The Romantic and the Widower

PROLOGUE

New Year’s Eve

Annie

I stare at the words written in red marker on the white butcher paper covering our dining room table: Brandon kisses Annie. I swiftly glance around to see if anyone else has seen the prediction. And by anyone, I mean Brandon. I would die if he saw this.

His deep laughter carries down the hallway. Funny how easily I recognize Brandon’s laugh. I suppose I should—we spent enough time together last summer. I can’t count the number of times a stranger has mistaken me for Pepper’s mom.

At twenty-six, I definitely don’t feel old enough to be the mother of a nine-year-old, but I never minded the mistake, because Pepper is the absolute best. Brandon’s daughter is full of enthusiasm and always up for an adventure.

She reminds me of my younger self, but with a slightly more sarcastic streak.

Pepper started having me braid her hair during their month-long stay at Norland Park, which made Brandon grumble that he knew how to braid just fine.

He wasn’t lying—the man can do a decent braid.

Though I did widen his repertoire, teaching him how to do Dutch braids, fishtails, and crown braids.

Brandon quickly mastered all of them, but Pepper still preferred to have me do her hair.

Often after our braiding sessions, she would invite me to join their outing for the day.

Her dad never seemed too excited about me tagging along, but Brandon would do anything for his daughter, including putting up with my company.

Brandon James is my first truly platonic male friend. It’s been a novelty, having a guy friend who’s not romantically interested in me. And it makes my life easier, because I have absolutely no interest in dating a thirty-four-year-old grump who is always silently judging me.

Despite said judgment, it’s great to have a guy as dependable as Brandon for a friend. He might be a bit of a killjoy, always telling me that the sea otters I spy offshore are really just kelp, but I know I can count on him for anything.

I also know he will not like this particular prediction.

Making predictions for the new year is easily one of my favorite family traditions.

We never shy away from making bold, personal, or embarrassing predictions, much like this one.

Someone with the same red marker has already written Elinor and Edward get married.

I was going to write something like that myself—until I saw the prediction about Brandon and me.

I uncap one of the markers scattered on the table.

If I hurry, I can scribble out the offending prediction before anyone sees it.

I bite my lip, thinking. I can’t simply strike a line through it—that will draw even more attention.

I have an idea. I place the marker on the paper and draw a big red heart around Brandon kisses Annie.

Now all I need to do is fill in the heart.

“Ahem.” I look up to see Brandon standing opposite me. I drop my marker, and it rolls across the table to him.

“This isn’t what it looks like!” I’m burning with embarrassment. “I didn’t just heart this!”

“Really?” Brandon casually leans back, putting both hands in his pockets. “Because I’m pretty sure I watched you draw a heart around a very interesting prediction.”

“Well . . . yeah . . . I did.” My face is probably the same shade as the treacherous red marker. “But it’s the opposite of what you think . . .”

“What do I think, Annie?” His voice is stern, but . . . his eyes spark with amusement.

“For the record, my first inclination was to scribble it out.”

“Because you hate the idea?”

“No! Yes! I mean . . .” Brandon’s mouth twitches as if he is trying not to laugh. He’s enjoying this too much. “It just seemed rude to cross it out,” I explain. “So I—”

“Dad! Can I stay up till midnight?” Pepper scampers into the room.

Brandon picks up the marker I dropped and tosses it back to me.

“Quick,” he whispers, “finish the job.” The jerk.

He knew exactly what I was doing and why.

His daughter’s fondest dream is for the two of us to date.

We have both made it clear that there is zero chance that will ever happen, but a prediction about us kissing could rekindle her hope.

“I’m not sure I can stay up that late,” Brandon says to Pepper as I scribble madly. “Midnight is still four hours away.”

“But I want to see the new year,” she says, looking adorable in her gold sequin top and layered pink tulle skirt. Her glasses are pink and match perfectly. Her whole outfit makes me want to run upstairs and put on some sequins.

“I expect this new year will look a lot like the last one,” he says.

“You think so?” asks Pepper with excitement. “Because this year has been the best. We met Annie, and you bought Norland Park.”

Yeah, that’s right. Brandon, the same man I taught how to French braid, has deep enough pockets to purchase this entire scenic resort in Big Sur as casually as if he were buying a pack of gum.

I still can’t wrap my mind around the idea that Brandon has money.

If Edward—my sister’s boyfriend who always wears Italian suits and his grandpa’s Rolex—bought the park, I wouldn’t have blinked.

But Brandon? Until tonight when he showed up to our New Year’s Eve party in jeans and a cashmere sweater, I had never seen him in anything fancier than shorts and a t-shirt.

Which I suppose makes sense—we did meet while he was on vacation.

But still . . . if I’d known just how loaded he was, I wouldn’t have bothered arguing with him trying to pay my fair share when we went places.

Of course, he never let me, which was for the best. Those aquarium tickets were expensive.

“I don’t think any year could top this one,” says Pepper. Her light brown hair is up in a perfectly executed crown braid. “Don’t you agree, Annie?”

“Meeting you was the best thing about this year,” I say, still frantically coloring the heart. “But I expect next year will be even better.”

“Do you?” Brandon asks.

“I’m counting on it.” I’m really hoping this will be my year. It has to be.

“What is this?” Pepper steps next to me as I fill in the last bit of white space.

The dangerous prediction is now defused to nothing more than a random red heart.

Though I swear I can faintly see the words: Brandon kisses Annie.

Or maybe it’s just that I stared at them so long they’re etched into my retinas.

“I’m just doodling,” I say. “We write predictions for the new year. It’s a tradition. The person who gets the most right wins a prize.”

“What’s the prize?” asks Pepper.

“It’s this vase shaped like a duck, but we call it the Silly Goose.” I point to a shelf stocked with pretty dishes, cake stands, tea pots, and vases. The ceramic duck has a white body with a yellow bill for the spout.

“Why don’t you call it the Lucky Duck?” asks Pepper. I pause. Leave it to Pepper to think of that.

“Ummm . . . because we needed you to set us straight. So now it’ll be the Lucky Duck. It’s full of last year’s predictions. We’ll pull them out at midnight and read the old ones over our late-night breakfast. We rarely have a winner. We have too much fun making outlandish predictions.”

“Like the one you just covered up,” Brandon says to me under his breath.

“Um . . . yes . . . exactly.” I can’t believe he said that in front of Pepper. Sure, he said it quietly. But little rabbits have big ears—especially this one. What if she heard and asked more questions? Also—rude! Is it really that outlandish for him to kiss me?

Pepper doesn’t seem to notice any of this. She’s busy reading the various predictions and writing one of her own.

Pepper and Brandon move to Norland Park.

“But where would you go to school?” asks Brandon.

“The same one Annie went to. She’s plenty smart.”

“True, but Grandma and Pops would miss you.” Brandon and his daughter live near his parents in Redwood City, a couple hours from here.

I write: Annie gets a real job.

“Don’t you have a job at the park?” asks Pepper.

“I only work part-time in the cafe,” I admit.

When I graduated from Santa Barbara four years ago, the plan was that I would devote most of my days to writing.

At the time, I was beyond grateful that my mom and sister believed enough in me and my poetry that they were willing to support me.

With all of my professors claiming I was the most talented young poet they’d taught in years, I was certain I’d make a name for myself.

But . . . spoiler: I haven’t. If anything, I’ve become more forgotten.

With each new rejection adding to my mounting pile, my passion for writing has gone from a joy to a burden.

Lately, every time I pick up my pen and notebook, ugly feelings of inadequacy and discouragement swarm me.

To counter such thoughts, I cram my days with happy bright things like flowers, music, hiking, reading, and falling in love—but only a little bit.

I’ve never fallen completely in love. I’m waiting for the man that will sweep me off my feet.

Last summer, faced with the prospect of losing our home, I was forced to do some serious soul searching. Maybe someday I’ll get back to writing poetry. But for now, I have to come up with a way to make a living.

“It’s time I become serious about life. Who knows, my sister and Edward might get married.” I point to the prediction foretelling just that. “I don’t think they’d like me living in Bumble Cottage with them as newlyweds.”

“What would you do? Where would you go?” asks a very concerned Pepper.

“I wish I knew,” I sigh.

“You’ll figure it out.” Brandon sounds far more confident than I feel. He has just finished writing a prediction. Annie will see a real otter.

“Those were otters!” I say picking up one of our favorite arguments. “I’m sorry that with your old eyes you can’t see things properly.” I snatch up a marker and scrawl. Brandon gets glasses.

“Daddy already wears glasses,” chimes in Pepper.

“You do?” I ask, surprised.