Every other penny I had was spent on my trip out here and I couldn’t qualify for a credit card if my life depended on it—which it might, if things keep going the way they have—so I’m officially broke. And unemployed. And homeless.
The ball of stress tightens.
I had a job at a diner back in Chicago, but when I asked my boss, Big Joe, for time off for my father’s funeral, he refused. So I quit—which didn’t go over well.
Unbeknownst to me, my mother, Gia, had borrowed $20,000 from Big Joe to pay off some old debts. I knew nothing about this until I tried to leave and Big Joe started demanding his money. Since my mom was no longer able to pay him back, he insisted that I work for free in order to pay off her debt. It was a threat, not a negotiation, and I was scared out of my mind.
My lease was up at the roachy apartment so I packed up my stuff, cashed my last paycheck, and drove out to Arizona. And now, even if I had the gas money to drive back to Chicago, there’s no way I’d be able to afford a place to live and I’d be forced to work for Big Joe until my mom’s debt was settled. And knowing Big Joe, he’d probably demand reimbursement in other ways too, like by smacking my ass or squeezing my boob. Or worse.
I shudder.
I’m broke, but I’m not a prostitute. I’d rather sleep on a park bench than let myself be groped for favors.
Ugh. I might actually have to sleep on a park bench.
I shake myself from the thought. One day at a time, Kayla. Just get through one day at a time. God. Life isn’t going the way I’d hoped at all.
I’m supposed to be in nursing school right now with a bright future ahead of me. Instead, I’m on the run from a debt collector, attending unforeseen funerals, and waking up with arachnids on my face.
Stuffing all my emergency dollars back into their designated hiding places, I exit the motel room. It rained all night but the storm passed quickly, leaving the air clean and crisp, and a lungful of fresh air lightens my mood a bit as I head through the parking lot and climb inside my mom’s car. Although, I guess it’s mine now.
It’s the color of dying grass, a few decades past its prime, and beat-up at every corner, but I’m not complaining. It has four wheels and doesn’t smell like pee. In my book, it may as well be a limousine.
I drive through the small-town streets of Copper Springs and a hint of nostalgia wafts over me. The best years of my life were spent here; first living as a family when my parents were still married, and then visiting my dad every summer after they divorced and my mom and I moved away.
The cute storefronts and well-manicured streets look every bit as pleasant as they actually are—or were. I haven’t been back here in over five years. My plan was to never return at all, but it just seemed wrong not to come to my father’s funeral. And if I’m being honest with myself, I needed the closure. Especially after the way my mom passed away…
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.
I swallow and concentrate on the road, forcing my mind to stray somewhere else—anywhere else. I easily find the lawyer’s office and park. Then silently give myself a little pep talk.
I know my dad didn’t leave me anything in his will, which is no shock. He didn’t share his money with me when he was alive so why would I expect his death to change anything? But I can’t help but feel a little disappointed.
Being a descendant of the original town founders, Dad owned quite a bit of land in Copper Springs—including most of the town square, which made him relatively wealthy. The most valuable thing he owned was Milly Manor, his stately home on the outskirts of town. Since it was a historic building, my father always let people take tours and pictures of the place. He was always more than happy to share his home with the people of Copper Springs.
So when the lawyer called me last week and explained that my father had donated his estate and all of his belongings to the town, I wasn’t that surprised. But when he said he needed my signature to finalize some of Dad’s will papers, then I was surprised—and not in a good way.
I went through a myriad of emotions: shock, curiosity, bitterness, annoyance. It seemed needlessly cruel for my father to ignore me for five years and then have the balls to ask me to come out to Arizona to sign off on all the expensive crap he wanted to give to other people. Especially when my mother and I lived like paupers and he barely offered us a smile, let alone a handout.
Nevertheless, I’m here, so I will sign his precious papers. Surely, I can do that gracefully. Or at least without cursing or spitting.
Turning off the car, I stare at the lawyer’s office door and fidget with my keys, then pull down the visor and fuss with my long hair in the mirror. I already feel out of place and I’m still in my own car. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should have stayed back in Chicago and suffered through the debt payment. Though, even in Chicago I felt out of place… even more since Mom died.
I immediately shift my thoughts, flick the visor up, and exit the car. There is a time to mourn and that time has passed. Straightening my shoulders, I stride inside the lawyer’s office.
The first thing I notice is that Mr. Perkins is quite possibly the most unorganized lawyer of all time. Papers and files are everywhere, with no rhyme or reason to their placement, and random articles and pictures are taped up on the walls like this is his seventh-grade bedroom and not the place he practices law.
The second thing I notice is the guy sitting on the black pleather couch against the far wall. Purple shirt. Dark jeans. Devilish good looks…
Ah, hell.
I knew he looked familiar at the funeral yesterday but now, without sunglasses covering his dark brown eyes, there’s no doubt.
“Daren Ackwood,” I say.
He grins up at me and a dimple appears. “Kayla Turner.”
You know how some people are so good-looking you just want to stare at them with your mouth open? Daren is that kind of handsome.
No. Handsome isn’t the right word.
He’s beautiful.
And he has been since he was a kid.
His dark brown hair is short and styled in a messy way that looks like he just rolled out of bed and into a Hot Guy catalogue, and matches the thick eyebrows arching over a pair of chocolate-colored eyes. A golden tan dusts the skin of his corded neck and the sinewy muscles of his forearms, stretching out from rolled-up sleeves and down to long, sturdy fingers. And his mouth is a distraction in itself, all full lips and white teeth, as the edge of his smile dips into that one naughty dimple on his left cheek. He looks like pure trouble.
His devastating good looks, in combination with his family’s ridiculous wealth, drew every girl in Copper Springs to him like a magnet—or so I heard.
After age five, I only visited this town once a year so I didn’t have a lot of time to make friends. I really only had one close friend in town, Lana, who moved away after high school. But when I was thirteen and Daren started doing yard work for my dad, Lana was beside herself, always making up excuses to come over to my house so she could drool over him. It was ridiculous how smitten she was. And she wasn’t the only one.
Soon everyone in town knew Daren worked for my dad, so anytime I’d meet a local girl she would always ask the same giggly thing: “Do you know Daren Ackwood?”
The answer was no. I didn’t know Daren Ackwood. I saw him through the kitchen window sometimes, and I was always aware of him when he was working in the yard—especially when he didn’t have a shirt on—but I didn’t know Daren Ackwood, and he didn’t know me. We never spoke. We never interacted. Frankly, I’m surprised he knows my name.
For a moment we just stare at each other, him seated leisurely with his legs spread apart and me standing in my last pair of high heels with a bored expression.