by Tracy Brogan
Praise for Tracy Brogan
“Heart, humor and characters you’ll love—Tracy Brogan is the next great voice in contemporary romance.” —New York Times bestselling author Kristan Higgins
“Tracy Brogan is my go-to, laugh-out-loud remedy for a stressful day.” —Kieran Kramer, USA Today bestselling author of Sweet Talk Me
“With trademark humor, lovely, poignant touches, and a sexy-as-sin hero, The Best Medicine is Tracy Brogan at her finest. Charming, witty, and fun.” —Kimberly Kincaid, author of Turn Up the Heat (A Pine Mountain Novel)
“An upbeat, generous message about finding yourself, standing up for yourself, and living an authentic life . . . A sexy, slightly kooky romance that should please Bell Harbor fans.” —Kirkus Reviews on Love Me Sweet
“Witty one-liners and hilarious characters . . . Readers will love the heat between the leads and by the end they’ll be clamoring for more.” —RT Book Reviews on Love Me Sweet
Also by Tracy Brogan
Crazy Little Thing: A Bell Harbor Novel
The Best Medicine: A Bell Harbor Novel
Love Me Sweet: A Bell Harbor Novel
Highland Surrender
Hold on My Heart
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 © 2015 Tracy Brogan
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.
e-ISBN: 9781503948174
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
For Jane.
For the conversation, the coffee, and the commas.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
Chapter 1
“SO I SAID, ‘FINE, BLAKE, you just go to Hawaii without me then. Mele kalikimaka, mother fu—’”
“Shh! Geez, Kelsey! Watch your language. We are surrounded by little kids.”
My G-rated sister had cut me off mid-expletive, which was a good thing I guess, because we were, indeed, surrounded by little kids. Little, tiny kids wearing big winter coats, and hopefully noise-canceling earmuffs, since I may or may not have just spouted off several R-rated words to which their delicate ears should not be exposed. At least not until junior high.
It was the second Saturday of December, and like every other family in Bell Harbor, my sister Erin and I were smack-dab in the middle of Old Junior Hampton’s Christmas tree lot searching for a just-right evergreen. Snow fell in soft, gentle puffs, picture-postcard perfect, and tinny holiday tunes wafted through the air from a decrepit boom box, circa 1989. Standing under the amber glow of a wooden lamppost, even the air smelled like my childhood winters. Essence of blue spruce and white pine trees mingled with hot chocolate and warm cinnamon buns from Gloria’s Muffin Top Bakery right across the street. I could have been four years old again for all that hadn’t changed in this town. Normally I found the quaint sameness comforting, like snuggling up to an old teddy bear with its sweetly funky smell and mangy patches of missing fur, but tonight being in my old hometown seemed to annoy me. Then again, given my current circumstances, everything seemed to annoy me.
My boots crunched over the snow as I stepped closer to my sister and lowered my voice. “Pardon me, Scoldilocks, but I can’t help it. I should be lounging in a glorious tropical paradise right now, drinking fruity rum cocktails from a coconut. I should be wearing a polka-dot bikini, not a parka. I should be basking in the sun and drunk, not standing out here freezing to death. Blake and I planned that vacation for over a year, and it’s utterly craptastic of him to go without me.” My breath shot through the air like a plume of smoke from a rather agitated dragon. Which, except for the part about me not being a dragon, was pretty much how I felt.
Erin nodded absently as her mitten-clad hand brushed snow off of a branch. “Utterly craptastic. Grandma should have broken her hip at a more convenient time.”
The wind whipped my hair against my cheek as I frowned. “Erin, that’s not what I meant. You know I feel terrible for Grandma. I wouldn’t have left Blake at the airport and rushed all the way to Bell Harbor otherwise, but I still think he could’ve shown a little compassion and come with me instead of flying off to Maui to take our vacation without me. Goodness knows I’ve helped out his family enough times.” Granted I worked for his family, but nonetheless I’d gone above and beyond and around the block for the Haskells on more than one occasion. And for Blake, too.
My sister turned toward me. At thirty-four, she was five years older than me, but with her blond hair braided and tucked into the collar of her red wool coat, she looked all of seventeen. Still, I felt a lecture coming. She had that whole I’m the big sister vibe going on. “Kels, I agree that Blake should have changed his plans, but are you really that surprised? You’ve told me yourself, he’s not the most sensitive guy.”
No. He wasn’t.
Blake Haskell might be model sexy and MENSA smart, but he wasn’t overly adept at Basic Relationship Etiquette 101. He wasn’t the type to call when he promised, or to remember birthdays or anniversaries, or to pick me up after I’d had wisdom teeth removed. Learned that the hard way. And apparently he wasn’t the type to postpone a vacation just because his girlfriend’s grandmother had taken a tumble and landed in the hospital, either. All of this I knew, deep down, but I typically excused his behavior because he never meant to be thoughtless. He just . . . was.
At my nonresponse, Erin tilted her head with a half-supportive, half-patronizing nod, the one that happily married people love to bestow upon relationship-challenged single people because they secretly believe we’re all sad and stupid and want to be them. “Honey, maybe it’s time for an upgrade.”
I let that linger out there a moment, then adjusted my polka-dotted scarf just for something to do.
“Maybe,” I mumbled.
Probably.
Very probably.
Most definitely probably.
I couldn’t deny what she’d said. Over the last few months I’d begun to wonder if my relationship with Blake had passed its expiration date, like a gourmet cheese that’s been pushed to the back of the refrigerator. On the surface it might look okay, but it was starting to smell suspicious and probably wasn’t safe to eat. This latest incident was just another moldy spot, but I’d hoped a vacation might be just the thing to get us back to a better place. Maybe even take us to the next level? I mean, what woman doesn’t harbor a secret fantasy about a marriage proposal on the precipice of some active volcano? Or was that just me? Either way, since Blake had gone on our romantic vacation without me, a surprise engagement was clearly not happening.
Maybe it was time to face the Christmas music and admit my days with him were numbered. Like an Advent calendar, only without the mild anticipation and waxy chocolate. Truth be told, I had mixed emotions about the whole situation. I was not so much brokenhearted about Blake as I was frustrated that I’d missed out on my chance to visit Hawai
i—because at this point in my life, I needed a break from my soul-sucking job just as much as I needed a healthy relationship. And because breaking up with Blake was going to be complicated. We worked together. His office was right next to mine. And because Blake Haskell was also, kind of, sort of, my boss. It hadn’t started out that way, but his latest promotion had positioned him above me. In a manner of speaking. So ending things with him, if I decided that’s what my heart really wanted to do, was going to require some diplomacy.
Of course, I wasn’t ready to tell Erin any of this, because if I even hinted to her that I might become newly single, she’d have me fixed up with a friend of a friend of a friend before we’d even left the Christmas tree lot, and I was not about to spend the next three weeks trapped in my poor broken-hipped granny’s house while every Bell Harbor bumpkin just happened to stop by looking for a date. That’s how things worked around here. Word traveled fast, and it’s not that I was such an awesome catch, but winters in this town were frigid cold and the menfolk needed companionship.
“How much longer are you going to make me stand out here in this freezing weather anyway?” I asked. “All these trees look the same. Just pick one.”
Erin squinted at me. She knew I was trying to change the subject, but oddly enough, she let me. A Christmas miracle. “These trees are not all the same,” she said. “Artificial trees are all the same. Cold and plastic and awful, but these trees each have their own shape, their own personality, because they’re beautiful and alive.”
I rubbed my gloved hands together to create some warmth. “Uh, they were alive. Now they’re dying. They’re going to die a slow, agonizing death from dehydration inside a house with no sunlight while draped in gaudy tinsel. Then they’re going to be pitched out on the curb by people who no longer think they’re useful. What a waste. I hate waste. Honestly, Christmas must be an evergreen’s worst nightmare.”
“Oh, my gosh, Kelsey! Quit being so Grinchy. What is the matter with you?” Her blue eyes darted around the parking lot, as if someone might notice the neon Scrooge sign over my head.
I looked down at the snow. That was pretty Grinchy. With a side of Ebenezer. I guess my misery wanted company. “Sorry.”
“Okay, fine, but what’s with the attitude? I mean, I know you’re upset about Hawaii, but aren’t you contractually obligated to promote Christmas all year long?”
I was.
Yes. I was.
It was literally in my job description. As assistant buyer for the world’s second-largest Christmas store, my professional success hinged on my ability to sell Christmas to the masses. All. Year. Long. And I was good at my job. Thanks to people like me, trick-or-treaters barely had time to finish sorting through their candy before yuletide merchandise took over store shelves. We had left Thanksgiving in the dust. Christmas was big business, and Haskell’s Holiday Haven knew how to sell it. I knew how to sell it, too. Even if I didn’t love it. I could fake it. I’d been faking it for a while now. I was a Christmas pimp. A holiday ho. And the pressure of that was starting to take its toll.
“Obligated to promote it, yes. Obligated to enjoy it? No. Quite frankly, I am sick to death of Christmas. If I see another garland or candy cane or hear another rendition of ‘Jingle Bell Rock,’ I’m going to lose my flipping mind. That’s precisely why I needed this stupid vacation!” I flung out my arms in frustration, backhanding a poor, innocent bystander who just happened to be standing by. Innocently.
“Ow.”
I heard the rustle of his coat as I spun around to face the victim of my randomly doled out wrath and found a very broad, very solid victim. Irritation turned quickly to embarrassment. “Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry!”
His thick-gloved hand came up to rub the bicep I’d inadvertently whacked. My gaze traveled from that brown leather glove up to his face. It took a few seconds to make the journey because he was that tall. I noticed the width of those shoulders, the subtle cleft of the chin, and met with a pair of amused hazel eyes. My iBrain sorted through its mental contact list. Wait a minute. I’d seen those eyes before. That face, too, minus the manly scruff. Hey! I’d actually kissed that face, once, during a game of spin the bottle when we were fourteen years old.
“Little Junior?”
A smile I’d seen nearly every day of high school spread across that face, accompanied by a deep, rumbly chuckle. “No one calls me that anymore.”
I could see why. This guy was not little. But Little Junior Hampton was called Little Junior Hampton because his father was Big Junior Hampton, and his grandfather was Old Junior Hampton. The same Old Junior Hampton who owned this parking lot and the tiny hardware store next to it. But wow. Little Junior was all grown up. And then some. I pulled my scarf away from my face a bit. “It’s me. Kelsey Parker. Remember me?”
His smile widened. “Of course I remember. Wow. Great to see you.” We hugged awkwardly, weighted down with heavy coats and a handful of memories.
Little Junior Hampton was the guy from high school who every girl was friends with but few ever dated. He’d been cute enough, if a little on the scrawny side back then. But mostly he was too shy. Too polite. Too apt to get them home by curfew. No high school girl wanted to go out with a guy her parents would approve of.
“You remember my sister, Erin?” I said, stepping back and feeling ever so slightly dizzy. His transformation was taking some time to process.
“Erin, sure.” Little Junior glanced her way with a fast nod but his bright eyes were quickly back to mine. “Wow, Kelsey. How long has it been?”
I hesitated to calculate, not wanting to acknowledge how many years had passed since we’d both left Bell Harbor and headed off to college. It’s not that I was old, per se, but I wasn’t so young anymore either. Thirty was taunting me from a few months away.
“A while. I think the last time I saw you was right before you left for Michigan State. How’ve you been?” It was a broad question. Too broad to answer while standing in the middle of a Christmas tree lot in ten-degree weather. Little Junior seemed to realize that, too, and gave a standard vague reply.
“Good. I’m good. You?”
“Good. Yeah, pretty good.” Not really, but I couldn’t come up with anything else after that because I was distracted by two things. One, how very big he’d gotten. And two, his hat. It was one of those furry hunter’s caps with earflaps. He had them pulled down on each side of his face. Justifiable, I guess, considering the very cold wind tonight, but then again . . . no. Not justifiable in any way. That was one goofy-looking hat.
“I’m good, too, Drew,” Erin said, taking a step closer. “Thanks for asking.”
Drew. Of course. His real name was Drew. Drew Hampton. But in my mind, he was still Little Junior.
“Glad to hear that, Erin. And how’s your grandma? Dody Baker told me a poltergeist knocked her off the front porch.” He crooked an eyebrow, clearly dubious.
Kooky old Dody Baker was Bell Harbor’s very own TMZ. She was fast with the news but rarely had the details right.
I pulled my scarf tight again. “I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of the poltergeist, but my guess is she slipped on icy steps. She had her hip replaced yesterday and she’s already back to ordering everyone around. In fact, she sent us here to get a tree for her house so it’s there when she gets home from the hospital.”
“A tree, huh? I can help with that. I just unloaded a few from the truck that looked pretty good. Come on over this way.” He gestured with his arm, indicating we should follow.
“You work here?” Well, I guess you can send a boy to college, but apparently he’ll end up right back in Bell Harbor working at the hardware store.
“Just lending a hand. It’s my grandfather’s place, remember?” He turned and walked toward a cluster of trees, and I took a moment to notice that in spite of the Elmer Fudd hat, he really had filled out nicely. Those were some broad shoulders under that navy-blue coat. And kind of a nice ass, too. Erin fell into step beside me to also
admire the view. She might be a married mother of three, but she was still a connoisseur of fine rumpage.
“So are you in town for a while then, Kelsey? Visiting your parents?” he asked, looking back over one of those broad shoulders.
I felt my cheeks heat up as he caught me staring at his butt. Polite as ever, he pretended not to notice.
“My parents are on an African safari of all things, and I’m actually supposed to be in Hawaii, but my plans changed when the poltergeist showed up.”
He shook his head. “I hate it when that happens.”
“Yeah, me, too. I was at the airport when I got the call about Grandma. I couldn’t very well leave town without making sure she was okay, especially with my folks gone, so it looks like I’m using my vacation time to help take care of her. Not that she’ll let me.”
My grandma, Anita Parker, was a scrappy old bird, tough as jerky and almost as salty. She had a wicked sense of humor, made a killer Manhattan, and still loved to chop all her own firewood. In fact, if they made a bumper sticker that said “My grandma could kick your grandma’s ass,” I would have to put one on my car.
Drew stopped next to a cluster of spruce trees. “Well, if you get bored during your stay, give me a call. I’ll bring my grandfather over to keep your grandmother company, and you and I can do some catching up ourselves.” His voice had an optimistic lilt to it, as if he really meant that, and I wondered if the frigid air was doing something to my brain—because it actually sounded kind of fun. My mood lightened considerably at the thought of the two of us chaperoning a couple of old geezers while we reminisced about how I had tutored him in biology all through our sophomore year of high school, or maybe even talk about that ill-fated kiss at fourteen. Yes, that could be fun. Reminiscing was fun.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.
“Great,” he answered. “In the meantime, let me know if one of these trees looks good and I’ll help you load it on the car.”