Chapter 1
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My grandmother is trying to get me killed.
August
And then they kiss, and it’ll be beautiful, and they’ll live happily ever after—as soon as they stop kissing, but they’re not going to stop kissing for at least…hm…seven pages? No. Eight. December’s favorite number is eight, so I’ll make it eight.
“Enjoy your meal.” I smile, delivering two plates of steak to a few regulars.
I barely register their replies as I float off to my next table after making a pitstop at the kitchen drink station.
“More sweet tea, Mr. Calloway?” Pitcher in hand, I get his glass and refill before drifting to collect a tip and clear a different table.
Here at Bear’s, the restaurant my grandparents own in sweet mountain-side Amarella, Georgia, I occasionally pick up shifts for one singular purpose…
Gossip.
Loads, and loads, of gossip.
When you’re a waitress in a vacation town constantly flooded with tourists, you hear things. You meet characters. You happen upon the most ludicrous ideas and see the strangest people. So, whenever I’m a little stuck on a story, I scoop up some of what I like to call inspiration.
It’s everywhere. In everything. Because stories are everywhere, in everything.
Humans live on them.
They’re used blatantly in media, of course. TV shows. Movies. Video games. Books. But they’re also used less blatantly in things like marketing. Advertisements. Art.
There’s a story behind the way Bear’s is decorated with old barrels and antique furniture and weathered, resined wood tables. There’s a story behind the taxidermied bears in the roped-off section at the front lobby, with its trickling stream and small koi pond.
There’s a story in every single item that a person touches or brings home.
There’s a story behind every line people say and every trait people possess.
You can’t avoid it.
You can only choose to breathe it in, become aware, and fall in love with all the many, many beautifully unique stories there are.
So, that’s what I do.
Day-in, and day-out, I choose to breathe.
Beaming as the conclusion to my current WIP clears itself up in my brain, I return to the kitchen to deposit my pitcher and plates.
Before I can whirl back around and head out to find inspiration for the story that will come after my current one’s completion, Granee hisses at me, “August.”
My back straightens, and I stop short, finding her by the bread warmer. “Yes, Granee?”
Frantic, eyes glinting with secret stories, she waves me over to her.
Elated, I trot past the orders ready to head out and tuck in close.
She whispers, “Lynn is here.”
Lynn is often here. She’s one of my grandmother’s close friends.
They have book club together. On very rare occasions, I stop in at their book club for tea and gossip—AKA: a different flavor of inspiration.
Among the most recent gossip, their book club’s youngest member, Mirabelle, married a billionaire who moved into the fanciest beach house Amarella has to offer just to be near her.
I attended the wedding earlier this month and received further details about the romance from Mirabelle’s best friend, Fawn.
All in all, it created excellent fodder for the stories that spin themselves together in my brain.
Comparatively, Lynn being here for dinner is hardly fodder for anything at all.
Pushing my large black-rimmed glasses up my freckled nose, I beseech my grandmother. “Pray tell, madam, what relevance hath the presence of thine dear friend brought today?”
“She’s with a guy.”
Now that, that is fodder.
Gasping, I plant my fingers at my lips. “What a scandal!” Lynn has always said that she would never, ever, remarry. This is a story, indeed. I prod and pry, “Is it Mr. Hall? He’s had a crush on her for months, and we both know he doesn’t have many months left.”
Granee bops me in the back of the head, sending my glasses askew.
I fix them.
“Mr. Hall is in perfect health, you rascal.”
I deliberate, humming vaguely. “No, no. One foot in the grave, him. We talked about it recently. He’s been coffin shopping. Did you know you can order them from Walmart?”
Granee regards me, gaze dry as the bran muffins she always insisted were good for us whenever my brother and I would visit her as kids. Something about fiber, I think. Honestly, it’s a miracle that Wynnter and I survived to adulthood.
“They have pink ones,” I provide, magnanimous, benevolent, her favorite granddaughter, probably.
She rolls her eyes. “No one needs a coffin, August. And she’s not with Mr. Hall.”
Alas. The poor man might need a coffin yet, for the love sickness is sure to kill him.
A terribly wonderful tale of heartbreak, mystery, and comedy takes root inside my skull while my grandmother snatches my hand and drags me out into the lobby opposite my tables tonight.
Beyond the bar, sitting a secure distance away in a booth, is Lynn…and…a guy.
“Whoa,” I whisper. “Kirei.”
“Mmmhm,” my grandmother practically purrs.
Regal, the man exhibits a foreign grace in his every minute motion. Tall, broad, and elegant, he combs his fingers through mid-length blond waves that shine in the moody Bear’s lighting.
An edge of discontent tints his blue eyes while I retrieve my waitress notepad and begin scribing his features onto it.
Strong jawline. Straight nose. Sharp cheekbones.
Princely.
“He is marvelously pretty,” I provide, fevered notes filling the page.
“Your contribution to my story fodder is valiantly appreciated, Granee. I shall weave a tale posthaste.” Mayhaps it’ll be historical this time.
An Arthurian fantasy? Hm. Realization burdens me, and I freeze, turning to my grandmother.
“My most altruistic madam, might I trouble you for a raise?” Cover art is expensive.
And if I’m planning another fantasy before my current one is even finished, the cost of the photo manipulation and hand-drawn elements will push me over my budget.
Sighing deeply, Granee says, “August, he’s not for your stories. Look at him! He’s exactly what you requested.”
What I…
Oh.
It’s all coming back to me now.
A little over a week ago, my best friend December and I put together a binder outlining my exact romantic interests because I got very, very tired of my well-meaning grandmother trying to set me up with any seemingly nice tourist who tumbled into her and Grampy’s fine establishment.
I believe the words I used when I handed it to her were, Find a man like this before the end of summer, and I’ll happily add arranged marriage to the trope list.
Silly, foolish me.
At least the number of unsolicited texts I’ve received in the past week has dropped by a significant margin?
Surely that is a good trade-off for welcoming an impending marriage arrangement.
Gung-ho to start the wedding discussion, Granee grabs my hand yet again and drags me across Bear’s.
“Ah dear,” I whisper to myself. “The consequences of my own deluded actions arrive, haunting me like midnight horrors, chasing me like Victorian wraiths, tormenting me like—”
Granee caps her palm over my mouth to shut me up during the rest of the journey to Lynn’s and the pretty stranger’s booth.
“I’m so sorry about this.” Lynn, in clear distress, shakes her head. “There’s really nothing I can do beyond what’s already been done…”
“I understand. Life happens…” The man sags, royally, which is to say he might deflate by half a centimeter before noticing my grandmother and me coming to an unceremonious stop before them.
His blue eyes steadily climb from my restaurant-appropriate, non-slip ankle boots, up my Bear’s uniform apron, to my…covered mouth. He stills, breath ceasing, and holds my gaze.
“Leeann, August,” Lynn greets, dragging my attention to her. Wise to the approximation of her substantial years, Lynn deciphers the situation regarding the pretty boy and me and has the sense to look anything but amused.
Requiring far more wisdom, my grandmother bulldozes ahead. “Lynn! I couldn’t help but overhear your dilemma, and I have the most perfect solution.”
I blink.
Glancing at the pretty boy, whose brow has furrowed, I discover his gaze has lowered. To the hand. Over my mouth.
Oh this? I’d say, were I able to speak. Don’t worry about this. This is certainly not a precaution against my tendency to say stupid things whenever my grandmother tries to set me up with someone.
Last time my dear, beloved Granee dragged me to a table with a (according to her) “hot guy around my age,” I asked if he wanted to see the decapitated rabbit head picture I keep on my phone.
It’s a grand story.
I was at a bonfire party one night, sitting on the porch steps, waiting for someone to do something interesting, when I looked over. And, oop, there it was! A decapitated rabbit head.
Tsk, tsk. Kawaisōna usagi-chan.
The household dog had quite clearly gotten a hold of a wild rabbit.
They took the ears off and everything.
Fascinating stuff, right?
My potential suitor did not think so. He may have suggested I be committed.
I may have reveled in the idea. After all, aren’t crazy people the most interesting?
They go off at the drop of a hat, telling you how their spirits leave their bodies and go on plane trips while they’re just out walking around their neighborhoods and such.
What a wealth of story fodder being committed would afford me.
Anyway, I’ve lost the plot.
Requested male lead. Blah, blah, blah. Dragging me across a restaurant. Blah, blah, blah. Granee has a solution to Lynn’s dilemma.
Oh boy.
I’m on the edge of my seat for this one.
Lynn arches a graying brow. “You…do?”
“Yes!” Granee references pretty boy with the hand not impeding my freedom of speech. “Dominic can stay with August until the home he was intending to rent can be…put back together…after the incident that befell it.”
Lynn blinks. I blink. Dominic shifts his attention to my grandmother, who has just seemingly volunteered my abode to him, a complete stranger, and blinks.