“I’m fine.” Except for the whole no job, no apartment, no life, and everyone-staring-at-me-for-no-reason thing, I was aces.
“Um…okay. Good. No, that’s great. You’ve got the right attitude. Just ignore this. It’ll all blow over and everyone will be on to the next drama in no time.”
The bell at the deli counter dinged. “Bacon, egg, and cheese and a coffee light and sweet for Phoebe.”
As I reached up to grab the white paper bag and cup, the guy leaning on the counter looked me right in the eye with a smirk. “Ay, meat girl, what? You didn’t have enough steak last night? You need more meat?”
“Excuse me?” I stepped back, and knocked into another customer who was already chuckling.
“I got some meat for you, if you need more.”
His buddy jumped in. “Your boyfriend’s a real gavone. You can do better, sweetheart.”
How do these assholes know about my steak and my boyfriend? I wasn’t quick to panic but my fight-or-flight mechanism had me on high alert. What the fuck was going on here?
“Phoebe.” Audrey’s voice brought me back to my senses. I clutched the phone to my ear and got out of the deli as quickly as possible, but more comments followed as I made my way down the street. And people were… Were they taking pictures of me? “Phoebe, where are you? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. I’m just getting a fucking breakfast sandwich and everyone’s calling me meat girl.”
“Sweetie, have you been on social media?”
“No.”
“Oh, Phoebs. Go straight home.”
“What? Why?”
“Hey, it’s meat girl!”
What. The. Fuck. People were pulling out their phones and following me. I walked faster. “Audrey, this is freaking me out. What’s going on?”
“Sweetie, you’re a meme.”
I almost dropped the phone. “I’m what?”
“Last night at the restaurant some woman live-tweeted your entire conversation with Drew, complete with photos. The one of you walking out with that steak has gone viral.”
“Oh my god.” That explained everything, but it was the most nightmarish explanation I’d ever heard in my entire life.
“How far are you from your apartment?”
“Half a block.”
“Good. Just get inside.”
“Why are they calling me meat girl?”
“That’s one of the more popular captions.”
“Do I even want to know what the others are?”
“No.”
Oh my god.
I didn’t even remember getting up to my apartment. My hands shook so much it was surprising I’d managed to unlock the front door. They shook more as I scrolled Twitter. “Meat girl” was the tip of the iceberg. They’d found my name and my account.
Phoebe Antoinette Let Them Eat Meat!
I’ve got a bone to pick with you!
Grab your meat!
Fisting the bone!
Where’s the beef?
Oh, come on, now…
My notifications were dinging nonstop, and I made the mistake of checking them.
Now in addition to the horrifying images of me wielding a Tomahawk steak like a maniacal cavewoman there were pics of me in my ratty pajamas and glasses, with my hair in a messy top-knot and no makeup.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
The sound of a baby crying startled me, and then I remembered Audrey was still on my phone waiting for me to regain my power of speech.
“Aud?”
“I’m here. Two secs. Let me get the baby on my boob.”
I paced the length of the apartment. The apartment I said I’d be out of today. Shit. “I can’t believe this is happening. I told Drew I’d have my stuff cleared out by this afternoon. I don’t even want to set foot outside.”
“Tell him you need another few days.”
I scrolled through more photos, my stomach turning over with each new caption. “How the hell am I going to find a job? Who’s going to hire the crazy meme woman?”
“Well, actually…”
2
phoebe
One week later…
* * *
I must be out of my mind.
I shook my phone then snapped it back onto the dashboard holder. Nothing. No signal whatsoever. Driving had never been my favorite thing. I grew up in New York City. Who needed to drive when there were buses and subways and taxis and Ubers to take you wherever you wanted to go anytime, day or night?
The only reason I even knew how to drive was that my lifelong bestie, Ellie, had an uncle with a car dealership—and a swanky beach house—in the Hamptons. I’d spent every summer there through high school and college. Catering jobs out there paid super well, and I’d gotten to work with some stellar chefs, but I’d had to drive to get around. I’d learned on the loaner cars from the BMW dealership. Not a bad way to get a feel for the road.
But driving a luxury car in the Hamptons was nothing like navigating winding Vermont mountain roads in a clunky U-Haul. My life and every worldly possession I owned seemed perilously close to doom, and I wasn’t too proud to admit I screamed like a cartoon squirrel on a few of the super sharp curves.
When Audrey had offered me a job setting up the gastropub at her family’s brewpub, the Speakeasy, I’d said yes instantly. Getting out of Manhattan seemed like a gift from the universe, and, even though it wasn’t the restaurant I’d been working on forever, it was still a chance to head up a grand opening. Given my social-media fiasco, anything that looked good on my résumé seemed like a fantastic idea.
But I’d never set foot in Vermont before, and I’d lost cell service somewhere around the New Hampshire border, so the past forty-five minutes had been me hoping I remembered the directions correctly. I’d spent the last week wishing the internet didn’t exist, and now all I wanted was a connection.
Like magic, the GPS came back on just long enough to tell me the street was one hundred feet ahead before crapping out again. I turned down the road, squinting to see the mailbox numbers as the sunlight danced through the crazy-tall trees. 97...103...111. This was it.
The long driveway seemed frighteningly narrow for the giant box of a U-Haul. I parked on the patch of gravel to the side of the house, as I’d been instructed in the email, then climbed out. My legs were strong from standing in kitchens for hours on end, but felt wobbly from so many hours of driving. I stretched quickly, feeling the cool breeze tickle my exposed stomach, then tugged my T-shirt back into place.
There was no sign of a guest cottage anywhere, just the massive main house—an old Victorian-style home with a huge wraparound porch. As I walked closer, I noticed what appeared to be two front doors—a small set of stairs leading to a traditional-looking entrance and, at the other end of the porch, a second set of stairs leading to a screen door. I felt like Alice in Wonderland. Which door should I pick?
I opted for the standard-looking front door and rang the bell. Chimes echoed inside the house, but I didn’t hear any movement. Please let the caretaker be home. Not only did I want to get settled as quickly as possible, I desperately needed to pee.
Just as I raised my hand to ring a second time, I heard a voice, deep and decidedly masculine. “Hello?”
The door in front of me remained closed, but I heard the squeak of a screen door and realized I was at the wrong end of the porch.
“Hello?” I wandered the length of the porch, trying to peek around the large bay window to see the other door.
“Hey, sorry, I never know which door to answer. The doorbells sound the same.”
I caught sight of the source of the voice, and my breath hitched. Tall. Mop of shoulder-length, sun-streaked hair, eyes such a pale silvery blue I could see them sparkling from ten feet away. He was wearing faded, well-worn jeans and absolutely nothing else. I’d forgotten how to swallow. All I could do was stare.
“I’m Sam.” He extended a hand, giving me an excuse to trail my eyes along the ripples
of his abs. “Are you here for the key to the guesthouse?”
My fingers slid against his surprisingly smooth skin, and the firm but gentle pressure did things to multiple parts of my body. And did he smell like cinnamon? Everything from my stomach south clenched in unison. “Yes. I’m Phoebe. I guess I spoke with your grandmother?”
“Yep.” He gave a nod and a smile. “She told me you’d be by sometime this weekend. I wasn’t expecting the house to be rented quite so fast, but I’ve got it mostly in order. I hear you’re a friend of Audrey Shipley?”
“I am. She set this all up for me. Do you know her?”
He nodded. “The Shipleys and my family go way back.”
The screech of an oven timer interrupted him.
“Sounds like you need to get that.”
“I do. Come on in. If you don’t mind, leave your shoes here in the mudroom. Your keys and the paperwork are in the kitchen.”
I managed a “Sure,” as he jogged in the direction of the beeping, leaving me with a stunning view of him from behind. Vermont was looking lovelier by the second.
The cool tile of the mudroom floor felt good against my feet. Why was I so overheated? I trailed down the hallway, taking in the rows of old, black-and-white photos along the wall. An arched doorway opened into a massive kitchen with wide wood-plank flooring. The heavenly smell I’d noticed on the deck became more pronounced with each step, and I entered the room just in time to see the shirtless wonder removing a pan of cinnamon rolls from the oven.
“Those smell amazing.”
“I can’t take credit. My grandmother and her sister make them every Saturday night to bake Sunday morning. They gave me a batch last night at dinner. All I did was pop them in the oven.” He slid the pan onto a massive bakers’ rack. “So, I hear you drove up from New York. That’s a ride. You must’ve left in the middle of the night.”
“I did. I hate driving in traffic, so I figured that would be the best way to avoid it.”
He laughed, and the sound fluttered through my entire being. “Yeah, traffic’s not really a thing up here.”
“So I noticed. I barely saw another car for half the drive.”
He popped the lid off a Tupperware on the center island and the sweet tang of cream cheese frosting wafted out. “Not a lot of rest stops, either. Have you eaten? Can I interest you in a cinnamon roll?”
My stomach danced at the suggestion, but first things first. “I’d love one, but can I trouble you for a bathroom?”
“Oh, absolutely.” He gestured across the kitchen. “Through that doorway, first door on the left.”
I had to pee so bad I speed-waddled across the room. So attractive. The bathroom was much larger than I’d expected to find in such an old home, complete with a clawfoot tub, tons of pillar candles lining built-in shelves, and more crystals than I’d ever seen outside of the Natural History Museum. Relief quite literally flooded out of me as I released the gallon of coffee I’d inhaled on the drive up.
The crystals had me mesmerized. I’d never been into rocks or minerals, but these were breathtaking. All sizes, shapes, and colors, some carved into pyramids or long tower shapes, others polished into smooth eggs and spheres, and some in their natural forms. Even in the regular bathroom light, they sparkled. With the candles lit, it must’ve looked like a light show.
The soap had a sweet smell that I couldn’t place, but the aroma relaxed me as I lathered and rinsed my hands. It was the most soothing bathroom I’d ever been in. As I opened the door, a slinky black cat zipped inside and began doing figure eights around my legs before standing on its hind legs and cooing at me.
“You’re awfully friendly.” I scratched its head and ears, and a loud purr rattled out, echoing against the tile. It had been years since I’d had a cat, and even the one I grew up with hadn’t been this affectionate. On instinct I scooped it up and wandered back into the kitchen.
Sam greeted me with another heart-stopping smile, though I was disappointed to see he’d put on a T-shirt. It was black with a constellation on it—zodiac sign, maybe? “Hey, I see you’ve met Puck.”
The purring intensified, and I worked my nails under the cat’s chin, making it louder. “I did. What a sweetheart.”
Sam’s eyebrow quirked, and he folded his arms across his chest. “Can’t say anyone’s ever called him that before. He usually makes himself pretty scarce when new people are around, and when it’s just the two of us, he’s up to shenanigans more than anything else.”
“Shenanigans? Is that true, Puck?” His big paws kneaded the air as he let me rub his chest and tummy. “He doesn’t seem to agree with your assessment.”
Sam chuckled. “That’s not at all surprising. He’s pretty contrary.”
Giant cinnamon buns sat on two brightly colored Fiestaware plates. Sam slid the teal one toward me.
“That looks amazing.” I let Puck down on one of the tall-back barstools at the kitchen island and sat down next to him. My fork sank into the pillowy dough, and gooey cinnamon sugar oozed from between the layers. The second it hit my tongue, I let out a groan. “Oh my god.”
“I know, right? She’s pretty famous for these.”
I had to fight to keep from moaning as I chewed and swallowed. “I can see why.”
“Personally, I think she just enjoys saying, ‘Everyone loves my buns.’”
“I think I might love your grandma.”
He nodded, glowing. “She’s pretty awesome. And I’m not just saying that because she raised me. Although I’ll admit it might make me a tad biased.”
“She raised you? By herself?”
“Pretty much. Although her sister was always around too.”
I licked some extra frosting off my fork, letting it melt on my tongue. So good. “So no mom and dad? Sorry if I’m being nosy. I was raised by a single mom. I’m always curious how other people grew up.”
“It’s okay. You’re gonna be living in the family guesthouse, so you may as well learn some of the lore.” He raised a pot of coffee.
“Yes, please.” I’d been desperate for more caffeine for the last few hours of the drive, but honestly, between the sugar rush and Sam’s contagious energy, I already felt recharged.
He grabbed two mugs and poured, then nudged a sugar bowl closer to me and turned to the fridge. “I’ve never met my dad. No clue who he is. My mom’s been around very sporadically. She’ll announce she’s visiting, stay a week, and leave.”
“Wow. That sounds kind of…challenging.”
A glass bottle of half and half appeared. They had glass milk bottles here? Why did I feel as if I’d entered a different century when I’d entered this state?
“Honestly, as a kid I didn’t know her at all. My grandmother made a great home for me. I grew up feeling wanted and loved. I don’t know what more anyone could ask for.”
“You sound amazingly healthy and well-adjusted.”
Sam nearly spit out his coffee. “No one’s called me well-adjusted before. I must be overselling my childhood a bit.”
“No, I didn’t mean it that way. I just didn’t grow up feeling particularly wanted or loved. My mother was always acting as if her life would be easier if she didn’t have me, and my dad was a birthday card and semi-regular child-support checks. I couldn’t wait to leave home.”
“Oh, I couldn’t either. In fact, I left for college ten years ago and have only been home for holidays and the occasional summer. Until now.”
The enormous cinnamon roll was disappearing far too fast, so I made a conscious effort to slow down. “When did you move back?”
“About a month ago. I’ve been travelling the past few years, but my grandmother called and said she needed help with the family business. We own the rock and mineral shop in town. Crystal Persuasion. After all she’s done for me, I couldn’t say no.”
That explained the beautiful displays in the bathroom. “Is she okay?”
“You know, initially I was worried she wasn’t, but I have a sneaking susp
icion she was just ready to retire. I mean, she’s almost eighty, but she’s sharp as a tack and has more energy than me most days. I think she and her sister just wanted some time to kick back and party together. Every time I stop by, they’re blasting music and mixing cocktails.”
“Good for them. So your aunt…I guess great-aunt? She lives in town too?”
“Yep. This is actually her house. She wanted to move in with my grandmother and I’m living here with a laundry list of things in the house that need fixing. They’ve been renting the guesthouse out for years.”
“And you’re my landlord. Caretaker? Neighbor?”
“Neighborlord? No, that sounds creepy.”
“Not as bad as neighbortaker.”
Sam giggled. Oh my god. If there was anything sexier than the sound of a grown man giggling, I sure as hell couldn’t think of what it could be. I watched his strong shoulders rise and fall, his silky hair dancing atop them. “Landneighbor?”
“Perfect.”
“Although I am the caretaker, and the handyman, and customer service, too.”
“And concierge.” I gestured to the food. “You’re a regular Renaissance man.”
He raised his coffee mug to me. “That’s what it says on my résumé. Speaking of which, if I recall, my grandmother said you were up here for a job. What does your résumé say?”
“If it were honest, it would say hot mess, but I fudged it a little so it says executive chef.”
“Fudged. Is that chef humor?”
I bit back a grin and ignored him. “I’m here to head up the gastropub at Speakeasy. I assume you know the place?”
“It’s my home away from home. I stop there for a beer almost nightly after work. I’ve been wondering when they’re going to get their asses in gear and start serving food.”
“I hope you’re not the only one, because I spent the whole drive up contemplating menu items.”
“Let’s hear your ideas.”
This would actually be good practice for my upcoming meeting with the owners. I rattled off the partial list I had for various dips and sauces for wings and fries and also my personal favorite idea: chiccarones and fried chicken skin strips, which would be called Skinny Dippers.
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