Fall in Love Book Bundle: Small Town Romance Box Set

by Grover Swank, Denise

  “Why does everyone say that?” she asked, hugging me as best she could with her belly between us. “There is positively no glow going on here. Unless the fluorescent light is hitting my sweat sheen in some magical way.”

  That sent both of us into a fit of laughter, and when it settled, Annie shook her head, eyes sweeping over me. They widened a little when they took in the kitten heels Mama had insisted I wear, even though I’d be on my feet all day. “You look incredible. I swear, I’m going to blink and have your mother as a best friend one day.”

  I grimaced. “Please don’t say that.”

  She chuckled, waddling back into her chair. “I didn’t think I’d see you here so soon. Didn’t you just get into town Sunday night?”

  “Yep,” I said on a sigh, flopping down in the chair next to her. “It’s been a hundred miles a minute on wedding planning since I got here. I just needed a break, to do something for myself.”

  Annie nodded in understanding, patting my hand just as a visitor approached the desk. While she checked them in, I let out a long exhale, taking in the familiar surroundings of the nursing home.

  I’d first volunteered as a fourteen-year-old my freshman year of high school. My dad had been the one to suggest it — more as a way for me to give back to the community than anything else — but he never could have known the love it would spark inside my heart.

  I still remembered that first day, losing hours with people seven times my age who had the best stories to tell. I remembered the scent of Mrs. Jeannie’s perfume, the collage of photographs she hung on her wall from her time as a nurse in the Vietnam War. I remembered Ms. Barbara’s lemon cake, the way it melted in our mouths that afternoon after she gave me the recipe to try to make it since she couldn’t anymore.

  She’d nearly cried when that first bite hit her tongue.

  I remembered the soft velvet of Mrs. Hamilton’s hands in mine as we gently danced in her room, and the euphoria I felt when I turned on an old record from the fifties and saw a room of faces light up, and the incomparable joy I experienced when I was the one who made grumpy Mr. Tavos laugh for the first time in years.

  It was the first time I felt the high of my own personal drug — helping others. It was the spark that gave way to a flame that burned brightly in me ever since. I loved to volunteer, to give my time to people, organizations, causes that mattered to me.

  I’d dragged Annie with me, and though she hadn’t taken to it quite as quickly, she’d made it her home just as much as I had. And now, she was a full-time employee.

  “Well, do you want me to give you the run down or do you just want to frolic on your own?” Annie asked when the young family she’d checked in made their way down the hall to their mother’s room.

  “I’ll meander, make myself useful.”

  She leaned back in her chair, one hand soothing her stomach. “Okay. Well, when you’re done meandering, you owe me a lunch and a thorough run down of all the wedding planning I know your mother has you doing.”

  I chuffed. “We’ll need more than one lunch break for that.”

  “I can’t believe it’s so soon.”

  “Six weeks from Sunday,” I murmured, rocking in my own chair.

  Annie watched me. “That’s not the best reaction to have when you’re six weeks from getting hitched.”

  I sighed, shaking my head before I let it fall back against the head rest of the chair. “I really am excited — to be married, to start a family, to be by Anthony’s side as he makes his dreams come true. I just…”

  My words faded, because it felt selfish and ungrateful to follow them up with something as petty as I just wish I could travel or get my degree before I get married. This was what so many girls in this town dreamed of, it was what I had dreamed of — I’d just found it sooner than I imagined.

  And I loved Anthony. I was lucky to have found him at all.

  I sighed in lieu of finishing my sentence, and Annie just continued rubbing her stomach.

  “I know,” she said. “I’m sure wedding planning with a family like yours is a lot of pressure and a lot of stress.”

  I lifted my head again and nodded rather than telling her my true feelings on the subject. “Yeah. But, I’m lucky to have parents who are paying for such an extravagant wedding, and to have a fiancé like Anthony. I couldn’t have dreamed up a better match for me, for my family.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Annie agreed, but the way she watched me, I knew I’d let my façade slip. She saw it, what I was trying to hide — not just from her, but from myself. “Speaking of wedding planning, I heard you got Anthony the classic wedding gift.”

  I frowned. “How did you possibly hear about that? I was at the distillery for all of an hour.”

  Annie scoffed. “Come on, like you don’t already know this town is filled with bored old women who have nothing better to do than gab.” She paused, biting back a smirk before she waggled her brows at me. “I heard something else, too.”

  “What? That I tasted the whiskey? Like no one in Stratford has ever had a drink underage.”

  “Oh no, it wasn’t the barrel tasting making the gossip rounds,” she said. “It was the certain barrel raiser who hosted the tasting that everyone wanted to talk about.”

  My jaw dropped, foot stopping where it had been rocking me gently in the office chair. “Noah? What were they saying?”

  “Oh, not much,” Annie said, glancing at her cuticles before she peeked at me again. “Just that he was looking hot as sin when he walked you into that warehouse, and that you looked a little flustered when the two of you came out.”

  My cheeks burned, the memory of Monday afternoon with Noah making my skin crawl in a way I wasn’t sure how to decipher.

  Annie shot up, eyes widening. “Wait, is there a little truth behind this rumor?”

  “There’s no truth in this town, period.” I stood abruptly, making myself a volunteer name tag and smacking it on my blouse. “People are ridiculous.”

  “What happened? Did he get all up in your space? Did he give you that sexy Becker smirk?” She gasped. “Oh, my God. If he kissed you I will die.”

  “He didn’t kiss me, for Christ’s sake. He showed me the barrel, and the most scandalous thing that happened was he let me taste a single drop of whiskey.”

  “Off his tongue?”

  “I’m engaged, Annie!”

  She threw her hands up. “You say that like a Becker brother would even pause at that fact before they planted a hot one on you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “And on that note, I’m going to make the rounds.”

  “Don’t leave me hanging!” she hollered at my back as I made my way down the hallway. I flitted my hands above my head, waving her off as she groaned. “That’s just cruel, Ruby Grace.”

  I chuckled, shaking my head as I dipped into the first room and introduced myself to a new resident who hadn’t been there before I left for college. His name was Richard, and it wasn’t long after our introductions that he was telling me stories about his days in the distillery and showing me pictures of his late wife.

  And just like that, all my wedding planning stress was forgotten.

  I lost myself within those walls, surrendering my thoughts and energy to others. I asked to hear about the decades I hadn’t been alive to experience, administered medicine, played board games, fixed hair, applied makeup, told jokes, crocheted, danced — and before I knew it, an entire morning had passed.

  It was just the release I’d needed.

  “Hey,” Annie said after lunch, eyes softening as she watched me pull a stack of magazines out of my leather Kate Spade bag. “Remember what I told you.”

  “I remember.”

  She frowned more. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed. She might not even recognize you.”

  “I won’t be disappointed, even if she doesn’t,” I promised, balancing the magazines in the crook of my elbow as I smiled. “But, I talked with Jesus this morning, and I think she will.”


  Annie smiled, too. “I’m not sure how this place survives without you.”

  “Easy,” I said, tapping her nose with my index finger. “They have you.”

  I was still smiling and confident as I turned, making my way down to the last room in the left hallway. My eyes scanned the names and decorations on the closed doors, and I nodded to those who peeked out at me from where they watched the TVs in their room or read in their beds. When I reached the door at the very end, the one that had donned a red and white wreath since I was a freshman in high school, I let out a shaky breath, eyes washing over the familiar name in gold above the wreath.

  Betty Collins.

  A smile touched my lips, memories of the spunky old woman I’d first met years ago resurfacing. Betty was an eighty-nine-year-old woman with a loud, genuine laugh and a birthmark that sprawled across her forehead. She covered it with white, whispy bangs that she’d constantly run her freckled fingertips over as she told me stories about her favorite movie stars.

  She was a forgetful old woman, and though half the staff thought she was showing signs of dementia, I knew better. Betty was more in her right mind than half the people my age were. She just had selective memory — and also approximately zero patience when it came to people she didn’t care for.

  Annie worried that with me being gone so long, she might not remember me.

  Again, I knew better.

  We’d kept in touch while I’d been gone, writing letters and having the occasional phone call. She’d remembered me just fine when I came back for Christmas break, and I had a feeling she’d never forget me — even if she ever was diagnosed with dementia.

  And I also knew I’d never forget her.

  Betty was the first one to ever open my eyes to a world outside of Stratford, to challenge me to take risks, to move passionately and unapologetically through life. “Anyone can lead an ordinary life, child,” she’d said to me one lazy afternoon. “But the best adventures are reserved for the ones brave enough to be extraordinary.”

  I inhaled a deep breath, knocking gently before I pushed through the door and into her room.

  Betty sat in the same rocking chair she’d been in the last time I left her to go back to UNC. She faced the window, though the curtains were drawn, and she rocked gently, humming the melody of “Good Morning” from Singing in the Rain. I smiled at the sight of her long, white hair, her magazine collages hung on each and every wall, old movie posters filling any space left between them. When the door latched behind me, Betty stopped rocking, ears perking up.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Why don’t you turn around and find out, old lady,” I sassed.

  Betty’s head snapped around, her eyebrows drawn in like she was offended, but when her eyes settled on me, everything softened as a smile slid into place. “Well, I’ll be damned. Look what the wind blew in.”

  I returned her smile, rounding the bed until I could sit on the edge closest to her chair. I leaned forward, folding one hand over hers as her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You need to stop frowning so much,” I said, squeezing her wrist. “You’re getting wrinkles.”

  “Ha!” she guffawed, squeezing my hand where it rested on her arm. “I smiled too much when I was younger. I’m just trying to reverse the damage.”

  I chuckled as her eyes fell to the magazines in my arm.

  “Are those for me?”

  “Hmm… that depends. When’s the last time you stole someone’s pudding?”

  “Last week,” she confessed, her gray eyes almost a silver as she leaned in conspiratorially. “But it was a vanilla one, so does it even count?”

  I smirked, handing her the stack of magazines. She took them with a smile that doubled the one she’d greeted me with, already flipping through the pages as I settled back on her bed. It only took a few pages before she started telling me how Anne Hathaway was named after Shakespeare’s wife, and I nodded and listened intently as she continued flipping, pausing on each page to tell me a new story about a different celebrity.

  Betty was born and raised in Stratford, and she’d never been farther than two counties from the town that she called home. Though she’d never physically traveled, her imagination wandered all the time, and she loved to escape into movies and books, to live the lives of spies and queens and young college students. The collages that decorated her walls brought her favorite adventures to life, and in her mind, she’d seen the world.

  She’d seen everything.

  “I’m getting married,” I told her after an hour had passed, and she paused where she was reading about Chris Pratt’s hobbies, a strange shadow passing over her features.

  “That so?”

  I nodded.

  “How did he propose?”

  “We were at a party with all his friends and family,” I said. “He’d just announced he was running for state representative.”

  “A political man,” Betty mused. “Your father must love him.”

  “He very much does.”

  “And do you?”

  I smiled, throat thickening in a way it never had when I was asked that question — not until it was asked by Noah Becker, anyway. “I do,” I said through the unfamiliar discomfort.

  “Well,” she mused, nodding as her eyes lost focus somewhere on the page. “I’d like to meet him. Will you bring him by?”

  “He’s coming into town in six weeks for the wedding,” I told her. “I’ll try to sneak him away.”

  “And where will you sneak away to once the knot is tied?” She looked at me then, brows tugging inward.

  I leaned forward, folding my hand over hers. “Not too far. I’ll never be too far.”

  I knew she didn’t understand how much time had passed since she’d last seen me, but I also knew she could sense that it had been a while. I squeezed her hand, falling quiet as she flipped through the pages of the second magazine before a yawn stretched between us. I reached for the magazines, and once I deposited them on her bedside table, I helped her under the covers.

  “This man you’ll marry,” she said as I pulled the knit blanket up to her shoulders. “Does he make you feel the way Richard Gere made Julia Roberts feel in Pretty Woman?”

  I smiled, tucking the blanket around her arms as I considered the question. Did Anthony make me feel like that — special, desired, beautiful in a way that he can’t resist? Not necessarily. But did he make me feel safe, comfortable, cared for? Yes.

  “I think so,” I whispered, but then I raised both brows as my eyes found hers. “He’s not quite as handsome, though.”

  “Well, no one is as handsome as Richard Gere, my dear,” she said on an exaggerated sigh, as if that were obvious. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  I laughed, and Betty smiled before her eyes fluttered closed. Within minutes, her soft breathing turned to a light snore, and I found myself staring at her favorite scene from Pretty Woman that hung above her bedpost. I imagined the scene, wondering what Anthony would look like if he swept in to save me the way Richard Gere did — a white knight in a limo instead of on a horse.

  I was sure he would act out a grand gesture if he ever needed to. I was sure he would take care of me, that I’d be comfortable as I stood by his side on his race to his political dreams. And I was sure he was just as handsome as Richard Gere, regardless of what I’d told Betty.

  But as I stared at Julia Roberts’s wide smile, the one thing I didn’t know for sure was if I wanted to be the princess he saved.

  In the back of my mind, I heard a voice I’d been trying to forget since Monday afternoon.

  “No one asked you if you were ready to get married?”

  And I wondered why it never occurred to me that I had a say in the matter.

  Chapter 4

  Noah

  On Friday night, I sat at the table my father built with my three brothers and the woman who raised us, drinking a cold Budweiser after another long week at the distillery. I’d had family dinner with my friends, with a f
ew girlfriends in the past, and I’d always been disappointed. Because where most families were quiet and orderly and respectful at the dinner table, my family was the exact opposite.

  In the Becker household, it was always madness at dinner time.

  Complete and utter chaos.

  “God, you’re disgusting,” Logan said, tossing a green bean at our youngest brother, Michael, who had just belched so loud even I was impressed.

  Mom swatted Michael’s arm to show her own disapproval, but couldn’t hide her smirk. “Manners, Mikey.”

  “What? Better out than in, right?” Michael grinned at all of us before burping again.

  “Feet off the table, Logan,” Mom said next, as soon as she finished plating the last of his meatloaf. She set it in front of him where his feet had been, smacking his hand away when he tried to dig into the mashed potatoes. “Not until we pray.”

  “Yeah, Logan. Not until we pray,” I said, sneaking my own bite. He narrowed his eyes at me, and Mom smacked my hand next.

  “Gray hairs,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Every single one of you are giving me gray hairs.”

  She took her seat, hands reaching out — one for mine, one for my older brother, Jordan’s — and the rest of us linked hands and bowed our heads.

  “Heavenly Father, thank you for this meal, and for these boys, though they drive me insane. Please bless this food and this day, and be with those who need you most. Amen.”

  “Amen,” we all echoed, and it was the quietest that house would be all night as we each stuffed our faces with the first bite.

  Even though we liked to rag on each other, my brothers and I were close. We were like a well-oiled machine, and Mom and Dad were the grease that kept us in working order. After Dad died, Mom took on that job as a solo party, and that was the only time I ever remember the machine breaking down.

  Our dad was well known in the town, especially since his dad was best friends with the founder of Scooter Whiskey. They had built the brand together, essentially built the town together, and anyone who watched the Scooter Whiskey brand take over the world knew my grandfather was a pivotal member in the team that made it happen.