by Anne Harper
Table of Contents
Dedication
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
Epilogue
Preview of Like a Boss
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more Amara titles… Back in the Burbs
Rachel, Out of Office
Matzah Ball Surprise
Awk-Weird
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Tyler Collins. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Preview of Like a Boss © 2021 by Tyler Collins
Entangled Publishing, LLC
10940 S Parker Rd
Suite 327
Parker, CO 80134
[email protected]
Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Stacy Abrams
Cover design by Bree Archer
Cover illustration by Elizabeth Turner Stokes
ISBN 978-1-68281-538-0
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition April 2020
Dear Reader,
Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.
xoxo
Liz Pelletier, Publisher
This book, and every new book until forever, is for Rachel M. Thank you for being the best friend, support system, and reader I’ve ever had the incredibly good fortune to know. Sloane exists in part because of the safe and creative space you continue to make for me every time we talk. #FireAtWill
This series is also for the most epic and patient of beta readers, Chelsea M. and Shelby A. Without you two, this book would still be half written with me sobbing softly in the background. Thank you for reading every single awkward moment.
Chapter One
“I’m going to have to move to Antarctica.”
Sloane De Carlo was staring at her computer screen, trying to run the numbers on how fast she could buy a plane ticket, pack a bag, and disappear into the icy tundra.
“It’s not that bad.”
Emma Castings was lying. Just sitting there staring at her computer screen and L-Y-I-N-G. If she hadn’t been Sloane’s best friend for most of her twenty-six years of life, Sloane might have thrown something at her. Instead, she used her words.
“It’s not that good, either. You did read that, right? You do understand the situation? The reason why I should invest in several parkas and get the hell out of Dodge?”
Emma was a cool, cool customer. In fifth grade, she’d pierced her own ears in front of Sloane like a practiced surgeon, not a prepubescent kid trying not to throw up at the sight of blood. Sloane, on the other hand, had thrown up the moment she pressed her mom’s chenille sewing needle to her skin and a bubble of blood had come up. But Emma was like that. Levelheaded with not-moving-to-Antarctica sensibilities.
Even now, faced with a situation neither of them had ever dreamed about, with Sloane trying not to throw up for different reasons, Emma was acting like the world wasn’t ending.
The audacity.
“Your super-secret, highly personal blog went viral after you drunkenly decided to make it public, and now everyone wants to talk to you about it,” Emma stated. “That’s the long and short of it.”
“The long and short of it?” Sloane shrieked. “Emma. I need you to hear what I’m about to say. To really hear it. To feel it. Okay?”
Her steel-gray gaze swept over to what Sloane could only assume was her own very frantic dark one.
“The stupid little blog I’ve been using as a journal since I was seventeen is trending, and not even for the really embarrassing and awkward posts about losing my virginity or the time I had to sneak out of my date’s bathroom because I clogged his toilet with stress poops.” Sloane put her hands down on the desktop and looked pointedly at the monitor. “No, everyone is focusing on one thing. One thing I never, ever, ever wanted to talk about. Not even with you or Callum.”
She closed her eyes and sighed, feeling the defeat deflate her shoulders.
“They want to know who ‘Guy’ is and why I was too chickenshit to ever tell him I was in love with him.”
Saying it out loud again made Sloane’s panic grow in strength. She withered down all the way to the floor. Who cared that it was the floor of a kindergarten classroom? Who cared that it probably housed every kind of germ known to man? Who cared that Sloane looked like a fellow little kid after a tantrum who had used up all her energy reserves?
Sloane didn’t.
Not right now.
Maybe not ever again.
The sound of squeaking wheels preceded the soft slap of sandals. Sloane opened her eyes. Emma was staring down at her. She had the decency to at least look concerned.
“Okay, putting aside a few facts—like how you were the one, drunk or not, who had the bad sense to change the settings from private to definitely not private—I have to point out a few things you’re taking for granted.” She listed each point off on her fingers, some of which were covered in paint and glitter. Even when Emma wasn’t prepping for the annual Sailors and Mermaids Festival, she always seemed to be covered in the stuff. A hazard from being surrounded by tiny humans all day, no doubt.
“One, most people nowadays do tons of out-there stuff just for the chance to have something of theirs go viral,” she started. “All you had to do was drink way too much rosé, change a setting, and go to sleep.”
Sloane cringed at the mention of rosé. She’d been betrayed by something she loved, and it still hurt.
“Two, not only is it trending, but it’s trending for good reasons. The internet sees your awkward, hot-mess life and has deemed it relatable and charming. They like you, see themselves in you, and want more. Which brings me to numero tres.”
Emma motioned to the monitor and the email Sloane had pulled up on its screen. The same email that had pulled her from sulking on her brother’s couch all the way to Arbor Bay Academy. She’d only been lucky that the timing had worked out and the kids had already left for the day.
Not that it would have mattered. Sloane was so stressed, she would have included everyone, students and teacher alike, in her freak-out.
“It isn’t just soccer moms on their phones or teens glued to the screens who want more. You have a legitimate literary agent who thinks she can turn The Girl Who Said Nothing into a book. A book. I mea
n, I can’t even fathom that. That’s big news, Sloane.”
“But there’s a catch.”
Emma nodded, three fingers still in the air.
“Yes. For the chance at a new, exciting life as an author, there’s a small catch. You have to get closure.” She put up one more finger, but her expression softened. “Finally tell Guy you used to be in love with him but didn’t have the nerve to admit it. Then? Move on. Right into a book deal.”
“You’re glossing over the part where I’m supposed to do that and then write about it.”
“That agent chick just wants you to finish the story. She wants you to give your audience and potential future readers closure. I get that.” Emma shrugged. “Sure, maybe it’ll be a little embarrassing, but it could also be therapeutic.”
Sloane threw her arm over her eyes, Scarlett O’Hara–style, and groaned.
“You just want me to take the agent’s deal so you can find out who he is!”
Emma didn’t deny it. “I do think it kind of stinks that you know all my secrets but, for whatever reason, refuse to tell me who he is. I mean, I didn’t even know you thought you had a soul mate until I read the blog like everyone else.”
Sloane groaned. Again.
She hadn’t forgotten the one post where she wondered if Guy was her soul mate, but she sure was hoping everyone else would.
“All I’m saying is that if someone offered me an exciting chance like this to change my life, I’d at least think about it,” Emma added.
“But I like my life.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice to give yourself more options, though? I mean, honestly, you work how many jobs for a small apartment hours away from me, your best friend?”
Sloane shook her head, even though she knew Emma couldn’t see it.
“You leave my jobs out of this,” she defended with another sigh. Sure, Emma wasn’t wrong. Sloane did bounce between several jobs within the event-planning world in Nashville. She’d been a florist’s assistant the longest but worked part-time for a catering company and doing the odd job for several venues when the occasion arose. It wasn’t traditional by any means, but Sloane loved being a part of it all.
“You know I’ve been working for years to build up the resources and connections to start my own event-planning business. Not to mention Mrs. Baker offered me co-owner status at the florist shop; all I need to do is come up with the cash. I’m not about to throw either dream away—viral blog or no viral blog. So come off it and commiserate with me in my embarrassment like a true best friend.”
She heard Emma sigh.
A small silence filled the classroom. Both women were in uncharted territory because of the situation. The silence slowly gave way to the outside world of Arbor Bay, Alabama. It didn’t matter how long Sloane was away from the small town—its sounds never really changed. A loop of the same old, same old. Sometimes it was sleepy. Sometimes it was loud. All times it was familiar.
Even now, she felt like she’d never been anywhere else, never mind the fact that she’d been living in Nashville. Construction on the academy’s float for the festival kickoff in two weeks already had various poundings and yelling coming from volunteers and staff who’d been roped in. A car horn blared somewhere down the block. Sprinklers were chh-chhing across the street.
The same street that, if followed without taking any turns, eventually led to the edge of town. And right to the Robertson estate.
Where it all had started.
Where Sloane had fallen in love and then been foolish enough to talk about it on the internet.
What were you thinking?
Finally, Emma spoke. Her earlier concern had transformed into a maternal voice that zipped urgency down Sloane’s spine.
“Sloane De Carlo, you get off the floor right now. You’re done with this self-pitying crap. Get up now.”
Sloane uncovered her eyes to see a wall of red hair hanging over her face. Emma’s expression was as severe as her tone. Begrudgingly, she let Emma help her up, but her tone only marginally softened again when she was standing straight.
Emma patted Sloane’s shoulder. “You’ve been given an opportunity some only can dream about. Sure, you didn’t ask for it, and it comes at a cost to your pride, but think of the upside. You’ve spent years writing in secret, and now you might be able to make a living at it—and use it to help you fund your future business. All you have to do is finally be the girl who says something, and then you can move on. So stop spiraling and start figuring out what to do next. Capisce?”
Sloane sighed this time, giving her groans a rest.
“Capisce.”
But then her phone started ringing.
It hadn’t gotten this much action in years. Caller ID read Unknown. Since the blog had gone viral a week ago, she’d been getting all kinds of calls, texts, messages, and emails. Strangers, friends—her dentist’s cousin’s sister. Everyone wanted to talk, while all Sloane wanted to do was throw the phone, her laptop, and the internet as a whole into the bay for a while.
“I take back my capisce, Emma,” she hurried. “I take back my capisce!”
Emma laughed. Then she was pushing Sloane to the door.
“Hoping your problems will go away doesn’t actually make them go away.”
“You sound like a cheesy fortune cookie.”
Emma continued laughing. “Well, handle your shit doesn’t have as cute of a ring to it, does it?”
Sloane didn’t answer. Instead she was pushed out into the hall that smelled vaguely like Lysol wipes.
“And, Sloane.” Emma had switched back to that maternal tone. “You’re in town for a few weeks, right? Go do something other than sulk at the old homestead. Catch a movie or go to the park. Get some vitamin D. Okay?”
“All right, mother dearest.”
Emma smirked and then shut the door between them.
“No sulking at home?” Sloane muttered to herself like the fool she had decided she was becoming. “Guess I have no choice but to change venue.”
Since Sloane had been back in her hometown of Arbor Bay, she’d been playing hide-and-seek with three people. They just didn’t know it.
The first was her brother, Callum. He was, as he’d always been, a good big brother. Which meant he was, as he’d always been, a pain in her backside. That pain only became more pronounced when, like Emma, he let it be known that he was offended that Sloane wouldn’t tell him who Guy was…or that she’d fallen in love with him in high school. Since they were under the same roof again, their close proximity was only making her already-fried nerves extra crispy. If he wasn’t annoying her for details, he was huffing around the house because he didn’t have them. That huffing would only get worse when he realized she’d told Emma about the literary agent before him.
Secondly, there was Carol Robertson. A classic name for a classic bitch. She was that stereotypical popular girl in every TV show or movie in which they were the devil incarnate. Former prom queen who had cocooned and then emerged as the town’s newest, most beautiful queen-bee-butterfly thing. Even her appearance fit the stereotype. Beautiful golden hair, crystal blue eyes, not an ounce of fat where it wasn’t supposed to be, and from a rich family who owned and ran the town. Her ego had been as big as the egregious amount of money the Robertsons had had in high school, and, from what Sloane had seen on Facebook and heard through Callum, that ego had aged like a fine, very expensive wine.
And if the world wasn’t revolving around Carol? Boy howdy, she was sure going to find the person it had replaced her with…then destroy them with a smile as sweet as the tea Mrs. Bellview at the café brewed.
Which made the need to hide from the third—extremely oblivious—person even more important.
Sloane walked into Cassidy’s Place, Arbor Bay’s only bar, wearing an outfit she hoped was inconspicuous, and was relieved to not see any of the t
hree. She pulled her ball cap down tighter on her dark braid and went to the barstool farthest from the door.
It was a Wednesday night, and only a handful of patrons dotted the tables and booths around the room. Sloane hadn’t been to Cassidy’s Place since the year before, when she’d visited Callum for Christmas. Like her childhood home, where he now lived, it was a small comfort to see not much had changed.
A chandelier of antlers hung down in the middle of the room like some weird, ritualistic scene out of an eighties horror flick, and the walls were covered in enough wood and wooden decorations that she’d made many a dirty joke about it through the years. The bar was less intense and stretched along one side of the room, while the door that led to the outdoor patio was opposite.
There were only ever two bartenders at Cassidy’s, and both were related to the man who had built it fifty years ago. Sloane recognized the one behind the bar now but couldn’t place his name. Arbor Bay was a small, small town, but there was still room for a few people to not be familiar with the others.
Sloane was happy for that fact as the man with the nametag Dixon took her order. It was a joy that continued as she played a puzzle game on her phone and drank her first drink. She was still riding that happy high when she finished that drink and asked for another. Rosé might have done her wrong, but Cassidy’s Place had always been good at making a you’ll-feel-good-but-not-get-a-hangover mixed drink. Unless you had one too many. Which she wasn’t planning on, considering that the last time she’d gotten drunk, she’d managed to release every secret she had to the internet.
Minus one.
This time, Dixon was slower to make her drink. He was distracted by his phone before being distracted by a new wave of patrons who came in. She was curious for the briefest of moments by a slightly panicked look that crossed the man’s face, but then she locked that shit down quick.
Everyone else’s business? None of hers.
But then the door that was between the bar and the kitchen opened, and a man appeared out of it. There was a nametag on his button-up that read Brady and, unlike his fellow bartender, Sloane was faster to recognize him.