First Down and Forever To Go (River Foxes #1)

Chapter 1

Lucy

If I wasn’t convinced this was a terrible idea before, then the foot-long rip down the front of my sparkly, sequined couture evening gown would have sealed the deal. Or, I guess I should say, unsealed it.

I stare at myself in the floor-length mirror propped in the corner of my room at Daisy’s Inn, where I’ve worked out a long-term rental in the quaint, small town of Cashmere Cove, and squish up my features at the sight of my reflection.

The gown, which I ordered from one of those fancy-dress rental places online and had shipped in time for tonight’s ball, is a stunner.

Correction—it was a stunner … before I accidentally caught my heel on the sweetheart neckline when I was stepping into it and ripped it clear down the center.

Now, the gown gapes open like a giant papercut.

I have to hold the fabric to keep from flashing myself and my best friends, whom I video-called in a panic the moment I heard the telltale rippp!

My shoulders slump as I flick my gaze to where I have my cell phone propped up on the dresser next to the mirror. “I’m not going, you guys. This has to be some sort of sign.”

“I don’t believe in signs.” Cassie, who also happens to be my literary agent, furrows her brow and leans closer to the camera, and now the porcelain skin of her forehead is the only thing I can see. “Can you sew it?”

I widen my eyes and quickly shake my head. “How many times have I told you I don’t have any talents? You think I’ve been hiding a secret ability to sew?”

Cassie leans back so I can see her eyes again and shrugs. “Worth asking.” She twists her lips to the side and scans my damaged dress.

“With all those sequins, it’d be impossible to stitch that.” Classic Bex. She’s the no-nonsense one in our little friend group.

My sweet friend, Philomena, Philly for short, winces. “I’m so sorry, Lu. Wish I could help.”

I sigh. “Me too.”

There’s a metaphor here, with my current wardrobe malfunction. Something about how my life was ripped in two, exposing the real me, and there’s no way I can ever be put back together. I’m like a condemned Humpty Dumpty, fallen from grace. Cancelled. Ruined.

I’m an author. My writer-brain has spun the story of my life a million different ways, with flowery words and built-out metaphors. I’ve delved into the backstory and prodded the pain points, and the ending is always the same. I messed up. I deserve all the misery I have coming my way.

I hate what happened at the People’s Picks award show.

I’d rather not dwell on it, but at the same time, I can’t not dwell on it.

Before I started getting ready for tonight’s charity gala, I indulged in my weekly scroll, rereading the comments on one of the many, many articles that outline in painstaking detail what I’ve coined The Incident.

“Entitled much?”

“That’s a lot of rage coming from someone so insignificant.”

“Who does she think she is?!?”

“Wow, she was always the quiet one, but that’s obviously because no one trusted her to speak … for good reason.”

“Imagine having to live with her!”

“Not a good look, sweetie.”

“She’s the WORST!!”

“Wonder how it feels to be such a miserable person.”

“She should take a flying leap.”

“GIRL, BYE!”

“The world would be better off without people like her in it.”

“Such a pretty face, but then she opens her mouth, and yikesss.”

“The stick is so far up this girl’s—”

Yeah. Brutal. Reading through the comments is my personal form of perpetual penance. I messed up, and I’m paying the price for it.

I blink my focus back to where Cassie, Bex, and Philly are staring at me through the phone screen, their faces a mixture of emotions—Cassie, determination; Bex, held-back laughter; Philly, apprehension.

My heart squeezes. I wish they were here.

I need an in-person pep talk from Cassie.

I need Bex to laugh at me and tell me not to take myself so seriously.

I need Philly to give me a hug. But since I’m holed up in a middle-of-nowhere town in the Wisconsin Cashmere County peninsula, none of that is happening.

“There’s no way I’m coming back from this,” I tell them. That’s the truth in more ways than one.

“Not going is not an option. You need this, Lu. You know you do,” Cassie says pointedly.

I bite my bottom lip. She’s right. I know it. She knows it. I need to go to the ball to try to get some inspiration for my next book. I’m on a deadline, and things aren’t looking good.

Cassie starts pacing in the living room of her New York City apartment. It’s a tiny place, so she doesn’t have much room, but she moves when she’s anxious. “You need to go out and find a dress from someone.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Absolutely not. I’m in hiding, Cass. The only reason I agreed to go to the gala tonight is that it’s a masquerade ball. I’m not about to bring attention to my doorstep.”

Cassie presses her lips together. She can’t argue with me there.

The whole point of moving here was to get out from under media scrutiny.

I tried to stick it out in Los Angeles with my stepmom and stepsisters for the first couple months after The Incident, and while chatter around what I said and what I did died down a little, there was still this suffocating commentary anytime I was seen, detailing what an awful person I was.

That, and my family was about to start filming the next season of our show, and we all figured it was better if I distanced myself.

I didn’t want to drag them down with me.

I haven’t written a single word since the People’s Picks.

It’s not because I got cancelled. I mean, I did, but mercifully, my author career was spared because I’ve always written under a penname.

No one knows that Lucy Dupree, the girl who burned her whole life down on the People’s Picks stage, is also Ava Reese, bestselling author of feel-good romance novels.

Writing has always been my outlet. Living in the fictional world of my daydreams was more fulfilling than living in the real world. Chalk it up to childhood trauma, I guess.

Even though my secret life has remained a secret through the fallout, all the negative buzz surrounding me as Lucy has been emotionally and creatively crippling to my alter-ego of Ava. I can barely even call myself an author at this point.

“What about your landlord?” Philly suggests.

“Daisy?” I knit my brows. “What about her?”

“She knows who you are, right?” When I nod, she continues. “So you won’t be revealing yourself to anyone new. You’ve been there for a couple months now. She can obviously be trusted. Maybe she has something you could wear. Or she could find something for you?”

Cassie snaps her fingers. “This is the kind of thinking we need. Yes. Good. Lu, go find Daisy.”

“And say what, exactly? That I’m a klutz who ruined my ball gown and I really need to go to this gala so I can try to get inspired to write a romance novel before my career implodes like the rest of my life?”

“Tone it down, drama queen,” Bex says dryly.

I glare at her.

“That’s exactly what you should say,” Cassie says, ignoring the two of us. “Minus the part about being a romance novelist. Unless you’re ready to let her in on that secret, too.”

I shake my head vigorously.

“Didn’t think so.” Cassie makes a swishing motion with her hand, flicking her wrist like she’s shooing me away. “Go on, now. You can do it. The ball starts in less than two hours. You don’t want to be late.”

“I don’t want to go at all.”

Cassie narrows her eyes at me, pointing a long, pianist’s finger in my direction. “As your agent, I will not let you sabotage the career you’ve built over a ripped dress.”

It’s so much more than a ripped dress at this point.

I keep those thoughts to myself as Cassie’s stern expression melts into something warmer, softer, before she goes on.

“As your friend, I know you need this because you love writing, and I hate seeing you stuck. I want you to have some fun, get inspired by life again. I want you to write the best book of your career for the readers who are dying for the next Ava novel, but more so for yourself, because you’re happiest when you’re creating. I miss seeing you smile.”

“Me too,” Philly chimes in. “I miss you in general. I’m going to look at flights and come for a visit soon.”

Tears wiggle their way to the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall if I make any sudden movements.

I don’t deserve my friends. I don’t know why they’ve stuck with me through the last nine months, but they have, and I’ll never be able to repay them for their support.

Checking in to make sure I’ve eaten. Inviting me to our virtual writing sprints and not making me feel bad when I’m obviously not writing.

“I guess I miss you too,” Bex says with a shrug, but her lips twitch, and it’s enough to loosen the knot in the back of my throat.

“Okay.” I blow out a long, slow breath. “I’ll go find Daisy, and I’ll try my best to get to the ball. I make no promises, though.”

“Make us one,” Cassie says, and I tip my head to the side. “If—no, when—you get to the ball”—she gives me a steely look—“do something you wouldn’t usually do. Use the anonymity of the mask to let yourself be free. Just for tonight.”

I twist my lips in disgust, demonstrating exactly what I think of this proposition.

“Just for tonight,” Philly echoes, and she looks so earnest and hopeful that my shoulders roll forward.

“You’ve got this, Lu,” Bex says, nodding as if it’s decided.

Staring at their three hopeful faces, knowing how much they’ve done for me since The Incident, I can’t bring myself to let them down.

I exhale. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”