Last First Kiss (Brightwater #1)

by Lia Riley

  For the moment, plopping down at the kitchen table for a quick check of the Mighty Mama blog analytics had to serve as sufficient Sawyer distraction. She opened her laptop, letting her fingers run quick and efficiently over the keyboard. Her shoulders dropped as promising stats filled the screen. Yes, good. The daily gratitude posts were proving popular, and all the charming shots of Brightwater’s quaint Main Street and the surrounding mountains racked up page views. She’d gained three new sponsors in as many weeks and a shout out on Huffington Post pushed her readership to record highs.

  She scrolled through the comments, past validation after validation. Strange to think so many strangers believed she had it all together, thrived in this rural adventure.

  How do you do it all?

  You are such an inspiration!

  I could never do what you do.

  Are you for real? I smell bulls and shit.

  Annie’s stomach flip-flopped at the last comment. Ms. Hootenanny, her daily heckler, appeared two weeks ago, and had made a hobby out of leaving unpleasant comments.

  Are you for real? Annie traced her tongue along the inside of her cheek, fingers itching to respond with a truthful, “I’m a scared mother who still hasn’t fixed the leak in the kitchen sink even after watching a dozen YouTube repair videos. Half my day is spent fantasizing about napping and the other half about my gorgeous neighbor.”

  But did the troll want truth? Fantasy Annie paid the bills, her joyful homesteading act created the foundation needed to build a viable career.

  She stood, suddenly feeling trapped, and left the kitchen, tiptoeing around the Lego piles Atticus arranged in an unfathomable system across the living room floor. The sounds of his boisterous play drifted from upstairs.

  “Here comes the rocket ship, look out! Pow zoom!” He unleashed a victorious cheer, defeating imaginary foes.

  She’d figure out the source of the loud boom-related crash a little later; for now her limbs were restless and chest tight. Out on the front porch, a light breeze blew, carrying the invigorating fragrance of sun-warmed pine. Mighty Mama was never originally intended for a wide audience. She’d been struggling with a case of stay-at-home mama boredom and found herself drafting short essays during Atticus’s naps. Who’d ever give two fat figs about her little corner of the world? But people did, lots of people, ones she’d never met in real life. The approval grew addictive. Strangers cheered her on as she took pride in and celebrated mothering, cherished the simple beauty found in otherwise mundane day-to-day rhythms. But lately, her compulsion to live online waned even as her readership numbers soared past her wildest dreams.

  Social media had its place and purpose, but it had replaced an actual social life.

  She glared at the weeds choking the front yard and marched out to pull a handful. A futile action when there were so many more. Still, she grabbed more, cursing under her breath when a thorn lodged beneath her thumbnail. Mounting exhaustion made it hard to find magical moments. The chore list overflowed with tasks like painting old weatherboards or scrubbing away years of grime. Maybe Sawyer’s subtle presence should be more unsettling, but at least backup existed if the roof blew off.

  And this roof looked exactly like the sort of jerky roof that would do such a thing.

  She braced her hands on her lower back and stretched. As much as she hated to admit it, all her hard work had hardly made a dent on the property. The farmhouse’s frame canted to the right in an awkward lean, and more than a few shingles looked in need of immediate replacement. If next winter carried strong winds or too much snow, the whole house might well crash down. Who’d ever want to buy such a dump?

  Gravel crunched behind her. She turned at the unexpected footsteps and delighted shock detonated her gloom in an instant. Her older sister stood in the driveway wearing a black maxi-dress, chic leather backpack, and mirrored aviator sunglasses.

  “Surprise,” Claire called, throwing her arms in a victory “v.”

  “Claire? Oh my God!” Annie didn’t run, she flew into her big sister’s arms and held on tight. Only sixteen months older, Claire transcended sibling status. Her best friend was here. You couldn’t ask for better cavalry.

  “You’re here. I can’t believe you’re really here,” Annie managed to gasp, ribs crushed by her sister’s grip. Claire worked out at a CrossFit gym. The result was a pair of strong arms lifting Annie as if she weighed less than a sack of flour. “Hey, put me down!”

  “But you’re such a Lil’ Bit.” Claire’s nickname for her.

  No one would ever pick them off the street as sisters. Annie stood five feet two inches in heels, with butterscotch blond hair and fifties-style curves. Around these parts, Claire might be called a long drink of water. Her legs went on for days, as did her dark hair, the same shade as the double shot espressos she mainlined as breakfast replacements. Still, they were heart twins, laughing at all the same jokes and often sent texts right when one was thinking about the other.

  “How did you get here?”

  “I flew.” Claire flapped her arms, looking around. “Where’s my favorite nephew?”

  “Defending Earth from a renegade alien invasion.”

  “That’s my boy.”

  “Seriously though, how’d you get here?” Annie repeated, still stunned by the manifestation of her best friend and kickass protector at the moment of need.

  “I am serious. I caught a plane from SFO to Mammoth then grabbed the one cab in the county to get out here. What can I say, I missed my baby sister. You’ve seemed distant on the phone.”

  “Oh, Claire.” Guilt thickened her throat. “That must have cost more than a pretty penny.”

  Claire waved her hand like blowing hundreds of dollars wasn’t worth the cost of words. “My financial planner isn’t worried about my bank account so why should I? Toast has been good to me.” A few years ago, she transformed an old Airstream into a retro food truck, The Daily Bread. She served five-dollar slices of toast and jam to dotcom millionaires, making a killing off the latest craze to sweep the Land of Food Snobs. Insanity, but Claire was a pirate, plundering opportunity with glee.

  Annie gave her another hug. “Only you could turn bread into a gold mine.”

  “I’m a modern-day Midas. Hey, that’s actually a great name for a—holy hell!” Claire must have finally focused on the dismal surroundings.

  “I know, I know,” Annie said with a cringe. “The place’s a disaster, right?”

  “Screw the farm.” Claire pulled back and eyed Annie’s threadbare yoga pants and stretched out pink t-shirt that read Cowabunga in a cursive font with undisclosed dismay. “What happened to my baby sister?”

  Annie’s stomach clenched. She loved Claire but sometimes could throat punch her. “You’re saying I’ve gotten too comfy with frumpy?”

  “Hey now,” she gentled her tone. “You’re as adorable as always, but, girl, those are serious dark circles under your eyes. If I tucked you into bed, you’d probably sleep for a year.”

  Annie slumped her shoulders. “Fixing this place up is hard work, harder than I expected.”

  “So why are you doing it to yourself?” Claire glanced from the wobbly roof to the overgrown flowerbeds to the uneven front path, wrinkling her nose. “What’s the point?”

  “You and Dad aren’t volunteering to get Five Diamonds ready to sell,” Annie snapped, exhaustion fraying her last nerve. Maybe the place did look like it was going to hell in a handbasket but she was doing her very best. When she’d arrived the farm was a disaster; it was at least upgraded to a hovel.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t bite my head off. I know the plan is to put the property on the market, but who ever gave you the idea to fix it up first?”

  “If we’re going to command a decent price point that will allow us to move close to you, the place needs to look its best, right?”

  “Oh, Annie baby.�
�� Claire let out one of her annoyingly world-weary sighs. “Wrong, so, so wrong.

  “Don’t ‘Annie baby’ me. Make your point, then let’s get inside and let Atticus know that his favorite person in the world after Margot is here.”

  Claire crossed her arms. “Knock off the renovations.”

  “But—”

  “We want to sell to the highest bidder, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you think cashed-up folks trolling Brightwater in their fancy SUVs dreaming of a mountain vacation home are going to want to mess around with restoring a crappy farmhouse?”

  Annie examined the place. Crappy? Fine, it was old, mildewed, and completely devoid of a straight line, but a protective instinct rose through her chest. “Let’s show some respect for our ancestors who worked this land. We were born here. Mom . . .” died here.

  Claire wrapped her arm around Annie’s shoulders. “I know, Lil’ Bit. Brightwater’s our past and we did have some good times here. All I’m saying is that anyone who buys the place will no doubt tear it down.”

  “Demolish the house?” The idea sent a chill zinging down her spine.

  “And the barn,” Claire replied with a sage nod. “That will probably get knocked down first actually.”

  “But, but . . . ” Annie sputtered. “Five Diamonds sold to tear down? You can’t be serious.”

  “As a heart attack. Look around with unsentimental eyes. Whoever offers is going to replace this termite tower with a nine-thousand-square-foot estate, complete with a pool, and tennis courts, and other yuppy trappings. No way will they want to put a new roof on a rinky-dink farm.”

  Annie groaned, her sore muscles suddenly ten times more aching. “How have I been such an idiot? These past few weeks I’ve been breaking my back, and for nothing.”

  “You are a warrior, never apologize for that.”

  “That’s not the word to best describe me.”

  Claire slung her arm around her shoulders with an affectionate squeeze. “What else is new?”

  Annie had put off sharing the next piece of information as long as she could. “Um, not much. Oh, Sawyer Kane and I are back on speaking terms.”

  For once, she shocked her big sister into dropping her mouth open.

  Annie rolled her eyes. “There’s nothing to say. Don’t look at me like that.”

  “The astronauts at the space station can see your blush.”

  “Stop,” she giggled. “It’s warm out and I’ve been working. Want some lemonade? I’ve got mason jars cooling in the freezer, so they’ll be all frosty and delicious—”

  “Oh. My. God.” Claire followed her into the house. “You want to see, don’t you?”

  “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “Sawyer Kane. You’ve never gotten over that eighteen-year-old dumbass Casanova who treated you like dirt at that party.”

  “It’s been over ten years.”

  “Did his brain grow with the rest of him?”

  “He’s Brightwater’s sheriff.”

  Claire burst out laughing. “Priceless.”

  “He wants to serve his community.” Annie bristled opening the front door. “I don’t see what’s so funny about—”

  “Handcuffs?” Claire winked. “That does it for you? A little good cop, bad cop.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Admit it. You’ve always held a candle for the guy.”

  “Shhhhhh.” Annie shoved a warning finger against Claire’s mouth. “Quiet. Atticus has uncanny hearing.”

  “Fine.” Claire dropped her voice to a whisper. “I think it’s a great idea, by the way, a little fling with Sawyer. Get it out of your system.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  How to explain that if Sawyer penetrated any deeper into her system, she’d never be able to willingly walk away, at least not without a wrench that would leave part of her heart behind.

  No thinking of Sawyer and penetration in the same sentence.

  “He isn’t fling material.”

  “Then what is—” Claire couldn’t finish her sentence because Atticus flew into her arms with a delighted shriek that deafened anyone in a mile radius not wearing personal protective equipment. Annie left them to their happy reunion, headed to the kitchen, opened the fridge, took out the lemonade and two mason jars from the freezer. The temperature was heating up, and she needed a cool drink before a headache set in.

  “So back to Sawyer,” Claire said as she entered the kitchen, her raised eyebrows vanishing beneath her thick bangs.

  Annie sighed. “It’s complicated.”

  “Maybe stop fighting yourself on this. Bury the hatchet.”

  “It sounds like you mean that as a gross metaphor.”

  Claire spied the mini blueberry muffins cooling on the counter and crammed one into her mouth. “Oh man, that’s delicious, and yes, I do, but in a good way.”

  “Gross and good are two vastly separate things.”

  “How did you two love birds reconnect?”

  “It’s not like that.” At least we’re not mouth kissing. “He’s been helping out around here is all. Odd jobs. Fix-it-up stuff like repairing broken boards in the barn floor and the like.”

  “Aw.” Claire crinkled her nose. “That’s adorable.”

  “It’s kind.”

  “Have you thanked him properly? For all that hard manual labor?” More suggestive eyebrow waggling.

  Annie propped a hand on her hip, hoping to appear the picture of moral outrage. “Hey, I’m not going to thank him by—”

  “Whoa, whoa, don’t get your panties in a knot. All I’m suggesting is to fix him a plate of those delicious muffins and pay a friendly neighborly visit.”

  “Muffins?”

  “Trust me, food is the way to a man’s heart.”

  “I’m not sure I want into his heart.”

  “His pants then.”

  “Claire!”

  Her sister unleashed a devious chuckle.

  Well, he had done so much. “Okay, okay, I’ll do it,” Annie said, taking a bracing swig of lemonade and nearly choking on an ice cube. Was she really going to face him down after all those neck kisses? It would be a way to clear the air. “Okay, I’ll fix him a plate as a thank you. After all, who doesn’t like muffins?”

  “No one of sound mind. Do it right now. Go pay a baked goods delivery house call and I’ll discuss the ins and outs of Pokémon with my favorite nephew in the whole wide world.”

  Annie opened the cupboard and stared at all the different plates, the patterns and colors. Would Sawyer like the green one with white trim, or the pale yellow one covered in strawberries? Easier than deciding whether she and Sawyer were back to being friends, or whatever two people were who didn’t kiss on the mouth but did other stuff.

  She settled on the strawberry plate. Everything else was simply too overwhelming to consider.

  “Oh, and Lil’ Bit?” Claire paused in the doorway.

  “Yeah?” Annie gripped the plate as a powerful urge rose inside to drop it. Let the ceramic hit the old wood floorboards and shatter into a hundred pieces.

  “Before you go . . . ” Claire delicately cleared her throat. “Maybe you want to, I don’t know, wash your face? Comb your hair? Switch shirts?”

  “Are you saying I look bad?”

  “You’d be a fetching doll baby in a burlap sack and lederhosen.”

  “I don’t think that combo actually works.”

  “My point is you’re Annie. That means you are lovable and gorgeous no matter what. But you’ve . . . ”

  “Let myself go.” No point sugar coating the facts. She managed to say the words as if they didn’t matter, but inside, she missed that part of her that used to care. Not that she
needed to be vain or obsessed with looks, but wanting to brush hair or change into outfits beyond yoga pants and hoodies on occasion might not be a bad idea. She used to sew, copy cute styles she saw in Claire’s magazines.

  “You used to make all those sweet dresses, and remember your vintage shoe collection? You were the only one who could fit into Grandma Carson’s cute kitten heels.

  Who has time to worry about that stuff? “They are packed away. Those get me through most days fine.” Annie cocked her chin at the Dansko Mary Janes propping the back door.

  “You’ve got it going on, sister, so might as well use it.”

  “Whatever,” Annie responded. Worst retort ever. On the inside, her mental cogs turned. Fine, so she had let herself go a little, and some neighborly flirtation might be the ticket to finding out where she went.

  “You used to be so . . . so . . . joyful. I miss that part of you.”

  Joy? Ain’t nobody got time for that. Still, spending more time with Sawyer didn’t have to be all overthinking and serious. “You’re right. I do need a little pick-me-up.”

  Claire snapped her fingers. “Yes, and something tells me that Sawyer might be the man to lend a helping hand . . . down your pants.” She left the room with a cackle.

  Even as Annie eye-rolled, she grinned at the sounds of the joyful aunt and nephew whooping it up in the living room before turning a gaze to the muffins.

  Deep breath. Okay, one more. She could do this. She could cross the fence and approach Sawyer on his home turf. This was happening. She wrapped up the plate, taking extra special care to make it look pretty. Would a ribbon be nice or too much? Too much. Sawyer wasn’t the fussy type.

  Her blue dress hung on the clothesline. The soft jersey clung in the right places, but didn’t scream trying too hard.

  She walked outside, set the muffin plate on a log, shimmied out of her work clothing and walked to the water pump in her bra and undies. For a second she panicked, glancing around for a sign of Sawyer appearing in time to catch an eyeful, but the coast was clear. It was fun to pump the water, cup it as it came from the earth, toss it on her face and the back of her neck. Then, yanking the clean dress on, she ran her hand through her hair hoping the pixie cut looked edgy and modern, rather than sadly disheveled.