Heading to the coffee house?” Griffin asks, walking next to me down the small path from our street to Main Street.

“Yeah, wanted a change of scenery. I’ve stuffed myself in my house for the past week. Thought it would be good to get some fresh air and when I say fresh air, I mean some air infused with coffee.”

“I like where your head’s at. I have an order to pick up for the family, so I’m heading in the same direction.”

“Family meeting this morning? Does this have anything to do with the rumors of a Lobster Landing restaurant taking place?”

Griffin rolls his eyes. “Nothing is sacred in this town. I swear to God, there are no secrets around here.”

I chuckle and grip the strap of my backpack as we cross the road. “Well, it doesn’t help that your brother Brig is the biggest gossip in town.”

“Yeah.” Griffin strokes the stubble on his jaw. “That doesn’t help at all.”

He holds the door open to Snow Roast for me as we both laugh, the sound slightly foreign to me. I haven’t heard that sound in a week, despite my friends trying to cheer me up with their crazy antics.

I’m sad.

There I said it. I’m fucking sad.

The several weeks have been like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I’ve never lived with a boyfriend, so I didn’t know how amazing it is to have someone to talk to every night, someone to joke around with, someone to “share” meals with. It’s like Beck became a part of me. Our lives simply blended together and it was . . . seamless.

I looked forward to seeing his face, to hearing his voice, to leaning on him even though we were physically so far from each other.

He was a rock.

He was a confidant.

He was a friend . . .

My friend.

I’m not sure I’ll be able to forget or let that go. Beck is . . . he’s the man that sticks with you forever, and somehow I knew that the minute I met him. When he was fake crying and saying goodbye to my puked-on sweatshirt, when he took me on a helicopter ride in an attempt to soften his abrupt departure the night before. The moment he told me good night, perceiving I wasn’t ready for more. When he asked me to meet him in Vegas because he simply couldn’t take another day apart from me. When he tried to take things into his own hands so I knew he wanted me for more than sex. He’s the man who sets the bar unbelievably high so no one will ever reach it. He’s the man who makes an indelible impression on your heart. An everlasting impact on your life.

And now he’s no longer mine.

Stopping contact with him has been heartbreaking.

Debilitating.

I’ve spent the last week in bed, doing the bare minimum to keep up with readers, my publicist, and my publisher. That is not me at all. I’m always very interactive, very involved, but to say I’m depressed is an understatement. I know this dark feeling too well. For months I grieved and mourned last year . . .

It’s so bad that the romantic comedy I’m trying to write has turned into everyone being killed off in the first chapter.

There is nothing funny about your heroine dying from food poisoning.

There is simply no more book to write when your main character goes tongue out immediately.

It’s one of the reasons I’m at the coffee house, looking for some inspiration from my favorite chair. Maybe something will strike me.

I’m an observer, a certified creep, who watches every person who passes by. I study them from their choice in clothing to the way they speak, to their mannerisms, and as I watch them, my mind starts racing with what their backstory could be, what they could be doing, or who they might be waiting for.

It’s a “talent”—if that’s what you want to call it—I’ve had for as long as I can remember. Thankfully, I get to put that talent to use, which is why I’m out in public.

I need help.

I need something to spark my imagination.

I need one little blip in my life to take my mind off Beck for two seconds and give me a reprieve.

“The usual?” Ruth asks when I walk up.

“Yes, please.”

Ruth brings a tray of coffees to the counter and hands them to Griffin. “Brig called ahead. Said you were on your way.” She plops another tray down, making it two. “Do you need help carrying these over to the shop?”

“Nah, I got it.” Griffin scoops up the trays and then nods at Ruth. “On the tab?”

“You bet.”

“Thanks, Ruth. You’re the best.”

“Anytime.” Griffin starts to take off when she says, “That new girl stopped in today.” Ruth wiggles her eyebrows. “Told me about how you’re so gallantly helping her out.”

Griffin rolls his eyes. “Christ, this town.” He nods his head at me and then takes off, the door ringing behind him.

I spin and grip the counter. “Tell me all about the new girl and Griffin. What’s that about?”

Ruth laughs while she pours my coffee. “Now, now, I’m not one to spread gossip.”

I straight-up guffaw. “Oh please! You are like the center of the town gossip. This is where the town congregates to talk about the ins and outs of everyone’s personal lives.”

There isn’t a day that goes by that I’m in this coffee shop and don’t hear something new about a resident in town. It’s what makes me love this town, but also despise it simultaneously. When you’re the one people are gossiping about, it’s not so much fun.

“People may gossip, but my lips are sealed.” She hands me my coffee and pretends to zip her lips.

I point at her and say, “I’m going to get it out of you sometime. It’s going to happen.”

Leaning forward, Ruth says, “When Mark comes in for his shift, I’ll fill you in.” She winks and gets back to filling orders that have been placed online. She set up an app a few months back to allow people to order ahead of time and grab and go. It’s been HUGE for the business, not that she needed it, being the only coffee house in town.

“It’s a deal.”

I settle into my seat, thankfully no old ladies need to be kicked out, and I set up my computer on my small bamboo lap desk. I take my phone out of my purse and set it on the arm of the chair when I see a text message from Zoey.

Zoey: How are you doing today? Are you finally out and about? Did you shower? Please tell me you at least put fresh underwear on.

I swear sometimes she thinks I have no idea how to take care of myself. Leave it to the mother in her.

Rylee: Showered, lotioned, fresh underwear, clean clothes, hair is done, and I’m sitting in the Snow Roast right now, drinking some coffee.

Zoey: Eeep! Okay, be there in twenty. I have some sketches I have to get done and Victoria is doing some serious research today, so I’ll let her know where we’re at. Writing buddies!!!

Rylee: Writing buddies!!! See you soon

Zoey: P.S. I’m glad you’re out in the world today, Rylee. It’s good for you. One day at a time.

I exhale heavily reading her last text.

Yes, one day at a time. Seems so easy, right? I feel like I have to take one hour, one minute at a time when my heart starts to ache, when I think about anything that reminds me of Beck.

Shaking my thoughts, trying to start this day off on a not-so-gloomy note, I put my phone down, take a deep breath, and open my computer.

New day, new goals.

First thing to do, resurrect my main character from the dead.

I take a sip of my coffee and poise my fingers on my keyboard, opting for the coffee shop music rather than my own playlist. I’m not in the mood to listen to anything that would even remotely remind me of Beck.

Note to self: make new playlists.

The overhead bell rings to the shop and I glance up to see a man dressed in black jeans, black boots, a black V-neck T-shirt, and leather bracelets on his arm.

HA!

I’m losing it.

It’s official. My brain is subconsciously playing tricks on me because that man looks a hell of a lot like Beck.

“Can I help you?” Ruth’s voice rings out.

“Uh yeah, can I get your blonde roast please? Nothing in it.”

And holy shit. That voice. He sounds a lot like Beck too.

“Sure thing. Two dollars.”

The man reaches in his back pocket, and pulls out a few bills, then sticks one in the tip jar, the sinew in his forearms flexing with each and every movement.

Ruth hands him a paper cup of coffee and says, “Hope to see you again.”

He nods and says, “No doubt you will.”

Turning toward me, casual as ever, he lifts his cup of coffee in my direction and says, “Morning, Saucy,” and then exits through the same door he just came in from.

What in the ever-living hell?

Quickly putting my computer on the table in front of me, I plaster myself to the window and watch as Beck—yes, Beck Wilder, my Beck—looks both ways and crosses the street, coffee in hand, heading down Main Street as if he’s lived in Port Snow his entire life.

“What the fuck?” I say louder than expected, drawing the attention of Ruth.

“Uh, do you know him?”

Eyes still trained on Beck, his fine ass walking away from me, I say, “Yeah.”

“He came in yesterday and ordered the same thing. I thought he was a tourist, but from your reaction, I’m guessing maybe he’s not?”

“I don’t know what he is.” I fumble for my phone, knocking it to the ground. I tear my eyes away from Beck for two seconds to retrieve it and call Zoey, my face plastered right back to the window while the phone rings.

“Dude, I said give me twenty minutes,” Zoey answers.

“Beck is here. Beck, Beck Wilder is here in Port Snow. He just walked in the coffee shop and was wearing all black and those hot bracelets only few men can pull off and he got a blonde roast and tipped Ruth and said hi to me and then took off. He’s currently walking north on Main Street, waving to a few people and acting like he owns the goddamn street. What the fuck is happening? Am I in some kind of alternate universe I don’t know about? Is this a dream? It doesn’t feel like a dream? I legit drank coffee and tasted it. I don’t think you taste coffee in dreams? Do you? Ruth, do you taste coffee in dreams? Don’t answer that. I don’t think you do. This isn’t a dream. What the hell is happening?” I speak so fast I don’t even know what I’m saying.

“Uh,” Zoey pauses and at that moment, I know. I know she knows.

I know she knows, and she didn’t tell me she knew Beck was here.

What kind of friend is that?

“Zoey Michelle Platt, you tell me right now what you know.”

“Uh, you know, this will be better in person.”

“You have five minutes to get your ass in this coffee shop, do you hear me?”

“Noted,” she squeaks out on the phone and hangs up.

She better have a damn good story to explain why Beck Wilder is strolling around my hometown, looking better than ever before.

* * *

She doesn’t get coffee.” I stand from my chair and wave my finger at an out-of-breath Zoey. “No coffee shall be served to her until she sits down and looks me square in the eyes and tells me why she’s been omitting information to me.”

Ruth backs away slowly from the counter, hands up. “Sorry, looks like the coffee warden has spoken.”

“You’re not supposed to pick sides,” Zoey spits and stalks toward me. She flops in the chair across from me and sets her bag on the floor. Her hair is drenched, she’s not wearing any makeup, and I’m pretty sure her shirt is inside out. “I’m here. Go ahead, yell at me.”

I lean back in my chair, my hands crossed in my lap. “I would yell at you if I knew what I was yelling about, but to my chagrin, I’m clueless. So would you mind telling me why Beck Wilder is in Port Snow right now and acts like it’s normal to see me sitting in this coffee shop?”

She plays with the hem of her inside-out shirt, avoiding eye contact with me. “About that.”

“Yeah, about that.”

“You see, I might have threatened his life the Sunday you got back to call me.”

“YOU WHAT?” I shout, realizing I should probably keep my voice down due to the gossiping hens. I scoot forward in my chair and speak firmly under my breath. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“Because”—she straightens up, gaining a little bravado—“you were hurting and you weren’t entirely honest with Beck, and I thought he deserved to hear the truth.”

“That wasn’t your decision to make.”

“No, it was.” Zoey leans forward as well, her eyes trained on mine now. “As your best friend, who had to hear the pain in every word you spoke to me on the phone during your layover on your way home, I have all the right in the world to try to educate the man you’re in love with on your situation.”

“Pfft.” I lean back and chew on my bottom lip, thinking everything over. “Love . . .”

“Don’t even try to deny it with me. And I’m not sorry, okay? Because guess what? He’s here, in Port Snow instead of across the country.”

Feeling the weight of that statement, of knowing Beck is only a street away instead of many states, it’s overwhelming.

“It doesn’t change anything,” I quietly answer. “He still wants what I can’t give him.”

Zoey’s face softens, her eyes lovingly looking at me as only a best friend truly can. “Rylee, why are YOU the one who has to give him a family? It doesn’t all lie on your shoulders. There are other ways to have a family, so why is that so hard for you to understand?”

“Because.” My eyes start to sting and my throat tightens. I bite my bottom lip, trying to hold back the sorrow I’ve been living with for nearly a year. Noticing the tears welling in my eyes, Zoey sits on the arm of my chair and puts her arm around my shoulders.

“Because why?” she asks, softly, soft enough so I’m the only one who can hear her.

Taking a second to gather my breath, I answer, “Because I no longer feel like I’m complete.” This is too hard. “I’ll never be able to do what is uniquely female.” That was taken from me. “Because . . . I’m still mourning the fact that I’ll never carry a child.” Only the scars represent that loss. “How can I possibly ask Beck to forgo that experience? To never watch his wife pregnant with his baby?” He’ll hate me, my hollow, fruitless body. “It’s too much, Zoey. He’s too good. Deserves so much more—”

“Oh sweetie.” Zoey squeezes me tight. “I can’t imagine the loss you’ve been feeling, but until you speak with Beck, I don’t think you can assume anything on his end.”

“I don’t want him compromising his vision to fit my . . . to fit me.” I don’t want him sacrificing anything for me.

Zoey tilts my chin up and looks at me with genuine love in her eyes. “But isn’t that what a relationship is all about? Compromise?”

* * *

Trying to get any words in today has been absolutely pointless. My mind hasn’t been in it, resurrecting a character from the dead has been impossible especially since my fingers wouldn’t move across the keyboard. They stayed poised, never once moving as my gaze drifted out the window, trying to catch a glimpse of Beck.

What is he doing here? And why isn’t he coming to find me? That’s weird. Come to my hometown but don’t say hi? Well, he said hi, but that was it. A little explanation would be nice.

But nothing.

Not that he owes it to me, given the way I left.

I pack up my computer, put my phone in my pocket, and make my way through the coffee shop.

“See you tomorrow?” Ruth asks from her perch on the counter.

“Hopefully. Have a good night, Ruth.”

I exit the shop and turn toward Lobster Landing. This day calls for a pound of fudge. Yes, a pound. And it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve taken one of those pearly white and red boxes back to my house, untied that ribbon, and gorged on the velvety sweet fudge creation that Port Snow is famous for. I’m not ashamed to admit it’s my go-to my life is over treat.

From a block away, I can hear the waves crashing into the rocky coast, tourists milling about, taking pictures with all the quirky lobster-themed benches, photo cutouts, and signs. Normally I would take my time to observe the people visiting the town, but I have a one-track mind and it’s set on the white and red building in front of me.

I push through the doors and head straight to the center of the store where the registers and fudge counter are. Griffin immediately spots me and his brow creases.

When I step up to the counter, he says, “Uh-oh.”

I prop one arm on the glass case and lean over, eye-fucking all the fudge. “It’s going to be ugly, Griffin. Are you sure you want to watch this?”

“I don’t think anyone else will be able to handle it.” He puts on some plastic gloves and says, “Should we start with a round of samples?”

“You know the routine.” I circle my finger to the sky. “Sample it up.”

As Griffin starts making a fudge flight for me, I tell tourists standing behind me to move on to the next counter, because I’m going to be a while. Griffin smirks to himself, cutting fudge flavor after fudge flavor.

“You know, Griffin, what’s with you men? Huh? What makes that little brain of yours tick?”

He hands me the first five flavors and I shove them in my mouth, not even caring about the tastes mixing.

Despite my mouthful, I say, “Why are you so annoying?” Griffin raises an eyebrow at me. “Well, not you in particular, but men. I mean if I say it’s over, it should be over, right?”

“Uh . . .”

“And if I want to stop communication”—I shove three more pieces in my mouth—“I should have the right to stop. What’s with this”—two more pieces—“alpha-male pursuit, huh?” I pick up a green piece of fudge and hold it up. “What’s this flavor?”

“Key lime pie.”

“Oh fuck that.” Inappropriately—because I’m so mature—I toss it back at him. “I want nothing to do with Key lime anything.” I point my finger at Griffin. “Do you hear me? No Key lime.”

“Uh, yeah, no Key lime. My mistake.” Poor Griffin, he was right. No one else could handle me at this crazed moment.

“You’re smart.” I tap my head and then stick another piece of fudge in my mouth, the sugar starting to singe every single taste bud. “You date women. You’re all about the boobs. Women aren’t complicated at all. Very straightforward. We are an easy breed to understand.”

Griffin freezes mid-cut, his eyes cast toward me, a get real look passing over his features. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Don’t test me right now, Griffin Knightly. Just give me the fudge.” Shaking his head, he gives me the last five samples and I don’t even bother to look at them. I palm the sugary confection and shove them in my mouth. Tourists around me back away, some point, some stare from behind merchandise shelves, and I couldn’t care less.

Stare all you want.

This is what a crazed person looks like.

Soak it all up.

Take pictures.

Hell, come pose with me, post on Instagram with the hashtag: PortSnowFudgeDemon.

“Rylee?” I look toward Griffin, fudge popping past my lips, my cheeks puffed out and full. “Does this have to do with the guy over there who’s staring at you intently, like you’re the most gorgeous woman he’s ever seen?”

“What?” Fudge pops out of my mouth as I whip around to find Beck leaning against a pole, arms crossed over his drool-worthy chest, and the most handsome smirk ever lifting up the sides of his lips. “Oh my God.” I turn back around, hiding my face with my fudge-soaked hand and scramble for a napkin to collect the oozing sugary confection coming out of my mouth.

“I’m going to take that as a yes.”

I spit the chunk of fudge that was marinating in my mouth straight into a cluster of napkins and glare at Griffin, an innocent bystander to this whole madness. “What on earth is he doing here?”

Wide-eyed, probably from seeing this very unflattering side of me, Griffin says, “Uh, I’m going to guess doing some shopping?”

Not wanting to turn around, unable to truly face him with fudge drippings, I ask, “What’s he doing?” Griffin turns to look at him when I snap, “Don’t look at him.” Griffin freezes, unsure of what to do. Poor men. They have no clue.

“I’m going to need to look at him if you want me to see what he’s doing.”

“Make it subtle.”

I’m hunched over the counter, back toward Beck, wiping my mouth feverishly, trying to get all the fudge off my face in case he comes up—

“Hey, Saucy.”

My back straightens, my face blanches, my body stills. My eyes move to Griffin, who’s cringing.

From the side of his mouth, Griffin says, “Heads-up. He’s right behind you.”

My nostrils flare, causing Griffin to back away slowly. “Thanks . . . pal.” Taking a deep breath, I straighten my shirt and spin on my heel. “Beck, what a surprise. Enjoying your time in Port Snow?”

That damn smirk doesn’t disappear. It only grows wider. Leaning forward, he reaches his arm behind me, grabs a napkin, and lifts it to my face where he wipes the side of my cheek. Immediately, I feel my face flame with embarrassment.

“Missed a spot.” He crumples the napkin and sticks it in his front pocket. He tilts his head to the side, his eyes scanning over mine. “I would suggest getting the strawberry shortcake fudge.” He tilts my chin with his finger. “It’s to die for.”

Winking, he steps away and heads toward the door.

What in the EVER-LOVING HELL IS HAPPENING?

Confused, embarrassed, and slightly turned on, I stare at Beck’s retreating back, walking away as if he’s lived here forever.

“So, will that be a pound of strawberry shortcake to go?” Griffin asks from behind me.

“Not now, Griffin.” I storm out of the building, making a right where Beck made a left, and racing to my house to bury my head in my pillow.