Chapter One

Zara

I release my hair from its ponytail, gather it up, and re-tie it straight away, letting out a long sigh as I gaze around at the packing cases littering my living room.

I have a lot of books, I'll admit, but even so, there seem to be too many boxes. The prospect of trying to fit their contents onto the shelves gets more depressing every time I think about it, so instead of thinking about it, I head for the kitchen to fix myself a coffee.

At least I've finished the unpacking in here. The cups, glasses, dishes and silverware all have homes, as do my pots and pans. Most of them are new, or were given to me by my mom, but that's hardly surprising. This is my first home. Or my first home away from home. Although in the ten days I've lived here, I would have thought I'd have been able to do more than find places to store my kitchenware and hang up my clothes.

Except I haven't, and with a shrug of my shoulders, I grab a pod from the jar on the countertop, put it in the machine, place my favorite yellow cup underneath, and switch it on, watching, mesmerized, while the coffee filters through.

Once I've had this, I'll get on with unpacking. I will. Honestly.

I just need a caffeine hit, and then…

My phone rings, interrupting my train of thought, and I pull it from my back pocket. The word ‘Mom' lights up the screen, and my face, and I answer straight away, switching it to speaker as I lean back against the countertop.

"Hi," I say, knowing how much my mom loves a good, long talk, and that I can put off trying to figure out where to put all my books for a while longer.

"How are you?" she asks.

"I'm fine." That's not strictly true, but I don't want Mom to worry, and to distract her, I ask, "How's everything at home?"

The place where I grew up isn't really ‘home' anymore. Hart's Creek is where I'm putting down roots… or trying to. But it's hard to get out of the habit of calling somewhere ‘home' when you've lived there all your life.

"I went to see Evelyn Hall's puppies the other day," she says, and I can imagine the sweet smile on her lips, as well as Mrs. Hall's adorable Golden Retriever, Sandy.

"How old are they now?"

"Only about three weeks."

"You're not gonna get one, are you?"

"I'm thinking about it, when they're old enough to leave their mom," she says. "Evelyn's found homes for three of them already, which leaves four more."

"I guess it would be company for you."

I hear her chuckle. "It would. But that's not why I'm thinking of getting one."

"Oh? What's the reason, then?"

"Your aunt absolutely hates dogs."

I laugh and she joins in. "I knew she loved cats, but I didn't know she had anything against dogs."

"Hmm… she can't stand them."

"But if you owned one, wouldn't that mean she'd refuse to come visit?"

"Exactly."

I laugh again. "Have the two of you had a fight?"

"No. I know better than to fight with Charlotte. It's just that since the last of her cats died, she's become incredibly bossy." Having never married, Aunt Charlotte has always enjoyed bossing her menagerie of cats… not that they ever paid much attention. Cats don't, do they? "Can you believe, she drove over here on Saturday, completely unannounced, and insisted she simply had to take me away for the weekend?"

"That doesn't sound so bad."

"It's not. It was very kind of her. But I had plans. There's a lot to do in the garden, I wanted to clean out the kitchen cabinets, and I was gonna call you, but she'd started packing my things before I could even get a word out."

"Where did you go?"

"Just to Montpelier."

I imagine the two of them making the drive of roughly ninety minutes, and how Aunt Charlotte probably didn't stop talking all the way, and I have to smile.

"What did you do when you got there?"

"We went to an amazing craft gallery. I bought a lovely new scarf, and a necklace, and then we had dinner, and stayed over in a beautiful little hotel."

"It sounds like you enjoyed yourself."

"I did. It was nice. I'm not complaining."

"But you'd rather she'd given you more warning?"

"That, and I'd like it if she'd stuck to the plan she made. We were supposed to stay overnight and come back yesterday afternoon, but she decided we were having such a fabulous time, and that as neither of us had anything better to do, we might as well stay on an extra day… which is why I've only just got home."

I check the clock on the microwave and see it's already five-thirty. Where on earth has the day gone? And why haven't I achieved anything with it?

"And you think having a dog will make it easier for you?" I ask, sticking to Mom's problems, not mine.

"I don't know," she says. "I guess I just get fed up with her dictating my life to me, like I'm one of her precious damn cats."

"You could try telling her that. It might be less trouble than having a puppy running around the house."

"Maybe."

"Has anything else happened?" I ask, enjoying her news.

"Yes. Anthony Gray is selling the auto repair shop."

"After all these years? Is he retiring?" I'm not sure how old Anthony is, but it seems like a fair question.

"I don't know," Mom says. "He's giving up the business because there isn't enough trade in the town anymore."

"Then how does he hope to sell it?"

"He doesn't. He's gonna sell the land. I'm pretty sure someone will want to develop it, so he should do okay."

"I imagine he will, but I wonder what will be built there." I think about the old auto shop on the edge of the town where I grew up.

"I dread to think. This place is changing, Zara."

"Do you think you'll ever leave?" I ask, feeling slightly concerned by her answer. Even though I've already left home myself, the idea of never going back there is surprisingly difficult to contemplate.

"No," she says, and I sigh out my relief, keeping it as quiet as possible. "Your father's buried here, and I can't imagine living anywhere else."

I'm reminded of my father's death, which wasn't that long ago. It was mid-way through my first semester at college, and I'm relieved now that I studied in Burlington, which is only a thirty-minute drive from my hometown. I know many people prefer to study out of state, but I'm not one of them, and in the end, it proved to be a wise move. It meant I wasn't far away when Mom got the phone call telling her my father had suffered a massive heart attack at his office, and died before the paramedics could get to him. None of us had seen it coming. In fact, he'd always been a picture of good health, and Mom found it hard to cope without him for a while. She's better now, though. If she hadn't been, I could never have left.

"What else is going on?" I ask, because even if she's better, I know she doesn't like talking about Dad's death, and neither do I.

"I'm sure there must be plenty I've forgotten to tell you, but I didn't call to gossip. I called to see how your workshop went last week."

I was hoping she wouldn't mention that. Not because it went badly, but because I've been trying to forget about my new job, and its imminent start… tomorrow morning.

"It went okay," I say, filling the brief silence.

"Just okay?"

"There was a lot to take in, as well as meeting the other teaching staff."

"I guess they've all been there for years," she says.

"Not all of them. There's someone else who's starting tomorrow."

"Is she someone you can make friends with?"

"It's not a she, it's a he."

"Oh?" I hear that familiar tone to my mom's voice and shake my head, sipping at my coffee, although I don't reply and eventually she asks, "What's his name? What's he like?"

"His name is Russ. He's about my age, and before you get excited and start giving me dating advice, he's not my type."

"Why not? What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing, as far as I know. I just don't find him attractive in that way."

"The poor man," she says, which makes me smile. "Although I don't know what you mean about dating advice. When have I ever done that?" She's doing her best to sound affronted and my smile becomes a grin.

"Only every time I mention a man's name."

She's done it ever since I turned eighteen… and for a second or two, I'm reminded of how my father used to roll his eyes and give me sympathetic glances. Mom never meant any harm, and we all knew it, but it formed a bond between Dad and me not long before he passed, and I like having that as a memory of him.

Mom laughs. "Okay. But even if Russ isn't the man for you, what are they all like? Do you get on with them?"

"Yes. Russ is the only man on the staff, and most of the women are quite a bit older than me, but they're friendly enough… although they like to gossip."

"Show me a small town where they don't." We both laugh. "The thing is, did you learn anything?"

"About my job, or the other residents of Hart's Creek?" I ask.

"I'm gonna assume you learned something about your job, or there wouldn't have been much point in going to the workshops."

"So you wanna hear the gossip?"

"I want to know if you learned anything useful about your fellow citizens."

"Because that sounds so much better."

"It does to me," she says and falls silent. I know she's waiting, and I guess there's no harm in telling her the few things I overheard.

"It seems that a couple called Gabe and Remi came back from their honeymoon a couple of weeks ago."

"Who are they?"

"I don't know about Gabe, but I got the impression that Remi works at the library. The subject only came up because one of the other teachers was saying something about how chaotic it's been there in her absence."

"I see."

"I also learned that the owner of the coffee shop is pregnant. I didn't catch her name, but I gathered her boyfriend has left her."

"He sounds nice," Mom says.

"Yeah. I thought that. A teacher called Helen was horribly triumphant about it, although I couldn't work out what any of it had to do with her."

"Probably nothing. If you ask me, Helen doesn't sound very nice, either."

"No. I decided I'd do my best to avoid her."

"Seems like a wise move."

"It was a shame in a way, because she was one of the younger members of staff, and we probably could have become friends… if she wasn't so mean."

"Hmm… no-one needs friends like that, Zara."

"No."

"To be honest, I was getting bored by then, so I gave up listening."

"I don't blame you. Although I guess you'll get to know everyone and their news eventually. It's impossible not to in a small town."

She's probably right, but I'm in no hurry.

I feel like I've got enough to do as it is. What with a new job and a new home, the idea of meeting new people too is a little intimidating.

"How's the unpacking going?" Mom asks. "Are you done yet?"

"Nearly," I say, looking around at all the boxes.

"You mean you're not finished? Honestly, anyone would think you'd been busy."

"I have."

"I know."

"I guess I should probably get on," I say, reluctant to end the call. "I need to get an early night."

"You do. You've got a big day tomorrow."

I don't need reminding, but we end our call and I replace my phone, my shoulders dropping as I look around the room.

Being busy is hardly an excuse for the state of this place. Like I said, it's been ten days, and despite attending the teaching workshops last week, I've still had my evenings, and a couple of free afternoons, plus two weekends and the whole of today… so I've had plenty of time to unpack.

The problem is, I haven't done it.

Why?

Because every time I start, my brain goes into overdrive about where I am and what I'm doing, and fear overwhelms me.

As well as being my first home, this is also my first job… my first attempt at getting it right all by myself.

Or maybe screwing it up all by myself.

Either way, it feels kinda ominous.

I don't know why, though. Let's face it, I was the one who decided to move here. I even went through the lengthy process of transferring my teaching license, so I could get a job. And once I'd done that, having impressed the principal with my grades, I found somewhere to live… this tiny, furnished house in Maple Street. The location is perfect, even if I could only get it on a six-month tenancy. There was nothing else available, but it's enough for now, and the landlord made noises about letting me stay on for longer.

So, why is it I feel out of my depth?

I've been planning this for ages, and it's supposed to be an adventure. That's what I told myself… before the rollercoaster ride got real.

I shake my head, finishing my lukewarm coffee and I put the cup into the sink.

I need to pull myself together and stop being so pathetic. I chose this life. Hell… I even chose Hart's Creek. There was nothing random about it. I made my selection because this is a small town, not a big city, and when the job of kindergarten teacher came up, it seemed ideal. The town might not be as small as the place where I grew up, but the population here is more than ten times what I'm used to. When I arrived for my interview, it felt enormous, but I reminded myself it wasn't New York. It wasn't even Burlington, and I'd spent four years studying there. No, Hart's Creek was a chance to spread my wings in stages, instead of one big flight.

I just need a little courage to accept that I'm a grown-up, with a job and a home… and books that need unpacking.

It's not as though I can even escape from them. At some stage, someone who's owned this place has taken a strong dislike to internal walls, and had them all removed. You can see where they were, once upon a time, but there are none left now, other than the ones that disguise the solitary bedroom and bathroom, and the laundry room… which is more like a closet. That means everything else is on display, and keeping things tidy is going to be paramount. At the moment, my couch is hidden beneath several boxes… and that's no-one's idea of tidy.

So I guess I'd better stop thinking and start unpacking.

I wander over and open the first box I come to, smiling when I glance down at the books inside. I'm a huge fan of romance novels. They're escapist nonsense, I know, but they're also my only source of knowledge or information when it comes to affairs of the heart. I think that's why I have such a wide variety, from historical regency romances, to raunchy erotica… and everything in between. After all, I need as much background as I can get.

Delving into the box, I pull out a few books, placing them on the top shelf, before grabbing the next one, and letting out a sigh. This is a particularly well-thumbed novel, called Rake's Ranch. I bought it years ago, and it was my first glimpse of what goes on behind closed doors. Until then, I'd read sweet, clean romances, mostly historical ones, featuring tales of earls and lords, and the women they'd wooed. I'd enjoyed the back and forth, the thrill of the chase, and the inevitable happily ever after. Rake's Ranch seemed like it might be more of the same, but in a modern, cowboy setting, which I thought would make a change. The cover features a muscular man, wearing blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and a cowboy hat. His face is barely visible, other than a stubbled jaw. His name is Rake – hence the title – and he's everything I could ever want in a man. That's probably why I bought the book without reading the reviews… or the warning that it contains sexually explicit language. I just knew I liked the look of that man, but little did I know what I was letting myself in for.

I flip through the book, which seems to fall open at a page just over halfway through, and I feel my skin tingle as I read…

‘Just looking at him makes my pussy wet, and I stare into those scorching eyes, hoping he'll understand I want more than a shoulder to cry on. Life might let me down, but I know he won't.

He growls, closing the gap between us, his lips crushed to mine, his hands everywhere. Within seconds, I feel him raise my skirt, his fingers delving inside my panties.

"You're soaking," he says, rubbing my clit as he leans back, his eyes searching mine, and then he pushes me back against the wall, holding me there with his body. "You want this?" he says, flexing his hips so I can feel his arousal, long and hard, pressing against me.

"Yes."

"There's no turning back, babe."

"I know. I don't want to."

He kisses me harder than ever…'

Man… it's getting hot in here, and my body's almost quivering with need. I've wandered to the side of the room while reading and I lean against the wall now, closing my eyes, picturing the scene as that gorgeous cowboy devours me…

"Oh, yes…" I lower my zipper and delve inside, surprised by how wet I am. It's just like in the story, my juices soaking through my underwear, my pussy slick with need. I drop the book, and circle my finger over my swollen clit, my imagination going into overdrive. I want to feel his fingers… his tongue… and his enormous cock, just like in the pages of that novel, and I let myself picture the scene, drawing it in my mind. I'm enjoying every second, but I want more, and there's always been only one way for me to do that. I reach up with my other hand and tweak my hardened nipple through my blouse. Instantly, I feel a tingle deep inside me, and I rub my clit a little harder, my body climbing to the precipice… and then tumbling straight back down again.

"Damn…" I pull my hand from my jeans, unable to hide my disappointment. It's always like this, and I don't know why I'm surprised. I don't know why I let myself have such high expectations, either. So what if the female characters in books see fireworks and stars before their eyes every time they come? So what if they can climax at the drop of a hat? That's fiction, not reality. And I wish I could remember that, so I could save myself from this crushing sense of dejection every time I don't quite seem to ‘get there'.

I am getting there, in my own way. Even if my legs never go weak, and I'm only ever slightly breathless, this is me. It's who I am.

I'm a real person, with real hang-ups. Not a heroine in a romance novel fantasy.

I zip up my jeans, then bend and grab the book, wandering back to the couch and returning it to the box. Sure, I could put it on the shelf. I could even continue unpacking. But I feel like taking a walk first.

I need to clear my head, come back and get an early night. Then I can start this again tomorrow, after work.

Tomorrow.

Work.

The thought of it fills me with fear… again.

All those young faces staring up at me, expecting I'll know what to say and what to do… when really I don't have a clue.

It's terrifying.

I grab my keys from the breakfast bar and, checking I've got my phone, I head out the front door. I need to escape, and at least out here, I can pretend I'm confident and assured, not someone who's seriously thinking about running home to her mom.