1. CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
brENDEN
TWELVE YEARS LATER
"Daaaaaad! ”
I groan as I stumble down the stairs with half-open eyes, still buttoning my work shirt. Mornings aren’t my strong suit.
“What?” I ask when I reach the kitchen.
My daughter turns to me with a mug of coffee clutched in both hands and raises her eyebrows like she’s surprised to see me standing here. As if she didn’t just yell for me like the damn house was on fire. “Nothing. I didn’t hear you get up, so I wanted to make sure you weren’t gonna be late for work.”
Fixing her with a cold stare, I say, “I was up. I know how to set an alarm.”
She holds my stare, unfazed. “You also know how to throw your phone across the room so hard it breaks, thereby turning off the alarm.”
I open my mouth to argue, then snap it shut, because she’s got me there. I did do that. But in my defense, it was only one time. Paying for a new phone taught me my lesson.
May smiles and extends her arms, holding the coffee out to me like a peace offering.
Taking it, I say, “Thanks, kid.” As I step past her, I pause to press a kiss to the side of her head. “Do you want cereal or Toaster Strudels?”
“Did you remember to buy more of the raspberry ones?”
“Yup,” I tell her, preening a little. See? Even though my thirteen-year-old daughter feels responsible for making sure I get up in the morning, I’m totally nailing this parenting thing.
“Then I’ll have those, please,” she says, as she goes over to pour herself another coffee from the pot. “And Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“You buttoned your shirt wrong.”
Damn it.
After tossing a couple frozen pastries into the toaster, I fix my shirt. Then I grab a plate and wait for the strudels to pop up. When they do, I attempt to grab them, doing that hot potato routine where it takes a few times of dropping them back because they’re too hot before I manage to get them out of the toaster. I’ve just finished spreading the icing on top when my phone rings.
I don’t know who would be calling me this early unless there’s something wrong at work. Setting May’s plate on the table in front of her, I slide my phone out of my pocket and answer without checking the screen. “Hello?”
“Hi, Brenden!” replies a voice much too wide awake and chipper for this early in the morning.
I manage not to sigh. “Elise. It’s good to hear from you.”
That’s a lie, but May’s head perks up at her grandmother’s name. I’m sure she’s happy to hear from her, at least.
It’s not that I dislike May’s grandparents. My relationship with them is just... complicated. They were understandably upset when they found out April wanted me to adopt May. They even talked about fighting it, but ultimately, they gave up. Presumably because they knew they had no legal ground, since April made sure she got all the paperwork taken care of in time, and after my parents’ deaths, I had enough financial means to support a child. I suspected they were also afraid that if they fought against me, I might keep May away from them entirely.
Even though they eventually accepted that I’d be May’s father, they still make me a little anxious all these years later.
“How are you?” Elise asks. Followed immediately by, “How’s May?”
I tell her I’m fine, then give her what she really cares about. “May’s doing great! Her grades are excellent this year, like always. I think she’s read her way through half of Mayweather’s local library by now.”
Glancing down, I catch May rolling her eyes at me, so I ruffle her wavy hair. I don’t mention to her grandmother that I let her dye it lavender.
“We’ll have to send her some gift cards,” Elise says, and I try not to huff in annoyance. I may not be wealthy like her and her husband, but I can afford to buy my daughter books. “She has spring break coming up, doesn’t she?”
“It starts tomorrow.”
Elise hums. “Grant and I were hoping we could coordinate a visit, but unfortunately, he couldn’t swing it in time with his work.”
I let out the sharp breath I sucked in at hearing the word visit . The Richardsons know they’re welcome to come up here from Philly, but they rarely do. They claim they don’t like traveling, but they used to take vacations here when April was a kid, so that seems like an excuse. They probably just don’t have the time to bother with the two of us, and that’s sort of fine with me.
After April died and I adopted May, I ended up selling my parents’ house and moving May to Mayweather. I’d never been here before, but I remembered how much April loved it here. And the idea of raising a child in the city felt daunting—the idea of raising a child felt daunting—so I picked this tiny town in Massachusetts, hoping this place would help me create a happy life for myself and May.
And it has. This town has given us so much.
But I’d be lying if I said that getting away from May’s grandparents so they couldn’t judge my every move wasn’t a perk of the relocation.
“That’s too bad,” I say. “But May’s here now, she hasn’t left for school yet. Do you wanna talk to her?”
“Yes, of course! Thank you.”
I eagerly pass my phone to May, who gives me a sympathetic smile. She loves her grandparents, and I’m glad for that. It’s just different for me. They’re not my family.
My only family is May. And that’s more than enough.
“Hi, Grandma!” May says cheerily into the phone.
Slipping out of the kitchen with my coffee, I head out onto the front porch to give them some privacy. Not that May keeps any secrets from me.
Okay, so maybe I’m saving myself from overhearing how nice and easy their relationship is.
I plop down on the wicker loveseat, enjoying the fact that it’s no longer freezing outside. It only took most of April for the spring temperatures to actually arrive. Finally, I can exhale without seeing my own breath. Hallelujah!
I lean back, bring my mug up to my mouth, and— achoo! —sneeze right into it. Dammit.
Every year, as I grit my teeth through frigid winters and pray for spring, I somehow manage to forget that my allergies act up during this season.
Frowning into my tainted coffee, I determine it not too gross, and take a sip. Because if there’s one thing in this world I don’t waste, it’s coffee. If you cut me open, I’m pretty sure you’d find as much coffee running through my veins as blood.
A flapping noise comes from my left, and I turn my head in time to see an orange and white-speckled chicken land on the porch railing.
“Hey there, Delilah.”
Cluck.
Sure, a person living in a normal town might be disturbed by a chicken appearing on their porch. But Mayweather is anything but normal, so I just go back to drinking my coffee.
Delilah belongs to my next-door neighbor Mitch. When May and I first moved to town, we hadn’t been here more than a few hours before Mitch showed up knocking on my door to introduce himself. Being a hopeless people pleaser, I invited him in, not expecting a freaking chicken to follow him over the threshold and into my kitchen.
The kitchen was a disaster, with stuff all over the counters and unpacked boxes on the floor. But my coffee maker was set up, because priorities , and Mitch didn’t hesitate to ask for a cup. After making it for him, I took a seat across from him at the small round table, and the chicken immediately flew into my lap.
“That’s Delilah,” he told me. “Or Delilah Doodle Doo. Delilah Doodle Don’t when she’s in trouble.”
Very distracted—and mildly terrified—by the large bird in my lap, I unintentionally spilled my whole tragic backstory to Mitch when he asked where I’d come from.
I didn’t move here wanting to be known as the twenty-one-year-old guy with the dead parents, dead best friend, and adopted child. Gossip spreads like wildfire in this town, though, and that’s what I was.
But my life is pretty great now, so I try not to dwell on the past.
Mitch is nowhere in sight, but Delilah is typically super chill. She’s been perched there watching me for about five minutes when I suddenly let out another loud sneeze, startling her. She gives a disgruntled squawk as she flies down into the grass, and then she promptly struts back to her own yard as if I’ve insulted her.
I quickly down the last of my coffee and get up to head inside for a tissue. But before I make it to the door— Achoo! Achoo! Achoo!
Ugh.
Well. Spring has definitely freaking sprung.
My drive to work is less than ten minutes, yet by the time I reach the Mayweather Inn’s large, sprawling grounds on the edge of town, I’ve already completely drained my death before decaf coffee thermos. If the unexpected early morning phone call was any indication of things to come, I’m afraid this day might require something beyond my normally excessive amount of caffeine.
As soon as I head inside and approach the front desk, my theory already appears to be proving true. Because Danny, my assistant manager and right-hand guy, is scowling at the computer monitor while he crumples a piece of paper into a tight ball in his fist. Danny sort of has a resting grouch face anyway, unless he’s in front of a customer. But this looks like a new level of I want to burn this place to the ground .
“Everything okay?” I ask cautiously.
“We’re overbooked.”
“No, we’re not.”
Danny turns his scowl from the computer to me, making me flinch. “So you’re telling me I’m only imagining that this outdated, waste-of-space machine shows we have more reservations for the same date than we have rooms?”
“Hey, don’t insult Cynthia!” I cry, reaching across the desk to pat the top of the computer affectionately. He’s not wrong about her being outdated, but I like to think that if I treat her nicely and use enough words of encouragement, she might miraculously last me another year or so. Because buying another one is not something I want to think about right now. Running an inn is expensive. Who knew?
Danny isn’t amused.
“Okay,” I relent. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you. I’m only saying we can’t be overbooked, pleasepleaseplease , because I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do if we are.”
I’ve worked here since I first moved to Mayweather—I used to have Danny’s job—but the inn’s only been mine for almost a year now, and while I like to think I’m great at what I do, sometimes it feels like I’m just winging it.
There’s always that fear in the back of my mind that I’m going to fail.
And then I might not be able to pay May’s grandparents back the large sum of money they lent me to buy this place. Asking them for a loan was painful, but it was worth it for the chance at providing a better life for May.
Danny seems to take pity on me in my distress. He softens and lets out a sigh. “I’ve been trying to figure out all morning how this happened. I told you we need a newer computer that can run a better booking system.”
He’s not wrong, but fuck.
“I’ll handle it,” I tell him. But when I step behind the desk and see that he’s talking about a date next week, right between the end of a large corporate retreat’s visit and the start of Mayweather’s spring festival, I already know I’ll have to resort to something drastic to fix this. Like get the guests a room at another nearby inn for the night before moving them back here and comping part of their stay. That’s seriously unprofessional, but luckily my sunny disposition and charm can get me a long way.
And tourists visit here for the small-town charm, after all.
Forty-five minutes and one headache later, everything’s sorted, and I’m finally able to pop into the kitchen for more coffee. But the sight in there makes me pause.
Addison, my new head chef and culinary goddess, is crouched down, wringing her hands together as she peers into one of the ovens.
For the love of Drag Race, what now?
“Um. Everything okay in here?” I venture to ask.
“The oven’s broken,” she replies, not even bothering to glance my way.
“No, it’s not,” I say reflexively, then bite my lip. Is this déjà vu? A nightmare? Am I having a stroke?
Addison turns to me as she straightens up. Her shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back into a neat little ponytail, but her chef’s coat is unbuttoned, and her Chainsmokers concert T-shirt has a stain on the chest. “I assure you, it is,” she says dryly.
“Oh. Well. Okay. No big deal. We’ll get it fixed.”
No, no, noooo, please, no.
“In time for that big company’s fancy thing?”
“Um, yeah, of course,” I say. “I’ll get someone to come out and take a look at it today. It’ll be fine.”
I might be lying my face off, but I can’t show how stressed I am, because Addison’s already been stressed for weeks over this corporate retreat and the festival. She’s only been working for me for three months, after the previous chef who’d been here longer than me resigned. (And no, that’s not a big deal to lose the head chef at an inn where the restaurant is a huge draw. Nope, not at all. ) So these will be the biggest events she’s had to cook for so far.
“Okay, but I have another problem.” Picking up a stray dish towel, she starts balling it up like a marginally less hostile version of Danny.
“Which is?” I ask, even though I’m afraid of the answer.
“Randy and Ronny quit.”
“ Excuse me? ” I squeak. Surely, this can’t be happening. Not right now. I must have heard her wrong. Or I’m hoping that this is all part of some elaborate, three-weeks-late April Fool’s joke my staff is playing on me.
All right, you got me, guys.
Addison nods solemnly. “Yup. They just sent me a text this morning saying they wouldn’t be coming in tomorrow, because they got some crazy idea about something or other and they’re moving to New Mexico. New Mexico!” She throws the towel onto the counter. “Don’t they know how freaking hot it is there?”
“Woah.” I hold up my hands in a placating gesture, like you would do to a bear approaching. Or maybe that’s not what you’re supposed to do with a bear, I don’t know. I’m not a wilderness guy. “It’s okay,” I tell her.
It’s really not, though.
Those irresponsible little shits. How many times have they been caught getting high in the walk-in and I let it slide? And now this is what I get?
“How am I supposed to get everything done in time when I’m down two staff members and one oven?” Addison asks, voice rising in pitch at the end. “This is going to be a disaster, and you’ll blame me. And I don’t wanna lose this job, because then I might have to crawl my ass back to my miserable, cheating ex-wife, and honestly, I’d rather chew off my own foot.”
“Um.” I don’t know what to say to that. First of all, I’m not sure how chewing off her foot would help anything. And since Addison normally keeps to herself, we haven’t gotten that close yet, despite my best efforts. So hearing her mention her ex throws me.
I’ve been determined to make her my friend though, because, not to toot my own horn, but I’m friends with basically everyone in Mayweather. I can tell you most people’s birthdays, the names of their pets, and any serious allergies. The people in this town were here for me when I needed it most, willing to help a stranger take care of his small child, and I’ll always be grateful.
Addison’s renting a place right outside of Mayweather, but she works here, so she’s a part of the town.
“None of this is your fault. I won’t blame you,” I assure her. “I promise I’ll figure something out and everything will be fine.”
She looks doubtful, so I try to give her a confident smile, but I’m faking it, for sure. Fake it ‘til you make it has always kind of been my motto.
But what the heck am I going to do?