A Fork in the Road, page 1
A Fork in the Road
A Small-Town Rockstar Romance
Farm 2 Forking
Book 5
Ember Leigh
A Fork in the Road
Copyright 2024 Ember Leigh
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No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover by Y’all That Graphic.
Edited by Elisabeth Nelson.
This book is dedicated to the amazing authors in this shared world project. It has been such an honor to collaborate with you all.
Contents
About the Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
And before you go…
Acknowledgments
Farm to Forking Series
More from the Authors
About the Book
I might be a famous rock star, but inside Fork Lick, NY, my biggest fan is a Merino sheep named Baabara.
I’ve got a hundred reasons why I’ve avoided my family since graduating high school and never looked back – but when my big sis Colleen makes me an uncle times two, I need to meet her little bacon bits. It’s supposed to be an easy breezy visit – rock the babies, quality time with the sheep, and a nice family argument or three. Then I can get back to rescuing my musical career from the dumpster fire I found it in.
Instead, I’m roped into headlining a Fork Lick Festival to save my family’s farm, and conned into sharing a house with bossy Bella Keegan, the famous event planner who I’ve been butting heads with since my first album topped the charts five years ago.
Her attitude is louder than my Fender guitar, and she’s got way too many opinions about what I’m supposed to do about this career crisis I’ve been hiding from everyone outside the industry. The longer I spend in this old farmhouse with Bella, the more the lines blur. Until one night, everything changes.
Suddenly, we’ve got a decision to make.
And no matter which way we write the lyrics, one of us is facing a major fork in the road.
Chapter 1
Jackson
“Jackson Bedd! Will you marry me?”
The frantic question barely reaches me over the clamor in the airport. I’ve just stepped off the private jet and am being ushered through the halls of the arrivals lounge by security guards and airport personnel. Cameras lift as I pass by—no doubt snapping their seven second celebrity moment to share with friends later.
The commotion inside the airport cannot compare to the true frenzy outside. I’m led out a special exit in a bid to avoid the paparazzi. But they already know I’m here. How, I’ll never fully understand. Sometimes I think my agent is tipping them off—they’ve shown up places that defy logic, like that one time I went to try horseback riding on a semi-drunken whim. After so many years as a media darling, I barely notice them.
“Jackson! Will you sign my tits?” Another feminine shriek pierces the air as I glide through the crowd of people and into the back seat of a waiting car.
I’ve been on the east coast for less than ten minutes and already someone is willing to expose their breasts for me.
This is the life of a rock star, baby. Private jets. Paparazzi. Pure, unadulterated sex symbolism. I catch someone lifting a copy of my most recent cover feature—America’s Sexiest Bachelors—into the air just as I slip into the waiting sedan. I snagged the coveted number one spot. Sure, it was a rush. Definitely a nice thing to tick off the ole lifetime bucket list.
But it’s just obscuring a truth only I know.
“Mr. Bedd, good afternoon.” The driver turns to me with an eager grin. “I’m Eric. Where will we be heading today?”
“Hey, Eric. Nice to meet you.” I relax into the plush leather seat, looking out the tinted windows at the curious onlookers and desperate fans. “I just need to go to the car rental place, if you don’t mind.”
“Are you sure? I’d be more than happy to take you wherever you need to go—”
“Just a rental. That’s all I need.”
Eric nods and turns toward the wheel. The car lurches forward a moment later, and we’re off, leaving the mass of humans behind us. I’m already imagining the questions the rental agency clerk might ask themselves when I show up. Why the hell is Jackson Bedd renting his own car? Why doesn’t his assistant do this for him? Doesn’t he have a personal driver by now?
If only they knew the sorry truth.
If I had any of those things, I’d have to file bankruptcy at age twenty-six.
I’ve become an expert in the art of appearing to have it all. And that’s how it has to stay for America’s Sexiest Bachelor. Nobody can know, or even suspect, the dire straits I’m in. I would never humiliate myself like that.
Media follow us to the car rental agency and wait outside as I select whatever luxury car they have available. It’s worlds cheaper than buying one to use for the week, and cheaper still than hiring a driver to shuttle me wherever I planned to go around Fork Lick, my tiny hometown about three hours north.
Once I’m all packed up and ready to go, I leave the paparazzi in my rearview mirror, thanks to the Lexus. The city slowly recedes into suburbs, followed by scraggly trees lining the roads, tiny green buds ready for spring to unfurl. The farther I get from the airport, the more I can relax. It’s been too long since I’ve been on my own, without a concert to hurry to or a deadline for my record label to meet. My most recent visit to Fork Lick was riddled with grief, due to my grandad’s passing, and stress, thanks to my older brothers’ condescension and resentment. And that doesn’t even include finding out my grandparents’ farm was saddled with almost a million dollars of debt.
This time, I’m hoping for a calmer visit. But I never know what to expect with my older brothers. Hopefully, my sister Colleen’s sweetheart twins will melt away my worries. I’m an uncle now, and I can’t wait to start the job.
My three-hour drive blurs beneath the sunshine and tree dappled landscape. I don’t even turn the radio on. The music in my head is too loud to hear over anyway. I map out some new songs while I drive, feeling through the riffs and chord progressions, belting out lyrics in the safety of the Lexus. My record label can’t hear me in here—which means these songs are mine alone. For now.
Anxiety cinches tight in my gut, bringing me back to the clusterfuck I left in Los Angeles and the secret I’ve been scrambling to hide from everyone—friends, family, colleagues, the backup band—for the past five years.
I need a break from all that mess. And I hope Fork Lick gifts me this, if nothing else.
The closer I get to home, the more I wonder what I’ll find there. I have no idea what’s changed in my absence other than the fact that Colleen popped out two little bits with a guy named Bacon, who’s a famous chef. I’ve heard from Gran that all my big brothers have fallen in love, too, which—if we’re being honest—they fucking needed. I’d love to join their ranks, but ironically it doesn’t seem like it’s in the cards for me. With half of America throwing themselves at my feet, it’s too damn hard to figure out who’s real and who’s really good at faking it.
I turn down the long, familiar road leading to Bedd Fellows Farm. The white clapboard farmhouse snags my attention first, the black trim and shutters looking freshened somehow. The wraparound porch and the rocking chairs are empty. The sight alone conjures a swell of memories—good and bad and everything in between.
Gravel crunches under my tires as I pull into the driveway and look around for some sign of life. Either nobody is here or nobody cares that I’m here.
The opposite of my arrival at the airport.
I heave a sigh. I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe I’m just too used to people offering to show me their tits. I park the car past the turreted shed that serves as a palace for my family’s resident merino sheep, Baabara. Just when I’m beginning to lament that even Baabara doesn’t want to see me, I spot the fluffy woolen face peeking through the entrance. Dark, beady eyes land on me. An unholy baaaaa rips through the air.
Oh, shit. Here comes Baabara.
Baabara nearly falls over herself as she races toward the car. She looks like a stuffed-animal version of a sheep, with her overgrown wool ballooning out from her body.
Suddenly she’s at the car, looking at me excitedly through the driver’s side window.
“Baaaa!”
“Hey there, Baabara.” I never give it the inflection like Gran does. She’s the one who started this extreme pampering of Baabara Streisand. I’ve never met another sheep with a palace—or one that had attended a reading of a will because she actually inherite
“Can you move?” I ask her, rolling down the window so that she can hear better.
“Baaaaa!”
I try to open the door again, but the prospect of me exiting the car excites her so much that she presses harder against the door. I’m trapped. I heave a sigh.
“Baabara, just move.” I try to push at her fluffy wool but she shrieks with excitement instead. “I can’t—”
“Jackson?” Gran’s voice cuts through the late afternoon air. I lean forward to wave to Gran through the passenger side window, which I also roll down.
“Hey Gran! Can’t get out of the car, Baabara’s holding me hostage.”
Gran crosses her arms, sending a stern look to the sheep. “Baabara Marie Streisand Bedd.”
“Oh, she used the middle name,” I say softly. “Now you’re really in trouble.”
But Baabara doesn’t take the hint. She struggles against the car again, damn near rocking the thing, so I roll the window up and take matters into my own hands. I slither over the console, exiting the rental car via the passenger door. Baabara’s head shoots up, and she clomps around the car to me. I wrap her into a big, woolen hug.
“She really missed you,” Gran says, stepping down from the wraparound porch. Her weathered face looks tired but delighted to see me. “Almost as much as I did.”
“I don’t know if I believe it. There was only one of you headbutting the side of my car to get closer to me.”
Gran laughs, holding her arms out for a hug. The moment I take some attention off Baabara, she bleats angrily and steps closer to me. I ignore her dissatisfied headbutts as I hug Gran.
“Just proof you need to come around more often,” Gran says, patting my back. “Baabara only gets ornery like that when you stay away too long.”
“I was here last year. And now I’m back this year,” I remind her, as though this is something to be proud of. For me, though, it’s an accomplishment. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve come back to Fork Lick since I bolted at age eighteen.
“Now that you’re an uncle, you’ll have to be around more so the babies remember who you are,” Gran says.
“I’m working on it,” I tell her as we head for the side entrance of the house. Baabara follows us to the door but Gran shoos her to stay outside. We step into the worn but homey kitchen, which still looks exactly the same as when I was ten. On a working farm, interior renovations fall exactly last on the list of priorities.
“Plus I need the company,” Gran goes on, drifting toward the fridge. I take my usual seat at the kitchen island, the stool creaking under my weight, as she brings out a big pitcher of lemonade. “It’s been lonely around here since you kids started falling in love and finding your own places. Colleen and Bacon moved in together a few months ago, but it feels like it’s been a year.”
“To the church, right?”
“Yes, the church. Living out of wedlock in a holy house.” She laughs to herself as she takes two glasses out of the cupboard. “Anyway, I’ve been inviting WWOOFers onto the property, which keeps things interesting, but they mostly keep to themselves.”
“WWOOFers?” I ask. “Is that another term for dogs?”
“They’re people. The name stands for Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms. They travel around and help out at farms in exchange for a place to stay. I’ve had a few so far, but nobody’s here at the moment. So that just leaves me and my new roommate.”
I perk up. I haven’t heard anyone mention a roommate, but then again, I don’t talk to any of my siblings except Colleen, unless a funeral or a video call forces a conversation. A new roommate sounds like a good idea if Gran is lonely. “This is news to me. Who’s your new roommate?”
“Oh, you’ll never guess,” Gran gushes as she pours the lemonade. “In fact, she says you know her.”
I take the glass she pushes my way, confusion sliding through me. “Like personally, or from my music?”
“Personally.” She sips her lemonade, looking satisfied.
I can’t even fathom who this person could be. Everyone I know around here already has a house in Fork Lick. So why would they move in with Gran?
“Spill the details, Gran,” I urge. “Who is it?”
She sends me a warm but conspiratorial look. Just as she opens her mouth to relieve the suspense, the side door of the kitchen swings open, slamming against the wall.
“Whose spotless luxury vehicle is blocking the damn driveway?” Ethan’s annoyed voice cuts through the kitchen. A dark cloud immediately settles over me, pushing me right back to where things left off between me and my older brothers.
“If you lead with ‘hello’ I might tell you,” I snap out. Ethan clomps through the kitchen, a smirk growing as his gaze washes over me and Gran.
“Well look what the sheep dragged in,” he says, propping his hands on his hips. “Jackson. I’m shocked you remembered how to get to Fork Lick.”
“How could I possibly forget?” I shoot back. “I was just here last year.”
“Right, but didn’t you have a chauffeur then? I don’t see any yes-men, so you must’ve brought yourself back to your humble roots and re-learned how to drive for yourself.”
I sigh tersely, crossing my arms. It’s always the same with my brothers. On the rare occasions we cross paths, they rag on me for having a different lifestyle: for living on the west coast, for renting a Bentley, for knowing what quinoa is and how to pronounce it. I should be used to it by now, but it irks me all the same. It was the same way when I was young—always picking on me because I liked music or wanted to play the guitar or preferred tinkering with instruments instead of BB guns.
“Believe it or not, I sometimes like to take a break and enjoy life,” I tell Ethan, popping on a fake grin. “It’s called a vacation.”
“From all that hard work you do?” His voice drips with sarcasm. Gran clears her throat.
“Boys.” Her sharp tone leaves no room for argument. “Nothing else needs to be said right now except how wonderful it will be to have the entire family together again.” She shoots Ethan a look then turns to me as if waiting for me to agree. “Your sister has two little babies. I think we can all agree that we want as peaceful a visit as possible to support her and Bacon.”
“You don’t need to tell me that,” I grumble. “Ethan is the one who needs to hear it.”
“I’ve been doing plenty to support this family, and Gran knows it,” Ethan shoots back. “Unlike some people I could name.”
Ever since Ethan took control of the farm, he assumed the mantle of “does the most for the Bedds” forevermore. It used to be annoying, but it’s become more like a dagger he habitually twists deeper and deeper over the years. One of the many reasons I find it easier to stay away.
“Do you need me to move my car, or did you just come in here to gripe about the fact that you’re still a farmer?” I ask, trying my damnedest to sound bored. I know this comment doesn’t help things, but I’m not a saint.
With the shit show I left behind in Los Angeles, I was hoping to find some solace away from Tinsel Town. But I should have known better. Even though things seem to be imploding out there faster than a planned demolition, I still have hope that this visit can be somewhat relaxing. Ever since I signed with my record label, I’ve been treading water in every way possible. My music might be climbing the charts, but my label has me chained in the dungeon. I signed the worst deal imaginable when I was discovered at age twenty, and I’ve been scrambling ever since to escape—and make sure nobody finds out how stupid I was.
Especially my family.
“I’d take being a farmer any day,” Ethan responds. “Society actually depends on my contributions.”
