needed swig. "Are you going to thank me every single day?"

  She shrugs. "Don't know. I guess I'll thank you until I don't feel the need to anymore."


  "When will that be?" I speak into my tea, the mug muffling my voice and hiding the smirk that tugs at the corner of my mouth.

  She quirks her brow.

  "Do you not like me thanking you?" she teases as she pets Wyatt's black and white coat. He wags his tail in excitement from the extra attention and probably her soft touch.

  "It has been three days, and you've already thanked me a gazillion times. That’s a tad excessive, don’t you think?”

  "Gazillion, huh? Nice word there, English professor."

  I shrug. "What can I say? I guess you Americans are rubbing off on me."

  I take a gulp of my tea, savoring the warm sensation that travels down my throat.

  She grins wickedly. "I can name a gazillion girls who want to rub off on you."

  I cough, nearly choking on my Yorkshire brew as the reality of her words resonates in my ears.

  "I'm sorry, what?"

  Kelsie rolls her eyes. "You cannot be serious. Are you really that oblivious to what everyone says on campus? Have you seen your Rate My Professor score? Your chili pepper is practically an erupting volcano."

  What the hell is she talking about? Apparently, I do a shitty job of trying to hide my bewilderment.

  "Oh, my God! You’re serious?" In a matter of seconds, Kelsie is shoving her phone in my face. "Read these."

  I scroll through the reviews on the phone screen.

  LadyBug76: Fair warning, Ladies, bring a change of panties to his class…you will need them. His accent is swoon-worthy.