Page 1 of Welcome Home to Ivy Falls (Ivy Falls #3)

PIPER

A Latte Bath

We were in that odd summer lull in Ivy Falls. Two weeks past Fourth of July and sweltering in a tight, wet hug that would grip my small Tennessee town until the leaves turned a rich autumn orange in late September.

I hustled around the coffee bar in the Pen & Prose, collecting discarded napkins and mugs filled with the last dregs of the morning’s coffee.

Customers milled around the bookstore, most of whom I guessed were here for the air conditioning more than the stacks of bestselling hardcovers and vegan cookbooks.

After I dumped the mugs into the sink with hot soapy water, I went back to cleaning up, cursing the college bro we’d hired for calling in sick again.

More than once my long braid slid over my shoulder and I gave it a good sniff.

Nothing except the slight hint of my vanilla-scented shampoo.

My soon-to-be sister-in-law, Torran, swore I had olfactory fatigue.

I didn’t know I’d lost my sensitivity to the scent of coffee until I came home from work one day and she confessed that I smelled like I’d bathed in a vat of espresso.

There were worse things to smell like, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that most days I wandered around the town square reeking of eau de Sumatra blend.

I sniffed my T-shirt, tugged at the collar, shaking it out when Penny, the P&P’s manager, said, ‘Piper, can you take the iced vanilla latte over to Silvio in the corner?’

She tilted her chin to the drink sitting in a pristine clear mug on the counter. Penny usually worked the register in the main part of the bookstore, but with us down a person at the coffee bar, it was all hands on deck.

I grabbed the mug and walked in the direction of the small marble table, dodging kids running back and forth between the children’s area and around the overstuffed armchairs where the community book club was having their monthly meeting.

As I passed Old Mrs Vanderpool, she gave me a small wave and my footsteps stuttered.

I was still getting used to that – the kindness in her eyes.

How she made a point of always offering a gentle smile when she saw me.

As Ivy Falls’ self-appointed matriarch, she made it her business to know about everyone’s lives in town – whether you wanted her to or not.

My past was at best rocky and the fact that she went out of her way to be sweet always shook me a bit.

I slid the coffee toward Silvio and his deep brown eyes twinkled.

When I was a kid, I raced past his hardware store as fast as I could because he always found a reason to yell and shake his fist. Over the last year he’d grown softer, more charming.

His hair used to be a cloud of wiry white tufts, but was now trimmed nicely around his ears.

He looked content petting Old Mrs Vanderpool’s teacup Yorkie, Baby, who snoozed on his lap.

My guess was that the change in him, and his hair, had to do with all the time he was spending with Old Mrs V. She’d tried to be sly, keep her own life private, but every few minutes her gaze slid in his direction as the ladies discussed the latest Abby Jimenez novel they loved.

After I delivered the drink, I went back to wiping down the tables and counter. Customers browsed the aisles, pulling books from the shelves and making themselves at home in the cozy spots the owner, Tessa, had created throughout the store.

The P&P was its own sweet little box of dark paneled walls and muted lighting. It reminded me of an old English study where a good cup of tea and the right book were the only ingredients needed to create a perfect day.

I was busy loading more cups into the sink when my childhood friend, Maisey Bedford, hurried toward the bar, her short molasses-colored curls bouncing out in every direction.

Before she could say a word, I opened the small fridge below the bar and yanked out a pitcher of sweet tea, thinking she might need a shot of caffeine.

Last week she’d told me she was running on fumes because her two small kids, Ada and Jordan, had gone full mutiny on their afternoon naps.

She landed on a leather stool, plopped her hands onto the bar, and I pushed the glass of tea in her direction. She mumbled something like ‘Thank the heavens’ and took an eager sip.

‘The kids with Joe?’ I asked.

‘Yes, he’s working remotely at the house today.’

‘Good. I’m always glad when I get to spend extra time with you.’

She drained her glass quickly, tapped it against the mahogany counter and said in the worst cowboy impression ever, ‘I’ll take another, barkeep.’

I laughed, filled her glass and went back to cleaning mugs when a tall, dark-haired guy with black-frame glasses walked into the seating area and sank into an oversized gray armchair.

Maisey glanced over her shoulder. ‘Oooh, he’s a cutie.’

‘Probably another tourist who wants to check out the town thanks to Torran and Manny’s TV show.’

‘There are certainly more of them these days, especially since Meet Me in Ivy Falls has become so popular. People still showing up at your house and being all weird?’

For over two years now, Torran and her business partner, Manny, had been shooting a home renovation show for the Hearth and Home network.

It started out as a one-season deal, but after the first couple of episodes aired, the show took off and so did tourism in what was once a crumbling Ivy Falls.

These days it wasn’t unusual to see people taking photos of themselves in front of some of the more recognizable spots around town.

One of those spots included the show’s most popular renovation: my childhood home on Huckleberry Lane, where I currently lived with my brother, Beck, and Torran, his fiancée.

‘It’s tapered off since we put up the fence.’

‘I know the show does a lot to highlight the town, but I would’ve never guessed it’d bring around so many looky-loos.’

When my brother came back to Ivy Falls and outbid Torran on the house we’d grown up in, he kept it from me until I arrived for an unexpected visit.

I was ninety days into my sobriety then and thought I could handle it, but watching Torran and Manny help Beck restore the run-down place, knowing my deceased parents would never see it, catapulted me right off the wagon.

It’d taken another trip to rehab, and lots of therapy before I returned home hoping for a second chance.

I was two years sober now and never looking back.

I focused on cleaning glasses, trying to ignore the shy glances the guy kept flicking my way.

‘Does he think this place has table service?’

Maisey’s voice must have carried because he stood and approached the bar.

‘Can I grab a menu?’ he asked with a deep Southern lilt to his voice.

‘We only serve coffee and tea. Some specialty pastries in the morning but those are gone,’ I said.

‘Oh.’ His pale blue eyes narrowed with an odd kind of curiosity. ‘Have we met before?’

Maisey snorted into her tea.

‘Nope,’ I said roughly.

He was cute with broad shoulders and a thick curl to his hair, but I could tell a tourist by a mile and he was definitely an out-of-towner.

‘Did you want to order?’ I said.

‘How about a sweet tea? Lots of ice, please.’ He swiped at his sweaty brow. Pulled off his glasses and wiped them clean with a napkin. It was a little too deep into summer to be wearing a blue blazer and khakis.

Yep. Definitely a tourist.

I went to work on his order as Maisey questioned him like she was a covert agent for the CIA.

Where was he from?

Why was he visiting Ivy Falls?

Was he going to buy any books?

I bit into my lip, trying not to laugh. Maisey was a lot sometimes and I loved her for it.

A group of preteens sauntered into the store. Some had skateboards tucked under their arms. Others carried kick scooters. As they approached the bar, I started filling up water glasses because their flaming-red cheeks said they needed it.

Once I passed the plastic cups to the kids, the man managed to take his drink and extricate himself from Maisey’s interrogation, all without answering any of her questions, which was impressive.

‘What’s the latest on the wedding?’ Maisey said, re-adjusting her small body on the leather stool.

A few months ago in a corner of the store, Beck had asked Torran to marry him. They’d met in that same spot as kids and it was a full-circle moment. Since that day, they’d had a lot of wedding issues to navigate thanks to Torran’s show – none of which they could agree on.

I ignored Maisey’s question and went back to scrubbing a mug with a little too much force.

‘Pipe,’ she pressed. ‘Are Torran and Beck going to let Hearth and Home film it?’

I let out a heavy breath and set the mug back in the sink, ignoring that anxious itch in my spine.

Maisey stopped mid-sip. ‘Are they still arguing about it?’

My attention went to the delicate hummingbird tattoo on my wrist, and I used my fingers to trace the outline of its periwinkle wings. ‘Arguing is a strong word.’

She reached out and placed her hand over my frantically moving fingers. ‘Why is it stressing you out?’

It was impossible to hide anything from her.

‘They keep rehashing the same concerns. Wanting to keep it small and intimate, while also feeling pressure from the show’s producer, Lauren.

She keeps pushing them, insisting that if the network films it, it’ll send ratings through the roof.

That it’ll translate to a bigger contract for next season and more money. ’

‘Well, shit,’ she hissed through her teeth. ‘That’s like putting dog poo frosting on a pretty cake.’

I laughed, which I needed, because things at the house were thirty steps past tense. It was another reason I needed to find a place of my own. I was twenty-seven and should not be living in my brother’s house.

‘Are you still thinking about moving out?’