Small Town Boy: A Small Town,

Opposites Attract Romance (Hickory

Hills Book 3) Claire Hastings
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 SMALL TOWN BOY

CLAIRE HASTINGS
Copyright © 2024 by Claire Hastings

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 CONTENTS
1. Bronwyn
2. Noel
3. Bronwyn
4. Bronwyn
5. Noel
6. Noel
7. Bronwyn
8. Noel
9. Bronwyn
10. Noel
11. Bronwyn
12. Noel
13. Bronwyn
14. Noel
15. Bronwyn
16. Bronwyn
17. Noel
18. Bronwyn
19. Noel
20. Noel
21. Bronwyn
22. Bronwyn
23. Noel
24. Noel
25. Bronwyn
26. Bronwyn
27. Noel
28. Bronwyn
Epilogue
Also by Claire Hastings
Acknowledgments
About the Author
 1

BRONW YN

THIS IS NOT HAPPENING .

I mean, seriously. This is not fucking happening.
Sucking in a breath as deep as I can, filling my lungs and stretching my diaphragm until it hurts, I try to calm myself. That’s
what you’re supposed to do when trying not to lose your shit, right? Take a deep breath. So that’s what I’m doing.
It’s not working.
I exhale hard and fast, letting the air rush out of my body at record speed. This is not happening.
Everything was going great—exactly to plan. No, better than to plan. The driver picking me up this morning was on time
and his car was clean. Like, pristine. He even had bottled water and snacks for me for the ride to Logan airport. Once at the
airport, I breezed through security. Then, I had the entire row to myself on the plane. The plane that took off early—yes,
apparently that does happen—getting us into Atlanta more than thirty minutes ahead of schedule.
It was like the stars had aligned.
I should have known better.
“Fuck!” I curse out loud, not giving a damn if I look like I’m talking to myself. Because at this point, it’s what’s keeping me
from crying.
No, I will not cry. This situation does not deserve tears. It’s just a car.
My phone vibrates in my hand, stealing my attention. I look down at the screen, not recognizing the number but pretty sure I
know who it belongs to.
“This is Bronwyn,” I answer.
“Hi, this Brown-wine?” the southern accent on the other end asks.
Brown-wine. Well, that’s a first. I’m used to getting looks and being asked how to pronounce my name, but no one has ever
come at me with a specific colored alcoholic beverage.
“Bronwyn. Brahn-win,” I correct him. “And yes, this is Bronwyn Ainsworth. Is this Mr. Comis?”
“Yup. The app tells me that you were the lucky one to be paired with my Barbra for a car-share. Well, there’s a bit of a
problem with Barbra…”
I sigh, having no idea who Barbra is. Given the context of the conversation though, I can only assume she’s the gold Honda
Accord I’m supposed to be picking up. And based on the fact that what I am staring at is a pile of shattered glass and what
looks to be a door handle, coincidentally gold in color, I’m going to say that “a bit of a problem” is an understatement.
“Seems she’s been stolen,” he continues, his voice oddly cheery considering the news he’s delivering.
“I can see that.”
“So, I guess I’m going to have to cancel the share. Sorry ‘bout that.”
Great, just great…
“Now what am I gonna do…” I mutter, much louder than intended.
Really, that should have remained an internal thought. It’s not this guy’s fault. Although, maybe it is, for driving a car that is
consistently listed as the most commonly stolen vehicle in America and leaving the keys in plain sight. Even if the car was
locked, with the keys in the center cup holder, he was asking for it.
“There’s always a traditional rental company,” he answers, his southern manners taking over, oblivious to the fact that my
statement wasn’t actually directed at him. “Hate to give those corporate baddies any more money than I have to, which is why I
car share when I’m out of town, but they are always an option.”
“They aren’t, Mr. Comis—not today.”
Something snaps inside me, my response harsher than it needs to be. Despite all my self-reminders to remain calm, I’m not
doing a very good job. Maybe it’s the heat. It might be the middle of September, but it’s freaking hot. And still humid. It feels
like it might as well be the peak of summer. If this is what fall feels like, I might not survive a southern summer.
 “That’s the whole reason I even tried this car share thing! I was having the best travel day of my life and then I get off the
plane to find out that my boss—my new boss, by the way—who was supposed to be meeting me here, wasn’t going to make it.
His flight was canceled, so he’s frantically trying to rebook and deal with his own shit, which meant that I’m on my own. Okay,
fine, I’m a big girl. I can handle renting a car. Except, no. Every damn car in the city of Atlanta is apparently booked. All of
them! Which led me to this. Only this isn’t working out so hot either, now is it? To make this all that much worse, I hate driving.
So it’s not like I even really want to get behind the wheel to make this hours-long journey, but here we are!”
Silence greets me. Again, can’t blame him. This stranger does not deserve my rant. A rant that came out a lot bitchier than
intended. Which, given how harsh and out of place my northern accent sounds around here, must have made it that much worse.
Shit…
“Sorry,” I sigh. “Sorry…it’s been a long day.”
“I can tell. Well, I wish I had a better answer for you, but keep your chin up. It’ll solve itself.”
Here’s hoping…
We hang up, and I’m right back to where I started—standing in the middle of a sweltering parking lot, with nothing but my
massive suitcase, carry-on tote, and half-empty bottle of Diet Coke. I look at my bags, grabbing them to head back into the
airport, thankful that at least they weren’t lost. They are literally all I have right now—all my other worldly possessions loaded
onto a moving van that is en route from Boston, journeying to my new home.
Hickory Hills, Georgia.
For the thousandth time, I wonder if I was insane taking this job. Landing the role of director of marketing for Hayes
Industries, a Fortune 500 company, is a dream though. Especially given what the last six months of my life have looked like.
We’re not focusing on that though. Nope, I’ve put it behind me. Onward and upward. To Hayes and Hickory Hills.
I won’t lie; I had to look up Hickory Hills on the map. And then zoom out quite a bit to figure out exactly where it is in
Georgia. The middle of nowhere, that’s where. A town of all of three thousand people—maybe—depending on how you
counted town versus county, it was a far cry from the big bad city I’m used to. But it’s going to be an adventure. Or so I keep
telling myself.
I just wish this adventure was starting out better.
The glorious, air-conditioned air hits me like a waterfall as I step inside, and I stop just past the door. I let the coolness
envelop me, like a hug, raising my arms so it can reach every part of me. No doubt I look like a nutter, but who cares. My pits
certainly don’t.
My phone vibrating in my back pocket disturbs my moment of bliss. I consider ignoring it, but then I remember that
whoever is calling might be the answer I’m waiting on. I yank the device out of my pocket, eyes flying to the screen. My heart
leaps at the name flashing across it. This beauty might not have an answer, but she will no doubt be understanding.
“Willa!”
“OMG, Bronwyn, you’re alive!”
“Was that in question? I thought I was just trapped.”
“Trapped at the airport, life in danger, same thing.”
I laugh, loving how this woman thinks.
Willa Hayes, director of corporate giving at Hayes Industries and the youngest of the Hayes siblings, is the person I’m
looking forward to working with the most. Only a few months older than I am, she and I hit it off really well during my
interview, and I could tell that we were going to be fast friends. Smart and quick-witted—one has to be with six older brothers
—she isn’t afraid to speak her mind and get shit done. She’s my kind of gal.
“I’m sorry to be so much trouble right away.”
“Psssh. I’m sorry my brother left you in the lurch. I mean, what kind of a welcome to Georgia is that?”
“Not really Gus’s fault there are thunderstorms grounding all flights out of JFK.”
“Bronwyn, I’m the little sister. In my opinion and experience, it’s always Gus’s fault!”
I laugh again. It feels good coming off of all the worry and panic I was experiencing just before she called.
“I don’t have an older brother, so I’ll just trust you on that one.”
“Please do. Also, explain your text. The rental car was stolen? Who steals a rental car?”
“It wasn’t the rental that was stolen,” I tell her with a huffed-out laugh. “The rental car places are sold out, so I tried a car
share app. You know, like Airbnb, but for cars.”
“Airbnb for cars. That sounds like a horrible gamble.”
“It is, but desperate times…”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever been that desperate. Anyway, I think I have this all solved.”
“Seriously?”
The Hayes family mentioned during my interview that Willa has a way of making things go her way. It’s not that I didn’t
believe them, but until you see it in action, it’s the kind of thing that you just vaguely acknowledge. Apparently they weren’t
kidding.
 “One of my best guy friends is up in Atlanta today. So, I texted him. He hasn’t texted back yet, but I’m confident he’ll agree.
I mean, he doesn’t have a choice, so…there’s that. I have no idea on the timeline, so find a bar, pop a squat, and have a drink.
It’ll be faster than me coming to get you, though, and certainly faster than waiting on Gus.”
“Willa, thank you. I was starting to think I might need to start walking.”
“No need! Although, I will warn you, the man picking you up is not the world’s best conversationalist. Loyal, steady, and
fiercely protective. But…more the strong, silent type, if you will.”
I let her description settle in, wondering just who is going to be picking me up. For a split second I wonder if I need to
worry. Then again, Willa said he’s one of her best friends. So if she trusts him, then strong, silent type it is.
“That’s fine. I’m more than happy to ride in silence.”
“You might change your mind after three hours of it. I’ll let you go so I can hound him for when he’ll be there and then text
you the details. Cool?”
“Sounds like a plan. Thank you again, Willa.”
“Think nothing of it.”
I hang up and do as she suggested, finding the closest bar. Relief washes over me as I sit, all the panic from earlier melting
away. It’ll melt away even more once I get a fresh Diet Coke.
Here’s to the start of my new life.
 2

NOEL

AH, the sun.

The beautifully bright orb greets me—maybe a little too enthusiastically—as I walk outside, thankful for the chance to
finally stretch my legs. It’s been a long day of sitting in continuing education classes. Necessary, but long. And dark.
There are only so many OSHA regulations a person can take in a single sitting before their mind goes numb. Pretty sure I
reached that point about three hours ago.
It’s a warm day, especially for mid-September, the heat radiating back at me off the asphalt. I love it though. The humidity
is down, there’s not a cloud in the sky, and trees are still a lush green, having not started to turn quite yet. Fall is here, and
pretty soon those leaves will be on the ground. But today, it’s still perfect.
I stop at a large live oak that is right at the corner of the parking lot, taking a moment to admire it. Damn, it’s a beautiful
tree.
I’m aware it’s a little weird thinking that about a tree, but taking one look at it, that’s all I can think. Plants are my life and
have been in one way or another since I was born. My love of growing things only barely outranks my love of working with my
hands.
Running my hands along the bark, I savor the roughness, allowing myself to get lost in how majestic it looks. All alone in
this spot, its long limbs providing plenty of shade, it’s almost wasted on this college campus, adjacent to a parking lot.
Okay, maybe I’m a lot weird for how I look at trees.
My phone buzzing in my pocket breaks my reverie, and I let out a huff. I’ve had a damn good excuse to ignore it all day.
Didn’t even bother to check it during my lunch break. I’m not one who feels the need to have it glued to me at all times—unlike
my twin, Nash—but it’s a necessary evil when you run your own business and help your parents run theirs.
I glance down at the screen, hoping that it’s a call being forwarded from the Keller Landscaping line and that I can simply
let it go to voicemail. Instead, I see Willa Hayes’s face flash across the screen, her bright blue eyes wide as she sticks her
tongue out at the camera. If one didn’t know any better, based on that photo alone, you’d never know she was a former Miss
Georgia.
I decline the call, letting her go to voicemail. I’m sure she’s calling because Nash did something that annoyed her, and she
thinks that I’m going to put him in his place on her behalf. Never mind all the times I’ve told them both that I refuse to get in the
middle of whatever nonsense they have going on.
I want nothing to do with their frenemies battle.
In fact, I’m all in favor of locking them in a room and waiting to see whether one kills the other or they end up fucking it out
of their systems, like Willa’s two best friends Kenzie Noble and Sylvie Forde keep suggesting. Not that I’ll admit to that either.
When my phone returns to the lock screen, my eyes go wide as all the activity registers. A dozen texts and fifteen missed
calls. All from Willa.
Oh shit.
I unlock my phone to call her back, starting to wonder if maybe she did actually kill my brother—and whether or not he
deserved it—when she calls back. Sucking in a breath and preparing for God knows what, I answer.
“Willa.”
“Noel, where the hell have you been? Why haven’t you been answering?”
Her voice isn’t exactly shrill, but it’s not calm either. It’s also not panicked. At least not in a way that tells me that blood or
bodily harm was involved. So, at least there’s that.
“I’m up at Georgia Tech for the day, remember? OSHA continuing ed class?”
“Yeah, right. Still doesn’t make sense why you have to be OSHA certified; you’re a landscaper.”
“And small business owner. Both Keller Landscaping and Keller Nursery are registered businesses with the state of
Georgia, and there are requirements that come with that. We operate heavy machinery⁠—”
 “Yeah, great, happy for you. I need you to do something for me.”
And there it is.
I can’t help but laugh, huffing out a breath. Only Willa. The woman has a heart twice the size of this state and cares deeper
than most people will ever know. She also has a set of ovaries on her like nothing I’ve ever seen, taking brazen and bold to a
whole new level. She can sass the pants right off you without blinking an eye.
“Willa, I repeat, I’m in Atlanta.”
“I know. That’s why I called. I need you to swing by the airport and pick up Bronwyn.”
Errr…who?
It’s like a record scratches in my brain, everything slamming to a halt. Should I know who Bronwyn is? And just why the
fuck do I have to pick her up from the airport?
“You want me to do what now?”
“Pick up Bronwyn from the airport.”
“Who’s Bronwyn?”
“Oh my God!” she exclaims, this time her voice shrill. “Do y’all just not listen? I mean, for the love. Bronwyn. Bronwyn
Ainsworth. Hayes’s new director of marketing.”
“Oh, right. The Yankee,” I say, the whole thing starting to ring a bell.
“Noel Joshua Keller. Don’t you dare call her that to her face!”
I shrug, not that Willa can see me, not understanding what the big deal is. “Why am I picking her up?”
“Long story, but Gus’s flight is canceled and her rental was stolen and basically this is the worst first impression the great
state of Georgia could possibly be giving our girl, and I need you to please pick her up, drive her to Hickory Hills, and wow
her with some southern hospitality.”
“I am not the Welcome Wagon.”
“You are today!”
Her declaration makes it clear there is no room for discussion. Which shouldn’t surprise me. What Willa wants, Willa gets.
And, in this case, that’s me making a pit stop at the airport on my already long journey back to middle Georgia to pick up a
woman I have never met. Is it too much to hope that she’s a light packer?
“Fine.”
My curt response is cut off by Willa’s squeal and profuse thank you. I laugh to myself that she would think I’d do anything
but give in. She, Kenzie, and Sylvie all know that I’d stop the world and spin it backward if they needed it.
“I owe you. Seriously,” Willa adds in. “I’m texting her right now, letting her know to watch out for your green truck. I
assume that’s what you drove up there.”
“Haven’t driven anything else in the last fifteen years.”
My eyes flick over to my green 1974 Chevy C10, shining in the sunlight. She may be old enough to be my mother, but she
runs like she just came off the line. She’s also sturdy and reliable at hauling everything I need.
“Right. Okay, I’ll find out what door she’ll be at and text it to you.”
“It’s gonna be a minute before I get there. I’m up at Tech, and with rush hour startin’ early up here, I bet it takes me at least
forty minutes to get down to the airport.”
“Just get there as fast as you can. Thanks, Noel!”
She hangs up before I can say anything else. Not that there was anything left to say. I’d been given my marching orders.
Time to follow them.
Forty minutes later—almost to the minute—I’m pulling up to the arrivals section of Hartsfield-Jackson airport. As one
would expect from the busiest passenger airport in the world, the sidewalk is a mob scene, making it difficult to look for
anyone. Much less someone you don’t actually know. This Bronwyn could be anybody.
I squint, as if that’s going to help me see a petite blonde woman in black pants and a purple blouse any better. I should have
asked Willa to be more specific about the color purple. As in the color of lilacs or the color of irises? Or maybe we’re talking
hyacinth or verbena?
I’m just about to give up and go park, convinced I’m never going to find her this way, when I see her. And my heart stops.
Standing on the very edge of the curb, closer to door S4 than S3, is the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. No, not a girl—woman.
She’s taller than I expected. Not a giant by any means, but still taller than I would call petite. Her hair is the color of local
honey, and the way it shimmers in the sunlight is the stuff dreams are made of.
Dirty, dirty dreams.
Holy shit, who am I?!
I snap out of it long enough to pull over. Bronwyn’s eyes light up, recognition in her features as her eyes scan up and down
my truck. In a flash, I throw it in park and hop out, rounding the bed and greeting her.
“Hi.”
The single syllable is rushed, like I’m a thirteen-year-old boy standing in front of a supermodel in a bikini, at a loss for
words. Which is exactly what I feel like. I have a good six inches on her, and she’s tiny enough that I think she might fit in my
back pocket, but there’s something about her. Something that makes it so I can’t tear my eyes away, and that ties my tongue in
knots.
“Noel?”
“Yeah. Hi.” Dude, learn some words. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same. I’m Bronwyn. Thank you so much for doing this. It’s been a day and I…well, anyway. Thank you.”
I grab her suitcase, tossing it in the bed of my truck. I assume that she’ll want to hold on to the tote bag that she currently has
slung over her shoulder. I smile at her, my insides starting to relax. Her beauty is still breathtaking, but at least my wits are
returning. As are my manners.
Please no one tell my mama that this good southern boy forgot them for a moment.
Opening the passenger door, I gesture for her to climb in. “No problem, honey. Happy to come to your rescue.”
Bronwyn stops dead in her tracks, hip jutting out, brows furrowed together as she looks down her nose at me—even as
she’s looking up. Uh-oh.
“Honey? Yeah, no. And I don’t need rescuing.”
 3

BRONW YN

AND WE’ RE off to a great start. Said no one.

The sound of asphalt under the tires is the only noise as we make our way down the interstate toward Hickory Hills. The
silence is awkward, borderline deafening, both of us staring straight ahead as the road disappears under the hood of his truck.
At this rate, it’s going to be a very long trip.
I’ve only been to Hickory Hills once, and only for the day as part of my final interview with Hayes. It’s a cute, small
southern town, full of charm and character. It’s also a lot farther south of Atlanta than I had initially realized. That, or Georgia
is a bigger state than I had realized. Probably both.
For someone who hates driving and avoids it at all costs, the three-hour trip from the airport to Hayes headquarters was
brutal. Same with the trek back up to the airport. But I told myself then that the job was worth it.
I still believe that.
I’m also wound up tighter than a two-dollar watch.
Shifting on the bench seat, I try to relax. I don’t know if it’s the events of the day, general nerves about this move, or the fact
that Noel called me “honey” within six seconds of meeting me, but I’m on edge. And I need to not be. So, regardless of what
the reason—or reasons—I need to find a way to work out all the knots in my stomach. To be myself. Not some cold, distant
version.
Then again, to be myself, I have to find myself again. Which is part of why I took this job. That, and I was in desperate need
of one after everything that went down at my last job. Things that put me on edge and kept me there for six months—wary of
every relationship I have and desperate to get back on track.
Which is why I’m in the cab of a beat-up truck, with a man who called me “honey.” An attractive man—no, Noel’s more
than attractive. He’s sexy. Stop and sneak a second look sexy. Answer your bestie’s phone call with “OMG, I just saw the
hottest guy” sexy.
The pet name negates all of that though.
“Tell me ‘bout yourself.”
Noel’s deep, almost commanding voice vibrates through me, not only shaking me from my thoughts, but making my skin
tingle. In a good way.
Okay, maybe not all of that is negated…
“Pardon?”
“Got a few hours ahead of us. Might get to know each other.”
I try to hold in my huff of a laugh, not doing a great job of it. I thought Willa said he wasn’t a conversationalist? Thankfully
he doesn’t take his eyes off the road, so he can’t see me eyeing him up. His brown hair is longer on top than the sides, pushed
back off his face. It clearly spends most of its time under a cap, the faint tan line visible through his hair. Mouth quirked in a
lopsided smile, the scruff on his cheeks says lazy over trendy—as if he simply couldn’t be bothered to shave this morning
rather than him going for a certain look. In fact everything about him was form follows function—he was clearly in this for
comfort and purpose, rather than style.
“So, you want the info dump?” I joke.
“Info dump?”
His brown eyes flick my way for half a second, catching mine, making my heart skip. Like I’d been caught staring. Which,
technically I had.
“The info dump. The part at the beginning of the book where the author dumps details and backstory of a character on the
reader so they can know what is going on.”
“Oh.”
“Or I could give it to you in statistical form. Bronwyn, female, twenty-nine.”
 Or I could give it to you in statistical form? Who the hell says that…
I suck in a breath, chastising myself. This is not me being myself. Where the hell is smart, quick-witted Bronwyn? She’s the
one who needs to be making an appearance. Oh, that’s right, she was betrayed and then painted as the villain.
“I’ve never heard that term before.”
“Statistics?” I ask, not following where he’s going.
Noel chuckles. It’s a heady sound, once again making my skin tingle. What is it about this guy that is making my body react
like some schoolgirl?
“Info dump.”
“Do you like to read?” I ask, hoping that maybe we can turn the focus off me, and that I could potentially get more than a
few words out of him at a time. It was his idea to talk, after all.
“I make sure to get the Farmer’s Almanac every year.”
Right. Well, so much for that. I have no response to such a statement. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a Farmer’s Almanac,
much less picked one up. Not exactly the most useful tool in Kenmore Square.
“You’re from up north,” he says. It’s not a question, but a statement of fact, as if it’s going to pry more information out of
me.
“I am.”
“Raised up there too, by the sound of your Rs.”
“What’s wrong with my Rs?” I rebut. I know exactly where he’s going with this, but can’t help but get defensive on behalf
of all Bostonians. Our accent is the butt of plenty of jokes. But not today. “I am not the one in this truck who talks funny.”
“Oh, but you are, honey.”
There’s that term of endearment again. I bristle, holding back a snarky comment. I try to tell myself it’s a Southern thing.
That he doesn’t mean anything by it and is not trying to be condescending. He’s not trying to put me in my place, and probably
doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Nonetheless, we’re not playing that game. I am not his honey.
“My name is Bronwyn.”
“I know.”
“Just making sure, since that’s the second time you’ve called me honey. That’s not my name.”
Noel chuckles again. “Just a nickname.”
“Not mine.”
Ouch—that was harsh. Harsher than I intended. Than Noel deserved. I am not doing this first impression thing well.
“Right.” He nods, like he’s acknowledging my request. I have good money this won’t be the last time we have this
conversation though. “Siblings? Parents?”
“Nope.”
Shifting in his seat, Noel looks over at me. Only, this time, he doesn’t look away as quickly as he did before. My heart
stutters, and my pulse kicks up, and I tell myself that it’s because I’m nervous that he’s not watching where he’s going—which
is part of it. We’re hurtling down the highway at a pretty good clip, and we are far from the only people on this stretch. Paying
attention would be a damn good idea right now. Instead, he’s looking at me.
And I like it. I think.
It certainly wipes my brain of any concern about leaving a bad impression or whether or not he’s going to call me honey
again, leaving only thoughts of him. And those clearly calloused hands that are gripping the wheel.
Wonder what they would feel like gripping me…
“Nope, you don’t have any? Or nope, you don’t wanna talk about it?”
“Either. Both.” I shrug, turning to look out the window. Tall trees whiz by, distracting me, allowing both question and
answer to fade into the tire noise. I should answer. Should put some effort into getting to know him. That’s what previous
Bronwyn would have done. Welcomed getting to know this stranger with open arms. She wouldn’t have questioned if there was
another motive or how it might come back to bite her. Besides, Willa said he’s one of her best friends. If Willa trusts him, then I
should be able to as well. Telling him this isn’t like I’m opening up my chest, giving him access to rip out my heart, or handing
him the dagger to stab me in the back with. Been there, done that. “Only child. My parents passed when I was in college. Car
accident.”
“That sucks.”
That sucks. Not the response I was expecting. Most people usually go with the traditional condolences. Not Noel Keller.
His answer is refreshing though. It’s not a canned response. It’s candid, real. A gut reaction, one I still feel all these years
later. It also helps ease my insides. A comment like that doesn’t come from someone with an agenda.
“It does.”
“Sorry that happened.”
“Thanks.” I swallow hard, trying to keep my emotions in. Noel might only be a step or two above monosyllabic, but I can
feel his genuineness. A trait that clearly runs deep. Clearing my throat, not wanting to give anything away, I turn the question
back on him. “You?”
“Twin brother, Nash. Mama and Daddy—Lucy and Jack. They run the nursery just outside of town. We got a full fifty acres,
full of all the plants, flowers, and trees we sell. A little more than twenty acres is dedicated to Christmas trees.”
“Christmas trees? In Georgia?”
“Gotta grow ‘em somewhere. We’re the largest Christmas tree producer for Southern Georgia.”
“Interesting,” I comment. Not something I ever would have thought about. “And you’re a twin? Identical or fraternal?”
“Fraternal, but…”
“But might as well be identical?”
Noel grunts. Oh, hit a nerve there.
“Lived in Hickory Hills all my life, and people still can’t tell us apart walking down the street.”
Yeah, definitely hit a nerve. Oops.
“So, how do I know who’s who?”
“The shit-eatin’ grin will give him away.”
A laugh bursts out of me, and I clap my hand over my mouth, more than a little embarrassed by how loud that was. The
serious brown eyes and furrowed brow that has been retrained on the road turn to face me again, their confusion abundantly
clear. Apparently that was not a joke.
“Good to know,” I respond, gaining my composure again. “I’ll file that away.”
He nods, not pushing it any further. Silence surrounds us again, this time for much longer than before. I guess the get to
know you portion of this ride is over. And oh look, still more than two hours left.
Just great.
Leaning back and closing my eyes, I try to focus on the rhythm of the ride, the soft rattle of the truck and those tires. Maybe I
can catch a nap. Normally I would think it was rude to do, but with all the weirdness of the last forty minutes and this
conversation, I think we could both use a moment with our own thoughts.
I wake a while later, blinking hard as I try to figure out how long I was out. The scenery around me is the same—a long
stretch of road ahead of us, trees on either side of the highway. What is different, though, is the atmosphere of the truck. Gone is
the awkwardness, and in its place is something lighter. Something happy.
The radio is turned up, Noel singing along to a song I’ve never heard, massive smile on his face. His joy is palpable,
borderline contagious. And something about it tells me that it’s something he doesn’t let many people see. A trusted few that
know the real him. Still, I want to bottle it so that the next time I’m grumpy or gloomy, I can take a hit of it and feel it weave
around my heart the same way I do now.
“Favorite song?” I ask, amused by how animated and into the tune he is.
“It’s about me.”
The grin he gives me is borderline goofy, paired with a know-it-all glint to his eye.
“You connect with it that much?”
“No,” he laughs. “It’s literally about me. Nash too. The three of us.”
“Three?”
“Dustin.”
“Who’s Dustin?” I ask. I don’t think Willa or Gus mentioned a Dustin. Although, there have been so many names they’ve
rattled off to me, I don’t put it past myself to have missed one.
“Dustin Wild. Although, to us, he’s Dustin Wilder. We ignore the stage name.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Dustin Wild, the country star?”
“I don’t listen to country music.”
“Still figured you’d know the name.”
“Nope.”
“That’ll be fun to tease him about,” Noel mutters. I start to question why, but he continues before I can get a word out.
“Dustin Wild, or as I said, Wilder, is the third musketeer to Nash and me. Been our best friend since we were small. Pretty
much all my childhood memories include him in some way.”
“And he’s a big deal?”
“Not as much as he thinks if you haven’t heard of him.”
“I don’t listen to country, so⁠—”
“Let me have this one, hon…Bronwyn. It’s good to have ammunition when he needs knocking down a peg.” Noel gives me
a wink, a giggle bubbling up inside me. “Anyway, this is him. It’s one of his older songs. To the average person, it’s just a fun
song about a bunch of kids, wishing they were older and up to no good. ’Cept I know that it’s about the first camping trip we
were allowed to take without our parents, and how the girls snuck out to meet us. It’s one of the few songs he didn’t write about
Kenzie. And it’s still about her in a way…”
 Kenzie… Kenzie… I rack my brain, the name sounding familiar. She is for sure one that Willa has mentioned. I just can’t
put my finger on it. Noel shoots me another look, and must see that I’m struggling to place the name.
“Kenzie Noble. Dustin’s fiancée, but also, and potentially more importantly, the town librarian. She took on the job after
Mrs. Cassum passed, putting her own plan of teaching on hold to save the library.”
I let the smile tugging at my lip grow, spreading across my cheeks, my heart squeezing at his answer. The fact that he thinks
Kenzie’s role as town librarian is more important than who she is in regard to some musician says something. Shows how
much he values her. Which, in turn, says a lot about him as a person. At least to me it does.
My phone buzzes in my lap, startling me. I look down, unsurprised to see Willa’s name on the screen.
WILLA
Hi! Are you here yet?
Not yet. But I think we’re close…
How close?

Ummmmmm….
“Willa wants to know how far out we are,” I say, my voice cracking from a sudden bout of nerves.
“Tell her we just passed the Enrights’, and we’re all but at Newton Field.”
I quickly tap out the message, which means nothing to me. I’m going to need to study a map.
WILLA
oh good, you’re close! I’m about to run into my last meeting of the day but wanted to make sure you arrived
safe :)
oh…and whatcha doing tomorrow night?
Unpacking? That is, provided the moving truck got there today like it was supposed to
Sylvie said everything went great. There is the exact number of boxes as what the paperwork says
Oh good! Please thank her again for letting me rent out her cottage
you can thank her yourself tomorrow at girls night. 7p at Pour Decisions. If you need directions, LMK

I send her back a thumbs-up emoji, mixed feelings swirling in my belly. I adore that Willa has been so welcoming and
helpful. She’s gone out of her way to help with this transition. That said, she’s also my boss. Sort of. Counterpart might be a
better word. But she’s a Hayes. And her oldest brother is definitely my boss.
Nothing in my contract says that I can’t make friends at work. The no fraternization rule forbids me from sleeping with Gus,
not having a drink and gossiping with Willa. Then again, I know all too well just how much harm can be done by getting too
close to coworkers. Maybe the no fraternization rule should forbid that as well.
You can’t run and hide just because of one backstabbing wench…
I know I’m right. I can’t. I need friends. I want friends. My heart is still more than a little bruised though from the last time.
But that’s not a good enough reason to keep the walls up. Or at least not install a drawbridge where I can let certain people in.
Like Willa and the girls she’s already promised to introduce me to.
Noel slowly rounds a corner, turning right onto a side street that is lined with massive, beautiful trees. I can’t get over how
big they are, how lush and full their branches are, and I wonder how different they’ll look when the leaves start falling in a
couple of weeks. We come to a stop outside the adorable yellow cottage that is my new home. At 1200 square feet, with two
bedrooms, a bathroom, full living room and kitchen, plus a tiny laundry room, this place is more than twice the size of my
apartment back in Boston. Even with all the extra stuff I brought from the old family storage unit, this place will be mostly
empty. But I don’t care one bit. I’m going to lap up the luxury of all the space.
“We’re here.”
“Yup,” I reply, popping the p harder than I intended. “Thanks for the lift!”
I hop out, swinging around to the bed of the truck to grab my bag. Somehow, Noel beat me to it. I stare at him, trying to
figure out how he did that, since he was still buckled in as I got out. Both of us reaching for my suitcase, our hands collide. And
unfortunately not in some rom-com super sexy, sparks fly kind of moment. No, this was an awkward shuffle of grabbing and
ending up knocking each other off-balance maneuver.
“I got it,” he tells me, his Southern drawl in full effect.
“I’m a big girl; I can get my own bag. I’m perfectly capable of doing things myself.”
“Didn’t think you weren’t,” he counters, one corner of his mouth quirked upward. It’s a damn sexy smirk that makes my
belly flip. But I don’t have time, or patience, for his charm. “But you could also just let a man help you, honey.”
“Again, enough with the honey.”
“Darlin’ work better?” he jokes.
Oh, for fucks’ sake.
 “No.”
“Okay then. I assume this means you don’t want me to walk you to the door?”
“No, why would I want that?”
“It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”
“Noel, let’s get something straight. I do not need sweeping off my feet. I am capable of taking care of myself.”
“So you’ve said.”
"As long as we’re clear.”
With those last words, I turn on my heel and walk to my front door. I can feel him waiting, watching, wanting to make sure I
make it in. Which is sweet. But unneeded.
Once inside I give another little wave, letting the door slam behind me. Enough of the uber sexy man, with an even sexier
voice and a weird sense of chivalry. There are bigger things to focus on.
Like my new home.
 4

BRONW YN

I FLEX MY HANDS — ONCE, twice, three times—much like Matthew Macfadyen as Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice as I walk
into Pour Decisions. Only my flex isn’t due to being overwhelmed by the touch of the incomparable Elizabeth Bennett. Nope,
mine is strictly out of a desire for them to stop shaking.
It’s not working.
There are a lot of words that I could use to describe the old pickup that was left for me in the driveway of the cottage.
Battered. Decrepit. Rusted.
The email that Gus sent me a couple of days before I arrived, confirming that the fleet car they had ordered for me was on
its way but that it wouldn’t be there in time for my arrival, also informed me that there was an old farm truck that I could use in
the meantime. He also warned me that it had “seen better days.”
Yeah, that was one way of putting it.
That wasn’t what got to me though. Sure, I did wonder if I needed a tetanus shot after prying the driver side door open, but
I’m not so much of a prima donna that I can’t handle a little rust and dust. In fact, nothing about the exterior of the truck was
what set me on edge. It was what I found when I hopped in and looked at the dashboard.
It’s a stick shift.
For a girl who already hates to drive and avoids it at all costs, handing her a stick shift is asking for trouble. Might as well
hand me a scalpel and tell me to perform open heart surgery. I am no more qualified to drive a stick than I am to operate on a
human being.
Stop being dramatic…
Thankfully, Pour Decisions isn’t very far from the cottage, and after a quick tutorial on YouTube, I made it here without
issue. Might have pissed off a couple of locals along the way with my subpar driving, but I didn’t end up in the ditch. That’s
what matters.
The open, warehouse-like space that acts as a taproom for Southern Brothers Brewing is decently busy, with almost half of
the tables occupied and the bar completely full. I scan around, looking for Willa. I quickly find her at the far end of the long,
rough-cut bar, almost tucked into a corner. Two women sit to her left at the short end of the bar, one brunette, the other with
auburn hair, an empty chair left in between them, presumably for me.
“Hiii!” I call out, approaching the threesome. “This seat taken?”
My voice is cheery and hopeful, more so than I’m feeling on the inside. And not just because of the truck. Because I feel so
out of place it’s not funny. It’s like there is a sign on my back that says “New Girl” on it, and everyone can’t help but stare. And
this time, I’m not being dramatic. Walking across the warehouse, I could not only feel, but see the eyes on me.
“Of course!” the brunette exclaims, a wide smile taking over her face as Willa goes, “It’s all yours!”
I climb onto the stool, settling myself, as the brunette continues.
“I’m Kenzie Noble, town librarian, and this is Sylvie Forde, high school science teacher extraordinaire. She took our
robotics team to the state championship this past spring.”
“That was all my students. I don’t do much other than supervise,” Sylvie says, her attempt at modesty met with an eye roll
from Kenzie. “But it’s nice to meet you, Bronwyn! Welcome to Hickory Hills!”
“Thank you. And, thank you again, Sylvie, for letting me rent the cottage. It’s adorable!”
“Psssh, you’re so welcome. It was really quite perfect actually, since I just moved into the vet clinic.”
“You live in the vet’s clinic?”
“Well, above,” she corrects.
I stare at her for a moment, my brain working overtime to make it make sense. She left that cute little cottage to live in the
vet clinic?
“Camden Tyler, the town veterinarian, is Sylvie’s boyfriend. They just moved in together,” Willa explains.
 “Oh, that makes more sense.” I laugh, thankful that she saw me trying to work that one out.
“Sorry!” Sylvie adds. “Should have led with that. I figured Willa mentioned that when she told you about the cottage.
Anyway, are you all settled in?”
“For the most part. My place in Boston wasn’t very big, so there wasn’t much to move. There’s a lot more cottage than I
have stuff.”
“Oh, give it time,” Kenzie says, taking a sip of her drink. “You’ll fill it all fast enough, and then it’ll be time to move and
you’ll wonder why you have so much shit.”
“You must be the new gal!” a bearded, blue-eyed guy says, appearing across the bar from me. “What can I get you to
drink?”
“Diet Coke?”
“Nope. We’re a taproom, so we don’t have a full bar,” he says. Nodding over his shoulder to a list of what appears to be
beer names written on a chalkboard, he continues. “Just those listed there.”
“Milo, get the girl a Diet Coke. What would Gus say if he knew that you were denying our new marketing director a
drink?” Willa says, her face turned into an almost sneer.
“Oh, it’s not that big of a deal, I—” I start, but the bartender cuts me off.
“He’d understand since I don’t fucking have any.” I lurch backward, surprised by the snark in his voice. “Pretty sure
accounting would back me up in not keeping any on hand either, since we aren’t a full bar.”
Willa purses her lips, clearly unhappy that he makes a very good point. Still, I’m left confused by the whole interaction.
“Bronwyn, hi, I’m Milo,” he says, turning back to me and outstretching his hand. “Hayes child numero dos, owner/operator
of Southern Brothers Brewing, and all-around little sister tormentor. Nice to meet you. And, if you’re looking for non-alcoholic
options, I’ve got water and the lemonade that we use to mix the shandy.”
“Hi! It’s nice to meet you too.” I shake his hand, looking closer at him now and seeing the resemblance to Willa. His hair is
darker, with a natural wave, one errant piece falling over his forehead. “Gus has told me great things about your operation, and
about Rose, the gal who’s been doing all your promo. I can’t wait to sit down with you guys and hear about everything you
have in the works. And lemonade works.”
“One lemonade coming up!” He turns to go, only after sticking his tongue out at Willa. She retaliates in the same fashion,
and the rest of us can’t help but laugh.
“Don’t worry, there are four more that you still get to meet,” she tells me. “And Hayes is a family affair, so you will get to
meet all of them.”
“I’m an only child, so I can’t even wrap my head around six older brothers.”
“It was something…”
“She loves it, don’t let her tell you otherwise,” Kenzie says, her voice hushed and conspiratorial. “You’re gonna love them
all though. They really are great guys.”
“Single too,” Sylvie adds.
“Oh, well, I’m not…” I trail off, trying to figure out how to best word the rest of that statement. I’m not sure if Sylvie’s
comment was just informational or if she has some weird motive, but I don’t want to be rude in shaking it off.
“Single?” she finishes for me.
“No, I am single. Dating just isn’t on my priority list. I’m focused on my career right now.”
There we go. Nice and simple. It’s the truth too. My career has always come first—something I don’t see changing anytime
soon.
“Don’t say that too loud around here. The Hickory Hills rumor mill is alive and well, and information like that would feed
it for weeks. Not to mention, some of the women in this town will make it their personal mission to pair you off with
someone,” Kenzie tells me. “They’ve been itching for a good story too. Been a bit of a slow month.”
“Has not,” Willa interjects. “KatieRae Gates—err, Michaels—brought the babies down from Atlanta. Emily Barrowcliff
applied for some summer in France program. Cary Adler made out with the chocolate vendor at Rhythm and Brews! I would
not call that a slow month. Plus, Kenzie, your wedding is more than enough to fuel them well into next year.”
I nod, trying to follow along as if I actually know all the players and why those events are significant. The only one that
really makes any sense is Kenzie planning her wedding. This I can contribute to.
“I know we don’t really know each other, but if you need help with wedding stuff, I’m here. I’ve never actually planned a
wedding, but I’m pretty decent with graphics if you need an invite or anything designed.”
“OMG, yes!” Kenzie squeals. “Two, actually.”
“Two?”
“Kenz has to get married twice,” Sylvie says, barely containing her laughter.
“Not married twice; we’re only doing the one ceremony. But there are two receptions. Which is a lot of extra if you ask me,
but it’s a small price to pay so that we can have the nice, small, intimate wedding we want here in Hickory Hills.” She turns to
face me, the smile of someone deep in love on her face. “My fiancé is⁠—”
 “A rock star. So I’ve been told.”
“He’s country, but same difference,” she waves off.
“Dustin and Kenzie had a very epic reunion last fall—” Sylvie starts.
“That’s dramatic!” Kenzie cuts her off.
Willa places her hand on my arm, leaning in. “It was pretty epic. We’ll have to tell you the whole story sometime.”
“Oh, please do. I love an epic.” We all laugh, Kenzie rolling her eyes.
Milo reappears, setting down a full glass in front of me, shaking his own head at our laughter. The smile on his face tells
me he’s used to it and knows better than to ask. Which leaves me feeling pretty good.
In fact, sitting here with these ladies feels damn good. It might be surface level stuff—filling me in on what I’m walking
into with this town—but they’ve accepted me without question. They genuinely seem happy to have me here, pulling me into
their girl gang. Something I desperately want.
Something I’m also still wary of.
But I push that down. I’m not going to let one bad apple turn me off friendship as a whole. So I picked poorly the last time.
This time would be different. These women would be different. I can already tell by the easy camaraderie that this isn’t a group
that has time for cattiness or backstabbing. A school teacher, a librarian, and a former beauty queen, all sitting in a bar—it
sounds like the start of a joke. Instead, it’s the first indication to me that maybe Hickory Hills could be home.
“Enough about us,” Sylvie says, pointing toward me. “We’ve been besties since we were five. We want to get to know
you.”
Five? Wow…
“Ummm…I dunno. I’m so bad at this.” I swallow hard, trying to find something—anything—to tell them. I pick up the glass
in front of me, buying time by taking a couple of long gulps. The lemonade is cold and tart, clearly handmade and not out of
some jar. "Born and raised in Boston. Although, I went to Brown, so I spent four years in Providence but then got my first job
back in Boston and moved back. Other than that, I’m pretty normal. I think. Books, movies, all that stuff. I’m not much into the
outdoors, unless you call reading on the patio outdoorsy.”
“You said you were an only child. How did your parents take the news of you moving away?” Kenzie asks.
“My parents are gone. Car accident when I was in college. But, I like to think that they would have been excited for me
with this new opportunity.”
A chorus of “I’m sorrys” surrounds me as they react to my sharing. Much like Noel in the car, their reactions sound and feel
real—like my parents had also been ripped from their lives the same as mine. Emotion hits me out of nowhere, tears suddenly
pricking at the corner of my eyes.
Oh shit.
I won’t cry, I won’t cry…
I clear my throat, forcing all the feels back down where they came from.
“Sorry, don’t mean to be a downer. For the second time in two days, nonetheless. Same factoid kinda killed the
conversation with Noel on the ride down yesterday.”
“Conversation?” Kenzie picks out that one word, eyes going wide, head tilting toward me in interest.
“You and Noel had a conversation?” Sylvie follows.
“Yeah. I mean, it wasn’t an in-depth heart-to-heart or anything. But he thought ‘we should get to know each other’ or
whatever. So he asked me questions.” I shrug. I know Willa said he was the quiet type, but it wasn’t like he was mute.
“Noel. Noel Keller?”
“Asked you questions?” Kenzie follows up, as if she’s finished Sylvie’s question.
“I think? Unless there is a different Noel,” I reply, turning to Willa for confirmation. All I find is the beautiful blonde
nodding slowly, brows quirked together.
“Damn, there’s a lot to unpack there,” she mutters.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No, Bronwyn,” Willa continues. “You apparently did a whole lot right.”
Right? Okay, now I’m extra puzzled. I did very little right yesterday on our drive down. I was cold and borderline mean at
times. There is no way any of that was “right.”
“Noel isn’t particularly loquacious,” Kenzie explains. “Even with us, who have been his friends since forever. He talks;
it’s not like he’s a mute. But, he doesn’t talk just to talk. He’s very careful with his words—only speaks when he really has
something to say and really, half the time speaks in grunts and shrugs. Which, after a while, start to make sense—at least once
you’re fluent in Noel. So, to hear he made conversation, just because, well…it’s a mind bender.”
“I’m sure it was just to be polite,” I answer, sipping my drink to try and distract how taken aback I am by what Kenzie said.
Sure, Willa said something very similar before Noel picked me up, but hearing it again makes it real somehow. Although,
hearing her say that he chooses his words carefully doesn’t explain the multiple times he called me “honey.”
“He likes you,” Sylvie adds.
 “He doesn’t know me.”
I scoff into my drink, taking another longer sip, trying to hide the smile that is pushing its way through. Because my insides
like hearing that he likes me, way more than I want to admit.
“You crank his tractor though,” Willa states.
Excuse me?! Did she just…
“I’m sorry, come again?” I say, almost spitting out that last sip.
“It’s this thing he says,” she explains. “Whenever anyone gives him a hard time about the fact that he hasn’t dated since
college. When I find a girl who cranks my tractor…”
Her Noel impression isn’t bad. I would laugh, except I’m too perplexed by the most ridiculous statement I’ve ever heard.
Cranks his tractor? Who talks like that?
“Yeah, no. There is no tractor cranking over here. Sorry to disappoint you.”
It’s Willa’s turn to almost spit out her drink. She covers her mouth in time, her laughter making it hard for her to keep it in.
“Oh, Bronwyn, you’re gonna fit in just fine.”
I smile, feeling pretty proud.
“This does make me wonder what’s going on at game night though,” Kenzie says.
“Game night?”
Kenzie nods. “Yup. Time to let you in on your first secret. They don’t know we know, so you can’t say anything, but when
the guys get together to “watch the game,” what they are really doing is playing board games. They’ve been doing it since we
were teenagers. Although, I think since Camden joined the mix earlier this year, they might have tossed cards into the rotation.
But that’s just a guess based on Sylvie seeing Camden pocket a deck before heading out.”
“So, if they don’t know you know, how do you know?” I ask, loving being in on the secret.
“One night in high school, we snuck out and peered in the window when they were having a sleepover and told us they’d be
watching the game. They were really playing some game that involved a map,” Willa answers.
“Risk?”
“Er, sure? No idea, but we have since worked out that they still maintain the ruse. We’re not sure why they don’t come
clean, but we let them have it. Regardless, I’d love to be a fly on the wall there tonight.”
“Yeah, about that…” Sylvie chimes in, surprise taking over her face. “Looks like their plans changed.”
“What?” Kenzie and Willa exclaim, all of us turning in our chairs.
Sure enough, four very good-looking men—two of whom look basically identical—are heading our way. They are clearly
on a mission, not stopping as others in the bar say hi.
Letting my eyes roam over them, I can see Noel is right. His brother’s shit-eating grin does give him away.
Willa growls under her breath, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “Fucking Nash.”
 5

NOEL

MY BROTHER IS AN ASSHOLE.
A big one.
That’s the only reason I can think of as to why we left a perfectly good game of Yahtzee partly played—one he was losing,
by the way—on our dining room table, to haul over here and crash girls’ night. A place I know for damn sure we are not
welcome. And in the process, ruining guys’ night.
A night that was going damn well.
Sure, Camden started us off a little awkward, blurting out a strange request, but it was nothing we couldn’t handle, once we
got our laughing and ribbing out of the way. We’re guys, after all.
“I need you to teach me how to talk dirty,” Camden said, as if he was asking me to hand him a beer from the six-pack I was
grabbing from the fridge.
“Excuse you?” Dustin asked, stopping mid shake of the dice.
“I need you to teach me how to talk dirty,” the shy, normally very reserved vet repeated, just as matter-of-fact as the first
time.
“Like, in bed?”
“Yeah. I’m not very good at it, and I think Sylvie would enjoy…well, you follow.”
We did. Just like we also didn’t need to hear specifics about that area of his life. Sylvie is like a sister to us, and nobody
wants the particulars of their sister’s sex life. Same reason Dustin keeps things generic about him and Kenzie.
“Hold on,” Nash piped up as Dustin tallied his four of a kind. “You mean to tell me that you’ve made it thirty plus years
without talking dirty?”
“It’s never been a factor until now.”
Nash nodded, picking up the shaker, repeatedly opening his mouth, then closing it again, clearly at a loss for words. Which
for him was surprising.
“Not every day you stun this one out of words,” I comment, laughing. “Nice job, doc.”
“Shut it,” my twin clapped back, giving me the middle finger. “I’m just trying to decide if such a thing can even be taught,
rather than just coming naturally.”
“Well, if it’s based on natural ability, I don’t have much hope,” Camden laments.
“I’m sure you’re better than you think,” Dustin said. “Just go with the flow and see what pops out. It’s not like I plan the
things I say to Kenz.”
“I was doing some research⁠—”
“You can’t research that kind of thing,” I added. “That’s why it feels forced.”
"So you just blurt out whatever you’re thinking at the moment?” he asked, looking at us incredulously. All three of us
nodded. Camden scoffed, shaking his head. “Then I’ve definitely been doing this all wrong.”
Raucous laughter erupted from the table, none of us able to hold it back. Camden might be a new addition to the group, but
he rounds us out perfectly.
We continued, the rest of the conversation flowing in a much more normal and natural direction—like the start of hunting
season next month and whether or not we were going to be able to convince Camden to join in. Result—he’s still on the fence.
The four of us munched on chips and nursed our beers like they were the only ones we were going to get all night. Everything
was great. Friday night with my three best friends, hanging out, doing our thing.
Then Dustin changed the subject.
“Noel, how was the drive home yesterday?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
 “Fairly uneventful.”
That was a lie. It was anything but uneventful. Hell, my stomach is still in knots over it. Camden feeling unnatural and
awkward was nothing compared to me yesterday in my own truck driving home from Atlanta. All because a beautiful woman
was two feet away from me on a bench seat.
No, not just beautiful. Stunning.
Bronwyn Ainsworth was unlike anyone I’ve ever seen. I can’t explain why, but she knocked me stupid. Like a kid on the
playground who just saw a naked woman for the first time. At least I held my composure a little better than that. But only a
little. Because there is just something about her, and whatever it is…it’s ineffable.
Only, she’s perfectly eff-able.
And the fantasy I had about doing just that to her when I was in the shower this morning while stroking my cock is
something I will never admit to.
“So we’re not gonna talk about it then?”
“Talk about what?” Nash asked.
“Nope.” I didn’t waver in my answer. Dustin is the word vomiter of the group, which is part of why he’s such a damn good
songwriter. But it also means he’s just as gossipy as the old ladies of this town.
“Talk about what?” Nash asked again, his gaze whipping back and forth between Dustin and me.
“Nothing,” I answered.
“I wouldn’t call you driving the new girl home from the airport and then commenting that she’s ‘cute’ nothing.”
“New girl? What new girl?” Nash’s questions flew out faster than he could shift toward me, but when he did, I could see
the annoyance in his features. “And you drove her home from the airport? And she’s cute? How do I not know any of this?”
“Bronwyn,” Camden answered for me. I’m grateful he did, because I was too busy giving Dustin the death glare. I don’t
care how famous he is, that wouldn’t stop me from clocking him if he deserved it. Which, right about then, he sorta did. “She’s
the new marketing person for Hayes. She’s renting Sylvie’s cottage.”
“Since when?”
“She arrived yesterday.”
“And apparently there was an issue with the rental car or something, so Noel gave her a ride,” Dustin added.
“How do y’all know this and I don’t?” Nash asked, borderline exasperated. “I’m his damn twin and the last to know?”
“The girls.” Camden shrugged.
“Willa has mentioned her at least half a dozen times,” Dustin said. “So I don’t know how you didn’t⁠—”
“Because it’s Willa,” he snapped.
I bit back a laugh, not wanting to put the attention back on me. As long as Nash was pitching a mini fit about not knowing
about something simply because he was too busy…doing what he does when Willa speaks…then I didn’t have to answer
questions.
But then, he shifted his focus to me.
“Is there finally a girl in Hickory Hills who cranks your tractor?”
I made a face, one that I hoped simultaneously told him to fuck off and that I’m never going to answer that. Only, the jackass
took it as confirmation, that shit-eating grin I mentioned to Bronwyn spreading across his cheeks.
“Oh, there is…”
“She’s cute. For a Yankee. That’s all.” I brushed it off, hoping—no, praying—that that was the last of it.
Nope.
“This I gotta see.” Nash pushed up from the table, his scorecard wafting to the floor. “Let’s go, boys. We’re off to Pour
Decisions.”
“Why?” I questioned, even though I knew the answer.
“That’s where the girls are.”
“You sure?” Camden asked.
“Yup. Willa said so.”
“That you listened to, but not anything else she’s mentioned over the last month?” Dustin chided. The commentary was lost
though, as my twin was halfway out the door.
“This a good idea?” Camden asked as we followed Nash, trying to keep up.
“Not in the slightest,” Dustin muttered.
And he was right. But there was no stopping Nash. Especially when it comes to bad decisions.
Just like now, how he’s leading the way, bobbing and weaving through the crowd, headed toward our friends. Not stopping
to think how this is going to go. Or think at all, really.
The girls are in their usual spot, hugging the far corner of the rough-cut bar, their backs turned to the rest of the crowd. I
stop, my breath catching as the pure beauty lined up along the bar sinks in.
I, along with Nash, Dustin, and now Camden, have long known that we’re surrounded by gorgeous women. Even ignoring
Willa being a legit beauty queen, she, Kenzie, and Sylvie are beautiful, inside and out. Always have been, always will be. It’s
not lost on us guys that we’re lucky bastards that they even give us the time of day, much less call us friends.
But tonight, it’s more than just them.
Flanked by a blonde on her right and two dark-haired beauties to her left, is a woman who is literally taking my breath
away. Which, fuck, makes me one sappy bastard. But right now I don’t care. All I care about is getting a chance to get to know
her more. Figure out what it is about her that has me so muddled.
And not letting Nash make a fool out of all of us. That’s a big one.
“Ladies!” Nash exclaims, arms raised high.
Too late.
“Go away, Nash!” Willa snarks, not even bothering to turn around.
Yeah, we’re off to a great start.
“What are you doing here?” Kenzie asks, a bright, but forced, smile on her face. Three of the four women turn to look at us,
Willa still silently protesting our presence.
I watch Bronwyn, her eyes scanning each of the guys in front of me. Her facial expression is placid, but pleasant, as if she
doesn’t quite know what to make of the group descending upon her. Can’t blame her there.
Until she gets to me.
We lock eyes, my own grin taking over as I start to get lost in those soft brown eyes. They’re almost the same shade as her
hair, pure sweet honey. Those eyes grow wide, and the calm, relaxed look she’d been sporting goes stiff, almost anxious and
unamused. Not the reaction I was hoping for.
“That’s a good question,” Dustin answers, giving his fiancée a kiss. “Nash, what are we doing here?”
“Hanging out.” Nash shrugs, like it’s obvious.
“Pretty sure you were supposed to do that at your house,” Willa snarks.
“C’mon now, no need to get your panties in a wad,” Nash retorts, slinging an arm around Willa. She shirks him off, a scowl
on her face. Bronwyn quirks one brow up, clearly unsure what to make of the situation, while Kenzie and Sylvie roll their eyes,
all but in unison. “You are wearin’ panties, right?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Nash winks, making a clicking sound, and then turns his attention to Willa’s left. Oh shit.
“Hi, I’m Nash Keller. You must be Bronwyn. Heard a lot about you.”
“Have you now?” Bronwyn eyes him up and down, like she’s sizing him up, trying to identify his weak spots before going
in for the kill.
“Sure have. All good things. Promise.”
Gaze shifting to me, Bronwyn gives me the same once-over. No, on second thought, this one isn’t the same. The one she’s
giving me is dismissive.
“Anyway,” Bronwyn says, turning back to the group. “Kenzie, you were talking wedding?”
“Well, I can’t now that the boys are here.”
“Sure you can,” Dustin chimes in. “It’s not like the wedding plans are a secret. By the way, I’m Dustin, and this is
Camden.”
Camden raises a hand in silent hello, arm slipped around Sylvie, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here. A feeling
he’s not alone in. Bronwyn waves back, taking a long sip of her drink. Is that…lemonade?
“Some of it might be,” Kenzie taunts. “I might have a few surprises up my sleeve.”
“I like the sound of that,” Dustin says, leaning in to kiss her.
Milo chooses that moment to appear, asking us all what we want to drink and if the ladies would like refills. We place our
orders, and he nods, heading off to get them fulfilled.
“I spent a summer in Boston,” Camden chirps up, his attempt at making conversation a little awkward. Bronwyn doesn’t
seem to notice though.
“Yeah? Summer in the city is beautiful. Plus, then it’s baseball season. Nothing better than seeing the Sox play at Fenway.”
“Err, well, I didn’t spend that much time downtown. I did a summer internship at Tufts Vet School. But, we did make it to
the North End for Mike’s Pastry.”
Bronwyn laughs, and the sweet sound surrounds me, drowning out everything else in this bar. The hair on my arms stands at
attention—as does the rest of my body—feeling both on high alert and serene at the same time. Like I’m sitting in one of those
vibrating chairs, the sensations taking over, working their own brand of magic on me.
“I prefer The Modern. It’s just down the street and much less crowded. That’s where you need to go if you want a real
cannoli.”
“Good to know!” Sylvie says. “We were asked to sponsor a conference up that way next spring and were considering
heading up there, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the wedding and robotics.”
“Hickory Hills sponsors a conference?”
 “No, Glitter Litter does. Camden invented it.”
“Isn’t that the stuff that eats poop?”
“It actually breaks down the fecal matter based on enzymes⁠—”
“No one wants to hear that, Doc,” I say, cutting him off. Bronwyn jumps, almost imperceptibly at the sound of my voice. If I
hadn’t been watching her, back still to me, I wouldn’t have noticed. But it was there. Now the question is, was it a good thing?
“Sorry, I can get carried away.”
“It’s fine,” Bronwyn says, giggling. Fuck, that noise. That might just be the death of me. Because this time, it’s my dick
taking notice. And the last thing I need is to be walking around sporting a semi. “I can get that way about work too. Passion like
that is never a bad thing.”
“Which is why Hayes is sooooo excited to have you. I have a list of things I want your help with. I can social media with
the best of them, but if we can have real marketing and brand power behind that, damn, we’ll be unstoppable.”
“Hayes already is,” Kenzie comments.
“All we want is to take over the world; is that too much to ask?”
“Adding taking over the world to my to-do list,” Bronwyn says, turning toward Willa, giving me a glimpse of her profile.
“God, Coffman Witte is going to be so sad they didn’t fight harder for you. Just let you walk out the door…” Willa says,
fingers making the walking motion.
Bronwyn winces, forcing a smile to her face. Something about what Willa said struck a nerve. One that runs deep. Much
more so than any of my faux pas yesterday.
I knew the story of how Hayes poached Bronwyn from some massive marketing firm in Boston—Willa hasn’t shut up about
it for weeks. Not since she and Gus interviewed Bronwyn. How this company allegedly didn’t blink when Bronwyn handed in
her notice, not even bothering with a counteroffer, even though she was some big deal in their world. She’d been listed in some
magazine as one of “thirty-five under thirty-five” to watch out for. Whatever that meant. I won’t lie, I don’t know enough about
how all that works, but I have to agree, it sounds impressive.
Which is why it doesn’t make sense that some company would let her walk like that. Add in Bronwyn’s forced facial
expression just now, and that tells me all I need to know. I might not be talkative, but I can read people better than anyone I
know. Bronwyn has a story. There’s more to her than meets the eye.
And I want to know all of it.
“Coffman Witte is in the past. I’m here now, and that’s all that matters.”
Nice deflection…
There is a lull in the conversation, the noise from the crowd taking over for a moment. Normally this kind of thing wouldn’t
feel weird. The seven of us are close enough that conversation ebbs and flows naturally, all of us comfortable in however it
goes down. Even silence. Except, it’s not the seven of us anymore.
There’s eight.
And that even number is now throwing us off.
“Truth or dare, anyone?” Nash tosses out, his charisma shining through again.
I can see his eyes on Bronwyn, and my mind starts reeling with how this is going to go. Because this game always starts
one of two ways—by age or alphabetical order. With Bronwyn in the mix, she’d start us out. And I would bet my entire half of
Keller Landscaping that Nash has the two-headed coin that we bought to aid in Dustin’s proposal last spring sitting in his
pocket.
“As in the game?” Bronwyn questions, looking at Willa. “That’s a random suggestion.”
There’s a sass to her voice that’s impossible to miss. It’s not the borderline surly kind that is Willa’s trademark. Instead,
Bronwyn’s oozes a confidence that declares that she knows her cool status and that she will not stand for it being challenged. It
sends a shiver up my spine, my whole body—especially my dick—reacting to the smooth coolness in her voice and the coy
upturn of her mouth.
“Ignore him; he’s a Neanderthal,” Willa tells her. “We’ve played since we were kids and have kept up the tradition.
Although never in public.”
“It’s generally how we get each other to spill secrets,” Sylvie adds. “Some people are still notoriously tight-lipped
however.”
Pursing her lips, she glares at me. Doesn’t bother me though, so I lift one shoulder in indifference. Bronwyn still isn’t
looking my way. At this point, I could do a tap dance in a tutu and I don’t think she’d turn around.
“Gotcha,” Bronwyn replies. “Well, you guys wanna play, go for it. I should get going anyway.”
“No!” the girls cry in unison.
“Seriously, ignore him,” Willa repeats. “We’re not playing truth or dare right now. In fact, I’m sure the boys were just
leaving.”
“We can,” Dustin offers.
“Gladly,” I add.
 “No, no.” Turning to me for the first time since I walked in, Bronwyn gives me a half smile. I want a full one, but right now
will take what I can get. “I still have so much unpacking and settling in to do. Especially if we’re going to start bright and early
on Monday. Taking over the world waits for no one.”
“You sure?”
“I am.”
Slipping off her chair, she grabs her purse, reaching in to pull out her wallet.
“We don’t pay here,” Willa tells her, waving her off. “Especially when all you drank was lemonade.”
Bronwyn doesn’t listen though, pulling out a few bills and slapping them on the bar, flashing Willa her full smile. It does
not disappoint.
“Tip then. Kenzie, Sylvie, it was great to meet you, and I look forward to doing this again. Willa, see you Monday.”
One last nod, and she slips past us, not bothering to acknowledge the rest of the group, making her way to the door. I keep
my eyes trained on her as she goes, stopping myself from staring at her perfect ass swaying in her jeans. My whole body aches
as she disappears through the door, and I have to fight the urge to run after her. To apologize to her for my twin and for crashing
her time with her new friends. To offer to make sure she gets home safely, even though the cottage isn’t very far from Pour
Decisions.
Instead, I stay put, balling my hands into fists and turning to face Nash.
 6

NOEL

“NASH, YOU FUCKING JACKASS !”

Willa steals the words right out of my mouth, beating me to the whooping I am dying to hand out. Only hers will be verbal
and nothing more. Leaving plenty of room for mine later tonight when we get home.
“What?”
“What?! What?! I swear to God it’s like you are trying to ruin my day.”
“Just an added bonus, Princess.”
He slips into the now empty seat between her and Kenzie, picking up the beer Milo dropped off for him. Like he doesn’t
have a care in the world. Like he didn’t just crash an event that we long ago swore to leave alone. It was a pact that was made
in high school—the girls got their time together, we boys got ours, and whatever happened during that time, stayed there. Like
Vegas.
Willa’s eyes go wide and her hands outstretch, fingers curled in, and she makes like she’s going to strangle him. I don’t
think there is a single one of us that would stop her right now either.
“Ignoring the fact that Bronwyn is really fucking important to Hayes, and that Gus is so over the moon about finding a
marketing person—a young one at that—who was willing to move to rural Georgia that he all but did a dance. Yes, Gus did a
little almost jig in his chair when Bronwyn accepted the offer,” Willa spells out for him, talking slowly in her I think you’re
stupid voice.
Her oldest brother, who is executive vice president of Hayes and the heir apparent to take over the company when their
father, Auggie, retires, is notoriously serious. Willa likes to call him grumpy. So for him to be doing a happy dance, that was a
big deal.
“Even ignoring that,” she continues, her pointer finger out and trained on him, “how dare you welcome someone to our
town like that? She is brand-new to Hickory Hills, doesn’t know a single person in this state, much less this town. And what do
you do? You show up, crashing girls’ night, which I know you know is sacred, and say dumb shit like ‘heard a lot about you.’
Who says that? Can you imagine how she feels?”
“Flattered?”
“Nash!” Kenzie scolds. “I know you aren’t this dumb. What got into you?”
“Which desperate housewife turned you down?” Sylvie follows up.
“For the last time, there are no angry husbands in this town. At least not by my doing,” Nash says.
I shake my head, crossing my arms and standing back, just letting this all play out. Dustin and Camden do the same thing. He
dug his grave; he can now lie in it.
“So then, explain yourself,” Kenzie says. “Because we didn’t show up unannounced when y’all were watching the game
when you first adopted Camden in the group, so what made you think that’s what you should do tonight?”
She sounds like she’s talking a small child through their bad choices, her voice calm but still rigid. It’s something that only
a librarian can do, and Kenzie has never been willing to share whether it comes naturally or if there was some on the job
training.
“And for another thing, you other three,” Sylvie adds, her teacher voice making an appearance. “What made you think that
you shouldn’t stop it? Hmmmmm?”
All four of us have the good sense to shrink a little. Camden mutters something I can’t hear under his breath, and based on
the look Sylvie throws at him, I don’t dare ask him to repeat it. Dustin doesn’t bother to say anything, and I join him in that
approach.
Nash squirms on the stool, face scrunched as he starts to make his plea. “Want to know what got into me? Him.” He points
to me, the rest of the group turning.
I shrug. “Don’t drag me into this.”
 “This one has finally found a girl who ‘cranks his tractor’ and I’m the last one to know about it? I’m literally his other
half!”
“We’re fraternal; there were different entities involved,” I correct him, but he’s not paying attention.
“Sure, I probably owe her an apology. But the fact that all y’all were willing to sit back and ignore that Noel Joshua Keller
has commented that a woman is ‘cute’…well, y’all should be ashamed of yourselves.”
“So, you do like her,” Kenzie says. The smile spreading across her face is conspiratorial and matches the ones on Sylvie’s.
Oh shit.
“We’re not done talking about you,” Willa sneers under her breath at Nash, poking him. He rolls his eyes.
“Noel?” Sylvie asks.
I swallow hard, trying to figure out if there is a way to not answer this question. Saying I like Bronwyn is a leap. Am I
intrigued? Yes. Am I secretly trying to figure out a way to make our paths cross? Yes. Did I jack off in the shower thinking
about her, like I’m some thirteen-year-old kid who can’t control himself? Also yes. And speaking of juvenile, the word like is
right up there. Is that even the correct word when you’re thirty? No. Probably not.
Interested. That’s the right word. Which means I can deny liking her. There we go. Sometimes I surprise even myself.
“No.”
“But, you’re interested,” Kenzie follows up.
Shit. Leave it to her to boil this down.
“All I said was she was cute when Dustin asked what she was like. That’s it. And fucking see if I tell you anything again,
rock star.”
“What?” Dustin questions. “Out of you, that’s a big statement.”
I can’t deny he’s right. Doesn’t mean I like it though.
“Moving on.”
“Dawgs win?” Sylvie asks, granting me the reprieve I’m desperate for. She always was my favorite.
Her innocent question stumps us though, since none of us apparently thought to look up the final score on the way over here.
Hell, I don’t even know what time the game was or who UGA was playing. I make a mental note that we need to either give up
the ghost on our ruse or determine a better plan for covering for ourselves. All while wondering if I can pull out my phone and
look it up without being noticed.
“They sure did!” Brandt Rawlins, Milo’s best friend and business partner, says as he walks by, hands filled with empty pint
glasses. “Clemson needed putting in their place too.”
I watch as relief washes over the faces of all my buddies, the women in our life seemingly none the wiser that we didn’t
actually know that answer.
“But seriously,” Nash says, leaning back in his stool, arm slung over the back. “You gonna ask her out?”
“I thought we were moving on,” I grumble.
“Nope.” Nash pops the p, letting the sound hang in the air, an echo that nobody wants.
“What does it matter?”
“It doesn’t,” Willa insists. “Stop being such an instigator.” She slaps Nash with the back of her hand, but he doesn’t notice.
“It’s what I do. And y’all can’t tell me there is anything more exciting going on in this town.”
“Actually…” Kenzie interjects.
She launches into a story about something that went down at this week’s Hickory Hills Service Committee meeting. I nod at
all the right moments, pretending to follow along with the riveting tale of how Bernice Myers showed up to the meeting and sat
in the seat of Mrs. Burch—the woman who has charged herself with overseeing all things Hickory Hills news related, a.k.a the
head of the rumor mill. I’m never one to care too much about whatever gossip is flowing through this little town—and there is
usually plenty—but tonight, I really don’t care. Tonight my mind is entirely occupied with a beautiful outsider with honey-
colored hair, matching eyes, and a coy smile that makes me want to do backflips.
Who also happens to be the same woman who just walked out of here without giving me a second glance.
Challenge accepted.
“Wait, who’s Bernice Myers?” Dustin asked.
“The slutty redhead KatieRae Gates’s ex was caught red-handed with,” Willa explains.
“I think I missed that story,” Dustin replies.
“You did not. I explained the whole thing to you. She caught him, so she moved away to Atlanta, met that professional
soccer player…that was why she was on the trip to Nashville where you saw Moira, which led to me calling you…” Kenzie
prompts, looking at him, waiting for him to catch on.
He simply shakes his head and continues to drink his beer. Can’t blame him there. Kenzie rolls her eyes, continuing on with
her story, both Sylvie and Willa riveted. Dustin and Camden are equally captivated—not with the story, but with their women
—whereas Nash has turned to his phone, doomscrolling through some app.
Suddenly, I feel like the fifth wheel. Err, seventh. Three nice pairs—even if Nash and Willa are the exact opposite—and
then me. It’s an odd feeling, especially since we do things with the seven of us all the time. So clearly, it’s a me thing.
Something about how my mind isn’t where it’s supposed to be.
I force myself to take a drink, my beer going warm in my hand. But worse than warm, it’s gone sour. Or again, maybe that’s
just me. Either way, the funky aftertaste lingers, my tongue feeling like it’s coated in a film.
Definitely time to call it a night. Nothing good can come when the beer no longer taste right.
“I’m calling it,” I tell the group, sliding my still half-full pint back onto the bar.
“What?” my brother asks, looking up from his phone and facing me. “You can’t call it. It’s still early. Plus it’s Saturday
night!”
“What’s your point? Some of us worked all damn day.”
“I worked,” he mutters, waving me off.
He did work. He spent most of the day finishing up the plans for the new landscaping around the local dentist office,
making sure that he had everything perfect to present to them on Monday. Nash might be a pain in the ass and an instigator at
times, but he’s also a damn hard worker and a perfectionist.
“You okay?” Sylvie’s worried voice questions, her eyes holding the same concern.
I nod. “Yup, just tired. Wasn’t planning on going out. I’ll catch y’all later.”
I spin on my heel, not waiting for any kind of reaction. I know how this goes. It’s the same song and dance any time one of
us cuts out early. The girls feign concern, and when that doesn’t work, they pout, while the guys pull the manly “whatever, your
call, dude” attitude while silently trying to communicate the same thing the female contingent is.
Tonight, though, it’s not going to work.
Minutes later, I’m back in my truck, turning on Silver Lake Road, heading back to our humble little ranch house. It’s not
much, but it’s home. Nash and I have poured blood, sweat, and tears into renovating the place, turning it into the perfect
bachelor pad. I turn up the radio, allowing myself to get lost in an old Brad Paisley song. The melody and lyrics are as familiar
as these roads, comforting in a way I can’t describe. Both are like an old friend who knows what you’re trying to say without
words, and can communicate back with just as much ease.
That is, until I turn onto Depot Road.
Sitting in the middle of the road is an ancient brown flatbed truck, rusted up one side and down the other, the left blinker
flashing. I’d know that truck anywhere. Which means I have a damn good guess who’s driving it.
Bronwyn.
I slow down, coming up behind her, throwing on my hazards. Hickory Hills may be small and it may be late, but it’s still a
Saturday night and this is still one of the main roads through town. Safety first.
Sliding out of my truck, I leisurely make my way to the driver’s side, unable to hold back my smile as I catch a glimpse of
Bronwyn in the rear-view mirror. She’s tucked her long hair behind her ears, left hand gripping the wheel like her life depends
on it, teeth sunk into her bottom lip as she tries to turn over the engine. An engine that has no interest in doing anything.
I take a moment to soak in her beauty. Even clearly frustrated, there is something about her that I can’t take my eyes off of.
But I need to. Because she needs help.
“Hey there,” I drawl, placing one hand above the car door and leaning in. I try to think of something funny and witty to say,
but I’m the wrong Keller. So I settle with the only thing that comes to mind. “Whatcha doin’?”
“Hosting a tea party,” she retorts without skipping a beat. She runs her hand over her ear, like she’s tucking her hair, a
nervous tic if I ever saw one.
“Well, I don’t know how you do things up there in the north, but down here, we don’t advise doin’ that in the middle of the
street.”
Bronwyn turns toward me, leveling me with a look. One that is a mix of “I can’t believe you sassed me back” and “what
did you just say?” Her eyes send a different message though—they sing a song of how she’s frustrated and afraid to show it. My
heart aches, my desire to help even stronger now.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened,” I say, trying to change the tone.
“It…it’s just stopped.”
“Just stopped?”
“Yes! The clutch wouldn’t engage, so I pushed as hard as I could, then all of a sudden it went straight to the floor, and then
it was, like, floppy, and the truck just stopped.”
I peer inside, leaning over her. She pushes back into the seat, allowing me room, but the cab is only so big. My shoulder
grazes against her front, and I have to stop my mind from running in a very inappropriate direction. My dick is already trying to
run the show; he doesn’t need a co-conspirator right now. Her sweet scent fills my nostrils, making me dizzy and borderline
drunk as it takes over all my senses. I have no idea what it is, but I know that it’s not something I’ll be forgetting soon.
“Probably has to do with your being in reverse,” I tell her, pushing back out of the truck. I lean against it, resting my
forearm along the window.
“Not possible. I was moving forward.”
 “With a standard transmission, it’s possible. It’s also why the clutch went out.”
“Is that why it won’t start now?” she asks, biting her lip again. Fuck, that is turning me on way more than it should.
“Maybe. You turning it over and over and over again trying to start it isn’t doing it any favors either.”
“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? I’m pumping the gas while⁠—”
I throw my head back, laughing. I know it’s not what I should be doing and that it’s borderline mean, but I can’t help it.
“No, Honey. Not with a stick. You don’t touch the gas pedal at all. I got ten bucks that say you’ve flooded the engine.”
“Shit…” She bangs both hands on the wheel, letting out a growl that reminds me of a baby lion—way more cute than
terrifying. But just like I wouldn’t tell the lion that, I’m not going to tell Bronwyn. “And my name isn’t honey.”
“Bronwyn,” I correct myself.
She nods, accepting the correction. She’s still giving me half a glare though. Which, oddly, I like.
Pushing off the truck, I open the door, ushering her out while reaching for my phone and tapping in one of the first phone
numbers I learned. Sure, I have it saved in my contacts, but I’ve dialed it so many times that it’s faster to punch it in than to
scroll looking for it. Bronwyn slides out, looking at me confused.
“A Noble Mechanic,” a familiar, comforting voice greets.
“Ken, it’s Noel.”
“Hey there, kid, what’s up?”
“Could use your help. We’re on Depot, right before the curve into Monument Center.”
“Not like you to not be able to fix something.” I smile at the compliment. Ken Noble—town mechanic, local hero, Kenzie’s
dad, and all-around good people—calls it like he sees it. Always has. Which makes him saying things like that mean even
more.
“It’s an old Hayes truck. I’m not messin’ with that.”
“I heard something about how they gave one to the new gal they got workin’ for them until her car arrives. Please tell me
it’s not that one.”
“Sure is.”
He sighs loudly, no doubt a silent string of curses rushing through his mind. “I’m on my way. No need to wait. It’s late, so
get that young lady home.”
“Will do.”
I hang up, turning back to the beautiful Yankee currently leaning up against the rusty flatbed. Who is currently staring at me
like she could smack me.
“Who was that?”
“Ken Noble. Kenzie’s dad. He’s on the way with his tow truck.”
“Tow truck? But how will I get to work Monday?”
Work? That was her first thought? Oh boy…
“Well, if Ken can’t get it up and running by then, I’ll pick you up.”
“You will not,” she huffs.
“C’mon, let’s get you home. We can discuss this while I drive.”
Bronwyn pushes off the vehicle, crossing her arms and staring me down. “I can walk.”
“Nope. Don’t care that it’s not that far. I’m a gentleman, and a gentleman doesn’t let a lady walk alone at night.”
Narrowing her eyes, she gives me a once-over, for at least the tenth time since we met yesterday. “A gentleman, huh?”
“Yup. Southern one at that.”
I hold out my hand, smirking. To my surprise, she doesn’t fight me. Just slips her hand into mine, smirking back and letting
me lead her to my truck. I open the door, help her in, and slam it shut. Feeling pretty good about myself, I round the hood and
hop in to get her home.
“Keller Landscaping to the rescue,” I joke, firing up my truck.
“I don’t need rescuing.”
“Says the lady who was broken down in the middle of the road.”
“There’s a difference between needing assistance, and rescuing.”
“Potato, patahto.”
She chuckles, shaking her head. “Whatever.”
“So, what time shall I pick you up for work Monday? And can I talk you into breakfast first?”
 7

BRONW YN

I SETTLE deep into my office chair, wiggling my hips to start to break in the new, stiff leather. It lets out a squeak, which softly
echoes off the bare, freshly painted walls. Walls that look very sterile in their neutral, eggshell color, asking for attention and
personalization. Which is just one more thing to be excited about—a chance to decorate my own office.
An office with a door.
All I had at Coffman Witte was a cubicle. I’d at least graduated to a solo cube, no longer forced to sit in this weird quad
that left zero room for privacy. I’d come so close to a real office. But that was before it all took a turn.
None of that matters now though, because I have a new life. With Hayes Industries.
With my own office.
I glance at the clock on my laptop, wondering how it’s already a little past eleven. The morning—most of which was spent
filling out paperwork with Human Resources, and then watching as IT made sure my office was wired correctly—has flown
by. Especially since I didn’t sleep much—my eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling fan spin, running through all the different
ways this morning could play out. Including how I was going to turn down breakfast again.
Because secretly, I really wanted to go to breakfast.
Noel hadn’t flinched when I turned down his offer as he dropped me off the other night. Hell, he hadn’t even skipped a beat
with his follow-up question of what time I wanted to be picked up. Which actually made me flinch. Because his follow-up
question had nothing to do with his original one. Instead, it was the next logical one. There had been no disbelief that I
wouldn’t want to eat with him, and no attempt to convince me that I didn’t know what I want. Just acceptance of it. Something
that was incredibly endearing, actually.
True to his word, Noel was at my door, promptly at the time I requested. With breakfast.
“Wasn’t sure what your breakfast meat of choice is, or if you even eat meat, so that one is just egg and cheese,” he told me,
handing me a warm breakfast burrito wrapped in tin foil. “There’s salsa in the truck if you want it.”
That burrito had been an answer to a prayer, since there was zero food in the house, and making it to the grocery store was
out of the question since I no longer had a car. The pizza I had ordered in the middle of the afternoon yesterday barely saw
dinner last night, leaving me without the leftovers I had been counting on for today. I scarfed the burrito down like I hadn’t
eaten in weeks, catching the smirk on Noel’s face, grateful he didn’t comment. Instead, we rode in silence until we reached
Hayes, where he handed me a business card with his cell number scribbled on it with a wink, in case I needed a ride home.
A wink that I thought about the entire time I filled out government paperwork and listened to the IT guy prattle on about…I
don’t even know. Because I was too busy thinking about that wink and letting the butterfly it let loose run havoc in my tummy.
A tummy that was now grumbling. The very sweet HR lady mentioned something about a cafeteria during the brief tour she
gave me. I was too turned around to remember which building we were in—I think it was this one, no, maybe it was next door
—but I’m sure I can find someone who would be willing to give me directions.
“There you are!” Willa says, strutting into my office, a grin on her face that makes her look like the cat who ate the canary.
“Should I be elsewhere?” I question.
Shit, did I miss a meeting? That would be just my luck. Miss a meeting on the first day.
Willa looks down at her watch, shaking her head. “Nope, we have fifteen minutes ’til Munch. Which gives you plenty of
time to spill the tea.”
She plops down in one of the modern style guest chairs across from my desk, crossing her long legs. Her smirk grows
bigger, her eyebrows waggling, and suddenly I feel like I’m on the outside of a secret. Although she certainly thinks I’m the one
with insider knowledge.
“Munch? And I don’t understand what you mean about tea.”
“Munch is Monday lunch. Every Monday my brothers, my dad, and I have lunch together and talk through what’s going on at
Hayes. It’s nothing formal, and you won’t have to attend every week—usually only the first week of the month do all the
executives join us. But, since it’s your first day, and you haven’t met the whole gang yet, I thought it’d be nice.”
“Oh, thank you. Yes, I would love to meet the rest of your brothers. I’m still figuring out who is who and who does what,
but…I promise I’ll get there.”
Thank goodness…lunch plans…
I breathe a silent sigh of relief, Willa waving off my concerns. “We’re a big family. It’ll take some time, we know. And I’ll
give you a run-through once we’re in there. But for now, tea! Spill it!”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sorry, southern-ism,” Willa laughs. “It means to share the gossip.”
“You mean spill the beans.”
“Down here we say tea, as in sweet tea.”
I nod, making a mental note. Only, I don’t have any sweet tea to spill. At least I don’t think I do. I stare at Willa, who’s
staring right back at me, expectantly. What on earth could she want to know about?
“Noel drove you to work this morning…” she prompts.
Oh…that…
“Willa!” a male voice shouts, cutting me off as I open my mouth to respond.
“In here!” she shouts back, with no more direction than that, like this is some weird game of Marco Polo. It’s fine by me
though, since it saves me from having to answer her inquiry. Because right now, I’m not sure I could do that without blushing.
“Where’s… oh, there you are,” her oldest brother, Gus, says, stopping in my doorway. “I was going to ask if you were
grabbing Bronwyn for Munch, so never mind. And oh, hi, Bronwyn, welcome.”
“Thanks, Gus. I’m happy to be here.”
He nods, his face as solemn as it was the entire time he interviewed me. I wondered then, and still wonder, if the man
knows how to smile. A long, weirdly silent second passes, and then he nods again, turning on his heel and leaving.
“And that’s my oldest brother. I promise he’s not always that weird. But, we should head down to the conference room. Get
our first choice of whatever is being served today.”
I follow her lead, taking a left out of my office and making our way down the long hallway. She points out whose office is
whose as we wind through the corridor, and I nod as if I’m going to keep this all straight. When we reach the large wooden
double doors to the executive conference room, she flings them open and proceeds through, as if she were a movie star making
an entrance. Then again, she was Miss Georgia at one point, so making an entrance and strutting her stuff is her thing.
Making quick work of filling our plates with the grilled chicken, salad, roasted mixed veggies, and the best looking rolls
I’ve ever seen, we sit down at the long mahogany table, everyone else filing into the room. With every new guest the sound
level rises, each one somehow louder than the last. By the time they’re all in here, the sound level feels like it must rival a rock
concert, and I start to feel for whoever’s office shares a wall with this room.
“That’s a six,” a tall, dark-haired brother says, pointing to something on Gus’s phone.
“Are you blind? That’s a five. Without question,” comments another one, who was slightly shorter, but just as dark.
“It’s a six,” Milo chirped. “But I’d be more concerned if that first number is a three or an eight.”
“Eight!”
At this point, I can’t keep track of who is arguing what or why these numbers matter so much. Whatever it is, by the looks
on all six of their faces, it must be a matter of national security.
“Can’t you just call both and see if she answers? You did get her name, right?”
Ahhhh…a phone number. A woman’s at that. Makes more sense now.
“Settle down,” a good-looking man in his sixties says, sitting down with his plate of food.
August Hayes—who insisted I call him “Auggie” during my interview—has a strong, quiet demeanor to him, easily
commanding the room. The group stops talking—some midsentence—everyone turning their attention to the head of the table.
Looking around, I’m amazed how different each member of the Hayes family is. Their different heights, facial features, hair and
eye color pairings—each one unique. Yet, it’s perfectly clear that they are all related.
“That’s better.” His southern drawl is as thick as molasses and just as sweet. The calm, charming smile on his face adds to
his overall charisma. As does the graying around his temples that hasn’t quite spread through the rest of his light brown hair.
Once it does though, Auggie Hayes will without a doubt be a silver fox. “That’s a three and a five, by the way. Did your mama
and I not teach y’all how to read?”
I bite back a laugh, not wanting any of them to think I found their father mocking them humorous. Even if they were
chuckling, shaking their heads, and still muttering their numerical choices under their breaths.
“Now, down to business. Y’all, today we welcome Bronwyn Ainsworth, who is joining us as director of marketing. We’re
excited to have her here to replace Martin Brown. Bronwyn, I’d say you have some big shoes to fill, but Martin was old school
in his tactics, and well, as we’ve already talked about, that’s no longer the route we wish to take.”
I nod, my brain already churning with ideas. Hayes has so many different industries under its umbrella that the possibilities
are endless.
 Auggie continues with his welcome speech, going around and introducing everyone, so I can put faces with names and
departments. Gus, who is the executive vice president, is also currently over guns and ammo, although both he and Auggie
made a note that those responsibilities would probably be changing soon. Milo, who I met at Pour Decisions the other night,
runs Southern Brothers Brewing. Huxley oversees the paper mill, and Jace handles anything related to personal safety
protection—which, thanks to some research, I learned actually is a very different industry from weaponry. Finally, there is
Anton, who is in charge of agriculture, and Ewan, who owns and operates The Booby Trap, which is what he renamed Knox
County Bait and Tackle when he bought it a bunch of years back.
“Speaking of The Booby Trap,” I say, once Auggie is done. I’m pretty sure I have everyone straight, so I turn to Ewan, with
something that has been on my mind since I started to research and develop some thoughts about marketing and branding. “I get
the whole pun thing, but for branding and potential advertising purposes, that might not sit well with some, so…how attached
are you to that name?”
My question is immediately followed by some low “ohhhhs,” seat shifting, and even a muffled giggle or two as each one of
the Hayes brothers looks to Ewan.
“Very. I get what you’re saying, but it stays. It’s more than just a pun.”
“Only thing he has left from Maisey,” one of them mutters, but I can’t tell who.
“Not a problem; we can make it work,” I reassure him. “Just thought I’d ask.”
“I’ll explain later,” Willa whispers, leaning in so only I can hear her. I nod, thankful she has my back. Straightening herself,
she looks to her family and continues. “First things first though, the Turkey Trot!”
A collective groan follows, making the table almost vibrate. Uh-oh.
“You mean that we’re getting rid of it?” Jace asks.
“No. We’re going to make it bigger. So while y’all can have some of Bronwyn’s time for your marketing and branding
needs, the first major project is the Turkey Trot. It needs a complete overhaul. We need to do something fun and fresh and make
it the biggest one yet.”
“No one cares about corporate giving, Wil. You are literally the smallest fish here,” Huxley says.
Willa retaliates in a way that only a little sister can, by sticking her tongue out. I bite back a laugh, not wanting to make it
look like I’m taking sides, even though I am. Professionally and personally. The professional side at least has an argument.
“Actually,” I jump in, “we do need to focus more on incorporating Willa’s department in with the rest of yours. Corporate
giving is way more than just cutting checks for the required amounts to hit the tax breaks. Hayes Gives Back needs to be a
major focus over the next couple of years, with each industry finding a way to specifically contribute. Anton, agriculture is the
easiest, so probably the one we’ll tackle first.”
“With the Turkey Trot,” Willa adds.
“Just tell me what you need.”
My heart jumps, my pulse starting to race with the excitement. Because this is what I love. Putting together plans to help
refocus brands and grow a business. This is what I was put on earth to do. It’s exactly where my skill set lies, and I am thrilled
to be able to show it off. Especially with Hayes.
Fuck Coffman Witte…and Marie too…
I launch into my ideas—very basic ones I’m half spitballing since prior to forty-five seconds ago, I didn’t know anything
about a Turkey Trot. But that’s okay. I can think on my feet. A few moments and a bunch of half ideas later, I have them all
nodding, buying in to my thought process. I can feel Willa’s excitement radiating off her as she wiggles in her seat, playing off
what I’m saying.
This is gonna be good.
“OMG, you’re seriously a rock star!” Willa says, closing my office door behind us. “And I know one when I see one, since
my bestie is marrying an actual rock star.”
“Isn’t he a country star?”
“Same difference. Anyway, you seriously kick ass. I have never seen any of my brothers so bought into Hayes Gives Back.
Maybe that’s because Martin, the guy who just retired from this role, was about 700 years old and believed that the only
marketing you really need is advertising. He also has no problem voicing his opinion that my talents would be better spent
being in said advertisements rather than running a ‘made-up department.’”
“Sounds like a real winner, this Martin.”
Lowering myself into the other guest chair, I look at Willa, my own mixed feelings starting to rise up. She’s fantastic. Smart,
funny, witty. It’s clear that she’s a strong personality and has no problem voicing her opinion, and that she loves what she does.
She also seems like the type who is loyal and takes her friendships seriously. Exactly the type of woman I want in my corner
and to count among my friends. But my head keeps telling me to be wary. That we thought we found this in someone before.
And what happened? We got burned. Not something I can let happen again.
“He was old school. But he’s gone now; that’s what matters.” She smiles, relaxing into the chair, making herself
comfortable. “But, enough about work. I want to know all about this morning, and just why our resident landscaper was your
chauffeur.”
I sigh. Time to come clean. Not that there is anything to come clean about. “It was nothing. Really. It’s only because the
truck broke down on my way home Saturday, and he happened to find me and so he offered to drive me in. Actually, he more
like informed me that he would drive me.”
“That sounds like our boy. But wait, the truck broke? Does Gus know?”
“I think so? Noel said that the guy who runs the tow truck said he would let Gus know. But I should probably check.”
That thought totally slipped my mind. Oops. Add that to this afternoon’s to-do list.
“I knew we shouldn’t have given you that truck,” she mutters. “But if Ken says he called Gus, then he did. And I would bet
he chewed him out at that.”
I swallow hard, hoping I didn’t cause trouble. That’s the last thing I need or want on my first day. Since the issue of the
truck hasn’t come up yet either, I don’t have any idea which way to lean on that front either. Great, one more thing to worry
about.
“I’ll work on getting you another vehicle. Unless you want to keep riding around with Noel.” She waggles her eyebrows,
smirking, clearly loving the potential for gossip.
“That would be fantastic. I’m rather attached to my independence.”
“I understand that.” She pushes up from the chair and spins to head to the door. “Let’s get that going for you. Also, pull out
your phone, open your calendar, and block out Friday night. It’s bonfire night.”
“Is that a town event?”
“No, it’s an us thing. We’ve been doing them out in the woods by Rocky Pond since we were teenagers. And yes, we’re all
adults with homes of our own, but we still like to hang out in the woods. And you’re one of us now, so Friday at six thirty. If
there is anything specific you like to drink, just let Noel know. The boys are in charge of beverages.”
Noel…
My pulse skitters, those butterflies from earlier resurfacing. I try to tamp them down, but it’s not working. Something about
him has wormed its way in. Something that I do not understand. Something I’m not sure I want to understand.
What I do know is that now I’m suddenly counting down to Friday.
“Sounds like a plan.”
 8

NOEL

I INHALE DEEPLY, a warm fall breeze filling my nostrils. There is a tinge of coolness in the air, and I know once the sun goes
down that the lingering warmth of the day will go with it. Totally fine by me. Perfect bonfire weather.
I lean forward on the old stump that I claimed as my seat long ago, stoking the small fire. It’s growing nicely, and by the
time the rest of the group shows up, we’ll be well on our way to the roaring fire we need for hot dogs and s’mores. The dogs
are a new addition to our nights out, since Camden always insists on real food if he’s going to drink. Willa tried to convince
him at one point that s’mores are real food, but he wasn’t having it. Can’t blame the man.
A squirrel jumping from one tree to another steals my attention, and my eyes roam over the clearing. Nash, Dustin, and I
discovered the spot in junior high, and immediately knew it would be the perfect place for the six of us to hang out. It took
much less convincing than we had expected to get the girls out here—then again, we’d promised them chocolate. From there,
our tradition was born, and we’ve never looked back.
What I did need to get back to, though, was this paperwork. It was the last thing I wanted to do, but that didn’t change that it
needed reviewing. And I figured what better place to do something that I have been dreading than a spot that makes me happy.
Like it might cancel out all the tough decisions I’m going to have to make.
I sit back, slipping through the pages, running the numbers in my head. Everything Dad put together makes sense—the math
is right, the logic is sound—yet, there is still something in me that questions whether it’s all the right move. When we started
Keller Landscaping it was because we wanted to put our knowledge and skills to use, and maybe a little bit about playing in
the dirt. I could have done without all the behind-the-scenes business bullshit.
A snap of a twig cracks through the air. My body goes into high alert, all my senses ready to act. I remain seated but square
off my feet, ready to leap up if needed. That was why I chose this spot all those years ago, so that I could keep an eye on the
path that led to the clearing from the road where we parked. We each have our roles in this group, and whether by default or
choice—I’m still not sure—mine ended up being defender. Which, again, is totally fine by me.
The sound of footsteps soon follows. They’re light enough that I can tell whoever it is isn’t a threat, but it’s also not one of
the gang. These steps are cautious, almost timid, like they aren’t sure where they’re going. Then, I see why.
Bronwyn.
She steps into the clearing, my already solid heart rate kicking up a notch. Her honey-colored hair is pulled back in a low
ponytail, her jeans look like they have been painted on, and her royal-blue tee looks like it was cut just for her. Seriously, it
should be illegal to look that good in just jeans and a tee.
“Oh, hi,” she greets, looking a little startled. “I wasn’t sure where I was going, so I gave myself extra time to get here, but
then I saw your truck, at least I was pretty sure it was your truck, and then I second-guessed myself, and suddenly really wasn’t
sure about anything, but I followed the directions that Willa gave so…”
“Hickory Hills isn’t big enough for you to get lost in. But you found it; that’s all that matters.”
“I didn’t realize I’d be so early,” she comments. She gives me a guilty smile, like she’s admitting to speeding rather than
punctuality.
“You’re not.” I look at my watch. Six twenty. Okay, so she’s a little early. But I’m not going to complain. “It’s more that
we’re a group of exactly on-timers. None of us were raised with the whole ‘on time is fifteen minutes early’ thing. Hell, Nash
operates on his own time zone altogether. He gets there when he gets there.”
Bronwyn laughs, the tension between us starting to wane. Or at least I think it is. She seems more relaxed as she walks
closer and starts to sit in the chair next to me. She stops herself midsquat, popping back up.
“Is it okay if I sit here?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I wasn’t sure if there was assigned seats.”
“This isn’t eighth grade homeroom.”
 She chuckles again, this time making my dick pay attention. “True, but people get funny about their seats.”
“You’re fine. Yes, we all have places we gravitate toward, but it’s nothing we can’t adjust,” I tell her.
It’s the truth. For the most part we’ve all sat in the same spots since we started. Me, right here with my back to Rocky Pond,
Nash directly across from me. Although he doesn’t so much sit as squats or paces—too much energy in him. Dustin and Kenzie
sit to my left on a fallen log, Willa and Sylvie—and now Camden—across from them in camp chairs.
“You were right about him,” she says. It takes me a moment to realize that she’s talking about Nash, bringing the
conversation back to before I mentioned homeroom. “He’s a…”
“An instigating little shit?” I offer.
“Yes, that.”
“Always has been. But it’s what makes him charming. Promise.”
She shakes her head, another laugh—this one almost inaudible—escaping. Fuck, I love seeing her like this. It’s so different
from the tense woman I’ve come across the last few times, and it makes all the difference. The urge to pepper her with
questions, to find out all I can, rises in me, nibbling at my willpower. But I hold back, somehow. I don’t want to scare her.
“I’ll trust you on that. The truth or dare thing was kind of funny though. I mean, speaking of the eighth grade…”
Now it’s my turn to smile. A bold, wicked one as excitement fills me. Bronwyn has no idea what’s coming.
“Prepare yourself, Honey. Because that’s gonna happen.”
“What?”
“Truth or dare. We play every bonfire. It’s tradition.”
“You do not!” she gasps.
“We do. Did you think Willa was making that up?”
Bronwyn pauses, and I can see the wheels turning in her head. “I did, kinda. I haven’t played truth or dare in…shit, I don’t
know, since college?”
“Need a little warm-up?”
I straighten the papers in my lap, not bothering to check to see if they are in an order that will make sense later. Shoving
them in my backpack, I turn back to her, ready to see where this takes us.
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Fine, I will. Truth.”
“Ummm…what were you doing here so early?”
That’s her question? Okay then. She really does need some warming up.
“I always get here first to start the fire. Plus it gave me a chance to go over some stuff I’ve been putting off.”
“The papers? What is it?”
“Nope, your turn. Truth or dare?”
Her eyes go wide, her nerves obvious. “Truth.”
“Tell me a secret.”
“A secret?”
I nod. I watch her face as she tries to think of something. My insides do cartwheels as her lip gets caught in between her
teeth. She’s thinking way too hard about this.
“I’ve never seen Pulp Fiction.”
Now it’s my turn to stare back at her. That’s her secret? I don’t know how shocking it is that she hasn’t seen a movie that is
almost as old as we are.
“Good to know…”
“It was my ex’s favorite. And I fell asleep the first time he made me watch it with him, and so then I had to pretend I’d seen
it and understood all these references to Uma Thurman dancing. Ugh, so yeah, that’s something I’ve been hiding for…well,
frankly, a stupid amount of time.”
Ex. As in no longer. Leading to the reasonable conclusion that she’s single. Just what I wanted to hear.
More than that, her secret was genuine. Not earth-shattering, but genuine, nonetheless. It was something she hasn’t ever
shared but was willing to open up, even if only slightly, and share. Leaving me wanting more.
“Truth,” I say, keeping it going. I like this. Just the two of us, no one else to butt in.
“Ummmm…”
“Want to know what the girls always ask?” She nods. “They always want to know the last time I went out with someone.”
“Is that a secret?”
I shrug. Shifting on the stump so that I’m facing her, I scoot forward until our knees are touching. It’s a bold move, but after
what she just shared, I feel like a barrier has been broken. That maybe I can push it, just a little.
“I don’t tend to kiss and tell. Which is why none of them know that it’s been awhile.”
“How long is awhile?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Little over a year.”
 I lean in more, resting a hand on her knee. When she doesn’t flinch or push me away, I relax, letting it slide to the inside.
“Me too,” she replies, leaning in and closing the gap even more. She licks her lips, eyes glued to mine. “I mean, the while
part. It’s been closer to two for me.”
“Then maybe one of us should dare the other to fix that.”
Bronwyn sucks in a gulp of air, holding it. I can see the flicker in her eyes and know that it’s reflecting the full-on fire in
mine. My mind is racing, wondering if her lips taste like the honey her hair reminds me of.
There’s only one way to find out.
I don’t wait for the dare. I push in closer, closing the small space between us. My hand is still on her knee, acting as an
anchor, tethering us together. Her sweet scent overwhelms me, all of my brain power gone. My whole body is acting on its
own, focusing on finding her lips with mine.
“Hey y’all!”
Fuck…
 9

BRONW YN

I OWE Kenzie Noble a great big thank you. Or a very friendly pie to the face. I’m not quite sure which.
Because last night she stopped me from making a big mistake. Or from…no, no…it would have been a mistake. No matter
how much my body is betraying my brain still, wishing Kenzie and crew had shown up a moment later, kissing Noel would
have been a mistake.
So what if I spent the rest of the night so distracted by the thought of Noel’s lips on mine that I missed pretty much
everything else going on around me. Nor do I remember what question I stumbled through answering when it was my turn for
truth or dare. Something about a wildest dream, I think.
I can guarantee I didn’t tell the truth either. Because there was no way I mentioned the wild sex dream I had starring Noel
after he called the tow truck and drove me home the other night. That’s something I’m keeping to myself. As is the follow-up
dream I had last night, that displaced the first one from the top spot. Friday’s was good—don’t get me wrong. But last night?
Last night’s had me waking up drenched in sweat, all hot, bothered, and fully satiated—my body in a post-orgasmic bliss I
didn’t know dreams could provide.
Apparently, Dream Noel can.
I need to stop thinking about it. Because thinking about it only makes me want it more. And I can’t want it. So I need
something else to focus on. Like the farmers’ market.
Sucking in a deep breath, I nod at the older gentleman who is standing by the welcome table as he hands me a flyer. His
smile is bright, like his whole life is complete standing here greeting the townspeople who enter.
“A list of all today’s booths,” he tells me. “All the usual, but we also have a couple of new folks this fall. Brantford Farms
is down from Ellijay!”
“Thanks!” I reply, forcing myself to be cheerful. I have zero idea who Brantford Farms is, or where Ellijay is, so I nod
some more and make my way down the aisles. The field beside the library is crammed full of stalls, booths, and tents. I’m
amazed they have room for people with how jam-packed it all is.
I wander up and down the rows, taking in all the fresh produce, the bright colors distracting me from what I really want to
be thinking about. There’s a beautifully wide variety of fruits and vegetables, making me wish I had brought more than one
shopping bag with me. I should have brought the roller cart that I used at the markets back in Boston. Clearly, my mind was
elsewhere when I left the house this morning.
Turning a corner, I’m immediately greeted by a stunning floral smell. It’s a mix of different scents, all rolled into something
that can’t be named, yet is swirling around me like fairy dust in a princess movie. I’m drawn over to a back booth with stunning
bouquets, small potted plants, and a few trees.
“Good morning! Looking for anything special?” the middle-aged man behind the table asks.
“No, just admiring these beauties.”
I lean in, pressing my nose to the big, full pink bloom, inhaling the scent. It’s mild and sweet, tickling my nostrils.
“It was a good year for dahlias. We had a colder winter and a wet spring, both things they thrive off of. Which should also
make for an interesting camellia season this year.”
“Camellia?”
“Yup. That’s these.” He points to a bush to my left. Right now it just looks like your standard greenery, but my black thumb
and I are not the ones to ask about anything plant related. “They’re a good evergreen shrub. They’ll bloom all winter, giving
your garden a good pop of color while everything else is dormant.”
“I’ll file that away should I ever decide to take up gardening. Although, admittedly, I kill pretty much every plant I ever take
on so…”
“Rookie errors, I’m sure. We’ll have to get you by the nursery sometime, We can walk you through pretty much anything you
wish to take on. I’m Jack, by the way. Jack Keller.”
 Keller. Nursery.
The puzzle pieces snap together. Keller Nursery, literally parents to Keller Landscaping. This is Noel and Nash’s father.
“Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Bronwyn Ainsworth. I just moved to town⁠—”
“Right, the new Hayes exec!” He turns slightly and yells over his shoulder. “Lucy, this is Bronwyn, the new gal.”
How does he…oh, right. Small town. Everyone knows everything. Good to know they weren’t kidding about that.
“Hi!” A beautiful blonde woman greets me, a bright smile on her face. She looks as though she wants to hug me, the table in
between us the only thing stopping her. Looking at both Mr. and Mrs. Keller, I can see where the twins got their looks. “It’s so
nice to meet you! I was hoping we’d get a chance to pop by this week and welcome you to town, but it took on a life of its own
and just didn’t happen.”
“Oh, that’s okay. It was a pretty wild week.”
“Well, with that old jalopy they gave you to drive, I’m a little surprised you didn’t have even more of an adventure than you
did.”
Oh, for the love. They really do know everything. Then again, it was their son who came to my aid, so maybe my
breakdown wasn’t fully public knowledge. Yeah, let’s go with that.
“Here,” Mr. Keller says, gathering a bouquet of dahlias. “Take these. As our way of saying welcome to Hickory Hills.”
“Oh, thank you. How much?”
I reach for my wallet, but Mrs. Keller’s arm shoots out, grabbing my hand. “No, no. It’s on the house.”
“I couldn’t⁠—”
“Your money’s no good here. And I meant what I said—you’re welcome at the nursery any time. We’ll turn that thumb
green!”
“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Keller. That’s so sweet!”
“Please, I’m Mama K, and he’s just Jack. That’s what the whole gang calls us.”
The whole gang. A knot forms in my stomach, unsure how to take this comment. Telling myself it’s a good sign that they are
so welcoming and automatically assume I’m part of the “gang,” I nod. Because it is a good thing. I know it is. It’s also not
something I’m used to. It’s been a long time since I had a set of parents in my life—mine or a friend’s—and being welcomed
with open arms by a set is weird. Comforting, but weird.
I hold up the bouquet, starting my exit. “Thank you, Mama K and Jack. I appreciate it.”
“Call if you need anything!” she shouts after me, in true mom fashion.
It’s a simple statement, but one that makes my insides melt all the same. Emotion rises in me, and tears prick at the corner
of my eyes. Part of me wants to turn around and rush back to give Mama K that hug she so clearly wanted. It sounds silly, I
know. Still, the urge is there.
Maybe small-town life isn’t so bad.
I continue to walk up and down the aisles, taking it all in, one booth at a time. For such a small community, this market is
big and has an amazing variety. You name it, it’s here. Produce, pre-made food, arts, crafts, gifts, everything. I’ve made what
seems like a million mental notes about which booths to hit up again next week when I have my basket. Without a doubt, this is
going to be my new Saturday morning ritual.
The idea of having a new ritual feels good. It’s the first major “settled in” thought I’ve had since arriving here, and pairing
that with the warmth from the Kellers, I think I could get used to this. Maybe it is time to plant a few roots as they say—no pun
intended—and make someplace home. Leave everything that happened—Marie, Coffman Witte, everything—back in Boston.
“Local honey?”
I turn around to find a leggy blonde holding out an itty-bitty sample spoon with one hand and a jar of honey in the other.
She’s dressed a little…seductively, I think is the word I’d go with…for the event. Her short skirt barely covers her ass, her
long legs made to look even longer by the black lace-up wedges, and her neon pink tube top shimmies its way down her breasts
with every breath. If she’s not careful, she’s going to be offering up a whole lot more than local honey to this market.
“Sure.”
As she scoops the sample spoon into the jar, her boobs jiggle, and for a second I’m sure this is the moment they’re going to
choose to make their escape. They don’t though—much to my relief. She must have some serious double sided tape magic
going on in there.
I take the spoon from her, gently licking off the sticky goodness. Holy shit. This isn’t just good—it’s fantastic. Perfect for
my morning cup of tea. Which means I need a jar. ASAP.
“That’s delicious! I’ll take it.”
“Oh, wonderful!” She leads me over to the booth, grabbing an unopened jar and a mini wooden honey dipper. “That’ll be
fourteen dollars. Say, you’re the new girl, aren’t you?”
“I am,” I answer. This is only the umpteenth time I’ve answered this question since the Kellers first asked me. Each time it
gets a little more grating, but I remind myself that after this, I shouldn’t have to answer it. I hope. “Bronwyn Ainsworth. Nice to
meet you.”
 Pulling out my wallet, I slip my debit card from its spot and hand it to her. At least I try to hand it to her. Blondie here
sneers at the card, recoiling as if I tried to hand her Medusa’s head.
“I’m Kitty Cattaway. And that,”—she points to my card—“isn’t gonna work. We only take cash.”
Cash. They only take cash. What kind of place doesn’t take cards? This isn’t 1964. It’s the twenty-first century. Every
company in the world accepts cards. Except here, apparently.
“Oh, well, I don’t have cash. Is there an ATM around?”
“Over at Wright’s. Only one in town since the bank moved closer to the interstate.”
Wright’s Grocery—that one I knew. I’d finally made it there Monday evening after work, once I had a fully functioning
vehicle. A vehicle I’d also need in order to get over there to visit the ATM, since it wasn’t quite within walking distance of the
town square. Damn it.
“That’s the only one? In the whole town?”
Kitty nods, her unamused scowl cementing in place. “Well, if the bank hadn’t moved…”
Yeah, yeah…
I nod along with her mini rant, having already heard the saga from Willa earlier this week when she had me over for dinner.
The bank consolidating its local branches as it moved to online and mobile systems had made sense when Willa was showing
me around her gorgeous third-floor apartment in the old bank building. I’d chalked the tizzy it had apparently left the town in up
to the community not wanting to embrace change.
Of course, now that I realize there are merchants in this town that don’t accept cards, I’m inclined to agree with the outrage.
“And there’s no way you can take the card? I have absolutely no cash.”
“Who doesn’t carry cash?” she exclaims, her voice shrill.
Most of America…
“Me, for one.” I try to laugh it off, but she doesn’t seem amused. Can’t blame her there, because if the roles were reversed,
I probably wouldn’t be either.
“You should fix that.”
“Fix what?”
“Not having cash. You’re not going to get very far. Is it a Yankee thing?”
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, someone else does.
“I got you.”
The deep timbre rumbles through me like thunder, igniting my insides like a bolt of lightning. A warm, sticky feeling, much
like that honey, seeps through me, a blush creeping up the back of my neck. Seriously, that voice. It’s going to be the fucking
death of me.
I try to respond again, my words still failing me, Noel appearing by my side as if by magic, tugging at his back pocket. My
eyes flick to his backside, watching intently. Way more intently than any woman should watch a man remove his wallet. My
eyes linger there for a moment after it’s gone, examining the impression it’s left on the pocket, comparing just how smooth the
other side is.
Oh buddy…
“No, no,” I protest, regaining my senses. “It’s fine. I’ll just get some next week. I’ll make sure I have cash.”
“Told you, I got it.”
“Noel, really…”
“Hi Noel,” Kitty greets, cutting me off. Biting her bottom lip, she sizes him up, like he’s the prize watermelon at the fair.
She doesn’t bother disguising her efforts either, making me more than a little uncomfortable.
“Kitty.”
She giggles, batting her lashes. Goodness, this woman has no shame.
“Just the one jar?” he asks me, ignoring Kitty. His eyes are trained on me, making my insides both melt and freeze
simultaneously. I’m starting to wonder if Noel Keller is secretly a warlock with the way his presence makes me react.
No, maybe there’s some old lady who lives on the outskirts of town conjuring up some sort of voodoo. Placing the
unsuspecting residents of this town under a spell that makes them react in uncharacteristic ways.
Or maybe Noel is nothing more than an insanely sexy man, and I have finally found my kryptonite. The one who I simply
cannot resist and is going to take me out at the knees.
Which, if that’s the other option, I think I prefer the idea of the voodoo.
“Yes. But…leave it. I’ll grab one next week.” I try to be a little more forceful, but he’s not having it.
“Nonsense. Can’t let you go home empty-handed from your first visit to the farmers’ market. Now can we, Kitty?”
“I’m not leaving empty-handed!” I twist to show him my tote bag, the gorgeous dahlias gently resting inside. “I have
flowers.”
Noel nods, looking rather satisfied for someone who was just proven wrong. “Mama said she gave a pretty girl some
flowers. Happy to have confirmation.”
 The heat that was creeping up my neck takes off, sprinting the rest of the way. My face gets in on the action too, and I have
to look away. I can’t handle him calling me pretty.
“I love flowers, you know,” Kitty interjects. I bite my tongue, trying to ignore her obvious plea for attention. At least she’s
done griping at me about my lack of cash.
“Still fourteen?” Noel asks, also not bothering to acknowledge her last statement. He seems to have this routine down, so I
guess it’s not the first time he’s been subjected to it.
“Noel, really, it’s fine,” I insist, finding my voice again. “I can’t let you do that.”
“Sure you can. I got your honey, Honey.”
He emphasizes the second honey, setting off fireworks in me. But not just the kind that I’ve been tamping down all morning,
trying not to think about how badly I want to finish that almost kiss. No, these are also the kind that make me want to explode.
Something about him calling me that, in that sexy southern drawl, winds me up.
“That isn’t my name. And we’ve been over this. I do not need you to rescue me.”
Noel smirks. It’s lopsided and impish, turning those fireworks into a full-on fire. One that settles in my belly, threatening to
go even lower.
“Bronwyn.”
Oh fuck. He says my name slowly, deliberately, like it’s the best thing he’s tasted in a long time. And I’d be lying if I said I
didn’t like it. A lot.
Noel turns to fully face me, stepping in closer. “Try to look at it this way—just one friend, helping another.”
“You can help me any time, Noel,” Kitty tries again.
Twirling her hair, she lets out a noise that I can only describe as a purr. I whip my head back to look at her fully, unsure
that’s actually what I heard. And yup, pretty sure it is.
Noel forces a polite smile, grunting. This isn’t the first time he’s been through this.
“Keep the change, Kitty.”
In a whirlwind of movements, he hands her the bill, grabs the jar and then my hand, leading me away from the booth. Our
palms press together, his strong fingers surrounding mine, making me feel safe and cherished. And also more than a little on
display, since I can still feel Kitty’s eyes watching us.
Once we’re far enough away that I’m sure she can’t see us through the crowd, I stop, dropping Noel’s hand. I miss it
instantly. But I can’t keep holding it. That’s not going to lead to anything good.
“Thank you, but you didn’t have to⁠—”
“Couldn’t let Kitty get her claws into you.”
“Who is she?” The question flies out before I even have the chance to think better of it. Or at least word it a little more
politely.
Noel lets out another grunt, his lips moving as he tries to figure out how best to answer. “Short version—she’s Willa’s
rival.”
“Rival? Willa has a rival?”
“Ask her about it.”
“Oh, I will.”
There’s a story there. One I cannot wait to hear.
“D’you eat yet? How does breakfast sound?”
“Breakfast?” I laugh. He can’t be serious. “It’s eleven a.m.”
“Fine, brunch, or whatever you Yankees call it. Let me take you.”
He takes my hand again, giving it a squeeze. It feels natural, like something we would do on any given Saturday morning on
our trip to the farmers’ market.
“Pretty sure it’s me who owes you currently.”
“You can pay me back by letting me take you to breakfast. Dolly’s is right around the corner.”
“You mean I can take you to breakfast,” I correct him.
“Nope. Letting me take you.” He speaks slower, a brief pause in between each word to drive home the point.
Okay, okay, message received…
“You confuse the hell out of me, Noel Keller.”
“That makes two of us.”
 10

NOEL

WALKING into Dolly’s some days is a crapshoot. Our local greasy spoon is rarely empty—there’s always someone from town
hanging out. Still, you can sometimes find mornings where everything is calm, quiet, and you’re left alone to think. Other
mornings, it’s like the entire town is crammed into the small diner, carefully balancing the seeing and being seen, while
enjoying a true southern breakfast.
This morning is definitely the latter.
I hold the door open for Bronwyn, letting her walk in before me, and suddenly the place seems to come to a halt. I can feel
a dozen sets of eyes on us instantly, an almost borderline imperceptible shift in the chatter. It takes a trained ear to pick it up,
one that I’ve developed over the last thirty years of growing up here.
I ignore it though, signaling to Dolly McLain, owner, operator, and granddaughter of the namesake, that I need a table for
two. She gestures toward the back corner with her head, mid coffee refill for a table in the middle of the diner, indicating the
far booth is open. Perfect.
“Follow me.”
Slipping my hand into Bronwyn’s, I guide her to the booth I’ve come to think of as mine. It’s the preferred spot when I make
it over here for breakfast, whether it’s with the family, the guys, or just Nash and me. Today, it’s for me and the woman who has
done nothing but occupy my thoughts since she hopped up into my truck.
“Busy this morning,” Bronwyn comments, letting go of my hand and sliding into the booth. There’s a nervous look on her
face, and I can tell she feels the attention on her. No one bothered to hide their interest as we passed, something she is clearly
not used to.
“Here, take this side.” I nod at the booth. I watch as she switches sides, making sure she’s settled before I sit. “Less drafty.”
It’s a lie. If anything, the vent she’s now sitting under makes it more so. But it does mean that she’s not facing the crowd,
and that she’s mostly out of view from anyone trying to sneak a peek. Instead, any looky-loo is only going to get me.
“You come here often?” she asks.
“Every Thursday since before I took over,” Dolly answers for me, appearing at our table with two coffee cups. She sets
them down on the table and starts to fill them.
“Oh, no coffee for me, please,” Bronwyn tells her.
“Something else I can get you?”
“Do you have Diet Coke?”
“Sure do. Be right back with that.”
“You drink a lot of that, huh?” I comment as Dolly spins around and disappears.
“Elixir of life. Harry Potter will tell you it’s unicorn blood, but that’s a lie. It’s Diet Coke.”
“Good to know.”
Dolly reappears, setting down Bronwyn’s drink and a pair of well-worn menus. I don’t bother reaching for one, since it
hasn’t changed once during my lifetime. Hell, I’d wager a guess it hasn’t changed since Dolly’s grandmother opened the place
in the fifties.
“Today’s specials are praline French toast and pecan pancakes. Highly recommend both, pecans are fresh. Hux dropped off
a whole crate of rejects this mornin’.”
As if his name summoned him, Huxley Hayes walks up behind Dolly, swatting her backside, en route to the kitchen. Dolly
rolls her eyes, then excuses herself, telling us she’ll be back in a minute.
“Are they a couple?” Bronwyn asks.
“Nope. Best friends. They were cast as Peter Pan and Wendy in the school play back in the third grade, and this being a
small town everyone started talking about how cute they were and them growing up and getting married, and neither one took to
that idea. So they vowed then and there to only ever be friends, sticking it to the rumor mill. Dolly’s engaged to a guy named
Jeff who sells used cars over in Tifton.”
“Gotcha.”
“But he’s Hux⁠—”
“Hayes. I know,” she tells me. “Middle brother, oversees lumber and paper. I met all the Hayes brothers the other day at
work. We had lunch.”
“And you can keep track of who is who and who does what already? That’s impressive.”
“I can,” she brags, a smug look taking over. Taking a long sip of her drink, she steadies herself, then continues. “I created a
little device. Gus, the oldest, dark hair, beard, grumpy look on his face. G is for grumpy and Gus. Next in line is Milo, like the
cat from that old movie, and he has the one curl that flops in his face, that a cat would want to play with. He runs Southern
Brothers Brewing with his best friend, Brandt. Third is Anton—he looks the most like Willa, and A for agriculture. Huxley, his
name has an X, like ax, and he’s the lumberjack-esque one.”
I huff out a laugh. Her descriptions so far are spot-on, and I’m more than impressed with how effortlessly she’s rattling this
information off.
“Jace, rhymes with mace, so of course, personal safety. Then Ewan, as in “ew, camping, fishing, hunting,” all the things I
have no interest in doing. And Willa the baby.”
I nod, my mind whirring. I’ve known the Hayes family my entire life, spent countless hours running around with all of them
—hunting, fishing, drinking, shooting the shit—enjoyed many meals at their house, and handle all the landscaping for anything
Hayes Industries related, and I still have to stop and think sometimes about who handles what. The fact that she has that all
down within a week of arriving in Hickory Hills? Damn…
“Sharp, that’s your S word.”
Eyebrows flying up, Bronwyn recoils. “What?”
“We have one for each one of the girls. Kenzie’s sweet, Sylvie’s smart, Willa’s sassy. You round them out with sharp.”
“Isn’t that basically the same thing as smart?”
“No.”
She nods, not saying anything else. The buzz of the crowd surrounds us, filling the space our silence leaves. I should say
something, try to make conversation, but I’m not any good at this part. Despite the thousands of questions rattling around in my
brain to ask her. There’s so much I want to know. What I don’t want, though, is for her to feel like I’m interviewing her,
peppering her with one question after another.
“Sorry ’bout that, y’all,” Dolly says, coming back to us. “That one’s a real pain in my ass. Where was I? Oh, right,
specials. The French toast and pancakes, but if you’re not feeling breakfast, we got chicken ’n dressing."
“Chicken in dressing?” Bronwyn asks. Dolly nods, pen poised, ready to take our orders. “What kind of dressing is the
chicken in?”
Errr…what?
Dolly and I both look at her quizzically, not understanding the question. Our confusion must be clear, because Bronwyn
continues her inquiry.
“Is it a ranch? Or are we talking like a balsamic reduction?”
Oh God, she thinks dressing as in…
“Balsamic reduction…” Dolly repeats, managing to hold in her laughter. Something I fail at.
A large, boisterous guffaw erupts from me. I can’t hold it in, even though I wish I could. This is one that has clearly been
lost in translation.
Bronwyn sits back, not sure how to take my reaction. I can see her hackles starting to rise, her defenses at the ready.
“Stuffing,” I tell her in between bouts of laughter. “Up north y’all call it stuffing.”
“Who the hell calls it dressing? It’s stuffing. It’s even on the box! Stovetop stuffing, not Stovetop dressing!” she defends.
“This ain’t Stovetop, promise you,” Dolly says with a wink.
Bronwyn shakes her head, turning back to the menu. I can’t tell if she’s pissed, embarrassed, or something else, but she’s
silent for a long moment, avoiding looking at both Dolly and me. After a long moment, my stomach ready to stage a coup it’s so
hungry, we place our order—praline French toast for me and two eggs scrambled with cheese, a side of turkey bacon, and rye
toast for her. Both of us ignore the subtle face Dolly makes when Bronwyn orders turkey bacon.
“I’m getting regular bacon, aren’t I?”
“Nah.” I shake my head, happy she’s moving on from the dressing incident. I shouldn’t have laughed that hard, and am
thankful she doesn’t seem to hold it against me. “Kenzie’s dad is on a strict diet due to cancer treatments, and has been ordered
to eat turkey bacon, so Dolly keeps it on hand for him. Although I think he might be the only person in this town who eats it.
Begrudgingly, at that.”
“Well, now there’s two of us.” She forces a smile, but it falls quickly. “Promise not to tell anyone about that?”
“’Bout what? The dressing thing?”
“Yeah, that’s…” She blows out a heavy breath, making her bottom lips warble. “That’s kind of embarrassing.”
 “Secret’s safe with me.”
I smile, trying to reassure her. Nodding, she looks away, the interaction clearly still weighing on her. I need to change the
subject. Fast.
“You enjoy your first Hickory Hills farmers’ market?”
“I did. I always loved going back home in Boston. Everything was so much fresher than in the supermarket. Not to mention
all the cool artists who show up. I wasn’t sure what to expect here, but for a small town, you guys really show up.”
“That we do. Just wait ’til you see the other events this town puts on. You missed Rhythm and Brews, so the next one is
Thanksgiving. We got both the Turkey Trot and the Christmas Tree Lighting.”
“That’s what Willa said. We’re working on revamping the Turkey Trot. Hayes Gives Back is going to be a major focus, and
starting right here in Knox county is the best way to do it.”
Bronwyn comes alive as she talks, her passion for her job pouring out of her. If I was impressed before, now I’m amazed.
I’m rapt as she continues, talking about obtaining additional sponsors so the entrance fees for the race can be part of the
donation made to the school. The more she talks, the more I want to listen.
“I originally was thinking that agriculture would be the best fit for the event, and incorporate some kind of food drive. But
then, after talking with Anton, there is already so much he donates and earmarks to keep for local businesses and such. So, I
think it makes more sense to focus on local education. I know Rhythm and Brews benefits the high school, so we’re going with
the elementary school.”
“How can I help?”
“Willa already volunteered you and your brother to help set up.”
Of course she did. I shouldn’t have expected anything less. I keep this comment to myself though, because this meal isn’t
about Willa. It’s about Bronwyn. The last thing I want to do is focus on anyone but her.
“Whatever you need.”
Our food shows up, making the lull in conversation feel natural. I really need to figure out something to say here. I was so
focused on getting her to agree to come that I didn’t think much past that, and look at us now. The only potential consolation is
that maybe she’s as nervous as I am. Not that she’s showing it. She’s as cool as the other side of the pillow.
“Can I ask you something?” she asks, before taking a quick bite of her eggs.
“Anything.”
“You were at the clearing really early last night.”
I nod. That wasn’t a question, but this doesn’t seem like the moment to point that out. “I’m always the first. I start the fire.”
“But you had a bunch of papers with you.”
I nod again, not sure what she’s getting at. “Work doesn’t stop just because I have to get a fire going. Plus, it gave me some
quiet to think.”
“Can…can I ask what about?”
I take a big bite of my French toast, eyeing her. It’s not that I think she has some malicious motives, but she also doesn’t
strike me as the nosy type either. Which makes me wonder what she knows.
“Just overall business numbers. I not only manage the books for Keller Landscaping, but Keller Nursery as well.”
“Really?”
“Yup. Putting that business minor to good use.” She looks at me surprised, and all I can do is smile. It’s not the first time my
twin and I have been underestimated like this. “I have a bachelor’s in botany, with a minor in business from the University of
Georgia. Nash has a bachelor’s in landscape architecture with a minor in natural resource management. He just finished up his
master’s too.”
“Nash has a master’s?”
“Yup. We’re not the dumb rednecks some people think we are.”
“Oh my God, no!” she exclaims, dropping her fork. It pings loudly against the table, but the sound is drowned out by the
feel of her reaching out and putting her hand on my arm. The horrified look on her face grows as she gives me a squeeze. “I
didn’t mean that. At all. I’m sorry if that’s what you thought. Really, no part of me thought that you two were stupid. Or
rednecks. I’m sorry. Truly. It’s just…landscaping isn’t an area one thinks about people getting a master’s in.”
I retract my arm, just enough to be able to take her hand. I squeeze it back, hoping that my gesture is just as comforting. “I
didn’t think you were calling us stupid. I was trying to make a joke. Clearly it didn’t land.”
“Didn’t take you for a comedian.”
“I’m not. Once again, being funny is Nash’s territory.”
“And bookkeeping is yours?”
I shrug. “I know enough to keep the ledger balanced. All the more complicated stuff we consult Mama W for.”
“Mama W?”
“W for Wilder. Dustin’s mom.”
“You’re that close?”
 “Told you, there are songs written about it.”
“Touché,” she giggles, returning to her food.
“While we’re being nosy…”
“We’re being nosy?” she counters.
“You were asking about my private paperwork,” I tease.
Bronwyn scoffs, the sound lighting me up inside like the Fourth of July. The way her lips curl upward and her eyes sparkle
also make my dick start to pay attention too. I have to fight the urge to kiss that look right off her.
“I was trying to make conversation, that’s all.” She holds up her hands in surrender. “I was warned that you’re notoriously
secretive.”
“So you’ve been talking about me?”
“Ah, er…no.” She shakes her head, flustered, her cheeks turning pink. Busted.
“I’m not secretive. But like I told you last night, I don’t feel the need to kiss and tell.”
With the mention of last night, the pink in her cheeks deepens. It’s adorable, and I wonder what else I can say to make that
happen.
“And speaking of last night,” I continue. Her eyes go wide and she swallows hard, letting me know exactly where her mind
went. The same place mine hung out all night long. But that’s not what this is about. “You didn’t drink.”
“I had a Diet Coke.”
“That you brought with you and then nursed all night. You also had lemonade last week at Pour Decisions. Are you not a
beer gal, or…”
She’s silent for a moment, her face turning serious. I give her the space she needs, not wanting to push her for an answer.
“I don’t drink.”
“At all? Ever?”
“Water. Tea. Life elixir. But not alcohol.”
“Noted.”
“Not going to ask why?”
“Do you want to share why?”
“You did say we were being nosy. And when most people find out, that’s immediately their next question.”
“I’m not most people.”
Bronwyn sighs, her whole body relaxing as she leans back against the booth. “No kidding, Noel Keller.” She pauses, then
looks up at me, her eyes locking with mine. “I told you that I lost my parents in a car accident. Well, that’s how. They were
killed by a drunk driver.”
My heart sinks, my stomach rolling. Her voice is steady, but the pain is as clear as day in her body language. I try and find
the words to say, but sorry doesn’t seem like enough. It’s a pain I can’t imagine, and I won’t pretend like I can.
“I wasn’t there, and it wasn’t as if alcohol had caused them to crash, but…every time I had a drink after that, it was all I
could think about.”
“Then no more drinking.”
“Oh, no. I don’t mind if others want to. I just choose to not.”
“Honey, when we’re together, if you’re not drinking, I’m not drinking.”
“I don’t understand you at all.”
“It’s called respect. And being a gentleman. Which also means, I’m picking up the tab.”
I wink at her, earning me another giggle. She sits back again, watching me as I signal to Dolly, who brings us our bill and
clears our plates. As much as I want to spend the rest of the day sitting here talking to Bronwyn, I know I can’t. I’m sure she has
things to do. Just like I do.
Still, I’m going to try to drag this out a little longer.
“Where did you park? I’ll walk you to your car,” I say as we exit Dolly’s.
“I walked. It wasn’t that far.”
“Then I’ll walk you home.”
I gesture for her to lead the way, even though I know the route to her cottage from here like the back of my hand. I’ve made
this trek—both on foot and by car—many times over the years since Sylvie bought the place. Letting her lead allows me a nice
view of her perfect ass for a brief moment though, and I’m not about to turn that down.
Passing through the town square, I take her hand, pointing out all the little things that make our town special. The monument,
carved with all the names of fallen Civil War soldiers, the library which was originally built in the early 1900s and then
renovated in the 1950s and 1980s, and then, much to Kenzie’s annoyance, not updated since. Hickory Hills Baptist right next
door, which was built with an arsenal in the basement, that actually housed weapons until much more recently than one would
think.
“It took almost twenty years and four town votes to finally disband it,” I tell her, swinging our conjoined hands. Walking
like this, hand in hand on a sunny Saturday afternoon, feels like the most normal thing in the world. Like what I should be doing
every Saturday. That, and leaning in to steal a kiss. “They finally converted it into a bride’s room about ten years ago.”
“If that’s not the most southern small-town thing I have ever heard,” she laughs. “I mean, you can’t make that kind of thing
up, can you?”
“Probably not.”
“I came here trying to keep an open mind and not give in to preconceived notions,” she says, stopping at her front door. She
turns to face me, bright smile on her face. “But you guys are making it kinda hard.”
You’re making me kinda hard…
Fuck, I did not just think that. So much for being a mature adult here. Turns out, the teenage boy in me might still be alive
and well.
“And now you’re trying not to dwell on the fact that I just went and said making it hard.”
Busted.
“Am not.”
“I can see it in your face. But don’t worry,” she said, lowering her voice. “I am too.”
I step into her, taking her shopping bag out of her hand and setting it on the stoop. Placing my hand on her hip, I squeeze
gently. Her breath catches right at the same time my heart skips a beat. Electricity snaps between us, pulling me to her like a
moth to a flame.
“That would be ungentlemanly of me,” I whisper, locking my eyes with hers.
“I still don’t fully understand what you mean when you say that.”
“My being a gentleman? It means I’m the same guy on Sunday morning that I am on Saturday night.”
“What about Saturday morning?”
She licks her lips, leaning into me. There’s maybe an inch of space between us, our bodies all but touching, but it might as
well be the Grand Canyon.
“Then too.”
I’m dying to kiss her. To know what her mouth tastes like. All I need is an indication that she wants it too.
“Good to know.”
Neither of us moves. Frozen in place, barely breathing, waiting on the other to do something. Say something. I can feel the
world spinning around us. One great big blur. None of that matters though, because I’m too busy getting lost in these honey-
colored eyes. And I’m going to stay here as long as she lets me.
Then, it happens.
Bronwyn sways into me. It’s a millimeter of movement, yet enough to tell me she’s on the same page I am. It’s time to make
my move.
I place my free hand under her chin, tilting it up, and lean in. Our lips meet—softly, gently, tentatively. Both of us testing the
waters. That hesitation disappears in an instant, as a live wire snaps inside me, igniting me.
I kiss her harder, deeper, while still keeping it tender. Her supple lips sweep across mine, driving me crazy. She tastes just
as sweet as I imagined—no, sweeter. As sweet as a peach straight off the tree in July. As decadent as anything I’ve ever
experienced. My whole body is standing at attention, electricity flowing through my veins, wanting more. Wanting her.
Bronwyn whimpers into the kiss, pushing to her toes, trying to deepen it even more. Our tongues meet, and sparks fly all
over again. Her hands wind into my shirt, and I know we’re putting on a show. Anyone who walks down the street could see
us, making us the talk of the town.
But I don’t give a damn.
Because this is, without a doubt, the best kiss of my life.
A long moment later, Bronwyn pulls away, eyes still closed, lips puffy. She heaves out a heavy breath, eyelids fluttering
open. Our gazes meet, and the fireworks that were exploding inside me start all over again.
“Thank you for walking me home.”
“Any time.”
 11

BRONW YN

I DON ’ T KNOW why everyone says that it’s hard to avoid people in a small town. Because it’s not. I have successfully avoided
Noel Keller for more than a week now.
At least, in person.
My thoughts are a different story. He flits in and out of those like he’s Tinker Bell. Showing up at the most random times,
and using that magic fairy dust until I can’t think of anything else. It doesn’t help that I can still feel that kiss radiating through
my body. I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed like that. He was holding back too—I could feel it. Which only leaves me
wondering what else he has up his sleeve. And a desire to experience it.
Scanning the small, shared parking lot between the church and library, I breathe a sigh of relief that I don’t see a Keller
Landscaping truck. The almost full lot has plenty of trucks and SUVs in it—this is a rural town after all—but there is no
mistaking his for another. Especially not with their logo on the side. With the knowledge that it’s not here—and therefore he’s
unlikely to be—I push inside, only to be greeted by the unexpected.
Noel.
“What are you doing here?” I exclaim.
The question tumbles out of me before I think better of it and can stop myself. My insides are all flustered, like a wild band
of horses racing their way through town. I lack major self-control around this man.
“Hello to you too,” he greets, landing me with that gorgeous smile of his. That very dangerous smile. “Pipe burst down in
the basement. Reverend asked if I could come help.”
“Are you a plumber?”
Again with the speaking before thinking. At this point, I’m shocked he doesn’t think I’m flat-out rude. Thankfully Noel
chuckles, shaking his head.
“Not a licensed one. But I can do minor repairs,” he says, his accent seeming to thicken as he speaks, making the topic of
plumbing sound a lot sexier than I ever thought possible. “But more importantly, I own a Shop-Vac.”
He lifts up the large industrial vacuum with one hand, as easily as I would an apple. How did I miss the vacuum? Probably
because I was too flustered by the sight of him, having just convinced myself that I was safe. His whole arm flexes, his muscles
showing themselves off under his tight T-shirt as he sets the machine down, kicking all the fluster up a notch. Something I
would not have thought possible.
Then again, Noel seems to be teaching me a lot about myself.
“You here for Women’s Club?”
I nod. “I am.”
“Meeting’s over at the library this week due to the pipe.”
“Right. Makes sense.”
I turn to go, hand on the door, ready to push it open, but Noel’s voice stops me.
“Women’s Club isn’t something I saw you joining.”
“Why?” I spin back around, trying to decide if I’m offended by his comment. “I’m a woman.”
Noel’s deep brown eyes trail up and down my body, appraising me. Part of me feels self-conscious, while another can’t
help but hope he likes what he sees.
“Indeed. But that doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
I don’t follow. But I also don’t have time for whatever it is he’s getting at. Especially if he’s going to play games. I have a
purpose for attending this meeting—an important one—and I need to make sure I’m not late. That is not the impression I’m
going for.
“Right, well, I need to go.”
I don’t wait for him to respond. I turn back to the door and make my way across the driveway to the library. Once I’m
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 thy brethren of thy father’s house, which were
better than thyself:
¹ Hebrew made to go a whoring.

12. a writing] This is the only place in which any writing of Elijah
is mentioned. Even in Jehoshaphat’s reign Elijah seems to have
been no longer among the living; compare 2 Kings iii. 11 (where
Elisha seems already to have taken Elijah’s place). That the writing
was a prophecy of Elijah denouncing Jehoram in anticipation of his
reign is not only utterly improbable, but the plain words of the
Chronicler do not seem even to suggest it. It is possible to suppose
that some adaptation of words of Elijah to suit Jehoram’s case was
placarded by an unknown hand outside Jehoram’s palace; but again
the explanation seems more elaborate than the simple statement
warrants. It is more probable therefore that the Chronicler means
plainly a letter from Elijah, and ignores the anachronism involved in
supposing the prophet to have been alive in Jehoram’s reign. So
great wickedness seemed to him to require a rebuke from a well-
known prophet, and it is put into the mouth of Elijah, who, as the
great opponent of the idolatry of Ahab and Jezebel, seemed to be
the most proper person to pronounce the denunciation. The style of
the letter requires a late date, and the author is perhaps the
Chronicler himself. See further the Introduction § 7, p. xlviii.

¹⁴behold, the Lord will smite with a great

plague ¹ thy people, and thy children, and thy
wives, and all thy substance:
¹ Hebrew stroke.

14. a great plague] For “plague” compare xvi. 28, 29. Jehoram’s
“plague” is described in verses 16, 17.
 thy substance] Genesis xii. 5; the Hebrew word includes both
“goods” and “chattels” (i.e. live stock).

¹⁵and thou shalt have great sickness by

disease of thy bowels, until thy bowels fall out
by reason of the sickness, day by day ¹.
¹ Or, year after year.

15. day by day] margin, year after year; a prolonged sickness.

16, 17 (no parallel in Kings).

The Invasion of the Philistines and Arabians.

The Chronicler’s theory of life demanded that disasters should

mark the close of this wicked reign, and in view of the licence which
marks the Chronicler’s reconstruction of the history, it must be
allowed that a raid by the very peoples who had paid tribute to
Jehoshaphat (xvii. 11) may be only a conjecture to suit the
requirements of his religious conviction. But neither the absence of
the story from Kings, nor yet the religious appropriateness of the
attack entails its rejection as unhistorical. The comparative fulness
and vigour of the Chronicler’s account of these reigns yields many
suggestive indications (some of which have already been noted)
favouring the view that he had before him valuable independent
traditions of Edomite and Philistine hostilities against Judah which
were referred to this period. That being so, the possible historicity of
this tradition in verses 16, 17 must be admitted; and it should be
noted that such a raid would be a most natural sequel to Jehoram’s
loss of control over Edom recorded in verse 8.

¹⁶And the Lord stirred up against Jehoram the

spirit of the Philistines, and of the Arabians
which are beside the Ethiopians:
 16. stirred up ... the spirit] Perhaps not without the instigation of a
prophetical party, of which Eliezer of Mareshah may have been a
leading representative (see xx. 37). For the phrase “stirred up,”
compare xxxvi. 22 and 1 Chronicles v. 26.

which are beside the Ethiopians] Hebrew Cushites—probably

certain Arabian tribes, though it seems likely that the Chronicler
understood the name to mean the Ethiopians of Africa (see the note
on Zerah the Ethiopian, xiv. 9). Ancient geographical ideas were very
inexact. Herodotus regarded all the land east of the Nile as part of
Arabia. Distant lands are apt to be conceived of as all more or less
“beside” one another. Thus the present writer has heard a Tyrolese
peasant woman remark that she supposed “Russia and Japan were
both beside England.” We may assume that in the Chronicler’s
source Arabian Cushites were meant.

¹⁷and they came up against Judah, and brake

into it, and carried away all the substance that
was found in ¹ the king’s house, and his sons
also, and his wives; so that there was never a
son left him, save Jehoahaz ², the youngest of
his sons.
¹ Or, belonging to. ² In chapter xxii. 1, Ahaziah.

17. and brake into it] The proper meaning of the Hebrew verb is
“to make a breach in a city-wall [and so take the city]”; compare xxxii,
1. Here and in Isaiah vii. 6 the word is applied to a whole country.

in the king’s house] It is most unlikely that the invaders (if the raid
be historical) actually entered Jerusalem, and almost certain that the
Chronicler did not mean to imply that they did. Probably therefore we
should translate, as the margin, belonging to the king’s house.
Part of the royal possessions and the royal household might well
have been in the camp; see below, the note on xxii. 1.
 Jehoahaz] In xxii. 1 he is called Ahaziah, which is only another
form of the name, the prefix Jeho- of the one, and the ending -iah of
the other being each the representative of the Divine name Jehovah.
The name in either form means “Jehovah hath taken” (or “grasped”).
Parallel instances are the names Jehoshaphat and Shephatiah
(verse 2) and Jehonathan and Nethaniah in xvii. 8.

18‒20 (compare 2 Kings viii. 24).

Death and Burial of Jehoram.

¹⁸And after all this the Lord smote him in his

bowels with an incurable disease. ¹⁹And it
came to pass, in process of time, at the end of
two years, that his bowels fell out by reason of
his sickness, and he died of sore diseases.
And his people made no burning for him, like
the burning of his fathers.
19. by reason of his sickness] LXX. μετὰ τῆς νόσου, i.e. in the
course of his sickness.

no burning] compare xvi. 14 (note).

²⁰Thirty and two years old was he when he

began to reign, and he reigned in Jerusalem
eight years: and he departed without being
desired; and they buried him in the city of
David, but not in the sepulchres of the kings.
20. he departed without being desired] literally without desire: i.e.
he lived so that none desired him, or he lived as no one desired.
Compare LXX., ἐπορεύθη οὐκ ἐν ἐπαίνῳ, literally “he walked without
praise.”
 but not in the sepulchres of the kings] According to Kings he “was
buried with his fathers.” Compare xxiv. 25, xxviii. 27.

Chapter XXII.
1‒4 (= 2 Kings viii. 25‒27).
The Reign of Ahaziah.

¹And the inhabitants of Jerusalem made

Ahaziah ¹ his youngest son king in his stead:
for the band of men that came with the
Arabians to the camp had slain all the eldest.
So Ahaziah the son of Jehoram king of Judah
reigned.
¹ In chapter xxi. 17, Jehoahaz.

1. the inhabitants of Jerusalem, etc.] In consequence of the great

disaster to the royal house, the people play a more prominent part
than usual in deciding the succession to the throne; compare 2 Kings
xxiii. 30.

to the camp] or to the host. The sense seems to be that the

princes of the royal house were with the army in the field and were
slain by a surprise attack of a party from the Philistine and Arabian
forces (xxi. 16). The LXX. reads, Ἄραβες οἱ Ἀλειμαζονεϊς, i.e.
apparently “the Arabians of Mazin”; but in all probability this reading
is a mere error derived from a transliteration of the Hebrew word
rendered “to the camp” (see Torrey, Ezra Studies, p. 74).
 ²Forty and two ¹ years old was Ahaziah when
he began to reign; and he reigned one year in
Jerusalem: and his mother’s name was
Athaliah the daughter ² of Omri. ³He also
walked in the ways of the house of Ahab: for
his mother was his counsellor to do wickedly.
¹ In 2 Kings viii. 26, Two and twenty.

² Or, granddaughter.

2. Forty and two years old] The LXX. “twenty years old” is
preferable, agreeing nearly with 2 Kings viii. 26, “two and twenty
years old” (Hebrew and LXX.).

daughter of Omri] So 2 Kings viii. 26, but more correctly

“daughter of Ahab” (2 Kings viii. verse 18).

⁴And he did that which was evil in the sight of

the Lord, as did the house of Ahab: for they
were his counsellors after the death of his
father, to his destruction.
4. after the death of his father] This phrase suggests that he
acted as regent in his father’s lifetime during his father’s two years’
illness.

5, 6 (= 2 Kings viii. 28, 29).

The Alliance with Jehoram of Israel.

⁵He walked also after their counsel, and went

with Jehoram the son of Ahab king of Israel to
 war against Hazael king of Syria at Ramoth-
gilead: and the Syrians wounded Joram.
5. Joram] or Jehoram. The variation is unimportant.

⁶And he returned to be healed in Jezreel of the

wounds ¹ which they had given him at Ramah,
when he fought against Hazael king of Syria.
And Azariah ² the son of Jehoram king of
Judah went down to see Jehoram the son of
Ahab in Jezreel, because he was sick.
¹ 2 Kings viii. 29, and in the Septuagint and Syriac versions.
The text has, because the wounds which &c.

² In verse 1, Ahaziah.

6. Jezreel] A city some distance to the north of Samaria, giving its

name to the plain of Jezreel (Esdraelon). Ahab had a house there (1
Kings xxi. 1), probably a country house judging from the incident of
Naboth’s vineyard. It is the modern Zer‘in, a town situated on a hill
commanding a wide view towards the west and the east, Bädeker,
Palestine⁵, p. 244.

Ramah] i.e. Ramoth-gilead (see xviii. 2, note).

Azariah] Read, as margin, Ahaziah.

7‒9 (compare 2 Kings ix. 16‒26, 27, 28, x. 11‒14).

The Death of Ahaziah.

7‒9. These verses give a hasty summary of the passages in

Kings The Chronicler’s version differs in some particulars from Kings
The divergences may largely be due to the extreme brevity of
Chronicles, and they do not absolutely require a variant form of the
tradition for their explanation (so Torrey, Ezra Studies, p. 74),
particularly if Samaria here in Chronicles denotes not the city but
simply the province. Verse 7 is a brief but sufficient abridgment of 2
Kings ix. 16‒26 from the point of view of Ahaziah’s concern in the
affair. On the other hand there is great probability in the view that the
Chronicler’s account goes back to a version of the tradition
independent of that in Kings; see the notes on verses 8, 9; and
compare Cook in the Jewish Quarterly Review for 1908, p. 612.

⁷Now the destruction ¹ of Ahaziah was of God,

in that he went unto Joram: for when he was
come, he went out with Jehoram against Jehu
the son of Nimshi, whom the Lord had
anointed to cut off the house of Ahab.
¹ Hebrew treading down.

7. destruction] Rather, ruin, or downfall, LXX., καταστροφή).

Ahaziah’s brethren fell with him (verse 8).

had anointed] compare 2 Kings ix. 1‒10.

⁸And it came to pass, when Jehu was

executing judgement upon the house of Ahab,
that he found the princes of Judah, and the
sons of the brethren of Ahaziah, ministering to
Ahaziah, and slew them.
8. the sons of the brethren of Ahaziah] LXX. “the brethren (i.e. the
kinsmen) of Ahaziah”: so also 2 Kings x. 13. The brethren (in the
strict sense of the word) of Ahaziah had already been killed (verse
1).
 ministering] According to 2 Kings they were going to “salute the
children of the king and the children of the queen” (probably a courtly
expression for “salute the king and the queen”). Their murder in
Kings is clearly regarded as subsequent to Ahaziah’s death,
whereas in Chronicles the attack on Ahaziah (verse 9) apparently is
placed after the murder of the brethren as recorded in the present
verse. It is possible, however, to suppose that verses 8 and 9 are not
meant to be related to each other in a time sequence, and that
verses 7, 8, 9 are all relatively independent statements.

⁹And he sought Ahaziah, and they caught him,

(now he was hiding in Samaria,) and they
brought him to Jehu, and slew him; and they
buried him, for they said, He is the son of
Jehoshaphat, who sought the Lord with all
his heart. And the house of Ahaziah had no
power ¹ to hold the kingdom.
¹ Or, And there was none of the house of Ahaziah that had
power &c.

9. now he was hiding in Samaria] If Samaria means the city, then

according to Chronicles Ahaziah fled southward from Jezreel; while
according to 2 Kings his flight was westward to Megiddo (to be
identified with Khan el-Lejjun, Bädeker, Palestine⁵, p. 228). Perhaps
however Samaria means the province (as in xxv. 13; Ezekiel iv. 10).
Even so this account of Ahaziah’s wounding and death differs
markedly from that in Kings, where nothing is said of his hiding, but
simply that he went out with Joram when Jehu encountered Joram
(so here verse 7), was wounded, fled to Megiddo, and died there, but
was carried back by his servants to Jerusalem and there buried.
Here it is stated that he was captured, brought to Jehu, and slain (?
before him). The place of his burial is unnamed, but it would readily
be supposed that he was buried by Jehu’s servants and not at
Jerusalem. These divergences in verses 8, 9 are curious and are
most naturally explained as originating in a variant form of the
tradition.

10‒12 (= 2 Kings xi. 1‒3).

The Reign of Athaliah.

¹⁰Now when Athaliah the mother of Ahaziah

saw that her son was dead, she arose and
destroyed all the seed royal of the house of
Judah.
10. destroyed] This is the reading of Kings and of the LXX. of
Chronicles The Hebrew reads spake with, which is perhaps a
euphemism; compare the English “deal with.”

¹¹But Jehoshabeath ¹, the daughter of the king,

took Joash the son of Ahaziah, and stole him
away from among the king’s sons that were
slain, and put him and his nurse in the
bedchamber ². So Jehoshabeath, the daughter
of king Jehoram, the wife of Jehoiada the
priest, (for she was the sister of Ahaziah,) hid
him from Athaliah, so that she slew him not.
¹ In 2 Kings xi. 2, Jehosheba.

² Or, chamber for the beds.

11. Jehoshabeath] In Kings “Jehosheba.” The two are forms of

the same name; compare “Elisabeth” (Luke i. 7) and “Elisheba”
(Exodus vi. 23), a similar pair.
 in the bedchamber] margin, in the chamber for the beds, i.e.
perhaps in a store room in which bed furniture was kept: a
convenient but an uncertain interpretation.

the wife of Jehoiada the priest] Compare xxiii. 1. This relationship

is not given in Kings.

¹²And he was with them hid in the house of

God six years: and Athaliah reigned over the
land.
12. with them] i.e. with Jehoiada and Jehoshabeath. In Kings
“with her.”

in the house of God] “The chamber for beds” (which was perhaps
in the palace) was only a temporary hiding-place.
 Chapter XXIII.
1‒11 (compare 2 Kings xi. 4‒12).
The Conspiracy against Athaliah.

The account in Kings of the famous conspiracy which resulted in

the downfall and death of Athaliah the queen mother and the
coronation of the child Joash has the marks of a graphic and
accurate narrative. The Chronicler evidently desired to reproduce it
word for word, but in one point he was obliged to alter it in
accordance with his ideas. In Kings the plot is engineered by the
high-priest Jehoiada with the help of the officers (“captains of
hundreds”) and men of the Carites and the guard, (i.e. the royal
body-guard), who were foreign mercenaries. But the statement in 2
Kings xi. 4, 11, that these men who were both laymen and foreigners
were permitted by the high-priest to be within the court of the
Temple, though no doubt correct in point of fact (see Ezekiel xliv. 6
f.), was inconceivable to the Chronicler. In his account therefore the
soldiers of the guard vanish, and the “captains of hundreds” are
prominent Levites, who organise the conspiracy by gathering the
Levites and chief men throughout Judah (verse 2); and, further,
careful directions are given (verse 6) that none shall enter the
Temple save priests and Levites “for they are holy.” The passage is
an interesting example of the Chronicler’s procedure in the interests
of the ecclesiastical order to which he belonged and in which he
believed so firmly.

¹And in the seventh year Jehoiada

strengthened himself, and took the captains of
hundreds, Azariah the son of Jeroham, and
Ishmael the son of Jehohanan, and Azariah
 the son of Obed, and Maaseiah the son of
Adaiah, and Elishaphat the son of Zichri, into
covenant with him.
1. strengthened himself] Compare i. 1 (note); the phrase does not
occur in the parallel passage of Kings.

Azariah, etc.] The names of course are not in Kings (see previous
note). The individual names add to the naturalness of the
Chronicler’s account. It is unlikely that the Levitical contemporaries
of the Chronicler had any reliable traditions enabling them to say
who probably were the leading Priests or Levites of Jerusalem in the
time of Athaliah and Joash. Perhaps the Chronicler has simply
chosen names which were suitable for Levites to bear.

captains of hundreds] In 2 Kings “captains over hundreds of the

Carites (i.e. Cherethites) and of the guard.” The Chronicler takes the
captains to be captains of Levites.

²And they went about in Judah, and gathered

the Levites out of all the cities of Judah, and
the heads of fathers’ houses of Israel, and
they came to Jerusalem.
2. gathered the Levites] This statement is not found in Kings—
see the head-note.

Israel] See xi. 3 (note).

³And all the congregation made a covenant

with the king in the house of God. And he said
unto them, Behold, the king’s son shall reign,
as the Lord hath spoken concerning the sons
of David.
 3. all the congregation] Contrast 2 Kings xi. 4, where the
“covenant” is a secret agreement between Jehoiada and the officers
of the guard.

hath spoken concerning] Compare 2 Samuel vii. 16; 1 Chronicles

xvii. 17.

⁴This is the thing that ye shall do: a third part

of you, that come in on the sabbath, of the
priests and of the Levites, shall be porters of
the doors ¹;
¹ Hebrew thresholds.

4. This is the thing that ye shall do] The arrangements as given

here and in 2 Kings are not entirely clear owing to our ignorance
regarding some of the places referred to. The Chronicler did not
clearly understand the scheme in Kings, but he was not troubled
thereby. He was concerned only to see that in his account the
Levites replaced the soldiers of the guard and that no unlawful
person entered the precincts of the Temple. According to Kings, it
would appear that it was the custom on the Sabbath for two-thirds of
the royal guards to be free and for one-third to be on duty at the
palace. In order to avoid arousing suspicion this last third was,
according to Jehoiada’s directions, to be at the palace as usual, but
it was to be subdivided into thirds and so distributed as to close the
various means of communication between the palace and the rest of
the city. Thus Athaliah was to be held as in a trap by her own guards
(2 Kings xi. 5, 6). The two-thirds who were free from duty on the
Sabbath were to be stationed in the Temple about the young king to
guard him at his coronation.

The arrangements are differently and no doubt less correctly

stated in Chronicles In the first place Levitical Temple guards take
the place of the royal guards; secondly, the only division of the
guards recognised is a simple division into thirds; finally, the stations
of the different divisions are differently given, viz., one-third in the
Temple, one-third in the palace, and one-third at “the gate of the
foundation.”

Using the modern terms “battalion” and “company” for the

divisions and subdivisions given in Kings, the arrangements may be
stated in a form which allows easy comparison between Kings and
Chronicles, as follows:—

(i) 2 Kings xi. 5‒7.

(Royal guards in three battalions.)

1st battalion on duty at the king’s house (palace).

A company within the palace (verse 5),

B company at the gate of Sur,

C company at another gate (“behind the guard,” verse 6).

2nd and 3rd battalions off duty, but brought into the house of the
Lord (the Temple) by Jehoiada (verse 7).

(ii) 2 Chronicles xxiii. 4, 5.

(Levites in three bands.)

Band I (= 1st battalion C company of 2 Kings) in the house of

God, the Chronicler supposing that “the house” (2 Kings xi. 6) means
the house of the Lord. More probably it means “the house of the
king” (2 Kings xi. verse 5).

Band II (= 1st battalion A company of 2 Kings) at the king’s house

(so 2 Kings).

Band III (= 1st battalion B company of 2 Kings) at the gate of “the

foundation.”
 (The Chronicler passes over the 2nd and 3rd battalions, because
he has already assigned their duty to 1st battalion C company.).

of the priests and of the Levites] Not in Kings. The words are a
mistaken but intentional gloss of the Chronicler, for it is clear that in
Kings lay guards are meant.

porters of the doors] margin, of the thresholds, i.e. of the

Temple according to the Chronicler, for the word for “doors” (or
“thresholds,” sippim in Hebrew) is always used for the thresholds of
some sanctuary, e.g. of the Tabernacle (1 Chronicles ix. 19, 22), of
the Temple of Solomon (2 Chronicles iii. 7), of (apparently) some
Israelite shrine (Amos ix. 1). In the parallel passage (2 Kings xi. 6)
however “the watch of the house” clearly means “the watch of the
king’s house” (2 Kings xi. verse 5).

⁵and a third part shall be at the king’s house;

and a third part at the gate of the foundation:
and all the people shall be in the courts of the
house of the Lord.
5. a third part shall be at the king’s house; and a third part at the
gate of the foundation] These two-thirds according to the scheme
given above were both stationed about the palace, but they are not
to be reckoned as two-thirds of the whole guard.

the gate of the foundation] “Gate of JSVD” (Hebrew). This is

certainly the “Gate of Sur” (SVR in Hebrew) of 2 Kings xi. 6. Possibly
however we should read “Gate of SVS (or SVSIM)” i.e. “Horse Gate”
(verse 15; compare 2 Kings xi. 16) both here and in Kings.

⁶But let none come into the house of the

Lord, save the priests, and they that minister
of the Levites; they shall come in, for they are
 holy: but all the people shall keep the watch of
the Lord.
6. let none come into the house of the Lord] It is clear on the
contrary from Kings (verse 11) that the royal guards (who were
laymen) were brought into the Temple itself under Jehoiada’s
directions. The Chronicler is evidently at pains to guard against the
notion that such a breach of ritual took place.

all the people] Not mentioned in Kings; but compare 1 Kings xi.
14.

⁷And the Levites shall compass the king round

about, every man with his weapons in his
hand; and whosoever cometh into the house,
let him be slain: and be ye with the king when
he cometh in, and when he goeth out.
7. into the house] 2 Kings “within the ranks.” Any one who should
attempt to break through the ranks of the guard to get near to the
king was to be killed. According to the Chronicler Jehoiada’s
precaution would protect the sanctity of the Temple as well as the
person of the young king.

⁸So the Levites and all Judah did according to

all that Jehoiada the priest commanded: and
they took every man his men, those that were
to come in on the sabbath, with those that
were to go out on the sabbath; for Jehoiada
the priest dismissed not the courses.
8. the Levites and all Judah] In 2 Kings “the captains over
hundreds.” See notes on verse 4.
 for Jehoiada the priest dismissed not the courses] Not in Kings.
The Levites (1 Chronicles xxiii. 6), the priests (1 Chronicles xxiv. 1),
and the king’s army (1 Chronicles xxvii. 1 ff.) were each divided into
“courses,” but it is clear from the context that courses of Levites are
meant here.

⁹And Jehoiada the priest delivered to the

captains of hundreds the spears, and
bucklers, and shields, that had been king
David’s, which were in the house of God.
9. shields] Hebrew shĕlāṭīm; see note on 1 Chronicles xviii. 7.

¹⁰And he set all the people, every man with his

weapon in his hand, from the right side ¹ of the
house to the left side of the house, along by
the altar and the house, by the king round
about.
¹ Hebrew shoulder.

10. with his weapon] The Hebrew word (shelaḥ) means a “missile
weapon.”

¹¹Then they brought out the king’s son, and

put the crown upon him ¹, and gave him the
testimony, and made him king: and Jehoiada
and his sons anointed him; and they said, God
save the king ².
 ¹ Or, put upon him the crown and the testimony.

² Hebrew Let the king live.

11. put the crown upon him, and gave him the testimony] So LXX.
and Hebrew both here and in 2 Kings xi. 12. Note that the words
“gave him” are not in the Hebrew What then is the meaning of “put
the crown ... the testimony”? It is supposed that by “the testimony”
some document inscribed with laws, a charter binding king and
people to live according to its precepts, is meant, and that this
document was placed in the hands or on the head of Joash along
with the crown. The wearing of an inscription or of a document on a
solemn occasion, though strange to Western thought, is not alien
from Eastern methods; compare Exodus xxviii. 36 ff.; Deuteronomy
vi. 6‒8; Job xxxi. 35, 36; but evidence of such a ceremony at the
coronation of a monarch is lacking. Hence it is tempting to think that
we should read as the true text of Kings “put upon him the crown
and the bracelets”—a brilliant conjecture made by Wellhausen,
which involves in Hebrew only the addition of one consonant to the
present text, but again there is no satisfactory evidence that
bracelets were put on the king at his coronation: Wellhausen relied
on 2 Samuel i. 10. Further, it is very probable that the error (if it is
one) was present in the text of Kings which lay before the Chronicler,
and therefore in Chronicles “the testimony” may be the original
reading.

Jehoiada and his sons] In Kings, “they anointed him” (without

specifying the actors).

God save the king] Literally, Let the king live!

12‒15 (= 2 Kings xi. 13‒16).

Death of Athaliah.

¹²And when Athaliah heard the noise of the

people running and praising the king ¹, she
 came to the people into the house of the
Lord:
¹ Or, of the people, of the guard, and of those who praised the
king.

12. running] The word might mean “the guard” (literally runners)
—see the margin It has that meaning in Kings, but the Chronicler
interprets it literally as the participle of the verb.

praising the king] Perhaps verses were extemporised in praise of

a king at his coronation, just as over a maiden at her marriage;
compare Psalms lxxviii. 63.

she came] Athaliah was allowed to pass the palace guard, but
now it was too late for her to save her crown.

¹³and she looked, and, behold, the king stood

by his pillar at the entrance, and the captains
and the trumpets by the king; and all the
people of the land rejoiced, and blew with
trumpets; the singers also played on
instruments of music, and led the singing of
praise. Then Athaliah rent her clothes, and
said, Treason, treason.
13. by his pillar] compare 2 Kings xxiii. 3 (= 2 Chronicles xxxiv.
31, “in his place”). Although “pillar” is attested by 2 Kings xxiii. 3, the
phrase is curious. Perhaps we should here read “in his place,” as in
xxxiv. 31: the difference in Hebrew is very slight.

at the entrance] In 2 Kings as the manner was.