Manors & Mischief (Harvest Falls #1)

1. Ember

EMBER

My stomach twists with every curve in the road leading into Harvest Falls and, ultimately, Sleepy Hollow Manor. Fiery orange and golden leaves blanket the ground beneath towering maples, while white clapboard houses peek through the trees like something out of a postcard.

Well...a Hallmark movie, anyway.

My gaze darts down to the gas gauge, and I cross my fingers against the steering wheel.

At this rate, I’m only going to make it just in time for the Fall Spectacular meeting.

I have a coffee-sized spill on my shirt and my eyes are blurry from driving hours upon hours, but I’m never going to complain about anything ever again because… I own a house.

I own a house.

A manor, to be exact.

It’s never getting old. Flashes of the real-estate listing swipe through my mind as if I’m seeing it for the first time.

The place had a hold on me from the very first image.

I’ve dreamt of the house every day since.

I’ve decorated it in my mind. I’ve staged the outside.

I’ve planned everything down to its finest detail.

For a person who thought that the universe had long since given up on her, this is my new lease on life—and I’m doing it in Harvest Falls. The Prettiest Little Town in New England.

The street narrows, as do the New England lawns.

I lean forward in my seat, a smile tugging at my lips.

Ornate, antique streetlights dot the sidewalk.

The downtown shop windows light up with displays.

I spy a sandwich board announcing a Pumpkin Spice Latte at a café, and I nearly pull over right then and there, but the GPS hasn’t told me to yet, and the last thing I want to do is miss out on event planning for the Harvest Falls Fall Spectacular.

The town website warned that if any businesses wishing to take part in the festivities didn’t show up to the planning meeting, they wouldn’t be allowed.

Then it specified, “Especially you, Mr. Lachey.”

I don’t know who Mr. Lachey is, but to be called out publicly like that has got to sting. These people mean business.

I’m in the middle of nearly salivating over the town square and the pumpkins and hay bales being laid down when the GPS breaks the silence.

A tiny scream wrenches from my throat, and I dissolve into a giggle when my trusty copilot announces, “You are at your destination.” That’s what being all alone for the last few days does to you.

This tinny voice—and my haunted manor dreams—have been my only companions.

My car shakes a little, and my gaze immediately searches out the gas gauge again.

I’m living on the edge, that’s for sure.

I’ll be lucky to get to Sleepy Hollow Manor after this.

The car starts to lurch as I pull over and park along the sidewalk.

It shuts off in relief, and I sit back, exhaling the stress of the last few hours, wondering if I was going to strand myself on some back road where a serial killer would find me, kidnap me, then leave my dead body prominently placed for his next victim to find right before they received the same fate.

I like to watch slasher films. I don’t want to be in one.

The clock on the dash turns over to three p.m., and I scramble out of the car and immediately drop my keys.

There goes my plan of settling in and walking the streets of my new hometown before the meeting.

Or the dream of ordering another pumpkin spice latte and actually drinking it rather than spilling it all over my clothes. “But you’re here,” I remind myself.

“But I’m here,” I confirm out loud, the manor coming to life in my head again. I get down on my hands and knees, searching for the keys when I finally spot them under the car. Before I can grasp them, another hand snatches them up.

“Hey!”

I nearly pop right up and demand my keys back from some dream-stealing psycho when a huge palm rests against my head. “Whoa there.” He guides my head out and around, and I spy my car door a hair’s breadth away as I feebly lift my head.

A handsome stranger—of course everyone will be a stranger to me in Harvest Falls—has his hand slung over the car door, grasping my keys as they shine in the autumn light.

Everyone might be new to me, but I wonder if they’ll all be this good looking. Mr. Sexy gives me a half smile. “That was almost a disaster.”

“Thank you,” I tell him as I get to my feet, side-eyeing the car door. I can only imagine the kind of impression that would make if I knocked myself out cold before even officially meeting anyone.

Despite not having the time to waste, my pulse kicks, happiness coursing through me as I hold out my hands for the keys.

“Not a problem, Miss.” It’s not lost on me the way he looks me up and down.

I nearly preen under the man’s attention.

He’s older than me, that’s for sure. But he has this rugged quality, chiseled jaw under soft stubble.

Almost like a lumberjack. Though, that comparison could be because he’s wearing a plaid shirt—and it’s not a fashion choice like it would be in coastal North Carolina where I’m from. He clears his throat. “You, um…”

He motions toward my chest, and I nearly die. He’s not checking me out. He’s spotted the embarrassing spill on my shirt. I nervously shut the car door, cheeks flaming. “The evidence of drinking and driving I’m afraid. Coffee, that is,” I clarify. I don’t need my neighbors thinking I’m a lush.

Been there, done that in my college days, and even though it was a lot of fun at the time, I’ve grown up enough to understand that weekends aren’t for sleeping off hangovers and waking up just in time to get ready for the next night out.

I take my keys from his hand. “I have to run, but thanks for saving me.” I’m already walking away, eyes scanning the buildings before I spot the plaque that reads Town Offices. It’s three past three now, I realize as I check my watch, so I pick up the pace, rushing through the glass doors.

I follow the signs for the Fall Festivities meeting.

I swear this place is a labyrinth as I take a left, then a right, then a couple more rights.

I’m beginning to think I’m lost and that I’ve entered some sort of fantasy realm where direction has no meaning when I spot another man wearing a plaid shirt going into an office up ahead.

I almost call out to ask him for directions when he slips inside.

My flats scurry down the hallway. I yank open the door to find a room full of people sitting at a conference table.

They all stare at me. One by one, their gazes fall to my chest, then back up.

If only I had a cardigan to cover the stain.

I haven’t even had a moment to breathe the last couple of days.

I didn’t even get a chance to enjoy the fall air when I stepped out of the car because that guy stole my keys and distracted me.

“I’m…um, looking for the Fall Spectacular meeting.”

“You found it,” an older woman at the front of the table says then points toward an empty seat.

My cheeks burn again. This is the second time in five minutes.

I give myself a little pep talk as I walk past the gentleman from the street.

He smirks at me. “Didn’t you enter the building before me?

” His cocked head thrums annoyance through my veins, but also a heady rush of attraction.

He’s definitely older than me. Probably married with kids.

I shove him out of my mind as the lady at the front of the table calls the meeting to order.

A smiling woman pulls out the rolling chair for me as I make my way toward it.

I sit with a grateful smile, and she immediately unties the soft scarf from around her neck.

“Pumpkin spice latte?” she asks as she hands the scarf to me. “I keep these around for emergencies.”

“Oh my gosh, thank you.” I wrap the scarf around my neck, using the end to drape casually over my chest to hide the coffee stain. “You are a lifesaver.”

“I hear that a lot,” the woman says.

My gaze drifts toward the man who’s now across from me. He’s staring at the woman while leaning back in his chair casually, arms crossed over his chest. He looks bored.

His gaze drifts toward me. Unblinking, we stare at each other for half a second before he moves his gaze to the front of the room as the apparent leader of the meeting lists off the agenda.

I hear “cider” and immediately stop staring at the man’s profile and move all of my attention to the front of the room.

I have waited for the perfect moment to try apple cider.

I have deprived myself of what I imagine is a delicacy my whole life because I knew I wanted it fresh.

The crisp fall air nipping at my cheeks as I swallowed my first mouthful, perhaps drinking it while walking through a corn maze with the remnants of my second cinnamon sugar doughnut dusted over my lips.

I have imagined the scenario my entire life.

It’s rare for me that the perfect set of circumstances come together so it feels like I’m living on a cloud. The last couple of weeks couldn’t have been better. The stars aligned. The angels sang. I’m finally going to experience a real fall. In a house that I own.

The apparent host of this meeting lists off all the upcoming activities.

The corresponding person in the room nods.

I find out that the woman with the scarf owns the café.

No wonder she’s so nice. Anyone who mixes up culinary delights like pumpkin spice lattes can’t be mean.

I try to find out what Mr. Hands Over His Chest does, and I’m staring at him again when he looks over at me.

A trickle of unease starts up my neck, and my gaze darts around the room when I find everyone looking at me.

Slowly, my gaze drifts toward the front of the room where the woman is looking at me expectantly.

“I’m sorry?”

She smiles, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. It’s like she’s pasted it on. “Do you have an offering for the festivities? Or did you want to volunteer in some other way?”

“Oh,” I laugh. “Forgive me. I’ve been on the road since early this morning.

” Pride swells over me. Photos of the Victorian manor dance in my head as my lips peel into a smile—a genuine one.

I swear, fate sits like a sparkly unicorn on my chest. It’s all rainbows and sunshine—or should I say jack-o’-lanterns and haunted trails—in my head.

“I’m Ember O’Malley, the new owner of Sleepy Hollow Manor. ”

In my head, there’s applause and a chorus of children singing.

People are congratulating me and asking me over for dinner.

In reality, everyone’s face falls and turns toward one man.

My gaze follows everyone, and if I thought Mr. Plaid Shirt looked annoyed before, he’s dialed it up several hundred notches.

His nostrils flare, and the leer he gives me sends chills up my spine.

He looks like he could be one of the psycho killers I like to watch so much.

What is this guy’s deal?

His fingers curl into fists, straining his orange flannel over his cut biceps. “What the actual fuck?”