by Abby Knox
Not the Rebound Guy
Abby Knox
Copyright © 2021 by Abby Knox
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Edited by Aquila Editing
Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations
This book is dedicated to the memory of my grandmother. Thank you for the warm hugs, your sass mouth, your take-no-shit attitude, the laughs, for letting me paint your nails after arthritis prevented you from being able to do it yourself. Thank you for watching all the ABC soap operas with me when my mom didn’t want me watching “that trash.” Thank you for taking me shopping at yard sales and fire sales, and teaching me the value of a dollar. Thank you for that big haul of used Barbie clothes and furniture; that was one of the highlights of my entire childhood, and I felt like the richest kid in town. Thank you for teaching my mom, aunts and me how to make jam. Thank you for the handkerchief collection. Most importantly, during these incredibly difficult times, thank you for teaching me how to be generous even when I feel like I’ve nothing left to give. I love you and miss you like crazy, Grandma.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Abby Knox
Chapter One
Eliza
If you are lucky enough to be loved by an inexplicably generous grandmother, protect her with your life. And make sure you visit her more often.
If that person happens to be my grandmother, be prepared for a battle royale should you dare offer to stay in a hotel on those visits.
Case in point: a flight attendant glares at me while I’m trying to wrap up this ongoing argument on my phone. This plane is supposed to take off from LaGuardia in five minutes. For the last day and a half, Grams and I have been going back and forth about my accommodations on this visit.
“Grams, your house is tiny, and this is the height of your jam-making month. I’ll be in the way. When I sleep, I’ll be snuggling up against a crate of mason jars.”
“No granddaughter of mine is sleeping at that fleabag no-tell motel. I have plenty of room!” Grams is also part me, which means she’s not only stubborn but also tends to embellish.
“It’s a bed and breakfast in a historic house,” I correct her.
“It’s a dump,” she grumbles.
I can’t help but laugh because I know she doesn’t believe that. “It’s just up the street from you. I can walk over to you first thing in the morning to have breakfast with you. In my pajamas! That’s how much I love you, Grams. I’m giving up eggs Benedict.” Not to mention that gourmet breakfast comes with accommodations at rural Illinois prices and not NYC prices. She has no idea what I’m sacrificing. However, Grams does make the best breakfast on the planet. And her guest bedroom is cozy.
I should have given in on the hotel argument and instead focused all my energy on the question of the rental car, but like I said, I’m stubborn.
She insists, “The guest room is already ready!”
The flight attendant has passed me three times to deliver an evil eye and is now hovering. I honestly feel as if I’m in danger of being removed from the plane now. “All right, Grams. But I’m driving myself to your house. I’m renting a car, so do not come to get me, okay, goodbye!”
“Like hell you are!” I can hear her reply just as I disconnect.
I give the flight attendance a sheepish look and apologize, setting my phone to Do Not Disturb and dropping it into my bag.
As soon as I deboard the jet in Middle-of-Nowhere, Illinois, and check my phone, my notifications blow up.
In descending order based on the number of texts, my ex Jared has messaged me nine times; my supervisor Debbie, seven; my childhood friend Nora, three.
I read Jared’s text messages first because of all three, he is most deserving to be left on read.
“Just want to make sure you’re okay,” he writes. And then two minutes later: “I’m sorry for the way I ended things.” One hour after that, he added, “Don’t be mad, but I asked around because you blocked me on Facebook. Debbie said you took your vacation time. I’ll take that to mean you’re finally doing something for yourself. I’m happy for you. Have fun.”
I shake my head and scroll past the six other messages from my ex that were just versions of the previous texts. He has a weird way of showing he doesn’t want to bother me. Come to think of it, Jared exhibits odd behavior overall for someone who just dumped me for some bimbo he met on a spiritual retreat.
The phone rings while I’m scrolling through the messages. Debbie, of course, can never wait until I’ve texted back before needing my help with something.
“I’m so sorry,” I say calmly with a smile on my face, not even bothering to say hello. I’ve been practicing drawing boundaries with certain people, and Debbie is number one on the list. “I’m on vacation.”
Debbie launches in anyway. “I know, and I really appreciate that, Eliza. But there’s a problem with the last batch of Helix pages. The CEO says the final version doesn’t reflect his notes from the mock-up.”
I sigh heavily. My most mercurial client needs more hand-holding, as always. “He always does this. You just have to finesse him a little bit. Let him rant until he feels heard, then have someone from the art department explain things, using lots of complicated jargon. He’ll get tired and move on.”
“Nobody knows how to handle that guy like you do. Can you talk to him? He really doesn’t like me,” Debbie pushes.
Why I don’t have Debbie’s job yet is a mystery. Even more of a mystery is that Debbie raised four children, presumably ushering them through toddlerhood. Yet, she can’t handle this extreme toddler of a client. “It’s going to be okay, Debbie. Have him talk to one of the artists, like I said, and tell him I’m on vacation.”
“But—“
“Don’t make me Per-My-Last-Email you. Bye, Debbie.”
I don’t bother to go back and read the seven texts that she sent to me in the last two hours of my flight.
Maybe my attitude is a risky way to behave with a supervisor, but I had made it clear before I left that I would not be checking my phone. I should have followed through on that promise because now I’m starting out my vacation time—my healing and bonding time with Grams—with a nasty attitude.
I’d thought about jetting off to a tropical beach and spending two weeks drinking margaritas in a deck chair, staring at the teal-blue ocean. Have a one-night stand with a stranger to help me get over my breakup with Jared. I would deserve that after three years of sleeping with Mr. “I Don’t Eat Pussy Because It’s Not Masculine.” Yeah. I know.
I
nstead of jetting off to the beach for solo pampering, I decided what I needed was a human connection, nurturing, and the quiet countryside. The beach will always be there. Grams will not.
While I’m here in cornfield country, I plan to forget about my phone and help Grams make her famous jams and jellies that she sells at the farmers market every summer. I need me some Grams time, and she, now in her 80s, could probably use some help around the house. Win-win.
The only other items on my to-do list for the next two weeks are to wear zero makeup, sit on a blanket and watch a movie at the drive-in theater, spend some time with Nora and squeeze those twins she gave birth to three months ago.
Speak of the devil. As I’m headed out of the concourse and toward the escalator, Nora calls me: “I’m so excited to see you! Hijinks tonight?”
I reply, “Yes, ma’am! Don’t even think about being the DD. I’m getting the new mom sloppy drunk tonight.”
She chirps, “Babysitter is scheduled!”
Debbie calls again when I’m halfway down the escalator, just as I’m about to call Grams. I ignore her.
Gram doesn’t answer, which makes me nervous. Nobody is looking after her these days, so if she doesn’t answer her phone, I immediately think worst-case scenario. Heart attack. Broken hip. Heatstroke while working in the garden.
I leave a breezy voicemail to let her know my plane has landed and I’ll be there shortly; I don’t want her to know how much I worry. Grams doesn’t like it when people fuss over her.
Checking my PayPal and email account is a terrible idea right now; I know this. But I do it anyway, on the off chance…but no. Still no payment from my mother. Did I really expect it? Feeling a little naughty, I shoot her my second email in a month, even though I know she’s not speaking to me. “Hi, Mom. Just checking to see how you are doing. Also, let me know when I can expect payment for services rendered. Love you.”
I shouldn’t have done that, but at least she can never accuse me of not reaching out.
I drop my phone into my bag after deciding against setting it to Do Not Disturb mode, in case Grams calls back.
As I’m headed toward the baggage claim, I’m taken aback when I suddenly see my name in block letters, floating in mid-air about 30 yards away—“Eliza Little”—in black marker set against a bright orange poster board.
What the…?
Looking closer, I see the poster board is not floating in mid-air but situated between a pair of lean-muscled shoulders, clad in a pale green tee-shirt under a worn flannel.
I stop for a second, look the man up and down, and decide he must be here for some other, fortunate person named Eliza Little.
I roll my carry-on right past him, and he calls after me. “Eliza?”
I stop in my tracks and spin around.
“Do I know you?” I ask as the man’s face breaks into a wide grin. He tips the brim of his cap in the familiar way people do in my hometown, but I’ll be damned if he’s from Piper’s Grove. They do not make the likes of him here. I peer up at his faded ball cap, which bears a quaint logo advertising “Gee’s Bees.” I glance down quickly and take in the clay bead necklace he wears, showing a mandala. Then I notice the yoga beads on his wrist. Red flag, Eliza. Some cult has taken over the town and heard I was coming. They sent this thirst trap to recruit me.
“No, ma’am, not directly,” he replies, blinking and smiling. “I’m Garrett.”
I squint. “I’m afraid we don’t know each other directly or indirectly. Wait…did my Grams send you to pick me up?”
He shifts his weight as if he’s intimidated by me. I don’t know why anyone as tall as Conan O’Brien, shaped like Tom Hiddleston and as pretty to look at as Henry Cavill would feel intimidated by me. A lack of confidence in someone who looks that good should be illegal. “Did she not tell you she was sending someone to pick you up?”
I smirk. “She said she wanted to pick me up, but I forbade her from driving an hour by herself.”
Garrett steps forward and takes the handle of my carry-on bag. “Betty said you were forbidding.” This description intrigues me, which he says with a shy grin. “She got around that by sending me to pick you up. I’m her neighbor.”
Up close and in my personal space, this hayseed smells like the outdoors: meadow grass, wood, and something else I can’t identify. If a smell could be warm and feral, that would be Garrett.
He’s already rolling away with my bag before my brain can process that scent.
“I can roll my own bag,” I say, taking off after him toward the baggage carousel.
Like a man on a mission, he replies, “I’m your wheelman now, Miss Eliza.”
I splutter as I struggle to keep up with him, which is a feat in itself. The stride of his long legs is twice mine, plus I’m in heels. I’ve never been one of those people who wear flip-flops on airplanes. “I told Grams I would rent a car. There’s no need for all this fuss.”
“No fuss. And anyway, now that I’m here, I can’t go back to Piper’s Grove without you. That would be downright ungentlemanly.”
Oh my god. What a cornball. A hot as hell, suspiciously hippie-like, folksy cornball with nothing better to do on a Thursday afternoon. I guess this is what I signed up for when deciding to vacation in my hometown—friendly interactions with local yokels. Although, to be fair, I am one of those yokels. I was born in Piper’s Grove, and ten years of Manhattan can’t wash away the Midwesterner in me.
As we watch and wait for the rest of my bags, I explain, “The other reason I told Grams not to come to get me is so I could have my own wheels. I’ll be at the mercy of her unpredictable Ford Fiesta.”
Garrett chuckles. “That thing is a bit of a pain, but I’m on top of it. Still runs good when I drive her around.”
I snap my gaze up to his face. “You drive her around?”
“No big deal. Just sometimes, if she needs something. And anyway, it needs to be driven once in a while to keep the engine in good shape.”
I study his profile—a firm jaw smattered with dark scruff, full, playful lips, a nose that looks like it’s been broken at least once—and decide he has an honest, trustworthy face. Not a cult member. Probably. Still, what is he doing, taking two hours out of his day for a neighbor? What’s his angle?
He can feel me studying him for clues, and his lips curl in that shy smile again. “If you don’t want to cancel your rental, at least let me help you with your bags. Then, you get a head start back to town. I’ll let you explain things to Betty.”
He turns toward me and looks me straight in the eyes. All I see are two deep, honey-colored pools looking back at me with a wide-open sincerity. He knows Betty, that’s for sure. She’ll be howling at him if it seems like he left me at the airport to fend for myself, even if I am perfectly capable of getting where I need to go on my own.
At this moment, we understand each other. We both know that when Betty wants to roll out a red carpet, then you’d better get with the program and accept it. I see it in those warm eyes of his, honey flecked with green, like a wise old lion. Betty has so little material wealth to share, we’re better off accepting the small things she can do for us. “I’ll ride with you. I’ll call a rideshare to get back to the airport in two weeks.”
Garrett’s easy smile radiates down at me, and I can feel his energy sucking me into his laid-back vibe. We couldn’t be more different. He probably doesn’t even own a day planner.
The truth is, Piper’s Grove isn’t exactly a Filofax kind of town. More of an ink-pen-scrawl-reminder-on-the-palm-of-your-hand, phone-number-on-a-cocktail-napkin sort of town.
I’m grateful for the lack of small talk while we gather my bags off the carousel and eventually make our way outside of the small terminal. While I’m not thrilled at the idea of loading my matched luggage into the back of a pickup truck, I’m impressed that Garrett covers the whole thing with a tarp and secures it with a bungee cord.
“Thank you,” I say.
“In case it rains,” he
says.
“Right. I appreciate the forethought,” I reply with a smile.
Another thing I appreciate? I mean, apart from watching his veiny forearms ripple as he arranges and rearranges my stuff with care. I appreciate the fact that this pickup looks like it’s used for actual work. I remember a date with a boy back in my high school days whose truck bed was pristine. Not a single scratch. The cab, even more so. I don’t think the wheel wells ever saw a speck of mud.
Garrett looks and smells every bit like a person who likes to get dirty. Of course, I don’t say this out loud. I don’t blurt things out. This is where Grams and I are different; she has no filter, and sometimes I have too much of one.
The drive to Piper’s Grove flies by. In part, because I’ve relaxed enough to accept that Garrett is a big part of Grams’ life now, so he must be a good person. And also because the drive is full of familiar sights that bring me back to my childhood, reminding me that I liked growing up here. When I turned eighteen, I got out of here as fast as I could. I’m glad I did, but looking at the rolling hills, creeks, and the wide-open spaces, I think I should have made more of an effort to visit from time to time. I feel a twinge of guilt, realizing that I’ve been so busy working that it’s been years since I’ve seen Grams.
I’m not quite ready to admit that another reason the drive flies by is that I’m enjoying talking to this stranger. I ask about his cap, and he tells me all about his beekeeping business. He reveals that his parents are retired and traveling the country in an RV. He has a brother who’s a university professor.
“As for me, I received a small inheritance when my grandparents died a few years back, and I used it to do what I’ve always wanted to do. Play music and hang out with animals.”
