Winnie Briggs gasped in disbelief as she pulled up to her new home and put her 12-year-old car, Fiona the Ford, into park. She did a triple-take at the GPS to make sure she hadn’t messed something up and accidentally pulled into someone else’s driveway.
221 Lily Lane, Bloomsburo. This had to be it.
She’d seen photos of the place prior to signing a lease via fax, but that hadn’t done it justice. She glanced up again, taking in the cozy butter-yellow cottage before her, with its autumn wreath on the red door, white shutters, and hanging plants bursting with red and orange blooms. Fairy lights dotted the roof of the porch, which sheltered two white rocking chairs and a small wicker table.
If it weren’t so big, the cottage could have easily passed as a picture-perfect dollhouse.
Not that the cottage was in any way big, but she knew that its tiny size would suit her perfectly. As a single woman in a new town, she didn’t need much, and downsizing had made it that much easier for Winnie to pick up her entire life and start a completely new existence in Bloomsburo.
A completely new existence.
The weight of those words felt like lead in Winnie’s stomach, ushering in a now familiar wave of anxiety. She closed her eyes and slowly breathed in through her nose, allowing her lungs to fill so full with air that it almost hurt. With a slow exhale, she willed away the anxiety. She breathed in the earthy smells of early autumn foliage and the sound of the first crisp leaves rustling on the branches. She breathed out fear.
There were lessons to be learned from autumn, Winnie mused, about how falling can be transformational. About how growth so often must be preceded with breaking down, with dissolving into something different entirely.
She shook away the melancholy thoughts and looked once more at her new, picture-perfect home. Today was for unbridled possibilities. For forgetting who she was, and for creating who she wanted to be. And all of that started in this adorable little cottage. Tomorrow she’d start her new professional life as the editor of Bloomsburo’s twice-weekly newspaper, but today was for homemaking.
Winnie stepped out onto the gravel driveway, eager to stretch out some of her stiffness from the morning’s 343-mile road trip from Chicago. The Les Misérables soundtrack and a steady supply of Dr. Pepper had helped to ease a bit of her boredom during the long drive, not that she was lamenting an uneventful trip. She sent up a silent offering of gratitude that Fiona had completed the journey without incident. Given the fact that the car had spent the better part of four years tucked safely away in a downtown parking garage, Winnie knew she was pushing the old gal to her limits with this relocation. Now that her automotive anxiety about arriving in one piece had passed, she could soak in the details of her new home.
Walking up to the porch, Winnie peeked beneath the largest bush in the landscaping and found the tiny cast iron turtle that, as promised by her new landlady, housed a key to the cottage. As she slipped the key into the lock and pushed open the door, delight flooded her heart and the tiniest of squeals slipped from her lips. The inside of the cottage was somehow even more darling than the outside. The online advertisement that led her to the space had specified that it came fully furnished— all the better for Winnie who’d gladly said goodbye to the thrift store furniture she had dragged around since her college days. But she wouldn’t have dared to dream of something so cozy. So homey. She felt like she stepped into a Mary Engelbreit drawing.
Honey-hued wooden floors covered the entire space, and abundant windows, including a skylight, flooded the cottage with late-afternoon sunshine. The tiny but tidy kitchen featured a small marble counter top, a round table with two chairs, and a compact stove and fridge that would be more than suitable for cooking for one, especially when you factored in that Winnie didn’t know how to cook.
Just past the kitchen was a tiny living room area and in the back corner of the small, loft-style space stood a tall four-poster queen-sized bed covered by an intricate quilt and a half-dozen throw pillows in an array of colors and patterns. In the other corner, beneath one of the windows that looked out onto the flower-studded lawn, a simple wooden desk and chair and a tall white bookshelf stood just next to the entrance of the smallest bathroom Winnie had ever stepped foot in. But with a toilet, a sink and a slim stand-up shower, it would surely cover her basic needs.
Covering her basic needs. That was what she was here for, right? Wasn’t that why she had, at twenty-six, decided to flip her entire life on its head? Sure, a fantastically disastrous break up had technically prompted the move, but in re-envisioning her new life, Winnie ensured that she wasn’t just running away from something, but also moving toward something new. She created two simple goals for herself: to focus on her journalistic skills and to avoid men.
Courtesy of an unfortunate discovery involving her long-time boyfriend Anthony, a blonde intern, and a glass-walled shower, Winnie was the proud owner of a new chastity pledge. No dating. No hand-holding. No whispering of sweet nothings. No kissing. She was going full Duggar.
Winnie could still hear her best friend’s voice in her ear from the night she made the decision to pick up her life and restart, and the memory of the way Bree’s voice had cracked with emotion when she’d said the words brought Winnie fresh tears.
“You’ve got to find yourself again,” Bree had told her. “And I think you’ve got to get out of Chicago if you want to do it right. It’s time to put Winnie first.”
And so, in climbing out of the rubble of what she thought was going to be her happily-ever-after, in her attempts to re-center herself and remember who she was before she had lost herself in an unhealthy relationship, Winnie also had to say goodbye to her very best friend in the world. The friend she’d made the first day of college orientation almost exactly eight years before.
The woman who, Winnie knew at the core of her being, had saved her life during their junior year of college when Winnie’s parents and only brother were killed in a car accident. Bree was Winnie’s true touchstone, and now hundreds of miles separated them. The women both agreed to go a month without talking, texting, or emailing, just to give Winnie time to settle into her new life in Bloomsburo without getting too hung up on the past.
Winnie scanned the room, contemplating where to begin decorating. Despite the built-in furnishings, Winnie knew that she could put her own impression on the cozy space with the personal effects stuffed into Fiona’s trunk. Really, though, there was no question where she would start: the mantle. She’d always wanted one. Instantly she could picture the exact knickknacks she’d adorn it with—a shimmery red scarf, her favorite hour glass filled with sparkly yellow sand, her goddess-shaped candle holders with the honeycomb candlesticks, and the tiny Lego robot that her little brother Johnny made more than a decade before.
Infused with a sweet rush of adrenaline, Winnie’s fingers twitched at the thought of unboxing some of her favorite possessions in the world. She skipped to the front of the cottage, swung open the screen door, and, after stepping onto the covered porch, ran directly into the broad, sweaty chest of an unexpected male visitor.
Something between a scream and a yelp flew from Winnie’s mouth as she pushed herself off the man, her back slamming against the screen door.
She scanned him over, taking in a dozen details in an attempt to make an assessment of his character in milliseconds. He was a bit older than her, but not by much, and taller than her, by quite a bit. Rounded biceps peaked out from the tight grey T-shirt he wore, which was covered in patches of sweat where it strained across his broad chest.
Confusion and annoyance clouded over his face, which was almost enough to distract from how devastatingly handsome he was.
Almost.
Unethically long lashes fringed his intelligent green eyes. Sweat darkened his slightly shaggy honey blonde hair near his temples, and golden-red afternoon stubble scattered across his strong jaw line.
He was primal. Vital. Muscular. Confident. The kind of man that made a woman’s brain simultaneously whisper “get closer” and “stay away.”
And he did not look happy to see Winnie.
Well, she was hardly thrilled herself. This porch was only supposed to be for delivering pizza, not eye candy. Seeing how her entire life reinvention hinged on her pledge to avoid men, it was beyond aggravating that just ten minutes after pulling into town, she couldn’t even manage to accomplish this task at its most literal. No, she had to go and accidentally chest bump one of mankind’s sexiest ambassadors right on her own front porch.
“Who are—?” Winnie started, struggling to compose her thoughts into steady, convincing words. She felt as if she’d been dunked in a pool of icy water, with every inch of her body prickling in awareness of the man before her. “What are you doing here?”
The man’s eyes finally locked into hers, and the intensity of his gaze made something in the vicinity of Winnie’s stomach unravel.
“Funny, I came over here to ask you the exact same thing,” he said, his voice steady and commanding. He held up a sleek smart phone. “And just in case I don’t like the answer, I’ve got my friend, the police chief, on speed dial.”