Where It All Began

by Lucy Score

  Her boys, men now—husbands and fathers—trooped inside. All tall and dark. Beckett impeccably dressed as always, hair neatly trimmed. Carter, with his thick beard, and Jax, in rumpled flannel, leaned more toward casual.

  But they were all handsome as sin and wore it with an easy confidence. They looked happy, healthy, relaxed. A farmer, a lawyer, and a screenwriter, all running a brewery named after their father.

  We did good, John, Phoebe said silently, sending the message up to the heavens.

  “Oh, great. She’s drinking already,” Jax joked.

  “You try raising three boys in a barn and see if you don’t start drinking,” Phoebe reminded him.

  “I’m dealing with an eighteen-year-old, a seven-year-old, and Joey,” Jax said. “I may join you.” He took her glass and gulped it down.

  Phoebe laughed, her heart full and light. “That’s why you’re my favorite,” she told him, patting his arm.

  Carter leaned down and kissed her on the top of the head. “Happy Birthday, Mom.”

  “Thank you, sweetie. Ignore what I said to Jax. You’re my favorite,” she said in a stage whisper.

  “Hollywood can’t be the favorite,” Beckett argued. “Neither can Wookiee face here. I’m the lowest maintenance son. That makes me the favorite by default.”

  Phoebe gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You’re absolutely right, Beckett. You’re my favorite. Although, you do know that you have a beard now, too, right?”

  “Yeah, who’s the Wookiee face now, Mr. Mayor?” Carter said, giving his brother a shove.

  Beckett knocked into the glass bowl of fruit on the counter, arguing about how much better his beard was than Carter’s.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Phoebe cut in. “Take me to lunch before someone goes through the drywall.”

  --------

  They took her to Villa Harvest where the hostess led them to a long table under a festive umbrella on the patio where it looked as though half the town was enjoying lunch.

  “Happy Birthday, Phoebe,” Mrs. Nordemann, still in her all black mourning gear eight years after the death of Mr. Nordemann, called out cheerily from her table with Bobby from Peace of Pizza. They raised their glasses to her, and Phoebe blew them a kiss.

  The greetings were the same at every table. She knew every single person here. Blue Moon had always been that kind of place. The town had accepted her as one of their own and never let her down. Looking around the patio, she realized she was surrounded by people who loved her without biological requirement. They were men and women who cheered next to her at high school track meets, who held her hand and baked her horrible casseroles in the weeks after John passed, who danced at her wedding to Franklin.

  People who knew the names of her grandchildren, business owners who had given her bookkeeping work when times were tight on the farm. An entire town of friends who had raised enough money to rescue her own parents—strangers to them—from crippling debt.

  Hell, she was going to cry again.

  “How did we rate such a big table?” Phoebe asked, taking a seat on the striped cushion.

  “Pretty sure the owner has a thing for you, Mom,” Beckett teased.

  She picked up the menu on her plate. “Phoebe’s Day Specials,” she read.

  “He definitely has a thing for you.” Carter winked over his own menu.

  Franklin appeared on the patio, and Phoebe enjoyed the stumble her heart took as it did every time she saw her husband. He wore a new Hawaiian shirt, this one white with red and pink hearts everywhere. He was a bear of a man in size but a teddy bear in character. There was nothing Franklin Merrill wouldn’t do for her or for anyone for that matter. He loved fiercely and was a soft spot to land for anyone who needed one.

  “For my favorite stepsons,” Franklin said, whipping a basket of fresh bread sticks and steaming marinara from behind his back. Her sons pounced on it as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  “And for my beautiful bride,” Franklin professed. The lunch crowd “awh-ed” as he swept a massive bouquet from behind his back.

  Phoebe’s breath caught at the sight of them. At least a dozen sunflowers mixed in with wildflowers of every color.

  “Oh, Franklin,” she breathed. Her heart squeezed.

  “I saw them in the window at Every Bloomin’ Thing and thought they looked like you—beautiful and just a little wild.”

  “Oh,” she said again, sniffling. Sunflowers, of course.

  “If Mom starts crying or you two start making out, I’m out of here,” Jax threatened.

  “Before cannoli?” Franklin grinned.

  “Of course, not! After cannoli. I’m not an idiot.”

  “Yes, you are,” Carter and Beckett chimed in.

  Jax kicked both his brothers under the table. But Phoebe was too happy, her heart too full, to yell at them.

  “Are you joining us for lunch?” she asked her husband hopefully.

  “I think my boss will allow me to take my lunch break,” Franklin winked. “In fact, I think we’re all joining you.”

  He whistled through his fingers, and everyone on the patio rose from their seats.

  The table that had been hidden behind a palm dropped their menus and Phoebe clapped her hands over her mouth. Michael, Hazel, and Donovan Cardona grinned at her.

  And as an off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday” began, the Pierce girls appeared at the patio gate. Joey and Summer, each holding three bottles of champagne worked their way toward her. They were followed by Gia, Emma, and Eva—reliving their restaurant days working for their father—carrying trays of delicate stemware.

  Elvira, her dearest friend in the world, was last in the procession carrying a cake that had entirely too many candles on it.

  Franklin kissed Phoebe’s knuckles as the song reached its blaring crescendo.

  She stood and looked around the patio crowded with her wonderful family and friends. Anthony Berkowicz, son of Rainbow and Gordon and the lone employee of The Monthly Moon, jumped out from behind a palm and blinded her with the flash from his camera. Joey shoved him back behind the plant. Nikolai, her other handsome step-son-in-law, stepped forward with his professional camera and grinned at her before capturing the moment.

  “I don’t know how to thank each and every one of you for the role you’ve played in making my life so wonderful. I don’t know if I ever can. But I do know this, I’m grateful for you all every single day. You’re more than friends and neighbors. You’re family, and I’m so lucky to have you. And now I’m going to sit back down before I start blubbering.”

  There was laughter and applause and a few tears from the crowd, her family.

  As the cake was cut, the bubbly popped and poured, Franklin cupped her face in his big hands. “Happy birthday, my lovely wife.”

  He kissed her lightly, sweetly, and even then, her heart sang with the joy of a woman who was truly, deeply loved.

  Author’s Note to the Reader

  Dear Reader,

  If you’re new to Blue Moon, welcome! If you’ve read them all so far, I hope you feel like I did John and Phoebe justice!

  This was a book I had no intention of writing. A couple of readers came up with the idea, and I couldn’t figure out how to write John and Phoebe’s love story without dimming Phoebe’s marriage with adorable, sweet, Hawaiian shirt aficionado Franklin. And then I realized it happens in real life all the time.

  The human heart doesn’t contain a finite amount of love that can only be doled out sparingly. It’s made to love big and hard and wild all the years of your life, and those kooky Blue Mooners really get that.

  Writing this story that I hadn’t intended on writing was such an amazing journey because I got to see how many links existed running back and forth between the generations. Phoebe showing up on the farm ready to work and write was the same a generation later for Summer and Carter. John’s reluctance to do the “wrong” thing is ingrained in Beckett, and Jax and
the way he expresses himself is just like his father.

  The Blue Moon books are about family. They’re also about hot, steamy, hilarious romance, but they’re mainly about family. I hope you’ll continue on with this family in the Blue Moon series and find out what the town has in store for the next generation.

  Thank you for reading! You’re obviously already signed up for my newsletter—which I swear I will not use to bombard you with messages. If you’d like more behind-the-scenes gibberish from me or want to stay up-to-date with what I’m cooking or drinking or you have a great book idea you’d like to feed me, visit me on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and my blog.

  I LOVE hearing from readers! Thanks again for reading, and I hope you’ll check out the rest of my books.

  Xoxo,

  Lucy

  P.S. If you want more Blue Moon, read ahead for the first chapter in No More Secrets!

  No More Secrets – Blue Moon - Book 1

  Chapter One

  Summer Lentz hefted her suitcase and laptop bag into the trunk of her snappy little rental car. She paused to catch her breath, grateful for the parking space she had snagged just half a block down from her Murray Hill building.

  Every once in a while, her body inconveniently reminded her that recovery was a very long journey.

  She took a deep breath of late spring air and resisted the urge to walk back to her apartment to verify that the door that she checked twice before leaving was indeed locked and the stove — that she never used — was off.

  It was a week upstate. She’d be back to civilization before she knew it. Besides, maybe a few days without the bustle of Manhattan would allow her to recharge her batteries. Or — she grimaced at the thought — she’d completely disappear from the consciousness of everyone at work. At Indulgence, if you weren’t there eleven hours a day, you weren’t there. The sleek Midtown West headquarters were as glossy as the pages of its magazine. And more cutthroat than a season of reality TV.

  Summer had carved out a place for herself at Indulgence without selling too many pieces of her soul. Nine months into her promotion as associate editor, things were finally falling into place.

  She had upgraded her shoebox studio to a slightly roomier one-bedroom. Her wardrobe had seen a gradual and tasteful edit. The blog that she was so proud of had grown exponentially. On the outside, her social life was a whirlwind of parties, openings, and meet-ups. Though, at times, it was hard to tell where work stopped and life began.

  If she could hold herself on this trajectory without any other major crises, she could almost taste a senior editor position in her future.

  The phone in her cream-colored Dooney and Bourke signaled.

  Summer slid behind the wheel and swiped to answer.

  “Are you farm-bound yet?” The deep, smooth voice of her best friend warmed her ear.

  “Well if it isn’t the famous Nikolai Vulkov. What’s the Wolf doing today?”

  Niko was second generation American, but after too much vodka, one could begin to detect the slightest hint of Russia in his bedroom tone. He had a reputation as both a talented photographer and ladies’ man, hence the nickname.

  When Summer hadn’t instantly fallen under the Wolf’s spell at the magazine, they had become fast friends instead.

  “You sound out of breath. Are you pushing yourself too hard?”

  Summer wrinkled her nose. “What are you, my dad?”

  “Do not spend this assignment hauling hay bales and tipping cows. You understand me?” he warned.

  “Is tipping cows even a thing? I think that’s an urban myth.”

  “Way to dance around the issue, brat.”

  “I promise to take care of myself. I’ll probably be in bed every night by eight.” She flipped the sun visor down to check her eye makeup. “I doubt there’s any midnight martini special in town.”

  “Well, while you’re there, text me a couple of pics of Old MacDonald and his organic farm so I can start planning for the shoot in July.”

  “Will do. And while I’m gone, try not to fall desperately in love with any models.”

  “I can’t promise anything. So don’t stay away too long. I may need you to vet a Brazilian beauty.”

  “Never change, Niko,” Summer sighed. “I’ll see you in a week.”

  She hung up and plugged the address into the GPS. Just three hours to Blue Moon Bend.

  --------

  His brother’s obnoxious ringtone had Carter Pierce straightening from his work and tossing his dirt-covered gloves to the ground.

  “What?”

  “Hello to you, too.” Beckett had his politician voice on, adding to Carter’s irritation.

  “I’m in the middle of something,” Carter said, swiping a hand through his dark hair.

  “What are you in the middle of?”

  “A field of lettuce. First pickup for the produce shares is this weekend.”

  “I realize that. I thought we weren’t harvesting until tomorrow. Isn’t that why I’m spending my entire afternoon with your hairy mug?”

  Beckett gave Carter nothing but shit about his beard. His clean-shaven brother didn’t understand that after a few years in the military, the choice to sprout facial hair was a special kind of freedom.

  “I was checking the irrigation and thought I’d get a head start.”

  “Well stop starting and get your ass back to the house.”

  “Why?”

  “Check your watch.”

  Carter swiped a finger over the dirt coating the face of his leather watch cuff. “Shit.”

  “Better hurry up or you’ll give her a bad first impression.”

  Carter hung up on his brother’s laughter, grabbed his gloves and tools, and ran for the Jeep.

  The time had gotten away from him, as usual. Knee deep in plants and earth and sunshine, some days he felt as though time stood still. He should have set a damn alarm.

  Maybe she’d be late?

  He threw the Jeep in gear and hightailed it down the dirt lane toward the house.

  It wasn’t like he didn’t have other things to do. Showing a writer around for a week was yet another responsibility that the rest of his family felt would sit nicely on his shoulders. His mother should be the one holding her hand, letting her pet calves, and make garden fresh salads. Or glib-tongued Beckett. He’d give her the idyllic tourist view of the farm and then treat her to candle-lit dinners. Send her back to the city with stories of how romantic Blue Moon was.

  But no. It fell on Carter to walk her through life on the farm. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to treat her like an honored guest. An extra pair of hands was an extra pair of hands. He was going to put Summer Lentz to work and send her back to Manhattan with the real story on farm life.

  He spotted the little red coupe as he shot down the lane to the farmhouse.

  Bringing the Jeep to an abrupt halt next to the car, a sense of urgency propelled him out of the Jeep and across the drive. The front door was unlocked, as it always was. Maybe she was inside.

  He stopped midstride when he spotted her. Her navy button down, with its crisp collar, was tucked neatly into the waist of slim pants the color of ashes. The pants ended a few inches above her trim ankles, most likely to show off the short suede boots with needlepoint heels. Stick-straight hair hung to her shoulders in a silvery blond curtain. Wide eyes, the color of the Canterbury bells that bordered the flowerbed behind her, peered at him. Her full lips wore a sheen of pink gloss and were parted, as if to ask a question.

  She looked like one of his grandmother’s porcelain dolls come to life. Her small hands were clasped in front of her, spine straight enough to draw a compliment from a drill sergeant.

  He had probably scared the hell out of her with his entrance, Carter thought, and stopped his approach.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” Her voice was whisper-soft, with a huskiness that went straight to his gut.

  ---
-----

  The man before her was like no farmer Summer had ever envisioned. His dark-as-midnight hair was shorn ruthlessly short on the sides with more length on top. Beards weren’t exactly hot in Manhattan, but his had her questioning why that was. Raincloud eyes held her gaze and the deep frown that put the line between his eyes had her pulse skittering.

  The dirt streaked Henley stretched across a mile-wide chest, sleeves shoved up his very fit forearms. His legs under the worn, holy jeans were braced as if for battle. She just wasn’t sure if it was with her or someone else.

  He looked like a model some smartass art director had plunked down in a field to sell jeans or watches. Niko was going to have a field day with tall, dark, and frowny, Summer decided. She wished she hadn’t left her phone in the car so she could get a picture of him just like this.

  She was already fascinated and he had only spoken a single word. This story had just gotten a hell of a lot more interesting.

  “Are you Mr. Pierce?” She started forward, covering the dusty distance between them, her hand outstretched.

  He paused for exactly one second before engulfing her palm in his. His grip — and everything else about him — radiated strength. Rough calluses met her manicured, moisturized hand. There was something there. An energy that shot straight up her spine.

  “Carter,” he said, finally.

  “Summer.” She returned the pressure of his grip as confidently as she could. In her line of work, everyone was a potential enemy, but Carter Pierce was a different kind of dangerous.

  He didn’t release her hand, but the frown line gradually dimmed. “Welcome to Blue Moon Bend, Summer.”

  About the Author

  Lucy Score is a Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon Kindle bestselling author. She grew up in a literary family who insisted that the dinner table was for reading and earned a degree in journalism. She writes full-time from the Pennsylvania home she and Mr. Lucy share with their obnoxious cat, Cleo. When not spending hours crafting heartbreaker heroes and kick-ass heroines, Lucy can be found on the couch, in the kitchen, or at the gym. She hopes to someday write from a sailboat, or oceanfront condo, or tropical island with reliable Wi-Fi.