• Standalone
What chance does a small-town girl have with a world-famous rock star?
Two years after his wife’s death, rock star Garrett Hayes hasn’t moved on. But he has moved out of L.A. Where better to escape his past than a small town in the northern California mountains? If only he could get the townsfolk of Wildwood to leave him the hell alone.
Ani Bennet returned to her hometown for some much-needed serenity. The last thing she needs is a grumpy, too hot for his own good, rich and famous rock star living next door—and rent-free in her brain.
She set her fangirl tendencies aside and deleted his photo from her cell when they became neighbors. But when Garrett asks for help, she can’t say no. The problem is, spending time together is making those fangirl feelings resurface—and bringing them to a whole new level.
What chance does a small-town girl have with a world-famous rock star? It’s time for Ani to set her fears aside and find out.
Ani + Garrett
Ani is 30 years old and for reasons we don't yet know, she left Los Angeles four years ago and came back to her small home town in Northern California. She's working at the general store and has a great group of friends and pretty good, quiet life.
My new neighbor arrived at midnight on a Thursday. First
came the moving truck, followed by a Jeep Wrangler. Mrs. Cooper, the former
owner of the house, passed a while back. A damn shame. The woman was not only
nice, but she made biscuits like you wouldn’t believe. For years the grand old
Victorian house sat empty at the end of the cul-de-sac. Not unusual for a small
town. Few people wanted to move to the middle of nowhere in Northern
California, no matter how picturesque it might be. While the place had been
sold not long after listing, there’d been no sighting of the new owner until
now.
“What the heck?” I mumbled to myself, standing at the
window.
Who moved in the middle of the night? It seemed covert and
suspicious. Like something a criminal or government agent would do. Although,
maybe they just traveled far and this happened to be the time they arrived. But
most people would stay at a hotel and wait for daylight to do this sort of
thing. Surely.
The only things ever happening at midnight in Wildwood were:
1. Harry, the town drunk, performing Bob Dylan classics in the middle of Main
Street. 2. Me, an insomniac, wandering aimlessly around my house. That was it.
Everyone else in the whole wide world—or our corner of it—was fast asleep.
Half hidden behind a curtain, I watched the truck being
unloaded. A full moon shone down through the pine trees as the moving men
hauled stuff inside. The first guy, the one who drove the Jeep, went straight
into the house. He was tall and wore a ball cap. That was about all I could
see. Maybe he was setting the place up for his wife and family. Maybe he had a
boyfriend. He couldn’t possibly be single, heterosexual, under sixty, and
emotionally mature. My luck just wasn’t that good. Not that I intended to date
again in this lifetime.
Whoever he was and whatever he was doing, it would all be
known in due course. Such was the joy of small-town life.
Once the furniture was moved inside, things got a little
dull. There’s not much you can tell about a person from their boxes.
I took the opportunity to once again check the locks on all
my windows and doors. After that, I made a cup of chamomile tea. Neither of
these things helped me sleep, but the rituals were soothing. Mom always said I
had a busy mind. I didn’t necessarily think about anything useful, I just
thought a lot. At night, I tended to think about books, bad memories, and
ex-boyfriends. The last two were often one and the same.
As a child, I was the daydreamer who got busted humming in
class when everyone else was concentrating. (Like anybody actually needed
algebra. If you can work out the discount at a sale, you’re good to go. Then
again, this attitude might explain why my life had gone approximately nowhere.)
I returned to the window just in time to see my mystery man
reappear. The new neighbor strode out to the Jeep and opened up the back. When
he once more headed toward the house, the ball cap was gone and his short hair
was on display. In each hand he carried a guitar case.
I perked up. Musicians were cool. Unless he owned electric
guitars and believed in turning the volume up to eleven. That could get old
fast.
As he got closer to the house, the porchlight hit him
and…huh. Something about his profile tugged at a memory.
Guess he felt my gaze, because he turned toward my place. And
whoa. His lips were a thin line, his jaw set to cranky, and none of it
mattered—the man was beautiful. Though he really was strangely familiar.
Meanwhile, with only a lamp on behind me, I couldn’t have
been more than an outline. A shadowy person lurking in the dark. Great. Nothing
like being spied on to make you feel welcome in your new neighborhood. So much
better than a casserole or cookies.
Wait! I knew where I recognized him from. Only it couldn’t
be, because that would be crazy. Absolutely fucking wild. Yet there he stood.
“Holy shit,” I whispered.