Anders and the Girl Worth Fighting For (Untamed Rascals #1)

Chapter One

t he church loomed before me like a raging bull ready to trample me at the slightest break in concentration.

The low white building rested small an unassuming against a cacophony of tall green trees and bright blue late summer sky.

The sun danced overhead, playing with the shadows and lighting the bees as they buzzed, a testament to how long I’d spent trapped in my car, chaos and darkness weighting me down, freezing me despite the hot day.

I’d been here every Sunday since I was a girl, and several days in between, but I couldn’t leave this seat and go inside.

I’m a failure. I can’t do this. Nothing I do is ever good enough. My heart raced, and my lungs burned from my erratic breathing as I sat in my car. A litany of my fears raced through my head, competing for attention, growing bigger and bigger with each round.

The cookies I had painstakingly decorated sat melting in the seat next to me. Frosting slid ever so slightly down the sides of them toward the back of the seat. The cloying scent of sugar assaulted my nose as I took deep breaths, building up the courage to go inside.

It’s just a letter-writing party. Writing letters to complete strangers. Strangers who would judge me. Strangers who probably don’t even want letters to begin with. Strangers who will probably throw my letter away without ever even reading it.

My heart rate ramped up even higher with my spiraling thoughts, and I had to force myself to breathe.

The inevitable chatting would be worse.

“How’s Bill?” They would ask.

I would smile and try not to flinch as his name hit me like a physical blow to the gut, winding me, crumpling me in a way nothing else could. We had a good marriage. He was a good provider. I had a beautiful home. I couldn’t have asked for anything better.

Still, a certainty clawed at me I needed to dodge him. It stayed with me wherever I went and whatever I did, lingering like the stench of a litter box, invading my mind and taking over my senses.

I couldn’t think in this heat and in this car and in this parking lot.

I clawed my chest, trying to get some air, to stop my racing heart, to feel something beside panic and fear.

This was stupid. Just walk into the church you’ve been a member of your whole life, Grace.

Write a simple letter and then you can go home.

A knock on the window startled me out of my spiral, and a familiar and unwelcome face peeked at me through the window.

Blonde hair teased high on her head framed a face adorned with flawless make up.

An immaculate bright yellow dress draped elegantly over her athletic body.

Paired with her blonde hair, she looked like sunshine personified, almost too bright to really look at. Kaye, the preacher’s wife.

“Grace, are you coming in?” she asked in an all too sweet voice. One that nearly matched the sugar cookies that still sat there, melting in the seat beside me. I rolled down the window, still stuck to my seat.

“Oh, uh, yes.” I scrambled for an excuse to explain why I was just sitting here. “Just working out how to bring in all my supplies and the cookies I made for everyone.”

I wasn’t sure when I learned how to lie, but it had become too easy these days.

“Supplies?” she asked, a wrinkle fighting to form on her botoxed brow. “Whatever for?” I noticed she didn’t offer to help me bring anything in.

“Yes, supplies” — I turned off the car, leaving the window open to air out the overbearing smell of sugar — “I brought my rubber stamp collection, and some cardstock I thought would be nice to use.”

“Oh,” she said frostily. I wondered what I did wrong this time. There was always something. Bill had made sure this morning that I understood exactly how bad it made him look when I messed up like this. My shoulders slumped in defeat.

I tried — and failed — to put on my best smile and opened the door.

I grabbed the cookies as I pushed past Kaye and made my way to the trunk.

My stamp collection isn’t just stamps, but a whole card-making set, complete with rubber stamps, glitter, stickers, an embosser, and an array of cardstock in every color and weight imaginable.

I was so excited when they announced this project that I packed everything up almost right away, setting it by the door, so I just had to grab it on my way out today.

Bill caught me loading it up after lunch.

He leaned against the door frame, his arms crossed, and an expression on his face that set my heart galloping in my chest, urging me to run away from that look and the words that would come next.

“If they needed all this, they would have asked,” he said, “You should probably just leave it at home and not waste the effort. You’re embarrassing me, Grace. Why do you always do this?”

Maybe that was why Kaye was upset. Maybe I overstepped.

I opened my tightly stuffed trunk, the card making paraphernalia taking up most of the space. Kaye continued to stand by as I tried to balance the tray of cookies on top of the box to bring it all in. Good thing I never skipped my workouts.

I guess.

“Can you carry the cookies?” I ventured to ask when they toppled a bit as I tried to balance everything. My arms weren’t quite long enough to get a good grip.

“Oh, no… sorry. My hands are full.” She lifted her hands, her phone in one hand and her keys in the other. She didn’t even lift her eyes from her phone. “It seems you have it.”

I very much did not have the cookies. They fell over the edge just as I lost my grip on the box.

Everything came crashing down and landed with a clatter on the asphalt of the parking lot.

Thankfully, the box of stamps stayed closed, and I had thought to pack the cookies in a reusable plastic tray with an attachable lid.

A tear slipped down my face, chased by another, blurring the world around me as I crouched down and groped for my fallen belongings.

I spent hours on those cookies to get them just right. I had shaped each one like an envelope and I had written the name of each woman in our church with the address for the church on them in royal frosting. That way, each woman had a cookie made just for her.

I righted the stamp box and arranged the cookies back on top. I carefully made my way into the church, using my foot to open the door after it closed behind Kaye.

Luckily, no one was in the kitchen when I snuck into it to put the cookies down before slipping into the attached bathroom to assess the damage my tears did to my face.

Bill was always reminding me I was a reflection of him and I should look just right.

He was right. What would it look like if I showed up covered in sweat, with smashed cookies, and running makeup?

“You’re a mess, Grace,” his voice sounded in my mind. “How would the congregation feel if the daughter of a deacon and the wife of a future deacon showed up looking like an unhappy disaster? What kind of wife lets herself look like this? Clean up. I deserve better.”

Clean up.

I stood in front of the mirror and stared at my reflection.

Clean up, Grace. How hard can it be?

Sweat matted my hair and turned the carefully curled strands into a frizzy mess.

Black mascara ran down my cheeks from my tears, smearing across my face from where I had tried to wipe them away.

Purple bruises showed under my ruined concealer, highlighted by my splotchy red too pale skin.

If the person in the mirror didn’t move when I did, I wouldn’t have known who stared back at me.

No wonder Kaye didn’t want to be seen with me.

I grabbed a paper towel and practiced smiling while I cleaned my face. By the time I’d cleaned off most of my makeup, my mouth turned up in a passable smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. No one ever looked close enough at me to notice, though, so it would be good enough.

I pulled out the small makeup bag I kept in my purse and applied a fresh coat of mascara, hoping that would be enough to hide behind.

I couldn’t salvage the frosting so easily.

I could scrape it off, but then the stain from the dye would still be there.

I considered just leaving them in the kitchen, but I had worked so hard on them.

I rifled through the drawers until I found a butter knife.

I would have to just blend everything in.

The frosting turned to a muddy gray color by the time I finished, but at least the names weren’t melting off.

Maybe I could claim this was intentional.

I rearranged the cookies on the tray. I had to throw out a few that were broken or crumbled. It was a good thing I had to wipe away the names. That way, no one felt left out because I had to throw their cookie away.

I set the mess of cookies down on the table at the front of the dining hall.

There were only a few other options for desserts, so maybe no one would care.

I went back to the kitchen to get my stamp collection and then took a few bracing breaths before I stepped back out and scanned the room, deciding where to sit.

When I had finally settled on a table in the back, MaryLynn, the woman responsible for today’s activity, waddled up to the microphone set up by the dessert table.

“Sisters! Thank you for coming today,” she said, bright and chipper, a contrast to the storm still raging inside me.

“We will be writing letters to soldiers overseas. Sister Kaye has found us an organization to partner with that will send your letters to a service member who hasn’t received a letter in a while.

” Kaye stood at the mention of her name, waving at the small applause that followed as if she won an award for an internet search that anyone could have done.