Claiming Fate: A rivals-to-lovers small-town romance Read online

  Sucking in my breath, I realize what I’ve done and immediately start erasing. “No. It’s nobody.”

  Jodie laughs. “Who is it? Tell me!”

  “It’s nobody!” I erase it some more until she shouts at me to stop.

  “No! Leave it! I love it! Atlas is hot!”

  “It’s not Atlas; it’s Dan—it’s nobody!”

  Jodie gasps so loud that the baby stirs in the stroller. Lowering her voice, she says, “Who is Dan?”

  “Dan is nobody,” I say, working hard to control my blushing and failing miserably.

  Jodie eyes me carefully. “I don’t believe you. If there were no Dan, you would not be turning five shades of pink right now.”

  “Gah!” My drawing pencil clatters to the floor.

  “It was a Freudian slip of the pencil. This guy I met yesterday. A real jerk.”

  She nods solemnly. “He must be a jerk if you’re drawing his hot bod on your wall.”

  Finally, I crack and tell her the entire story.

  “I don’t know what to do. He won’t listen to me.”

  “Clearly, drawing him from memory is the answer,” she says with a smirk.

  “Jodie,” I whine, plopping down on the floor at her feet. “He’s so fucking hot, but a completely stubborn ass.”

  She smiles. “Here’s what you do. Nothing.”

  “Huh?”

  “You do nothing. Carry on with your day as if nothing happened. And when he doesn’t hear a thing from you, he’ll either blow a gasket, you’ll never hear from him again, or become so curious that he comes to find you.”

  “And what, I’m supposed to pretend he doesn’t exist until then?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s torture.”

  She smiles. “If I know you and the effect you have on people, you’ll be seeing him again sooner than you think.”

  I think she gives my first impression on people too much credit.

  Just then, baby Wade begins to grunt and stir like he’ll be awake soon. “I didn’t bring the diaper bag, so we better head out.” She hugs me tight. “I love you.”

  “Love you too, Jodie.”

  I turn back to my unconscious masterpiece on the wall, and I’m shaking at how good the resemblance is.

  “Pretend nothing happened. Pretend we never met. I can do that. For sure.”

  Still, at the back of my mind, I can’t help but recall something else he said, about our ball of thread being vastly different than Fate’s ball of yarn.

  Shamefully, I realize I’ve never actually closely examined our ball of yarn exhibit here in Gold Hill. What sort of civic pride can I claim to have?

  So that’s what I set out to do.

  Chapter Eight

  Danny

  People often comment that they’re surprised I don’t have an immaculately designed and maintained yard at my house.

  What people don’t know is landscapers rarely do. Who wants to work on their own yard when they spend the entire work week weed whacking and trimming other people’s hedges?

  Still, I have to do the bare minimum, and Sundays are the perfect day for the bare minimum.

  Today, I’m more than happy to escape my bizarre dream about Izzy dressed like a Lynda Carter’s Wonder Woman.

  The second I finish cutting my grass, the rain begins to fall, so there will be no more trimming or clipping today.

  After I wash up, my mind immediately goes back to Izzy. I wonder if I was too harsh on her. No, I think. I was a little bit reactionary, but the honor of my town was under threat. What else was I supposed to say? Yes, ma’am. I’ll dismantle the thing that’s going to put my poor village on the map ASAP, ma’am.

  No, what I really want to do is prove her wrong. I want to show her that what we’re doing is not infringing on their copyrighted idea, whatever it might be.

  Muttering to myself, I hop into my truck and speed out of town.

  Thank god Rex talked Sheriff Mooney out of setting up his ridiculous barricades this weekend, as part of his ongoing mission to keep visitors from leaving Fate. I’d be embarrassed to admit to anyone that I’ve lived here my whole life, and I still can’t escape from the maze of dead ends and detours that man designs with his diabolical brain.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Those violet eyes smack me across the face.

  “Paying a visit to the Gold Hill welcome center,” I say, choosing to point out the obvious rather than choosing sarcasm. Because I’m growing.

  Izzy fidgets with something in the pocket of that godawful pink satin jacket. “But why?”

  “Because it’s raining, and I’m bored. And I felt like it.”

  My mind goes back to what Rex said yesterday. How I was starting to piss people off with my attitude. I’d come here to prove Izzy wrong, but…was that my real reason for coming here?

  “I wanted to see your town’s…thing…for myself.”

  No emotions evident, Izzy pointedly cuts her eyes and raises a brow, indicating that the location should be obvious.

  And there it is, a sign with an arrow, which I dutifully follow.

  Unsettlingly, Izzy follows lockstep behind me into the exhibit room.

  As I suspected, this ball of thread looks different from ours. It’s about five feet in diameter and glossier. I’ll be the first to admit I know nothing about thread, yarn, string, twine, what have you. I never earned the rope tying badge in Boy Scouts. I got asked to leave Webelos because I was too rowdy. Which was saying something because Rex started a fire at the pinewood derby and still won second place.

  So, this ball of whatever is a complete mystery.

  I lean close and touch it. Feels different from ours. Smoother, bright purple, and oddly familiar.

  “Hey,” I say, a memory coming to mind. “This reminds me of the same stuff my mom would use on her huge, crazy sewing machine in her basement.”

  Izzy replies, “Did your mother do embroidery?”

  That’s the word. I turn to Izzy and meet her curious gaze. “Yes,” I say, recalling stacks and stacks of orders that sometimes took over the entire house until my dad built her a shop in the basement. “Mostly monograms and stuff. I think.”

  Izzy nods. “Well, then, it looks familiar because that’s embroidery thread.”

  “Holy shit,” I say, realizing that the town of Gold Hill does not have a leg to stand on.

  “What?” Izzy asks. “Did I blow your mind?”

  I shake my head and smile. “No. But I’m pretty sure the ball of yarn in Fate comes from sheep.”

  Her brows knit together. “So?”

  “So, that means you’re….” Careful, big guy. Don’t say the wrong thing. Say it nicely. “That means there’s no wrongdoing on our part. Never was.”

  We seem to be having a staring contest. I can’t read Izzy’s emotions, but her violet eyes have me transfixed.

  “I’ve never seen a color like your eyes,” I say.

  “Then you should come to Gold Hill more often and study the genetic makeup. There are a bunch of us,” she informs me.

  My reply spills out before I can control myself. “Maybe you should change your claim to fame. You all could be the most purple-eyed people per capita in the world.”

  Her eyes widen, and her lips part in half offense, half rage. “The color is violet, sir.”

  “I didn’t say purple was bad.”

  “But the actual color is violet.”

  “Tomato, tomahto.”

  Izzy groans a heavy sigh. “Let’s not do this.”

  My gaze wanders away from her as I scratch my head in thought. “This must be that thing I do that pisses people off.”

  “Just the one thing?”

  This comment takes a second to land. “Hey.”

  “Meh, you left the door open.”

  Is it me, or did those purple—I mean violet—eyes just take a trip south and back north again? My collarbone prickles. It’s there and gone like a fleeting wish.

&nb
sp; The brief glance from her means nothing, probably, yet I like it. I like looking at her, too. Especially when she’s irritated with me.

  Something inside me doesn’t want her to be irritated with me forever, though.

  “I…can we…I don’t know. Start over from scratch?”

  Studying me skeptically, she replies, “Gold Hill and Fate start over from scratch, or you and I start over from scratch?”

  Chortling at the thought of our two towns’ shared history, I answer, “I wasn’t thinking of going back and wiping away two hundred years of bad blood, no. But me and you? Yeah.”

  Her pearly teeth nibble on her plump, peachy bottom lip as she thinks about this.

  She seems hesitant, or like she’s looking for words to say. “We did start off on the wrong foot. Would…you…like to….”

  Impatiently, I answer, “Yes.”

  “You don’t know what I was going to say.”

  “Were you about to invite me to coffee? The answer is yes.”

  Izzy snorts and shakes her head. “No. The coffee is shit here. I was going to ask if you wanted to come over to my house for dinner to discuss the yarn ball situation in a more civilized way.”

  “Really?”

  Her Cupid’s bow lips form an “O,” and she blinks several times. “I’m sorry. I’m too forward.” The long lashes and perfect black eyeliner make every expression of hers more…everything.

  Shit. I hate that I made her feel too forward. I should have taken the lead. “No. Don’t be sorry. I’m starving. Let’s do it.”

  Chapter Nine

  Izzy

  My hands shake as I stir the spaghetti.

  This man I barely know accepted an accidental invitation to my house, and I could not rescind it once I realized what I had said. That would be rude.

  And also, I wanted Danny to come. My stupid dry spell in the romance department is to blame for this. How long has it been since a man loomed in my kitchen, apart from Uncle Stan?

  Of course, my neglected, sensitive soul would latch on to the first annoying man to pay me attention.

  But wait, why am I letting my thoughts paint the picture this way? This isn’t entirely true. I’ve been low-key eyeballing this man for months. So much so that I totally missed the fact that the Fate town council was planning a grand opening for their ridiculous ball of yarn. I neglected part of my job assignment because I’ve been waiting for this landscaper’s body to bust through his clothing.

  “I do have to take issue with what you said, though. Fate is most definitely trying to steal our thunder.”

  Danny is slow to respond. “I understand why you would think that, but that’s not the case.”

  My back is to him while I stand at the stove. I can hear it happening, him rising from the chair and closing in behind me.

  “How else do you explain the timing, and the shape, and the proximity, and everything else? It’s very, very similar.”

  The crackling edge in his voice rolls over my back. “Same way I explain other coincidences. It’s more fun to imagine conspiracies.”

  I suck in my breath and try not to respond in anger. My emotions want to react quickly, harshly. I try to keep the tremble out of my voice. I take it out on the spaghetti and add a pinch more salt while I stir. “That’s offensive. I’m not a conspiracy theorist.”

  Continuing to stir until the pasta’s ready, I wait for an apology that never comes.

  Instead, he does something better. Silently and bravely, he holds the colander over the sink while I pour off the boiling water. Danny’s sinewy, flexing forearms are so out of line. He could throw me around just like he’s tossing those noodles and I would not complain. Somebody help me.

  Spaghetti and meatballs plated, I turn and offer Danny the Parmesan cheese from a can.

  He smiles and takes it. “Thanks.”

  I smile back, waiting for him to criticize my cheese options, but he doesn’t.

  We sit across from each other at the kitchen island, and he eats my food, trying hard not to make a mess with the sauce.

  “You know, I would have pegged you for a freshly grated Parmesan Reggiano kind of girl.”

  I lift one eyebrow. “Why?”

  He shrugs and at least waits until he’s swallowed his mouthful of food before answering. “’Cause, you know. Gold Hill. It’s fancy now.”

  I snort. “Is that what you think?” My eyes go to his left hand, where he wears no ring. I’ve noticed the absence of a ring before; up close, I can see there’s no tan line, no ridge where there might have once been a wedding ring.

  “That’s what everybody thinks of Gold Hill. Y’all are fancy pants.”

  I smile and gesture with my fork. “That’s what Fate people think of Gold Hill. Nobody else thinks that.”

  “Well, that’s because y’all are the big fishes in a little pond.”

  Squinting and keeping my third eye on my temper, I ask, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Danny smiles in that same bad-boy way he smiled earlier. “Just that historically, Gold Hill is the kind of place that would take credit for every good idea and can never let the underdog shine.”

  His eyes seem to dance when he sees me gape at him. “Do you enjoy being the most offensive version of yourself you can be?”

  Danny’s smile falters as he seems to realize something. “No. Just sometimes my mouth gets me in trouble.”

  I’m so annoyed by him, and yet I can’t help my wandering eyes from falling to his lips.

  “No surprise there. I’ve experienced that troubling mouth personally, a lot, in the past few days.”

  “And vice versa,” he says. I notice here that he doesn’t say these things under his breath like a sullen teenager. He just…lets it fly. Weirdly, I respect that. If you’re going to piss people off, you might as well air your terrible takes with no emotion while looking them in the eye.

  A hundred years pass, with the two of us staring at each other. I’m no longer hungry for food; I can’t eat with this man staring at me. My heart, not knowing the difference between vexation and self-consciousness, sends blood rushing to my lips. I could be mistaken, but I believe I see his eyes dip down to the vee in my tee-shirt. Sure enough, I feel my skin prickle across my sternum. I just know it’s all splotchy now; it gets that way when I’m self-conscious. And aroused.

  “Maybe we can compromise on this whole ball of yarn thing,” I say.

  “There’s nothing to compromise on. We’re allowed to have the world’s biggest ball of yarn—”

  My mouth runs away from me then, and I interrupt his thought; I can’t hold back my frustration. “Do you not understand the part where we received an authentic certification from the Guinness Book of World Records? We have to defend that.”

  “Says who?” Danny asks.

  Says me, my uncle, everyone in town. Or almost anyone.

  “Says…the law.” I draw out the last word, thinking it’s going to have an impact.

  This has the same effect as earlier today.

  Danny holds up both hands. “Oooh, are you going to send me a cease and desist on legal letterhead? Please don’t; I might piss myself.”

  This sarcasm pokes at my temper, which I more or less have a handle on. It also prods at the dark, dusty place where my sex drive lives, somewhere below my navel. It’s not the sarcasm on its own; it’s his utter no-shits-given when it comes to me. Scratch that—he might give a shit about me, personally—I think. He doesn’t seem to give a shit about the problem we have here between our two towns. That’s the part that vexes me.

  “It would be straightforward if you would just apply to the Book of World Records, and they will tell you themselves that Gold Hill holds the record. Since you won’t believe a single thing that comes out of my mouth.”

  There he goes, staring at my mouth, my chest, my breastbone again. And there go my nipples, betraying me like my best friend in high school, who blabbed everything to the boy I was crushing on. Nipples are so damn tra
itorous, especially with these smallish breasts. The littlest thing excites them, like a puppy waiting for attention. I appreciate my own body, but nipples need to learn their place and stick to nourishing human life.

  “Ever since I was a child, I’ve been reading and rereading every edition of the book. I know how it works, and I know more than most people about the process,” Danny informs me, taking a massive mouthful of my spaghetti. There’s something irritatingly adorable about the way he enjoys my food. At the same time, he goes on to talk about how long he’s dreamed of holding an official world record. I can see the little boy in him. I can see the little boy that might come from him one day. That kid? Probably a lot more charming than this one that sits across from me now. Little Danny was probably told repeatedly that his “out of the mouths of babes” moments were just too precious. And he never got over it.

  Or maybe I’m too hard on him.

  I nod and listen to him wax poetic about his lifelong dream.

  When he’s finished, I add, “So, you get it. It’s not a simple thing that we’ve accomplished.”

  He leans forward in a conspiratorial pose. “Izzy, how do you know that? Did you apply yourself? Or did one of your many dozens of staff in the mayor’s office do it? Or did you spend the money on someone to do the work for you? And don’t try to bullshit me. I’ll be able to tell.”

  Now I’m angry, and I’m showing it. “I wonder why that is. Are you able to tell because you’re the biggest bullshitter who ever walked through my door? Because your crazy little village will do everything to seek attention, even lie?”

  “Now, hold on a minute.”

  “I’m not finished,” I say. And then I launch into mimicry, which I’m not proud of, but he needs to know how his town is perceived. “’Oh, we’re Fate, we’re so unpredictable. We elected a dog as mayor, and our biggest export is a suggestively-named hill in the middle of a field that may or may not make your compass act slightly off-kilter.’”

  Danny threads his fingers together, elbows resting on the table. Clearly, he’s finished eating my food. “Hey now, don’t go disrespecting Flash and the Curiosity Spot all in the same night. Yes, my people might have bats in the attic, but those are my people. My bats. My attic.”