by Seana Kelly
Nobody said a fresh start would be easy
A clean slate is exactly what Katie Gallagher needs, and Bar Harbor, Maine, is the best place to get it. Except the cottage her grandmother left her is overrun with woodland creatures, and the police chief, Aiden Cavanaugh, seems determined to arrest her! Katie had no idea she’d broken his heart fifteen years ago...
“Kelly’s debut book is smart, sexy, and so much fun. I couldn’t put it down.”
—Laurie Benson, author of the Secret Lives of the Ton series
“Chief Cavanaugh of the Bar Harbor Police Department, ma’am.”
He looked down at his portfolio and then back up at me, eyes cold. “You trashed your husband’s car and then ran, is that right?”
I thought it would be different if I left, if I came to the place I’d been the happiest. Even without Gran, I’d imagined being here would comfort me and help me figure out what the hell to do with myself now that I understood what was apparent to everyone else, that my life was a pathetic sham. I leaned forward, dropping my head to the table. Repeatedly. My brain needed a reboot.
A large, warm hand settled on my shoulder, the heat sinking into my bones. I looked up through wet lashes, and I saw it. I knew who he was.
“Aiden?” I sat up straight to better study him. “Aiden Cavanaugh?”
His hand fell away, and I missed its weight and warmth at once. Unbelievable. How the hell had sweet, oddly geeky Aiden Cavanaugh morphed into tall, dark and forbidding?
Dear Reader,
I’m excited—and more than a little terrified—to share with you my debut novel, Welcome Home, Katie Gallagher. At its core, this is a story about second chances, a story about starting over. We all deserve a do-over.
I love writing strong, funny women who fulfill their dreams on their own terms. For instance, when Katie envisioned what her life would be, she never once imagined depression-induced insomnia, being wedged into a battered car with a one-hundred-and-forty-pound dog, grape soda splattered in her lap, a fecund, mushroomy odor she wasn’t entirely certain she could pin on the dog, and a cop tapping at the window. Nope, she sure didn’t see that coming.
But it’s in times like these that we learn who we are. Katie could have stayed with a cheating husband who never looked at her except to find fault. She could have. Or she could have taken his expertly weighted and fitted golf clubs to his beloved BMW. Some of us find clarity through yoga, others through criminal behavior. And, let’s face it, a mug shot is a pretty clear indicator that different choices should have been made.
I hope you enjoy Katie’s fraught journey. Warning: there is a hot, grumpy cop, an adorably massive dog, snickering marmosets, cupcakes, and a woman trying like hell to make a home for herself.
Seana Kelly
SEANA
KELLY
Welcome Home,
Katie Gallagher
Seana Kelly lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, two daughters, two dogs and one fish. When Seana isn’t dodging her family, hiding in the garage and trying to write, she’s working as a high school teacher-librarian. Seana is an avid (who are we kidding? obsessive) reader who is still mourning the loss of Fred Weasley. What the heck, J.K.? If you had to kill off a Weasley, why couldn’t it have been Percy?
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For Mom and Dad,
who taught me the importance of
integrity, hard work and storytelling.
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT FROM HER SECRET SERVICE AGENT BY STEPHANIE DOYLE
CHAPTER ONE
Kate
YOU DON’T ALWAYS know when you’re having a nervous breakdown. It’s usually later, after being confronted with photographic evidence in the form of a mug shot, that you realize you lost your shit in a truly spectacular way.
The tap of the cop’s flashlight on the driver’s-side window, combined with a soft woof from the back seat, made me jump and splash grape soda down my sweater. I watched it pool in my lap before fumbling with the can. I searched for a napkin.
“Ma’am, could you roll down your window?” The shield on his coat was hard to miss.
Chaucer lifted his massive head, slowly coming to his paws, needing to hunch in order to fit. He sniffed my ear and then looked down into my lap, no doubt hoping I’d dropped something he could eat.
“Shit, shit, shit. Try to look innocent,” I told him as I rolled down the window. I did not need more trouble with the law.
“Ma’am, could you explain why you’re parked in the middle of the road? Are you having car trouble?” His voice was a deep rumble, which was oddly comforting, considering the situation. He leaned down, keen eyes taking in everything. God, he smelled good—warm leather and rich wood smoke overpowering the sticky sweetness of artificial grape.
Towering Maine pines, silhouetted against the predawn sky, swayed in the frigid gusts skating off the ocean. I shivered, wishing I’d worn something more substantial than a thin sweater set.
I’d stopped in the middle of the road because I couldn’t remember whether to continue straight along the cliff-side road or veer inland up ahead. And that question quickly turned into a paralyzing fear that I had no idea where I was going in my life.
“Um, car trouble? No, Officer. I was just thinking.” I hadn’t slept in weeks. What the hell was I supposed to say? I was falling apart, and this was merely a bump in the road of the shit-losing lollapalooza that had become my life?
Seemingly unaffected by the freezing temperature, he cleared his throat and leaned down farther, peering into my eyes. “Ma’am? Are you telling me that you purposely stopped your car in the middle of the road, possibly causing an accident, so you could think? Have you been drinking this morning, or late last night? Taking any narcotics?”
Chaucer wedged his head between mine and the window to get a better look, or more precisely a better sniff, of this potential food giver. I’ll give it to the cop; he barely registered the shock of seeing a hundred-and-forty-pound Newfoundland squished into the tiny back seat of a small sedan.
I tried to push Chaucer back, explaining around his he
ad, “Unless you can get wasted on grape soda, I’m unfortunately sober.” What I wouldn’t give for a vat of margaritas and a big bendy straw.
He wore the same look of arrogant disdain that my husband, Justin, wore whenever I’d done something wrong, something worthy of censure. Ex, I kept reminding myself. On-the-road-to-being ex-husband. He let me know with one cursory glance that he saw through my carefully cultivated, but ultimately lacking, veneer and what he found wasn’t equal to his standards.
The cop rumbled, “Ma’am, can you please explain what happened to your vehicle?” His eyes glinted in the low light.
I was done being patronized, done with the barely veiled condescension. “Look, I’m not drunk, and you need to quit calling me ma’am! I’m twenty-five, for God’s sake, not eighty. ‘Causing an accident’? Seriously? I’ve been sitting here for an hour, and you’re the first car that’s come by!” I threw the door open, trying to tag him in the thigh as I got out.
He moved remarkably fast, sidestepping the initial swing before stopping the door with one hand.
“And—” I turned to look at the dusty, battered car, with its duct-taped rear window and side panels riddled with deep dents. “That? Pfft. They can buff that right out.”
“Ma’am, you need to get back in your vehicle. I didn’t tell you that you could step out.” Steel threaded through his voice now.
Damn, he was a lot bigger than I’d thought. I should have stayed in the car. No. I was done agreeing with men who used their size and authority to cow me. I’d had enough.
“I am not drunk and I’m not a hazard, so leave me the hell alone! And stop calling me ma’am! Twenty-eight is not a ma’am. I’m a miss, damn it! A miss!” I’ll admit I was kind of shrieking there at the end.
The cop raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a rip in the space-time continuum.”
Fine. I was thirty. Whatever.
He took a step back, resting his hand on the firearm secured at his waist. Okay, in hindsight, screaming at a cop probably wasn’t the best way to start putting my life back together, but sometimes it’s hard to stop the scream. After years of quietly acquiescing, the pressure had built. Outrage seeped from the fissures. I’d become a little Chernobyl of screaming, in voice and in deed. I needed to give more thought to the fallout, though.
Chaucer sensed the tension, not that it was hard to miss, leaping over the seat and out the door to stand between the cop and me. I shivered and reached out to weave my fingers through the thick, warm fur of his brown, bearlike head, pulling him toward me. I didn’t want the cop to get any funny ideas about my dog being a threat. Plus, he was an excellent windbreak and space heater.
The sun was starting to rise, dark sky bleeding to red. The cop’s face was turned away from the light, but he looked vaguely familiar—dark hair, light eyes, a strong, square jaw and a crooked nose. I didn’t know him, and yet there was something.
He glared down at me, his jaw clenched. “Ma’am, I’m going to need you and your dog to get back in your vehicle and calm down. You need to give me your license and registration.” He slid the flashlight into his belt and waited for me to decide what to do.
The fight in me died almost as quickly as it had flared. I leaned in past the driver’s door and snaked my arm around to open the back door, as the handle on the outside was missing. Chaucer hopped back in. I dropped into the soggy driver’s seat and reached into the glove box.
I rummaged in drive-through napkins and salsa packets to find the owner’s manual with the registration tucked inside. I handed him that, and then started digging through my bag for my wallet. Hands shaking as the adrenaline waned, I surrendered my license. The quirk of his eyebrow told me that he’d noticed. At least he was no longer clutching his gun, so maybe I’d get out of this without being slammed up against the car and handcuffed. That would be nice for a change.
“I’m going to need you to stay right here while I call this in.” I started to nod, but then he busted out the ma’am.
I stared daggers into the son of a bitch, not that he seemed the least bit concerned. I was almost positive I saw a grin before he turned and walked away.
Part of me was angry, but mostly I was exhausted. I wanted to curl up under one of Gran’s quilts and sleep off the last three months. Hell, the last ten years.
When I had opened Justin’s Visa bill, it had been an accident. Two envelopes were stuck together. I thought I was opening a phone bill, and instead I discovered that my husband was having an affair. It was either that or he really liked to take naps in the middle of the day at the Embassy Suites while wearing expensive lingerie.
I’d thought for a moment there had been an error. The credit card was under his company’s name, but those were charges for hotel rooms, restaurants, jewelry stores... Where the hell were the OfficeMax and FedEx charges?
White noise had filled my ears and my head began to throb. I was pretty sure I’d forgotten to breathe. Right before I’d passed out, I wondered if he’d get in trouble with the IRS, if he’d actually written off his skank-related expenses and whether or not I was in trouble, too, since we’d filed joint returns. Weird, the things you think about as you go under.
When the cop strode back, I took a moment to appreciate the thick, muscular thighs his uniform couldn’t hide. “Chaucer, I’ve recently discovered it’s the little things that make life worth living.” Objectification may be wrong, but it sure was fun. Asshole or not, the man was beautiful.
I turned to the cop and said, “Everything all right, Officer?” I hope, I hope. Last I heard, charges hadn’t been pressed. Or they’d been dropped. One or the other.
He stared, and I felt sweat beading on my upper lip. “Ma’am, there’s a notation on your license about a destruction of property allegation.” He looked significantly at the abused sedan I was driving. “And resisting arrest. Do you know anything about that?”
I rolled my eyes. “Resisting arrest? What kind of whiny cops complain about having their hands slapped? I’d be embarrassed if I were...” I trailed off as I watched his fingers drumming the handle of his gun. “I mean, resisting what?”
“And destruction of property,” he reminded me.
I looked up into his light blue eyes and felt a familiar jolt. “Well, see, I contend that since this BMW is in my name, too, it’s not destruction of property so much as adding air holes to better ventilate my portion of the car. Allegedly.”
He appeared as stern as ever, but I could have sworn the corners of his eyes crinkled. “I see. Do you have a lawyer you’d like to call before you follow me to the station?”
I’d met with a divorce attorney before I’d left California and headed east. She was not going to be pleased with me if I ended up in cuffs again.
“I do, but as she’s on the West Coast, and it’s two in the morning her time, I should probably go it alone, although you can expect to hear ‘I’ve been advised by my attorney to remain silent.’ A lot. I’m sure if she were here, she’d tell me to keep mum.”
The cop’s mood seemed to have shifted. He leaned one arm against the roof of my car, gazing out toward the ocean. While he contemplated life and whether or not he was going to allow me to continue partaking of it, I flexed my superficial, objectifying muscles. His jacket was hanging open, so I could see that those broad shoulders narrowed to a flat stomach. I tried not to look below the waist, but it was right there, framed by his big utility belt. I may have been new to this, but I was a fast study.
He cleared his throat. When I peeked up, he was staring back at me, eyebrows raised. Busted.
CHAPTER TWO
Aiden
SITTING BACK IN the cruiser, I watched Katie shove her dog’s head out of her lap. Her mouth was moving like she was talking to the damn thing. She glanced up, noticed me watching her and gave me a big, fake smil
e before finally starting that heap she was driving. She spun it around, kicking up rocks, and then waited for me to lead her to the station.
Unbelievable. Katie Gallagher was back in Bar Harbor. And apparently, she’d become an actual criminal. It had been fifteen years, but looking at her was like a punch in the gut. Katie Gallagher had dominated my puberty, with her curly red hair, big green eyes and that little dimple near the corner of her lower lip. My best and worst memories of adolescence had been connected to her in some way.
Yet she stood there a few minutes ago, glaring at me, and had no idea who I was. I didn’t know if I should be flattered that I bore no resemblance to the creepy little stalker who’d followed her around, or offended that she had no recollection Aiden Cavanaugh ever existed.
I checked the rearview mirror, wondering what the hell she was doing back in Bar Harbor. She and that moose of hers followed closely down Main Street to the station. I picked up my radio. “Heather, can you move all those Halloween decorations out of the interview room? I’m bringing in a suspect for questioning.”
She came back quickly. “Well, sure, Chief, but what should I do with them? Nancy’s coming by tomorrow to pick them up. Do you want we should put them in an empty cell until they’re taken over to Agamont Park?”
Did I? No, damn it. I realized I was doing the professional equivalent of stuffing dirty laundry under the bed when a date came over. Had Alice taught me nothing? Women weren’t to be trusted. This one in particular. Katie’d only been back in my life a few minutes, and I was already falling into that same old morass of lust, stupidity and disappointment. I was an adult and long past chasing after Katie Gallagher.
“Never mind, Heather. Leave it. Shove everything down to the end of the conference table so there’s room to conduct an interview.”
“Sure, Chief, no problem. I’ll get Mikey right on it.”
CHAPTER THREE
Kate
