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  PRAISE FOR ADRIANA LOCKE

  “Adriana Locke creates magic with unforgettable romances and captivating characters. She’s a go-to author if I want to escape into a great read.”

  —New York Times bestselling author S.L. Scott

  “Adriana Locke writes the most delicious heroes and sassy heroines who bring them to their knees. Her books are funny, raw, and heartfelt. She also has a great smile, but that’s beside the point.”

  —USA Today bestselling author L.J. Shen

  “No one does blue collar, small town, “everyman” (and woman!) romance like Adriana Locke. She masterfully creates truly epic love stories for characters who could be your neighbor, your best friend—you! Each one is more addictive and heart-stoppingly romantic than the last.”

  —Bestselling author Kennedy Ryan

  “Adriana’s sharp prose, witty dialogue, and flawless blend of humor and steam meld together to create unputdownable, up-all-night reads!”

  —Wall Street Journal bestselling author Winter Renshaw

  OTHER TITLES BY ADRIANA LOCKE

  The Exception Series

  The Exception

  The Connection: An Exception Novella

  The Perception

  The Exception Series Box Set

  Landry Family Series

  Sway

  Swing

  Switch

  Swear

  Swink

  Sweet

  The Landry Family Series: Part One

  The Landry Family Series: Part Two

  The Gibson Boys Series

  Crank

  Craft

  Cross (a novella)

  Crave

  Crazy

  Dogwood Lane Series

  Tumble

  Stand-Alone Novels

  Sacrifice

  Wherever It Leads

  Written in the Scars

  Battle of the Sexes

  Lucky Number Eleven

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Umbrella Publishing Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503905146

  ISBN-10: 1503905144

  Cover design by Tammy Seidick

  Cover photography by Wander Aguiar

  To Saul.

  We will always find one another.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  NEELY

  You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  I hit the brakes, and my little rental car, not much bigger than a cracker box, rolls to a complete stop. The hound dog lying in the middle of the road, right where the yellow stripes would be if this were a town with more than a thousand people, lifts his head. I tap the horn. He lays his head back down and yawns.

  “Hang on, Grace.” I sigh, pulling the phone away from my ear. Wincing as the window slides down and the sun washes across my face, I wonder vaguely when I last saw a morning this bright. The sun doesn’t do this in New York City.

  My head pokes out the window. “Come on, Blue. Move it!”

  He doesn’t. He doesn’t even bother to blink.

  “Who’s Blue?” Grace asks. “Like the color blue?”

  “He’s a dog.”

  “I thought you were in the car?”

  “I am,” I grumble. “Blue, come on, boy. Get out of the way. Please?”

  “Why are you negotiating with a dog?”

  Ignoring her, I watch Blue lazily yawn again and then close his eyes without a second thought to my request. His fur is sprinkled with gray, his eyes droopier than when we used to load him up in the back of a pickup truck and cruise town with him all weekend. It’s kind of sad.

  “Fine,” I tell him, frowning. “Have it your way.”

  Piloting the car in a wide berth around his body, I forge ahead.

  “I can’t believe you just had a conversation with a dog,” Grace says. “You’ve been in Tennessee for, what, twelve hours, and you’re already losing your mind.”

  “How sweet of you to insinuate I still have a mind.”

  A long pause stretches between us as I heed a stop sign.

  When Grace dropped me off at the airport last night to catch the red-eye back to Tennessee, I stained her new cream blazer with my mascara-laced tears. It was the first time she’d seen me cry in the handful of years we’ve been friends. Crying is not something I do well. Years of gymnastics competitions broke me of shedding tears easily.

  “I know you still have a mind,” Grace scoffs. “And I know you’re okay, even if you don’t, because you’re one of the strongest women I know. But I will admit, your tears last night kind of screwed me up.”

  “Oh, sure. Make this totally about you.” I shake my head, wishing we were having this discussion over coffee instead.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It was more of an angry cry than anything.” Flipping the visor down with a little more force than necessary, I accelerate through the intersection. “The tears are over.”

  “They don’t have to be over, and you’re allowed to be pissed. Just promise me you’re okay.”

  I consider this. It would be so easy to not be okay right now. I’m unemployed. My New York City rent is awful, and I quit my job without thinking it through and don’t even have a backup plan.

  And I’m here. The one place I’ve avoided in every single way since the day I left.

  As the pine trees roll by, there’s no sourness in my stomach at being back in Dogwood Lane. There’s no regret at buying the plane ticket last night and jumping on a plane to come home without telling my mother until I landed. I expected at least a little of each. It’s confusing.

  “I’m not okay by any means, but I’m better this morning.” I shrug, trying to find a way to rationalize it. “You know what they say—sunshine brings opportunities.”

  “Um, no one says that.”

  “They should.”

  “If the southern sunshine cures problems that fast, I’m on my way.”

  I slow to make a turn. “My problems aren’t cured, but there is something about the air down here. It just purifies the so
ul or something.”

  She laughs. “I’ll take credit for your purification since you going home was my idea. That’s me—the one with good ideas.”

  “Hardly. The last advice I took from you got me a warning from security at a very expensive hotel downtown.”

  “You should listen to me more. I guarantee you’d have more smiles, sunshine, and, quite possibly, a lot more sex. Great sex.”

  “God knows I need more of all three of those. But I didn’t have time for that stuff before I decided to storm into my boss’s office and quit like some silver-spoon princess who doesn’t need money. I definitely don’t have time for it now.”

  “You have time for what you make time for. We have to remember there are twenty-four hours in a day, and if we’re going to be boss women in New York, we have to use all twenty-four.”

  Just hearing that feels like a weight squats on my shoulders. “I know. You’re right. I should give up the four hours of sleep I get at night and get a social calendar instead.” I fake cry at the idea. “I see now why some women are gold diggers. If I would’ve dated the stockbroker from the deli, I wouldn’t have this worry.”

  “No. No stockbrokers.” The line muffles. “Hang on for a sec, Neely.”

  Her voice mixes with another, getting louder and then softer before she returns. “Sorry. They’re trying to not run my article on women’s tennis, and I’m digging in my heels. It’s the best thing I’ve ever written.”

  The line muffles again, and my mind wanders to the last piece I wrote for the sports magazine I work—worked—for. It followed a collegiate soccer player who came from nothing and won the starting goalie position at an elite school. A tale of hard work and overcoming obstacles, it was the type of story my soul craves.

  It’s the kind of article I became a sports journalist to write.

  It would’ve been the perfect story to kick off the new division at the magazine.

  Forcing a swallow in an attempt to quell the bitter taste in my mouth, I flip my attention back to my friend.

  “You still here?” Grace asks.

  “Yup.”

  “Okay. Had to do a little ‘my balls are bigger than yours’ show to the boys. You know how it goes.” She sighs. “I love when they think they can make decisions and not include me. Imbeciles.”

  That hits home a little too hard. I force another swallow. “Totally.”

  Grace must hear the slight wobble in my voice, because her tone lowers. “You know what? I’m gonna steer this conversation in another direction.”

  “It’s fine,” I promise. “You’re allowed to talk about your job.”

  She ignores me. “I’m stuck at work dreaming about a vacation and dealing with office politics. You, my friend, are free. You should totally live it up for a few days.”

  “Livin’ it up in good ole Dogwood Lane,” I say with a laugh. A little yellow-painted building with a patched roof passes on my right. “Maybe I’ll pull into the Bait Shop over there and count the worms.”

  “Worms? Gross. But on the bright side, I bet there are cute country boys in there, probably even in flannel.”

  “Flannel?” I laugh. “That’s random.”

  “Yes, flannel. Your job is to find a hot country boy in flannel and roll around in some hay. Drink some lemonade in mason jars. Ride around in old pickup trucks. Do whatever it is you do down there and forget life for a couple of days. I’ll be working some angles around here.”

  My spirits slip, just like the sun slips behind the clouds. My life in New York City was anchored by my position at the magazine. My entire routine was centered around my job. The stories. The people.

  The magnitude of the situation, of starting over from scratch, combats the feel-good energy from the pine-scented air. I cringe. “Remind me again I didn’t just screw up my life.”

  “Stop that,” Grace warns. “You didn’t screw up anything, and this will all work out for the best. I know it.”

  “I hope so, but, man, now that the adrenaline has worn off . . .” I try to laugh, to play it off as a joke, but no sound comes out.

  “Look, I have friends in high places. Getting you a job will be as hard as the musician I slept with last night. And trust me, that’s a good thing for you.”

  “I gather he wasn’t amazing since you’re calling him by his job instead of by his name.”

  “He told me it was Gabriel. But since I told him mine was Lydia, who knows if that’s true. But now you’re distracting me.” She shouts at someone before coming back to the phone. “I have a list of people I’m going to call this week to see if anyone is looking for a brilliant sports journalist.”

  My fingers grip the steering wheel. Grace is a bloodhound: once she sets her sights on something, there’s no turning back. We met a few years ago at a conference and realized we lived the New York equivalent of “right around the corner” from one another. We bonded over cereal from the box, afternoon movies, and ballpark hot dogs. Grace decided we were friends, and that was that. I love her for it.

  “I know you want to help,” I tell her. “But I’ll find something. I already sent my résumé out this morning to a couple of places. I got this.”

  “Okay, but I can’t be blamed if something just falls in my lap while you’re on vacation.”

  “I wouldn’t call this a vacation,” I note. “More like a chance to see my mama.”

  “Well, I still think you should make the best of it. Just don’t fall back in love with your hometown too much, because you aren’t leaving me.”

  I drive through the center of town and take in the quaint buildings and the kids riding bicycles on the sidewalks. There are no drive-through coffee shops, no chain restaurants. The closest dry cleaner is two towns over, and if you want more than the cheap toilet paper, you’re out of luck. Nothing has changed in the decade I’ve been gone. Not physically, anyway. My stomach bottoms out as I think about the people and the things I’ve avoided all my adult life. My spirits sink as I consider the topics I’ve forbidden my mom from even mentioning over the years.

  Shoving them out of my mind, I sigh. “Trust me. I won’t fall in love with this place. I’ll be home before you know it.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with Dogwood Lane, Tennessee?” she asks in her best southern voice.

  “Your New Yorker attempt at a southern drawl is pathetic.”

  “I’ll work on it. Now, tell me what you see. Paint me a picture of whatever you’re looking at. Bonus if it includes flannel.”

  I take in the first building on my right. “The post office was built a hundred years ago and has needed a new coat of paint for at least the last twenty years.” I flip my turn signal on. “Across the street is a church with musket balls from the Civil War lodged in the steeple.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I’m afraid not,” I tell her. “The whiskey barrels lining the main drag are filled with pansies because the first year they planted those, the high school football team made it to the state finals. That never made sense to me because they lost, but apparently that’s close enough and no one wants to rock the boat. Superstitions and all.”

  Grace goes into a monologue just to hear her newfound accent while I watch Dogwood Lane roll by. Styrofoam cups spell out GOOD LUCK to the softball team in the chain-link fence surrounding the high school.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’m now stopping at the Dogwood Café, the only place in town where you can get a cup of coffee besides the gas station, because even I am not that desperate.”

  “Doesn’t your mom have a Keurig?”

  “My mom started drinking decaf.” I pucker, flipping off the ignition. “It’s like I don’t even know her.”

  “Ew. Okay. Call me later.”

  “Bye, friend.”

  My blonde hair is piled on top of my head, my face free of makeup save for a dash of mascara, as I make my way toward the front door of the café. I step up on the patio and nearly get run into.

  “Whoa,” I say, scooting o
ut of the way as a little girl finishes her gymnastics trick. “That’s pretty good.”

  She turns to look at me, her strawberry-blonde hair and spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose reminding me of a younger version of myself. A grin splits her cheeks.

  “That’s all I’m allowed to do out here,” she says, straightening her lavender shirt with AERIAL’S emblazoned across the front in gold lettering. “My nanny says I’ll bust my head open and she’ll have to take me for stitches. Have you ever had stitches?”

  “No,” I say, laughing at the way her little nose crinkles like a bunny’s. “Have you?”

  “Once. I fell off the trampoline and busted the side of my leg wide open. You could see my bones,” she says, her voice growing conspiratorial. “It was so gross.”

  “That is gross.”

  She watches me, her bright-blue eyes sparkling. There’s an ease about her that draws me in. It’s a charm, a charismatic element I’ve felt in only a handful of people over my entire life. Most people don’t have it, but she does in spades.

  With a shrug, she flips a lock of hair off her shoulder. “Got lots of ice cream for dinner, though, so it wasn’t totally a bad thing.”

  “Ice cream cures everything.”

  “Yup. My leg is stronger than ever. I’m almost ready to get my back tuck with no help.”

  Now she’s speaking my language.

  I grin. “That’s awesome. I didn’t get mine forever. I think I was almost twelve.”

  “Well, I’m almost ten. You weren’t that far behind me. But I have been doing this since I was three.”

  Stifling a giggle, I nod. “Do you take classes at Aerial’s?”

  “Yup. The Summer Show is coming up. It’s going to be amazing. Miss Aerial says it’s the best one ever!”

  The pride in her little singsong voice hits my heart. The Summer Show is the biggest thing this town has to offer. It started off when I was a little girl as a dance recital. It now encompasses an entire weekend with gymnastics displays, dance-offs, and a parade. People come from all over to support the children’s charities Aerial’s sponsors. It’s the highlight of the entire town’s year.

  “You should come,” she insists.

  “I’ll try.”

  The café door opens, and a woman with long black hair and glossy lips smiles and steps onto the patio. “You ready, rascal?” She turns and sees me standing next to the windows. “Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there.”