It Happened on Love Street

by Lia Riley

  Tuesday got bona fide thrills when discovering five bucks in a winter coat pocket. Imagine unearthing a treasure horde? The only thing better would be scoring front row tickets to Hamilton. And a time machine to see it performed by the original cast.

  Pumpkin started on the third try. As the old girl wheezed to life, the gas light blinked on, and Tuesday knocked her forehead against the steering wheel. Forget daydreaming about pirate lore. Time to get real and play her least favorite game: Dare the Gas Tank.

  “How low can you go?” She muscled the stubborn gearshift into reverse. Payday wasn’t until tomorrow, and she didn’t have enough funds in her checking account to refuel, not after giving Lettie Sue, a park waitress, her last few hundred bucks.

  Yesterday, the single mom broke down in the staff room over her inability to cover next week’s daycare bill. Afterward, Tuesday had snuck to the snack bar to make an ATM withdrawal and left an anonymous envelope of twenties in her co-worker’s locker.

  She didn’t regret giving the hardworking woman a single penny, but the ramifications from the impulsive decision couldn’t derail her morning obligations. She was hosting a Foster Friends field trip for the local children’s charity. If she didn’t dilly-dally she’d have enough in the tank to get to work and home. It was all going to come down to fumes and a prayer.

  Movement caught the corner of her eye. Her big sister and her sister’s fiancé, Rhett, staggered from the house next door, a tangle of limbs and leashes. Between them, the happy couple owned four dogs. A few months ago, Pepper had moved to Everland for an ill-fated legal clerkship. After losing her job on day one, she’d detoured into what turned out to be the right direction, finding work as a dog walker and falling head over strappy sandals for the hot vet next door. Now she was spearheading the opening of Everland’s rescue shelter as its executive director.

  Pepper glanced at her thin wristwatch, brows wrinkling beneath fashionably cut side-swept bangs. “Aren’t you late?”

  Tuesday restrained a grimace. The one and only drawback to living next door to such a capable, successful sister was frequently feeling like a hot mess. “What can I say?” She cupped a hand to her mouth. “Lost my shoes again.”

  Zero surprise registered on Pepper’s pretty face. They each played their respective roles well, the responsible, dependable, reliable one and the free-spirited walking disaster. But after Tuesday’s world in New York City spun out of control, she headed straight here.

  Her big sister was true north even in the Deep South.

  “Are we seeing you tonight?” Rhett called. The dynamite duo were hosting a potluck dinner around the theme of “Southern Comfort.” Pepper had entrusted her with the napkins. It wasn’t meant as an intentionally insulting gesture, but unintentionally? That was a whole other story.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Tuesday cracked a tight smile before driving away. Downtown Everland was more or less deserted this time of morning. The lovingly restored buildings dated back to the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, but the town was more than a hodgepodge of bright awnings, mom-and-pop storefronts, and cheerful planter boxes. The charm lay not just in the bricks and mortar, but also the bighearted, warm, and welcoming (if eccentric) citizens.

  A bay window etched with the words WHAT-A-TREAT CANDY BOUTIQUE stenciled in mint-green calligraphy caused her to gasp as today’s date hit home. It was the thirtieth birthday of What-a-Treat’s owner, Ginger Reed! She’d been informing everyone who ventured in for a slice of fudge of her intention to enter a mystical time warp whereupon she’d remain twenty-nine forever and ever, amen.

  Kitty-corner to the shop sat city hall, the imposing building framed by a profusion of late-summer flowers. “Perfect.” Tuesday slammed on the brakes. If she hustled, she could pick a spur-of-the-moment bouquet for her friend and leave it in front of the candy shop’s door as a quick pick-me-up.

  She climbed out of Pumpkin and raced over the lawn, kneeling beneath an office window and grabbing Shasta daisies, goldenrod, and a few begonias. The blooms were vibrant, like her new friend. In fact, they looked so pretty she picked a few more, and just a few more, and what the heck, now that she had this much, she might as well go the whole hog. After all, forever is a long time to stay twenty-nine.

  A throat cleared behind her.

  “Morning!” She squinted at a security guard, backlit by the bright morning sun. “Don’t mind me, I’ll be up and out of your hair in a sec.”

  “Well, Miss Knight, it’s like this see…” He shuffled from side to side. “There’s been a report of vandalism.”

  “Really?” She glanced around, half expecting a lurker to be slinking from oak to oak, clutching a can of spray paint. “What sort of damage are we talking about? Graffiti? Arson? Broken windows?”

  The man removed his blue cap and studied the embroidered brim with particular attention before mumbling under his breath.

  “Theft?” she repeated, unsure if she’d heard him correctly.

  The security official grimaced. “The complaint was about you destroying city vegetation.”

  She pointed at her chest. “Who’d give the first fig if I picked a few flowers? There’s so many.” The drape twitched in the window above and her core temperature dropped ten degrees. “Hang on.” She pursed her lips and pointed an accusatory finger. “Whose office is that?”

  Dumb question.

  “Mayor Marino requested that you be informed that this space is public property and not your own private garden.”

  “For Pete’s sake.” Her laugh was incredulous. Everland residents were as charming as their town except in one respect. Their mayor had a stick shoved far up his (admittedly fine) ass.

  “There’s more.” The security guard swallowed hard and adjusted his belt buckle over his straining belly. “I’m to confiscate the flowers.”

  “Oh, come on. They are picked.” She waved the gorgeous bouquet under the security guard’s nose. “The damage is done.”

  “Orders are orders, ma’am.”

  She glanced at the clock tower. Crap. Was that the time? Forget getting all “no justice, no peace.” “Fine. Here.” She shoved the blooms into his arms. “Give these to the mayor with my regards.”

  “He was leaving the premises on official business.”

  “Well, inform him upon his return that he’s officially a jerk.” She flounced away, fuming. Last week she’d taken J.K. Growling for a walk in the rain. They’d been minding their own beeswax, dancing in ankle-deep puddles on Love Street, when Beau Marino had driven by with a face like she was you-know-what stuck to the bottom of his shoe. He’d rolled down the window and told her she was jaywalking.

  She’d told him where to stick it.

  Balling her hands into two fists, she half smashed a lone Shasta daisy. The sole survivor of Operation: Bouquet Obliteration. Once back in the car, she tossed the flower on the passenger seat and cranked the volume to her beloved Grease soundtrack. Pumpkin’s main selling point (beside the rock-bottom price) was the unexpectedly badass stereo system. She might look the part of a wide-eyed, angelic Sandra Dee, but she had Rizzo’s soul. Letting her vocal cords rip to “There Are Worse Things I Could Do” felt damn satisfying, even if it uncorked emotions better kept tightly bottled.

  She increased her grip on the steering wheel as she drove past the once-grand, now-abandoned Roxy Theater, a crumbling eyesore off the otherwise neat and tidy Main Street. Even the for sale sign plastered to the marquee had weathered to tatters. Once someone had built the place with grand hopes, but starry-eyed dreams had a bad habit of fizzling faster than a meteorite striking Earth’s atmosphere. Tuesday knew all about that phenomenon thanks to two-time Tony Award–winning director Philip Chandler, who cast her for a part that she hadn’t auditioned for—the unwitting other woman.

  Mistress.

  Sidepiece.

  Shack job.

  Pumpkin’s wheels hit the road’s rumble strip, and the tactile vibration warned that she’d dr
ifted too far right. She bit down on the inside of her bottom lip and corrected, taking shallow breaths to work around the asphyxiating knot in her chest. Despite the eight-hundred-mile distance stretching between here and Manhattan, the name—Philip Chandler—made her insides roil. Not every fairy tale had a happy ending, especially ones that started as “Once upon a time, a girl in love with love, was invited out to coffee by a narcissistic, cheating a-hole…”

  A beep from the pink Cadillac in the oncoming lane interrupted her navel-gazing. Tuesday couldn’t decipher Miss Ida May’s face from beneath the wide-brimmed straw hat garlanded with silk flowers but made sure to give her neighbor from Love Street a wave. Miss Ida May administered the Everland gossip blog, the Back Fence, and was constantly trolling for a juicy scoop.

  Drive along, ma’am. Nothing to see here.

  No one in Everland knew the rumors. The awful story was so common as to be a cliché, an ensemble actress trying to seduce her way into a breakout role. Or so the tale went. And whoever let truth get in the way of a good story?

  Philip had been married! Married. M-A-R-R-I-E-D. Not D-I-V-O-R-C-E-D like he’d said.

  That wasn’t all. His shameless flattery evolved into:

  You’re eating that? Remind me; are you an actress or a pig?

  Maybe you’re not pretty enough for a principal role.

  Jesus Christ, you laugh like a horse.

  Pepper could never find out what happened. She’d think Tuesday was lying, an idiot, or both. It seemed impossible to believe she’d let a man treat her with such a total lack of respect.

  But she had.

  Tuesday’s face reflected from the rearview mirror—her brown-gold eyes darkened by guilt and shame. She’d wanted to be a star, and he’d filled her head with fame, luring her in like a stupid fish until she was caught in his lies and unable to escape. Tears welled before she blinked hard, stamping them out.

  No pity parties allowed in Scarlett-Freaking-O’Hara country. She’d take a page from that fierce heroine’s playbook and not think about that mess now. Not when she could toss her head and sing louder.

  One thing was certain. She’d never lose her sense of self in another relationship. Whoever she got involved with next time around would take her as she was, or not get her at all.

  The song ended as she passed Happily Ever After Land’s main entrance on the town outskirts. A school bus turned beneath the sign that read YO DREAMS START HERE. The u and r were missing.

  The only decent spot left in the staff parking lot was a tight squeeze beside a group of professional-looking people filing out of a deluxe minivan.

  Terrific. Reverse parking with witnesses.

  Tuesday lowered the volume to “Look at Me, I’m Sandra Dee” with an inward groan as her gaze locked on the tall, tawny-skinned man with a shaved head who towered over the group with intense va-va-voom blue eyes that would be completely sexy if not for the stony glare.

  Her toes curled in her fake glass slippers as she fought the unwelcome pyrotechnics detonating in the pit of her abdomen.

  Beau Marino aka Hater of Random Acts of Joy.

  Although, when not calling security over war crimes against begonias, the man gave good face with his strong dark features, aquiline nose, stern mouth, and an innately haughty air that earned him the town nickname of the Prince of Everland.

  She blinked first. Whoops. Worse, her heart did that annoying panicked response where it ran flailing into walls, or more accurately, her rib cage. This man’s raw masculine beauty had an irritating habit of setting off a chain reaction of unwanted physiological responses.

  Stupid beautiful face.

  It took three attempts to park Pumpkin, and even then she ended up crooked. Whatever, good enough. She set the hand brake and fished in the center console for bubblegum-pink lipstick, taking her time with the application.

  The stray daisy gave her an idea. Deep breath in. Let it out nice and easy. One more time and equilibrium was restored. Time to get in character. Tuesday might not know how to behave, but Princess Fabulous would.

  She stepped out of the car with the flower, righted her cartoonish tiara, and kept her gaze profoundly vacant.

  Show time.

  “Mayor and friends! Always an honor to have local dignitaries visit our most humble kingdom,” she trilled with an inward smirk as a muscle twitched near his ear.

  Stupid beautiful ear.

  Seriously, there wasn’t a single good reason why that ear should look so freaking attractive. But it did. So did the three dark freckles dotting the center of the lobe in the exact same pattern as Orion’s belt. It was the second thing she’d ever noticed about him, after the pale blue eyes, the irises cut by white rays. Mesmerizing eyes that matched the sapphire tie, unsmiling eyes that were…currently affixed to the wilting blossom.

  She broke the stem, creating a daisy boutonniere that she shamelessly stepped forward and popped into his buttonhole. “A token of my esteem.” She cloaked the needling tone inside her sweetest pitch. Her fingers grazed hard muscle. What exactly was he packing beneath that suit? She froze.

  Say what?

  Not cool, body. Neither was the fact that he gazed at her cleavage with barely disguised revulsion. Hey, her pint-size rack deserved an A for effort. Her boobs might not be massive, but they were mighty.

  “What is that?” Two lines bracketed his pursed mouth.

  She glanced in the direction of his frown. A brown sticky blob dangled from the satin bow in the middle of her bodice. “Oh shhhhhhhhhhh—ugar bowl.” No hiding she’d inhaled a slice of peanut butter and banana toast for a rushed over-the-kitchen-counter breakfast.

  One of the group members, a middle-aged guy sporting an impressive horseshoe moustache, handed over a napkin stamped with the logo from Smuggler’s Cove, Everland’s popular bar and restaurant.

  “Thank you, kind sir.” Tuesday dabbed her torso and gathered the remains of her dignity, lifting her chin like the Queen of England, not an underpaid actress in a stained dress and cheap plastic shoes. “Now, to what do we owe the pleasure of your patronage?”

  “We’re from the Georgia Tourism Commission,” a kind-faced, silver-haired woman with funky dangling earrings answered after what proved to be an uncomfortable silence.

  “Castles and cauldrons! Then haven’t you come to the right place!” She plastered on a saccharine smile and wadded the napkin into her fist. Obviously Beau Marino came to the park in a professional capacity. A man who called security over flower picking wouldn’t have fun for fun’s sake, not on a workday. “Why, Happily Ever After Land is the best time you can have around these parts with your clothes on.”

  What the mayor needed was a not-so-gentle reminder that life was an out-of-control roller coaster, so might as well throw up your hands, laugh, and occasionally scream.

  The twitch in Beau’s temple turned into a pulse. That vein could pop in three…two…

  “We’re hosting a very special group today,” she said in her most singsong voice. “A field trip of foster children awaits a royally good time.”

  “Now doesn’t that sound wonderful?” The silver-haired woman clapped her hands. “My oldest daughter fosters. Mind if we tag along? See how the kids react to the park?”

  “I…” The mayor looked like he’d rather trim his nails with a chainsaw, but he was trapped. “Of course, Donna.” His lips curved at the edges, but Tuesday knew better. His flaring nostrils gave away his displeasure.

  Her own smile, on the other hand, was one hundred percent genuine. Turned out revenge was sweeter than a chocolate chip funnel cake smothered in whipped cream.

  Time for Beau Marino to buckle up. He was on her turf now, and she intended to take him on a wild ride.

  About the Author

  Lia Riley is a contemporary romance author. USA Today describes her as “refreshing,” and RT Book Reviews calls her books “sizzling and heartfelt.” She loves her husband, her three kids, wandering redwood forests, and a perfect pour-over cof
fee. She is 25 percent sarcastic, 54 percent optimistic, and 122 percent bad at math (good thing she writes happy endings for a living). She and her family live mostly in Northern California.

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