Want More?
CHAPTER ONE
Bree
Pacing the terrazzo floor of Terminal Three at LAX, I scowled with annoyance at my silent phone.
Crickets.
Pax, my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, was ignoring my barrage of angry texts.
Two days ago I’d seen a suspicious tweet from a twit named Keely: Had the best night w/ @PaxJones! But my breaking point was an Instagram pic of Pax kissing a rando girl smack on the lips.
It could have been a scene from his upcoming movie, but I didn’t think so.
He’d told me he was in Montana, filming scenes for his next big film, a Western flick starring him as a gorgeous-but-lonely cowboy.
But the background in the photo appeared to be the Pacific Ocean, and even though I’d never been to Montana, I was pretty certain that’s NOT what it looked like.
I immediately did some digging and sure enough, that asshole was in Laguna Beach, staying at the Ritz. And he definitely wasn’t alone, judging by the amount of Veuve and spa treatments charged to his room.
“Final boarding call for Flight 4356 to Atlanta, GA. All remaining passengers should board at this time.”
I hesitated, took a deep breath. If I was going to flee LA and the paparazzi, I had to get on this plane. Any second now, the disastrous headlines could hit:
Relationship expert Bree Hart is no ‘expert’ when it comes to her own love life
Superstar Paxton Jones leaves so-called ‘dating doctor’ for B-list actress
Relationship guru Bree Hart left brokenhearted by actor Paxton Jones
Gah. I so did not want those headlines to hit. My dating podcast was finally trending, and I’d just made it into the Top 25 in the Relationship Category. This could devastate my career. Never mind my heart—Pax had already broken that several times.
I’d been trying (unsuccessfully) to dump Pax for the last 24 hours.
Timing was everything and I wanted to break up with him before the media got wind of a cheating scandal.
Then I’d disappear for a bit, under the guise of visiting my sister.
Pax could step out with someone new, and I’d fade into the background, yesterday’s news.
But, per the usual, Pax was even making breaking up difficult. He wasn’t answering my texts or calls, probably because he was too busy with his new sidepiece.
“Seriously. This is the last and final boarding call.” The ticketing agent shot me a pointed look. I was the only person still standing at the gate.
Taking the not-so-subtle hint, I wheeled my suitcase over to the kiosk and presented my ticket.
“Have a safe flight.”
“Thanks,” I said, juggling my shoulder bag and luggage.
As I made my way down the ramp, my shoulder vibrated. Crap. That could be Pax, finally calling me back. I rooted through my bag and managed to fish out my phone.
“Hello? Hello?”
Silence. I checked the screen. One missed call and it was from Pax.
“Damn it!” I immediately hit his name, calling him back. One ring, two rings, three, four. Pax’s voice came on the line, “ You know what to do. Leave me a message .”
“Hey, Pax, it’s me, Bree. So, I saw your Instagram and it looks like you’re with someone else.
Not going to lie, I’m pretty upset and it’s really uncool that you’re not even answering my texts.
But whatever. Obviously, you’ve moved on.
I’m not going to stall here or anything, I’m just going to come right out and say it. We’re?—”
“ Good-bye.”
Seriously? Even Pax’s voicemail was too busy for me. I dialed him back. I needed to get this off my chest this instant, so I could move on with my life and avert career disaster.
Ring, ring, ring. Beep. “Sorry, but the voicemail box is full. Call back later.” And with that, I was automatically disconnected.
“Ugh!” I cried, shaking my phone. “All I want to do is dump you!”
I slammed my phone back into my purse and looked up. Two flight attendants flanked the doorway to the plane and they were both staring at me.
“Boyfriend problems,” I explained, a hot blush creeping over my face. They both nodded knowingly.
“Girl, who doesn’t?” The attendants whispered something to each other, then glanced back at me. The one on the right ushered me over and checked my ticket.
“You’re in Seat 2B now,” she said, winking as she took my ticket. “We ladies need to stick together. Enjoy your flight.”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling in gratitude. “I will.”
Breaking up with Pax would have to wait until I landed. I intended to take full advantage of first class while I had the chance.
As soon as the plane touched down in Atlanta, I powered up my phone to a string of missed texts from Pax:
“Babe. It’s not what you think w/ Keely. But if you want to pump the brakes, that’s cool.”
“Life is too short to be unhappy.”
And my personal fave:
“Could you still pick my laundry up at the cleaners? Thx.”
Asshole , I thought, collecting my rollaboard and deplaning. What did I ever see in that jerk? He couldn’t even bother to call, just left me a bunch of texts, like a freaking middle schooler .
I sighed and shook my head, exasperated at my terrible choice in men. Like most of my clients, I blamed it on my parents. If my dad hadn’t skipped out on us when I was only eight, maybe I’d be better at this relationship thing. Probably not, but maybe.
Making my way over to the rental car area, I signed my life away for the opportunity to motor around the greater Atlanta area in a mid-sized Chevy Malibu. I collected the keys, dashed off a quick text to my sister, Brooklyn, and hit I-85, happy to be away from the prying eyes of the paparazzi.
Three minutes after I arrived at my sister’s, she tasked me with afternoon chauffeur duty for my niece. Destination: Pee Wee football practice. Fine by me—it kept me busy and, frankly, I didn’t have much else to do.
“Alexa, do you have your mouthguard? Water bottle?” I asked, popping the car door open for her.
“Yes, Aunt Bee, see?” She held up her pink mouthguard and water bottle as proof.
“Great. Then let’s go.” I shoved her mouthguard into my handbag and clicked the lock button on my key fob, although I highly doubted anyone would steal my car.
After all, we were in Peachtree Grove, Georgia.
AKA, Smalltown, USA, home of the Peach Cobbler Festival and approximately 10,000 people, most of whom were born and would die in Peachtree Grove.
My sister and her husband were two of the few “newcomers,” meaning they’d only lived here for the last five or so years.
(They wouldn’t be considered “locals” until Alexa had children, probably.) Brooks moved when Alexa was a baby so her husband, Dr. Craig Williams, could be closer to the hospital at Emory, where he was both a prominent doctor and a professor.
When she’d first described Peachtree Grove to me, I thought she was exaggerating, but then I came to visit.
It was definitely a shock to my jaded LA system.
No flashy cars or movie stars here. Just high school football.
Which, by the way, is an actual, legitimate season.
Seriously. It’s printed on calendars , like the 4 th of July and Easter.
In Peachtree Grove, Friday is for football, Saturday is for football, and Sunday is for church and football.
Weekdays are for work and football practice. Rinse and repeat.
Which I guess is why my niece loves football. And why I now found myself standing on a plushy field with tons of other pee wee players and their parents, looking for the head coach of the—what did Brooks say the name of Alex’s team was?—oh yes, the Lions.
Holding my hand to my forehead, I shielded my eyes from the sun. Even with sunglasses on, it was still too bright to see across the field. Ah, September in the South.
“Is that them, over there?” I pointed to a group of about ten kids on a big square marked with a #4 sign, two fields over on the right. “That might be the coach, wearing the blue shirt.” His back was to us, but his jersey said “Coach.” An excellent tipoff. I so had this aunt thing down.
“Yeah, that’s my friend Cole.” Alexa nodded, then took off in a sprint towards the group, deftly dodging clumps of boys, all Alexa-sized.
“Wait up!” I called, doing my best fast walk across the fields. It was futile; she was already way ahead of me. I should have worn sneakers. Oh well, at least I’m not wearing heels and I go to the gym.
When I finally caught up to Alexa, I was a little out of breath and perspiration beaded on my brow.
Flipping my hair over my shoulder, I fanned myself with one hand.
I slid in with the group of moms hanging out on the sidelines, just behind the man in the blue Coach shirt.
Alexa and all the other kids were in a big cluster, facing the coach.
“Okay, guys, it looks like everyone’s here,” the coach announced in a loud voice, doing a quick once-over of the Pee Wees.
“What’s your name?” He pointed at Alexa.
“Alexa Williams,” she said in a soft voice. The other kids chittered away, while Alexa stared down at her sneakers and kicked at a clump of grass.
“Hmmm, I don’t see that name on my roster.” The coach went down the names on his clipboard. “Oh, here. Alex Williams?”
She nodded up at him with wide blue eyes.
“I’m her aunt.” I gave a little wave and stepped forward to clear up any misunderstanding.
The coach turned towards me and my breath caught in my throat.
Coach was drop-dead gorgeous.
He reached his hand out to me and I shook it, noting he had very large, strong hands. He was super tall, probably 6’3”, and had deep marine eyes with long, dark lashes. Dark hair, cropped short, and he looked like he’d be ripped.
“Does she go by Alex or Alexa?”
“What?”
“Your niece. Does she prefer Alex or Alexa?” he asked, nodding in her direction.
“Oh. Um, Alex. Or Alexa. I think she likes Alexa.” My voice trailed off as my cheeks burned. Really, Bree? You don’t even know which name your niece prefers?
“I like Alex,” Alexa piped up. “Call me Alex.”