It Could Happen to Us: Quotable Romance

by Lucy McConnell

  It Could Happen to Us

  Quotable Romance Book 1

  Lucy McConnell

  Magnolias and Moonshine

  Orchard View Publishing LLC

  Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Excerpt from Anxious in Atlanta

  Books in the Magnolias & Moonshine Series

  About the Author

  Introduction

  Welcome to the Magnolias and Moonshine series, where you’ll fall in love with the South.

  Twenty New York Times, USA Today, Award-winning, and Amazon bestselling authors joined together to bring you a taste of Southern charm in this brand-new Magnolias & Moonshine series.

  There is something for everyone with these ten sweet and ten sizzle contemporary romance novellas. You’ll enjoy stories with cowboys, weddings, county fairs, lovers reunited, and much more.

  Step into the world of the South and hear the cicadas, taste the mint juleps, see the stars, and smell the magnolias.

  Authors in novella release order:

  Ciara Knight (Sweet)

  Hildie McQueen (Sizzle)

  Beth Williamson (Sizzle)

  Susan Hatler (Sweet)

  Lindi Peterson (Sweet)

  Kymber Morgan (Sizzle)

  Amanda McIntyre (Sizzle)

  Lucy McConnell (Sweet)

  Sharon Hamilton (Sizzle)

  Lisa Kessler (Sizzle)

  Kirsten Osbourne (Sweet)

  Susan Carlisle (Sizzle)

  Tina DeSalvo (Sizzle)

  Raine English (Sweet)

  Amelia C. Adams (Sweet)

  E. E. Burke (Sizzle)

  Melinda Curtis (Sweet)

  Merry Farmer (Sizzle)

  Shanna Hatfield (Sweet)

  Jennifer Peel (Sweet)

  Prologue

  This story is mostly fiction.

  I say mostly because there are waitresses in the world, and there are actors, and there are police officers; there are charities and raffles and there is most definitely a city called Atlanta, Georgia.

  Knowing that there’s a grain of truth in the bucket, it’s probable that you could find a waitress in Atlanta, Georgia, who has terrible luck. The kind of luck that sends a seventeen-year-old girl running into the arms of a scam artist to escape her verbally abusive father. Some would blame God, or their mother, or the presidential election for the horrible chain of events that led to Allie Laurel Gray losing her apartment, her savings, and her innocence.

  However, Allie never looked to place blame. Instead, Allie looked for a job. And she found one at the Star Café, where the owner was a barking tightwad, the tips were decent, and her co-workers were kind.

  One afternoon, George, a police officer, and his partner entered the diner. Before they were able to eat, they were called out to an attempted robbery at an Asian market down the street. George, in a rush, promised the waitress he would split his lottery ticket with her as a tip. Allie, who didn’t believe in luck, agreed and promptly refilled a patron’s drink.

  And that is where our story begins: on a humid March day when a police officer made good on his promise.

  Chapter One

  Allie placed a fresh piece of pecan pie in front of Jack. Jack was a regular who said he hated to cook, but Allie suspected he just didn’t like eating alone. “You sure you don’t want ice cream on that?”

  Jack lifted his faded, gray-eyed gaze in her direction. “Wish I could, sweetie, but the doctor says I have to cut back if I want to live to see my grandchildren graduate from high school.”

  “Then I won’t tempt you again.” She patted his back before making her way behind the counter to clean up the crumpled napkins.

  Selina sat down at the counter with a cup of coffee she’d retrieved for herself. Her gray-blond hair was down today, hanging just past her shoulders, and she wore a pair of tight jeans.

  Allie hoped that when she was a mom she’d be just as stylin’. Selina had come in to pick up her check and decided to stay and chat. Her son met with a group at Aaron’s Home for Autistic Children on Fridays, so Selina had some time to herself.

  “How’s the hip?” Selina asked Jack.

  “Not so bad this time of year. Winter can be painful.”

  “My neighbor has arthritis in her knee. You’re supposed to walk to keep limber.”

  The bell over the door chimed, and Allie looked up to greet the new customer.

  “Welcome back,” Allie said with a smile. Two weeks had passed since the cops had stopped in for a quick meal, and while things hadn’t improved in her life, they hadn’t gotten worse. She was calling that a win. Besides, William, her miserly boss, was off having a root canal. He may return grumpier than a plucked goose, but his temporary absence lightened the whole restaurant.

  George stuck out his chin. “I’ve come to make your day.”

  “Oh? You gonna order the meatball sandwich again? I’d sure like to see someone actually eat one of those.” She winked at Jack, who listened in.

  “Gosh no.” He placed one hand on his stomach as if a phantom pain had erupted in his gut.

  Allie hid her smile. The meatball sandwich had that effect on everyone. She’d tried to warn him …

  “I came back because we won!” George threw his arms in the air.

  His excitement was lost on this small crowed. Friday morning shifts were notoriously slow.

  “Won what?” Allie swiped a cleaning rag across a booth.

  “The lottery! Pizza with Anthony Green and a night at the Ritz.”

  “Um, wow.” The name was familiar … “When is it?”

  “Next Friday.”

  Allie shrugged, not really feeling all that disappointed at missing out. “That’s my regular shift. Sorry.”

  “Isn’t that the night your building’s being fumigated?” asked Selina.

  Allie groaned. The whole building was clearing out. A decrease in the number of silverfish bugs she had to kill before going to bed would be a blessing, but she’d be homeless for twenty-four hours. Finding a cheap place to stay was a challenge.

  George kept his mouth shut, his head swinging with the direction of the conversation.

  Selina kicked her legs around so she faced the dining room. “I’ll cover for you.”

  “But you hate working Fridays.” What she didn’t say was that Selina hated working Fridays because the tips were lousy. Allie didn’t have a kid to support and didn’t have anywhere else to be. She’d take a lousy day of tips over no day of tips.

  “Tell you what. You get Anthony Green to sign a baseball for José and we’ll call it even.”

  José, Salina’s son, was the world’s biggest baseball fan, and he was autistic. Allie tapped her lips with her pen as she thought about going. José was the cutest kid in the world. He’d go nuts over a Braves baseball. Plus, the money she’d save on a hotel would make up for whatever tips she’d miss. “How can I say no to José?” She laughed.

  “Okay.” George rubbed his palms together as he looked her up and down. “Do you have anything else to wear?”

  “Excuse me?” Allie glanced at her black skirt and button-up shirt. Her clothing wasn’t fancy, but she was clean and put together with her thick brown hair in a French braid.

  George bobbed his head. “Besides Anthony, Mark Dubois and Beau Mckay will be there. I’ve been waitin
g for three months to win this lunch and I don’t want you to come in all …” He waved his hand through the air. “Prissy.”

  “You’re embarrassing yourself,” growled Jack.

  George backed up toward the door. “I just mean—can you glam up—make me look good?”

  Allie barked a laugh. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spent more than five minutes in front of a mirror. “Yeah, I’ll be sure to glam up.”

  Her sarcasm was lost on George. “Great.” The bell tinkled as he left.

  “Can you believe that guy?” asked Allie, hooking her thumb towards the door.

  “Ignore him,” advised Selina. “What you need to focus on is those three hunks you’ll be sitting next to at this lunch.”

  “Hunks?” asked Allie.

  “Yes, big giant hunks of muscle and gorgeousness.” Selina fanned her face.

  Jack snorted. “You’re killin’ me, Selina. Those guys could be your kid.”

  “Hush, Jack. I may be old, but I ain’t dead. And they’d be more of a kid brother than my kid.”

  Allie’s cheeks burned. Who hadn’t noticed Beau’s hazel peepers or Mark’s bulging muscles? She wasn’t sure about this baseball player, Anthony, as she didn’t follow the team like a good Atlanta native should.

  Jack harrumphed and went back to his dry slice of pecan pie.

  Allie tried to disappear into the kitchen, but Selina was hot on her tail.

  “You’re not old,” said Allie. Selina did all the same work Allie did and she went home and took care of José. Allie never thought of her as old.

  “Don’t worry about me. I got thick skin. Buuuut, George had a point. You should dress up.”

  “I don’t even know how to go about glamming.” Allie flapped her arm around to indicate the industrial, run-down kitchen. “This is as glamorous as I get.”

  “Just promise me you’ll try—maybe wear your hair down.”

  Her reflection in the stainless steel cover for the heat lamp bulbed out at the top and the middle sucked in, distorted by the metal. She had an hourglass figure, all right. “There’s no point to putting in that kind of effort for one lunch.”

  “Yes there is—this is your one day off in forever. Your fairy tale. For once in your life, live a little.” Selina snapped her fingers and shook her perfectly round booty.

  Allie laughed. “Fine. I’ll wear my hair down.”

  “Thank you.” She clasped her hands together. “And those pretty jeans you have with the sparkles all over the butt.”

  Those sparkle jeans were an impulse buy at the consignment store. She’d worn them exactly once. “Why?”

  “Because you’ve got good assets.” Selina snickered.

  “Some days it’s hard to believe you teach Sunday school.”

  “And some days it’s hard to believe that the good Lord wasted all that on a woman who dresses like she’s eighty-five.”

  “I do not!” Allie bit her lip. Except that she kind of did.

  “I dare you—wear the pants.”

  Allie blew a raspberry. Selina was right. This could be her one and only chance in life to see how the other half lived. “Fine.”

  “Good girl.” Salina patted her hand.

  Allie softened. For all her trouble, Selina was a dear.

  Gag! I even think like an eighty-five-year-old.

  She took another look at herself in the heat lamp. She’d never been one to wear a lot of makeup. Her dark, thick lashes were a blessing. But maybe a little blush and some lip gloss wouldn’t hurt. And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn her hair down. Somewhere in the apartment was a flat iron; she might as well get some use out of it.

  The more she thought about dressing up, the more her hands trembled. It was one thing to just be you every day, and quite another to pretend to be more than what you are.

  She wanted to remember how it felt to be in her twenties. Maybe with a little practice, she’d stop thinking like an old lady and start living like a young one.

  Chapter Two

  “I’ll see you in a few minutes.” Mark Dubois hit the button on the steering wheel to end the call with his buddy, Beau Mckay. They’d spent the evening at a silent auction for autism and planned to meet up for a game of pool in Beau’s man cave.

  In the seat next to him, Aspen Hamilton, Hollywood’s rising star, checked her manicure. “I think tonight went well, don’t you?”

  Mark adjusted in the leather seat of his Maserati Ghibli S Q4. “I think so. I checked with Aaron before we left, and he said they’d raised enough to help the families on their list and even a few more.” There were few perks Mark enjoyed about celebrity status—being able to donate to causes like Aaron’s Homes for Autistic Children was one of them. The shallower side of him liked the car, but that was about as far as that end of the pool dipped. He could give or take the clothing designers shipped him, hoping he’d be caught wearing their label. In fact, he did give those boxes to Goodwill.

  Aspen pulled down the sun visor and checked her lipstick in the lighted mirror. “That’s not what I was talking about.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about meeting Simon Tinsley. I’d heard rumors he was going to be there, but you don’t think a director with his clout would come to a podunk event like this.”

  Mark twisted his hands on the wheel. “The event wasn’t small, and Simon’s son has autism.”

  Aspen pouted. “I didn’t know that. Too bad.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder, glitter sprinkling into the seams of his leather seats. “Was that the slow kid following him around?”

  Mark bit his cheek to keep from commenting on her lack of knowledge, her lack of sensitivity, and her lack of class. “That was him.” Simon’s son, Cody, was a great kid. Mark had met him on several occasions and enjoyed his sweet spirit and kind nature.

  “Have you thought about doing an auction for your water thingy?”

  “Waters without Borders is fine.” He’d started the charity ten years ago and had recently handed operations over to a board of directors. He still went on several trips a year to dig wells, lay irrigation pipe, and plumb villages, all in an effort to wipe out diseases spread by unclean water. Waters without Borders had been his passion, but the cause outgrew him and his abilities. Besides, with his divorce, his focus had shifted closer to home. He understood the irony of the situation. It took his wife and daughter moving out of the house for him to understand how important a home truly was. He wouldn’t make that mistake again and had joined up with several local charities to bring awareness and raise funds for their efforts. “Teens on Target needs my attention now.”

  “Right—the lottery.” She turned up her nose.

  “You don’t like the idea?”

  “I don’t like that you’re selling yourself—it cheapens you.”

  “I’m not selling myself; I’m selling my time. There’s a difference.”

  “Whatever.” Aspen stared out her window, her long blond hair shimmering in each streetlight they passed. “Jennifer Kay bought a thousand dollars’ worth of tickets this afternoon.”

  While Mark was excited about the increase in sales, he wasn’t thrilled about spending an afternoon with Jennifer Kay. The woman was a sly gossipmonger who spewed drama everywhere she went.

  He’d asked about capping the entries so one person with a high income couldn’t fix the raffle. The idea of setting the tickets at five bucks was so that everyone could participate and anyone could win—rich or poor.

  In the end, they went without a limit to encourage people to give as much as they could. The more money they raised, the more projects Teens on Target could do around Atlanta. He wondered if there were other people with nefarious motives trying to get at him or Beau or Anthony through the same channel.

  “How do you know that?” he asked.

  “She tweeted this afternoon.”

  “Pray she doesn’t win.”

  Aspen snorted. “That’s
your thing, not mine.”

  Mark turned into her private drive, and she entered a code into her phone for the gate to open. “Do you want to come in tonight? We could give the press the idea we’ve taken our relationship to the next level.” Her hand landed on his knee.

  Mark shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do was give the paparazzi a nice, juicy story. Besides, Aspen wasn’t the woman he wanted to be Chloe’s stepmother. “I have an early meeting with my trainer.” He pulled open the door and stepped out, her hand sliding off his knee. By the time he opened her door, any trace of disappointment was wiped from her face.

  “I totally understand. I need to lose at least two pounds for the shoot in Cozumel. Good luck to you.” She air-kissed both his cheeks and sauntered into the house.

  Mark didn’t watch her walk to the door. Instead, he climbed back into his sports car and drove to Beau’s place. He’d probably end up crashing there tonight. Without Chloe, the house was just an empty shell of a home.

  Shaking his head, he struggled with not having her around. He never should have married Jasmine. What he’d believed was support for his career was actually greed. She’d eagerly hitched her wagon to his star and done all she could to propel his career forward—including sleeping with a producer early on, which he hadn’t found out about until they were in divorce court.

  Once Chloe was born and the pictures of the three of them leaving the hospital went out, Jasmine learned that a baby can bring a lot of attention. She’d petitioned for full custody, and since Mark was often out of the country for weeks at a time filming, she’d won.

  Beau, wearing a pair of baggy sweats and a Braves T-shirt, let him in.

  “Is Anthony here?” Mark asked.

  “Nah. Leticia didn’t feel well, so he canceled.”

  Mark shrugged. Anthony’s wife was expecting their first child. She’d spent the last few weeks with Hugo Francois turning one of their spare bedrooms into a nursery fit for a prince. At the auction, Anthony and Leticia had talked nonstop about the process, smiling away.