The Story Of Us

by Teri Wilson

“No, no, no. All sorts of singles will be there.” Rick spread his arms open wide. “Including yours truly.”

  Okay, maybe they were finally getting somewhere.

  “Yeah, but you’re teaching, so you don’t count,” Lucy said, handing the invitation back to him.

  Then again, maybe not.

  “He counts,” Jamie blurted out.

  But it was too late. Lucy was already darting toward the café counter to help a customer eyeballing the cupcakes. Darn her and her excellent work ethic.

  “Thanks,” Rick muttered with a sigh.

  “Cooking class?” Jamie shook her head.

  She was trying her best to be supportive, she really was, but things were getting ridiculous. This new Valentine’s cooking class was just the latest in a long string of restaurant events he’d manufactured for the sole purpose of spending more time with Lucy. Last month, it had been a New Year’s Eve champagne tasting. The month before, he’d taught a gingerbread workshop. At the rate things were going, Waterford would soon become an entire town of cooking and lifestyle influencers.

  “Just ask her out directly,” Jamie said in the same voice she used when reprimanding Eliot.

  Rick was an incredibly talented chef and a good-looking guy—literally tall, dark and handsome. More importantly, he was kind and thoughtful, with a great sense of humor. All of which made his staggering lack of confidence in the dating department wholly baffling.

  He cast a longing glance at Lucy as she prepared a flavored latte, executing a perfect heart in the foam. “What if she says no?”

  What if she says yes?

  “Then you’ll know,” Jamie said. “Finally.”

  Rick let out another deep, weighty sigh. “I’ve got to go make some risotto.”

  Ah, the risotto excuse. Jamie knew it well.

  She watched him march toward the exit, studiously avoiding meeting Lucy’s gaze as he went. How much longer was this going to last? A man could only make so much risotto.

  “Oh, boy,” she mumbled to herself.

  Why did she get the feeling that if unrequited love had a flavor, it would taste exactly like a creamy Italian rice dish with generous amounts of shaved Parmesan?

  Later that night, Jamie wrapped her coziest cardigan around herself as she stood in front of the microwave oven in her kitchen, watching her Lean Cuisine spin round and round. She would’ve killed for a plate of Rick’s infamous risotto right then, but alas, the only thing she had on hand was a frozen dinner and a nice bottle of red. At least the Lean Cuisine was spaghetti, her favorite. She’d simply have to wait until the next time she ate at Rick’s restaurant to dive into a plate of unrequited love.

  It wasn’t so bad, really. She loved quiet nights at home. Plus, her dream of becoming a novelist wasn’t going to happen without spending some quality time crafting her prose. When the microwave dinged, she removed the plastic tray containing her meal and inhaled the yummy scents of oregano and marinara sauce. Right on cue, Eliot appeared from out of nowhere and began rubbing against her legs.

  Meow.

  Honestly, his begging was shameless sometimes.

  “Eliot. I just fed you.” She speared a fork into the tiny pile of spaghetti and shuffled toward the dining room in her sweatpants. Eliot followed her but abandoned begging for food in favor of chasing after the pompoms on her slippers as she walked.

  Jamie’s laptop sat open on the dining room table next to a yellow legal pad and a pile of discarded balls of paper, each one representing a failed attempt at chapter one of a new manuscript. But the night was young. She still had plenty of time to make some real progress on a fresh story.

  Jamie had been toying with an idea for a cozy mystery with a rom-com twist for days but couldn’t seem to get going. It was beyond frustrating. She loved books. She lived and breathed them. How could writing one be such a struggle?

  She took a sip of wine and looked over what she’d managed to type so far. It didn’t take long.

  Love Can Be Murder

  Chapter One

  Maria paced across the kitchen floor, eyeing her phone. She paused in front of it. Started pacing again. Another pause.

  Should I call him? Was it too soon? Too late?

  Jamie set down her wineglass, took a deep breath and added another sentence.

  She let out a sigh.

  Not exactly riveting. She frowned at the screen, deleted the sentence and tried again.

  She exhaled.

  Groundbreaking. Next, she should probably start working on the acceptance speech for her Pulitzer.

  She jabbed at the backspace key until, yet again, a blank screen stared her in the face. Somehow it felt as if the little blinking cursor was mocking her. How did actual authors do this?

  Maybe she just needed a little inspiration. Or maybe worrying about Ridley Property Development’s plan for the business district was messing with her creative flow.

  Her jaw clenched. Definitely the latter—yet another reason to turn up at the town council meeting and let them know exactly how she felt about any plans to overhaul Waterford’s most charming neighborhood.

  She closed the laptop forcefully, just shy of slamming it shut.

  Take that, mean blinking cursor.

  The book she’d started reading a few days ago was right there next to her half-eaten dinner, practically begging to be read—a cozy mystery with a strong, brilliant heroine who became an amateur sleuth after serving as a spy during World War II. Just the sort of can-do character who’d never let some horrible property developer ruin everything she held dear.

  Jamie grabbed the novel and headed toward the living room. “Snuggle time on the couch it is.”

  Meow.

  Eliot trotted after her, vocalizing his ardent approval of the sudden change in plans for the evening. Next to accompanying her to the bookshop and begging for people food, cuddling was his favorite hobby.

  Jamie dropped onto the sofa and mentally scored another point on the tally in favor of her dating hiatus as Eliot curled into her lap and kneaded at her sweatpants with his front paws—“making biscuits,” as Aunt Anita always called it. She smiled as he started to purr.

  Less time spent on relationships doomed for failure meant more time for her only truly loyal male companion. If only he could help her come up with a plot for her novel and stop whatever disaster was awaiting the business district, he’d be perfect.

  That was probably asking too much of a cat, though. Jamie would simply have to handle things on her own.

  Chapter Three

  Shortly before eleven p.m., Sawyer wheeled his suitcase into the entrance of Rick’s sleek contemporary-style house in downtown Waterford. After the meeting with Dana at Ridley, he’d tossed some things into a bag and headed straight out of the city. One of the wheels on his suitcase wobbled—probably from sheer exhaustion. It was a wonder his luggage had any fight left whatsoever after all the traveling Sawyer had done over the past several years.

  Just a few more days.

  All he had to do was stick it out until the town council vote, make a convincing pitch, get everyone on board, and then he’d be home free. No more travel. No more temporary design gigs. No more unpacked boxes stacked in the corner of his apartment in Portland. Once he was a full-time architect at Ridley, he could finally buy a place. A unit in the high-rise on the river. Or maybe a condo near the bike path and Tilikum Crossing. On warm-weather days, he’d walk across the bridge to Ridley’s office. He might even throw away his suitcase.

  But first, he had work to do, right in his hometown.

  “It’s about time you came back. I was scared you’d never show your face again after coming in last in fantasy football,” Rick said, grinning as he led the way to the modern, open-concept kitchen and filled a glass of water at the sink. The faucet looked like brushed nickel, and the sink was oversized,
perfect for a chef.

  “Remind me next time not to draft a quarterback first.” Sawyer parked his wheeled luggage and took a look around the space.

  He’d never seen Rick’s house in person before, and it wasn’t at all what he’d expected. When he thought of Waterford, he pictured charming historic cottages with white picket fences and gingerbread trim. With its sharp edges and minimalist vibe, Rick’s home was the polar opposite in every way. It suited him, though, especially the killer kitchen.

  “I will do no such thing,” Rick said. He took fantasy football almost as seriously as he’d taken playing the competitive sport in his college days.

  “Nice.” Sawyer nodded at the surroundings. The sectional sofa and padded ottomans in the living room managed to look both comfortable and stylishly masculine. Rick’s taste had certainly become more refined since their Little League days. “Thank you for this, man. Really.”

  “It’s the least I can do as many times as you’ve let me stay with you in Portland.” Rick handed him the glass of water. “And Chicago.”

  “Don’t forget Missoula.” Sawyer raised his glass.

  Rick laughed. “How could I forget Missoula?”

  Even with a restaurant to run, Rick made time to visit, no matter where Sawyer landed on the map. And Sawyer had been grateful for it. Having a friend around made things less quiet in a strange new place. A little less lonely, especially after the break-up with Sarah.

  Although perhaps the most telling thing about their break-up six months ago had been that the aftermath hadn’t left Sawyer feeling any lonelier than usual. Instead he’d felt…

  Nothing.

  And there he was, feeling all sorts of things about a place where he hadn’t set foot for fifteen years. It was strange being back. He’d been so young in Waterford, so grounded—absolutely certain about who he was and where his future was headed. He couldn’t help but wonder how that younger version of himself would feel about the fact that he’d been away for so long.

  He swallowed hard and pasted on a smile for his oldest friend. “Less than a week, I swear.”

  “Hey, it’s all good.” Rick sank onto a large ottoman and looked up at Sawyer with an uncharacteristic hint of worry in his gaze. “Enough time for me to get your opinion on a little situation I can’t quite figure out.”

  Sawyer sat down on the sofa opposite him, all ears.

  “Um. Okay.” Rick took a deep breath. “There’s a woman.”

  Sawyer bit back a smile. “There always is.”

  Rick was legendary for being popular with the ladies. Even in elementary school, girls fought for a place beside him at the lunch table.

  “I’m serious this time,” Rick said, and there was no denying the earnestness in his tone.

  Sawyer nodded. “Okay, okay. What’s the situation?”

  “I can’t quite”—Rick gave him a sheepish grin—“ask her out.”

  “What?” Sawyer’s mouth fell open. “That is not the Rick I know.”

  “Because I like her. I really, really like her. We had that kerpow moment when we first met. You know what I’m talking about,” Rick said.

  “I do.” Sawyer knew it well, even though he hadn’t actually experienced a kerpow moment of his own in years. Not since high school, to be exact. He’d fallen head over heels for Jamie Vaughn the moment he first saw her reaching for the same book that he’d been looking for. Kerpow, indeed.

  He took a gulp of his water. Again, being back in Waterford was messing with his head.

  Meanwhile, Rick was still waxing poetic about his dream girl. “And I can’t forget it. She liked me, too. I know she did.”

  “Why didn’t you ask her out then?” This seemed like a no-brainer.

  “I was dating Megan.” Rick pulled a face.

  “Megan.” Wow. If memory served, she’d already had their wedding planned by the second date. Sawyer was fairly certain the wedding party included fourteen bridesmaids. “That disaster.”

  Rick sighed. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “Never mind. Sorry.” There was no sense revisiting past mistakes. Sawyer was all about moving forward. “You were telling me about…”

  “Lucy. Yeah.” Rick’s face split into dopey grin. “But I made the classic mistake of letting too much time pass after we first met, and now I’m not sure if she only sees me as a friend, or…”

  Sawyer burst out laughing. He just couldn’t help it. “I can’t believe the day has arrived when Rick the Romancer has met his match. Now when do I get to meet this girl?”

  “Ah. Tomorrow night. I’m doing this Valentine’s thing—a cooking class down at the restaurant, and Lucy said she’d come.” There was the dopey grin again. Sawyer was suddenly very glad Dana had all but forced him to come for the town council vote. Seeing Rick reduced to a lovesick puppy was well worth the trip. “Do you think that you could…?”

  “Count me in.” He wouldn’t miss it for the world. “You know, just obviously don’t expect me to cook anything edible.”

  Unpacked boxes labeled kitchen had been sitting around his apartment for nearly a year. Or was it two?

  “Oh, I know better. No, no, no, I’m the chef.” He pointed double finger guns at Sawyer. “You’re the wingman.”

  Rick the Romancer needed a wingman. There truly was a first time for everything.

  “Yes, chef.” Sawyer nodded with exaggerated seriousness.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” He smiled, and glanced out the window at the soft streetlights casting a luminous glow over the quiet streets below—streets where he’d first learned how to ride a bike without training wheels, where he’d played catch with his mom, where he’d walked his high school sweetheart home from school.

  Why had he stayed away for so long? He hadn’t intentionally turned his back on his hometown. It had just sort of it happened. He’d gone away to college and one year had turned into two, two into four. His mother had come up to Columbia during the holidays so they could spend Christmases in New York. After graduation, he’d been consumed by his work. Then his mom had moved across the country, and he hadn’t had any reason to come back. Waterford had simply faded further and further into his past until it had become nothing but a memory.

  He’d thought it had, anyway. Now he wasn’t so sure. Sitting across from Rick, laughing and making plans, he didn’t feel like he’d stepped into a memory.

  He almost felt like he’d come home.

  The following day was Tuesday, more commonly known throughout the book world as pub day. For as long as Jamie had worked at True Love Books—even back in high school—Tuesday had been the day of the week when newly published books became available to sell. She had no idea how or when this literary tradition first came to be, but it was very much a thing. Publishers large and small released their latest offerings on Tuesday mornings, just like clockwork. So of course it was Jamie’s favorite day of the week.

  Too bad the town council meeting was scheduled for lunchtime, ruining what should have been a perfectly lovely Tuesday. At least after the meeting, she’d have a better idea of what the developers had in mind. Until then, she’d just have to busy herself with celebrating all the new book birthdays and properly displaying her latest inventory.

  She spent the morning unpacking boxes in the storeroom and getting the new novels shelved. Eliot tiptoed behind her, pausing every so often to wrap his ginger tail around her leg, which Jamie liked to think of as a kitty hug. Lucy worked the sales floor, darting back and forth between the café counter and the sales register.

  As Jamie headed to the back of the store for her third armload of hardbacks, Lucy was gift wrapping a journal for a customer doing some Valentine’s Day shopping. But when Jamie rounded the corner, books in hand, she stopped short at the sight of a familiar, well-coiffed woman flipping through the pages of a Brontë novel near th
e paper flowers display.

  Oh, no. She darted behind a corner and hid. What was Karen Van Horn doing at True Love Books?

  Not her. Not now.

  “Hi. Can I help you find something?” Lucy’s voice rang like a bell from behind the sales counter.

  Please say no. Please just go away. Jamie squeezed her eyes shut tight in a pathetic attempt to make herself invisible.

  “You know, actually, I was hoping to catch Jamie,” the woman said. “Is she here?”

  Ugh.

  She couldn’t do this, not today, of all days. The pending town council meeting was a big enough thorn in her side. She couldn’t handle dealing with her ex-boyfriend’s mother. Jamie had broken up with Matt months ago. What could she and Mrs. Van Horn possibly have left to say to one another?

  Maybe her romantic hiatus needed to broaden in scope to include not just prospective dating partners, but their family members as well.

  Or maybe she was just a chicken. Possibly—probably—both.

  “Um.” Lucy’s gaze flitted in Jamie’s direction, and Jamie fled back to the storeroom like the chicken that she was.

  Eliot batted a paw at her as she zipped past him. The tattletale.

  “She is not,” Lucy said awkwardly.

  “Oh.” Mrs. Van Horn sounded surprised. Obviously, she remembered that Jamie practically lived at True Love. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

  Thank goodness for Lucy.

  Jamie sagged against the wall in relief. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe she could hide from Matt’s mother forever, but at least she could pull it off a little while longer. Today was going to be difficult enough without the added stress of a surprise visitor from her past.

  Intellectually, Sawyer knew that not much had changed in Waterford since he’d left for college. He had, after all, been poring over current blueprints of the layout of the business district for weeks while working on the plans for Ridley’s redesign. It wouldn’t be an understatement to say he knew the neighborhood like the back of his hand. He was well aware that the dance school, the pizza parlor, the bike shop and numerous other old haunts of his were still right where he’d left them.