Page 4 of A Love Like Pumpkin Spice (Wayward Hollow #1)

Nic

“It’s going to be a fun new beginning,”

At least that's what I've been telling myself since I started the engine a few hours ago. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, let out a deep sigh, and relax my shoulders. The last freeway exit is finally in sight.

“So. Much. Fun,” I reiterate through clenched teeth, the kind of smiley-grimace you force your face into when someone says “Everything happens for a reason” while your life is on fire.

If I repeat it often enough, maybe it’ll start to feel real.

Maybe I can gaslight myself into optimism. Either way, it’s cheaper than therapy.

It’s been rough. After leaving Jay’s parents’ house on that evening, three months ago, I couldn’t bear returning to my own.

The house where memories waited in every corner, sending flashbacks of catching him with Marissa piercing through my heart with a dull force equivalent to a barely sharpened pencil.

A dull kind of pain that hits with force, fighting to pierce the skin and making it all the more painful.

Lauren took me in. Like a stray puppy abandoned in the streets after the new owners decided the Christmas present was too much effort. She drove me home, tucked me tightly into a blanket, fed me pizza and kept my glass full with vodka-mixers throughout the evening .

And then the next day, she picked me up like the big sister I’d always wished for and didn’t let me continue the pity party any longer.

“You know what? Maybe we both need to get out of here,” she said, spoon halfway to her mouth, piled with what was definitely our third tub of ice cream and absolutely no longer dinner adjacent.

“That sounds wonderful,” I’d replied through a tight throat and burning eyes, still swollen from all my crying the night before. “I could really use a new start.” Preferably somewhere far away from the celebrity hustle and bustle of Los Angeles.

Because there is no way I can go back to acting. I retired because I was ready for a new chapter, to enjoy the results of my hard work and plan my wedding or spend time with my family.

Well, that fell through.

But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m done with that chapter of my life. Maybe for good. Maybe in five or ten years I might revisit it, but right now, I need something new. Something that helps me find out who I am, aside from Nicola Duncan, world-famous actress.

“As do I.” When I lifted my gaze up to her, it was to find her with a faraway expression on her face. A different kind of pain reflected in the tightness of her eyebrows.

“Hey, I’m sorry for this mess. Fuck, I’m a bad friend. Is everything okay?”

“You’re not a bad friend. And it will be.” She turned to me with a sad smile. “Let’s do it. Let’s disappear. Or at least, dramatically relocate.”

We clinked our glasses together as if we were sealing a pact with cocktail-based magic.

And damn it if I didn’t fall in love at first sight with the lake house she showed me. It has a cute wraparound porch and the most stunning view of a lake with mountains in the distance .

Next thing I knew, although in reality it took a few weeks, it was a done deal, and we owned two houses in a small town that is home to a bookstore, a café, a flower shop, and an antique shop that might or might not have a ghost problem.

“I could see myself having extremely meaningful morning coffees out here,” I said, squinting at the porch like it had just whispered life advice to me.

“And you know what, maybe I need more early morning romance. Let’s romanticize the fuck out of life,” I’d said solemnly, and we clinked glasses one more time.

Only that time felt more charged with determination.

Next stop: spontaneous life decisions disguised as self-care. A.k.a. the hair salon.

She’d been joking about a breakup haircut and honestly? I was three seconds from cutting my own hair with nail scissors anyway, so this felt safer.

I was more than ready for a change. I’ve been dying my hair darker for work—my manager insisted my natural blonde would only get me “dumb blonde” or sex bomb roles—but I’ve had enough of it.

I told the stylist to take out the extensions, bleach out the dye, and bam - now I’m back to blonde. Golden blonde. The real me kind. Now it brushes just past my shoulders, my natural waves breaking free, like it knows things are changing.

And weirdly? There’s a weight off my lungs. I can finally breathe again.

Oh, how much lighter life can become when you’re not surrounded by people trying to tear you down. As torn down as I was right after my breakup, now that I’ve blocked my family and Jay, I feel so … light.

No more scrutiny over what I decide to spend my money on. No more snide comments over my purchases or how much I’m spending on a hairdresser.

Turns out, when you take the emotional vampires off your invite list, life gets a whole lot shinier .

And quieter.

And mine .

And I intend to do exactly as I said: Romanticize the fuck out of it. And reclaim it. I’m not sure how yet, but I’m excited to find out.

Now here I am, driving down a winding road lined with trees that hide the sky, toward my new home, my new life.

And, hopefully, my freshly assembled furniture.

If I get there and it’s not built the way I’d asked and paid handsomely for, only a mountain of IKEA packages mocking me, I might just burst into tears.

There was no way I was bringing that bed with me. The one my ex probably fucked my sister in. No fucking way. It’s cursed, and it filled me with way too much satisfaction to watch it fall down the landfill.

I hide a yawn behind my hand, glancing at my GPS.

Less than thirty minutes to go. God, I can’t wait to flop on my new mattress and have a nap that would make sleeping beauty jealous.

Hours of driving are more taxing than I remembered—one of the few advantages of having a job that requires regular travel and a schedule so tight that you can only manage it with private jets.

I’m humming along to a Taylor Swift heartbreak song—because apparently that’s who I am now—when suddenly something catches my eye. Right in the middle of the road.

A bag?

No. Oh no.

It’s a lump.

A furry lump.

Holy shit, that’s a cat. And it’s not moving.

I slam on my brakes, tires screeching the way I do when watching a horror movie and come to an abrupt halt. Thank God this is Bumfuck, Nowhere, and the only other souls around are probably cows and the occasional deer. No danger of someone rear-ending me.

I throw the car into park and launch myself out like a woman in a made-for-TV movie. My brain’s already spiraling.

What if it’s dead?

Wait—lone woman being stopped in the middle of nowhere … isn’t this how horror movies start? I check the bushes at the side of the road as if the branches will spell out “Danger hiding here” with some cute little arrows pointing to the masked killer.

Then again, I’ve survived a cheating fiancé, toxic relatives, and a dramatic hair transformation. If I get taken out by a fake cat trap on a rural road, at least my funeral portrait will look amazing.

“Hey, sweetie,” I coo in a high-pitched voice that I hope signals that I come in peace and cautiously move closer to the black-furred animal.

What if it’s not a cat, after all?

What if it has rabies?

The closer I get, the more my heart races until I hear a soft, miserable meow .

I gasp, my pulse racing; first, because I’m relieved it’s actually a cat and not a small bear with its mother waiting nearby.

Being mauled to death right now would put a serious damper on my romanticizing life plans.

Second, because there’s blood everywhere and soft, agonized breaths make adrenaline kick in, and I spur into action.

“Oh no, sweetie.” I immediately take off my jacket and put it over the cat, grimacing when it makes a pained sound. “I’m sorry, cutie pie, but I have to move you.” My eyes scan the area for more cats, but it seems this little animal was all alone.

I bite my lip to refrain from crying as I pick it up to agonizing meows, carrying it to my passenger cradled to me as I would hold a baby, softly talking to it and stroking its head .

My heart beats in my chest like it’s about to chisel a hole into my ribcage as I search for the closest vet office on my phone. Then I set the GPS to lead me there on the quickest route.

“You’ll be all right,” I continue cooing at the cat softly, reaching over to gently stroke its head as I turn the key in the ignition. “Stay with me. We’re going to find someone who can help you.”

Tears spring into my eyes as the little creature, despite being weak with pain and shaking in agony, purrs under my fingertips.

“I’m going to save you,” I promise her and clear my throat, clogged by emotion. “Don’t even think about dying on me, sweetie.”

I repeat it. Like a mantra. Though its breaths turn weaker and weaker, and the purring stops as she mobilizes her strength to survive.

Trees and fields fly past me as I follow my navigations directions to the closest veterinarian.

When I glance over, I catch it staring at me with wide yellow eyes as if saying, “It’s okay. Thank you for trying.”

Fuck no. She can’t die on me. Ten more minutes to the vet—I decide to make it in five. A life’s at stake, and if ambulances cannot give a shit about speed limits, I shouldn’t either.

“Fuck, you’ve got to make it, sweetie pie.” Another weak meow, and I notice her moving under my hand.

I can’t check on it, though, because I am breaking every speed limit on these empty streets as I attempt to save the cat’s life and try to keep mine.

Suddenly, it tries to climb into my lap.

And it takes every ounce of strength to not fucking lose it and break down while speeding down these curvy roads.