1

Beth

Early morning walk people are the best.

There, I said it.

And I stand by it.

Whether it was strolling along the scenic Elizabeth River in Norfolk, Virginia, hiking the trails of Brackenridge Park in San Antonio, Texas, enjoying the serene Cape Fear Botanical Garden in Fayetteville, North Carolina, or any other places we moved to during my childhood, my theory about humanity was affirmed time and time again—the best people start their day with an early morning walk.

How else do you explain a shelf-diagnosed, snarky booktrovert like me, whose idea of heaven is being curled up in a dark room with the thermostat set to a chilly sixty degrees, a nonstop supply of books on hand, and who hates the outdoors at any other time of the day, strolling through Comfort Bay with a big smile on her face, saying things like, "I saw your garden yesterday. Those marigolds are beautiful this year!" as I pass Mrs. Maynard. Or thanking Dusty Bennett for the strawberries he brought into the bookstore last week, "They were so sweet!" Or smiling ear-to-ear when Mrs. Huxley grabs me by the arm, double checks to make sure no one is within earshot, and with a devilish smile on her sweet seventy-four-year-old face, whispers, "Thanks for the recommendation on that hockey romance novel, I'm really enjoying it."

I'm not a smile-when-I-see-someone person.

I don't take much of an interest in other people's lives beyond the polite surface level stuff. And I certainly don't spend time doing outdoorsy things in nature, like hiking.

With one notable exception.

Yep, that's right.

On my early morning walk.

They've been a regular part of my morning routine, like brushing my teeth and scrolling through Bookstagram, for as long as I can remember. Mom's an early morning walker, too. I joined her one day when I was a little girl and have never looked back.

I do it every single day when it's not raining, which, in Monterey County, California, is hardly ever.

When I do occasionally miss a walk, I'm sluggish all day. It takes my brain way too long to think of my trademark quips. I often find myself chasing after a customer with a clever retort five minutes too late, only to find them gone and my witty comeback wasted. I'm kidding, of course…I'd never run.

I've even managed to rope my closest girlfriends into joining me. My goal was to have a weekly group walk, but with Evie not exactly being a morning person—plus her life being consumed by her hockey stadium, Hannah spending every spare second of her summer with Culver, her best friend, cough cough, and with Summer living in LA and busy with dad-caring duties when she's back in town on weekends, it really only leaves Amiel, who, much like me most of the time, isn't an outdoorsy, exercisey kind of gal, either.

But we do manage a group walk every once in a while, which is enough for me.

I spot Elise Daniels, who I know from senior class, coming toward me. I pass on my concern to her. "I hope your mom is feeling better. Let her know I'm thinking of her."

"Thanks, Beth. I will. Have a great day."

"You, too, Elise."

And see, the thing is, a little friendly exchange wouldn't happen on a walk at any other time.

Trust me.

I've tested my theory out by walking at other times of the day—on my lunch break, after work, even at sunset—and for whatever reason, people are just different.

Not as friendly.

Not as likely to stop and chitchat for a few moments.

Not as willing to smile and say hello and wish you a good day.

I think once people get their caffeine hit, log on to social media, and start dealing with whatever they're dealing with in their lives, they change. They get bogged down by the everydayness of things.

That's why walking first thing in the morning is so great. People aren't bombarded and overwhelmed with everything and are just…nice.

It's refreshing.

I take a deep breath and savor this magical time of day. The sun is just beginning to rise, casting a soft, golden light that gently illuminates the empty streets and buildings of Comfort Bay, the place I've called home since Dad left the military and he, Mom, and my three sisters settled here.

Sometimes I hike up to Cuddle Cove Cliff to watch the sun come up, but most days, I like to wander around town and watch as it slowly comes to life.

I wave to Doyle as he unlocks the door to his grocery store and begins arranging the display, quickly scurrying away when he brings up the Festival of Living Pictures taking place later in the summer. Yeah. I won't be doing that. My community spirit vaporizes the second I step through my front door and kick off my sneakers.

I wander past the bakery and stop for a second, inhaling the inviting smell of freshly baked bread and pastries wafting through the air. I tap on the glass, and Amiel smiles. She finishes sliding a tray of colorful cupcakes, beautifully decorated with icing and sprinkles, into the cabinet then lifts a gloved hand and waves.

"Save you one?" she mouths.

I shake my head. "No thanks."

With a wave, I take off again.

I wish I could sample Amiel's exceptional creations more often—she is one seriously talented baker—but throughout my entire childhood, I was the obese girl with thick glasses who wore a Hello Kitty T-shirt and would get teased at every new school I started for being the obese girl with thick glasses who wore a Hello Kitty T-shirt.

My weight is now in a healthy range. I eat well. I walk every day. And I do allow myself the occasional treat. But the fear of returning to the girl I used to be is never too far from the back of my mind. I'm not consumed by it, but I am careful with what I eat.

I crouch down and get treated to an affectionate flurry of affection, by which I mean a furious licking by Bella, the cutest, most excitable golden retriever I've ever met. Her owner, Felix Logan, is a nice guy. We exchange a few words before he pulls Bella off me, explaining, "I should get going. I'm heading down to LA for an audition."

"Ooh, for anything exciting?"

"Nah. It's a laundry commercial."

"I love doing laundry." I lie with a smile. "Break a leg."

"Thanks, Beth."

I set off again.

Felix and his girlfriend make an adorable couple. So do Evie and Fraser, and so will Hannah and Culver when they finally get their act together and see what's right in front of them.

I let out a sigh that comes out a little more wistful than I intended.

Me?

I'm fine without love in my life.

No, really. I am.

I get all the romance I need from the books I devour. Which, admittedly, sounds a little sad.

But when it comes to men, there's a reason why I have my expectation bar set to just an inch above the ground. I've been treated like dirt in the past, so believe me, it's better to be alone than with someone who disrespects you and doesn't value you. Been there, bought the T-shirt, have no intention of ever repeating that again.

Besides, reading as much romance as I have has taught me one thing loud and clear—total package men only exist in the pages of books, not in real life.

Well, except for Fraser.

And Culver's pretty great, too.

And so is Bear for Summer when she finally realizes he's head over heels in love with her.

Okay. Let me backtrack here.

Total package men do exist, they just never pop up in my life.

And that's…fine.

The day is beginning to get brighter, and the streets are coming alive with activity. Bear's diner is busy, kids are hanging out in the gazebo waiting for the school bus, and the early morning calm is giving way to the hustle and bustle of the new day.

That's my cue to retreat and go home.

Another successful walk completed.

Well, almost completed.

I'm not in the clear yet, and I don't want to jinx it.

Because, you see, there has been one little wrinkle in my early morning walks recently.

And by little wrinkle, I mean a certain grumpy NHL-playing goalie with broad shoulders, a stubbled jaw, and piercing green eyes that do absolutely nothing for me, who I've seen out jogging these past few days and potentially blowing up my entire theory about early morning walkers being the best humans.

Because Milo Payne is most certainly not one of the best humans. He's moody. Grouchy. Arrogant. Oh, and he sports a man bun.

A man bun.

As someone who has faced a great deal of scrutiny over my appearance—especially in my plus-size years—I'm the last person to judge anyone else for theirs, but I can't help how I feel, and there's just something about man buns that makes me shudder. It's like a guy wearing flip-flops when he's not at the beach. It's plain wrong.

I scan the area, but nope, there's no six-foot-something, yummy, broad-shouldered, stubbled-jawed, piercing green-eyed, man-bunned pro hockey player to be found.

Good.

So why does my heart sink a little?

I've been out in the fresh air too long, that's why. All this smiling and talking and interacting with people has messed up my anti-love radar. I need to get home, shower, and scrub all this small-town niceness off of me.

I round the corner onto my street and bam—a moving wall plows into me. I'm saved from crashing into the sidewalk by a pair of strong arms gripping me tightly.

I shake my head out, recovering from the shock.

When I look up, I'm greeted by a pair of piercing green eyes. A stubbled jaw. And with the sunlight illuminating him from behind, a haloed man bun.

"Are you okay, Beth?"

I haven't heard him speak a lot, but I'd recognize that deep timbre of his voice anywhere. And for a split second, I thought I heard a trace of concern in his tone. It matches the intense gaze in his eyes as he studies my face.

He's probably just worried I'll sue him for mowing me down.

"I'm fine," I say, brushing his hands off me.

He releases his grip but keeps his hands hovering a few inches away from me as I straighten, like he's keeping them there as a backup in case I stumble.

No. It's not that. It can't be that. It's probably so I don't sue him for further damages.

"I'm fine," I repeat once I'm steady on my feet and swat his hands away from me.

"All I was doing was trying to help you," he grumbles, his tone defensive.

"I don't need your help, thank you very much. Chivalry is dead, in case you haven't heard."

I tilt my head up, and boy, those green eyes are enough to almost make me lose my balance again. They're a striking shade of green, an emerald hue flecked with tiny gold specks that catch in the light.

Butterflies dance in my stomach.

One of my older sisters, Schapelle, is a romance author, and she would have a field day describing those eyes.

Me, a cynical anti-love bookworm, knows better than to get sucked in by a guy with mesmerizing eyes. Those ones are always the biggest trouble.

The dancing butterflies are wasting their time.

"But you're okay?" he checks.

"Yes, I am." I zip my hoodie up a little. "Don't worry. I won't sue you."

A line forms between his eyebrows. "Sue me? For what?"

"For barreling into me."

"We rounded the corner at the exact same moment. I don't think anyone's at fault here."

I fold my arms across my chest. "Of course you'd say that."

"What's that supposed to mea—you know what, nevermind. You're not injured. That's what matters."

I huff out a noise that's somewhere between annoyed and hopefully a tiny bit sexy.

Wait. What?

I am not trying to sound sexy in front of Milo…am I?

Gosh, maybe I have a concussion.

"Look," he says. "No one was hurt. Can we try and be positive here?"

"Okay, fine. I'm positive this is all your fault."

Ah, Snarky Beth has fully booted up and is back online. Good. I'm going to need her. First order of business? Eliminate that pesky wanting to sound sexy virus that has infiltrated my system.

The muscle in Milo's jaw twitches, and his eyes darken. His massive shoulders heave up and down with every breath he takes, staring at me like…like I don't know what.

He's the goalie for the LA Swifts, the same team Fraser and Culver play for. Fraser and Culver are your typical, all-around nice guys.

But Milo?

He's known as the NHL's resident grumpy goalie. Not to mention he has a reputation for being a bit of a player.

I'm not into hockey—or sports in general—so I wouldn't know if that reputation is accurate. But a little harmless online sleuthing confirmed he's got a thing for pretty girls who seem clueless and probably hang on his every word, thinking he's the greatest guy ever.

I've only met him once. He showed up at Hannah's karaoke night a few weeks ago and, as I suspected, he's cocky. Just not exactly in the way I thought he'd be.

He's got swagger, sure, but it came across more as quiet arrogance rather than some over-the-top alpha display. He didn't say much, mostly sticking with Fraser and Culver, and he never sang. He seemed content to stay in the background rather than be the center of attention.

And if I'm not mistaken, his gaze drifted to me a few times during the evening. I made sure to look away quickly, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. If he thinks he can just blink at a woman and she'll fall under his spell, I wanted to be the one to prove him wrong.

So what if his resting grump face was kinda cute—man bun aside, of course.

Or if I found myself stealing glances at him, too, for some weird reason.

Or if I may have wondered a few times since that night whether he's genuinely grouchy or simply the quiet type who gets labeled that way.

Not that any of it matters.

I'm sure Milo hasn't thought about me since karaoke. He can have any girl he wants—why would he be interested in someone like me?

"I don't have time for this," I say, pushing past him. "I have a bookstore to open."

"Wait." His deep voice cuts through the morning air, and it does something to my feet because I immediately freeze on the spot.

He jogs up until he's in front of me, blocking my way. "You're blocking my way."

He backs off and sweeps his hand to the side, pointing to the sidewalk. "There. I'm not blocking you. You're free to leave whenever you want."

"Good. In that case, I'm going."

"But…"

I drop my gaze to my feet.

Come on, guys, this is your cue to do the thing I just said I'm going to do and skedaddle.

But nope, they stubbornly refuse to listen to me. It's probably their punishment for me using the term skedaddle and nothing to do with wanting to hear what Milo has to say.

I blow out a frustrated breath and look up at Milo with those incredible eyes, that sexy stubbled jawline, and that supremely annoying man bun. "But what?"

He stares at me for a few long seconds, his eyebrows knitted together.

I have no idea what's going through his mind, but I am completely unprepared for what he eventually says.

"Why don't you like me?"