Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

LAYLA

The normally salty agave tequila tastes sour tonight, but it isn’t a mystery why. It matches my mood… salty and sour.

I set the drink down and gaze out at the glittering lights of Charlotte. The view is breathtaking from up here, and I have mixed feelings about having to leave. On the one hand, the cost of living is cheaper in a small town, and there’s less pollution. On the other… well, I would miss everything about the city. The people, the fast-paced lifestyle, access to everything, new friends… I don’t want to leave. But I have to.

My coworkers were nice enough to throw me a little going-away party at this hotel’s rooftop bar in the middle of downtown, but they had long since gone home. In fact, I’m fairly sure I’m about to be kicked out because I’m the only one left up here. It’s like I don’t want to leave. In fact, I know that’s why I can’t tear myself away as I commit the beautiful city lights to memory. They’ll be replaced by a country sky with only a smattering of stars and a moon soon enough anyway.

“Ma’am, we’re closing.”

I turn to see a sweet-faced hotel employee smile politely at me, right on cue.

“Sure, sure. Sorry ’bout that.” I leave the railing and pick up my mostly empty drink and my clutch.

“I’ll take that,” she says, and I hand her the glass.

I heave a heavy sigh on my ride down the elevator, and once I reach my hotel room, I exit with another sigh.

I’m feeling dramatic today, apparently.

The movers have already taken my things, so I’m staying the night here, and then it’s off to Mayberry to start another chapter of my life. Well, it’s technically Chestnut Grove, not Mayberry, but it might as well be.

After kicking out of my red-bottom heels, I pull my clip-on earrings off, slide the little black dress off, and wash away my makeup. The dark circles under my eyes are no longer concealed and I wonder why I even bothered, but I already know why. Because I had an image to uphold.

I slide into bed and try to get comfortable. Is Chestnut Grove the same as it’s always been? According to my mother, it is. But I guess I won’t know until I get there. They say you can’t go home again and all that crap, but it seems I’ll be proving everyone wrong. Or will I?

I punch the too-fat, uncomfortable hotel pillow, willing it to flatten as I try to ignore the stirring in my belly at what I’ll be facing tomorrow. Blessedly, my eyes drift closed thanks to the liquor coursing through me, and I fall asleep, where I dream of one stoplight towns and the sad blue eyes of a boy whose heart I broke.

The engine purrs beneath me as I drive the exact speed limit down the two-lane highway. I’m in no hurry to get to Chestnut Grove. Farmhouses and ranches flank me on either side but I look straight ahead. I’ve driven this road a million times and I don’t want to look at anything, especially a certain sprawling ranch I really don’t want to acknowledge. I’m three-and-a-half hours into a four-hour drive and I simply want to get to my mother’s place and begin this new chapter.

A light on my dash comes on, indicating my car battery is low. I’d fully charged it before I left, and that should have been sufficient to go the 300 miles, but apparently I miscalculated that grossly. I hit the pedal harder, going faster to get there before it completely dies—as if that’s going to help. After a few more miles, my car indicates it’s entering “turtle mode” and now I can’t go any faster than 60MPH.

“Crap,” I mutter. “Please just make it to the edge of town.” If I can get it to old man Miller’s garage at least, then I can have my mom come get me and we’ll figure out a way to charge it.

Of course, I am not that lucky. As soon as I think the words, I can feel the car dying and am forced to pull over.

“Dammit!” I snap, smacking the steering wheel. “Stupid electric car. Stupid, stupid, stupid!” In the city there are charging stations everywhere. Out here in the middle of northern North Carolina, nothing. And there are none in my town that I know of. I was planning to use my mom’s car once I got there and then hire someone to put a charging station in my new house… eventually.

I pull out my phone, intent on calling Miller’s Garage to come tow my ass, when I see a large pickup truck approaching in my wing mirror. There’s nothing they can do, so I go back to willing the damn internet browser to load with only one bar of service when I notice the white truck pull up behind me.

My eyes widen when I watch a large man wearing a Stetson hat, flannel shirt, and nicely fitted jeans get out and head my way. The tint on my window is pretty dark so it’s hard to make out who it is. I dig for my pepper spray and hold it steady as he approaches my driver’s door.

A large hand knocks on my window and I zip it down. Apparently the electric windows still work even if the engine battery is dead. Who knew?

Slowly, a face appears in front of me and my eyes widen.

You have got to be kidding me…

“You have got to be kidding me,” he echoes the thoughts in my head.

“Fuck my life,” I murmur, leaning my head on the steering wheel.

“Layla Lee Davis,” he says in that deep voice that always made my stomach clench.

My eyes are still closed. My forehead is still keeping my steering wheel company. I don’t want to look at him. Those blue eyes and that strong jaw made me weak once. I don’t need to be reduced to a puddle again.

“What are you doing here, Jake?” I ask. Though, I know exactly why he’s on this road. I’d just passed his ranch a couple of miles back.

“Your electric car run out of juice, Clapton?”

I groan. I hate that nickname. So much.

“Go away, Jake,” I mutter.

“Oh, okay. Will do. I’m sure you have no interest in the fully gassed generator I have in the back of my truck. I was heading into town to deliver it to the Mason family, but if you’re not interested in it to charge your”—he pauses and I reluctantly peer up to see him sneering at my midnight-blue car—“EV, I can go ahead and deliver it to Don Mason, who paid me a hundred bucks for the thing on the Facebook Marketplace.”

Shit. Double and triple shit.

Reluctantly, I lift my face from my bejeweled steering wheel cover and narrow my eyes at him. “I only need to get into town.”

He steps back and his huge, intimidating form moves away from the door.

“Fine. I just need a few jolts to get into town.” I sigh.

“Out,” he instructs.

I tilt my head at him, then do as he says. A lifetime rancher, he probably doesn’t know how to charge an electric car.

He points at my charging port. “You do understand that even if I can go into town and get my hands on a portable charger, it’ll take like three hours to get you to at least twenty percent,” he says.

I close my eyes and put my hand to my forehead. “Yeah. I’ll wait.”

He chuckles. “Well, I can’t. I have shit to do. It would be faster to tow your car.”

I make a dramatic gesture of looking at his jacked white pickup then back to him. “That doesn’t look like a tow truck.”

“I have cables. Put it in drive and I can drag you into town.” He looks around the deserted road, then back to me with those baby blues. “Then, you’re on your own.”

I set my jaw, my back molars grinding. I didn’t even want to be here! I want to scream. But, of course, I don’t. I tap my high-heel, since I forgot to pack normal shoes and was forced to wear last night’s heels with this outfit, and lift my chin. “Fine. Just get me to Miller’s Garage. I can handle it from there.”

“You got it, Clapton.”

“Stop calling me that.”

He chuckles, heading to his truck, and I hear him whistling the song “Layla” by Eric Clapton.

Asshole.