I adore the old authentic feeling of this town. Here on Main Street, the road is still made of cobblestone. Each storefront is warm and inviting with handwritten signs displayed in the windows and welcome mats marking each entrance. It’s so Americana and quaint, I want to send pics of this to my sister just to show her I’m not exaggerating. I spot a couple of bars, a women’s clothing store, and a bakery on my drive in and vow to check those out as well.
My first stop is at Grace Garage. I grew up in my dad’s shop, so I can build and repair engines with the best of them. From the time I was able to walk, I was passing him tools and learning everything I could. When I enter the place, a feeling of nostalgia washes over me. The familiar smells take me back to sitting on my father’s lap, covered in grease as we rebuilt the carburetor for his ‘56 Chevy Bel Air.
The guy at the counter has the standard mechanic coveralls on, his name stitched onto the pocket. He’s got a baseball cap on his head and his feet propped up on the desk in front of him.
“Hi, Chance,” I say with a smile. “I was wondering if you’re hiring right now?”
Chance drops his feet to the floor and tents his fingers together, resting his chin on top. “Well, we don’t really warrant enough business to hire a receptionist, and my nephew cleans the place once a week.”
I want to roll my eyes, but I refrain. Been dealing with this as long as I can remember. “I meant for a mechanic.”
His eyebrows shoot up toward the bill of his hat and he grins. “You?”
“Yes, me.”
“What are your qualifications?” he asks. I want to wipe that smug smile off his face with the grease rag hanging out of his pocket.
“Well, I did not go to school for it, if that’s what you’re asking. But I did an apprenticeship under my dad in his garage for ten years. I started with the easy stuff and moved my way up to rebuilding entire engines. While I specialize in vintage cars, I have certifications from the National Institute for Automotive Service Excellence in transmissions, brakes, and electrical systems.”
Chance’s grin falls and he picks up a tool from the drawer next to him. “What’s this?” he asks.
“Oh, a test. Goody,” I mumble to myself. “A fine-tooth 5-degree ratchet with recessed quick-release and reversing mechanisms.”
He laughs, looks at the tool, and back to me. “Wrench would have been fine.” I cross my arms now and cock one eyebrow. “Look, I’m sure you know what you’re doing, but we’re not hiring right now anyway.”
“Thanks for your time,” I say, turning on my heel and heading out onto the sidewalk. I try to shake free of the annoyance from being dismissed so easily just because I’m female, but it sits heavy on my shoulders. Taking a few deep breaths, I let the wind whip around me and take those negative feelings away. I need to put my game face on if I’m going to land a job in this town.
I stop at the pharmacy, the grocery, the hardware store, and even a dry cleaner. Each time, I put on my best smile and ask if they need any help. Everyone is friendly, but a little leary of a stranger. I imagine most of the management, owners, and employees have known each other their whole lives. I fill out applications and leave them with the promise that they’ll call if they find themselves in need. Each time, I know they won’t call.
At the diner, I grab a cup of coffee and with no experience, they’re not even willing to let me clear dishes. The owner is a harsh looking old man with a permanent scowl painted on his wrinkled face who only shakes his head when I ask about a job. I leave there with my hot coffee mumbling how he probably hasn’t gotten laid in the last twenty years.
Crossing the street—at the one traffic light in town—I head into Grace Books. After a half dozen rejections, this is a sweet spot on my tour of downtown. I swear I hear an angel choir singing hallelujah when I enter the doors. I practically skip my way to the first display of books and wrap my arms around it, like hugging an old friend. Humming in delight at the smell of books, I lay my head on the top shelf.
“Uh, can I help you with something?” a nasally voice says from behind me.
I snap to attention and spin to find a young girl staring at me. She pops her gum and twists a lock of jet black hair around her finger. Her name tag is upside down, not mistakenly, but in an ironic way. It reads Jude.
“Hey, Jude!” I say, a little too excitedly. “Take a sad song and make it better,” I sing.
She stares at me, unimpressed, blinking her dark eyes. “Yeah, I’ve never heard that one before.”
My mouth pulls into a tight line and my fingers tap out a rhythm on my coffee cup. “Is the manager or owner around? I’m looking for a job.”
Jude lets out a laugh in one breath and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, she’s here.”
I wait for more information, but the girl just stands there eyeing me. “Can I speak with her?” I say slowly, like giving instructions to a toddler.
“She’s in a meeting, but if you wanna hang out, she should be done soon.” Jude turns and takes her place behind the front counter. She pulls out her cell phone and types away, probably posting about the annoying lady in square-butt-mom-jeans who came in today.
I casually browse the rows of books until I get to the romance section. There, in all its glory, is a huge display of all of Alaina Taylor’s novels. A hand-drawn sign hangs above that reads “Local Author,” and I almost pee myself in excitement.
Picking up a copy of Any Man of Mine—the first book I fell in love with—I fan through the pages and discover that the title page is autographed. I squeal, and press the book to my face to stop the ridiculous noise. While the thought of having an autographed copy is appealing, I don’t want some generic signature waiting for any person. I want a personalized signature, promising that we’ll be besties and get froyo together, and try out new pasta recipes while drinking bottles of wine and toasting fictitious men.
A door next to the display whips open and out steps a man I instantly recognize. Even though I’ve never gotten a very clear look at his face, I know it’s my neighbor. This man is stunning. His skin is a golden tan that seems odd in a place with such long winters. Brown hair frames his face, a day’s worth of scruff covering his jaw. Those blue eyes hold me in place as if I’m under a spell.
I realize the book is still pressed to my face. So I quickly pull it away and hide it behind my back. My mysterious neighbor, dressed in jeans, a nice button up shirt, with a blazer and scarf draped over his arm, raises his eyebrows.
“You going to buy that, or try to sneak out?” he mock whispers.
“I...what?” I stammer. “This?” I ask, holding up the book. “No, I already have a copy at home.” I place it back on the shelf as if it’s a ticking bomb and back away.
He gives me a grin and turns to go. My eyes stay glued to his fantastic ass until he rounds the corner and I regret nothing. Peeking over the shelves, I notice Jude abandon her phone and watch as he slips into his coat and scarf before heading out.
“I love to watch him go,” a voice says from beside me.
My shoulders jump and I turn to find a lady with short, spiky red hair standing there eyeing me over her cateye glasses. She’s a tiny woman, only about five feet tall, but I can tell immediately that she’s spunky.
“So you like Alaina Taylor?” she says, gesturing to the display.
“She’s my favorite author, ever. I can’t get enough,” I admit.
“Well, you’re in the right town, then. I don’t recognize your face,” she says. “I’m terrible with names, but good with faces.”
“I just moved here. Are you the owner?”
“All of this is mine,” she says, swinging her arms wide. “I’m Rebecca Sellings, but everybody calls me Becca. My brother calls me Bacon, but he’s an asshole.”
I chuckle and hold out a hand. Becca seems like a name that suits a much younger woman, but somehow it fits her. “I’m Stella and I’m looking for a job.” Becca shakes it and motions me back through the door she and my neighbor came
out of.
“Take a seat, Stella.”
I sit in a large overstuffed chair that makes me feel like a child in adult furniture, while she takes a seat behind her desk. The desk is covered in papers marked with neon sticky notes, stacks of books and an old desktop computer.
“So,” she says, raising her bifocals to rest in her hair and clasping her hands together on top of a pile of papers. “Why do you want to work in a bookstore?”
“I just love books,” I announce excitedly. “I mean, my last job was okay. I had been an executive assistant to this big deal real estate agent in Savannah. But it was just what I was good at, not what I loved. And I love books.”
“So you mentioned,” Becca says. “What genres do you read?”
I sit up taller in the chair, grasping the armrests and leaning forward. “At this point, mostly romance. But I’ve read everything from horror to nonfiction and all the classics. I even like reading a few books at once. Keeps things interesting.” I pause and wonder if I should stop, but my mouth keeps going. “Except that time I was reading Stephen King’s Pet Sematary and Eat, Pray, Love at the same time. Had some really messed up dreams about zombie elephants and Julia Roberts. That’s the last time I watched a movie before I read the book.”
Becca just stares, blinks a few times and scribbles something on a yellow sticky note. “I don’t have any full-time positions open, since I’m the only full-time employee. But if you want twenty-five to thirty hours a week, the job is yours.”
“Really?” I say too loudly, standing from my chair. “Thank you so much.”
Becca gives me an odd look that makes me fall back into the chair and tamp down my excitement.
“I’ve been needing to replace Jude for a while now. I don’t think I can take another day of her can’t-be-bothered attitude or her ridiculous reasons for calling in.”
“Uh.” I suddenly feel guilty about taking the girl’s job.
But Becca holds up a hand and shakes her head. “Don’t worry, honey. It’s been a long time coming. Last week she left me short-handed because her cat watched a scary movie and was too traumatized to stay alone.”
I chuckle as Becca rolls her eyes. We discuss pay, availability, and scheduling details, then she asks if I can start Monday.
“Sure!” I say, standing when she does. “I’d love to. I can’t tell you how excited I am to be surrounded by books all day.”
“Great,” Becca says. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to have an employee who’s read more than conspiracy theories and Green Eggs and Ham.”
4
“WHAT ARE YOU up to?” Brea asks, while crunching loudly over the phone.
“Will you stop eating in my ear? It’s rude.”
“But I’m so hungry,” she says. I can just picture her face right now—sad eyes and a protruding bottom lip. Not much has changed since we were kids. “And this baby really likes potato chips dipped in Nutella.”
I turn the water on in my tub and add some lavender bath salts while Brea continues to crunch. “That is disgusting.”
“Flashed anymore neighbors today?” she asks through a mouth full of chips.
“Not yet, though the night is still young. Thanks for bringing that up.”
“It’s basically what I live for.”
“Anyway, I’ve decided on a nice long soak in the tub and a bit of pampering before starting my new job tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s right. Good luck with that. Sounds like your dream job, bookworm.”
I light a few candles and set my glass of wine and book on a small table next to the tub. “Well, the guys at the garage were just too stubborn to even give me a shot.” I frown at my reflection thinking about my encounter with the local mechanic. I slip out of my clothes and set my phone down on the counter, pressing the button to put it on speaker.
“Ugh. Men are the same everywhere I guess,” Brea says. I pull a clip from a basket on my counter and wrap my hair into a messy bun on top of my head. Suddenly, I hear what sounds like streaming water coming from my phone.
“Brea? Are you peeing?”
“I’m six months pregnant,” she says. “I’m always peeing.”
“Well, it’s been awesome listening to you eat and pee tonight. Is there anything else you’d like to share?”
“Oh shut it. I bet you’re naked right now.”
I grin at how well she knows me. “Doesn’t matter. You can’t hear naked.”
“Whatevs,” she says, washing her hands. Not even five seconds later I hear her crunching again.
“Okay, I’m done. Goodnight, Brea.”
“Love you, sis.” I can hear her laughing as I end the call.
Turning the water off, I glance at the bench at the foot of my bed. Next to my grandmother’s quilt, I’ve laid out my clothes for tomorrow, along with my coat, scarf, earrings, and purse. My ex-husband always made fun of me for being such a planner, but it’s who I am. Being prepared is the best way to avoid complications. Complications are the bane of my existence. I don’t like surprises. I don’t like awkward situations. Though, I seem to find myself in more of them than the average person.
I slip into the hot bathwater and hum as the bubbles tickle my chin. The water covers me completely and I think I could spend eternity in here. After a few minutes of soaking, I dry my hands off on a nearby towel and reach for the latest Alaina Taylor novel. Opening to my bookmark, I hold the pages apart and press the book to my face, my nose in the spine. I inhale the scent of ink and paper and smile at an old familiar friend.
I love books—real books. I love holding them, smelling them, filing them on my shelves, and of course, reading them. Alaina Taylor is my favorite author, by far. She writes modern day romances that split your heart open and then piece it back together page by page. Her men are swoon-worthy and her leading ladies are realistic and relatable. I always get lost in her words and too often find myself wishing to be the heroine.
If I’m being honest, Alaina is one of the reasons I moved to Grace, New York. She lives here, in this small upstate town and I thought, “Well, if it’s good enough for her, it’s good enough for me.” It also didn’t hurt that it was far from home and filled with the possibility of someday meeting my favorite author in person. While I’d like to imagine we’d be such good friends, realistically I’d be a complete spaz and she’d probably run as far as her feet could take her.
Just as I focus on the words on the page, I hear a distinct hissing noise. Setting aside my book, I look around the room, trying to pinpoint the sound. I search the room and find nothing. Shrugging, I dive back into my book, letting the words pull me into a world of men who fiercely protect their women and women who insist they don’t need protecting.
When my toes start to wrinkle, I finish up my bath and pull the plug to let the lukewarm water drain away. When I step out of the tub, my foot lands in water.
“What the hell?” I screech.
I wrap the towel around my body and follow the hissing noise to find the pipe behind the tub spraying water all over the place. Rolling my eyes, I chastise myself for not investigating the strange noise earlier. The faucet is off, so I’m not sure what to do. Then I remember a similar situation at our house a few years ago and my ex-husband needed to shut off the water to the house.
“Great. How do I do that?” I ask out loud.
I quickly slip into some yoga pants and a t-shirt and head outside. I search the back yard and don’t find anything. My bare feet are freezing in the grass as I make my way to the front yard and find nothing there either. I do a perimeter search of the house and find nothing indicating it’s a water main. As I turn to head back inside for my phone, I hit my toe on the bottom step.
“Son of biscuit,” I curse, grabbing my toe and massaging it while balancing on one foot. “Ow, ow, ow. Mother-fluffing-witch-waffle-butt-trumpet.”
“Are you okay?”
I spin to find my neighbor standing there. He’s in a long sleeve T-shirt and jeans tha
t look soft and worn in, in a natural, not purchased way. The street lamp casts harsh shadows across his face and makes him look a bit menacing in the dark space between our homes. My nipples instantly harden and I’m not sure if it’s from him or the cold.
“Umm, a pipe is leaking in my house and I was looking for the water shut off, but I can’t find it,” I explain.
He almost grins, but contains those beautiful lips to a tiny smirk that pulls higher on the left.
“Well, out here there’s the main shut off for the cul de sac and it’s three houses down,” he says, gesturing behind him. “You’ll shut everyone on the street off.”
I cross my arms trying to hide my traitorous nipples that have surely cut holes in my shirt by now. “Well, I’m not sure what to do. At this moment, my upstairs bathroom is filling with water.”
“There should be one on the house itself. Want me to take a look?” he asks.
“That would be amazing. Thank you so much,” I say, now really self conscious about my messy hair and old sleep clothes. It’s hard to focus on anything with my feet going numb in the cold, dewy grass.
He walks along the side of my house, using his phone as a flashlight. I follow, not knowing how to keep the conversation going. He’s got this brown wavy hair, longer on top and cut short on the sides. It looks effortless and just long enough to get a firm grip if given the chance. I grin at myself and wonder where this sexually charged woman has come from.
“My name’s Lane, by the way. Sorry we haven’t officially met yet,” he says over his shoulder. I let out an audible groan before slapping my hand over my mouth. Lane stops and turns to face me now, an amused look on his handsome face. “Something wrong?”
I shake my head. The light from his backyard spills over the fence, illuminating those icy blue eyes and I feel like he has frozen me to the spot. “It’s just that my ex-husband’s name is also Lane.”
“That’s a bummer,” he says. “I don’t want to start off on your bad side.”
Changing Lanes Page 3