Nostalgic (The Honey Grove #3)

Chapter 1

EMERY

Ialways thought I handled rejection well, but that was before an entire town decided to do it. Logically, I know a town can’t reject a person, but this is starting to feel personal.

I look up at the Welcome to Honey Grove billboard towering over my head like an unfair bouncer and take one deep breath before letting the rusty wrench in my left hand sail through the air.

It makes a satisfying clunk as it hits the chipped wood.

Finally, I feel some of the pressure release from my chest.

But then I remember the old pick-up that’s drowning in a cloud of smoke, and I wish I hadn’t impulsively thrown away my only tool. I know I can’t fix whatever landed me on the side of the road, but a girl has to try, right?

A scream bubbles up in my throat, but I choke it down and pull out my phone. Thankfully, there is cell service. Even if it constantly wavers between one and two bars.

My thumbs sweep across the keyboard until I find the nearest shop. I press the call button and pray they’re still open.

Each time the line rings without an answer, my hand clenches tighter around my phone. I eye the cherry red barn decorating the Honey Grove sign, feeling the itch to throw something again. Even if it’s my only connection to society outside of the rural New York town I now call home.

My mouth starts to dry after the next few rings, and I’m convinced I’m going to spend the night stranded on the side of the road. But then I get the first stroke of luck I’ve had all day when an old, tired voice yawns into the phone. “Hello?”

“Hi! I’m so sorry to bother you this late, but my truck broke down a few miles outside of town and I need a tow.” Or someone who knows why my dash is lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree.

“Sure thing, sweetie,” the man says, and I try not to cringe at the unsolicited nickname. “I’ll send the kid out to pick you up.”

The kid? Was he sending an incompetent teen out here to help me? God, why did I ever think I could make it in a small town?

“Miss? Are you still there?”

I clear my throat. “Yes! Sorry. You cut out for a second. But that sounds great. Do you know how long it’ll be?”

“I’m sure he can be there soon, but it is a Friday, so he might be chasing tail this time of night.”

Chasing tail? What was this? The fifties?

I cough out a polite laugh and attempt to hurry him off the phone. “Right. Well, tell him I’m next to the town welcome sign right off Route 20. It’s the baby blue Chevy that looks like it just lost a bar fight.”

The man laughs like it’s the best joke he’s heard all week. “Got it. Sit tight, sweetie.”

As soon as the line goes dead, my knees feel like a bowl of jelly.

My stare catches on the beautiful oak armoire strapped down in the bed of my truck.

Getting stuck in the middle of nowhere in a town where I knew no one was almost worth it for the intricate vine carvings crawling up the side of the antique piece.

Less than a week ago, I was still living in New York City.

I had a nice cushy job working as an assistant to an up-and-coming interior designer, and my apartment was rent-controlled, which was unheard of anymore.

I was content and maybe even happy at times, but I’ve never felt my heartstrings strum like they did when I found out my grandmother left me the antique shop in her will.

At first, I was confused. I wouldn’t consider us close.

I wasn’t the best grandkid and only saw her for the obligatory stuff like Thanksgiving or Christmas.

All we had was that one summer together.

That summer changed my life, but I kept those details close, hidden in places no one would look.

I suppose my grandma was always the type to look closer, even when you begged her to look away.

My heart squeezes inside my chest at the memory of the one and only summer I spent in Honey Grove. That’s when I met him.

A faint memory of blue eyes speckled with green drowned my memory, and it’s enough to hold out my hands and brace my body against the pick-up.

I haven’t thought about him in years, but everything in this town reminds me of him.

As soon as I crossed the county line, I felt like I was reverting to a heartbroken teenager with no idea what her future would hold.

I am not a stupid woman. I knew it was possible I’d run into him again.

Hell, I was sure of it. Men like that do not wander far from home.

One word that does not come to mind with Knox Cooke is ambitious.

All he needed was access to beer and a pool of dimwitted women who fell for his bullshit charm.

Okay, maybe I haven’t always been this smart. But I am a fast learner, and Knox taught me the biggest lesson of all—never fall in love with a man who gives out cheap compliments and has a crooked smile that could charm the pants off a nun.

I let out a strangled breath and look at the time on my phone. I silently pray that this kid, or whoever the man was referring to, comes quickly. I am already creeped out by random animal noises echoing around me, and unfortunately, I threw away my only potential weapon.

My head tilts toward the stars, and the smell of smoke starts to fade away.

You couldn’t see the stars in the city. I was given the gift of starting over and I needed to focus on the good things.

I needed to focus on building something new, far, far away from the jackass I thought I was going to marry, and the career I thought would be my endgame.

The sound of gravel crunching yanks me back to my current situation. It’s been at least an hour since I’ve heard the sound of another car, and excitement bounds through me. Hopefully it’s the tow truck…but what if it’s not?

My stomach twists.

I straighten up, heart racing as I come face to face with a pair of headlights growing larger in the distance. I’ve seen multiple scary movies that start a lot like this, and girls like me do not make it to the end.

Fuck. I never should’ve thrown that wrench.

I take a cautious step back toward my truck and attempt to shield my body from the oncoming vehicle. But thankfully, as the vehicle slows, I make out a beat-up tow truck with a crooked front bumper and a half-assed paint job with the words Sal’s Auto Body written sloppily on the side.

A deflated breath squeezes out of my lungs, and I can feel my pulse start to level out. I throw on a smile and hold out my hand, trying to block the blinding light coming from the headlights as I make my way to the side of the road.

The window slides down and reveals a hidden figure, but as soon as I hear his voice, my stomach drops. “You called for a tow?”

And then my eyes adjust to the light, and his face starts to become clearer. Is this some kind of cruel joke? What did I do to deserve this type of coincidence? I would take an incompetent teen or a sweet, bumbling farm boy over this any day.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

The truck engine goes silent, and my skin crawls at the low chuckle that comes out of his mouth. “Is that you, Bambi?”

My fists clench so hard at my sides, I know I’ll have perfect crescent moons embedded in my palms. I used to love that nickname. It used to make me blush. But instead of a rosy, pink color decorating the balls of my cheeks, now all I see is red.

“Shit, it is you,” he breathes as he steps out of the truck. My pulse starts to stutter as his large frame towers over me. I crane my neck, drinking him in.

Most of the boys I had crushes on or dated in my teens either got fat or bald after high school, but not the man who carved out my heart and left me for dead. Nope. That would’ve made my life too easy.

Instead, his chin had become stronger with a sharp edge that dared me to look closer.

He is still clean-shaven, and regrettably, it still works for him.

Maybe if he had a big bushy mustache, my eyes wouldn’t be drawn to the two soft pillows perched on the bottom half of his face.

It’s a crime for these good looks to be wasted on a trash human.

“It’s Emery,” I spit out, my voice dripping with venom. “Unless you forgot my name and that’s what you call all your summer flings.”

Oof, that was harsh even for me. But instead of my usual apologize and retreat method, I square my shoulders and prepare for him to flounder. Except, he doesn’t.

Instead, an irritating smirk curls his lips as he crosses his arms and sinks to one side. I force my eyes not to dip to the biceps straining against his sleeves. A few tattoos peek out from under the fabric, ink curling and twisting up his arm like dark, thorny vines.

I wonder if he still has that tattoo. The thought makes my hand run absently over the tiny lock symbol on my hip.

Eight years ago, Knox traced the fresh raised skin on my hip with the softest touch I’d ever felt. “Now everyone will know I was the first one to unlock your heart,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with promise.

I’d smiled back then because it felt true. And at sixteen, my world was small enough for one boy to take up every inch. He kissed the spot gently, and I knew my heart would never be the same after that.

For a few perfect seconds, I was convinced that matching tattoos would tie us together for a lifetime. That the matching key he had inked on his skin meant something.

But I was a kid. A dumb, na?ve, and close-minded girl who thought that when people made promises, they kept them. But by the end of that summer, the first boy who unlocked my heart would also be the first to shatter it into a bunch of tiny pieces I’m still picking up after all these years.

“Damn, I guess you’re not as shy as you used to be. I’ll have to figure out a new nickname.”

My mouth twists into an unimpressed scowl. “Maybe you should focus less on nicknames and more on helping me get my truck off the side of the road. The sooner I get home, the sooner I can get on with my life and forget about this fun little coincidence.”