Batter of Wits: An Enemies to Lovers Small Town Romance (Donner Bakery Book 5)

by Smartypants Romance

Life was funny, wasn’t it?

  I’d turned Green Valley upside down, all right, just not in the way I’d anticipated, and found a path for myself, hidden among the winding roads and tall trees. The path that led me to Tucker, a career I’d only dreamed of, and this perfect little life.

  I kinda loved this town.

  Grady

  “Where did you go, you little asshole? You were right here a second ago,” I murmured. The empty office space didn’t answer me. Neither did the pile of crumpled receipts as I rifled through them.

  There was one large purchase order that up and walked away. It was the only explanation. And that was not acceptable, because if I was going to start this business, I was going to start on the right foot.

  In theory, I was doing well.

  The business loan was secured.

  I had a partner in the form of Tucker Haywood, even if he wasn’t full-time, given that we had approximately zero customers yet.

  But those would come, I had to believe. I just needed someone to do … everything else that I sucked at. The office space I’d rented was empty, other than the basic desk and cheap chair I’d picked up in Maryville so that I had somewhere to sit while I pondered organizational systems online.

  Did I want clear bins?

  Or inventory straight on the racks?

  How much inventory did I need?

  That depended entirely on the amount of customers I managed to bring in.

  My thumb tapped against the surface of the desk and I struggled to breathe through the press of panic on my chest.

  “This wasn’t a mistake,” I said for the hundredth time that week. “This is a good idea.”

  It was a good idea that could become great. Incredible. The kind of idea I’d always dreamed of.

  My aunt said she’d put out the word that I needed some help in the office, and then I could focus on the big picture things that needed to happen for this to make the shift from good to great. And from great to incredible.

  And the Green Valley information network, which put the dark net to friggin shame, worked quickly.

  My phone rang, and when I saw it was a local number, I hit the button to connect the call.

  “This is Grady.”

  There was silence on the other end and I pulled the phone away from my face to make sure I’d answered.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Hi, I’m here, sorry.”

  My head tilted to the side when I heard her voice. It was soft and low, with the curling accent that I’d gotten used to in the last month and a half. But it … I shook my head … it made the hairs lift slightly on my arms.

  “What can I do for you, miss?”

  Inexplicably, I found myself holding my breath waiting for her to answer.

  “I heard you’re looking for help. Administrative help,” she clarified.

  “I am.”

  “I’ve spent the last five years as an office manager for my,” she paused, “for a local business, and I’m looking to change things up. Fresh start.”

  I sat up slowly. “I can understand wanting a fresh start. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I know. I, um, I heard that. In town.” She stumbled slightly over her words, and I smiled. “I’m not very outdoorsy, and I know that’s what you’ll be doing. But I’m the most organized person you’ll ever meet. My label maker is my favorite accessory, and I’ve got lists for my to-do lists. And I know every single business owner from here to Maryville.”

  I laughed. “You sound like you’re already in your interview.”

  She laughed too, and I grimaced when my chest tightened. It caused a strong enough physical sensation that I glanced down at my body, like it was separate from me somehow.

  “I can come in and fill out an application, if you’d like,” she said.

  “If I had applications, I’d say yes.” I glanced around the mess surrounding me. “But … I’m not quite that prepared yet.”

  “That’s also why you need someone who knows how to get an office up and running.”

  “That’s true,” I agreed. “Can you come in tomorrow so we can talk a bit about your background? Since I don’t have an application.”

  “That would be great,” she said firmly. The stumbling was gone. I found myself wondering how old she was. What she looked like.

  “How does nine sound?”

  “Sounds perfect,” she answered.

  “Then I’ll see you at nine tomorrow,” my voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name. I’m still working on my southern manners.”

  She laughed. My chest did that thing again. It wasn’t the heavy press of panic. It was a lightening. A lifting of whatever pressure I’d been feeling before she called.

  She spoke slowly, like she was thinking carefully about her answer. “You can call me Lia.”

  “Lia,” I repeated. “I look forward to meeting you.”

  As I set my phone down on the desk and scribbled the appointment down on a stray Post-it note, I got the strangest feeling that that nine am meeting was going to change everything.

  On the other side of Green Valley, in a small, quiet apartment, Magnolia MacIntyre carefully set her phone down, picked up her pink pen, and wrote the appointment down in her planner with precise, clean handwriting.

  “This wasn’t a mistake,” she whispered to herself. Then she took a fortifying breath. “This is a good idea.”

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  Even though it was strongly suggested to me that I only acknowledge one person in this section, I decided to ignore Fiona Fischer’s request (although if ANYONE in this whole Smartypants process deserves such an honor, it would be her).

  SORRY, FIONA, I HAVE TO THANK OTHER PEOPLE TOO.

  Writing and releasing my first Smartypants book, Baking Me Crazy, was one of the craziest, most rewarding experiences that I’ve had since my first came out. I’m so grateful that Penny allowed me to write in this world of hers, and what’s come from it because of that. So, thank you to Penny, and all the other incredible Smartypants authors, whom I love dearly.

  To Kathryn Andrews, for listening to SO. MANY. voice messages about this freaking book when it wasn’t coming very easily to me. Grace and Tucker, and their love story, wouldn’t be half of what it was without you!

  To Fiona Cole because #dreamteam.

  To Janice Owens for her wonderful proofreading.

  To my readers!!! You’re the best of the best, and I adore you to the ends of the earth.

  To my Lord and Savior. For everything.

  About the Author

  Karla Sorensen has been an avid reader her entire life, preferring stories with a happily-ever-after over just about any other kind. And considering she has an entire line item in her budget for books, she realized it might just be cheaper to write her own stories. She still keeps her toes in the world of health care marketing, where she made her living pre-babies. Now she stays home, writing and mommy-ing full time (this translates to almost every day being a ‘pajama day’ at the Sorensen household…don’t judge). She lives in West Michigan with her husband, two exceptionally adorable sons, and big, shaggy rescue dog.

  Stay up to date on Karla’s upcoming releases!

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  Read on for:

  1. A Sneak Peek of Carpentry and Cocktails, Book #5 in the Green Valley Library Series by Nora Everly

  2. Karla’s Booklist

  3. Smartypants Romance Booklist

  SNEAK PEEK: Carpentry and Cocktails, Book #5 in the Green Valley Library Series by Nora Everly

  Willa

  “’Til death do us part. That means something to me, Willa.”

  Tommy

  Bang, Bam, Smash

  Unfortunately, I was not a character in a comic book. Nor was I leisurely reading one while loafing around in bed. No, I had buried myself under my covers with a pillow wrapped around my ears, trying not to wake all the way up as the incessant pounding of the hammer outside my tiny basement apartment hit the crap out of something nearby.

  Bam, Crash, Bang

  Gritting my teeth, I snarled into the pillow. He was at it again. Blindly reaching out, I grabbed another pillow, added it to the pile atop my head, then rolled to my stomach. My head had hit this pillow at four a.m. I was not ready to get out of bed and be a fully functioning human. Or even a semi-functional one, which was my usual baseline.

  Early birds were fine with me—I had nothing against them as a general life rule—but as a bartender/waitress I was up late almost every night. Therefore, this noisy, pounding bullshit going on outside my window when I was trying to sleep was unacceptable. I mean, he should know better. I reached an arm out and fumbled around for my cell phone to check the time.

  It was dead.

  I tossed it away, the useless piece of crap. It bounced off the mattress to land on the carpeted floor with an unsatisfying soft thump. I would have thrown it harder, but I was too broke to buy another one.

  I flopped over onto my back and threw the pillow across the room. It was no use; between the banging hammer and the stupid daylight shining in my windows to assault me through my eyelids I’d never get back to sleep.

  I sat up and looked around for my phone to plug it in. Freaking dead phone, freaking stupid daylight, and freaking Everett, who was outside building something or fixing something. He was probably out there being all hot and industrious and useful—and shirtless, which seemed to be his preference—while he worked on stuff around his house. His huge, beautiful old Colonial fixer-upper where I rented a furnished apartment in his walk-out basement. Damn him and his stupid, sexy handyman schtick.

  Everett Monroe.

  My landlord. My friend? My complication I did not need at this messed up juncture in my screwed-up disaster of a life. With a snarl I tossed the covers back.

  Shower.

  Coffee.

  Attitude adjustment?

  I got out of bed just in time to hear a knock on my door. Shoving my crazy blonde curls out of my eyes, I scowled at that door, then stuck my tongue out at it. He was probably about to tell me he had made more of his delicious coffee and had doughnuts from Daisy’s Nut House waiting on the kitchen table upstairs. Freaking friendly Everett, always inviting me to breakfast and making it so hard to resist him.

  Men are a complication I refused to need, or even want. I’d had enough of that crap to last a lifetime. Running away from home at age seventeen and marrying your twenty-two-year-old boyfriend could do that to a girl. I no longer trusted myself to do the right thing. And I wanted to do Everett, real bad.

  Maybe he could be the right thing… NOPE.

  “Willard are you up?” he called as he knocked. Everett never called me Willa. Or honey, sweetie, darlin’, or even babe. He was too cute and funny for that kind of basic bull-crap. He made up ridiculous variations of my name and almost charmed me out of my panties every single time he came up with a new one.

  “Yeah, I’m up. Someone was bangin’ around on something outside and woke me up.” I shouted at the closed door.

  “Sorry about that. There’s coffee and doughnuts upstairs. And, it’s noon. Rise and shine Willie Bean, it’s time to get up.” He tapped my door once more and laughed. I heard his footsteps retreating and stuck my tongue out at the door again.

  I ran over to my window to sneak a peek.

  Yep, just as I’d thought. No shirt.

  Damn.

  He was in low-slung jeans with a T-shirt sticking out of his back pocket. His tanned skin was shiny with sweat as his back muscles bunched and unbunched, flexing with glorious rippling waves as he swung a huge ax over his head. Everett was splitting logs out there. He had dragged out his fire pit last weekend to place in the rear of his property, near the forest. I may have peeped on him then too; don’t judge. Why couldn’t he just go out and buy firewood like a normal person?

  Rude.

  I gulped and stepped back before he could catch me staring at him like a creepy, horny pervert.

  Oh, eff it. Who was I trying to kid? I was totally a creepy, horny pervert.

  I ran to the other window so I could catch a view from the front. I could sell tickets to this shit and probably make enough money to quit my job. Then I could sleep at night like everybody else and not feel like a cranky bitch all the time.

  The front of Everett was just as good as the back. Debatably better because of his face and beard. Not to mention his perfectly not-too-hairy chest with its happy trail that led straight down through his magnificent abs into those low-slung jeans and toward what I liked to imagine was a very good time. In fact, I frequently imagined it. And it was very good.

  He lifted an arm to swipe across his brow, flexing that huge bicep as his arm bent. It was almost as if he knew I was watching him. This was like something out of a commercial for after-shave or energy drinks or male strippers. Bending over, he grabbed a bottle of water from the ground, uncapped it, took a sip, then tilted his head back and poured it over his head, letting the water run down his gorgeously glistening broad chest.

  Huh?

  He shook his head, drops of water flew to the sides as he waved and blew a kiss at me.

  “Ahhhhh!” I screamed and ran for the bathroom. I swear I could hear him laughing at me from outside.

  Shit, crap, damn.

  Busted.

  Well, it wasn’t the first time, and I doubted it would be the last. I stopped running and started stomping. Who did he think he was, anyway? The big, hot, wannabe lumberjack buttweasel. I sailed through my shower and getting-ready routine on righteous winds of indignation. So I’d been peeping at him. So what?

  I’d caught him checking me out more than one time too. I pursed my lips and added some pink lip balm, giving myself a kissy face in the mirror. Yeah, he totally wanted a piece of old Willard. And as an old great song once said, he was “Never Gonna Get It.”

  I slipped into my flip-flops and cautiously ventured out my front door, peering left and right and across the backyard, on the lookout for Everett and his gorgeous bare chest. One sighting of that per day was all I could take. I was only human, dang it. I was in pretty serious danger of tackling him and riding him like a bull at the rodeo for Pete’s sake.

  I inhaled deeply. The unseasonably cool spring air made me want to blow off work, head upstairs with some of his freshly chopped wood and build a fire in that huge brick fireplace he’d just finished restoring. Toasted marshmallows and some warm and cozy ambiance would be awesome right about now. Brisk spring days in Green Valley, Tennessee, were one of the things I had missed when I was gone.

  I had been away for too long…

  I sighed and made my way to Everett’s back door. A doughnut hit-and-run and a cup of coffee would have to do. My fantasy-filled thoughts of getting snuggly with Everett, his wood, a fire, and some cocoa were becoming way too tempting—because on top of all that sexiness, he was a sweetheart too. Nice guys like Everett were dangerous. Every girl knows that men like him were the most trouble, because they’d steal your heart all stealthy-like and before you knew it, you’d be sitting on his couch, watching TV while he cooked you a nice dinner. Then there goes your heart, right along with your undies, and boom, you’re done for. Goodness li
ke that was not meant for the likes of me. I would never risk my heart like that ever again. My divorce was barely final anyway. I needed time to…to…to what?

  I just needed time to be alone. Probably forever. I was bad at love. And even worse at making good choices.

  I climbed the steps and stopped on the covered brick back porch that ran the length of the house. He’d just finished rebuilding it, and it was beautiful. Made by a man who built things instead of tearing them apart. I blew out a sigh as I turned in a slow circle to admire his handiwork. The brick was original; he’d cleaned it and replaced the broken ones. But it was the woodwork that stole the show. Everett was a carpenter, but it went beyond that—he was an artsy-fartsy carpenter. The columns had leaves and vines carved in winding, meandering trails up and around the wood and along the little arches that lined the covered part of the porch. He’d stained it so the leaves and vines were darker and stood out. It was the prettiest porch I’d ever seen.

  “Coffee’s still hot.” His deep voice startled me.

  I jumped and spun around with a gasp.

  He stood, hips against the corner of the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and watching me through the open window. A white T-shirt stretched across his broad sculpted chest, which was easier to handle than when he was shirtless. Except that it almost wasn’t. It clung in all the right places, like highlighter over your favorite parts of a book. I took a deep breath and headed for the gorgeous new French doors to let myself inside.

  “Hey,” I said and tried to prevent my elevator eyes from running up and down his tall form. And I meant tall. I’d hit six feet when I was twelve. Everett topped me by at least five inches, but I was not about to get close enough to him to get an exact measurement.

  “Hey.” His honey colored brown eyes crinkled at the corners as he unleashed a gorgeous white smile on me. Complete with not just one, but two adorable, kissable—fuckable?—dimples.