Spring Fling

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Winnie

“I know that this is a big move, but I’m one hundred percent confident it’s the right one,” I say firmly, as I drive a box truck with everything I own toward Wanted, Kentucky.

Making a right turn off of the highway, I misjudge and clip the curb. The truck jostles, and my butt bounces on the hard seat.

“Whoops,” I say cheerfully.

I feel eyes on me.

“Do not say anything,” I warn my companion, who is riding shotgun. “I don’t need to be judged right now. I’ve never driven a truck before. Anyone would have hit the curb at least once.”

I don’t get a response, which is not unexpected.

“You know as well as I do that I had to leave Nashville and start over. It was time.”

This time I get an enthusiastic bark.

It sounds like my dog agrees with me.

And why wouldn’t he?

This is obviously a fantastic idea and is going to be a wild success.

I glance over at Barrel, my rescue dog, who is lying on his favorite fleece blanket on the passenger seat, his ever-present stuffed hedgehog cuddled up beside him. He’s raised his head with his bark and is giving me what I like to think of as a smile of confirmation.

Unable to resist his utter adorableness, I reach over and pet his head just briefly, enjoying the soft and warm feel of his butter colored fur beneath my fingers before I return my hand to the steering wheel. I probably should keep both hands on the wheel.

“Ten and two, baby,” I tell Barrel. “Safety first.”

He barks again.

“But we do need livelier tunes on. Leaving behind my entire life to start over in a small town in the rolling hills of Bourbon country deserves a beat.” I break my rule of hands on the wheel already and raise my phone to command, “Play ‘Good as Hell’ by Lizzo.”

The music starts playing and I bob my head along with it.

“Look, look!” I point excitedly to the right at a green sign.

The “Two miles to Wanted” roadside marker has appeared on the stretch of country rural road, grass on either side of it starting to perk up after a long winter. I roll down the window to breathe in the fresh and slightly chilly spring air.

Anticipation has butterflies jumping in my stomach, but because I’m excited, not nervous.

After I ended a relationship four months ago, I had gone to lunch with my friend, Faith, who had moved to Wanted the year before. She’d made small town life seem so charming and idyllic I’d been curious, so I’d visited her last month.

When I found out while in town that the local animal shelter was hiring, it had seemed the universe had been giving me a clear sign.

I needed a fresh start.

A new life launch because I had stalled out in my hometown of Nashville.

Within days I had the job, rented an apartment sight unseen, and put in my notice at the clinic where I was a vet tech.

At twenty-five, there is nothing preventing me from yanking my roots out of the earth and planting myself somewhere else.

My only responsibilities are me and Barrel and we are clearly ready for an adventure.

Nothing can stop us now as we head into the center of town.

Except for traffic.

“What is going on?” I ask as I hit the brakes to avoid taking out a wooden barricade that appears out of nowhere. “The road is blocked.”

Though it’s immediately obvious what is happening.

There is some kind of festival going on in downtown Wanted.

As I idle at the corner of Rye Road and Whiskey Way—they take the Bourbon thing very seriously here—I see tents and booths and dozens of people milling around.

A banner over Whiskey Way, strung from Dinky’s Diner to the gazebo, declares SPRING FLING FESTIVAL.

There is a large array of clip art on either side of the banner flanking the words, from whiskey glasses filled with bourbon on the rocks to spring flowers, soft pretzels, and cotton candy.

If the banner brought that much party to the square, I am looking forward to parking the truck and exploring the festival for myself. I’m a sucker for fried foods and face paint and I can already smell a range of spices and melted butter.

Barrel has stood up, and he’s straining against his harness.

“No, sir,” I tell him, hitting the button to close my window so he can’t fully investigate the scent of deliciousness wafting through the air. If I love fried foods, Barrel would like to marry them. He’s never met a deep fried anything he hasn’t wanted to inhale like a vacuum.

I completely missed the fact that there is a festival going on this particular weekend. Not only is Barrel now whining and tugging hard against his harness, my brand new apartment is on the other side of that roadblock. I bite my lip. It’s very on brand for me that I didn’t know this was happening.

I’m used to just rolling with it. Except this truck is rolling nowhere right now.

“Now what, buddy?” I ask, putting the truck into park and reaching over to release Barrel from the harness. I don’t like how he’s choking himself on it as he pulls hard.

I’m going to need to either turn around or back up because there is no going forward.

To that point, there is an older man in front of the truck on the other side of the road barrier waving at me. He looks friendly enough but he’s clearly gesturing for me to turn around. I smile and wave back, nodding.

My phone has decided all on its own to just play Lizzo on repeat so if he’s saying anything I can’t hear it.

Putting the truck in reverse I ease off of the brake.

Without warning there is a thumping on the back of the truck.

“Ah!” I scream, slamming on the brakes again immediately.

My fur mom instinct has my arm flying out to brace Barrel so he doesn’t go crashing into the dashboard.

He’s safe, thank goodness, but I regret unlatching him. He seems to agree because I swear the look he gives me is filled with reproach.

“Are you okay, buddy?” He looks fine but my heart is racing. “Did I hit something?” I wince. “Please tell me I didn’t hit anything.”

Barrel barks.

Throwing the truck back into park I grimace as I look in the rearview mirror, prepared to see blood and mayhem.

Instead, I see a man standing there, fully upright, uninjured, and ridiculously good looking.

He’s wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a flannel shirt like nobody’s business, along with a frown on that gorgeous face.

He’s over six feet tall, with dark tousled hair and a strong chin.

His arms are up in the universal what-the-hell-are-you-doing gesture.

He follows that up with another whomp on the back of the truck, like he’s slapping a horse’s rump to get it to giddyup.

Suddenly every sexual innuendo involving cowgirls and rodeo riding leaps into my head as I murmur under my breath “yeehaw.”

Someone in another vehicle honks and I jump, ripped out of my sudden and unexpected fantasy of saving a horse by riding a cowboy.

I’m not sure why everyone is upset with me. The road is blocked and no one can go forward so I’m not stopping traffic. I fail to see the issue, honestly, and now that I know I haven’t accidentally killed someone, I relax.

Until the man suddenly appears beside my door.

I jump again, though I have no idea why.

It makes me giggle.

His frown deepens.

Up close I can see his stern jaw and hazel eyes. His arms are crossed over his chest.

Barrel crawls over my lap, digging his claws into my thighs.

“Ow, buddy, where are you going?”

He starts barking.

The guy outside says something but I can’t hear him because of Barrel and my music still blasting. I try to shift around the bulk of Barrel.

“What?” I ask. I crack the window. Barrel instantly shoves his nose through the two inch gap.

“You need to move. You’re on the hose for the water feature.”

“What?” I repeat, not because I didn’t hear him but because I have no clue what he’s talking about.

“The hose,” he repeats, louder. “Your tire is on it. Can you please move your truck?”

The please is appreciated though he still seems like a very serious man. The please feels more exasperated than earnest.

“Oh! Right. Sure. Um…where do I go?” I ask, genuinely mystified. “There’s a car behind me now and I’m going to need to park for the whole weekend.”

And apparently leave all my furniture inside unless I want to roll my sofa through the square on my skateboard.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“I was trying to go forward. Right there.” I point toward my new apartment over Dinky’s Diner.

“You didn’t see the Road Closed sign?” he asks, rubbing his jaw.

“No.” I genuinely did not see the sign. “Maybe y’all should have put up something bigger.”

“Bigger than that?” He gestures to what might be the biggest Road Closed sign I’ve ever seen in my life.

“I totally missed that. I was distracted by all the tents.” I smile at him. “I’m Winnie, by the way.”

His brow furrows, like he can’t decide if I’m pulling his leg or not. “I’m Ian.”

It’s a reluctant admission.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ian. I’m new to town so I’m not familiar with the roads or the festival. I’m trying to move into my new place downtown.” It feels like maybe I shouldn’t tell the broad-shouldered and a little bit grumpy stranger a more specific location than that.

I clearly have more survival instincts than Barrel, whose entire butt is wiggling back and forth as his tail wags enthusiastically. He’s trying desperately to get his tongue out of the window crack to greet Ian.

“Who is this guy? Or girl?” Ian asks, putting his fingers up to Barrel’s nose.

His tone changes with my dog. He instantly is friendlier.

My dog goes up on his hindlegs to greet Ian, and I wince as his nails dig into the cotton of my sweatpants. “This is the ever-so-handsome Barrel and he clearly likes you.”

“Barrel, huh? Is he a Bourbon lover?” He gives my dog a slow mischievous smile.

The gesture lights up his whole face and transforms him from grumpy but good looking to charming and damn near irresistible.

So much for my vow to focus on myself and avoid men for the first little while in my new town.

Though Ian is smiling at Barrel, not me, which is very apparent when he shifts his gaze my direction and the grin cools. Really cools. A bit of an arctic blast heading my way.

“No, he’s not named because of anything alcohol related.

It’s a long story.” That I’m not going to share because I’m shouting.

Not only is my music blaring, a jaunty tune is being piped through a series of speakers on both sides of the gazebo.

I lean and hit the button on my phone to at least stop my music.

Ian and I stare at each other.

He glances to the left, shaking his head a little. “Well, welcome to Wanted, Winnie.” Then he makes a face. “That was a lot of Ws.”

“Word,” I say, as a joke.

He doesn’t laugh.

Ian is clearly no fun, even if he is sexy and a little smoldery.

Which means I need to focus on the issue at hand—reversing my truck.

“I had no idea there was a festival going on or I would have gotten here yesterday.” Barrel is now whining and scratching at the window. I try to pull him back by his collar but he’s having none of it. He’s strong and he smells fair food.

“You can park behind the hardware store. They have a big lot and the owner won’t mind. I’ll let him know.”

“Great. Awesome. So…where is the hardware store?”

Ian opens his mouth.

But before he can answer, Barrel manages to put his paw exactly where the button is for the window. I realize a second too late the window is gliding down, and before I can react, Barrel leaps out of the window like he’s been doing agility training his whole life.

Spoiler: he hasn’t.

Which means that he collides with Ian’s chest, who tries to catch my wriggling dog.

But Barrel slips through his grasp and spills onto the street.

“Barrel!” I shout, throwing open my door.

I accidentally nail Ian in the shoulder with the door, sending him stumbling backward.

He trips over the hose that he was talking about earlier and goes down.

“Are you okay?” I ask, stepping out of the truck. I misjudge the distance, and I fall hard, my palms scraping the asphalt.

But I barely notice because my eyes are on Barrel, who has tasted freedom and is galloping off full speed ahead into the Spring Fling Festival.

A little girl screams, startled by Barrel’s flyby. Her corn dog hits the ground and he’s on it.

As I try to untangle my feet I see my dog disappear behind a lemonade stand with her corn dog in his mouth like a fresh kill.

Strong arms haul me to my feet but before I can acknowledge his help, Ian takes off running after Barrel. “I’ve got him!”

The truck is still running.

Several people have gathered around. “Can you turn the truck off?” I ask the woman closest to me. She’s in her fifties, with pink hair, wearing a sun visor and colorful pants and earrings, and looks trustworthy.

In the midst of tossing a handful of caramel corn in her mouth, she gives me a thumbs up and climbs up into the truck.

Good enough for me.

I’m off in the last direction I saw my dog. “Barrel! Come to Mama!”

So maybe I’m only ninety-five percent confident about this new beginning.