Once in a Blue Moon
Page 1
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more titles from Entangled… Mismatched in Mayhem
The Boyfriend Contract
The Aussie Next Door
My Forever Plus One
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Amanda Ashby. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
10940 S Parker Rd
Suite 327
Parker, CO 80134
rights@entangledpublishing.com
August is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Candace Havens and Wendy Chen
Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes
Cover photography by Sean Pavone, Goncharov_Artem, and Leigh Trail/Shutterstock
ISBN 978-1-68281-532-8
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition February 2020
Dear Reader,
Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.
xoxo
Liz Pelletier, Publisher
Chapter One
“We all have that one girl locked in our memory. The one who reminds us of our youthful desires and lost loves. The one who taught us the hard way what happens to those foolish feelings. Mine’s Nina. Henceforth known as Nina-the-girl-who-stole-my-favorite-blue-sweatshirt. Let’s just say it didn’t end well.” Blue Moon
Most of the time, Laney George was a sensible florist who got enough sleep, remembered to take her vitamins, and always flossed her teeth. But every now and then, she got an itch. One time it led to a date with the man she married. Another time found her adopting a scruffy dog that was part terrier and part who-knew-what. The most recent itch had given her a longing to buy the Tucker property and turn it into a flower farm to boost her business. That was why she’d accepted a lucrative commission out of town.
She’d been away for a week, working long hours, and the traffic had been horrendous. Still, she was home now, and once she had a shower, food, and a glass of wine, she’d feel better.
Her dog danced impatiently at her feet. She slotted the key into the lock of the Victorian building, known locally as one of The Belles. There were three of them, all with a store on the ground floor and an apartment up above.
In a past life, the store had sold ice cream, and when she’d ripped up the carpet, there’d been gorgeous blue-and-white Italian tiles underneath. Her brother-in-law had built a workbench out of upcycled timber, and Laney had painted the walls a pale pearl to enhance the natural light.
And there were flowers everywhere.
Huge containers of sweet peas, tulips, and lupines, along with urns of green foliage, most of which came from the surrounding woods. In the far corner were several tubs filled with the branches and twigs that singled out her designs.
She automatically tweaked a bouquet of lemon sorbet–colored lilies as a procession of cars pulled up along the curb outside. People spilled out, all wearing blue T-shirts as they walked to the bookstore next door.
Okay. That was strange.
Not just because of the T-shirts but because the store was closed on Saturday afternoons. Paige soon followed, carrying the old wooden box she used when she hosted a book signing at the town hall.
Ah. That explained all the people. They must have been invited back for a glass of wine with whoever the author was.
“Should we go and say hello?” she asked the little dog. Violet just blinked her fathomless, loam-colored eyes and tilted her head, causing her sticking-out ear to stick out even more. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
She scooped up a bunch of cosmos and sweet peas and walked out of her store, Violet trotting behind her. Crime wasn’t big in St. Clair, but she didn’t want to take any chances. She twisted the lock and turned just as a black car slid to a halt. A man got out and stretched.
The first person not wearing a blue shirt.
At least I won’t be out of place.
He paused and looked at the water, no doubt taking in the spectacular view. He had short, dark hair, with broad shoulders and muscular legs. Then he turned around, and—
No.
The flowers fell from her hands as she pressed herself against the wooden wall that separated her porch from the bookstore next door. Laney shut her eyes, desperately trying to hide in the shadows. Her heart pounded like she’d just tripled her coffee intake for the day, and bile caught in her throat. I’m going to be sick.
It was him. The man who’d almost ruined her life.
Adam Fitzpatrick.
At twenty-three, he’d been gorgeous in a lean kind of way. Olive skin that had been almost baby soft, intense eyes, full of plans for the future. But at thirty-nine, the leanness had turned into thicker muscles, and his dark hair was shorter.
Still beautiful.
And still the guy who wrote a freaking book about their relationship. Turning her into the infamous Nina—a character who’d made Glenn Close’s bunny boiling seem like a walk in the park. And one of the many fictional crimes he’d accused her of was stealing his favorite sweatshirt.
For months after the book had come out, people started wearing blue shirts, all saying the same thing.
Nina Took It
And then there had been the articles and water cooler talk. Who was the mystery Nina? Why had she done it? What kind of person was she? It had almost crippled her, finding out someone she’d cared about had exposed her in such a way. Laughed at her. Mocked her. Lied.
At least by the time the book was published, she was no longer Laney Litchfield, his college ex-girlfriend; she was Laney George. Living in a different state with the man of her dreams. All without anyone ever guessing her secret. It had been a lifetime ago.
Why’s he here now?
The universe couldn’t be that cruel. But of course it was. Five years ago, it had taken Simon away from her. Cut out her heart and left her to carry on without him. A widow at thirty-one.
No one knew better than Laney that the universe did whatever it pleased.
And it also explained the parade of blue shirts.
Crap.
She pressed herself against the wall as he stalked up the path and climbed the three stairs that led to the bookstore. His hands were clenched, and his eyes were fixed firmly ahead, much to her relief.
She let out a shuddering breath and lowered he
rself onto the ground as he disappeared into the bookstore.
Why hadn’t she just stayed in Seattle for a couple more days?
More to the point, where was she going to go until he left?
Violet wriggled onto Laney’s lap, and she absently tweaked at the snow-white daisies she’d woven through the little dog’s collar. Violet wasn’t what anyone would call a classic beauty, thanks to scruffy fur that refused to stay down and a crooked ear from when she’d been attacked as a puppy. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy wearing flowers. Or nail polish.
“You’re home!” Sam appeared at the bottom of the porch. Her neighbor was tall and willowy with razor-sharp cheekbones. “Are you hiding from someone?”
Yes, and it’s a perfectly valid life choice.
“Who would I be hiding from?” she said, proud of how calm her voice sounded as she scooped up the fallen flowers and got to her feet. Surely, she wasn’t in any danger now.
“I’ve got no idea.” Sam climbed the stairs. “But you look pale.”
“Just tired from the trip.” She hugged her friend. The familiar scent of coffee and vanilla that always accompanied the café owner enveloped Laney, and her panic lessened.
“I have the perfect thing to revive you. Paige managed to get Adam Fitzpatrick at the last minute for a book signing. Want to meet him?”
Not in a million years.
“I’ll take a rain check. It was a long week.” She loosened her grip on the flowers. From now on, her itches wouldn’t take her so far away from everything she held dear. Or leave her unprepared for almost bumping into the one guy she never wanted to see again in her life. “Tell me what I’ve missed.”
“Cal’s decided to learn the drums. All I can say is apologies in advance.”
“I love drums,” Laney assured her. Sam had been taking care of her fourteen-year-old nephew for over a year now, and while there had been a difficult adjustment period, he seemed to be coming out of his shell.
“That’s because you’re the sweetest person in the world.”
“Takes one to know one.” Laney smiled.
Hawthorn. That was Sam’s flower. Stunningly gorgeous in its simplicity but surrounded by thorns. Laney herself was an arctic willow. Small but able to survive extreme conditions. She hadn’t quite nailed Paige. But she would. There was a flower for everyone.
“That’s debatable,” Sam said as another group of people descended on the bookstore. “Sure you don’t want to go in for a few minutes?”
150 percent.
“I’m sure. But give Paige my love, and we’ll catch up soon.”
She waited until Sam had gone before hurrying back inside and locking the door. She sunk down to the floor.
This was all her itch’s fault.
If she’d never gone away, she would have known about the book signing and could have made the appropriate arrangements to be as far away as possible.
She shimmied out to the workroom—not wanting to take any chances of being spotted from the window—and pressed a hand to her burning cheeks. Violet walked next to her, as if encouraging her on in a strange game.
A plan. I need a plan.
Usually, she’d go to Jessica’s, but her sister-in-law ran the most popular inn in St. Clair, and there was a good chance Adam would be staying there.
Let’s see. Clamshell Bay could work. It was a safe twenty miles away, and it had a selection of inns. All she had to do was water her houseplants and pack some fresh panties, and she’d be ready. Simple.
“We’re strong, modern women. We can do hard things,” she told Violet and got to her feet. Violet gave a solemn nod and followed her upstairs to the apartment. The important thing was to avoid Adam Fitzpatrick. Because she already knew his flower.
Belladonna.
…
“When I read Blue Moon, my life changed. It spoke to me in such a powerful way. You know what I’m saying?”
“Sure.” Adam politely nodded as the woman in front of him clutched his arm. Fine wrinkles mapped her face, and she only came up to his shoulder. She probably weighed in at ninety pounds, but her grip was like iron. He wasn’t quite sure how she related to the fictional Joshua Quinn, a twenty-eight-year-old doctor looking for love and adventure. But in the ten years since the book had come out, he’d accepted that, for whatever reason, millions of readers felt connected to it.
It certainly hadn’t been intentional. None of the book had been.
He’d written it as a heartbroken, angry, naive, rookie sportswriter. He hadn’t had a clue what he was doing but couldn’t stop. The writing had consumed him, burned him, and he’d been lost in the story as the words poured onto the page.
If only he could replicate that kind of enthusiasm again.
But the words that had once flowed like water were now caught in a severe drought. He’d tried everything. Hell, if someone offered him a pagan ritual with the promise it would work, he would have done it. Which was why he’d agreed to go on tour to celebrate the newly released anniversary edition. So his publisher might forget just how overdue his current book was. Or what a flop his previous books had been.
A familiar knot twisted in his gut. So much was riding on this. His reputation. His future. My possible sanity.
“Tell me, Doctor Josh, any advice on how to get my husband to spice up our love life?”
Another side effect of the book. Somehow the ridiculous advice his character had handed out had been listened to, and people assumed Adam was some kind of love guru. It was ironic, considering the state of his own love life, but he could hardly be rude to the many people who’d read the book and supported him.
He tugged at his collar as a woman with a silver pixie cut and sparkling green eyes drifted over. She gave him a little nod and gently removed the hand clasping his arm.
“Moira, I just heard Linda talking about the book we read last week. She seems to think Ragnorlie was a demon lord and not an alien shifter.”
Moira’s face underwent a transformation, and her eyes narrowed. “A demon lord? Good grief, next she’ll be thinking Tahina is a water nymph. Excuse me while I go and explain it to her again. How hard is it to remember Dragnorhan canon?”
Adam blinked and turned to the woman with the green eyes. “Something just happened, but I have no idea what.”
“Probably for the best,” the woman said with a comfortable smile. “She’s fanatical when it comes to alien shapeshifter romances. It’s a complicated genre. I’m Olive, by the way, and we’re all delighted you’ve come to St. Clair. Have you been here before?”
“Never,” he said. “It’s a beautiful town.” Lie. The place was picturesque, and the locals seemed nice, but it was small, and he had the feeling everyone knew everyone’s business. He couldn’t think of anything worse. As to why he’d bothered to lie about it? Because I’m a fraud. A fraud who wanted strangers to like him. To think he was a success.
Still. It didn’t matter.
Tomorrow, he’d climb back into his regular life. Back to squeezing blood from his stone-shaped brain.
“We like it.” Olive beamed just as a guy and a teenage girl walked into the store. They both waved at her. “You’ll have to excuse me. It’s my grandson and his daughter.”
“Of course.” Adam plastered on another smile as Olive deftly wove her way through the group of book lovers who’d come to meet him. All asking the same questions. All laughing at the same places when he gave the rehashed answers he always gave.
Definitely a fraud.
He tugged at another button on his shirt, and his temple pounded with the hint of a headache. Playing a more successful version of himself was exhausting. Five minutes of fresh air. That’s what he needed.
He scanned the room. At the back of the store, a door led out to a stockroom. Around him, everyone was deep in their conversations. Perfect.
He stepped through and investigated. Boxes of his books were stacked up, along with yet more blue sweatshirt posters and…a cardboard cutout of himself.
His teeth had been whitened, and the lines around his eyes had been smoothed away. Adam Fitzpatrick 2.0. He sighed and walked out to a small courtyard with a long wooden table and a vegetable patch.
The spring sky was smudgy, as if the white clouds had dissolved back into it, giving it a hazy filter. He rolled up his sleeves before checking his messages.
Three missed calls and three voicemails from Eloise.
He deleted them. Whatever his ex-wife wanted could wait. They’d split up seven years ago, after she had an affair with his older brother. She’d married Ryan a month after the divorce, and somehow the three of them had managed to navigate a friendship. But right now he wasn’t in the mood for it.
A rustling noise came from the tall fence separating the courtyard and the neighboring business. He swiveled around as a dog’s head appeared from under the bottom of the fence.
“No, Violet. We need to leave,” a soft voice said. Adam rubbed his chin. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Then again, in the past two weeks he’d visited three states and literally spoken to hundreds of people. After a while, voices and faces blurred into one.
The dog continued to wriggle into the courtyard. It came up to his knee with white and tan fur that stuck out in all directions. Flowers were threaded through a purple collar around its neck.
“Hi, there.” He held out his hand for the dog to sniff. “You playing hooky, too?”
A noise came from the other side of the fence, as if the person who’d spoken had dropped something. The dog sniffed his hand, then sat down and held up a paw, eyes wide.
He didn’t know much about dogs. Tail wagging could either mean “hey, let’s be friends” or “watch out, dude. I’m going to eat you.”
Still, there were no bared teeth, so hopefully it was the former.
“Nice to meet you.” He tentatively shook the little paw. It was as scruffy as the rest of it, apart from the nails, which were painted the same shade of purple as the collar. “Nail polish, eh. I didn’t know that was a thing.”