Page 18 of More than Fiction (Misty Springs #1)

Sophia

Sunday morning arrived, and I was feeling excited and anxious. I was going to email Andi my resume today after I polished it up a bit and received some feedback from the girls at Sunday brunch.

“Hey,” I greeted as I squeezed into the little red booth next to Cassie.

Devyn sat across from me, our little squabble from last night already forgotten. She gave me a smile and a soft nudge of her foot that I returned.

“You’re late,” Cassie stated firmly.

“We texted you,” Lana said almost immediately after, giving me a soft but concerned look.

“We thought you got kidnapped,” Devyn said with a grin.

“Kidnapped? In this town? Whatever would make you guys think that?” I tilted my head, brow furrowing.

“Devyn told us about your run-in with Landon. We all got each other worried.” Cassie sipped her coffee, her face puckering and shaking slightly. “Plus, we all started drinking Irish coffees, and I think the whiskey is affecting the rational part of our brain.”

Our waitress appeared and asked what I was having to drink.

“I’ll have what they’re having.” I motioned at the mugs surrounding the table.

“Another for me, too,” Cassie tagged on.

“And me.” Devyn raised her empty glass.

“Might as well,” Lana added with a resigned sigh.

I sipped on the water that was waiting for me—the condensation indicating they ordered it for me a while ago. The girls eyed me expectantly .

“Nothing happened last night between Landon and me,” I replied to their silent accusations. “You guys have nothing to worry about. Landon’s the least of my concerns.”

“Don’t be so sure. He’s deceivingly dangerous. Like those little blue-ringed octopuses,” Devyn said with a hiccup. “Floating around. Seemingly harmless. But you get too close and BAM!” She slammed her hand on the table, eliciting stares from some surrounding patrons.

Cassie nodded in agreement. “He fills you with venom, and ya dead.”

I rolled my eyes at their coordinated dramatics.

“We just want to make sure you’re okay. We know what he put you through.” Lana softly touched my hand from across the table.

The waitress returned with our drinks, and my friends simultaneously took eager sips.

I took advantage of their distraction to change the subject. “Ok, lushes. Before you get too drunk on a Sunday morning, can I please ask you for a favor?”

I pulled out my laptop and opened my resume.

“You’re leaving me?!” Cassie gasped.

“You won’t quit Boomer's, will you? I can’t survive a night without my P.I.C., my partner in crime, the whiskey to my coke, the gin to my tonic, the 7 to my 7,” Devyn recited our favorite nicknames to each other.

“I may not be going anywhere. Look how terrible this thing is. My education and experience are lacking big time. I need some pointers, or I won’t even get my foot in the door for an interview.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Lana assured me.

It turns out it was that bad. After switching from Irish coffees to Bloody Marys, we blew up and reassembled my resume into an actual, respectable-looking document.

“Make sure you look up their mission statement before the interview. Corporations like stuff like that,” Lana suggested.

“Missionary? Seems a little vanilla, Soph, maybe try something different,” Devyn said a little too loudly in the busy restaurant.

We all giggled and chugged water while waiting for the waitress to close our tab .

Sam, Devyn’s boyfriend, was coming to pick the girls up to take them back home since the only thing as routine as Sunday brunch was getting drunk at Sunday brunch.

I hugged the girls as they loaded into Sam’s small SUV. I leaned in the passenger window to say goodbye again, as goodbyes tended to take hours with us.

“You sure you don’t need a ride, Soph?” Sam asked from the driver’s seat as Devyn pulled and let go of his seatbelt repeatedly, letting it snap back on his chest.

“I’m good. I want to get some steps in.”

“Bye, Soph! Don’t forget to do missionary!” Devyn yelled out of the window as Sam pulled away.

I adjusted the worn straps of my backpack—my laptop nestled securely inside. The short walk to my apartment was a welcome reprieve, giving me time to gather my thoughts. The cool mid-afternoon air worked its magic, sobering me up just enough.

As soon as I stepped through the door, I dropped my bag and pulled out my laptop. Heart pounding, I composed an email to Andi, re-reading it a million times to ensure it was perfect and attaching my resume.

“There. Done,” I said to my tiny, empty apartment.

Lana’s advice popped into my head—mission statement. Then I chuckled to myself— missionary .

I Googled Buescher-Jones Publishing and clicked over to their website. Their homepage was sleek and professional, and I found myself diving headfirst into their mission statement and core values, jotting them down in my notebook.

As I clicked through, I uncovered that Buescher-Jones was a piece of a much larger empire, a subsidiary under the umbrella of Buescher Enterprises. The parent company had its hands in multiple industries and a heavy real estate presence.

I scrolled through press releases. Each one had a thumbnail, the tiny images serving as previews of articles about the company—skimming through a few without much thought—until one froze me in my tracks.

Corbin Buescher Named One of Manhattan’s Top 30 Under 3 0

My breath hitched as my gaze locked on the accompanying photo. The thumbnail was small, but there was no mistaking the confident smirk, the piercing eyes, and the infuriatingly perfect jawline.

“No freaking way,” I murmured, my voice cracking with disbelief.

Clicking the article brought up a larger version of the photo, confirming what I already knew but desperately hoped I’d misread.

There he was—1B in all his tailored-suit glory.

Brash. Arrogant. Unnervingly sexy. And apparently, the COO of Buescher Enterprises.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the screen as my heart raced. What the hell was the COO of a major corporation doing in Misty Springs? It didn’t make any sense. Surely, running a business empire would be more pressing than a new branch opening here.

I did a Google search of Corbin Buescher. I found various articles regarding his company, but I found it hard to pay much attention when the photos of him with drop-dead gorgeous women were in my face.

Stunning pictures of lavish venues, with Corbin in tailored tuxes, standing alongside high-profile people and model-worthy women.

I studied his features, my eyes lingering on the sharp angles of his face and the curve of his lips in those perfectly captured smiles.

Here, on my screen, I could study him without the fear of being caught—free from those knowing, intense eyes that seemed to see right through me.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, itching to dig deeper, to find some clue that would explain his presence in my little corner of the world.

Maybe it was just a ceremonial visit, a brief pop-in to bless the office and then return to the glittery concrete jungle where someone like him belonged.

After all, he said he had a flight to catch right after he lit my nerve endings on fire, accused me of hoeing around behind some fictitious boyfriend's back, and then stole my delicious Jell-O shots—I noticed they were suddenly missing when I went back for them .

My pulse quickened as I imagined the possibility of seeing him again, of the way my body hummed when he stalked toward me inside his hotel room.

I slammed my laptop shut.

“Not today, brain,” I muttered, rising to my feet. I had no time to entertain wild fantasies, especially not the ones threatening to pull me into Devyn’s well-meaning but highly unhelpful advice.

I chuckled to myself— science or something.

I headed to the kitchen and began pulling out my cutting board and ingredients to prep meals for the week. The rhythmic chop of the knife and the structure of the task grounded me, pushing thoughts of Corbin Buescher into the recesses of my mind.

I slowly stirred my soup and called Penny. She put Luke on, and he proceeded to tell me that I should look for a man named Bruce Wayne—whispering that he was actually Batman and he’d make a great uncle.

I told him I’d do my best before saying goodbye with a huge grin. My nephew had a knack for bringing a smile to my face.

A knock at the door broke me away from the rolling boil of my soup. I quickly wiped my hands on my apron.

Peeking through the peephole, my stomach dropped as I saw none other than Landon Norwood standing outside my door. I groaned when I noticed the red roses in his hand and a large white box tucked under his arm.

After the initial end of our relationship—once his begging stopped and he was tired of dangling the roof over my head and the car I needed to get around like bait—he became a ghost.

No calls, no texts, just a haunted memory of a dark path not followed.

I had thought we had officially closed the chapter on our story.

But lately, he’d been relentlessly trying to contact me. I’d dodged every call and ignored every text, thinking silence would speak louder than anything I could say.

Rejection by omission, right?

Seeing him at the bar left an unsettling feeling in my gut, one that followed me around all weekend. At least I had Devyn there and a room full of patrons to be a buffer.

I wasn’t ready to face him, not now, not alone .

“Sophia, I know you’re in there. I can smell your chicken tortilla soup from out here.” Landon’s voice boomed through the thin door.

God, I hated this apartment.

A heavy sigh escaped me as I unfastened the lock. My fingers trembled, and I pulled the door open, bracing myself for whatever ploy Landon had in store for me.