The Hometown Heartbreaker (Valentine Bay: Lockhart Ranch #1)

1. The Ghosts of Boyfriends and Hospitals Past

THE GHOSTS OF BOYFRIENDS AND HOSPITALS PAST

Sadie

Buddy—my grandfather, the man who once rebuilt a truck engine with a paperclip and sheer stubbornness—was the only reason the small town still had any real estate in my contacts, since I didn’t keep in touch with anyone else from my hometown.

We shared an economical four calls a year.

Birthdays, Father’s Day, Christmas. A relationship perfectly rationed, like expensive perfume you’re terrified to run out of.

When I saw the number, my first instinct was to ignore the call.

As an avoider by nature, when anything triggered my fight-or-flight, I was wheels up, taking off, soaring in the air.

In this case, however, instead of following my impulse, I did what any rational, emotionally healthy adult would do when confronted with an unwanted call and answered it.

I was either maturing, or self-preservation was not my strong suit, it could be either or both.

After saying hello, the next five minutes were static and fragmented.

Key words and phrases like, “unresponsive,” “critical condition,” “life-threatening,” and “next of kin” floated through the receiver while I sat on the edge of the bed in my hotel room, staring at the generic painting on the wall, processing words I’d never thought I’d hear.

Nothing made sense to me. I’m not sure if it was because I was still half asleep, or because I was in shock/denial that the hardest-working, most dependable, reliable, indestructible man I had ever known might be slipping away from this earth, and I would be alone. I would have no family left.

Technically, I had my Uncle Ronald. My biological dad’s older brother, who I’d gone to live with when I was eighteen, but I’d only gotten to know him as an adult.

He lived on the East Coast, and although he sent me birthday and Christmas presents, I didn’t meet him face to face until I showed up on his doorstep two days after my high school graduation.

My dad died in a motorcycle accident when I was three, but in those thirty-six months I’d been alive, he’d only seen me twice, so he wasn’t exactly Father of the Year.

His attendance, or lack thereof, in my life wasn’t the only thing that lost him that title.

The big whammy was that he kept me a secret.

No one in his family, Uncle Ronnie included, knew I existed until he died.

His parents were going through his things when they uncovered the DNA test results he’d asked my mom to take that indicated, “Richard Montgomery you are the father.”

Even after discovering they had a grandchild, my paternal grandparents hadn’t wanted anything to do with me since I was not a ‘legitimate’ child, like we were living in some antiquated Game of Thrones Jon Snow situation.

They also accused my mom of “tricking” my dad by getting pregnant, which anyone who knew my mom found absolutely laughable.

She was an angel, the kindest, most selfless, honest, empathetic soul to walk the earth.

Despite my grandparents’ rejection, Uncle Ronnie, who was ten years older than my dad, immediately welcomed me with open arms. He didn’t view his brother, my dad, through the rose-colored glasses his parents had.

Also, he had been on the receiving end of his family’s prejudice and bigotry.

They disowned him when he came out to them for what they called his “lifestyle choices.” He was familiar with being an outcast of the Montgomery clan.

His parents only started speaking to him again, after fifteen years of silence, when they lost their youngest son Richard, who was nothing more to me than a glorified sperm donor, and Uncle Ronnie was the sole heir to the Montgomery legacy.

Uncle Ronnie was the only family I had on my dad’s side—well him and his life partner, Lorenzo Bellamy, who he’d been with for thirty years. As for my mom’s side, it was just Buddy, and he might be gone soon.

That was all I could think about as the doctor explained the situation to me.

I tried to focus on the information I was being given, but it felt like my world had been flipped upside down and inside out.

When the call ended, I informed the event coordinator for the panel I was speaking on at the advertising conference I’d been asked to moderate letting her know that unfortunately I wouldn’t be able to attend, which had been the sole reason for my visit to the West Coast.

Five hours and one flight from LAX to SeaTac later, I found myself minutes away from arriving in my hometown for the first time since I left the day after high school graduation.

I’d spent twelve years putting distance between myself and Valentine Bay, its suffocating charm, its warm-fuzzy memories, its people…

one in particular. Turns out, a dozen years and thousands of miles isn’t nearly long or far enough when the one man you can’t afford to lose decides he’s mortal after all.

“No, I didn’t miss my flight,” I explained to Janine, my assistant, over the phone. “I flew to Seattle instead. I had a family emergency.”

“Oh…okay.”

Her unspoken question was very loud, “You have family?”

Janine and I had worked together, side by side, day after day, night after night, sixty-hour work weeks, and I’d never mentioned anything about my life back in Oregon. Why would I?

Even the CliffsNotes version was depressing.

My dad died when I was three.

My mom died when I was twelve.

After that it was just me and my grandpa, who could barely look at me because I am the spitting image of my mom and grandma, the two greatest loves of his life, both of whom he lost tragically.

“Um, what about your meetings with—”

“Cancel everything,” I instructed, cutting her off as I pinched the bridge of my nose and glanced out the window just as the Uber passed the sign on the freeway that read Valentine Bay next six exits.

Janine, always eager to remind me I was indispensable, peppered me with questions about rescheduling meetings, deadlines, and whether I still wanted the reservation at Le Bernardin with Peter tonight. I barely registered the words, everything felt overwhelming and suffocating.

“Cancel Peter, too,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt.

There was silence on the phone, and after a few seconds she asked, “What do I say?”

“Tell him I died,” I stated flatly.

There was a two-second pause. I could practically hear the wheels turning as her brain worked to discern whether or not that was sarcasm.

“Do you actually want me to tell him you died?” she ventured.

Yes, I did. It would save me an awkward conversation.

I’d intended to end things with Peter for weeks, but like most things that required a confrontation of emotion, I’d let it fester in the soft, recessed corners of my mind, just praying he’d take the hint and move on when I took two to four days to respond to a text, or was ‘too busy’ to see him.

He hadn’t. The only reason tonight’s dinner date was in my schedule was that it had been there for six weeks.

Getting a reservation at this restaurant was difficult, so he’d booked it in advance.

The truth was, I didn’t even dislike Peter.

He was a six-foot-two mergers and acquisitions attorney who sent me clever memes and showed up to work events and dinner parties, exuding charisma and wit.

He was good with words, the man could charm birds out of trees.

But the relationship was about to reach its one-year mark, and that meant it was time to bail.

Women were always complaining about men not wanting to settle down, not wanting commitment, I’d found the exact opposite to be true. The handful of relationships I’d had in my adult life had all ended because the men wanted more, triggering those good ol’ fight-or-flight instincts.

It wasn’t that I’d put a specific timeframe on my serial monogamy situationships. It just seemed to be that was about the time men started bringing up things like, moving in together, settling down, or, gasp, marriage, dun dun duuun.

The thing was, I wanted those things, truly I did, I just didn’t want them with any of the people I’d dated, at least not in my adult life. So, I cut my losses and bailed every time.

“Just cancel, tell him I’m out of town,” I directed plainly, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know. A few days maybe.”

“But you have the Ashbourne dinner on Friday.” The plea and panic in her voice were evident.

Advertising was a competitive field. It always had been, but with the introduction of artificial intelligence, it was more cutthroat than ever.

I’d been trying to lock down Ashbourne Hotel and Resorts as a client for three years.

It was a global luxury hotel chain, but they tended to keep things in-house because it was a family run business.

I had to admit, I was surprised when Mason Ashbourne, in his role as COO, finally agreed to dinner.

No, not agreed, he’d requested the meeting himself after his married CEO was caught in extremely compromising positions with about a dozen different staff members.

The TikToks were going wild of guests staying in the hotels and catching Lyle Ashbourne Sr. in the act.

Janine attempted to warn me, “You know that if you’re not at that meeting, Tyson will—”

“I know,” I cut her off before assuring her, “It’ll be fine.”

Tyson Finch had been gunning for partnership at the firm since my name started getting mentioned as being in the running.

Did he deserve it? Nope. But he had a dick and morals that allowed him to take clients out and hire them escorts.

I did a lot to acquire contracts, worked my ass off, went the extra mile to make sure they were happy, but securing sex workers was where I drew the line.

Also, I didn’t have a penis, and I refused to sleep with my bosses, and/or so those factors worked against me as well.