1. Chapter One #2
She may not be a mom like Nora and me, but she’s helped me practically raise my girls for the last two years while Trevor struggled to get his act together.
I know he’s trying, but sometimes “trying” doesn’t cut it when there are little lives counting on you.
Through the sleepless nights. The emergency crayon-attack cleanups.
Even bringing Charlotte to her playdates when I get slammed with last-minute overtime, she’s been the one by my side the entire time.
So yeah, she definitely deserves this just as much as either of us.
I throw my arm around her shoulder and rest my head against hers. “Damn right, it is,” I say, grinning. “And to think we almost had to cancel.”
She pulls her head away and shoots me a death glare. “Yeah, you and your damn sinus infection almost ruined everything.” Her eyes narrow. “And it would’ve been all your fault.”
“Whoa, whoa—” I start to defend myself, but I don’t get far.
“Alright,” Nora cuts in, completely unaware she’s interrupting. She strolls into the room, leans against the arm of the couch, and glances at her phone. “It’s already six. If we don’t get groceries now, we’re gonna end up eating peanut butter out of the jar for dinner.”
I nod. “Yeah. There’s no way we’ll want to shop after the concert tomorrow night.”
Driving in Boston today was exactly the nightmare I expected, and I have the handprint on my steering wheel to prove it. Trying to navigate that mess after a concert on a Saturday night? No, thank you.
And yet all I want is a tall glass of wine and maybe twenty uninterrupted minutes in the giant, jetted tub upstairs. The one that’s been calling my name since the moment we decided to even go on vacation.
The reminder of there even being a gigantic bathtub here signals a light bulb glowing in my brain.
I slowly start backing away until my heel catches the bottom step. Trying not to make a sound, I tiptoe up the stairs, hoping to slip away before—
“Where do you think you’re going?” Ana’s voice calls from behind me.
Busted.
I wince, turning around to look at her, I plaster on my best innocent face. She has one eyebrow raised, her arms crossed at her chest while she looks at me skeptically.
“Oh, I just thought I’d check out the bedrooms,” I say, tossing a thumb over my shoulder and doing my best to hide the grin trying to break through.
That bedroom’s mine, whether they know it or not.
It’s honestly one of the things I’ve been most excited about. A full bath, a walk-in closet, and a bed big enough for me to sprawl out? Yes. Please.
But just as I lift my foot to take another step, I hear the rush of footsteps behind me.
I bolt.
My flip-flops slap against each step, and our laughter bounces off the walls. When I finally reach the top, I lunge for the nearest doorknob, hoping it’s the right one, and swing it open.
When I stumble inside, my feet immediately sink into a plush, cream-colored carpet, and I know I picked the right door.
Mental high five.
The first thing I notice is the gray king-size bed with a velvet headboard. The exact one I’ve always wanted. Off to the side, a large window overlooks the backyard, giving the perfect view of the inground pool and a gorgeous flower garden beside it.
It’s like a dream.
I carefully push open one of the doors inside and find the full bathroom I’ve been drooling over for the last few weeks.
There it is. The bathtub.
Correction: my bathtub.
“Well,” Nora says from behind me.
I spin around to find her standing there, arms crossed over her chest, clearly unimpressed.
At first, I think she’s mad, but then a grin slowly starts to tug at the corners of her mouth.
“If you see me in there one of these nights... don’t worry about it,” she says, shrugging.
I wink. “Anytime, babe. It’s right down the hall,” I say, probably smiling way too hard. “Alright, let’s grab our bags and hit the store before I lock myself in here with a bottle of wine.”
After fighting through the never-ending traffic, we finally arrive at the nearest grocery store parking lot—forty-five minutes later. Not the twenty minutes the GPS originally promised. Which just proves my point about how never being on time is basically a rule when you’re in a city like this.
We pile out of the car and link our arms together, not sparing a second thought to the numerous judgmental glances we receive. The July heat is brutal, already making our arms stick together like glue from the humidity. My shirt clings to my back while a small bead of sweat lines my forehead.
“Alright, I’ll grab the dinner stuff,” Ana says, pulling a crumpled list from her pocket. “Nora, you’re on lunch. And Allie…” She turns to me with a mischievous grin. “You, my friend, get breakfast duty.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Why do I get breakfast?”
She leans close to my ear and murmurs, “Because I don’t trust Miss I Burn Eggs over here to make my omelets.”
“ Hey! ” Nora shrieks. “I heard that!”
I tip my head back and laugh, the sound ringing through the store a little too loudly.
I quickly slap a hand over my mouth, realizing that half the shoppers probably heard me, but…
honestly, I don’t care. It’s been ages since I laughed like this.
We haven’t even been here a full day, and somehow, I already feel more like myself.
The second we walk inside, my heart swells with the thought that I can take my time here. I can look at hand soaps for twenty minutes if I want to without Lydia trying to ingest one, or Charlotte asking if she can pick a snack every thirty seconds on a constant loop.
Wicker baskets line the front of the store stuffed with veggies and colorful gourds.
I have no clue why they’re selling gourds in July, but whatever floats their boat.
A Made Fresh Daily sign hangs above an overflowing pastry stand, and for once, I have all the time in the world to look over every single one of them.
Maybe it sounds silly, but the small things really do matter to me.
Even though I complained the entire drive here, I can’t really complain about the shopping experience— yet.
The aisles are oddly quiet while I wander through them, slowly weighing my cereal options.
I’m trying to imagine what won’t make me hate myself during a hangover: something healthy? Or maybe something sugary?
I stand there holding each box, seriously considering it like my life depends on it.
I’ll probably end up grabbing both, but the point is.
.. nobody’s rushing me. There’s nobody standing behind me, huffing impatiently, waiting for me to hurry up and get out of their way.
It’s definitely a little strange... but kind of comforting too.
By the time my cart’s nearly overflowing, I stop and stare into it, a nagging feeling creeping in like I’m forgetting something. Something obvious.
I have eggs, probably too much fruit, and all the fixings for homemade muffins… but there’s one thing I know I’m forgetting. But what?
My cell phone dings in my pocket, and I fumble for it, flip it around and read the message.
Ana
Hey! I know wine was on your list. Can you grab me a bottle of white zinfandel?
I blink at the screen. Then reread it. I do this at least four times before I give up and finally reply.
What the hell is “white zinfandel?”
I don’t even have time to lower the phone before another message pops up. This time in the form of a picture.
I squint at the screen, but all I can see is a drunk me holding a bottle of wine, making a stupid duck face.
Mental note: steal Ana’s phone and delete this from existence. Immediately .
With one hand on the cart handle and the other cradling my phone, I start toward the wine aisle, eyes flicking between the shelves and the cursed photo. It’s too pixelated to be useful, but I’m trying anyway.
“Do they even sell this here?” I mutter to myself, still staring at my screen.
And then— bam .
My cart slams into something solid. Hard enough that it bounces back and knocks into my gut.
I freeze, squeezing my eyes shut as heat crawls up the back of my neck and flushes my face. Please let that be a shelf, not a person. Please, please, please.
When I crack one eye open, I’m met with a pair of black cut-off shorts and a silver chain dangling from the pocket.
Yup. Definitely a person .
Way to go, Allie. First day in the big city, and you’re already assaulting strangers.
I slowly drag my gaze up, just in time to see the guy turn his head slightly. Not enough to read his expression, but enough to know I’ve definitely slammed into the poor guy’s ankle.
If it were me, I’d be pissed .
I can’t tear my eyes away, even though my heart’s screaming at me to run and hide. But the way his black T-shirt pulls tight across his arms has me frozen in place. And the tattoos peeking under the sleeve?
They almost look… familiar.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” I blurt, yanking my cart back. “Are you okay?”
His shirt shifts as he turns fully around, and my stomach drops. Goose bumps spread across my arms as my eyes lock onto his—the exact shade of blue I know all too well from hours of scrolling through makeshift music videos.
Nora always assumed I was obsessed with his muscles, but it was his eyes I secretly wanted to drown in.
And now, with his backward baseball cap and short, brown hair peeking out beneath it, they’re perfectly visible and just as devastatingly gorgeous in person.
I feel like I might actually melt into the shiny linoleum. With my shame and all its glory.
“Oh, it’s no worries,” he says, his voice smooth with a Welsh accent that should come with some sort of warning sign. “I was basically an open target, just standing here.”
That accent? Easily twenty times hotter in person. Which only makes this situation a hundred times more awkward, since I suddenly forget how to speak. Instead, I just stand there, blinking up at him like I’ve never seen a human being before… or like I’ve forgotten how to function like one myself.
He’s even taller than I expected—definitely over six feet—and when his eyes meet mine again, he gives me a soft smile that somehow quiets every spiraling thought in my head.
“It looks like we both had more important things on our minds,” he says, shifting his weight to the other leg. Probably because I just about broke his damn ankle with a shopping cart .
I don’t say anything at first, but his quiet chuckle tells me that the look on my face must say plenty. He bites back a smirk and nods toward the shelves of wine that just witnessed me assault the lead singer of my favorite band.
Say something, Allie. Just be normal for once.
I shake my head and let out a nervous laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Yeah, uh… definitely a Friday night essential.”
He nods, still watching me. “So, which one’s your favorite?”
My brain short-circuits. “I’m sorry, my favorite?” I echo, brows pulling together.
He gestures again to the display. “Wine,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips like he’s trying really hard not to laugh.
“Oh!” I say, finally putting two and two together.
God, pull yourself together, Allie.
My eyes land on my go-to bottle of pink Moscato, and I carefully pluck it from the shelf, holding it up like I’m presenting it on a shopping channel. “Definitely this one. It’s the perfect balance of fruit and alcohol,” I say with a smile, then gently place it in my cart. “What about you?”
He smiles, then scans the shelves, clicking his tongue softly against his teeth as he searches. When his eyes land on the one he wants, he grabs it easily and holds up a bottle of merlot, mimicking my earlier move.
“Can’t go wrong with a solid red,” he says proudly.
Ah. There it is. His one flaw. You can’t write beautiful music and have good taste in wine. That’s just being greedy.
I scrunch my nose, letting out a soft laugh. “You just haven’t had the right stuff. Try the Moscato,” I say, nodding toward the bottle in my cart.
He chuckles, nodding along. “I’ll have to give it a try. Thanks for the tip...” He pauses, lifting a brow.
Butterflies erupt in my stomach while I stammer. “A-Allie,” I say, nervously placing a hand across my chest. “Allie Windsor.”
“Well, Allie. Allie Windsor,” he repeats, offering his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Jax. Jax Owens.”
A laugh bubbles out of me at his teasing as I slide my hand into his. The moment our palms meet, a spark from the cart zaps us both, but he doesn’t even flinch. If anything, he just tightens his grip.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Allie,” he says with a slight bow of his head.
When he pulls away, I stay frozen in place, watching him walk off—still half expecting someone to pop out from behind a shelf and yell that I’m on Punk’d.
We were supposed to meet tomorrow . That was the plan. Yet somehow, I just had my own personal meet-and-greet in the wine aisle of a random Boston grocery store.
If only it could have been without the bodily harm.