Chapter Three
A Familiar Sound ~ late June
S tanding outside Main Street Coffee, the local coffee shop inside of a vibrant red brick building on the corner of, you guessed it, Main Street, I smooth down my brown plaid pleated pants and check that my boobs aren’t showing through my deep vee white blouse.
Only the peek of a crease, so I’m good. I take a steadying breath before squaring my shoulders, clutching my leather satchel, and reaching for the glass door.
I eye the blueberries painted on the glass pane, leftover from the town’s annual Blueberry Jubilee a few weeks ago, as I open the door.
An arm intricately tattooed with woven briars and roses pushes from the other side.
“Oh, sorry. I—” My words trail off as I take in the tall, buff man who resembles a wall if I’m honest. He’s just so… massive. But when I reach his face, I gasp, my satchel sliding off my shoulder as my hands rush to cover my opened mouth. No wonder his tattoo looked familiar.
This man is identical to my male main character, Noah.
He sports dark, curly hair, though his hair is more tame than I imagine Noah’s to be.
He has entrancing hazel eyes that look like they’re glittering, but his irises are a deeper green than Noah’s.
The tanned skin, pointed nose, and a chiseled jaw that’s covered with a five-o-clock shadow, however, is one hundred percent my leading hero.
He is not from Whitney, Mississippi. That’s for sure.
The town would have tried to set me up with him as they have done with every single man around my age, which there aren’t many.
Only Sheriff Vincent Hodges, Jay McBride, and Luke Benson, to be precise.
I grew up with Luke and Jay, and I have no interest in them because they both are rodeo boys, and I want nothing to do with horses or bulls.
Those massive monsters terrify me. Respectively, they have no interest in me because my nose is always stuck in a book, and well, we all survived middle school together.
Outside of sharing a few dances with both guys at The Wild Whitney a few Saturday nights out of the year when I’m coerced out of my camper by Ethan and Sam, we don’t talk that much.
Sheriff Hodges, at thirty-seven, feels a little too old for my nearly twenty-seven, though I don’t look down upon the women who like their men older. It’s just not my taste.
And the town knows better than to try and pair me with Bryan again. I shudder.
I often wonder why Bryan chose to stay here instead of moving back into Jackson with his family after he left me at the altar. It’s like he’s lurking around the edges of town, waiting for something, though I don’t know what.
“Are you okay, ma’am?”
His voice has depth and richness as it echoes in my soul.
It’s exactly how I hear Noah in my head.
Glancing at his tattoo until it disappears behind his rolled, black sleeve, it’s a mix of ivy and briars with roses and thorns.
Just like Noah, only on the other arm. I wonder if he has a cross underneath that sleeve of his.
“How is this real life?” I murmur, bewildered at this encounter. My emotions are jumbled; this man is like Noah jumped right out of the pages.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” the man asks, his tone perplexed.
I snap out of my trance and pull my gaze back to his face as heat crawls up my neck over my brassiness to stare at this perfect stranger. And I do mean perfect . “I’m so sorry; it’s just you look exactly like how I picture a character in a book I’m writing.”
This stranger’s smile is brilliant, and it dawns on me who he is. “Oh, really? Are you Lorraine E. Jenkins by any chance?”
“Yes.” I shake my head, rushing my next words.
“Well, it’s Esme, actually. Lorraine is my middle name.
I’m using it to publish my book. And you are…
” I trail off, waiting for him to fill in the gap even though I know exactly who this handsome stranger is.
I need him to talk so that I will stop rambling about my name.
“Nikhil Prewitt.” He shoots out a large, veiny hand. “But I go by my middle name, Ashton. I’m a literary agent and the owner of Prewitt Publishing.”
A broad smile sweeps across my face, mirroring his.
I slip my hand into his and give it a firm shake.
I’m shaking hands with my book character!
If the book ever becomes a movie, this guy has to play Noah.
Or Justin Baldoni. But I think this man in front of me fits the bill more perfectly than my beloved Baldoni boy.
Hold your horses, Esme. Book deal first .
Though a small part of me wants to swoon, I must remain professional because my book’s future is on the line. That’s more important to me than a cute—okay, fine, molten hot—man who resembles my MMC.
“It’s so good to meet you,” I state. “Shall we go inside?” Shall? Really? I mentally facepalm myself and blame my recent Shakespeare deep-dive.
“We shall, my lady.” Ashton tips a faux hat before backing against the open door to let me walk through first. I scramble inside, mumbling under my breath and reminding myself to be cool, not a bumbling, awestruck woman.
Just because he looks like he stepped out of a book doesn’t mean he did .
Because as Lane once told me, fictional men don’t exist in real life.
Ashton follows me to an open table toward the back of the building against an old, open brick wall.
Main Street Coffee is a small but cozy place with its solid wooden tables, metal chairs with cushioned seats, dimmed fairy lights, and pothos plants vining out along the walls, mixing with English ivy.
The counter is located in the middle of the room, and after setting our stuff down, Ashton leads us to order.
“Hi, Miss Jenkins and Miss Jenkins’ guy-friend.
What can I fix up for y’all today?” Katie McBride, the young barista who graduated last year from Whitney High School, asks through a wide, toothy smile.
She side-eyes me, asking a million silent questions through her transparent face.
My students always pester me about tying down a man, and Katie is most definitely going to be taking a picture of me and Ashton and circulating it around the high school, which means the whole town will know soon.
That’s what I get for recommending we meet here instead of me going to his agency in Tuscaloosa.
“I’ll have a twenty-four-ounce iced Americano. No room.” Ashton looks at me to order.
“Oh, I can get mine.” I say, waving him off. But as he insists with a smile and a nod, I finally order. “My usual. Thanks, Katie.”
He lifts an eyebrow at me, a subtle mirth filling those green-flecked eyes. I shrug, and a melodious laugh bubbles from his chest.
Yes, very cool, Esme. Nonchalant. Chill. “I come here frequently.”
“Like every day,” Katie pipes in. I toss her my teacher look, but since she’s no longer my student, it doesn’t have the same effect. She grins and winks.
I’m as cool as that forbidden phrase associated with cucumbers people no longer like in romance books (according to my research), so I shrug nonchalantly. “The book won’t write itself.”
“We will have that right out to you,” Katie says with a high-pitched, amused tone as she eyes me once more, a smirk playing on her lips.
She jots down the orders on our respective cups before Ashton pays and then we make our way back to our table.
I feel Katie’s phone camera trained on our backs as I embarrassingly blush my way to our seats.
Finding my words as we sit, I ask, “So, were you leaving earlier or something?”
“I was stepping out to take a phone call, but then I ran into you. I’ll call Branda back later.”
Branda . Sounds like my hot future literary agent is a taken man. At least that makes focusing on him for work purposes easier. He’s not my fictional boyfriend come to life.
“Ah, okay.” I reach into my satchel and pull out what’s done of my manuscript. “I brought what I’ve completed with me.”
I hand over the thick pile of papers held together by a large pink binder clip.
Sitting on the edge of my seat and fiddling with my necklace as he thumbs through the stack, I interject, “As I told you via email, I’m almost finished, but I’m still trying to figure out the ending.
” I frown. “It’s like every part up until the end has been a vivid dream.
Then, the story simply falls off into a black hole. ”
Ashton presses his lips together before setting the manuscript down and folding his hands together on top of it.
He stares at the papers with knitted brows.
A beat of silence. Another. Another. The only sounds are light chatter among customers, the whirring of the espresso machine, and the shuffling of feet across the wooden floors.
I notice Gloria Smith’s three grandkids under five years old are smacking on sandwiches a few tables over.
Is it hot in here, or…?
“Say something.” My voice is mousy. I laugh nervously and plop my elbows down on the table, covering my eyes with my hands. “Please.”
“I haven’t read it yet, Miss Jenkins.”
“Esme, please. You’re not one of my students.
” I remove my hands and scrunch my nose.
“And I know. But this silence will be the death of me.” And quite possibly my career as an author.
Because I don’t think I could handle him hating my manuscript.
Not after I’ve attached myself so completely to it.
In a way, it’s healed me. It’s allowed me to escape.
And Noah is my perfect man, which this guy looks identical to.
“I love the premise. I wouldn’t have reached out for this meeting otherwise.” Ashton’s eyes flash with amusement before dimming to something a little more melancholic. “I’m curious about the ending, though. Do you have an inkling of an idea for the direction you’d like to take the story?”