He shrugged and lifted the last few wedges of his cut pancake, dripping in maple syrup, to his lips. Despite his mouth filled with half-chewed food, he mumbled, “So, if the weather was bad then you couldn’t move into your house?”
I shook my head, refusing to let his snark and foul table manners dampen my day. “A sudden violent storm could rage outside, and I wouldn’t care.” I pointed to my mouth. “This eager as a freakin’ beaver smile on my face can’t be broken, my friend.”
I was unhinged with happiness. My eyes were wild, and I probably appeared one step away from having a straitjacket thrown on me, but when you’ve worked for a decade to scrape and save and buy your dream, looking crazy was the last thing on your mind.
“You two men ready for dessert?” The always pleasant Debbie Kramer, part-owner of the diner and waitress, sidled up next to our table with pen and paper in hand.
My free hand, the one not gripping my happiness, reached across the table and came to rest over my friend’s sticky mouth.
“That will be all, beautiful lady. Just the check.” I gave her my signature wink.
“Someone’s in a good mood.” She slipped the pad into her apron and nestled the pencil into her gray curls behind her ear.
Austen pushed my hand away, and I made a mental note to wash the syrup off before we left.
“I always get dessert,” he said with a frown.
“Dessert? You were eating pancakes with maple syrup and whipped cream slathered on top. That’s dessert.”
Austen gazed between my finger pointing at his plate and me.
“I don’t understand. This is breakfast . . . not dessert. I need energy to move boxes.”
I wanted to explain to him that his breakfast would cause a sugar crash in an hour and he’d be useless by then.
My breakfast—an egg white omelet filled with veggies, topped with cheese, and a side of fruit and toast—was the perfect amount of protein, fat, and carbs for a day of moving into the first home I’ve ever owned.
I cared too much about my friend to avoid the truth. It’s lies that do the most damage in life. Whether it’s to spare a person’s feelings or worse, to take what doesn’t belong to you, avoiding the truth only caused harm.
Austen tolerated when I explained the truth to him. Perhaps that’s why he was my friend. But when it came to pancakes, even I couldn’t get him to see the light. But then again, nobody’s perfect.
“Sugar kills. And that, my friend, is a plate of death.”
He mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, “At least it’s not a plate of tasteless sawdust.”
But again, I let it slide. Most people wouldn’t pick my meal if given a choice, and I couldn’t say I blamed them. Food covered in sugar and fat tasted good. But I learned long ago all our choices in life had consequences—not just for ourselves but for the people around us.
I held up my pretty little key chain to Debbie. Maybe it was the glint from the metal or my shining teeth as I grinned, but she pulled me out of the booth and wrapped her arms around me.
“You did it! I always told you that patience was the key. Congratulations.”
She knew. Debbie was like the comforting aunt I never had. Since my mother and father were as good at parenting as sugar was to the human body, I was lucky to get help from time to time from her. She fed my brother and me when my parents were busy pulling a job. She knew they were up to no good, but she never spoke ill of them in front of us.
She also helped when they passed away when I was only twenty. I had to take care of my brother who was still in high school and get myself through college. If it wasn’t for Debbie’s help, I don’t know where I’d be.
There were only three people in my life who knew my dream growing up was to buy my own home—my brother, Debbie, and the girl who broke my heart when I was eighteen.
“Signed the paperwork yesterday and ready to move in today.”
“That’s wonderful. It feels good to know you have a solid foundation under your feet.”
She knew my dream but never told a soul.
Fire Lake, Maine was a hotbed of gossip. A tiny mountain town on the side of Fire Mountain, where everyone knew everyone else’s business. There weren’t many people to trust with your secrets, but Debbie was like a steel trap.
I knew what she meant. I’d known Debbie all my life. She understood how important it was for me to own a home.
My parents never owned anything in their life. Moving from neighborhood to neighborhood when my parents felt the heat from the landlord to pay rent didn’t make for a comforting childhood. If I had learned anything from my family, it’s that instability didn’t bring happiness.
I vowed when I was young that I would find a stable career, unlike the schemes my father came up with to swindle others out of their hard-earned money. Being the town veterinarian may not make me rich, but it’s a steady paycheck. If I’m not helping dogs and cats with bite marks or skin issues, I head out to farms to check on the farmer’s livestock.
“It sure does. Speaking of feet, let’s get to moving,” I said as I nodded in Austen’s direction.
The sound of classical music filled the space and Austen grabbed his phone from where it lay on the table by his elbow. He held up his finger as he lifted the phone to his ear. I gave him some privacy by meeting Debbie at the register to pay the bill.
I glanced past her and through the long narrow cut away into the kitchen. Her husband, Jack, was busy frying up some orders. I liked Debbie and her husband. They were hardworking, reliable, and friendly—exactly how people should be.
After paying, I went to the bathroom to wash the sticky syrup off my hands and then back to the table to grab Austen.
“There’s an emergency. I’m afraid I can’t help you move. I might be able to stop by later . . .” Austen said, shoving his cell phone into the back pocket of his jeans.
“An emergency? Has the stock market crashed and there’s a run on the bank?” I said with a chuckle.
He pulled some cash out of his wallet and threw it on the table. As we made our way out of the diner, he explained, “No, nothing like that. The mayor wants to see me. Apparently, some famous person is coming to town.”
I held open the door, and we stepped out into the sunshine. The light breeze and warm air felt like a gift from Mother Nature herself. A perfect day for a move.
Even the world wanted me to own this home.
“And the bank manager needs to be there for that?”
We walked with a leisurely pace down Main Street and I smiled at a beautiful mother pushing her baby in a stroller. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, but I caught the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Most people in the town knew me, which made me happy. Despite the uncertainty growing up, I loved this town.
Of course, I had my flaws like anyone else. I was a flirt and had very little filter. But even imperfections weren’t always bad. The way I saw it, I was the breath of fresh air that kept people on their toes. Every town needed a person like me. I was like that dessert you tried at a new restaurant that wasn’t quite sweet enough and had an unusual aftertaste, but you wouldn’t necessarily mind trying it again in the future.
He shrugged. “You know the mayor. Remember when Channel Five did their ‘Whether Where It’s At’ segment here? The mayor acted as if the president himself was visiting.”
He was right. Keaghan Bailey was not only the mayor but also the hardware store owner. He’s the same age as we are, and he firmly believed that Fire Lake should be famous. Any hint that big money could head into town, and he was on it like Austen on a stack of sugary-coated pancakes.
We came to the corner, and I slapped Austen on the back. He was making a left to head to town hall, while I was making a right toward my dream.
“Good luck,” I said as I waved him off.
“You, too. I’ll stop by after. Hopefully, this won’t take long.”
I watched him go. He was the most clean-cut guy I k
new, with never a hair out of place, but now that he was wearing jeans for moving day, it felt like those were more his style than his suits.
Clapping and rubbing my hands together, I was eager to cross the threshold of my new home. I picked up my pace to a jog. A few minutes later, after I turned the corner onto Dante Drive, I was there. Home.
Standing in front of the perfect little home—which the real estate agent called a Cape Cod style—I forced myself to take it all in. I always thought it stood out among the bigger homes in the neighborhood, especially, with its gray shingle siding and black shutters. I remember hoping my parents would rent this home, but they couldn’t afford it even if it had been available.
I pushed the key into the lock and took a solidifying breath.
“This is it, Tyler. No more moving. No more changing addresses with the postal office. No more packing.”
I turned the key and the red wooden door opened rather easily. That was concerning . . . It was like the door wasn’t even locked. I now have the first task on my homeowner’s list—have a locksmith come out.
My mouth fell open at what I saw inside.
There was furniture everywhere. For a second, I thought the movers had come but no mover I encountered put furniture in place perfectly, unless they were ordered to. They usually dumped it inside and walked away.
The realization hit me with each step I took inside my home, this wasn’t my couch or chairs or glass coffee table. There was a cell phone on the table. Not my cell phone, not my table.
Somebody was living in my house.
“What the fu—” I said, but the sound of running water caused every curse word to die in my mouth.
Were there squatters? If they were, they owned some nice furniture, except for the coffee table . . . I hated glass tables.
Weaving through the living room, I came to the bathroom door. For a moment, I considered knocking but this was my house, so fuck it. Grabbing the knob, I turned that sucker with a grip that would strangle a chicken.
Whoever the person was behind the door needed to leave or I’d happily throw them out, whether they had a stitch of clothing on or not.
As the door swung open and the steam evaporated, instead of charging into the small room and demanding an explanation, I stood frozen in place. My eyes did what any red-blooded, heterosexual male’s eyes would do in that situation—they slid down the wet, naked, delectable female form that stood before me. A damp orange beach towel was draped loosely and covered the nonessential bits of a female body. I saw two perfectly shaped tits, enhanced by her caramel-colored skin, which looked so soft that I itched to reach out and touch it.
Not just touch but lick it. Would she taste as sweet as she appeared? My cock was begging me to do anything to find out.
“Oh my God! Get the fuck out,” the woman said in an octave that I was sure alerted the police two blocks over.
I was glad she screamed as it snapped me back from the sexual fantasy that was being played out in my bathroom.
“I need to get out? You’re the one trespassing.” My voice cracked as I pointed my finger at her.
There was something about her brown, almond-shaped eyes, and the small scar right under her lower lip that reminded me of someone.
My brain, slowed from the display of so much tempting skin, finally put it together.
“Wait a minute . . . Iona? Iona Dell?” Each syllable moved further and further up in surprise.
During my stupor, she had adjusted the towel to cover most of her body, except her legs. I never was much of a leg man, but she had some terrific legs.
“Tyler Ferguson? What the hell are you doing in my house?”
THREE
Iona
“Your house?” His striking blue eyes went wide. “This is my house. I bought it yesterday. Signed the papers and everything. It’s move-in day.”
Something was wrong. Babette never made mistakes, especially on a business transaction as expensive as a house. I blew out a frustrated breath and eyed Tyler. He’d filled out; he was no longer that lanky kid that I remember. He was thicker now, but in a good way . . . a real good way.
What was I doing? Eyeing up my old flame while I stood in nothing but a towel. I cleared my throat, and he got the message.
“How about I let you get dressed, and then we can discuss what’s happening in the living room.”
I nodded and watched his ass as he shut the door. He had a great bubble butt. The kind that a horny woman, such as myself, wouldn’t mind sinking her teeth into.
But now wasn’t the time to consider ending my dry spell with hot man-ass.
Stepping to the mirror, I took in my appearance. I saw the same girl staring back at me when I last stood in this bathroom eleven years ago. Different, strange, with chaos surrounding her and only hope to keep her going.
There was a reason I never came back here, and that reason stood in the living room.
I tried to consider how he believed he lived in this house. Did the previous owner rent it to Tyler and not tell him he was selling it?
That must have been the reason. Poor Tyler. He may be the jerk who ghosted me after I gave him my virginity, but that was no reason to kick him out onto the streets.
Okay, maybe I was a little happy to be kicking him out.
Grabbing the clothes, I had piled loosely on the counter. I threw on my red T-shirt and jeans. When I came out, Tyler wasn’t in the living room. I could only hope he had left. Maybe he was far too ashamed in how he treated me in the past to stick around.
Good. Hopefully, I’d never hear that deep, rumbling voice again.
“Iona! I’m in the kitchen.” His voice floated in from behind me.
Damn.
“I thought you wanted to sit in the living room?” I called before I strolled into the recently renovated kitchen. It was cute and drastically different from when I left it over a decade ago—the new white marble counters offset the sleek gray cabinets.
Tyler was across the room by an open drawer. He held up some papers and gazed at me as if the papers held magic.
Moving with intent, he stepped forward and something about the situation sent a shiver down my spine.
I noticed the citrus and spice scent before he came to a stop a few inches from me. For a moment, I stared at his chest remembering how I used to smile every time I made lemonade with thoughts of him.
I didn’t drink the stuff anymore.
“What’s this?” I plucked the papers from his hand, refusing to let one man’s choice of cologne ruin my day.
“The deed to the house. The papers I signed. Yesterday. This is my home.”
There was a notary mark and everything appeared legal. I stared at the address on the front page. It was this house. This was his house.
Well, shit.
“You bought this house? Tyler, your dream . . .” As if by muscle memory, I wrapped my arms around his torso. He was soft where it was needed, hard where it counted, and my nipples perked up because of it all.
His arms hesitantly slid around me and for that moment, we were young again. All the loss and heartache faded so we could enjoy his wish coming true.
He cleared his throat, and everything disappeared with that noise. His arms, his warmth, the moment.
“You remembered.” His voice was hoarse.
I stepped back and smiled up at him. It was good to see him, even if it was under unusual circumstances. When I allow myself to remember him, all I see is that tall, skinny, hyper teenager. But before me was a healthy man, excited to start living his dream.
I was the same way, but my dreams were on the other side of the country.
“Why my old home?”
I couldn’t help but notice his dream home was my last residence in this town. When I first began to make money from my Vidtube channel, I bought this house so my mother never had to worry about putting a roof over our heads again.
But, a year later, it was back on the market as I put it up for sale to move We
st. Tyler had said he could see growing old in this house. I stupidly believed he meant with me, but now I realized it was the house he had eyes for, not his girlfriend.
I never pegged Tyler as being so shallow as to use someone for a material object like property. But right around the time I bought the house was when he made the move to be more than friends.
“It was for sale and in my price range.” He shrugged, obviously pretending that the house meant nothing to him.
“If that’s true then you wouldn’t mind me buying you out. Whatever you paid for the house I’ll give to you, and you can find another place.”
Twisting my lips, I waited for the truth to bubble to the surface. If this place meant nothing to him, then he’d be happy to take the money and move along.
“No.” His brow crinkled as he shook his head. “I’ve waited too long for this moment. This is my home, Iona.”
That wasn’t entirely true. I knew Babette would never mess up an address to a property she owned. Besides, she had the key to this home, which she handed to me before I headed off to LAX last night. I got here this morning and was happy that Babette’s interior designer, Chaze, had the house furnished and ready.
“I beg to differ, Toonces.”
His jaw tightened, and I knew I got to him. There was something satisfying in messing with the guy who screwed me over. I knew, deep in my heart, it wasn’t nice, but fuck it. The man was an asshole at his core. It took me moving across the country to figure that out.
“I am not Toonces the Driving Cat. It was one fender bender that happened twelve years ago. Besides, from what I read, you really aren’t one to make fun of people who have car accidents.”
My heart hit the floor so hard I couldn’t speak. His eyes softened and he reached for me, but I yanked my arm back.
“I’m sorry, Iona. I didn’t mean that.”
I put my hand up to stop him in his tracks. “Don’t.” I glared at him. “How stupid of me to forget what a cold-hearted bastard you could be.”
I felt guilty after I called him Toonces, but not anymore. Marching out of the kitchen and into the living room, I picked up my phone from the coffee table. Within seconds I had Babette on the other end.
Lost and Found (books 1-3): Small-Town Romantic Comedy Page 26
