A Real Paige Turner

Chapter 1

When Nana handed me the keys to Pages Bookstore, the bookstore she’d built and run for over three decades, she looked deep into my eyes and said, “Paige Marion, make it your passion.” I don’t think me spread-eagle on the checkout desk with a man between my legs is what she had in mind.

However, I’m inclined to think that Nana would excuse my bold behavior considering today is the day John, my ex-fiancé and partner of ten years, is getting married to the woman he left me for. Today.

If I’ve learned anything from the past ten minutes it’s this, I do not have the core strength to engage in oral sex on a hard, narrow, elevated surface.

A person (me) who wants to be sexually adventurous on hard, narrow, elevated surfaces should not skip ab day at the gym.

I have spent the last thirty-two years skipping ab day.

From the moment I cracked my eyes open this morning and saw the date glaring at me from my phone screen, I knew the smart choice would be to stay in bed.

But Smart Paige didn’t wake up this morning.

Instead, Paige the Masochist made the poorest of choices and rolled out of bed.

She threw on her big-girl pants (or skirt in this case), made herself a triple-shot latte, and drove to work.

The second poor choice was imbibing the triple-shot latte on an empty stomach because I ended up getting the caffeine shakes and spilling most of it on my skirt on the way into work.

I should have taken that as a sign and gone home.

But I didn’t because Smart Paige was nowhere to be found.

Masochist Paige had a firm grip on the wheel and was determined to Stick. This. Day. Out.

Hindsight, you fickle bitch.

The rest of the day did not improve. Nope, it got progressively worse.

Did I mention that my ex is getting married at the church literally across the street?

And that he invited the whole town except little old me (not that I’d go, fuck you very much, John) so business was particularly slow?

And that I had to watch vendors set up all day?

And that the flowers are gorgeous? Stupid but gorgeous.

Aside from sobbing over John’s picture-perfect wedding set up, I did receive the book shipment I’d been waiting desperately for.

But when I opened the first box, I discovered it was the wrong book.

I’d ordered the wrong book for next week’s book signing.

When I called the publisher to see what could be done, the woman I spoke with was less than helpful and the conversation took a nasty turn.

To get the correct book on time, I’d have to pay an inordinate amount in rush shipping fees on top of everything else.

My remaining budget for the book signing is now zero dollars.

Normally, this would be upsetting but the author is Katherine Webber so it’s absolutely soul crushing.

Katherine is one of my very favorite contemporary authors and her latest book, Windswept, is the last in the Faebright trilogy that I leaned heavily on to get me through my breakup with John.

This series has all the upstairs/downstairs tension of Downton Abbey, but it takes place in a High Fae court beneath the London Underground.

Reading Katherine’s wonderful books was just the escape my broken heart needed.

Thanks to her, I’d had several very satisfying dreams where the Fae Prince, Lyndon, a seven-foot sex god, killed John in a variety of painful ways.

After years of stalking Katherine’s PR team, I’d finally gotten them to agree to an author event at Pages.

I pitched them the brilliant idea of an immersive signing event.

There would be actors in costume, set dressing perfect for social media photo ops, and delicious themed snacks.

They loved the idea and called it “veritably viral,” which I’m guessing is a good thing because they agreed to make the trek to my middle-of-nowhere bookstore.

Now thanks to my ordering blunder, my remaining budget for my very sold-out signing event is zero dollars.

I reached out to Gareth, the man I’d hired to dress up as Lyndon, to see if he’d be willing to renegotiate his fee for the evening since I was now in such a financial bind.

Gareth responded by showing up at the store ten minutes later to drop off the blue body paint and poet shirt I’d given him to wear.

“If you can’t see my value as an artist,” he said, “then I want no part in your faery porno.”

“Gareth, it’s a book signing not a porno,” I admonished. “But I really do need your help. I promised the marketing team a live Lyndon at the event. You’re my Lyndon! Without you there’s no event.”

That was the wrong persuasive tactic to take with Gareth. He insisted on doubling his fee since he was now the star of the show. The rest of the conversation did not improve. Gareth left in a huff, and I was left without a Fae prince.

I now have one week to pull a seven-foot tall, blue-skinned Fae Prince out of my ass.

“You okay?” The man asks, planting a kiss on my thigh.

Shit. I forgot there was a man down there.

He has enthusiastically been trying to make me see stars, bless him, while I have been lying here obsessing over today’s many disappointments.

I don’t even know his name. I think he said Chuck. Do people still get named Chuck?

I’m definitely not okay, but MaybeChuck doesn’t need to know the depth of my despair.

“I’m great! You?” I respond and then cringe. I sound like a goddamn telemarketer. What am I doing? My back is cramping and my hip flexors are going to need days to recover from this prolonged hover.

“I’ve got a beautiful woman buffet right in front of my face. Couldn’t be better,” he says, and then exuberantly resumes his investigation of my lap.

I wish I could say this was great and just what I needed to get my mind off the wedding happening across the street or my miles-long to-do list, but it isn’t. I’m Queen of the Realm of Nether-Region Numb, despite MaybeChuck’s determination. I have to get out of here. Now.

“Hey…friend.” Friend?! Oh, this day could not possibly get any worse.

MaybeChuck’s head pops up so quickly, I worry for a second that he’s given himself whiplash.

“Hey, sexy. Are you close?”

“Actually, I’m not,” I answer, dreading the awkwardness that’s sure to come.

MaybeChuck leans back, confused.

“It’s not you, I promise,” I assure him. “I’ve just had a really weird day, and my head isn’t in the right place for…this.”

“Want to switch positions? This desk doesn’t look especially comfortable.”

“It’s not the desk. It’s me. Definitely not you. You’re great! So great.” Why am I still talking? “I just really want to go home now.”

MaybeChuck looks at his watch, a forlorn expression on his face. “Man, I don’t have a ton of time. Do you live close? My plane leaves in three hours, and I still have to make the drive to the airport.”

“Absolutely! You should get to the airport. You never know about these mountain roads. There could be traffic. Ice. Traffic on ice.” I let out a deflated sounding laugh as I shimmy down off the desk and readjust my skirt.

MaybeChuck rubs the back of his neck and smiles at me ruefully. Poor guy looks so confused. Bending down, I grab the bag with the book he’d purchased. It’d fallen on the floor at the beginning of our ill-fated tryst.

He takes the bag from my offered hand. I’m expecting him to turn and walk toward the exit, but instead he reaches up and runs his finger down my cheek, chucking my chin like my grandpa used to when I was five. Any lingering doubts I have about ending this mistake disappear.

Finally, MaybeChuck heads for the door, and I grab my keys to let him out. Unlocking the door, I hold it open for him like a true professional, a diamond-plated smile plastered on my face.

“Next time I’m in town I’d love to finish what we started.” MaybeChuck says, holding his arms out, asking wordlessly for a hug.

“Yeah! Count me in,” I say, my voice unusually high. “Enjoy the book! It’s a perfect plane read!”

Instead of a hug, I smile and give him a thumbs-up. He looks at me, bewildered, the expression on his face clearly saying, This woman is unhinged.

MaybeChuck turns toward his car, and I release the breath I’ve been holding. I’m about to close the door again but pause when I hear him call out.

“Hey, what’s going on over there?” he asks, pointing across the street. I had successfully not looked during our farewell but now reluctantly raise my eyes to take it all in. Another crack forms in my already shattered heart.

The church, which is already a charming building, looks straight out of a Jane Austen movie.

The large wooden doors have been thrown open, and a massive flower arch of white roses and wisteria frames the entrance.

From this angle, you can see the glow of candlelight from inside, and I half expect Colin Firth to stalk out, dark eyes flashing as if to say I ardently do not love you, Paige.

It’s too much for me to deal with right now.

“The mayor’s getting married,” I say, before quickly closing the door and locking it, not caring a bit if MaybeChuck feels slighted. His Yelp review will be something to look forward to.

Yup, my ex, the mayor of our lovely little mountain town, is getting hitched today, at the same church where we were going to get married.

To be fair, it’s the only church in this small town of ours, but he should have had the decency to do a destination wedding, even if that destination were just the next town over.

Getting married right in front of my place of business feels like a personal attack.

His face is already plastered on reelection signs all over town.

Moving on from this breakup has been torturous.