The Plan: A Sweet and Sexy Rock Star Romantic Comedy (The Creek Water Series Book 3)
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Also by Whitney Dineen
Romantic Comedies
The Event
The Move
Relatively Normal
Relatively Sane
Relatively Happy
The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan
Mimi Plus Two
Kindred Spirits
She Sins at Midnight
Going Up?
Non-Fiction Humor
Motherhood, Martyrdom & Costco Runs
Middle Reader Fiction
Wilhelmina and the Willamette Wig Factory
Who the Heck is Harvey Stingle?
Children’s Books
The Friendship Bench
The Plan
Whitney Dineen
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locales (except Missouri really is a state), and situations are the work of the authors overactive imagination and voices in her head. Any resemblance to people living or dead, events, etc. is purely coincidental. And I don’t mean maybe.
Copyright © by Whitney Dineen in 2020; all rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, scanned, photographed, or distributed in print or electronic form without express permission of the author. But let’s face it, if you love it, she’ll probably let you share small portions. You still have to contact her first.
Made in the United States. March, 2020 ISBN: 9798618270922
https://whitneydineen.com/newsletter/
33 Partners Publishing
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my whole tribe of talented, selfless, crazy, wonderful people!
Libby Bohlen: Mothers rock, opinions and all.
Jimmy Dineen: Being married to me hasn’t been boring, but buddy, you’ve been something of a thrill ride yourself. Here’s to another thirty years of fun.
Becky Monson: Your cover designs for my last two series are the best. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for listening to the voices in your head and making sure my books are worthy of being judged by their covers.
Sheryl Babin, Tracie Bannister, Melanie Summers, Kate O’Keeffe, Annabelle Costa, Delancey Stewart, and Virginia Grey: Heartfelt appreciation for always being there for a blurb, tweak, or share, and for offering an opinion. You’re my foundation.
Celia Kenney: It’s such a gift to have an editor who gets me and doesn’t let me pull any crap. My hat’s off to you, my friend.
Paula Bothwell and Sandy Penny: My eternal thanks for making me appear literate. Not only are you proofreaders extraordinaire, but you’re fast and fabulous.
Sara Steven and Melissa Amster at Chick Lit Central: Thank you for reading and sharing my books and thank you for helping to keep our fabulous genre alive.
Scott Schwimer: As far as Hollywood relationships go, we’ve been together forever! You are an awesome friend, attorney, and all-around big daddy.
My readers: You guys are the ones who make my dream gig possible, and I heart you for being so awesome! I read every single one of your reviews, emails, and posts on Facebook. Thank you for being a part of my journey.
Dedicated to all my friends who wake up every day and put one foot in front of the other.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Epilogue
About the Author
Excerpt: Relativity Series
Chapter 1
Slam!
The door to my shop crashes open and Sissy Peabody storms through, cane in hand. She wields it like the grand marshal of the Macy’s Day Parade. Her fist clenches the center like she’s going to lift it high over her head and blow a whistle to signal the big bass drums to start a marching cadence. She strides right up to me and, despite being forty-some years older, she stands strong, forcing me to acknowledge her stormy blue eyes and halo of silver curls.
Twenty years ago, Mrs. P was my eighth-grade math teacher, and while I always liked her as a person, she often found me wanting as a student. One day, midway through the year, she’d asked, “Amelia Frothingham, if y=x-2, what is the value of y?”
“Twenty-five,” I’d proudly answered.
“How in the world did you derive that?” she demanded.
“Y is the twenty-fifth letter in the alphabet.”
“So?”
“So, Y equals twenty-five.”
Mrs. P sent home a note suggesting my parents hire me a tutor. Which they did. She helped just enough so I could pass the class and proceed onto the horrors of ninth-grade algebra. Lucky me.
“Did you take the bus with the rest of the group from the senior center?” I ask her. Normally, I teach beading classes for kids, crafty moms, and bored housewives, so I have no idea how I’ll do with the bifocal/cataract set, but I’m looking forward to finding out.
“What rest of the group? I was the only one on the bus.”
Shock flows through me like spoiled meat looking for an evacuation route. “I thought I had a full class,” I tell her with more disappointment in my voice than I care to admit. I mean, they paid me up front for nine people, so I automatically assumed that’s what I was getting.
“Don’t know,” my old teacher tells me. “All I know is that when I got on the bus, I was all alone. Jimbo shut the door and drove me over, and here I am.
Shoot, I took extra care with my look my today and everything. I swiped on an extra bit of mascara before dressing in an outfit reminiscent of the one Lucille Ball wore in my favorite I Love Lucy episode—the one where she stomped grapes in Italy. Not only does the colorful peasant skirt and blouse perpetrate the happy-go-lucky persona I always tried hard to achieve, but I thought the old folks would like it.
Mrs. P reaches her hand out and runs her fingers over my long, wavy blonde hair. “Still as pretty as ever, aren’t cha?” Before I can collect my thoughts, she looks around my shop with interest and asks, “Now, whatchoo planning on teaching me?”
“I thought I’d start out with the peyote stitch and show you how to make a classic Native American bracelet,” I say distractedly as I fight panic over the deviation from my plan. I feel like I’m nine years old all over again; that’s when my attacks started. At least now I have some skills in place to help me cope.
Mrs. P follows me to the back of my store where I have a table set up for nine students. She picks up a sample bracelet and declares, “Honey, my eyes are crap these days. There’s no way I can see well enough to work with such tiny beads.” Her eyes look clear and fully cognizant, but her glasses do appear thicker than I remember them being in school.
“I have a magnifying stand for you,” I tell her. “You should have no problem if you use that.”
She takes a seat in front of me, careful to lay her cane on the chair next to her. “I don’t think it’s for me,” she says.
“Oh, well, okay. I guess we could make a standard knotted necklace or something.”
“Nah, that doesn’t sound good either.”
I’m completely flummoxed as to why Mrs. Peabody signed up for my class if she doesn’t want to make anything. I’ve gone from teaching nine students to none. My stomach clenches as I ask, “What would you like to do?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly. “Why don’t we have ourselves a cup of tea and a chat?”
“You paid twenty-five dollars for a cup of tea? That’s all you want?”
“I’m kind of lonely these days,” she confesses. “Ever since Elijah passed, I don’t rightly know what to do with myself. I sit around the senior center hoping to find someone interesting to talk to, but I tell ya, that place is full of folks whinging about one ailment or another. Like I care if Delia Weston burps every time she eats cilantro or that whole grains give Felicity Hinkleford gas. What’s wrong with old folks? Thinking their bodily functions are the only interesting thing left to talk about in the world.”
“What about your knitting group?” I ask. “I heard you and Mrs. Clayton host some gals down at the club every Wednesday morning.” I know this from my mama and Aunt Gracie who play canasta there with their friends on Wednesdays.
“Clara just had her gall bladder out and I swear she spends all her time informing us of the dire consequences of eating fried food without one. I told her, ‘Clara Belle Clayton, you can’t put me off my fried pickles, so don’t you even try.’ She said, ‘Sissy, girl, you don’t want to know what comes out of you when you eat fried food without a gallbladder.’ I told her, ‘You are correct, I don’t want to know.’ Then she goes ahead and tells me! I’m taking a break from her, too.”
My mama and aunt are only in their early fifties, and Granny Frothingham is in a home with dementia, so my time spent chatting with the older generation of town is rather limited. Instead of risking Mrs. P’s disapproval by bringing up something she has a strong negative opinion about, I ask, “What would you like to talk about?”
“Why don’t you tell me about that boy you’re seeing,” she suggests.
“What boy?” I ask.
“That lawyer fella your mama told me about a while back.”
“Aiden Quinn? He moved to St. Louis,” I tell her.
“So what? You got yourself a car. You could visit, or heck girl, you could move if you wanted to. You’re young, single, why should you stay here in in this little blip of a town when you could hit the big city lights of St. Louie?”
“I like it here.”
“Pish-posh,” she responds. “This place is fine for the likes of me, but if I was your age again, I’d get out and try something new. Somewhere bigger.”
I’m not about to explain to Mrs. Peabody that my entire life has been an exercise in control. That I have no intention of leaving now that I finally feel the calm in the storm that has lived in my head. Instead, I say, “I like cilantro. It doesn’t make me burp.”
“I can’t stand it,” she responds. “Tastes like I’m licking out the inside of a rusty pipe.”
My old math teacher and I spend the rest of the morning talking about everything and anything. She refused to leave with Jimbo when he told her it was time to go. Instead, she helped me clean up the supplies I’d assembled to teach the class. Then, she followed me around while I helped customers, before sharing my lunch with me. Not until she’d consumed all three of my mini oatmeal raisin cookies did she declare it was time to go home for her afternoon nap.
Her last words, as she walked out the door were, “I’ll see you in the morning at nine o’clock on the nose.” I have no idea why she’s planning to come back tomorrow, but I guess I’ll find out then.
Chapter 2
I lock the front door of the shop at five and have just enough time to run upstairs to my apartment for a quick shower and wardrobe change before meeting my cousin Emmie and my brother’s girlfriend Lexi, at Lexi’s house. Emmie has something she wants to tell us, but she’s not giving any hints.
After washing and drying my hair, I slip into a violet-colored, floral-patterned wrap dress and then some orange kitten-pumps, before grabbing a bottle of wine off the counter and running down the back stairs to the alley behind the building where my car is parked.
I’ve lived in this building since I moved out of my parents’ house when I was twenty-two and came into a decent-sized inheritance from my mama’s parents. They died when I was in high school, leaving each of us three kids enough money to buy some real estate. I bought my building before the revitalization of downtown Creek Water, which my daddy and uncle Jesse are responsible for. Hence, it’s worth a load more than I paid for it. This has given me the financial security necessary to open my shop. Beads aren’t exactly a lucrative business, but I make and sell jewelry as well. While I’m not rolling in it, I’m doing something that I love, which is more than most folks can say.
As soon as I put my key into the ignition, the speakers blare out the haunting melody of Huck Wiley’s latest hit, “Untethered.” That man’s voice is enough to make me understand the alarming custom of throwing one’s unmentionables on the stage at a rock concert.
Initially, Huck’s voice is rough and gravelly like Eddie Vedder’s from Pearl Jam. Then the velvety undertones crawl in and wham! it’s panties-on-the-stage time. The combined effect leaves me hot and bothered in a way that no real man ever has. Not that Huck Wiley isn’t real, but to me, he’s as elusive as Prince Charming in a fairy tale. Too bad because that’s a man I’d like to try my hand at taming.
I run the risk of being late, something I abhor, but I don’t let potential tardiness deter me from leaning back and closing my eyes as Huck’s voice rolls over me like warm molasses on a tall stack of flapjacks.
Tethered to the past by phantom chains of longing.
Tethered to a place by illusions of belonging.
Tethered to a girl who left without a glance.
Tethered to a life that never had a chance.
Not for the first time, I wonder what woman could have ever left a man like Huck. I don’t know much about him, but I do know he’s breathtakingly gorgeous and enormously talented. Combine that with the depth of emotion he expresses in his music, and I’d say he’s definitely a man worth sticking around for.
Last month, I bought a copy of Rolling Stone magazine at the market because he was on the cover in all of his bad-boy rocker glory—wildly willful brown hair, a touch too long like it had been swept up in a wind storm; a jaw so sharp you cut bread with it; and green eyes that pierced my calm like nothing else. The tattooed arms bursting out of a too-snug t-shirt advertising his Untethered tour showcased his physical perfection—the cherry on the sundae that is Huck Wiley.
I’d flipped through the magazine in hot pursuit of finding out which super model left him so broken up that he was driven to write such an achingly tender ballad in her honor. But the article didn’t say. Huck claimed that if he wanted the world to know who the song was about, he’d tell them. In the meantime, we shouldn’t hold our breath.
I di
d find out that he had a ten-year-old daughter that he was raising as a single parent. When asked about the girl’s mother, he answered, “I’m not going to talk about her.” Nothing else was mentioned on the topic. From the little I could tell from the article, the rock star can be a bit brusque when the conversation veers toward a topic he deems personal.
I sit still for a full minute after the song ends, basking in its afterglow. I am not what anyone would call talented. Yes, I make pretty jewelry, but it’s not going to alter the course of life as we know it. People with musical abilities, whether instrumental or vocal, painters and sculptors … that’s the kind of talent I’ll never have. I don’t honestly know whether I could deal with living under a microscope that some of their jobs entail, but I’m still a bit envious. I will never stand on stage and open my mouth to render the masses awestruck by my ability to make them feel. I will never paint a masterpiece so captivating that crowds line up for hours just so they can get a glimpse of it. What must it be like to harbor such innate ability?
I lower the volume on the music slightly while I contemplate my deficiencies as I start my journey down Main Street. I decide to take solace in the fact that I’m a functioning adult and most of the anxieties of my early life are nothing more than a distant memory. Yes, I still need to count and have a bias for odd numbers, but I can step on a multitude of cracks without fear that my mama will wind up in traction. I even occasionally fall asleep without saying my prayers and don’t wake in a blind panic in the middle of the night sure that my negligence will be responsible for the death of a loved one. So that’s good, right?