Falling Into Fate: A Stand-Alone Friends-to-Lovers Short Romance

  Copyright © 2021 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is coincidental.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations

  Falling into Fate

  Roadside Attractions Book Three

  Abby Knox

  Summary

  Ben

  My only happiness was ripped from me ten years ago, and my heart never stopped searching for my best friend and the only girl I ever loved.

  Imagine my surprise when I see her wandering around the autumn festival in Fate, of all places. Was I really this close to finding her for the last ten years?

  When I try to tell who I am, she doesn’t believe me at first. She’s going to need some convincing that my motives are pure. Well, that’s just fine. When it comes to my best friend, I’ll stop at nothing to have her in my life again.

  My best friend may still be haunted by the past, but I’m going to turn the world upside down to make her happy again. Billie’s mine. She’s always been mine, and there was never anybody else for me.

  From now on, I’m not going to spend a single day without her.

  Billie

  As an organizer of my town’s first ever Fall Fiber Festival, I have a lot on my mind. I don’t have time for random beer brewer from the next town over. No matter how nicely he fills out that flannel and those jeans.

  But when that cute guy from the beer stand claims to be my childhood best friend, I’m going to need a minute to process. If he even is the real Ben. Either way, he’s opened up a whole lot of old wounds, and he has some explaining to do. And, frankly, so do I. I’ve been working too hard to heal from the past, and I’m not going to let anyone pull me back.

  About the series:

  All is not lost when you break down by the side of the road, especially if you break down anywhere near the town of Fate. Who might you meet first? Will it be a grumpy tow truck driver? A bored sheriff with too much time on his hands? A bar man whose clumsy meet-cute ends with spilled beer all over your knitting project? Never fear, because high-heat, insta-love, small-town romances and happily ever afters await you! Come for the cherry pie, and stay to shake hands with the mayor (the only truly good boy in town.) Enjoy!

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  More by Abby Knox

  Chapter One

  Ben

  She is a figment of my imagination in burgundy and cream.

  My gut tells me to run after her, that I have finally found her after having given up looking.

  But I can’t trust my feelings, especially when my emotions are directed at a brief flash of a long, witchy jacket, extra-long patchwork scarf, and wavy blonde hair.

  Lots of women dress like that, especially in the fall. Don’t get carried away, Ben Cotton.

  Her voice, though. I heard her talking on the phone as she passed by: “…because this is a nonprofit event… Yes, we will tell people to keep their distance; we know this isn’t a petting zoo.”

  It could be the voice from my past, but my ears could be fooling me with wishful thinking. Meanwhile, I’m here to do a job.

  My beer stand is my primary focus at the moment. At the town of Fate’s autumn fiber festival, the people want their autumn beverages. Ice chests must be kept cold for the bottles of lager, kegs must be unloaded, and souvenir bar glasses must be polished. I take stock of everything my brother added before I left our brewery in Gold Hill this morning; my hands welcome the numbing effects of the ice as I rifle through the chest and count.

  After I’m done tabulating what I have and writing down the prices, I go about setting up some festive hay bale decorations. The owner of the orange pumpkin truck—the only other food or beverage vendor at this fledgling festival—has kindly set up her own umbrella tables for both of us to use.

  You’re ahead of schedule. Just look around, see if you see her.

  I wish that nagging urge would dissipate already. That would happen a lot faster if I hadn’t also picked up the scent of a familiar type of body spray. My gut and my heart have been numb for so long, I forget that my girl once upon a time would no longer be a girl. Surely, she’s moved on from Bath & Body Works by now.

  My mind flashes back to our last Christmas together when I gave her that huge plastic bottle of cranberry lemonade spritz from that store in the mall. We’d spent so much time together I had examined her vanity for clues about the things she liked.

  After I’d given her that gift, she cried. At first, I’d thought it was a lousy gift. I mean, it was on sale, and it was something I could afford with my allowance. But then, she kissed me.

  My first kiss, her first kiss, was my only promise of happiness in my crappy teenage existence.

  But then, days later, she was gone.

  I tried and tried to get in touch with her. The more my parents and her grandparents warned me to stop trying, the more determined I was.

  The searching was no use. It was as if she’d disappeared off the face of the earth.

  So, I put my heart in cold storage and got on with my life.

  There’s no way that’s her. The crisp autumn air and bright blue sky are making me feel hopeful. More like delusional.

  The more I try to concentrate on getting ready for the festival, the more that tiny corner of my blackened heart tugs at me—it could be her. As if life works that way. As if everything is always nicely tied up with a pretty bow or bookended in satisfactory order.

  The truth is, life is chaos. It breaks you in half. Love gets ripped from your arms as soon as you find it. I can’t let my heart hope for her, but I can make damn good beer. So that’s what I do.

  Speaking of which, it’s 9:59 a.m. Almost time to tap the kegs.

  I wasn’t sure if the autumn fiber festival—one town over from mine—would match up with my usual clientele. The people in Fate are proving me wrong so far; there’s a line ten people deep waiting on me.

  “My alcohol permit says I have to wait until ten a.m. to serve at an outdoor special event. Not much longer, folks,” I tell them.

  That traitorous piece of my heart keeps nudging me. Just go check. It can’t hurt. She’s right over there in that tent. Less than fifty feet away. It’ll take less than a minute. Worst-case scenario, it’s not her and no harm done. If it is her, then your life will change forever.

  A customer is trying to order a cup of my homemade Granny Smith IPA, so my provoked gut feelings will have to wait.

  Later, around lunchtime, I’ll bring the knitters some complimentary beverages. It’s the perfect excuse to take a look.

  Fine, I tell my nagging inner romantic. If it makes you leave me alone, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything to go back to feeling comfortably numb again.

  Chapter Two

  The aroma of pumpkin spice wafting from the orange food truck on the town square makes me happy to be knitting outside on this chilly autumn day.

  As I pass by, I stop and order two pumpkin maple lattes and sip one as I make my way to the live knit-along in Tent 2.

  On the way, I spy the beer stand, noticing the words, “Brother Ben’s Craft Brews.” I feel a lump of pain at the back of my throat at seeing the name Ben.

  The name brings back memories. Happy ones, painful ones. But that’s life. I can’t go around avoiding everyone named Ben because of the way my life turned out. Instead, I smile at the hand-drawn beer stein wearing a witch’s hat on the menu.

  The beer man seems to be busy filling the coolers and setting up, or I would stop for a sample. On second thought, I stop to look at the way his butt fills out those tattered jeans. I sip my coffee and stare brazenly, noticing the round cheeks and muscular thighs squatting as he rummages through his inventory. Blood rushes to my ears and neck; that man’s body makes me think of sex.

  What would sex be like, sitting on thighs like that? Come to think of it, what would sex be like…period? I wouldn’t know. There was one time, many years ago, when I thought I might find out. But then everything turned upside down.

  I’ve never felt so much as a tingle of desire for anyone else. Hell, I’ve never even kissed anyone since that day…but no. I can’t think about my lost friend Ben. Maybe later, I’ll come back and get a look at Brother Ben’s face. Perhaps ten years is enough time to see if I’ve moved on. At 25, feeling desire for another human would be a welcome change for me.


  My phone rings and I have to juggle the coffee drinks while I answer. The sheep farmer who is scheduled to demonstrate sheep shearing today seems to be getting prickly. He asks questions that have been gone over and over again several times. This doesn’t instill confidence in how this new festival is going to go. When I hang up after the call, I’m about to let my anxiety take over my mood when I hear, “Billie Jane! Over here!”

  Hayden Kelly, one of my closest knitting club pals, waves me down outside Tent 2.

  “You look adorable,” he says, taking my hand and forcing me to twirl, showing off the crochet duster I’m wearing over my dress.

  “Seeing as you made it, you’re only complimenting yourself,” I remind him as I hand him his coffee, then put out a few extra chairs in case anyone wants to join the live knit-along at the last minute.

  He sips the coffee and hums his appreciation, then proceeds to distribute copies of the beanie hat patterns we’ve decided to knit. “As the lone crocheter in this sad little club of three, I have to take my validation where I can get it.”

  I check the sign-up sheet on the clipboard and frown. “Only five? Gosh, if my boss would have let me put up a flyer at the craft store, we could have drawn more people.”

  I sit down, then pull out my fresh skein of extra-soft bamboo yarn and begin casting on while we wait for people to show up.

  “It’s better than nothing for a first-time thing. Anyway, when have those rude skanks ever let you do anything you want to do?” Hayden counters, smiling as our visitors begin to show up and take their seats.

  “You have a point,” I say, remembering how my supervisor at the Gold Hill craft store said it wasn’t my place to organize knitting lessons at her establishment. “This isn’t the place where beginners come to shop,” she’d said, sneering down at me.

  After working there for five years and never calling in sick once, you’d think she’d let me spread my wings a little bit. But no. I should quit that job, but I do love that employee discount on Angora. I’m a slut for decadent yarn.

  At least people in Fate, such as Hayden, Juniper, Izzy, and Ruby, have some faith in me. It’s because of them that this festival is even happening. There were a few moments when I thought this event might not ever get off the ground.

  The meeting where we had to decide on a name was one of those times. We finally settled on a name absolutely nobody liked and ran with it: “The Fiber Arts Fall Fun Festival.” Or FAFFF.

  If you add the “Fate’s First Annual,” it’s called the “FFAFAFFF.” I thought Rex was going to start banging his head on the dais when he saw the orange tee-shirts we had made with that abbreviation. For the record, the actual mayor, Flash, the golden retriever, upturned the entire box of FFAFFF tee-shirts and then stretched out on top of them like a cozy comforter, which was all the endorsement I needed.

  The best part about all humans hating the name is that it got people talking about the festival.

  The proof of that comes when Danny Bryce shows up with his infamous clicker and clipboard about an hour into our live knit-along. From him, we learn that so far this morning, we’ve drawn 510 people to the FAFFF.

  I nod optimistically. “That’s everyone in town, plus eight or nine more. Not bad.”

  “Better than the World’s Biggest Ball of Yarn debut, but don’t tell Juniper that,” Hayden mutters. “Her thing only got 501 people.”

  “Well, she’s too preoccupied with Rex to get her undies in a bunch about numbers,” I reply, feeling my face heat. Why does that happen? Because thinking about other people’s intense whirlwind romance makes me think about my own lack of human contact. That flannel-wearing beer man with the squeezable rump probably is married. Nobody who makes their own beer and walks around looking like that in jeans could possibly be single.

  But if he is single…hell, I don’t even care what his face looks like. At this point, I’m not sure I care about personality. The more people around me fall in love, the more I just want to get laid and get it over with, so I don’t have to think about me being the oldest virgin in town, probably.

  When we’ve concluded the knit-along, along with five of our newcomers, I hold up my rolled-brim beanie to examine it. I like the orange-to-pink ombre effect I’ve done and decide to start on a shawl to match it.

  As always, Hayden is there to try to push me out of my comfort zone. “You don’t have to do everything so matchy-matchy, Bills. Do a stripe or a solid that complements it instead.”

  I shoot him a playful glare. “No thanks, I do what I want.”

  Hayden sighs and stands up. “I’m gonna go stare at that beer man before we start the next knit-along. You want anything?”

  I open my mouth to tell him that I saw the beer man first, but I don’t get the words out. How can I, when a tall, dark figure with a beard and flannel shirt is filling the entrance to the tent, carrying a platter full of filled beer steins?

  “Someone was reading our minds,” I reply.

  Beer man? Oh god. He’s even better from the front. Much, much better.

  “Speak of the devil,” Hayden says.

  Speak? I can’t speak at all because this beer-carrying fellow is so good-looking I forget how to speak. Have you ever met someone so beautiful you feel bad about looking them in the eye? Indeed, this is someone’s husband. Some very, very jealous and lucky person’s husband. My eyes fall to my lap.

  And then, he speaks. “Thought you all could use some refreshments. On the house.”

  He brings beer, flannel, good vibes, and free beer? I would propose instantly but again, no doubt married.

  Pretty soon, a pair of hiking boots stand in the grass where my gaze is locked.

  “Beer? I have pumpkin ale and Granny Smith IPA.”

  Now I’m just rude, so I finally look up. “Granny Smith sounds good; I’ll try that,” I reply with an awkward frog in my throat.

  What transpires next takes all of three seconds but changes the course of everything.

  While he hands me the beer glass, his lovely face shifts from friendly to recognition to shock. His eyes widen, his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. What is happening? Is he having an episode? Does he think I murdered his goldfish? Because I’m not who he thinks I am.

  “It’s you.” His voice is eerily quiet yet as raspy as Clint Eastwood’s. He sets me on edge. Is he about to ask me if I feel lucky?

  My hand slips on the condensation coating the glass, and the man loses his grip on it. I try to right it again, but it’s too late: the amber liquid sloshes out, and all over my lap, the glass falls to the ground, and the beer consequently splashes all over my newly knitted pink and orange beanie.

  I yelp in surprise and shoot to standing as the cold liquid seeps through my dress and soaks my thighs. The beer man curses and apologizes.

  “Shit! I’m so, so sorry!”

  “My hat,” I say weakly, looking at the wet, sopping mess.

  “Don’t wring it out! You’ll stretch the fibers!” Hayden shouts, scrambling around for towels to clean me up.

  While I’m looking around for anything to sop up the mess, the beflanneled man does the most inappropriate thing he could possibly do: he unbuttons his shirt.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” I ask.

  Instead of answering, he continues to unbutton as if this is a normal response. He peels off the flannel to reveal a white tank top undershirt, revealing to me a wisp of dark hair smattering his chest. A set of trapezius muscles carved from years of heavy lifting, no doubt. All of these wonders of the male form make me wish I had that beer now because my throat’s gone bone dry. I am wet, reeking of hops, and thirsty.

  Before I realize what’s happening, the man uses his discarded flannel to soak up the spill. I barely notice Hayden taking away my hat and my bag of yarn at my feet to blot out the moisture with some towels he nabbed from who knows where.