Season Starter: Summer Loving Book One (A standalone romcom), page 1
Season Starter
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Sneak Peek
Other Books by the Author
About the Author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 Amabel Daniels
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions
Acknowledgments
For editing, I thank Expression Editing, and C.J. Pinard at www.cjpinard.com. For the cover design, I thank Indigo Hearts Designs. For proofreading, I thank PSW.
Dedication
Don and Linda B.
Wherever and whoever you are, just know that I tore down the wallpaper you installed in my house on April 27, 1993. All those hours of scraping gave me plenty of time to plot this story.
And, why, why wallpaper a ceiling?
Chapter One
Jessie
What if this place is haunted?
According to semi-trustworthy local historians, Heron Views was originally a rudimentary and temporary jail. Way back in the heyday of Kormane’s conception, unlawful hooligans were taken to this three-story mansion in this bit of woods on the lakeshore. No one could verify the mansion actually housed any bad guys, but the stigma of it being a shady place lingered.
Its history didn’t improve much because right about the time of the prohibition, it was turned into a bootlegging joint in the basement with a brothel on the upper two floors. Well, not a “real” brothel. There was no way such a naughty place could be listed as a business within the realm of this cutesy tourist town. Yet there were rumors, and God forbid, photographs of the type of clientele Heron Views welcomed in those decades long ago.
That wasn’t the worst.
The bootlegging brothel faded—and how that happened, I really did wonder. Alcohol was still a common vice, albeit legal now. And could sex expire? How did getting it on “go out of business?” As if. I’d bet the churchy people in town shamed it into closing. We all knew who had the power there—actually, both of them did. Sex or worship: both made the world go crazy and both had money. Such were the mysteries of life.
Anyhow, Heron Views sat for many years until it was opened once more in the seventies.
Worse was what it had been refitted for.
This eight-bedroom behemoth standing before me, in all its weathered wood siding, busted windows, and drooping eaves glory, had last been a BDSM club. Between criminals, booze, and orgies, Heron Views didn’t have a stellar past.
If there was a ghost hanging around, I didn’t know which I’d prefer. A fugitive, bootlegger, pimp, or kinky dungeon master. Honestly, none would be ideal, but—
For God’s sake. There are no damn ghosts here. I was just shy of thirty, and it was a fine time to ignore the fantastical ideas of the paranormal.
“Who you gonna call?” I whispered to myself. “Ghostbusters!”
I crossed my arms, dismissing my ghost curiosity and that annoying pesky second-guessing, as I stared at my future. It would be my future. It had to be. No matter how awful the building’s hist—
A shutter fell from the slight breeze off the lake, crashing and splintering to pieces on the porch.
Mrs. Smith gasped and jumped back to her husband, who only paused his conversation on the phone by raising his brows at the noise. Then he shot me a look as if to ask you sure?
I knew he didn’t think this place had a chance. Or maybe it was just me he had no faith in.
His confidence hardly mattered. The Smiths were selling this place, and regardless of the odds Jenga-towering against me, I was buying. It was past time for me to make my dream of owning a B&B a reality.
“Honey, I don’t know…” Mrs. Smith winced, stepping closer to me as we met out front to discuss the private sale—again. “Are you absolutely sure you want to take this place on?”
“Yes.” Maybe.
Dammit. I was sure. Haven’t I debated this enough? Even with the worry about freaking afterlife hanging out here?
“What if there are…ghosts?”
Like she read my damn mind. “I’ll, um…” I shrugged. “Borrow some holy water.”
She sighed, shaking her head. “The house is just such a…”
“Dump. This whole place is an eyesore,” a man complained, coming up behind us.
Gritting my teeth, I didn’t bother to turn toward the road he’d parked his flashy car on. That snakelike croon and taunting tone would never be hard to place.
“Timmy, how are you, sweetheart?” Mrs. Smith asked, immediately grinning at Kormane’s resident golden boy.
He was a snake. Every freaking woman in town saw sunshiney charm with that punk. No, not punk, asshole. Timmy Wormer was wormier and snakier than the worst asshole—a wormhole. Wait. No. A wormhole is a time or physics thing. Fine. Timmy was a…well, he was a dick. I knew it as fact because I’d unfortunately almost fallen for and had been burned by that charm years ago.
They hugged in greeting, and I refused to look his way. Not yet. Oh, I’d face him off because I’d be damned if he beat me out of buying this…this… Fine. It was a dump! But once it was mine, I’d renovate it into a beautiful bed-and-breakfast.
So long as the Worm here didn’t win over the Smiths.
“Jessica Green,” he said with a smile, approaching me with a swagger he’d only tried to upgrade with age. Was I supposed to be impressed? Using full names made him look like an adult?
His last name suited him plenty. “Wormer.” I nodded, smiling through clenched teeth, bright enough so Mrs. Smith wouldn’t think I was being bitchy. Giving him a curt nod of acknowledgment was my warning to keep his distance.
“Been a while, woman.” He still came forward, all the way to squeeze my upper arm as he blocked the Smiths from view.
“Not long enough, ma—” No point lying… “Not long enough, worm,” I seethed through my smile and escaped his clutch.
Snakes. Worms. Anything skinny and slimy fit him to a T. But if I had to judge on his manhood alone, worm was probably far more befitting.
“All right.” Mr. Smith set his phone in his pocket and punched his hands to his hips. “Now that we’re all here, I say we settle this once and for all.”
I licked my lips, ignoring Timmy and facing the retired lawyer who was shedding this place so he could join the flocks of sunbirds to Florida. As soon as the Smiths put this neglected and avoided property—some family hand-me-down passed down through wills since the eighties—on the market, I’d made my bid. Unfortunately, my financial “advisor” stalled, claiming a former whorehouse was not a justifiable investment according to the stipulations in my inheritance. Timmy had upped the challenge, too.
“Gladly,” Timmy said. “My offer stands.”
His offer of thirty thousand more than mine, that was. Most importantly, he had that in the bank now.
I cleared my throat, a novice at this negotiation deal compared to the jerk, who owned multiple resorts and cabins along the lake. “Mine does as well.”
Mr. Smith snorted. “I’d get more from him. And the last I spoke to Mrs. Litton, you don’t have enough to buy it.”
Blunt. And true. I couldn’t deny that, but I wasn’t a quitter.
“But he’s just going to tear it down,” his wife reminded him. With another grimace, she peered at the building. “It’s unsightly, but…”
“But it’s even more wasteful,” Timmy said, dropping into his salesman role. That stupid lemme level with you so you forget I’m superior attitude. He walked forward, kicking at a rotting half of a former split rail fence post. “This land is a prime spot for nature.”
“Oh, like you’re going to give a damn about the environment.” He hadn’t gotten so rich by pretending to preserve land. Just developing it like a gung-ho fiend playing Monopoly.
“I could.” Timmy brandished his arm to encompass the scraggly brush around the former jail-brothel-dungeon. “Everyone can see this is an ideal spot for outdoor recreation.”
Bullshit. One of his posh spa-like resorts was just next door, and I could guarantee he’d pave this spot for a freaking parking lot. He’d already requested zoning for it.
Mr. Smith pursed his lips, nodding and viewing the same pathetic landscape that Timmy gestured at.
“Well, I like nature,” Mrs. Smith agreed.
Oh, my God. Don’t believe everything he freaking says. Biting back a groan, I rushed to stand between the older couple, claiming their attention again. “Of course! Who doesn’t like nature? And I promise I’ll incorporate areas just for…” I fumbled, rushi ng through my binder for the blueprint of the landscape I’d prepared. “Gardens, a walking path, beach access—”
Mr. Smith scoffed. “That sounds expensive.”
I refused to let this old man intimidate me.
“It is cost-intensive, Mr. Smith,” I said, flipping to another section in my binder. “But as I explained in my offer and in our first two phone calls, I have the savings set aside and—”
“Oh, sure, like a hotel maid can save enough to fix up a former whorehouse,” Timmy said, shaking his head.
“Well, it wasn’t truly a whorehouse,” Mrs. Smith argued. “I don’t think. I sure hope not.”
“Mr. Smith.” I refused to tell Timmy my finances. “I provided all the necessary paperwork with my offer last month.” You know I…almost have the funds, you old coot. Never mind that I was putting every penny to my name into this.
Rubbing his chin, he said, “Yes, I know. And I’ve spoken to Mrs. Litton as well.”
I resisted cringing. That lawyer was the stingiest trust executor ever.
“And it’ll be just a bed-and-breakfast?” Mrs. Smith asked me. “Not a bed and…you know what?”
For God’s sake. “Just a bed-and-breakfast. A family-friendly, all-inclusive option of lodging for tourists who don’t want the all-out ritziness and pomp found elsewhere in town.” I waved at Timmy. “You know, the same old crap that he offers. Authentic, down-to-earth lodging.”
No one spoke. Timmy chuckled to himself, kicking at debris on the ground. Mr. Smith stared at the landscape, maybe trying to see through the woods to spot the beach. Mrs. Smith still grimaced at the building, perhaps looking for a sign of a hooker ghost.
“I’ll get Mrs. Litton’s approval to use my trust fund for the reno. I’ve got a business plan.” Again, I rifled to find the page of charts that I’d already shared with Mr. Smith. “I’ve got the workers—”
“What workers?” Timmy said.
“Well, just me, for now.” I planned to renovate this for my business. My very first professional endeavor, and I wasn’t afraid to get my hands dirty. “I’ve got contractors lined up—”
“Who?” he jeered. “Everyone local is already booked for the summer. Dunlap’s working on my new resort across town. I heard Jameson and his crew are bidding on the housing near the college.”
I crossed my arms. “Oh, and your buddies are the only contractors in town?”
“The only decent ones.” He grinned at Mr. Smith. “You get what you pay for, you know?”
“That’s true.”
I huffed, hating being tested like this. “Fine. I’ve got M&M scheduled for the renovation.”
“M&M?” Mr. Smith asked.
Already I had to bite my lip at the image. First, of the candy. A rotund sphere of blue or red with enormous eyes and stick hands. They’d wear hardhats and bicker. Then I’d imagine the rapper making a beat to the sound of construction.
“Yes.” My friend’s dad suggested them, and he’d never let me down. “Some new company starting up in town.” Whoever the hell they are since chocolate candy and a has-been rapper can’t be it.
“Oh!” Mrs. Smith nodded. “That’s right. Harrison’s been back in town for a couple of weeks now.”
I tuned out Timmy’s grunt. “What? Who now?”
My heart hammered faster as my jaw dropped.
Harrison? Harrison Monroe? No. That couldn’t be right. Or she was referring to someone else. Not that Harrison.
“Harrison Monroe,” Mrs. Smith said, cocking her head to the side, likely curious why I wouldn’t know who I’d planned to hire.
“R—right.” I swallowed hard and plastered a smile on.
Harrison? Harrison’s back in town? I’d trusted Mr. Cole to scout out contractors, but I’d never, ever imagined Harrison was in the running. I thought he was in the city. And now I…I’m hiring him to renova—
“Look, I’ll toss in another ten thou,” Timmy said, sticking his hand out for Mr. Smith to shake.
No!
If those hands touched, it’d be a done deal. I darted forward, thrusting out my thick binder with pages jutting at angles. Like a karate chop, I smacked it at his hand.
“You sure want this land, huh, Tim?” Mr. Smith chuckled. “Just for the land?”
“Yeah, he wants the land. To slap a damn parking lot on it.” I weaseled Timmy out of the way to directly face the Smiths. “I value all of it.”
“Even the brothel.”
I sighed at the old lawyer. “Yes, even the building. I’ll turn it into a thriving business. Bring in jobs. More tourism.”
“I do like that,” Mrs. Smith said. “I mean, what would my mother think if I let it be torn down?”
Mr. Smith grunted. “Your mother only got this place because she didn’t want your father to get it for the sake of him not getting anything in the divorce. Suze, we never even bothered with this place. Your mother didn’t either.”
“Because it’s a downright eyesore,” Timmy said.
“But it doesn’t have to be an eyesore!” I opened my binder then closed it. It wasn’t like anyone was even looking. “I’ve got M&M—”
Timmy barked a laugh. “Oh, they’ll never be able to take on a project like this.”
“—who are prepared to start right after closure.”
Mr. Smith nodded, seeming to agree with me for a change. “Harrison’s a good man. I always liked that boy. He’d do honest work.”
Mrs. Smith gave him a kind smile. “I ran into them at the grocer’s yesterday. Such a sweet girl he’s got, too.”
Harrison, a good man? He had a daughter now, too? Or, wait. Girl, as in a woman?
No, not now. I couldn’t launch into a panic about Harrison returning now.
I gripped my binder tighter, my fingers sliding in a screechy squeal against the plastic.
I’d need a solid day of freaking out, suffering through memory lane, talking myself out of fantasies, and then another dose of freaking out. Those were my requirements for accepting that my former boss and first crush was returning to Kormane. I hadn’t seen him for at least ten years, but even that wasn’t long enough to be ready to ever face him again.
And Mr. Cole suggested I hire the man. Fate sure was a twisted player.
As much as I was loath to admit it, Timmy was right. My options for contractors were limited. Hell, I’d already offered M&M the work, so confident I could snag this property.
Harrison or not, I’ve got to go through with this. Somehow.
I didn’t have time to worry about the sexy man being back. Besides, he was probably beer-bellied, balding, and wrinkling by now.
“By the time you get moving on this place, you’ll miss out on the season,” Timmy said. He shrugged his shoulders, bunching his fancy-ass suit with the move.
“I’ll be done before it. Memorial Day weekend will be the grand reopening.”
“It’s already April!” Mrs. Smith said.
“It is, but I’ve planned and prepared for every step of this renovation.” And if you can freaking sell it to me already, I’ll be ready to rock and roll. “Mr. Cole and I already toured the house with an inspector, and I’ve provided M&M the timeframe of—”
“Another ten,” Timmy said.
“Will you stop interrupting me?”
Mrs. Smith sniffed in disdain. “Yeah. Where are your manners, young man?”
“He’s not a young man,” I said, raising my voice and praying I wasn’t ruining my chance here with some being-too-emotional BS. “He’s an experienced con artist who only wants to build another gaudy, cliché high-rise that’ll ruin the lakeshore with sprawl.” I jabbed my finger at him. “He’s bound to clear this land and make it a parking lot.”
“You don’t know—”
“I. Am. Speaking.” I pointed at the house. “I can make that house a successful bed-and-breakfast. All you have to do is give me a chance, Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”
“A chance, huh?” Mr. Smith asked. “Last I heard from Mrs. Litton, she wasn’t permitting you the funds for this place.” A smile twisted his lips, and I dared to think he was warming up to my offer over Timmy’s.
“I really wouldn’t want a parking lot here,” Mrs. Smith said. “So much…concrete.”
I twitched my lips, sarcasm boiling to erupt. That is what pavement tends to be made of.
