Chapter Five
Operation Small Town, Day 2
“Small towns aren’t the enemy, babe,” Aunt Josie says, her face barely visible on the screen of my phone.
“Nobody said they are. I just said I prefer the city,” I reply, leaning my phone against the napkin holder on the kitchen table.
“The coffee doesn’t define a place. The people do,” she states, her large brown eyes coming into view on the screen.
“If you ever tried a pumpkin spice latte, like I’ve told you to, you wouldn’t be saying that,” I rebut, pulling my bagel out of the toaster. I scowl at this piece of cardboard that is being marketed as a bagel. I feel bad for people who don’t know what New York bagels taste like. Life without real bagels is no life at all.
Aunt Josie is in Europe somewhere, on assignment for her job as a reporter for a glamorous fashion magazine. Josie couldn’t be more of an oxymoron. She lectures me on not taking small towns for granted but spends most of her life gallivanting from Paris to Milan to Barcelona.
When she finally sits down and actually focuses on the screen, I can tell she is in the living room of her rental in London. She’s been stationed there for a few months, but she’ll be on her way to Paris soon for Men’s Fashion Week. She pushes her short hair back with her glasses and puts on another pair so she can see me on the screen. I discreetly laugh at the image of her with two pairs of glasses on her head. If there was a picture next to the word “scatterbrained” in the dictionary, Aunt Josie and her multiple pairs of spectacles would be it.
“And as I’ve told you before, there is more to life than Starbucks. Don’t be one of those basic bitches , Lucy. Be an original,” she says. I always felt that Aunt Josie would have thrived in the 1930s or 1940s, with a cigarette between her fingers, her hair done even if she’s just sitting around the house for a day—not that she does that very often. Her voice is the combination of Phoebe Buffay and a decades-long chain smoker.
“Please don’t use the phrase basic bitches ,” I groan, plugging my laptop into an outlet behind the kitchen table. I sit down on what may be the most uncomfortable wooden dining chair in existence and immediately question my “work from home” seating choice. I miss my office chair already.
“Darling, I have to be off,” she says, and I can tell her attention is already elsewhere. It’s hard to keep Aunt Josie’s mind in one place for very long. I wish I could bottle her up and keep her contained, like my own personal genie, that way I’d always have her with me.
“Yes, you’re always telling me,” I grumble, rolling my eyes. She exchanges the glasses on her head for the ones on her face and grimaces at me.
“Listen buttercup, don’t make your mind up yet. You might find you surprise even yourself.” I glare at the phone and Josie grimaces at me. She hangs up before I even have a chance to say goodbye. Classic.
I check the time. I bring up Anne’s name in my phone and press call. It rings twice before she picks up.
“Hello,” she chimes in a harmonic voice.
“Hello, this is Lucy calling from bumblefuck nowhere,” I start.
“Ha! It’s not bumblefuck nowhere,” she scoffs. “How’s it going?”
“Well, I’ve been trying to connect to the internet for five minutes so I’m not optimistic,” I quip.
“Well, the Wi-Fi might not be the strongest out there, I’ll give you that,” she says with a laugh.
“So,” I say, clearing my throat, “Here’s my plan: I’m going to get some work done in the morning, and then go and scope out the town in the afternoon. I’ve already met three locals who were super welcoming,” I say, finally seeing my inbox load.
“That’s great. Listen, the new Donna Martins manuscript just came in. Edit that for me over the next week and we’ll go from there.”
“Okay, great. I’m going to send you daily reports with all my notes.”
“I can practically hear the steam coming out of your ears as your brain is working,” Anne says sarcastically.
“You know me so well.”
“And you know you don’t need to send daily reports. I trust you,” Anne says, and I just imagine the look on her face. Her glasses are at the end of her nose, her arms and legs are crossed, and she’s looking up from beneath her brows.
“And you know I would give them to you anyway,” I reply. “I also have a whole list of small-town rom-coms I’m currently making my way through.”
“Fabulous. And what have you learned?”
“Well, it’s simple, really. The small-town stories are really all about the people. So, I just have to explore enough to study them.”
When I did my deep dive into the subgenre, I realized that every book has a happy ever after or happy for now, a brooding hero, or a heroine on the run from her past, but while some of these factors might change from book to book, there is one aspect that remains the same: the town and its people are the hub that allows the spokes of the romance wheel to turn. The heroine always has a strong support system in the town and the events there drive the plot of the story. So, as much as I hate to admit it, I have to explore. And in order to get enough inspiration to outline this book, I have to become one with the locals.
“You sound like a wildlife photographer on assignment,” Anne teases.
“I don’t mean it like that,” I say, shaking away the visual that remark conjured. “Exploring means I’ll learn where all the good hangout spots are, and find out what makes this town special, what makes the people tick. It’s beautiful here. If the romance story doesn’t work out, we can just use the pictures from my phone to make a coffee table book,” I jest.
“Well, I’m not sure a coffee table book will cut it, lovely as it sounds. If we don’t give Ruby some guidelines for this new series, I’m concerned she will actually leave—God knows she’s threatened it enough over the years.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t let you down, Anne,” I say, with the same confidence of twelve-year-old Lucy writing an essay on The Hatchet .
I hang up with Anne and try to shake the feeling that I’m doing something wrong. I feel like I can’t trust my mind when it comes to my guilt gauge. Am I doing something wrong? Or am I just doing something for myself? I’m here to conduct research. There’s no harm in that.
I try to hold on to that mindset as I begin my work for the day. Since my workspace has undergone a massive upgrade in the last week, I head outside to the picturesque porch swing. I have a few emails to send out in preparation for next month’s sales and promotions, so I go through those and finalize some reports for Anne.
With the help of text-to-speech and a pair of earbuds, I edit the first few chapters of Donna’s manuscript before my stomach starts rumbling for lunch. For a moment, I consider wandering into the kitchen and making a salad, but then my conversation with Anne about exploring convinces me otherwise. After a quick change into a flowy tie-dye sundress, I toss my hair into a bun and head into town.
I have to admit that I am somewhat embarrassed walking in to the real-life Luke’s Diner in my very own Stars Hollow, considering my last interaction with Liam was… bizarre. I’m going to need to apologize, and hopefully I can still make an ally out of my neighbor. He may be gorgeous, and he’s probably, most definitely taken , but he could also be a good resource.
When I step inside, I’m surprised by how crowded the restaurant is. The pictures I had in my head pale by comparison. Much like the exterior of Liam’s house, this place could be in a magazine. To the left of the entrance is a long bar with metal stools and shiplap beneath the counter. The right side is lined with a long booth and snug tables with more metal seating. I take an empty seat at the bar just as Liam emerges from the kitchen juggling two plates of food. He doesn’t notice me at first, which gives me a chance to observe him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone move so intentionally. He is aware of everything around him, and moves with such grace, like he has been doing this for a thousand years.
I’m not going to lie and say I don’t admire the muscles in his forearms as he grips the heavy tray. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with the word “Liz’s” written in script across the front. I love a man in a black T-shirt. Elle and I often fight about which is superior: a hero in a Henley or one in a black T-shirt. We both stand firm on either side. What can I say? We romance readers like to pick our battles.
When he finally sees me, I catch a range of emotions cross his face. None of them scream “Happy to see me.” Could I have ruined my chance at polite acquaintanceship with him? He hesitates, like he’s not sure whether to walk toward me or run in the opposite direction. I can see the trepidation in his eyes, and I try to coax him in my direction with an awkward wave. He doesn’t wave back, but he presses his lips into a firm line, somewhat resembling a smirk.
When he finally decides to approach me, my stomach clenches, and I’m suddenly aware of my body’s reaction to him. He’s extremely attractive, that’s a no brainer, but I am surprised by just how attractive I find him. Quickened pulse, slight light-headedness.
Snap out of it!
“Hi,” he stutters, avoiding eye contact. “Here’s a menu.” He tries to turn away quickly, but I call out “Hey!” in a completely awkward, way too loud voice that makes it seem like I’m hailing a taxi instead of trying to get his attention.
He turns around and raises a brow at me. “Sorry, I just,” I say, readjusting myself on the barstool. “I just wanted to apologize again, you know, for yesterday.”
“No need to apologize,” he says in a low voice. He avoids my gaze.
“Well, admittedly, I acted a little weird, and I’m sorry. It’s the Manhattan in me,” I offer, aiming for civility.
“It’s really fine,” he says, his back already partially turned. “Let me know what I can get you.”
I look down at the menu quickly and pick the first thing I see. “I’ll have the B.L.T.”
“Be right back with that,” he says over his shoulder.
The lunch crowd is made up of a diverse group. I’d expected Hudson Hollow to be an old-folk town, but to my surprise, it’s not. The booth lining the opposite wall is lined with middle-aged women, some younger with kids, and some older. A couple of men in dress pants appear to be on their lunch break at the end of the bar, and a few teenagers are giggling in the corner. All in all, Hudson Hollow seems like a smaller version of the suburban town I grew up in, only with much bigger houses, and much more space in between them.
It’s certainly charming, I have to give it that. The matching brick storefronts, and the pristine asphalt streets lined with clean white sidewalks—it is reminiscent of a coastal town in Montauk or the Jersey Shore. Everything is a small business, and I’m sure the owner of each store on this strip has an interesting backstory. I can’t wait to explore each and every one.
I pull out my notebook and sketch out a map of Hudson Hollow as I know it so far. I can’t help but smile as I draw the lake, like I’m drawing my own version of the Hundred Acre Wood. I barely notice when Liam slides a plate across the bar at me until he subtly clears his throat.
“Thank you,” I mumble, quickly snapping my notebook shut.
“You know they have maps on the internet now? You probably even have one on that rectangular electronic device you have there,” he says sarcastically, motioning to my phone.
When I look up, he lifts the side of his mouth up in a sideways smile. Yep, that was my heart dropping to my stomach for a moment. Holy moly, those dimples.
“Ingenious,” I mutter, pursing my lips at him.
“Are you an artist or something?” I can sense a tone of skepticism in Liam’s voice. I don’t know him, so I don’t know how he acts around new people, but he seems wary of me. Maybe he’s just slow to warm to people.
I clear my throat so I can quickly think of an excuse for why I was just drawing a map of the town like a creeper. “No, just a creative mind.” Now change the subject . I crane my neck. “You need a bigger place; it’s packed in here. Is it like this every day?”
“Not always. But it was a three-day weekend, so we have a higher volume of people passing through.”
“Makes sense,” I say, nodding. I swirl around in my chair, watching him stack some empty plates on the bar. “Have you always lived here?” I ask. Divulge your information, Liam Miller. I need to know more about the contemplative thoughts that make your brows furrow so. If you are going to look like the perfect small-town hero, at least give me something to work with, man.
He puts the plates down and leans against the back of the bar. “Yep. Born and raised. I went downstate for college, to the CIA.”
“The CIA?”
“Culinary Institute of America,” he explains.
“Oh, so you’re like a serious chef?” I say, and immediately regret it. I silently kick myself. “Not to say there are non-serious chefs. I just mean—”
“That maybe you should think before you speak?” he finishes, tilting his head. My cheeks flush under his knowing gaze. Maybe my comment about small towns did bother him yesterday.
“Exactly,” I say, hiding my face behind my hands. I’m not equipped to handle undercover work. I am not cool, calm, and collected. I am flustered, neurotic, and flaky. Elle would be so much better at this.
“So, what is it exactly you do? Apart from insulting everyone you meet, that is,” he asks. He does his best to hide a smirk.
“I’m in publishing,” I say, shrugging, hoping to move the conversation along. When he just blinks, I add, “I’m a book editor.”
“Cool. What sort of books do you edit?”
I'm not ashamed of what I do, but I don't always like to admit what kind of books I work on. There's a taboo around romance books that I wish didn't exist, and people really don't understand how important they are to the industry as a whole, and to our readers. Once, a guy I went on a date with assumed that I edited porn books for a living. That was a fun dinner.
But maybe Liam is different. Maybe I should let him draw his own conclusions.
“Romance books,” I say confidently. Let him form his own opinion about it. Let him make a joke. Maybe I don’t care what people think.
“Ah, like the Hallmark movies?” he asks, not a line of expression on his face.
“Kind of,” I say, surprised. “You know about those?” Not to stereotype, but in my history with buff, good-looking guys, I haven’t come across one who knows a thing about Hallmark movies.
“They wanted to film one here once. I talked to one of the director’s assistants,” he says, trying to hide the smile on his lips.
“Talked to?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
“Okay, maybe more than talked to,” he admits with a shrug.
“Does that mean you don’t have a small-town high school sweetheart like the plot of every great Hallmark movie?” Liam grunts in reply.
I find myself strangely interested in Liam’s dating history. But if I ask more about it now, when I’ve known him for less than a day, it would come across as super creepy and I’ve already done enough damage in the few conversations we’ve had. But I’m wondering if he’s the perfect inspiration for my small-town hero. If so, I need to know more about him. At least, that’s the reason I’m sticking with for my sudden fascination with him…
“Do you remember the name of it?” I ask.
“Umm,” he says, groaning. “Something on Serenity Something?”
“ Summer on Serenity Lake . That’s so funny, that’s one of our books! I think they ended up filming it in Canada.”
Affirmative grunt. His gaze returns to the glass he is drying with the dish towel he removed from his shoulder. I watch as his fingers make circles with the rag, becoming mesmerized by the movements of his hands.
“Miller!” I hear a deep voice call from the back of the restaurant. I turn to find a tall man around my age wander in with a large cardboard box in his hands. “Where do you want this?”
Liam shifts his gaze and instantly his face softens.
“Hey, man, thanks,” he says, “kitchen, please.”
“You got it,” he beams, brushing past us. He’s a bit shorter than Liam, with a close buzz cut and arms that belong to a bodybuilder. Where Liam’s looks scream small-town homeboy, this guy has the look of the city about him. When he remerges, box free, he flashes me a supersized grin.
“Well hello there,” he says to me, sliding into the seat next to me. “Who do we have here?” he asks Liam.
“Brett, this is Lucy. Lucy, this is Brett. He hangs around the restaurant scavenging for food. Harder to get rid of than a fungus,” Liam teases.
“Also known as Liam’s best friend since middle school, put ‘er there.” Brett smiles, extending his hand to me. I admire his hard jawline which is dappled with faint stubble.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, trying not to wince from the sheer strength of his firm grip around my hand.
“Lucy is renting Al and Mella’s place for a few weeks,” Liam explains.
“Oh right,” Brett says. “You’re the new girl Liam mentioned.” There’s an awkward pause between us while Brett nods enthusiastically. “Well, I’m off,” he says at last. “We still fishing on Sunday?” he asks Liam. Liam nods.
“Indeed, and thanks for the delivery, appreciate it.”
“Happy to put my muscles to good use,” Brett says, winking at me. “Nice to meet you, Lucy.” I watch him walk out before turning my attention back to Liam.
I try not to overthink the fact that this town has so many good-looking men. This is not a romance novel. This is not a romance novel. Some things can just be a coincidence. Right?
“So how come you’re renting up here for so long? Saved-up vacation days or something?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, pausing to think of my next words. A first for me. “I needed a break from it all. I—I just got out of a really bad relationship.” Solid lie, Lucy.
“Oh, well, er, I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, suddenly flustered.
“Yeah, that… Mike… Vikrim,” I start.
“ Vikrim ?” He narrows his eyes at me.
Shit, maybe he’s one of those one-in-a-million guys who actually likes Friends .
“— inski . Vikriminski. He was from Sweden. Just up and left.”
Good God, I am the worst liar in the history of the world.
Liam presses his lips together as if to stop himself from laughing.
“Well, that Mike Vikrim– inski must have been an idiot,” he says in a placating voice.
I smile at the compliment, completely unsure of its nature. “Thanks,” I mumble.
“And why Hudson Hollow?” Liam asks.
“Sorry?”
“As your destination,” he explains, and again, the threat of a smile pulls at his lips. “You must be big into kayaking. Or wait, let me guess, hiking? You’re here for the trails?”
“Hah!”
Oh shit .
I quickly clear my throat, trying to cover up the fact that I literally just laughed out loud. “Sorry,” I say with a chuckle. “No, I am not big into those things actually.”
Liam twists his face in a way that suggest he thinks that I’m crazy. Honestly, I feel crazy. I didn’t realize how much lying to peoples’ faces was going to be involved in this trip. It doesn't make me feel good.
“So?” he prods.
“It came highly recommended,” I lie. “I was looking for somewhere affordable where I could sit outside and read all day.”
Good save, Lucy. Good save .
“Ah, well, Hudson Hollow is good for that too, I suppose,” Liam replies, still appearing uneasy about my answer. Or maybe he’s disappointed, I can’t quite tell.
“Tell me, what’s the takeout situation around here?” I ask. I’m not going to lie, I chose my college based on its proximity to good Chinese takeout. But I think if I ask what the Chinese food is like, I may sound a bit too much like Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny .
“You’re looking at it,” Liam muses.
“Oh,” I say, trying to wipe the shocked look off my face. “So, people don’t eat like… anywhere else?”
Liam rubs his fingers on his jaw. “Uh, there’s a Chinese restaurant in Catskill, but that’s about thirty minutes away.”
“Huh.” How do people live like this? I take another inconspicuous glance at Liam, trying to understand this person whose life is the polar opposite of mine. How do people survive on one restaurant? They cook the rest of the time? I can’t fathom that.
“Well, thank you for lunch and for the chat,” I say, hopping off the barstool. “See you around?”
Subtle nod in reply.
Once I’m out on the sidewalk I realize I’ve been sweating. Geez, it felt like an interrogation room there.
Oh, but Liam . When I first met him, I thought he was gorgeous (obviously), but I never thought he would be so intriguing as well. I’m desperate to know his story. Why open a restaurant in the town you grew up in? Wouldn’t you want to escape after college? And why Liz’s?
That boy is a book that needs his pages sniffed and devoured and I think I am the perfect person to do it.