Page 5 of More than Fiction (Misty Springs #1)

Corbin

I must have really pissed her off. I didn’t mean to.

No, actually, I did. I was bitter and angry about my situation—I guess I wanted to spread it to others and let them drown in my misery alongside me.

Besides, once I glanced at her phone screen and saw she had some guy who couldn’t wait for her to get home, anger flared in my chest. I wonder how he would feel if he knew his girl was fawning over some stranger at an airport.

Still, I didn’t realize poking fun at Misty Springs would trigger her so quickly.

I assumed she was from the tiny town, as we were on an inbound flight there. I’d observed women get pissed off about their shoes getting ruined or another woman wearingthe same dress as them. I’ve never witnessed a woman get so defensive about a town, even if it was a crap town.

The woman in 1C had turned her music up so loud to block me out that I was genuinely concerned for her hearing.

If she weren’t so clearly angry with me, and if I were the type to enjoy small talk on a plane, I might have told her that the book she was reading, by Monica McKenzie, was one of ours. The publishing arm of the Buescher Enterprises empire—Buescher-Jones Publishing—signed her almost a decade ago.

I’d met Monica a handful of times. She was a bit high-maintenance, but her books raked in a fortune thanks to thirsty women worldwide.

I connected to Wi-Fi when we hit ten thousand feet, and a flurry of emails from Andi, my assistant, rolled in .

With this new project came a promotion for Andi, and a promise from me that she’d take over the branch as soon as possible. She’d been handling everything from scouting the location to setting up the offices and recruiting for some of the lower-level roles.

From: Young, Andi

Subject: Job Positions and Postings

To: Buescher, Corbin

C,

Your picks from corporate arrived this week. Ned Spriggs and Susan Rhett. I’ll be honest, Susan seems great, but I’m not sure why you picked Ned because he is a total twat waffle.

When you read this, you will probably be on the plane to lovely Misty Springs. I’m sorry, I’ll miss seeing the reaction on your face when you first arrive.

I have your room booked at the only hotel in town. I already asked, they don’t have a fancy boy espresso machine. No worries, there is a lovely coffee shop nearby. I’ll bring you an americano in the morning as soon as I get back into town.

Believe it or not, Misty Springs has a taxi service. Your driver will be picking you up at the airport. I don’t have to tell you where he’ll be, the airport is so small, you cannot miss him.

Attached are a few lower-level positions that I will post on job sites tonight. Review them if you must. It’s a waste of your time, though. You know they are perfect.

Don’t go Googling twat waffle,

A

Twat waffle… I’d never heard such bold language to describe someone. Then again, bold seemed like a good way to describe Andi.

Andi was young, sharp as a tack, and completely unfiltered. Her outfits were as colorful as her personality—vibrant colors and patterns that popped against her dark skin .

She’s probably the only one brave enough to call me on my shit, too—besides Buzz—and now I could add the 1C to that very short list.

I chuckled, thinking about how cute 1C looked when she called me an asshole—the little V that formed between her eyebrows, the scrunch of her nose—and I wasn’t the kind of guy who found things cute.

I closed my emails and switched to reading my text messages.

Davis: I’ll keep your chair warm while you’re gone.

Sullivan: Yo, on a scale of 1 - 10, how crazy is Cindy? I hope 10.

Gram: I hope you find Misty Springs as magical as I did growing up there. It is a wonderful place, with wonderful people. I wish I could visit you there. Send pictures.

Gram, the “Jones” name in the Buescher-Jones legacy, grew up in Misty Springs. I suddenly felt a twinge of guilt for calling her hometown a crap town.

She met my grandfather when she was twenty on a vacation to upstate New York. They fell in love, and the rest is history.

I took a doleful breath and closed my eyes, letting my head rest gently on the seat. My conscience prickled. I needed to lose my pissy attitude and focus on the task at hand.

This was a very personal challenge and one that would surely earn Buzz’s approval. It’s why he sent me to oversee things—it meant too much to him, to Gram.

Me: I’ll see what I can do Gram, love you too.

Hers was the only text I responded to—Davis and Sullivan knew better than to expect a reply.

I sipped the cheap commercial airplane whiskey, its harsh flavor dragging me back to the nights spent at that crummy dive bar, Theo’s, when I attended Cornell.

I could almost hear the busted jukebox that only played Nirvana when you kicked it—or maybe that was just the music bleeding from my angry neighbor's earbuds .

Either way, this flight felt like a grim metaphor for all the downgrades my life was currently enduring.

The sun had begun to set, casting orange light into the cabin through the other passengers' open window shades. I glanced toward the nearest one, remembering my view had disappeared the moment my seatmate huffed and slammed the shade closed.

But with my gaze in her direction, I found myself caught up in the gentle slope of her nose, the way her cheekbone caught the last of the sun’s warmth, and the curve of her lips that held my attention for longer than I’d like to admit.

Before I could stop myself, I turned my head to get a better look.

Her eyes were buried in the pages of her book, and I was hopeful she was distracted enough by whatever cutesy character Monica curated to notice my staring.

My gaze traveled down her body, drawn to the tight white tank top hidden beneath her black jacket—the way it kept teasing me with glimpses of the smooth skin of her waist.

Her long legs were crossed, with her hand wedged between them. Her thighs tensed subtly, and her lips curved into a grin that teetered between sweet and sinful.

I had read enough of Monica’s novels to guess what kind of scene she was reading—the sensual images that were likely swirling in her head.

She caught her bottom lip beneath her teeth, a move that sent a rush of blood through me.

I let out a breath and turned back to face the front of the plane, letting my head fall back with a thud on the firm cushion of the headrest.

I couldn’t afford to lose my focus. I had a mission: get this branch off the ground, keep Andi busy enough to handle most of it, and spend as little time in the tiny town as possible.

Then I could focus on what actually mattered—becoming CEO—and never setting foot in Misty Springs again.