Chapter 1
one
MAC
Eleven Years Later
Every single day in Kirby Falls had the potential to be a class reunion, especially when half the people I’d graduated with never bothered to leave.
It was the first Friday in September, so I knew, without a doubt, that the bonfire on Cole Abernathy’s property would be full of former classmates. Barring any county or statewide burn bans, the bonfire happened every week, no matter the weather. And, without fail, this particular seasonal shift meant that Kirby Falls High alumni would be out in droves. There was just something about September, when the setting sun meant chilly nights. People were more than ready for the choking humidity of August to give way to crisp, clear skies and cozy flannel.
Obviously, I wasn’t immune as I parked my Jeep in the bumpy field beside Abby’s barn and grabbed a six-pack and my maroon flannel from the passenger seat. The smell of woodsmoke permeated the air as soon as I opened the door. My boots sank into the dry ankle-high grass, and I heard the sounds of people gathered, laughing and talking—folks I’d known my whole life. The bonfire was a tradition born out of boredom and familiarity, one that was as reliable as death and taxes and Connie Hixson’s hummingbird cake taking home the blue ribbon at the county fair .
The faces had changed a bit over the years as former classmates went away to college, paired off and got married, or had kids. But they usually cycled back around as they came home to visit and mingle with us townies who hadn’t managed to escape.
The crowd around Christmas was usually the biggest as folks returned to celebrate the holiday but managed to sneak away from their families long enough to get drunk in a field with their friends.
The invitation was always open for Friday night bonfires at Abby’s. It had been a tradition since high school, and I didn’t see it changing anytime soon. Things rarely did in my hometown.
You could count on familiar faces and the usual suspects. Hell, I wasn’t one to talk. I still showed up at least once a month.
After all, I’d never bothered to leave Kirby Falls either.
I slipped through the crowd easily, greeting friends and acquaintances, slapping backs, and giving hugs. I dropped off my six-pack of Firefly cider in one of the coolers beneath the covered patio on the other side of the barn, snagging one of the bottles for myself.
My cousin Laramie was busy hanging out with her best friend elsewhere tonight, so I was on my own until I found someone I wanted to join around the fire. Or there was always the off chance that my sister, Bonnie, would show. She was two years older than me, but everyone knew her and loved her. The bonfires hosted a wide range of Abby’s acquaintances. He was a popular guy, so you never knew who was going to show up.
I spied an open camp chair on the opposite side of the massive blaze and changed direction to try to nab it before anyone else.
Most of our graduating class got along pretty well—with a few exceptions. There’d been Lara Dillion, head cheerleader and colossal bitch, but she’d gotten married in college and moved away and never came back. I’d dated Connor Pritchard in eleventh grade and was definitely not a fan. And Floyd Ellerby had turned out to be kind of a dick. Although he still lived in Kirby Falls, he rarely came around. The last time I’d seen Floyd at a bonfire was a few years back, and he and Brady Judd had gotten into it about something. I’d never seen Brady so worked up. The guy was annoyingly friendly and unflappable—unless I was the one doing the flapping.
A devious smile had the corners of my lips twisting upward as I rounded the corner. Yes, irritating Brady was one of my talents. Like Beethoven and his symphonies. Leonardo da Vinci and his masterpieces. Some people played an instrument or could sing real good. There’d been a girl in our graduating class who’d become a famous dancer and performed all over the world. And much like Mandy Jessup, I’d found my calling. Unfortunately, it wasn’t anything as lucrative or notable as being a principal ballerina. I was Brady Judd’s nemesis, and no one could get his goat like I could.
The vacant camp chair I’d been eyeing came into view, and my boots halted as I pulled up short. A body attached to a pair of long, jean-clad legs slid onto the dark green nylon just ahead of me.
Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.
Unfortunately, the nemesis thing seemed to work both ways. As much as it pained me to admit it, Brady was just as gifted at getting under my skin. He was a tick on my backside and had been for as long as I’d known him. Growing up, we’d practically been neighbors. His family ran the apple orchard across the street. And even now, I had to see his stupid face nearly every day when we closed our respective businesses.
I’d petitioned my family to close the farm thirty minutes earlier or later so I could drag the chain across the driveway without having to interact with Brady, but they hadn’t gone for it. As it stood, most evenings, I was forced to walk down the path from Grandpappy’s parking lot to the main entrance and watch as Brady did the same from directly across the two-lane highway.
Judd’s Family Orchard had a billboard advertising the entrance to their property with a giant photo of eight-year-old Brady holding a basket of apples. The image had faded over the years, but I was still inundated regularly by his gap-toothed grin and the dimple in his right cheek. The cheerful script across the bottom advised motorists to “turn here for wholesome family fun.”
Whenever I saw that sign, I was reminded of the boy who’d snipped off the end of my pigtail in the first grade. Or the time he swapped out my banana pudding for mayonnaise at a church picnic .
As classmates since preschool, we’d been gleefully torturing each other for decades at this point. Back in high school, I’d played on the girls’ soccer team, and Brady had played on the boys’ team. Our paths had crossed a lot as a result. Our weird torture competition probably (definitely) wasn’t healthy, but grudges were seldom rational. And while most of our childhood and adolescent battles had been good-natured teasing interspersed with occasional hell-raising, the spring after I’d turned seventeen, I’d sworn I’d never forgive him.
Maybe it was juvenile to keep a promise I’d made to myself eleven years ago, but no one had ever accused me of being the most mature.
Now, from his place in the camp chair, Brady glanced up. A smirk was already formed on his surprisingly full lips. The orange glow from the fire cast his features in harsh relief, making him look demonic, possibly rabid. His smirk widened into a grin as he watched me stand there frozen, two feet away. The asshat had probably stolen the chair on purpose.
“Hi, Mac Attack. I didn’t see you there.” His voice was delighted, the good-ole-boy Southern accent dialed up to ten.
Sure, I lived in the mountains of Western North Carolina too, but Brady exaggerated his twangy drawl and sounded more like an inbred yokel than anyone else I knew. One time, in second grade, he’d missed wash during the spelling bee. He’d spelled out “w-o-r-s-h” because that was literally how he said it. There was country and then there was Brady Judd: shameless flirt, unrepentant annoyance, and backwoods-sounding hillbilly.
“I bet you didn’t,” I challenged.
Brady’s grin went full-blown megawatt. His even white teeth appeared to glow in the firelight like some sort of deranged maniac.
I eyed his smooth jaw and styled hair. The brown strands were longer on top and artfully arranged. I imagined if I ran my fingers through them and gave a good yank, my hand would come away sticky with product. Beneath the scent of crackling flames and woodsmoke, I got a good whiff of cologne—probably Axe body spray.
“What?” Brady asked when I’d clearly been staring too long.
I sniffed and crossed my arms. “Nothing. I just don’t see why you feel the need to get all gussied up?— ”
“Thank you,” he interrupted like I’d complimented him.
“It’s just a bonfire at Abby’s. Same one you probably came to last Friday and the Friday before that.”
“If this lowly bonfire is so beneath you,” he replied, unoffended, “why do you keep showing up? You must not mind hanging out with all us peasants when you have such an engaging social calendar, Your Majesty.”
I scowled in response, not bothering to explain myself to him.
I just meant that I didn’t feel the need to curl my hair and put on a bunch of makeup to impress the same people I saw all the time. Most of them knew me back when I had a mouth full of braces or that obsession with One Direction in the fifth grade.
And now I was just Mac, the smart-mouthed Clark who did the bare minimum to get by. Twenty-eight. No children. No boyfriend. Hell, no prospects. I was basically a Jane Austen heroine in flannel.
My gaze shifted to the chair Brady occupied, and I sighed. No fireside seat was worth this.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want this here chair?” He wiggled his butt a little like I didn’t know which folding camp chair he was referring to. Then he spread his thighs wide to get comfortable, and I swallowed and looked away.
My eye roll was instinctual at this point—a conditioned response to this idiot. I might as well have been Pavlov’s dog ... but with better hair.
“There’s a seat right here,” Brady said, patting his thigh.
I made sure my glare was baleful and unflinching. “Not a chance.”
As if I would ever lower myself—literally—to sit on his lap. I couldn’t imagine a scenario where that would ever happen. Two broken ankles? Nah, I’ll pass. Just finished a marathon? I’d rather stand, thank you very much.
With a huff of annoyance, I tightened my hold on the neck of the bottle in my hand and turned away. I’d find another damn seat. Even the uncomfortable logs positioned around the perimeter would be a better option than spending my evening with Brady Judd. I’d rather have my butt go completely numb than have it contact any part of his anatomy .
However, before I’d made it a single step, I felt a hand close gently around my wrist. I didn’t get the chance to threaten violence or demand he unhand me. Brady released his hold immediately and stood in one fluid motion.
I hated how tall he was. I was a respectable five feet, six inches, but Brady towered over me at six three. He was long and lean from years of running and playing soccer. While I wasn’t intimidated, per se, I didn’t like how small and insignificant I felt standing in his overgrown shadow. I much preferred our interactions nonexistent, but if I had to pick, I’d rather he be sitting down.
“Here you go, Mac Mac,” he said, sweeping an arm out to the camp chair. I ignored the nickname. It was one of many he cycled through, and I’d learned a long time ago not to give him the satisfaction of challenging him on it. If you cracked the door even the barest amount on your annoyance, Brady would come strolling through it with a two-hundred-piece marching band.
My eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What are you doing?”
Shrugging, he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his gray puffy vest. “I can be a gentleman when I want to be.”
My gaze drifted to the chair and then back to Brady, trying to decide if there was a catch. We’d played plenty of pranks on each other over the years. It wouldn’t be unheard of for him to yank a chair out from under me or to have sabotaged it in some way that had the nylon collapsing or the whole thing folding up with me in it.
He chuckled at my obvious distrust. “Just take it, Clark. I swear I’m being good.”
With that, he shuffled forward to slide around me. I didn’t make it easy on him. I stood my ground in the pathway that formed the perimeter of the fire. His tall body curved by, just shy of touching me. As he passed, his head dipped low, and he said quietly in my ear, “But something tells me you prefer it when I’m bad.”
His hushed tone and soft exhale against my skin had me fighting a shiver—one of disgust, no doubt.
My eyes snapped to his face just in time to watch him smirk and then turn away. He ambled off toward Jase Wilcox and Cole Abernathy, who were lit beneath the twinkle lights under the awning. Brady clapped both men on the shoulder in greeting before he reached inside a waiting cooler and pulled out one of my five remaining ciders.
I let out an impatient breath when I realized I’d been staring after him like a damn schoolgirl. What had that been about? And why was it so hot out here? Oh, right. The bonfire. What was wrong with me tonight?
Cursing quietly, I slid onto the seat Brady had vacated, noting the warmth left over from his body.
Hazel Bradford was on one side of me, and it didn’t take long before we started up a conversation. She’d been a couple grades ahead of me in school and a cheerleader to boot. But we’d been friends a long time.
Hazel asked me how things were at Grandpappy’s, and we talked about the upcoming season at my family’s farm. Then I asked after the pottery she made and sold at the farmers’ market downtown. It wasn’t hard to talk to someone you’d known all your life. Like I said, most of us got along with one another. Most .
My eyes snagged on Brady as something Abby said made him laugh. He threw his head back, completely unselfconsciously.
I tuned back into the conversation as Hazel asked how my family was doing. I told her my sister, Bonnie, had just started back to school, and that was why she hadn’t joined me tonight. She was the art teacher over at Kirby Falls Elementary. While that was all technically true, Bonnie was also pretty busy with her husband, Danny, and his family. Bonfires and going out weren’t priorities for my sister anymore, which was fine. We were in different places in our lives. She was older and married. I fully expected her to start popping out kids and living that mom life soon.
“Are Junior and Nola gone for the season yet?” Hazel asked as my thoughts drifted away from my sister.
I nodded. “Yeah, they loaded up the RV this week. They’ll be in St. Pete until Christmas.”
It was common knowledge that my grandparents were snowbirds. They took their retirement from Grandpappy’s seriously, and they deserved it. My grandpa Junior—J.R. or William Jr. to some—and my grandma Nola had worked the land and helped run the farm and orchard until the next generation could take it over. My parents and aunt and uncle and cousins had all found places within the Grandpappy’s legacy. I worked there, too, chipping in and doing what needed to be done on the tourism side of things. I’d helped out in the fields when I was younger but left that part of the family business to my uncle William and his farmhands.
“I saw Larry at the bank this afternoon, so I knew she wasn’t coming out tonight,” Hazel said. “Why doesn’t Will ever come around? I know he’s practically famous, but everyone knows him. He’d be welcome.”
I got where Hazel was coming from. Will would definitely be welcome. He’d also hate every minute of it. A decade and a lifetime ago, my cousin had been a professional baseball player. An injury had stopped his career in its early stages, and he’d returned home to Kirby Falls to help manage the farm. He hated being recognized by the leafers —the tourists who visited our town in search of fall foliage—and he hated reminiscing about his past. Inevitably, some well-meaning local would bring up his baseball career. Some wounds went deeper than we liked to admit. Will was bitter and guarded, and I could understand his tendency to hermit himself away.
On the other hand, I thought his shitty attitude and resentment made life harder for everyone else. Our relationship was complicated, and oftentimes, he was more my boss than my cousin. I knew he thought I coasted through life, content to half-ass my job and everything else I did. Maybe he was right in some regard. But I was never going to live up to his standards. Why bother trying?
“Will keeps busy” was all I eventually managed. But Hazel nodded like she understood.
Our conversation continued as former classmates came and went over the next hour. The temperature dropped even more, and the heat from the flames was welcome as I tugged my flannel tighter around my torso.
A few times that evening, I caught sight of Brady—holding another bottle from my six-pack, the ass—with Jase and Abby. They’d found seats at a picnic table away from the fire, beneath the awning near the coolers, and seemed content to hold court there.
Around eleven thirty, I decided it was time to head home. I’d nursed one cider all night, so I was fine to drive .
I said my goodbyes and made my way under the awning to drop my empty in the recycling bin. But just as I released the bottle, I felt a body stumble into mine.
“Damn it, Abby,” Brady mumbled roughly as his hands found my waist, steading me and keeping me from tipping into the side of the giant blue trash can.
Just as quickly, Brady pulled away, stepping back and mumbling out an apology.
I frowned, annoyed that I was once again in his proximity and that he’d crashed into me. “Watch it, Judd.”
Brady glared at his snickering friends before holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry, Mac. That wasn’t intentional.” Then, with one last parting scowl for Abby and Jase, Brady turned and headed toward the parking lot.
I stared after him in confusion. He wasn’t really going to drive? The drunk ass had just staggered into me.
In stunned dismay, I watched as Brady ambled away. He then reached into his vest pocket and produced a set of keys.
Turning to his still-amused friends, I demanded, “You’re not just going to let him drive home, are you?”
Abby waved me away. “He’s fine.”
My eyes bulged. “Clearly, he’s not.”
“Surely you’re not worried Brady might hurt himself?” Abby’s dark eyes sparkled.
“No,” I protested. “He could kill someone else, though. That idiot would probably walk away without a scratch.” I glanced back to see Brady winding his way through the cars parked next to the barn.
Returning my gaze to Abby and Jase, I asked, “You’re really not going to stop him?”
Jase shook his head, and Abby grinned, unrepentant.
“Cole Abernathy, you are responsible for whatever happens next.” Then I turned and took off toward the sea of vehicles, already regretting my decision and my unfortunate morals.
“Oh, I hope so!” he shouted after me .
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response.
Brady was just reaching for the door handle of his truck when I jogged up behind him.
“Hey,” I called, and he turned automatically. Obvious surprise had his brows going high on his forehead. Yeah, well, I couldn’t believe I was chasing him down either.
“You can’t just drive in your condition,” I said before he had a chance to speak. “I saw you drinking—my ciders, by the way—all night. You should go back to the bonfire. Make Jase or Abby take you home.”
Brady ignored all the important parts of my speech and replied with a dopey smile, “Been keeping an eye on me, have you?”
I sighed in aggravation. I hadn’t been watching Brady, not really. I’d just ... noticed him occasionally, over the course of several hours. He was loud and distracting. It wasn’t my fault I’d looked in his annoying direction and happened to see a bottle in his hand every time.
“Will you just go give your friends your keys?”
“No, I don’t think I will.”
We watched each other. Me glaring, and Brady smirking.
I did not want to insert myself into this situation, and I didn’t see why I had to be the responsible one here.
“Give me your phone,” I said, holding out my hand.
Brady straightened and reached into his front pocket. “Why? Want to give me your number?”
“No, I’m going to call your sister, you idiot.”
He released his cell, and I watched it disappear back into his jeans pocket. “Hmm, I don’t think so.”
“Brady,” I groaned, overwhelmed by irritation. I didn’t want to spend my valuable free time arguing with him. I wanted to drive home and go to sleep. I had to work in the morning .
His quiet chuckle made me homicidal. It also made me realize he could stand here and give me shit all night long. Or at least until he sobered up.
Apparently, it was up to me to put a stop to this round-and-round and make sure Brady didn’t crash into anyone on his way home. I could do this. I could be the bigger person. I would not let my nemesis win this battle.
“Fine,” I snapped. Reaching out, I snagged the front of his stupid puffy vest and dragged him in the direction of my car.
“Whoa! Okay, I always knew you’d want to be in charge.” He followed along like the dog that he was. “I’m fine with being manhandled. We should probably decide on a safe word, though. I think it should be ‘meat loaf.’”
I stopped abruptly and spun to face him. “Why meat loaf?”
Brady replied solemnly, “Because I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that.”
I blinked, and then I bit my lip hard. “You are such an idiot.”
“You’re trying so hard not to laugh right now.”
I ignored that. “And we do not need a safe word because I am driving you home.” He opened his mouth, but I didn’t give him a chance to interrupt. “And I’m leaving you there to sleep it off.”
He eyed me for a moment. “Okay, you can drive me home.”
I eyed him right back. Brady was giving in, but, for some reason, I didn’t feel like I was winning. “Get in the Jeep.”
His lips curled, and a dimple popped in his right cheek. “Yes, ma’am.”
The eight-minute drive to downtown Kirby Falls tested nearly all of my patience, but I tried to remember that I’d brought this upon myself. Everyone knew that drunk people were annoying, but Brady was a pain in the ass even when he was sober. He entertained himself by digging through my glovebox and center console, keeping up a running commentary all the while. He dissected my music choices and criticized everything from my smudged windshield to the air freshener I had dangling from my rearview mirror.
By the time I slowed the Jeep on the empty street in front of his second-story apartment, I was ready to shove him from the moving vehicle .
“Thanks for the lift,” he said as I turned on my blinker and pulled to a stop.
“You really shouldn’t have even thought about driving drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not. I drank one cranberry cider all night.”
My mind spun as I thought back to Brady laughing and carrying on, drink in hand. Could that really have been the same bottle all night? “But you practically fell over your own feet on your way out. Right into me,” I argued.
“Oh,” he replied, completely unbothered. “That was because Abby kicked me when I stood up from the picnic table. I’m not drunk, Mac. I’d never drink and drive.”
I stared at him while fiery anger—so scalding and familiar—filled my chest. My hands tightened involuntarily around the steering wheel.
“Are you telling me you let me think you were drunk so I’d drive you home?” The words were gritted out, my jaw tense and set.
“You were the one who insisted,” he argued. “You practically dragged me into your backseat.”
“Front seat,” I corrected.
“Semantics.”
I took in a slow breath through my nose. “Get. Out.”
His quiet laughter made my grip tighten on the steering wheel once more, the leather groaning beneath my palms as I imagined his clean-shaven throat in its place.
Brady opened the door and unfolded his tall frame out onto the empty sidewalk. At least there weren’t any witnesses.
With a cheerful wave, Brady called, “See you later, MacBook Pro.”
As soon as his door closed, I took off, my headlights illuminating the pavement.
This was exactly what I got for trying to do the right thing: a headache forming in the base of my skull .
An hour later, I’d showered off the smell of woodsmoke and settled into bed with wet hair and my cell phone. My headache had eased, what with Brady Judd being clear across town. I figured a little doomscrolling would help me settle down.
I clicked off the news pretty quickly. Next, I checked a few of the travel blogs I followed but didn’t find any new posts.
Then my curiosity got the better of me, and I did this thing I do sometimes. I typed in “flights AVL to Reykjavik” in the search bar. A list of options unfolded, and I smiled softly. “Only two stops,” I mumbled to myself in surprise. I’d expected more.
I equated this silly little exercise to people house-hunting on Zillow for homes they’d never be able to afford. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t going anywhere. What was the harm in checking flights to New Zealand or Greece or Italy?
I released a wistful breath and almost put my phone away.
But then I decided to pull up my favorite social media app, Chatter. Thoughts of lava fields, black sand beaches, and the auroras were suddenly abandoned as my blood pressure started to climb.
Rising onto one elbow, I tapped the mention in my notifications from forty-two minutes ago. With the glow from my screen searing my retinas, I scanned the post from Judd’s Orchard, eyes widening.
Brady ran the social media account for Judd’s. I handled that side of things for Grandpappy’s. At least once a week, I found a teasing snipe on the orchard’s account. Luckily, I gave back as good as I got.
Shaking my head, I read ...
@JuddsFamilyOrchard: Beware, good people of Kirby Falls. There’s been a string of incidents where strange women try to force unsuspecting victims into their vehicles. Watch out for a bright yellow Jeep Wrangler. Look alive, @GrandpappysApples.
After years of pranks and premeditated torture, the score between us was too high to count. But if I only took today into consideration, it would more than likely stand at Brady Judd: 1 and MacKenzie Clark: 0.