Fall in Love Book Bundle: Small Town Romance Box Set

by Grover Swank, Denise

  Hux kissed his daughter on the cheek, then left her behind as he strode to meet Everly, taking her hand and leading her to the exit.

  My paper boat of chips nearly slipped from my grip. I caught it at the last second, but not before a blob of nacho cheese landed on the calf of my jeans.

  “That spill was on Everly,” I mumbled, taking one of the many napkins Duke had brought with the food. “You don’t think . . . Everly and Reese?”

  “I don’t know, baby.” He put his hand on my thigh. “But give her some time. She’ll explain.”

  Duke had seen the changes in my best friend over the past months too. The same patience he had for me, he extended to her as honorary family.

  This man truly was a dream. He’d given me a home. A family. Soon, a baby. And a puppy we’d named Cheddar.

  I had no idea what was happening with Everly, but if Reese Huxley hurt her in any way, I’d burn his gallery to the damn ground.

  “I’m worried about her,” I said.

  “I know.” Duke looped his arm around me. The movement was fluid, finally free of the stiffness the shooting had caused. He’d healed quickly, save for a scar he’d have for the rest of his life. Even if evidence of Jennifer’s bullet wasn’t there to remind me daily, I doubted I’d ever get the image of his bleeding body out of my mind.

  I went back to my food, drowning the stress of Everly’s announcement in processed calories.

  Travis stood, spotted us and came up to join us, taking Everly’s empty seat at my side. “Hey, guys.”

  Duke handed him a spare hot dog. “How’s it going, bud?”

  “Good. Got a job today.”

  “You did?” I bumped my shoulder into his. “Congrats. Where?”

  “The movie theater.”

  “Guess we’ll have to go to more movies,” Duke said, finishing his last bite of pizza.

  I handed him my nachos, not wanting any more. My stomach still wasn’t in a good place, and with the knot in it—courtesy of Everly—I’d probably just eat cold cereal when we got home.

  Travis didn’t inhale his food like normal. Instead, his hot dog rested in his lap while his gaze drifted to the rows below, where Savannah slid into a seat beside a couple of other boys. The moment she was seated, his posture drooped.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he muttered, finally eating. He demolished the hot dog Duke had given him, then devoured my pizza slice. With him around, I didn’t have to worry about wasting food. Travis came over once a week for dinner and there were never leftovers, no matter how much Duke and I cooked.

  Melanie had put him in counseling after the shooting. He’d gone, begrudgingly at first like he had with our Spanish lessons, but after a month, the complaining had stopped.

  Except for tonight.

  Travis grumbled something under his breath. I ignored it, until two minutes later he did it again.

  “Okay, spill,” I ordered. “What’s wrong?”

  He sighed. “I want to ask Savannah out.”

  “Aren’t you dating already?” Duke asked.

  “No. We’re just friends. I guess. We were. I don’t know. Girls are complicated.”

  That girl especially. “Does she like you?”

  “I thought so. She kissed me in the parking lot when we came in, but then she wanted to sit with Jordan Brown.”

  “Maybe she’s not sure that you like her,” I said. “If you asked her out, what would you do?”

  “I don’t know. Go out to eat, I guess. Get cheeseburgers or grilled cheeses or cheesesteaks.”

  Duke leaned his forearms on his knees, looking at Travis like he’d sprouted wings. “That’s awfully specific.”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Travis tossed up his hands. “You guys are always talking about cheese. I mean, you named your dog Cheddar.”

  I pulled in my lips to keep from laughing but my darling husband didn’t even try to spare the boy’s feelings.

  Duke burst out laughing, leaning close to bury his face in my hair.

  My blond hair. After four months of careful lightening treatments, I was almost back to my natural color.

  “So, um . . .” Don’t laugh, Lucy. Don’t laugh. “That’s not why we talk about cheese. It’s just an inside joke. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  Duke’s laughter turned into a roar, growing so loud that he drew attention from the others around us.

  I elbowed Duke in the side. Hard. This was not how to be supportive of Travis’s love life.

  “Just ask her out to dinner,” I told Travis. “Take her somewhere nice.”

  “And get your ass down there.” Duke sat up straight, shaking his head as he continued to laugh. “If she’s sitting with another guy, you’d better be right beside her so she knows how you feel and that Jordan kid does too.”

  Travis contemplated the advice for a few seconds, then shot out of his seat and practically leapt across us to jog down the stairs.

  “I had no idea tonight’s game was going to be so dramatic,” I told Duke.

  “Small-town life, baby. You’re in the thick of it now.”

  Small Town Life. I’d been struggling with a title for my next album, but that was it.

  “I love it.” I leaned into his side.

  I’d soak up every moment of this simple drama if that meant we’d live this life together, waiting to welcome the child in my belly into our arms.

  “You’re humming.” Duke leaned in to whisper.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re humming.” He smiled that handsome, sexy smile that made my heart melt and my body ignite. “That usually means you’re happy.”

  “I am.” Happier than I could have imagined in my wildest dreams. I laid my head on his shoulder. “I love you, Sheriff.”

  “Love you too, baby.”

  We sat there, Duke cheering on the team and me humming the song that would end up becoming Duke’s.

  Because a man like Duke Evans deserved one hell of a song.

  * * *

  Want more Lucy and Duke?

  Click HERE to download a bonus epilogue!

  * * *

  The Calamity Montana series continues with Everly and Hux in The Bluff. Turn the page to read a preview.

  Sneak Peek: The Bluff by Willa Nash

  Everly

  “I love Calamity.”

  Especially on a Saturday night.

  Outside, the golden streetlamps were winning their battle against the darkness, casting a glow on parked cars and sidewalks. The buildings slumbered, resting until morning, when cheery people would infuse them with life. The stars peeking through the dense tufts of gray clouds were disappearing one by one as the storm drifted over the towering mountains in the distance.

  It didn’t take long for the snow to come. One minute, the air was still. The next, it was filled with heavy, fat flakes dumped from the heavens, like the clouds had hefted themselves over the countryside for so long, they just couldn’t keep tight their seams anymore.

  A white layer dusted the streets and parked cars. The flakes clung to the leafless branches of the trees. With the snow came a deep chill, the temperature on the bank’s sign four blocks down dropping in steady succession.

  I clutched the chunky tan cardigan I’d pulled on earlier, burrowing into its thick collar. The air coming off the glass was crisp, and when I blew out a long breath, a circle of fog formed in front of my mouth.

  This spot had become my favorite hangout. Standing at my window on the second floor of this small building in downtown Calamity, Montana, I had a clear view of nearly all of First Street.

  In the mornings, I’d pull a chair up to the glass. While sipping my coffee, I’d watch locals arrive to open their shops and offices. In the evenings, I’d swap coffee for wine. After months, I’d memorized the storefronts and shop signs.

  I’d dated this guy a few years ago who’d had this obsession with old Westerns. He’d been so desperate to fit into the Nashville country scene, he’d th
ought he could study black-and-white films to learn how to be a cowboy or outlaw. I’d dumped the idiot poser after two weeks and too many movies.

  But Calamity reminded me of those movies, the ones starring John Wayne and James Stewart and Kirk Douglas. Only here, it was authentic, not a Hollywood set. Though it had clearly evolved to fit the modern world, there were times when I could close my eyes and picture Clint Eastwood standing on one side of First, facing off with a villain cloaked in black.

  The buildings had mostly square faces, some sided in graying barnwood. Others, like this two-story space where I lived, were covered in faded red brick. On a few of the oldest buildings’ exteriors, the original painted signs still lingered, the hundred-year-old paint refusing to succumb to time and the elements.

  My bed was pushed up against a raw brick wall and on the exterior side, the words Candy Shoppe were a ghost in chipped white. Sometimes I’d snuggle into my bed and press my hand against that wall, feeling the letters seep through the hundred-year-old mortar. I’d imagine a line of children swarming into the space below me, wide-eyed and drooling for brightly colored candies in glass jars.

  The candy shop was long gone. Now the space, which had been empty for years, was being converted into a fitness studio owned by my landlord and friend, Kerrigan Hale. Once it opened, I’d welcome a yoga or barre class to break up my days.

  After nearly five months in Calamity, wasting my days and nights at this window had started to become . . . well, pathetic. I was a twenty-nine-year-old woman who spent her days in this studio apartment, watching the world pass while she stared from her second-floor perch. I had no job. I had no hobbies. I had no aspirations.

  Pathetic.

  But safe.

  This town and this window, where I could watch people come and go, had become my sanctuary.

  Was my future as empty and black as the night sky? Yes. Was I stuck in a rut? Absolutely. Did I care?

  For months, that answer would have been a resounding no. No, I didn’t care. But lately, my father’s favorite question had been rattling around the back of my mind, creating enough noise it was getting harder to ignore.

  Everly, what are you doing with your life?

  For the past ten years, my answer had been the same. Singing. I’d wanted to be a singer. And I’d chased that future, sprinting through my days, stretching for that dream, even though no matter how fast I ran, I couldn’t seem to get a hand on it.

  Five months ago, I’d stopped running. My legs had given out. After a stalker, a near-death experience and a decade of disappointment, singing was history.

  What was I doing with my life?

  Hell if I knew.

  My phone dinged in my cardigan’s pocket. I dug it out to see a text from Lucy.

  Want to come over for dinner tomorrow night?

  I typed out a quick sure, then tucked my phone away and leaned against the window, the cold from the glass seeping through my sweater.

  Lucy lived in Calamity with her husband, Duke, the local sheriff. She was my best friend and the reason I was here in Montana.

  The two of us had grown up together in upstate New York. Together, we’d played with Barbies and princess dolls. We’d learned how to roller-blade in our cul-de-sac, scraping knees and deciding roller blades were evil. We’d built fairy gardens in her backyard and obstacle courses in mine.

  And we’d sung.

  Lucy had always loved to sing. She’d make up songs about riding the bus or going to swimming lessons or covering a driveway in sidewalk-chalk drawings. Music was as much a part of Lucy as her blood and heartbeat. Naturally, whatever she’d loved, I’d loved. It went both ways. Her voice was magical, and though it had never come as easily for me, I could carry a more-than-decent tune.

  Singing had been another connection, another bond, and when she’d decided to move to Nashville to pursue a singing career, asking if I’d come too, the obvious answer had been yes. With stars in my eyes, I’d dropped out of college to move to a new city with my best friend, full of hope and ambition.

  Lucy and I had been roommates for ten years, and as her career had soared, mine had stagnated. But I’d never stopped trying.

  Months standing at this window had given me ample time to think. To examine the past.

  Had I worked so hard to become a singer because I’d actually loved singing? Or had I done it because I was too stubborn to admit defeat? Or too scared to admit I didn’t know what I wanted from my life?

  The truth was, I didn’t want to be a singer anymore. Unlike Lucy, I didn’t crave the music like it was my next breath. The stalker hadn’t ruined it for her completely. But me?

  Lucy was having a hard time understanding why I was just . . . done. With Duke’s support, she’d put the stalking behind her. She was writing songs and working on a new album. She sang at Calamity Jane’s bar with the local band.

  All while I stood at the glass, staring into the future without a clue which direction it would take me.

  My parents called me lost.

  I preferred in limbo. And for a little bit longer, I was going to stay in limbo.

  Because limbo was safe too.

  I loved my small, sheltered apartment. I enjoyed my lazy-day routine. I needed to be the one who watched, instead of the one being watched.

  So . . . limbo. Until something called to me and I started living again.

  Minutes ticked away as I stood at the window, and below me, the streets of Calamity were quiet. With nothing but a few vehicles parked outside of Jane’s bar, there wasn’t much to watch but the falling snow, so I retreated from the window.

  The lights in the apartment were off. I might stare at the people outside, but I didn’t want them staring back. I used the blue glow from the microwave’s clock to navigate across the open room. Wine in hand, I sat on the cream sofa I’d staged across the room from my bed. My tablet rested on the whitewashed oval coffee table, and I opened it to the book I’d been reading earlier.

  My second favorite pastime these days was reading true-crime novels. I’d lose myself in the mystery and inner workings of a serial killer’s mind. Somehow learning about the mentally insane made it easier to accept my stalker’s actions. In these novels, I learned why the villain was the villain. The motivations were right there, in black and white.

  Lucy and I didn’t have a lot of answers about our stalker. The woman had been sick. But that explanation had never seemed like enough. So I read because maybe I’d find an answer in one of these books.

  The snow outside continued to fall as I devoured the pages, reading in the dark until my phone dinged. I dug it out. An email from my mother?

  It was nearly one in the morning in Montana, making it almost three a.m. on the East Coast. My mother had always been an early riser, especially during tax season, using the predawn hours to fire off a string of terse emails.

  At least, I assumed her emails were all terse. I’d never received one with a gentle tone or friendly greeting, so that must be how she communicated with everyone.

  Or maybe just me.

  Everly,

  Your father and I are waiting for your response to our discussion last week. We’ve set aside an hour to call you this evening at five o’clock Mountain Standard Time. Please come prepared.

  Cynthia Sanchez-Christian CPA, MPAc

  Her emails were never signed Mom. There was never an I love you. I’m proud of you. I’m mad at you. I’m happy for you. Because Cynthia Sanchez-Christian was apathetic when it came to her daughter. Probably the reason I avoided her.

  Five o’clock. That meant I had less than twenty-four hours until I got the privilege of hearing her disinterest, because skipping our scheduled call would only lead to more emails I had no desire to receive.

  I deleted the note and stood, tossing my tablet onto the couch before making my way back to the window. I leaned against the frame, feeling the sheer white, floor-to-ceiling curtains drift over my shoulder.

  I’d been in Calamity since
September. After the stalker, neither Lucy nor I’d had much of a desire to return to Nashville and retrieve our belongings, so we’d had clothes and other personal items shipped to Montana. The furniture, those pieces not riddled with bullet holes, had been donated and forgotten. Leaving me with the blank slate that was this apartment.

  Kerrigan had cleaned the space up before I’d moved in, hauling away junk and scrubbing it from top to bottom. But she’d left the raw edge, the brick and the glass and the unfinished ceiling. I’d softened the room with textures, like the curtains and my plush white bed. Everything I’d bought was a shade of white or cream. What the apartment lacked in color inside, Calamity made up for outside.

  Last fall, when the trees had turned a kaleidoscope of red and orange and lime green, I’d left the curtains wide open so the colors could bleed inside. Then the winter blues had taken their place. I couldn’t wait for the greens of spring and the yellows of summer.

  They’d brighten the room and draw me outside.

  I didn’t have a car. I hadn’t needed one in Nashville. So I walked wherever I had to go. The grocery store. The bank. The tiny movie theater. If ever I was in need, Lucy would drive me the farther distances with her and Duke’s German shepherd puppy, Cheddar, riding shotgun.

  Small-town life was a welcome change from the city bustle. According to Duke, summer in Calamity would be busier. Tourists flocked to the area, crowding the streets and shops. But tonight, as the clock slipped into the early hours of tomorrow, it was peaceful. Silent.

  Across the street and two blocks down, the electric-orange glow from Jane’s neon bar sign tinted the falling snow into ginger flakes. There were only two cars out front taking up the diagonal parking spaces closest to the door. Like they knew I’d been waiting, two men pushed outside, shaking hands before getting into their vehicles, their taillights soon disappearing.

  First Street was empty.

  Loneliness, darker than the sky and colder than the snow, seeped into my bones.