Page 6 of Tempt (Peachwood Falls #1)

M egan

“I legitimately hate my boss,” Calista says, nearly growling into the phone.

“What happened now?” I squint through my windshield into the morning sunlight. “You sound extra passionate today, and it’s Saturday. How can you be pissed at your boss on a Saturday?”

“Remember that guy I met at the airport? The hot guy in the suit and glasses?”

“Vaguely.”

She sighs. “It’s been a while. I can see why you might forget him.”

“Or I might forget him because you’ve had—how many men have you been with since you met him?”

“ Not the point .” She smacks her lips together. “We had a … I’m going to say a date because that sounds more politically correct. But it was really dinner and a hookup.”

I grin and silence Chris’s directions.

Calista and I have a lot in common—we love the beach, Brad Pitt movies, and everything that happened in the nineties. But in some ways, we’re opposites. When it comes to men and dating, we’re on different spectrums.

My friend dates fast and hard. There’s an objective to it all.

Find a husband . She’s convinced there’s one man out there created just for her, and she’ll know it when she meets him.

So why bother pretending to be serious about someone she knows isn’t the one ?

It only prolongs or prevents her from fulfilling her happy ending.

Me? I date cautiously. The goal isn’t … well, there isn’t one besides a good time.

The concept of forever and ever, amen makes me itch.

My eye twitches, and I feel like I’m going to throw up.

A clock starts ticking as soon as I get attached, and I’ve never found the pain of the loss to be worth the experience.

I bow out before things get too serious.

“Anyway, there’s no dinner and no hookup because I have to travel to Albuquerque tonight,” she says, growling the words. “I’ve been traveling for our department for the past three months, and that bastard promised me he would give me a break so I could try to have a normal life.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too. LAX is going to be a nightmare. But ,” she says, her voice brightening, “because I was running on fury and adrenaline last night after I got my travel notification, I spent a couple of hours online.”

I know where this is going. “ Calista . No.”

Gravel crunches beneath my car tires as I turn onto a country road. Strands of corn sway in the breeze on either side. What is it with cornfields? I hit the gas a little harder.

“Chase Marshall won an award last year for Lineman of the Year,” she says. “I told you that last night. Anyway, there was a picture in the paper. The resolution online was surprisingly terrible, considering we aren’t in the Stone Age anymore, but I liked what I saw.”

I sigh. Oh, friend. Don’t start shipping us already.

“I’m trying to arm you with information,” she says.

“You aren’t arming me with information by saying you think he might be good-looking.”

“That was a side benefit. I didn’t pull it up to see if he was hot. I was searching for red flags. But, again, I have a vested interest in you not dying.”

“ Again , I’m not going to die. And if I wanted to know what he looked like, I could’ve asked my mom. Or Maggie. Or I could’ve looked at Maggie’s social account because she posts pictures of her kids. She’s a very grandma-y type, you know?”

The cornstalks give way to a farmhouse in the middle of an extensive lawn. The siding is white, and a porch wraps around the corner by the driveway. Plants hang from hooks in the rafters, and the landscaping is tidy. Very pretty .

A bubble of excitement mixed with equal amounts of nerves fills my stomach. Although I brush Calista’s fears off—and despite knowing that the Marshalls are great people—a thread of uncertainty about working for a man I haven’t met in person exists.

“Calista, I gotta go,” I say, my heart beating faster as I pull into the driveway. “I’m here.”

“Okay. Be safe. If there are bad vibes, leave. You can break a promise once in your life.”

“It’s not my promise—it’s my mom’s. My guilt would be much less because of that.”

“See?”

I laugh. “Love you. Bye.”

“Call me?—”

I hang up. She’d go on about this forever .

I park my car next to a small burgundy SUV and turn off the engine. Sun filters through the trees that pepper the property, making it look like a postcard.

As I climb out of the car, Maggie comes rushing down the front steps with a giant smile on her sweet, familiar face.

There are a few more lines around her eyes, and her hair has a bit more silver than the last time I saw her—which, come to think of it, was probably ten years ago. Otherwise, she’s the same Maggie.

That’s such a relief.

“There you are,” she says, arms extended. “I’m so glad you made it.”

I let her pull me into a hug and enjoy the warmth of a motherly embrace. “It’s good to see you.”

“You have no idea how good it is to see you, honey.” She releases me. “You look as fit as a fiddle. Look at you . You are as pretty as a peach, Megan Dawn.”

I giggle. “Keep talking like that, and I might not leave.”

She hugs me quickly once more. “Oh, it’s so good to see you. Thank you for coming. We’re relieved that Kennedy will be in your competent hands.”

I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face if I tried. “Well, I’m happy to be here. I’m not sure how capable these hands are, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

“Just keep her from sneaking out and borrowing her daddy’s truck”—Maggie makes a face—“and we’ll call it a success.”

“ Ooh . Okay. I understand where the whole spirited thing comes from.”

Maggie rolls her eyes. “She hit fourteen, and her sensibilities have gone out the window. Don’t get me wrong.

Kennedy’s a good kid. She’s just going through something, I guess.

” She grins, shaking a finger at me. “And she better get through it before her daddy drags her through it with her grandma behind her with a broom.”

I laugh.

“This place is gorgeous,” I say, spinning in a circle and taking it all in. “It’s like a postcard from a quaint little bed-and-breakfast.”

She beams. “Let’s go in. I’ll show you around.”

We take a brick pathway to the steps. Solar lights line each side, leading us to the porch. A welcome wreath hangs beside the door.

“I’ve been cleaning all day,” Maggie says, waiting for me to go through the doorway first. “It’s not usually this organized.”

“You didn’t have to clean for me.”

“Honey, it’s the least I can do.”

I’m greeted by the scent of freshly baked bread and the undeniable easiness that only a home can deliver. The sensation caresses my frayed nerves.

Hardwood floors extend from the small foyer in every direction.

A small, cozy living room with a rock fireplace is beyond an arched doorway on my left.

A stack of books sits in the center of a long table through the archway on my right.

Stairs rise in front of me, and a hallway stretches beside them, leading to what appears to be a kitchen at the back of the house.

“This is it,” Maggie says, closing the door behind her. “Lonnie and I live just down the road. So if you need something and don’t want to drive to town, feel free to see if we have it. I’ll leave a key with you. Kennedy and Chase each have one too, of course.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine. Don’t worry about us.”

She motions for me to follow her down the hallway. “Oh, I’ll worry. That’s my job. Just wait until you’re a mother. You’ll understand then.”

“If my life doesn’t get on track soon, my eggs might be dried before I find viable sperm.”

Maggie laughs. “You’re your mother’s daughter, that’s for sure.”

“Don’t tell her that. She’s convinced she’s never going to be a grandma. I keep telling her that she should’ve had more kids to up her chances.”

“Oh, she doesn’t think that. She wants you to be happy.”

We enter the kitchen. The bright and airy room has white cabinets and buttery-colored walls. The appliances are stainless steel, and a farmhouse sink sits under a wide window with gauzy curtains.

“Mom should relax because I want to be happy too,” I say, peeking out the window at the expansive yard.

“How are things going with you? Your mom said you were pretty bummed to be back in Dallas.”

I press my hip into the island and watch her piddle around the kitchen, putting up a few cups that sit by the sink.

“Moving home at my age isn’t exactly a reason to celebrate,” I say. “But my company felt the pinch after the pandemic and downsized. I can’t blame them.”

Maggie frowns. “Well, I know Denise loves having you back home. She missed you and worried about you in Los Angeles alone.”

“I know. She keeps asking me if I’ll move back to California, and I keep telling her I’m not. As much as I loved my job and the beaches and the weather, I’m not a West Coast girl.” I laugh. “I don’t think she believes me, though.”

“Where do you see yourself?”

I can’t answer that question.

My dream job was a dream job that I didn’t know I had. It fell into my lap like a gift from above.

Who thought you could get a job designing nail polishes?

And who would’ve guessed it would be so fun and inspiring?

Not me. I worked with the most incredible creative team and public relations division to select each season’s themes based on current events, movies, or travel destinations.

Visiting sets of music videos, traveling to exotic destinations, and meeting some of the most interesting people in all facets of the business were more than I imagined was possible.

Sales rose during the pandemic. Our older lines sold out. We devised an at-home kit that went bonkers … and then the world reopened. Sales slowed. Budgets were cut, and so was I.

“I don’t know, Maggie. I have a few feelers out there and am hoping something pans out before this month is up.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”

“Thanks.” I move around the island toward a china cabinet in the corner. “When do I get to meet Kennedy? Is she here?”