Chapter 1

Chapter One

Rose

No man, no matter how attractive, would stand between me and comfort food tonight. It might be September in England but it was never too cold for ice cream. Besides, after surviving this shit-show of a day I deserve to treat myself.

I'd just finished playing Sleeping Beauty for a children's birthday party my best friend and boss, Aria, asked me to cover last-minute. Downside of working for your flatmate: they always know when you don't have plans. The parents invited way over the number of permitted guests and thought it was acceptable to be mad at me for not having enough gift bags for all the extra kids. Couple that with the fact two entertainment jobs in one day was too much to manage with my chronic pain and I was left one seriously tired and grumpy woman.

The ice cream aisle draws me closer with its siren song, promising sugar-fuelled bliss. I zero in on my target, also known as the freezer where they stock my favourite brand of mint choc-chip, and am so focused on the lone tub I see through the glass that I don't notice the man reaching to open the exact same door. A warm calloused hand brushes mine and I yelp.

"Sorry, Princess." A masculine sound of amusement rumbles like distant thunder from the broad, jumper-clad chest before me. Princess , really? Was it possible to strain a muscle from forcing your eyes not to roll? Why men insist on giving women they don't know patronising nicknames is beyond my comprehension.

I jerk my head up to glare at the obstacle standing between me and my ice-cream and a soft gasp escapes me. There is a hot guy in the supermarket. Tall, white, around six feet, with chestnut-brown hair cut closer at the sides with a little length on top, and a toned but not bulky physique. In one of the romcoms my flatmate is obsessed with he would play the sexy yet approachable neighbour, returned to small town baseball hero, or brother's best friend.

Judging by his smirk, maybe my reaction to him wasn't as subtle as I hoped. Blue eyes that remind me of misty mornings in the countryside twinkle down at me, full of mischief. I can honestly say nobody's eyes have ever twinkled at me before. Typical that the first time it happens he ruins the experience by calling me princess and trying to steal my ice cream. The universe demands balance I suppose—a guy with all this going on in the looks department and a likeable personality would tip the scales too dramatically.

"I'm not your princess," I snap, patience non-existent after being forced to people too much today. The twinkle immediately dims in surprise.

"Sorry, I—" he starts.

"You what?" I so don't care about this guy's excuses. My back is killing me and all I want is to get my mint choc-chip then go home, lie down, and hide from the world. Overcome by the urge to take my bad mood out on the closest arsehole, I let him have it. "You thought you'd throw out a patronising nickname because the dumb blonde should have known better than to be in your way?" My tone is harsh like the crack of a whip.

He chuckles, which only serves to raise my blood pressure to new heights, and reveals deeply irritating dimples that absolutely do not make him even more attractive, dammit.

"I get that you've probably been called charming your whole life with your smile and your whole…" I wave a hand, gesturing to his general appearance. "But this isn't cute. All it does is tell me you're full of yourself." My breaths come quickly, my chest tight as if I've just run a marathon. I hate confrontation, but something about being called princess after the day I've had is the final straw.

The guy simply stands there grinning. People don't usually smile after being verbally eviscerated. Have I done it wrong? I tug at the v-neck of my jumper. Now I'm panic sweating—exactly the look one wants to achieve after telling-off a hot stranger.

"No, you um—" He coughs to cover what sounds suspiciously like laughter, and I narrow my eyes at him in irritation. "You're wearing a tiara, that's why I called you princess," he explains.

My stomach drops to the soles of my baby pink docs as one hand flies up to the top of my head. No.

Sure enough, my hair is still adorned with the sodding tiara from the birthday party. With my naturally long blonde hair I don't need to wear a wig for the character, and I was in such a hurry to leave the dreadful event I must have forgotten to take the damn thing off.

My cheeks heat and I know they're red enough to rival the strawberry smoothie I spot tucked in his basket. "I'm so sorry." I am mortified . There is no conceivable way to backtrack out of the situation I have bulldozed my way into. This is why I usually swallow my rage-y thoughts.

The tiled floor has the audacity to remain exactly as it is instead of opening to swallow me whole, leaving me to face the stunning man with laughter dancing in his cornflower-blue eyes. He reaches into the freezer towards the lone tub of mint choc- chip and my heart sinks—but, considering my behaviour and the lack of evidence to suggest this guy has also just accosted a stranger, he clearly deserves the treat more than I do.

"I really am sorry," I rush to say, worried that he hasn't said anything else. Given my performance, maybe he's afraid to speak. A simple sorry does not seem like enough but I can't think of any other way to try and smooth things over. "I never yell. I can't believe the first time I yell at someone this happens." Great, now I'm subjecting the handsome stranger to more of my word vomit. Clearly my brain-to-mouth filter has taken the night off.

"Here." He holds the tub of mint choc-chip out towards me. The last tub. "Seems like you need this more than I do."

"I don't think I deserve it now," I mumble around a grimace.

"Look, I can tell you're embarrassed. I hope you don't mind me saying so, but it seems like you've probably had a rough day and thinking I was being a creep was the last straw."

"How could you tell?" I roll my eyes, giving a short, self-deprecating laugh.

His expression softens, transforming his eyes into inviting pools of warmth I would happily sink into. I am in too fragile a state of mind to be this dazzled. "Take the ice cream. If not for yourself, then for the safety of the next person you come across," he jokes, offering me the tub again. A better person would refuse and let him have it, but I accept the tub, having come to terms with my train-wreck status for the evening.

His large hand wraps around most of the container and his fingertips brush my palm as I accept the peace offering. The shiver running down my spine has nothing to do with the frozen treat and everything to do with the callouses gently scraping across my skin. Where did he get them? Does he work with his hands? Or play an instrument? His eyes flare as if he felt the same sparks I did in the split-second of contact, but that's impossible after how I've acted. Plus, I'm pretty sure I look as wrecked as I feel. I'm usually happy with my appearance but nobody looks their best in leggings, an old jumper, and a tiara, struggling to stand, with suitcase-sized bags under their eyes. It's safe to say the runway is not calling my name tonight.

"Thank you," I reply quietly. Glancing away I shift my weight uncomfortably realising we've drifted closer together during our exchange. Still, I don't step back.

"You're welcome," he replies with equal softness. I find myself lost in the intensity of his gaze, my cheeks heating for a completely different reason. He wets his lips like he's about to speak when a shop announcement blares, jolting us out of the trance we'd fallen into. He steps back, whatever he was going to say forgotten, and the chill from the freezers creeps into the space his lean body leaves behind. A much less pleasant shiver takes hold of me in his absence. "I hope your night gets better," he tells me before leaving me frozen in place as I watch him walk away. Instead of feeling relieved, I'm oddly disappointed that I'll probably never see him again. I sigh. At least I have my ice cream.

Last night, after indulging in a large bowl of mint chocolate-chip goodness and watching a few episodes of one of my favourite police dramas, the frustration and embarrassment had faded until I fell into a dreamless sleep. I didn't see Aria, my flatmate and boss, but we're getting coffee this morning and I'm desperate to fill her in on the party from hell and my mini meltdown once we're settled in at our favourite spot.

The flat we share sits at the top of a small hill, with a view of the winding river that Riverbend was named after back when it was nothing more than a small settlement. We're only a few minutes away from the high street full of small businesses, including our favourite coffee shop Snug. The number of independent local businesses in comparison to larger chains was one of the things that drew us to the area in the first place.

A glance out of my bedroom window tells me it's another overcast day, summer having well and truly given way to autumn, and I find myself grateful for our proximity to the cosy coffee spot. Being cold is one of the circles in my own personal hell so I'll need to dress warmly. Thanks to the fatigue that comes with my chronic pain and hypermobility, I often get extra cold when I'm struggling with my energy levels. I settle on a cosy ensemble of high-waisted mom jeans, an oversized rose-pink jumper, and my docs. Beads mimicking pearls are sewn around the neckline of my jumper, elevating the otherwise casual look.

On a day-to-day basis my style is a lot more laid-back than Aria's, despite my love of pastels and pretty things. Sure enough, when I meet her in the hallway to grab my coat, she's wearing a tan blazer that complements her long copper curls and a crisp white blouse.

"Ready to go, Rose?" she asks, shouldering her handbag.

"Yeah," I answer with a wide smile.

Tendrils of warmth and the aroma of freshly ground coffee reach out, welcoming me like an old friend when I pull open the door to Snug. The familiar off-white walls, adorned with work from local artists, and dark wooden tables paired with jewel-toned velvet-upholstered armchairs, are a comforting sight. I've sold a few paintings through the coffee shop in the past, though it's been a while since I displayed anything here.

Aria and I weave our way through the tables, heading towards our favourite spot. It's half-past nine, the morning rush dying down to make way for the calm and cosy atmosphere I love about this place. Draping my coat over the back of my amethyst- purple chair, I settle into the comfort of my usual seat with a view of the doorway. Aria takes the seat opposite me, a rosy flush from the cold a stark contrast to her porcelain complexion.

The owner, Violet, a Black woman in her late fifties, finishes setting four take away cups into a cardboard carrier for the customer waiting at the counter, her smile widening when she spots us over their shoulder.

"Have a good day," she tells them, handing over the coffee. "Girls!" Violet exclaims, bustling around the counter to make her way over to our table. "How are my favourite customers?"

"You say that to all your regulars," Aria teases, crystal-blue eyes shining with amusement.

"But I mean it when I say it to you two," Violet replies with a sly grin.

Shortly after Aria and I moved into our flat, I came into Snug in search of somewhere cosy to work on concept sketches for my paintings. Violet welcomed me to the area with open arms and I soon became a regular, introducing Aria to the place as well. Over the years Violet's become a confidant whose experience and wisdom I value immensely—neither Aria nor I are close with our own parents, something we bonded over back in our university days, and the older woman's friendship helps fill that void for both of us. Today she wears dark slim-leg jeans, a burnt orange three-quarter sleeve blouse, her usual plain black apron over the top, and her braids are pulled up in a bun. She's the most vibrant and stylish grandmother I've ever met.

We chat for a bit, Violet filling us in on the latest antics her grandchildren have been up to before she brings over our usual drink orders. I'm unable to stop the soft moan of pleasure as the first sip of vanilla latte passes my lips. I don't know what Violet's secret is but the coffee here is the best I've ever had.

"How did it go yesterday?"

I was staring into the mug in my hands but my head whips up in surprise at the question. Aria casually taps her teaspoon on the rim of her mug, brow furrowing in concern over my wide-eyed expression. It's then I realise she's asking about the party, not what I've since dubbed the Supermarket Incident. Obviously . My friend is a force to be reckoned with but psychic abilities remain beyond even her reach. I tighten my grip on the ceramic, seeking comfort from its warmth. Hopefully Aria won't be upset over how I handled things at the party yesterday.

Taking another sip of coffee to dispel the lingering tightness in my throat I reply, "Not good. You might be hearing from the mum, Mrs Billings."

"Why, what happened?"

I recap the conversation I had with Mrs Billings, finishing with how I refused to agree to a refund before leaving.

"Good, you did the right thing. If she wanted giftbags for everyone she should have booked the correct party package, simple as that," she huffs. "If she calls I'll deal with it, but I imagine the wind will have come out of her sails now she's slept on it. Or she'll just leave a shitty review online instead." Her eyes roll heavenward and I snort a laugh.

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"Won't be the last either," she laments. "I take it the Billings drama is the reason I didn't see you last night?"

Just as I'm about to own up to the real reason I was hiding away in my room all evening, Aria's phone rings.

"Sorry, one sec." She holds up a finger in the universal sign for ‘give me a moment' and answers the phone. Grateful for the reprieve, I release a slow breath and settle back in my chair to wait.

"What do you mean cancel?" Aria's sharp tone catches my attention. It doesn't happen often but Dreamer Entertainment does get the odd cancellation. Sometimes people get sick or their financial situation changes and they can't do a big birthday party anymore, but Aria's never been this upset about it before. Sure, she'll lose out on the full fee, but everyone has to pay a non-refundable deposit to secure a booking.

"You were supposed to start tomorrow . I don't care if you got a better offer. We had an agreement, I paid a deposit."

Oh shit . Aria's been working hard to expand Dreamer Entertainment and her next step forward is an educational show for primary school-age children called Lost in the Woods, written to help facilitate discussions between teachers and pupils about walking home from school safely. She's worked so hard on it and even has a few bookings already. Her set designer and builder are supposed to be starting tomorrow, is it one of them cancelling?

"How am I supposed to find a replacement on such short notice?" Aria asks through gritted teeth. "Then I expect you to return my deposit in full by the end of the day or I will make it your problem." She runs a hand through her copper curls in frustration. "I don't care that it's a Sunday. Send a screenshot showing that you've made the transfer by the end of today, or next time we speak there will be no trace of the calm, reasonable woman you're dealing with right now." Her voice is ice cold, sending a shiver down my spine even though I'm not the one she's pissed off with. "Get it done." Aria aggressively jabs her finger at the end call icon on the screen before putting her phone back on the table between us, wincing when it lands with a bit more force than necessary.

"That didn't sound good. What happened?"

"The set designer just cancelled. She's been invited to attend some retreat in France last-minute because someone else dropped out and she said she couldn't turn it down." Aria shakes her head in disbelief. "Do you mind if we go? I'm sorry but I have to try and find a replacement."

"Of course not. I'll settle up here, you head home and get to making phone calls."

"Are you sure?" she asks, already pulling on her coat.

"Yes, this is important. Go." I shoo her out the door with an encouraging smile. Damn, I hope she can find someone, but even if she does I can't imagine they'll be able to start tomorrow.

Chewing on my lip I gather up my own belongings and head over to the counter to pay. Aria has worked so hard to put all of this together, I don't want to see her fall at the last hurdle all because someone else couldn't honour an agreement. Who wouldn't want to be part of a project that will help so many children?

"Rose?" Aria's uncharacteristically timid voice accompanies her light knock on my bedroom door.

"Did you find someone?" I ask, sitting up straighter from where I've been curled up watching TV. I offered to help Aria search for a new set designer but, even though I arrived home only ten minutes behind her, she already had a list of people she wanted to work her way through and told me not to worry. I can't help but feel a little guilty. A large part of why Aria didn't ask for my help in the first place was because she knows I've been struggling to paint since my break-up with Malcolm. That and she wanted someone with previous experience in set design.

"No." She sighs, taking a seat on the edge of my bed. "Everyone I'd been considering before is booked up months in advance. Look, I know this is a lot to ask, especially because you've been taking a break from painting but… would you do it?"

Me? My eyes practically bulge out of their sockets when I realise she's serious.

"Aria, I'm not a set designer. I don't know the first thing about what goes into all of that stuff."

"I know, but it's not like you have to actually build the set. That's what I hired the other guy for. You'd be designing and painting only." I gnaw on my lip, thoughts racing.

"This guy would take care of all the other stuff?" I ask. Aria's pleading expression brightens now that I'm considering it. Am I seriously considering this?

"Absolutely," she rushes to assure me, curls bouncing as she nods vigorously. "Please, Rose. I know it's a lot to ask but I really don't want to have to push everything back and delay the first few bookings, the schools won't like that and you know how fast word gets out about that kind of thing." She wrings her hands nervously.

"I don't want you to have to do that either, but I'm not sure this is the answer. You know I've been struggling with my art since the break-up. What if I agree to do this and I suck at it? I know how important this project is to you, I don't want to risk messing it up."

"Better to take a risk and end up with something than push the project back and have nothing at all." She reaches over to squeeze my hand briefly. "Besides, maybe this could be a way to get back in touch with your creativity without the pressure and expectations that come with your usual work."

"I guess trying something completely different could help me break out of my slump…"

"Exactly!"

"But what if my designs are no good? I really have been struggling to come up with anything new the past few months, you know that."

"Honestly, I don't think you need to worry about that for a second, but if your design happens to be less than amazing there's nothing stopping me getting something else built later. I just need something for when rehearsals start and the first few bookings."

That's a good point. Not that I want Aria wasting money on a second set, I'll try my absolute best for her, but it's comforting to know she won't be stuck with it forever if my best isn't good enough. She's right that an unimaginative set is better than having to reschedule bookings when she's only just making connections with the local primary schools. At least I'll have her brief to work from so, unlike with my own work, I won't have to conjure up an idea from a completely blank slate. I guess I'm doing this.

"OK."

"Really?" Aria gasps, grasping onto both of my hands like they're her only lifeline.

"Yeah." I nod with a nervous smile. "As long as you don't break my hands first."

"Sorry," she replies, immediately loosening the death grip she has on my fingers. "Thank you so much Rose, seriously. I'll get all your party gigs covered so you can focus solely on this and obviously I'll pay you the same fee I was going to give that useless flake. We were supposed to meet the builder at Snug tomorrow to go over expectations for the project, will that be OK?"

"Breathe," I tell her around a laugh. "That all sounds great. Now go and relax for the rest of the afternoon. It's a Sunday, no more work for you."

"Fine." She rolls her eyes good-naturedly but gets up to leave all the same. "I mean it though, Rose. Thank you ."

"Don't thank me yet, I might be awful."

"I've seen your paintings. Your work on a bad day is still better than what a lot of people can achieve at their best. I'll happily take my chances."

With that she leaves my room, closing the door gently behind her. Left with only my own thoughts for company, my stomach starts to churn with anticipation and the hope I'm not making a huge mistake.