Along Came You (Oyster Bay Book 2) Read online

  Well, now they’d seen. Maybe they’d finally stop seeing her as their baby sister and more of their equal.

  Abby gathered up a stack of her favorite back issues and books and carried them back to the table. By the time she thought to reach for her mug for her first sip of coffee, it had grown cold, but she’d somehow never felt more energized.

  She’d treat herself to a coffee at Angie’s Café (one thing, with certainty, that Angie got right). And then…Then she’d get to work.

  The thought of that had certainly never felt sweeter.

  ***

  Usually after Bridget dropped Emma off at school, she went home to clean the kitchen from the breakfast dishes, and make the guest room rounds—making beds and changing sheets and hanging fresh towels from the hooks in the bathroom. Other days she stopped in town first. There were always groceries to buy or staples to replenish, like the lavender soap that was only carried at The Apothecary, a delightfully eclectic shop that carried everything from silk scarves to costume jewelry to imported soap.

  She didn’t need to run errands today, but that didn’t mean she would be hurrying back to the inn either. The last of the wedding guests had checked out first thing this morning, and with the next round of guests not scheduled to arrive until tomorrow afternoon, that meant the only person in the house was Jack.

  Not that she’d have to worry about that, per se. Jack hadn’t emerged from his room, that she was aware of, since yesterday morning, when she’d had the shock of her life. When she’d gone upstairs a while later to strip the beds, the DO NOT DISTURB sign was hanging from the brass doorknob, just as it was again this morning when she’d helped her other two guests carry their luggage out to their car. The television was off, and the shower wasn’t running. Room Four was completely silent.

  Perhaps Jack liked to sleep in. But then, that didn’t explain why he’d stayed in there all day yesterday, when she’d gone upstairs to restock the linen closet with fresh towels.

  Did the man not eat? Was he dead?

  Eventually she’d have to check on him.

  She sighed. But not now.

  Books by the Bay was just ahead on the corner and Bridget hurried to the door, knowing that she’d probably be the first customer of the day and rather hoping she was. Her oldest friend, Trish McDowell, had taken over the shop three years ago, when her youngest started kindergarten, and when old Horace Lawson decided he’d had enough of the dusty secondhand store he was running back then. Trish came in and transformed the place, with more than just a fresh coat of paint. She sold off the inventory at a bargain, and what didn’t sell she donated to charity. She then turned the storefront into a proper bookstore, with cozy armchairs and story hour and tables and shelves arranged by topic, whereas poor Horace’s system was to just stack as many books as he could, any which way, and let everyone browse until they grew frustrated.

  The bell above the door chimed when she pushed through, and Bridget craned her neck for her friend as she wandered around the front table to her favorite section.

  “Don’t tell me you’re here for another one already,” Trish remarked jokingly as she came up from behind the counter.

  “What can I say?” Bridget shrugged. “They’re my guilty pleasure.”

  Trish just shook her head and motioned to the New Release table, where sure enough, the latest J.R. Anderson novel was on full display.

  “Don’t you get tired of all those happy endings?” Trish asked, as Bridget eagerly picked up the paperback and studied its cover.

  “I happen to like happy endings,” Bridget said, as she turned over the back to scan the blurb. “But maybe that’s because I’m still searching for one myself.”

  Trish gave a sympathetic smile. “Have you considered dipping your toe in the dating pool again?” There was hope in her voice that Bridget secretly resented, even though she knew her friend was just being helpful. For years, Trish and her husband, Jeffrey, had been inviting Bridget over on the nights that Ryan had Emma, always with an ulterior motive. Their matchmaking ranged from the man who spent an hour showing everyone pictures of his cat, to the man who clearly just wanted a maid for his three rowdy and motherless boys, to the man who still lived at home and was looking for a woman to do everything his mother currently did for him.

  “No,” Bridget lied, keeping her gaze firmly on the cover of her favorite author’s newest release. After all, less than forty-eight hours ago, she had dared to think of dating again, dating a certain tall, dark, and handsome stranger who had kissed the surprise right off her lips. It was like something straight out of her favorite series. A romantic, and completely unexpected, moment. It was perfect, really. Perfect enough to let her lie awake imagining it could happen again.

  She set the book firmly on the counter and removed her wallet. “After all, who needs a man when I have J.R. Anderson?”

  Trish shook her head, but she was smiling nonetheless as she rang up the order and dropped the book into a brown paper bag.

  “Whoever this J.R. woman is, she’s clearly a success.”

  “Tell me about it,” Bridget said. She’d devoured the first series in record time, and she doubted this book would last through the week. But then, it was the perfect distraction. Just what she needed, to engross herself in a fantasy and forget about the real one right upstairs from her bedroom…

  “How did the Carrington wedding go, by the way?” Trish picked up a stack of books and motioned for Bridget to follow her. Deciding to make herself useful, Bridget picked up another stack and wandered over to the children’s corner, where she set the picture books on a table.

  “It was good,” she said, frowning.

  “You don’t sound very convinced,” Trish remarked.

  “Oh, it’s just that…” Bridget paused. There was nothing keeping her from admitting that she’d had a romantic interaction (was that what it was?) with a guest. Trish would no doubt be thrilled and want all the details over a cup of tea. It was tempting…except for the fact that admitting it to Trish meant prolonging the memory, and the hope that had come with it. No, best to just forget it. After all, it wasn’t like it had happened again. Or would happen again…“Well, the caterers were late.”

  “Oh no!” Trish pulled a face as she wedged a hardback onto the shelf. “And Dennis Carrington is a hard man to please!”

  “Exactly,” Bridget said, thinking of how close she’d come to a terrible write-up on the front page of the paper.

  “How’d you fix that?”

  Bridget picked the first book off the stack and skimmed the back. “I had Abby come over to help.”

  “Abby?” Trish turned to her in surprise.

  “I know,” Bridget replied, as she set the book down. “But she really stepped up. I was impressed.” Not impressed enough to offer her sister a job, but that was a discussion she’d need to have later. Right now, she had more pressing matters at hand. Like figuring out how to avoid going home for the next two weeks. She picked up the book again, and, finding its spot on the shelf, slid it into place.

  The bells on the door chimed in the distance behind them, and Trish looked up to greet the customer. “Welcome to Books by the Bay,” she said. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Just browsing,” Bridget heard a man reply.

  Her hands froze as she was sliding another book onto the shelf. It wasn’t just any man’s voice. It was the voice she had replayed over and over and over again.

  Panicked, she turned to see Jack himself, standing at the front table, surveying the newest releases. She closed her eyes and turned back to Trish, wondering if her friend would allow her exit out of the back storage room.

  Instead, Trish mouthed, “Cute!”

  Of course. Trish the matchmaker. She only had one thing on her mind.

  “I already know him,” Bridget informed her in a low whisper.

  Trish’s eyes widened. “Do tell!”

  “It’s not like that,” Bridget said. Actually, it sort of was li
ke that. For a moment. “He’s a guest at the inn.”

  “Oh? But you’re usually more friendly and outgoing with guests.” Trish paused, as a knowing smile took over her mouth. “Oh, I see.”

  Bridget chanced a glance toward the front of the store, but Jack was mercifully engrossed in a book, his back slightly to the children’s corner, which he would no doubt avoid. A man who didn’t believe in marriage probably had no interest in kids, either.

  Bridget eyed the playhouse and did some mental calculations. She might just fit in there, if she rolled herself into a ball.

  “So, a handsome, seemingly single man is staying at your inn…And you fail to mention this to me?” Trish pinched her lips in disapproval.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Bridget remarked. But, oh, there was so much to tell! “He’s a guest. He seems to like to keep to himself. I’m giving him some privacy.”

  “If you say so,” Trish said pertly.

  Bridget rolled her eyes, annoyed that her friend knew her so well that she wasn’t going to believe any of her excuses. Of course, under normal circumstances she would go over, greet her guest, and offer up some other suggestions of places to visit while in town.

  And she didn’t want to be rude. Or unprofessional.

  Maybe she’d just say hello…

  “I’ll say hello to him on my way out,” she informed Trish, whose mouth seemed to twitch.

  “You do that. Good plan.” Trish winked.

  Oh, for God’s sake.

  Bridget looked at her watch. Well, there was no use hiding out in the store all morning, not when the person she was running from was now less than ten feet away. She still had to strip the bedding from the rooms that had just been vacated, do the laundry, and remember to call the dance studio about Emma’s recital outfit, which was at least one size too big thanks to a measuring mix-up.

  Right. She’d just walk past, smile, say hello, and pretend he was a normal guest. Not a super handsome one that had taken it upon himself to kiss her the other night.

  “I’m gonna go.” She blew out a breath, working up the courage.

  “Okay.” Trish stood patiently, studying her.

  Bridget bit her lower lip. “Yep. I’m going.” She nodded. She could do this.

  “You do that.” Trish’s smile was positively gloating by now.

  Exasperated, Bridget snatched her bag from the table where she’d set it and began to march quickly to the door. Oh, to just sail past! She could be on the street in ten seconds if she wanted to…But no. That inn was her livelihood, and her home. And she was its representative. It was bad enough she had kissed this guest. She couldn’t give him bad service, too.

  “Mr. Riley!” Damn. Her voice was an octave higher than normal. From the corner of her eye, she could see Trish watching it all like a bad movie, her eyes almost as wide as her smile.

  Jack looked up from the book he was holding and turned, his expression lifting in surprise when he saw her. “We meet again.”

  “We seem to have a way of doing that.” There. This wasn’t so bad. “It’s a small town.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” he said, rather grimly.

  “You’re from Manhattan, right?” So, okay, she had scoured over his reservation details last night.

  “Correct.” He set down the book he’d been looking through. A murder mystery, she noted.

  “Can’t say we have as much excitement in Oyster Bay as the big city, but there’s plenty to do. I’m happy to point out some—”

  He was shaking his head. “I have to get back to work soon. I just came in to browse for a bit. Clear my head.”

  She knew a hint when she saw one. “Well, I won’t disturb you then,” she said with a tight smile.

  She turned to go, but he stopped her. “I could use some good dinner recommendations.”

  She could feel Trish watching her, and from her periphery sensed an eager nodding from her friend. Keep it going, she could imagine her saying. You can do this!

  “Oh. Okay.” She tried to think of the names of the various restaurants in town, but for some reason, her entire mind had gone blank. “There’s…The Lantern.”

  For God’s sake, her own uncle’s restaurant, and she hadn’t thought of it!

  “Dunley’s has pub food,” she said, naming her ex-husband’s establishment out of sheer desperation. Now she could sense Trish shaking her head in total disappointment. “Nice bar scene.” If he was into that type of thing…Like picking up random women for a bit of fun. Or…a kiss?

  He shook his head. “I prefer something quieter. Does the inn offer anything?”

  No, it did not, but Bridget hated to turn down a guest’s request. And he was her only guest at the moment…

  “You’re welcome to join me and my daughter for dinner tonight.”

  She could practically hear Trish gasp across the room. She kept her eyes trained on Jack. On his gleaming blue eyes and that five o’clock shadow on that square jaw. Her heart began to pound while she waited for his response.

  “I didn’t realize you had a daughter,” he said, the pinch between his brow unreadable.

  “I’m one of the statistics you mentioned the other night,” she said, with a little smile. It felt strange to mention the night of the wedding, but there was no use skirting their first meeting. “Does six thirty work for you? I’m making lasagna. House specialty.”

  “She does make a mean lasagna!” Trish called out, and Bridget flashed her with a warning look.

  He hesitated, but only for a moment. “Lasagna happens to be my favorite comfort food. Six thirty it is.”

  Six thirty it was then. A date. Or at least…dinner.

  She turned to go, leaving him to peruse the bookstore, and she wasn’t even to the corner before her phone pinged with a text from Trish. She smiled without even having to read it.

  Life hadn’t been this exciting in…a long time.

  Chapter Five

  Jack didn’t see a choice. He sat down at his computer, pulled up a blank page, and started his story. In a bookstore. There, that trip into town hadn’t been a complete waste of time. Still, he couldn’t spend his days wandering the shops if he expected to be productive.

  He set his egg timer for an hour, vowing not to stop typing until the alarm went off, even though he knew this was a cheap trick. Over the years, he’d played a variety of games like this, tactics designed to motivate himself, but he couldn’t outsmart his own mind. And for the life of himself, he couldn’t stay focused either.

  Once he could sit at his desk for hours, from afternoon until evening, sometimes not even realizing that the room had grown dark. Erin would come in, bringing him cups of coffee, and later, a glass of wine, her subtle way of telling him it was time to stop for the day and come pay her a little attention.

  But he hadn’t paid her attention, had he? Instead, he’d pointed out his deadline, the words that needed to be written, the work that needed to be done.

  He closed his eyes at the memory. Well. No use thinking about that now.

  What was done was done. And it wouldn’t be repeated.

  He stared at the screen, his fingers hunched over the keyboard, motionless. The egg timer was doing its thing, but he still wasn’t doing his. Where was he? Oh, yes, a bookstore. A small bookstore in a small town. His readers liked small towns. So did his editor. And right now, that was all that mattered.

  He’d get the words down, tell a story that readers wanted to read, and then…Then he didn’t know. The world felt open, but it didn’t feel full of possibility, not anymore. He had money to live on for a while, and there were times when he’d considered transitioning his skills into something else, like journalism, or even editing, but he hadn’t given into that daydream in a while. Dreams were for those who believed they might actually come true.

  A daydreamer, he thought, jotting that thought down in the notebook he always kept next to his keyboard, but which was frequently blank these days. A daydreamer in a bookstore in a sma
ll, Maine town.

  It would have to do.

  Somehow, he managed to write until the egg timer went off. He looked down at his word count, at the bit of work he’d chipped off of what sometimes felt like an overwhelming task. He’d written nine hundred eighty-two words.

  He didn’t want to calculate how many more words were left to go.

  Still, it was a start, and that was something. He didn’t have another hour-long sprint in him, and soon it would be time for dinner anyway. Maybe he’d go down early, read in the lobby near one of those big fireplaces.

  He jotted something down in his notebook. Perhaps he’d set the bulk of the story in an old house, like this one. Yes, yes, that was an idea he could work with.

  With that in mind, he went off to explore.

  Oh, who was he kidding? He was going downstairs, to the lobby, and no amount of telling himself otherwise could make up for the undeniable fact that he was hoping to see Bridget again.

  ***

  Bridget set the oven to three seventy-five and looked over at Emma, who was in charge of sprinkling the cheese over the top of the lasagna—a job she took quite seriously, if the pinched expression on her face said anything.

  “That’s perfect,” Bridget said, swooping the dish away before Emma could empty the rest of the bag over the top. “Why don’t you go finish your homework while I get dinner ready?”

  “We don’t usually have guests for dinner,” Emma said suspiciously as she stepped away from the counter and walked over to the kitchen table.

  “Of course we do! Sometimes Margo and Abby come over.”

  “No, a guest.” Emma opened her unicorn pencil case and took out a sparkly pink pencil.

  Bridget didn’t know whether to feel proud or sad at how astute her daughter was becoming. Sometimes, she couldn’t help but miss the days when Emma still played with building blocks and loved nothing more than to crawl into her lap. Back then she still believed that broccoli were little trees. Now, Bridget couldn’t pull anything past her.

  “Well, we only have one guest today, so it’s the hospitable thing to do.” Yes, that’s all it was.