Fighting (Peacock Springs, New Jersey #2)

Chapter 1

one

Nessa

Present | Labor Day Weekend

“People, people,” Jim Kelly, mayor of Peacock Springs and town veterinarian, calls from the makeshift dais in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors in the dance studio.

He runs his hands through his wiry hair and adjusts his tortoise-shell glasses.

He’s wearing charcoal-gray scrubs covered in tufts of pet hair, clearly having come straight from work.

Unceremoniously flipping a binder open, he tries again to quiet the room.

This school year, meetings moved from the local bar and restaurant, The Featherweight, to Lily Long’s dance studio. Like most changes in a tiny town, it has taken some getting used to.

Now that Lily is seated in her new place up front, I can’t join her, so I crane my neck, searching for another friend to sit with.

My roommate, Delia, is in the back of the room, looking two seconds away from falling asleep after a long weekend tending bar.

She gives a quick wave, but I know she’s not moving.

Where is everyone? I check again, finding my dad and brother Shua, but neither of my other two siblings are anywhere in sight.

“We’ll start with last week’s business,” Jim says.

“Then we’ll move into establishing committee leads for the upcoming Sunflower Festival.

From there, we’ll discuss the upcoming sale of the Morgans’ full real estate portfolio, including the undeveloped lands on the north side of town.

” Clearing his throat, he peers at someone at the back of the room, though I can’t tell who it is from this angle.

“Once we’re finished, we’ll open the floor to new business. ”

Beside me, a warm, solid body slides into the open seat, and a knee knocks mine. Without turning my head, I can make out a pair of cognac loafers and a large, well-manicured hand splayed over a thigh clad in black jeans.

It must be my lucky night. I groan internally and shift away from the man I haven’t been able to avoid in the months since his sister’s wedding.

Though I attempt to put space between us, the irritatingly attractive man I do not want to want leans closer.

“Quit it,” I hiss when Mateo spreads his legs a bit wider, causing his thigh to graze mine.

With a fake yawn, he stretches his left arm out and drapes it over my chair. Now that he’s exposed his ribs, I jab an elbow into his side, eliciting a yelp.

Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh , I repeat to myself while trying to muffle the sound with my palm.

“Excuse me, Miss Rabin. Would you like to share what you find so funny?” Jim chides from the dais.

“It’s Doctor Rabin,” Mateo says before I can respond.

Well, damn.

“Sorry.” I half-heartedly apologize.

“Don’t be like that, Ivy,” Mateo whispers. “I hoped I’d see you tonight. Can we talk after the meeting?”

While Jim moves on to the plans for this fall’s Sunflower Fest, I try to tune out the electricity that prickles my skin because of the man at my side.

Clearly ignoring the vibes I’m giving off, Mateo rests his arm across my chair again, distracting me enough to cause me to miss which committee Jim is filling. I put my hand up, intending to ask him to repeat himself.

Rather than call on me, he grins and jots a note in his notebook. “Wonderful. Nessa Rabin will lead the volunteer teams this year. Who is willing to co-chair with her?”

I stare hard at Lily, begging her with my eyes to say yes. Come on, come on, don’t let me get stuck with someone who has gross breath or is going to try to set me up with their grandson.

“Perfect. She’ll be paired with Mateo Santos-Manolo,” Jim announces, banging the gavel on the podium.

Oh no.

“Looks like I’ve got time to grow on you, Ivy,” Mateo teases, giving me the boyish grin that did me in the one and only time we slept together. The grin that’s a little lopsided and makes his deep dimples pop.

“Quit calling me that,” I snap.

“You called yourself that.” Chin lifted, he faces the front of the room again.

“Last order of business is the Morgan property divestment,” Jim says from the podium.

“Good riddance,” I grumble under my breath.

Beside me, Mateo snickers.

As Jim titters with excitement, he glances at the dark corner again.

Interesting. Do we have a surprise guest?

“In the coming weeks, Caleb Reynolds will be in town. He plans to present his development plans for the north side once he’s gathered the necessary information. Please be kind and keep your gawking to a minimum while he’s in town.”

“Un-fucking-believable. Is this a Dickens novel?” I grumble. Apparently the ghosts of past mistakes have come to haunt me. This one in the form of my ex.

Is it just me, or is it getting harder to breathe?

“Fuck that guy.” Mateo leans closer. “Not happening.” He leaves tiny puffs of air on my neck. His lips nearly skim my ear, stirring feelings I’m not interested in revisiting.

“What do you have in mind?—”

Before I can finish the question, he jumps to his feet.

“Mr. Santos-Manolo, can we help with something?” Jim asks, his tone stodgy.

Mateo adjusts the leather band of his wristwatch and clears his throat. “Yes, Jim. In fact, you can. As you know, I am a developer myself, and I’m familiar with the work the Reynolds Group does.”

Jim continues to glance at that darker corner.

“They’re from the city. Are we sure they’re really the right group for a town like ours?” He lifts both brows. “I’d appreciate the opportunity to provide my own proposal. As a lifelong resident of this town, I want to ensure we keep the integrity and history of this place intact.”

The room breaks into a round of applause, and on the other side of the room, his parents, Susan and Eddie, nod in approval.

“Call my office and schedule an appointment. We can talk about it then,” Jim hollers over the din of the crowd.

Movement in my periphery catches my attention, and I turn in time to see Caleb step out from the dark corner. With Caleb “Satan’s Bikini Waxer” Reynolds the Third lurking nearby, suddenly being this close to Mateo is a comfort. Not that I’d tell him that.

This is the first time I’ve seen him in years. Standing at six feet tall, with thick blond hair and wearing a navy suit, he looks every bit as devilish as my name for him.

He still looks like the boy I met at the Skull and Cross fraternity party, where he played up his family’s rumored billions and their key place in society.

We dated through graduate school and while I completed a doctoral program in psychology.

The longer we were together, the more dysfunctional, selfish, and possessive he proved himself to be.

I squirm in my seat; my head drops and my muscles tense at the shameful memory.

The old urge to withdraw from confronting the irony returns.

I am a fraud. Despite focusing my academics and career on supporting healthy intimate relationships, I lingered in a toxic relationship out of convenience.

Standing in my hometown, Caleb looks equally out of place as I felt with him.

His family regularly made comments about my parents’ background that left me uneasy.

They’d toss in what they deemed compliments about my blond hair and tiny nose.

The underlying meaning? In their eyes, I don’t look Jewish.

And they assumed that because my family is secular, it shouldn’t be a big deal to give up our holidays.

Couldn’t I get on board with things like being married in their church, no rabbi needed?

Couldn’t I pretend my last name meant that I’m distantly related to a former prime minister?

Because a connection like that would elevate my status for their optics.

The worst part was that Caleb didn’t have any issue with any of it at all.

The Reynoldses wanted me to give up my identity and become a trophy on his arm.

I had worked too hard to agree to that and slowly distanced myself.

Eventually blocking his number and breaking all contact.

Not that it stopped him from getting a new phone number and trying again.

Ignoring him had worked for a bit, but somehow, he’s back like the cold sore he is.

The meeting wraps in a blur and people file out.

I grab my purse from under the seat and glare at my festival co-chair. “Why would you do that?”

He’s co-chairing a town event with me and trying to outbid the most narcissistic group of gentrifiers in the country? What is his goal here?

His wide smile only highlights his beautiful bone structure and makes that damn dimple pop. His brown eyes glimmer, and his thick jet-black hair hangs just long enough to be unruly in a ’90s teen heartthrob kind of way.

I clench my fist to stop myself from brushing it away from his eyes.

Mateo chuckles, the low rumble vibrating through me. “There’s your pal…”

“Satan’s Bikini Waxer,” I bite out.

Just the sound of Caleb’s smarmy voice over the crowd makes my hackles rise. I need a shower. I feel dirty breathing the same air as him.

“Bikini Waxes? I thought you were vehemently against those. Did you have a change of heart? I would love to see that,” Caleb says as he appears at the end of the aisle, wearing an oily smile.

Pulling me close, Mateo holds out a hand.

“Mateo Santos-Manolo. We were supposed to meet for drinks this summer when I was representing Merrick Paul on the Park Ave project. It’s nice to finally meet you.

” His tone is terse, belying his words. “However, I’d prefer if you didn’t talk about my girlfriend’s pubes. Seems a little inappropriate, my dude.”

Rankled by what looks like the start of a pissing contest, I try to step away. But he squeezes me closer to his side.

I bite my tongue. Girlfriend? What the hell? Sexist Satan here, though, will probably respect the request coming from him, since a woman equates to property in his mind.

I thought we didn’t believe in hell. How am I already here?

As if sent by God himself, my brother walks by, giving me an excuse to free myself from Mateo’s grasp.

“Joshua, wait up!” I yell, but my brain is shouting oh-em-gee, kill me now .

I follow Shua to where Aba—Dad—and Tal are standing close, talking. Aba pulls me into a bear hug. “Motek! Do my ears deceive me, sweetie? Or did Mateo just call you his girlfriend while speaking to… the one you call, em”—he arches his brows—“Ha’Sah’tahn?”

My dad has been in the states for over thirty-five years, but he often slips between languages when he’s emotional or confused.

Laughing, I nod and hug him tighter. “I’ll walk you all home. I can explain.” I link arms with him and peer over my shoulder to where Grant, Jim, Caleb, and Mateo are still talking. “I’ll explain what I know, at least.”

As we head out into the cool night air, I pull out my phone and send a quick text.

Nessa:

I am NOT pretending to be your girlfriend.

Bad Idea:

Who said anything about pretending?