1. Daphne

1

DAPHNE

Seven seconds was all it had taken to confirm that glitter, not pumpkin spice lattes, was the soul-destroying tool of Satan.

I stared down at the barn floor, now covered in sparkly confetti thanks to a tumble I'd taken from tripping over my own feet.

"It looks like a unicorn threw up," I mumbled beneath my breath. At the mere mention of throwing up, my stomach rolled with nausea.

When my aunt woke me fifteen minutes ago at the butt crack of dawn, after a thirty-minute catnap, by shoving a homemade pumpkin spice latte in my face and ordering me to, " Drink up Buttercup !" I'd thought the seasonal libation some described as a warm hug for the soul, but I'd always regarded as a fatty, pungent, disgusting saccharine brown liquid that was equal parts dairy and diabetes was going to be my nemesis for the day. I was wrong. It turned out glitter, not a pumpkin spice latte, was destined to be my adversarial foe.

My limbs were heavy with exhaustion, and my sight was bleary as I stared down at the sparkling dirt. I should have gotten plenty of sleep last night, but due to a delayed flight and lost luggage, I arrived at my aunt's house after 4 a.m. and my wakeup call had come at 4:30 a.m.

Forget PSLs or glitter; this ungodly hour was truly the soul-destroying tool of Satan.

After closing my eyes and taking a few deep breaths, I managed to calm the roiling seas of sickness in my belly. I'd had a couple…well, a few… okay, fine, six ; I'd had six drinks on the flight last night from California to Georgia, and I was paying for my overindulgence.

See, the thing is, planes and I are not friends, which was inconvenient as a segment producer for Pulse , an entertainment news program. Travel was a big part of my job.

Over years of forced work-related flights, I'd developed a system. I'd perfected my calming cocktail down to the minute. Fifteen minutes before we boarded, I popped a couple of Xanax. Five minutes before boarding, I slipped a few melatonin tablets beneath my tongue to dissolve. Once I was on the plane, I ordered a whiskey straight up, and within ten minutes of being airborne, it was nighty-night time.

The problem with last night's flight was, thanks to a dinner party I'd thrown the week before where a guest apparently found it appropriate to steal prescriptions from medicine cabinets, I had no Xanax left in my prescription bottle. A fact I discovered while I was seated at the gate waiting for my flight to board. What ensued was panic. Terror. Fear.

What does a girl do when she's faced with sheer horror? Go straight to the first-class bar and order a vodka soda. It didn't solve the problem, but it helped take the edge off until I heard the announcement that my flight was delayed—so I ordered another one. When the announcement came that it was boarding, I got one for the road, number three from the first-class bar.

As I'd headed to my gate, I came very close to canceling my trip. But since my late grandmother was being honored posthumously for the years of service she'd given her hometown, I pulled up my big girl panties, boarded the plane, and attempted to drown my anxiety in alcohol. I'd had six more drinks on the flight.

So, now doing the math, I realize, in total, I'd had nine vodka sodas, and I'm pretty sure at least a few of those were doubles. As the daughter of a ‘functioning' alcoholic, I should have known better. But, in fairness to me, my dad's drinking never affected him in the form of hangovers or even his motor skills. It showed up in other ways, namely his temper, which was always on a short fuse, but a few drinks in and it was hair-trigger.

Trying to drown my anxiety with vodka wasn't the brightest move on my part. Although, in fairness, my alcohol excess was not totally to blame for this morning's suffering. If I'd been able to come straight to my aunt's house and sleep it off, I'm sure I would be in much better shape. But, instead of that happening, once we landed, I had to wait at the airport for five hours while the airline attempted and failed to find my luggage. Then, my Uber driver got a flat tire and had to call for roadside assistance, which caused another delay. When I finally arrived at the farm, I'd barely closed my eyes when I was woken and recruited to help my aunt finish up her last-minute rush orders for masquerade masks. The Annual Firefly Island Masquerade Ball was in twelve hours, and Aunt Rhonda still had a dozen orders to finish, all of which required glitter, which I'd just dumped in the dirt.

Feeling slightly less barfy, I started to bend down to pick up the tiny shimmering rainbow specks when I got a whiff of the sickening saccharine sweet fall beverage I'd yet to choke down. The wafting scent had my mouth watering—and not in a good way. The flash flood of saliva was a blinking red caution light to my senses. I straightened back up and placed a hand on my stomach. Then, to avoid spewing, I took in deep cleansing breaths I'd learned in yoga.

I was still attempting to namaste away my nausea when Aunt Rhonda descended from the loft above. I opened my eyes to find my aunt smiling from ear to ear as she hauled down another box from the elevated storage. When she saw the spill, she chuckled. "Looks like you haven't grown out of the clumsy gene."

My aunt and Grammy Moore had always teased me about my propensity to drop things, trip, fall, and my general lack of any grace or balance. They called it my "clumsy gene." I was twenty-five years old before I realized that it was not actually a genetic predisposition.

I exhaled slowly as I once again bent down to clean up my mess.

"Oh, don't worry, Buttercup, I've got plenty more where that came from. After thirty years of teaching kindergarten, I have enough glitter to last a lifetime."

I should've been overjoyed that the next ten minutes of my life wouldn't be spent on my hands and knees trying to pick up minuscule flecks of shiny confetti off a dirt floor, but all I could muster was a mild sense of relief.

The second I straightened, another box was shoved in my arms.

"But be careful with this one," Aunt Rhonda instructed. "This is the last box of jewels I have."

I nodded and carefully carried it out of the barn and set it down with the others in the screened-in back porch where my aunt had set up her crafting workshop.

When I headed back outside to the barn, I was struck by the beauty of the landscape before me. The sky was an inky shade of purple with a sliver of orange at the horizon.

I'd visited Firefly Island a few summers as a kid but hadn't been back since I was ten, nearly twenty years ago. I don't think I ever truly appreciated the breathtaking vistas in my youth. I'd lived in LA for the past seven years, and while, granted, there were stunning sunrises and sunsets there, it was mainly due to pollution.

"That's all of it," Aunt Rhonda announced as she closed the door to the barn, and we both headed into the sunroom.

After receiving a quick tutorial of what my responsibilities would entail, which included jewels and a hot glue gun, we sat down and got to work.

I'd never been a huge fan of arts and crafts, but I had to admit there was something satisfying about shooting the glue into a spot and putting a shiny round fake jewel in place. I looked up and noticed that my aunt had dark circles under her eyes. I wasn't sure if it was because of the unearthly hour or if she was just rundown.

"How are things going down at the shop?" I worried about my aunt running the family business, Moore Farms Moonshine, all alone.

For generations, my family made moonshine. A few of those generations did it illegally, but these days it was all above board. My grandparents had opened up a little stand by the pier. All my life, everyone, including myself, had assumed that my father would take things over when Grammy Moore passed. But that hadn't happened. He'd decided to retire to Greece with his newest wife five years ago and hadn't been stateside since. I assumed that fact had something to do with his shady business practices, but I didn't have any proof of that. He hadn't even attended his mom's funeral, which I had to miss. I was covering the Cannes Film Festival, and my boss Alexandra made it clear if I left, I didn't need to bother coming to work on Monday. Or any day after that.

I still felt guilty for choosing my job over the memorial, which was a big part of the reason I'd forced myself to get on the plane last night so I would be here for the award Grammy Moore was being presented.

"Things are busier than ever! We just added a CBD sweet tea."

The "sweet tea" she was referring to was actually moonshine. For the past thirty years it has been Moore Farms Moonshine's best-seller. People traveled from all over to drink it.

"I'm thinking about putting pumpkin spice latte on the menu, too. I'm experimenting with recipes. Have you finished yours?" Aunt Rhonda glanced around the table.

Shit. I'd left it in the barn. If I admitted that, she'd just run and get it.

"Have you given any thought about expanding distribution?" I changed the subject and crossed my fingers, toes, and eyes that she wouldn't notice.

"Pshh," she waved her hand dismissively. "I can barely keep up with the demand locally."

"Right." I understood that was the case, but the money she was leaving on the table was criminal. If she did expand and partnered with a distributor, it might take some of the pressure off of her. She could hire more staff and even a full-time manager.

No, Daphne, stop it! I shook my head. It was none of my business. My life was in California. I always had an entrepreneurial spirit; I'd even minored in business and marketing. But this was none of my business.

"How are things with you?" she asked. "Have you been dating?"

The only dating I did was on TV, and it was for a segment of the show called Dating in the City. Truth be told, I was taking a break from dating after a half dozen failed relationships and thousands of dollars in therapy bills. My breakthrough came when I discovered growing up with an angry alcoholic dad and a clinically depressed mom left me with both abandonment issues and had made me a people-pleaser. Not just your garden variety, oh-I-want-to-make-everyone-happy people-pleaser. No, I would totally morph myself into who I thought my romantic partner wanted me to be.

It started during my freshman year of college. I'd graduated high school early, so I was only sixteen at the time. On my first day of orientation, I met Christian, a goth kid with a black mohawk and neck tattoo. By the end of the week, I was only listening to death metal, goth rock, and aggrotech. I dyed my hair purple, got my nose pierced, and wore black lipstick every day for the entire nine months we dated.

Sophomore year there was Kurt, who was on the rowing team and in a fraternity. He came from an upper-middle class family, and my wardrobe consisted of plaid skirts, khakis, polo shirts, ballet flats, and cardigans. I pledged a sorority and learned to play chess and tennis so I would be able to hold my own when his parents came to visit.

Junior year, I dated Sven. He was a stoner, yogi, and Buddhist from Sweden. With him, I meditated, smoked weed, micro-dosed mushrooms, and, of course, converted to Buddhism.

As a senior, I was in a one-sided ‘open relationship' with Giovanni, the poet. I never slept with anyone else, but I put up with him sleeping with over fifty other women at least in the six months we dated. Our relationship consisted of drinking wine, talking about our feelings, attending slam poetry open mics, and having sex. There was a lot of sex.

After graduating at twenty, I moved to New York for an internship at CNN. I was there for two years, and one of them was spent with Chad, a Wall Street stockbroker. I cooked for him, cleaned his apartment (which I did not live in), took his clothes to the cleaners and picked them up, did his grocery shopping, arranged all of his travel, and even made his doctor's appointments. I was basically his assistant, who blew him every other day.

When I got to Los Angeles, I met Bryan, who owned a CrossFit gym. To date, he was the longest relationship I'd sustained, coming in at just over two years. With him, I worked out six days a week, was on a paleo diet, gave up my one and only vice, Dr. Pepper, and watched ten to fifteen hours of anime every week.

All the men were polar opposites, yet the relationships all ended the same way… I got dumped.

After Bryan cheated on me and left me with a married woman, I took a fearless inventory, which led me to start therapy. It was there that I realized I never went into a relationship being myself. I was whoever I thought those men wanted me to be. I didn't even know how to be myself in a romantic relationship. So, at the urging of my therapist, I decided to put my personal life on pause until I figured myself out.

The past few years, I'd been in a situationship, if you will. A friends-with-benefits arrangement with Kale Butler, an actor who was based in New York. I'd hook up with him whenever he was in town doing press junkets or working. He worked a lot though, which meant he was usually filming on location somewhere.

Kale was a method actor, and every time I saw him, he was preparing for a role—which meant he immersed himself in whatever the characteristics of his next part entailed. It was the perfect arrangement for me, since I never knew who was going to show up on my doorstep. A Roman gladiator, a blind musician, a firefighter, a monk, or a homeless drug addict. He didn't actually do drugs for that character, but he did sleep on the streets for two months in preparation for the role that garnered him an Academy Award nomination.

I felt my aunt's stare on me as I pondered whether or not to reveal that I'd been working on myself. I decided that would be a conversation better had when I wasn't on the brink of barfing and had had more than thirty minutes of sleep. "No, I haven't. I mean, not really. Only for work."

She stopped glittering and lifted her head. One overlined eyebrow lifted as she asked pointedly, "For work ?"

It didn't surprise me that Aunt Rhonda hadn't seen the Dating in the City segments on Pulse since she didn't have a television or a computer. She did have a smartphone but preferred her landline and rarely went online.

"Not like escort work; it's for the show. It's a series on dating in the digital age in big cities. I'm doing LA, and we have people in New York and Miami also doing it."

"How many men have you been out with?"

Math was not my pounding head's friend as I tried to calculate the number. I'd done four shows and dated five men each time. "Um…I think around twenty."

"Twenty men?!"

"Yep."

"That sounds fun."

It wasn't.

"So, any winners in the bunch?"

"No," I shook my head. "A couple of nice guys, quite a few a-holes, and at least one sociopath."

"Maybe you're just too picky."

I bit my tongue. I'd been raised to respect my elders, and there was no way I was going to talk back, but I didn't think my qualifications for men set an unrealistic bar. The problem was not me.

"Or maybe you just aren't gonna find your person out in La La Land," she suggested.

That we could definitely agree on.

"Maybe you should try your luck with a country boy."

I grinned. "Maybe."

It was sweet of Aunt Rhonda to think that country boys were that much different than city boys. What she didn't realize was that no one who lived in LA was actually from there. Half the guys I ‘dated' were country boys. They'd grown up in towns as small as Firefly Island, which had a population of less than five thousand.

A loud giggle cut through the peaceful morning silence. I looked in the direction it came from and saw at least twenty people gathered at the farm next door. I knew that people in the country got up early, but it was barely five in the morning.

"What's going on over there?"

"Oh, that's Farm Strong."

"Farm Strong?"

"Yep. Harlan Mitchell started a workout program on his farm. I think it's to help with things financially since Meemaw Mitchell passed."

"Harlan…" I searched my memory bank. "Was that the kid next door that Grammy Moore called Bean Pole?"

"That's the one. As a teen, he was a tall, lanky thing, but he's all grown up now. He was out your way in California for a while, playin' for the Waves."

The San Diego Waves were a professional baseball team. I didn't follow baseball, but I'd done a few stories on them, so I'd been to a couple of games.

"But then he got hurt and had to come back home. A lot of folks were worried that he'd be lost without baseball, but he picked himself up, dusted himself off, and I have to say, he's been pretty successful with his fitness program." Aunt Rhonda clapped her hands as if she'd just remembered something as she jumped out of her chair and went into the kitchen.

I let out a sigh of relief when she returned and wasn't carrying another pumpkin spice latte. Instead, she had a calendar.

"This is a calendar he does every year." She flipped it open.

She handed it to me, and my mouth watered once again; this time it was the good kind. Harlan Mitchell had grown up. He had thick brown hair that, even from the photo, I wanted to run my hands through. Large brown eyes and a bad-boy half grin that had my lady parts waking up and taking notice. He was standing in front of a haystack, shirtless, wearing only jeans, a cowboy hat, and boots. His chest, arms, and abs were chiseled to perfection.

Maybe Aunt Rhonda was right. Maybe I should try my luck with a country boy.