Page 20 of More than Fiction (Misty Springs #1)

Corbin

I peered through the tiny window of the corporate jet as it bounced lightly through the air on a cloudy Monday morning. I mulled silently over the events that set my course back to Misty Springs—sooner than I’d originally planned.

After leaving dinner with my grandparents on Saturday, I went to The Loft and instantly wondered why I had shown up in the first place.

I recall standing there, drink in hand, scanning the crowd of glitzy, overconfident faces, unable to muster the energy or the desire to make small talk with anyone. Not like my silence mattered—I had learned long ago that the finer the event, the easier it was to disappear into it.

The centerpiece of the party—a vodka luge carved from a massive block of ice, with frozen rivers of liquor cascading down its channels into waiting shot glasses—served as a colossal tribute to the grandstanding I’d become all too accustomed to.

It was all so… vapid.

Davis and Sullivan arrived together, clearly in rare form—likely the result of a pre-game session of their own.

I hovered nearby them as they worked the room, their charming discourse giving me an excuse to quietly nod along as I fought to drown out the thoughts in my head.

The alcohol burned, but it didn’t numb. The night dragged on, an endless swirl of laughter, clinking glasses, and superficial conversations.

Somewhere between the music and the meaningless exchanges, I realized that the party, the people, the effort to chase away the lingering ghosts of my past had been an exercise in futility .

Sunday morning, with my head pounding and my mouth feeling like it had a dozen cotton balls stuffed inside, I called the corporate travel agent and booked the jet for Monday.

The draw of something quiet, slower paced, pulling me in. As I thought of returning to Misty Springs, the weight pressing down on me—so subtle I hadn’t fully noticed it—lifted slightly.

It wasn’t relief exactly, but something close.

I wasn’t letting myself read too much into it. Buzz tasked me with opening the branch, and I was going to make it the best damn opening Buescher-Jones Publishing had ever seen. That was my motivation for coming back so soon. That was what placed me on this jet today.

I let my gaze drift out the window as the clouds broke, revealing the vast stretches of land below, and the downtown area of Misty Springs came into view. It was quaint and compact, nestled along the river’s edge like a scene straight from a postcard.

Part of me recognized why Gram wanted me to see it, and why she held on to so many memories here.

I let my eyes linger on the landscape as the plane descended.

Beautiful, yes—but I wasn’t here for the view.

After I deplaned, a sleek black Infiniti Q50 was waiting for me. A sharp blast of wind carrying an icy chill stabbed through my suit as it tumbled dead leaves across the tarmac.

The man who delivered my car walked me through the features as he loaded my bags in the trunk.

I rushed him along and sat down in the sleek interior. The car was idling, the heated leather seats were warm underneath me—the relief instantly soaked into my skin.

I unintentionally peeled out of the parking lot, watching the concern on the rental car guy’s face as I did so.

It certainly had been a while since I had driven, and this car had some power. Despite this being a “one-horse town,” as Davis and Sullivan described, I needed to use my GPS to find the office. My driving skills were not expert-level like Eddie’s—or Hank’s, I suppose.

I looked around, familiarizing myself with the sleepy town, and was surprised at the amount of architecture to admire.

The simplistic but intricate craftsmanship of the brick homes—many with side-gabled roofs, segmental-arched windows, and stone foundations—stood proudly amongst the sprawling downtown blocks.

Massive trees with diminishing but still brightly colored leaves were everywhere, some towering over the homes, fighting for space on their plots of land.

It was a quiet town, especially on a dreary Monday morning, yet it felt alive. The streets were calm but far from lifeless. Shops lining the main strip were open, their window displays bright and inviting, while the occasional pedestrian strolled by, bundled against the cool weather.

A handwritten sign propped on the sidewalk caught my eye as I drove past: HOUSE-MADE SYRUPS. A simple coffee mug sign with the word Grounded scrawled across it hung overhead.

Coffee sounded like the perfect way to shake off the dreariness of my travel. I pulled off into one of the empty parking spaces along the front of the shop.

Once inside, my eyes landed on a woman behind the counter with long black hair and a friendly smile. Her dark eyes were focused on the cup she was crafting, her hands deftly swirling foam into an intricate design.

“What can I get you?” she asked me, her eyes never drifting from her task.

I started to speak, then hesitated. An americano was my usual choice—a reliable classic—but the house-made syrups sign intrigued me.

Decisiveness and routine were my cornerstones.

Every morning, I ate the same thing: one egg, two egg whites, wheat toast, and berries. I ordered the same dishes from the same restaurants, bought the same brands, and stuck to what worked.

End of story.

But here I stood, like a confused puppy trying to make sense of these new sights and smells before me.

“You look conflicted,” she stated, now having handed her mug to a customer and her full attention focused on me.

“Conflicted about what to order or conflicted about my life?” I startled myself with my questions. I didn’t make a habit of small talk, especially not with strangers.

“Both, perhaps.” She leaned on the counter, resting her forearms on the dark wood surface. “I can help you with one of those things. ”

Her presence was warm and inviting, her stare was penetrating, like she could see through any armor I wore. She seemed achingly familiar, though I couldn’t place where I’d ever seen her before.

“What do you typically drink?” she asked.

“Whiskey.”

She gave me a slight eye roll.

“Americano. Black,” I admitted.

“But you want something different today.” Her tone was both a question and a statement.

I nodded.

“I have just the thing for you.” She picked up a Sharpie. “Name?”

“Corbin.”

She quickly introduced herself as Lana as she worked the register and started on my drink. Her warm smile held firm throughout every mundane task she performed, as if she genuinely loved what she was doing.

After a few short minutes, a gentle plunk of a paper cup sounded where I waited off to the side.

“Half sweet maple-bourbon cappuccino,” Lana stated.

I turned to face her as she dropped a paper bag on the counter next to my coffee. “Plus a scone. On the house since you’re a first-timer.”

“How do you know I haven’t been in here before?” I asked, reaching for my items.

“I know everyone who comes in here, and I never forget a face.” She wiped her hands on her apron before adding with another genuine smile, “Welcome to Misty Springs.”

I dropped a twenty in the tip jar on the counter and thanked her before heading out into the chilly air. Shaken by the hospitality, I felt oddly nostalgic as I hopped into my still-warm car.

Once I arrived at my office in the Misty Springs branch, I paused in the doorway, eyeing the intruder sitting in my seat.

“Oh, I am sorry, here I thought this was my office.”

Andi’s head shot up. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming back until next week.”

I stepped inside and dropped my briefcase on the desk. “Yeah, well, I decided to come back early, so…” I flicked my hand toward the door .

Andi leaned back in the chair and scrunched her face. “What if we rock, paper, scissors-ed for it?”

“Out,” I barked.

“Fine, fine. Thanks for getting me something, by the way.” She nodded toward my coffee cup, grabbed her lime green jacket from the coat rack in the corner, and sighed with the dramatic flair of an ER doctor who just lost a patient.

***

Andi scheduled a brief introduction meeting for the afternoon—"for optics," she claimed, since I hadn’t been formally introduced to Susan or Ned yet.

Andi introduced me to Susan, who looked like someone I’d expect to see in a Buescher boardroom—young, polished, and sharp. Why she chose the small-town life in Misty Springs was a mystery.

“And this ray of mediocrity,” Andi said with a tight smile, “is Ned.”

Ned ignored Andi’s gibe and stood to shake my hand with too much enthusiasm. “Pleasure, sir. We’ve all been looking forward to your leadership.”

“Appreciate that,” I responded with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. “We’ve got quite the team here. With all of your efforts, this branch will be on its feet in no time.”

My comments were more for my relief, not theirs. I couldn’t wait for this branch to be up and running, so I could get the hell out of here.

Around five, Andi left with a remark about seeing me around Elijah’s, and something pulled at my chest at the thought of returning to the landmark hotel.

When I booked my flight and car, I searched for other accommodations outside of Misty Springs. I only found a Hampton Inn about twenty miles away—not too far, but not ideal.

Elijah’s stately exterior stirred nervous energy in my gut as I drove up the steep drive.

I took a deep breath to steady myself.

Nerves are reserved for signing million-dollar deals and meeting high-profile clients—not colliding with angry brunettes with short shorts in my hotel room .

A combination of relief and disappointment hit me when the oh-so-charming redhead I had met when I first checked in stood behind the counter.

“Hello again, Mr. Buescher,” she said with a strained tone and a plastered-on smile. “Are you needing a room for the night?”

“Yes, I am, Cassie,” I answered, scanning her nametag again.

I handed her my credit card, watched her swipe it, and stood quietly as she began typing away at her keyboard.

For a moment, the silence felt almost comforting. My nerves started to settle, relieved that maybe I was getting off easy—no Sophia, no awkward confrontation, just a quiet check-in and a room key.

“And do you plan on accosting any of my employees during this stay?” Her tone was as innocuous as asking me if I needed extra towels, but her words were sharp as blades.

So much for easy.

The only response I could give her was me choking on air.

She smirked like she'd just cornered my king in a chess match as she placed my credit card back on the counter.

As she turned toward the rack of keys, I worked to regain my composure. Cassie’s words surprised me, but something deeper cut at my core.

Women bragged about being with me before—looking for clout, attention, validation—I hadn’t pegged Sophia for that type.

Cassie turned back with my key, and despite my insides twisting, I set my face into that neutral, unbothered expression I’d perfected over the years in boardrooms and hostile acquisitions.

I tilted my head slightly, letting just enough smugness edge into my voice. “So what, you two are friends? She tell you we hooked up?”

Cassie made a face like I’d just offered her sour milk. “Ew. No. Pam told me,” She bit back. “You seriously need to get over yourself.”

That knocked a bit of the satisfaction from my smirk.

“I didn’t bring it up to anyone, especially not Sophia,” she added, her tone softening a touch. “She’s a little… raw right now.”

Cassie crossed her arms and straightened her stance, her voice tightening.

“Look. I’m not one to overstep, but when it comes to people I care about, I’d do almost anything.

Sophia is smart. Talented. Has a future if she wants it.

I just don’t want her to tie herself to someone who could snap that thread without a second thought.

” I thought I heard her mumble, “ not again .”

I forced a smile. “I’m not one to mix business with pleasure.”

The last thing I needed was small-town gossip about a relationship that wasn’t even happening.

Cassie nodded as a breath of relief escaped her.

The thought hit me—sudden and unwelcome. Who or what happened to Sophia to make her feel raw ?

But I collapsed that tunnel of thought immediately. Sophia wasn’t my responsibility. Her feelings weren’t my problem.

“How late is the bar open tonight?” I asked, forcing the change in subject.

“Oh, sorry. Bar’s closed on Mondays,” she said back, without a hint of apology in her tone.

“Thanks—as usual—for your hospitality,” I muttered, grabbing the key.

I really needed that drink.