As a Last Resort

by Kristin Wollett

Genres: Family Life; Small Town & Rural

Synopsis

Opposites attract in this debut rom-com when a real estate developer's quest for a promotion has her returning to the coastal hometown she loathes—and running into her teenage crush turned town golden boy.

After her mother’s substance abuse left her raising herself, Samantha Leigh left everyone in her Florida small town behind. She much prefers her new life as a real estate developer in New York City—with its nonstop noise, packed sidewalks, and her fellow workaholics. But when her work nemesis falls ill, she's forced to be his replacement on a new resort development project…in her hometown. Needing this assignment to get the promotion she desperately wants, Sam will just have to suck it up and get in and out as soon as possible.

Only the plan to avoid all of the hot local spots falls apart. Back on the island, Sam is confronted with everything she ran away from: her inebriated mother, her ex-best friend, and her old high school bullies now married with children. It certainly doesn't help when the town golden boy (and her childhood crush), Austin Marcs, keeps coming to her rescue. As her ex-best friend’s brother and someone who loves his hometown, he’s only trouble waiting to happen and comes with too many strings attached. Despite Sam's best efforts, Austin soon has her going out and enjoying old stomping grounds, white beaches, and the Florida sunset, making it hard to hold on to the grudges of her past. But will she leave all she’s worked for behind for a chance at love . . . or potentially destroy the small town that holds her most painful memories?

Release date: September 2, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

At any given time, there are twenty different imaginary conversations taking place in my head.

For example, reminding my mother (nicely) vodka does not count toward your recommended daily liquid intake of ninety ounces.

Or, reminding my coworker Robby (nicely) I’d prefer if he didn’t take credit for all the work I actually did. Again.

Or even, encouraging my sort-of boyfriend, Jack, (nicely) he should chew with his mouth closed because then he wouldn’t sound like such a cow when he eats.

I was in the middle of having one of these imaginary conversations, reminding the waitress (nicely) I ordered my salad with dressing on the side, as I shoved sopping wet lettuce into my mouth, when I noticed Jack staring at me from across the white linen tablecloth like I was supposed to say something.

“Did you hear me?” he asked.

“Of course, I did.” I hadn’t.

“So, you agree on our problem. It’s not me, it’s you.”

Right. It’s me.

Wait.

What’s me?

Servers zoomed by our table with fried spring rolls and chiming wineglasses. He gulped down the rest of his wine and snapped to get a waitress’s attention.

My phone dinged for the fifth time in three minutes.

“Sorry, just hold on a sec.” I grabbed it out of my back pocket and read the text from my coworker. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What now?”

“It’s Robby. He’s changing the offer price on the contract for Rock Island. Again.”

“I don’t mean with your work, Samantha.”

My feet fished around for the heels I’d secretly discarded somewhere under the table and I reached for my purse.

“You’re leaving?” he asked with a mouthful of food. A piece of rice shot out and stared me down from the tablecloth.

“It’ll just take a minute. I can’t access the contract on my phone and the office is only two blocks away.” Our acquisition team worked on the final draft of the development contract for hours—hours—and of course, the minute I leave for a microsecond of personal time, Robby sends an SOS that lands squarely on my plate.

A waitress appeared at our table. “How are your appetizers?”

“They’d be much better if we had wine to go with them.” Jack motioned to the empty glasses.

Her smile fell just a bit and I cringed.

“Of course. Just a moment.” She hurried off as I stood up.

“You can’t be serious,” he scoffed.

“Robby’s technically my boss on this project. I can’t just ignore him.”

“But you’ve barely touched your food.”

“I’ll be quick. I promise.”

As I pushed the key into my apartment lock two hours later, it hit me that I was supposed to head back to the restaurant.

After a slew of unanswered calls and texts, I backtracked to Pho Quyen on the off chance Jack was still there.

“He left this for you,” the hostess with bright blue eyeliner said as I walked in the door. She handed over the bill. A table of off-duty servers in the back eyed the host stand and grew eerily quiet, filling their salt and pepper shakers with a bit more aggression than necessary.

Jack had ordered another bottle of wine before peacing out for the night. I paid, vaguely remembering the end of our conversation. Had he broken up with me? I couldn’t completely remember the details. My brain was fried after working sixteen-hour days for two weeks straight.

I called Jack again on the walk back to my apartment. No answer.

I texted again. No response.

Now, admittedly, work was a little hectic, but nothing we hadn’t weathered before. There were more take-out nights and sleeping-at-the-office-again nights than usual, but we generally worked.

He worked a lot. I worked a lot. We just worked a lot. Separately.

It had been this way for almost six months and the convenience of it was marginally better than the stigma of being alone. I thought we were chugging along just fine. Not like, best-relationship-ever working out, but better-than-dating-the-creepy-taxidermy-guy-off-Tinder working out, for sure.

Until he’d said it wasn’t.

At least, that’s what I think he said. It was all still a bit hazy.

My alarm went off at 5:30 a.m. I checked my phone—no texts or calls. After a quick run and an even quicker shower, I pulled my hair back in a low bun and put on one of my seven rotating tailored suits.

I loved New York City. There were always a few ladies meeting on the street corner for coffee, leaning their heads together, gossiping about who their neighbor had come home with the night before. Always someone running down the street, determined not to be late. The loud flower guy on my corner, known by locals as Italian Marco, always called me sunshine as I walked by, even though I’m pretty sure the next warm body who passed got a similar greeting.

I walked the four blocks to work in my favorite nude Weitzmans as I checked my email. Somehow the chaos outside on the streets was the perfect accompaniment to the chaos inside my head, and made me feel just a little more in sync with the world.

The double glass doors of 44 Union Square opened to the familiar friendly eyes of Bo, the overnight security guard. He tracked me and tipped his head.

“Samantha Leigh. I hope I live to see the day you walk in after I’ve already clocked out for the night.”

“The early bird catches the worm, Bo,” I said, falling into our cheesy greeting for the early mornings.

“Yeah, but the second mouse gets the cheese!” he called after me as the elevator doors shut, hoisting me up to the top floor where Goodrich Equity Partners, LLC, operated from.

The doors opened to a darkened reception area. I stepped out and took a deep breath. This was my favorite moment of the day. The smell of paper and corporate carpeting accosted my nose, the space filling with the buzz of printers gearing up for a day of abuse.

Thirty minutes later the hallways teemed with chatter, clicking heels, and steaming stainless steel tumblers of coffee. First on the agenda was a debrief of yesterday’s deal memo we’d sent down to Florida for the new resort development contract. The land in this small town of Rock Island we bid on was nestled on the north end—a ten-mile stretch of undeveloped beachfront with a $20 million price tag. It was a perfect spot for a new resort.

It also happened to be where I grew up, though hometown wouldn’t be the first word to come to mind. It was a fun fact I tried to avoid telling people, just in case they were the type to google police records and stumbled across my mother’s mug shot for disorderly conduct. Or public intoxication. Or my favorite, where she’s giving the camera a thumbs-up for indecent exposure. Luckily, Robby was managing it since I was already assigned to another project, and new developments from the ground up weren’t my thing anyway. They were Robby’s forte, thank God.

“Good work so far, everyone,” Glenn said as he walked into the conference room, Robby trailing closely behind our boss on an invisible leash. “Rock Island verbally accepted the offer this morning. Legal’s got it in their hands and along with some minor requests we need to sift through, I think we’ll be able to call it officially closed by the end of the week.”

You could hear the collective breath everyone was holding release at the same time. Surviving weeks of late nights, countless rounds of edits, and Glenn’s never-ending commentary on the “lost art of professionalism” had finally paid off. Everyone was exhausted and mildly traumatized, but we could smell the victory.

As president of Goodrich Equity Partners, LLC, the leading venture capital firm in the Northeast specialized in resort development deals, Glenn Goodrich is old-school in more ways than one. He likes all offers printed, bound in leather, and hand delivered to the recipient. He says if we can’t spare a few hundred dollars on a presentation for a $20 million contract, we’re not charging enough. First impressions are a big deal.

He’s also old-school in the sense that men do the heavy lifting and women are there to look pretty and fetch coffee. Not that he’d verbalize that out loud, of course. That would be an HR no-no.

“Don’t relax yet,” he said as the air puckered again. He grabbed Robby on the shoulder and squeezed. “Thanks to Robby for running point on this. This is an example of someone gunning to make director in the next couple years.”

Yeah, gunning to see how far up Glenn’s—

Robby looked at me. And winked. The hair on the back of my neck crawled to attention.

Now, on the surface, Robby was the poster boy of a vintage Ralph Lauren print ad shot on a Martha’s Vineyard back lawn at sunset. You know the ones I’m talking about—Dad’s in pale pink, Mom’s wearing a skirt that a small village could fit under, the towheaded kids are wearing white. Yes, he was objectively attractive. But he followed Glenn around like a lost puppy, and when he laughed, he snorted like a pug with a mild case of asthma. The reality that Robby and everyone else in the room, including Glenn, knew I pulled together 95 percent of the work on this offer yet received 0 percent of the credit, solidified his douchebag status for me. And this wasn’t the first time I’d been glossed over after pulling more than my fair share.

“Happy hour at O’Keefe’s after work,” Glenn called out as people started to file from the room. “We’ll celebrate Robby’s thirty-day due diligence vacation in Florida.” A little cheer erupted from the room, mostly celebrating the fact Robby would be gone for thirty days and we wouldn’t have to put up with him.

I gathered my folio and stood. My assistant, Ivy, snatched it from me and said under her breath, “He’s such a jerk.”

“Which one?” I asked. She smirked.

I walked past Glenn and Robby still cuddled up together on my way out.

“Samantha,” Glenn called out to me. “Stick with this kid here. You could learn a thing or two from him.”

“Of course, sir. I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to learn from the best.” I gritted my teeth so hard I’m surprised they didn’t crack.

Robby flashed his pearly whites in my direction. I tried to wink at him, but he looked at me like I had a baby dragon protruding from my neck. For some reason, my wink didn’t land as seamlessly as his did.

Winking’s a lot easier in theory.

“See you at O’Keefe’s, Leigh?” he called on my way out.

“Absolutely.”

I shut my office door thirty seconds later with Ivy hot on my feet. “Absolutely not.”

“I don’t need to tell you that you’re going. Puggle will be there.”

One of Ivy’s oddly impressive talents was her plethora of canine nicknames for Robby. I couldn’t recall the last time she used his real first name behind a closed door. And yes, I was aware he would be there.

I also knew Glenn was going to be looking for me to check off the team player box. But Jack finally texted me back during the meeting and I felt like trying to see him to clear the air was the right thing to do.

She sat on the tiny couch in my office. “Learn from the best. That was good, by the way.”

“Bile was literally crawling up my throat by the end of that sentence.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I really can’t tonight though. I walked out on Jack last night at dinner and didn’t even say goodbye. He’s only responded to one of my texts since.”

“Check in with Jack after O’Keefe’s. Just one drink. You can show Glenn you can be just as personable and charming as his little Pugsworth.”

I sighed. “Jack broke up with me.” I turned my phone around so she could read the text that came in during the meeting.

JACK: Yes. I broke up with you.

And the fact you’re texting me this should confirm why.

“Yikes.”

“He’s upset that he was trying to break up with me and I wasn’t listening. I was distracted by Robby’s text, asking me to change the offer price last night.”

“So you left dinner…”

“To fix Robby’s enlightened stroke of genius, which was being bound at the printers,” I answered. “But when I got to the printers they had already finished and we needed to reprint the entire proposal.”

“All one hundred pages of it?”

“Apparently, it was just easier to print the entire file because the offer price was listed on quite a few of the pages. But then after it was bound, Robby asked if I’d just drop it off at the courier’s since they were still open so they’d get it first thing this morning. It was right by my apartment anyway, so…”

“Of course, you did.”

“And then I forgot to go back.”

“You forgot to go back.”

“Yes.” I knew it sounded horrible.

“To the restaurant where your boyfriend of six months was waiting for you.”

“Correct.”

She sat back and kicked up her feet on my Knoll tulip coffee table. The bright red bottoms of her heels screamed at me.

“I mean, here’s the thing though. Do you really like him? I mean like, rest-of-your-life like him?”

Besides having the uncanny ability to come up with the most creative pug-themed nicknames I’ve ever heard for Robby, Ivy was also never afraid to ask the hard questions.

I met her two years ago while interviewing candidates for an assistant. As a Brown graduate near the top of her class, she was overqualified and sharper than any other candidate I considered. When I asked her why she was applying for a job well below her experience level, she made me sign a nondisclosure. Apparently, she had once written steamy romance novels under a pen name, and she was seeking a job as far removed from that as possible.

I was the only female lead on the acquisition data team when she applied. Actually, one of the few women at Goodrich Equity Partners, LLC, period. So by default, I was her best option.

“It’s not like I’m madly in love with him right this very second or anything. But doesn’t that kind of thing ebb and flow anyway?” I asked.

“The honeymoon period should ideally last more than a few months.”

“We have so much in common though. We both like to work. We both run. We both eat a lot of takeout. We can talk to each other about anything.”

“Except when you’re not listening.”

I sighed. “It’s convenient.”

She narrowed her perfectly lined brown almond-shaped eyes at me. “Every woman’s dream.”

“What? Convenient things can be good for you,” I argued, “like toilet paper.”

“That’s not convenient. It’s necessary.”

“Have you ever been in a situation without toilet paper? Pretty sure you’d figure it out.”

“Jack is not your toilet paper.”

“I feel like we’re losing the metaphor here.” I cradled my head in my hands.

“Look, all I’m saying is you need to show up at O’Keefe’s.”

“And I agree with you. But I don’t want to.”

“But you want it. Yes?” She raised her brow.

Ah. It.

The thing we do not speak of out loud. The promotion.

The other teams focused on new developments and were composed of male hotshots with deep pockets from the Ivy League schools. And here was me, a small state school graduate from a tiny Florida beach town no one’s ever heard of. I led the data acquisition team for mixed-use space projects that needed a bit of reengineering. Got a city center or dated downtown that needs revitalization? I’m your gal. While my family wasn’t six degrees away from the Kennedys, at the time I was hired there wasn’t anyone else who did what I did at GEP. Glenn needed me. And that’s how I landed a spot on his sacred data team in the first place.

The promotion Ivy referred to was the next step to being a director at GEP. It was a trial run taking on all the responsibilities and duties of a director without the official title. If you’ve checked off all the necessary boxes by the end of the year, you’ve made director. Which means you’re not filling days with research and spreadsheets anymore. You’re the one finding and negotiating the deals and creating the big-picture ideas that could change the landscape of entire cities.

And that’s exactly what I wanted to be doing.

There was only one coveted spot. And here’s the catch—for once, it wasn’t Glenn’s sole decision. GEP had gone public, and now there was a whole board he answered to. Sure, he’d make his strong recommendation and give his supporting evidence skewed in favor of who he wanted, but all director roles were now voted on by the board. After being nominated a few months ago, it was a game changer for me. And the company. Glenn wouldn’t dare promote a woman to director, but apparently, his board had joined the twenty-first century and the nomination was pushed through.

And numbers don’t lie. Because of my track record, I was leading a team on one of the biggest revitalizations of the century for Oakstone Springs, North Carolina. I was in charge of expanding the quaint little city everyone knew and loved, to a booming metropolis with nationally recognized music festivals, art galleries, and upscale co-op markets filled with local vendors.

The honest to God truth was I loved my job. I really did, but being passed over multiple times as lead for other projects was getting a little played out. This time it was statistically in my reach to get this promotion, but I couldn’t lay back and just wait for it to happen.

“One drink to show I’m charming and lovable and social,” I said, giving up. “Then I’m getting the hell out of there.”

Dude, c’mon. It’s been three years.” Bits of lobster roll rocketed from Patrick’s mouth onto the checkered plastic tablecloth.

“Dude, you’re never going to land a girl eating like that.” I sipped my beer trying to find a way out of having this conversation again. “And, it’s not that. I’m just not that into her.”

“How can you be not that into her? Look at her, Austin. She’s smokin’. She’s as hot as a Fourth of July firework.” Always the cliché warrior. He flashed his pearly whites, which popped against the dark melanin of his skin. “And you’re only giving me fifteen minutes of your precious time before you abandon me for your real family, Capt’n. How else am I supposed to finish something this big?”

As we churned into the heat of Florida summer, people were swarming in like ants all over the island, and it was my ferry company, Scuttle’s Ferry, that brought them here in droves. After the rush of tourists who came in for the weekend, Patrick and I would down a quick drink exchanging war stories right before my weekly family dinner commitment, a tradition etched into my existence as far back as I can remember.

Patrick and I always went to Charley’s Lobster Shack, the first restaurant you saw once you crossed the water by boat, which was one of the only ways to get to Rock Island. There weren’t any roads or bridges that connected it to the mainland, so my ferry or a private transfer, if your pockets ran deep, were how you got to the island.

The shack’s red picnic tables and white awning stood out from the shoreline like something plucked from New England and dropped onto a random island in Florida.

Charley, the owner, hobbled over and swatted Patrick on the back. “Patrick, Capt’n Austin—what’s fizzlin’, boys?”

“Besides Austin’s love life, not much, Charley. Not much.” Patrick took another obscene bite of his lobster roll.

“Aww, chin up. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.” Charley chucked my chin with his knuckle like I was still some schoolboy. That’s one of the fun things about living in such a small town. Everyone remembers when you wore diapers.

“Speaking of, who’s the newbie?” Patrick asked, nodding his head toward the subject of our earlier conversation who was serving the next table over.

“Ah, my niece Sherry, in for summer break from Jersey. She takin’ good care of ya?”

“She’s doing a great job. Austin and I were just saying if you don’t work her too hard, how it’d be nice to take her out on the ferry and show her a sunset run.”

I threw darts at Patrick with my eyes.

“I’m sure she’d love that, Capt’n.” Charley squeezed my shoulder just a little too tight. “Business is pickin’ up. Feels good to see them boats putzin’ around, doesn’t it?”

The shoreline outside Charley’s was littered with rental crafts buzzing around the water. The dock was full, all the tables taken by laughing tourists two beers in. Charley’s was a staple to regulars but packed to capacity and thriving during tourist season. The energy lifted the hairs on my arm.

“Sure does.” Patrick patted the name tag hanging on his shirt and smiled. “And tips skyrocketed, thanks to your genius idea.”

We both wore teal shirts for Scuttle’s Ferry, but Patrick’s sported a new addition—a name tag that declared him as USAIN BOLT in all caps. I’d been wondering who gave Patrick the harebrained idea to use a fake name on my ferryboat.

“Oldest trick in the book. You think my real name’s Charley?” He winked at Patrick and hobbled off, favoring his right leg. “Enjoy your food, boys.”

“What? It works.” Patrick stopped chewing to give me his million-dollar smile again and went back to demolishing his lobster roll. He’d made me a RYAN GOSLING name tag, but I refused to wear it. No one would believe that guy knew how to run a boat.

“You know, he probably fakes the wooden leg too. I’m telling you the concept is genius. And”—he slid into his well-honed Usain Bolt persona—“I get to practice my Jamaican accent.”

“For all those Jamaican acting auditions you’re getting.”

“Can’t be too prepared. Never know when a Hollywood director will come on board and give me my big break.”

Patrick changed career paths as often as underwear. Something I couldn’t relate to. Since I was five, I knew exactly what I wanted to do. After my dad took me out on his boat and I caught my first fish, my dream has always been to own a fishing charter. There was something about the quiet stillness of the water that steadied me. And nothing compared to the feeling of that first catch—the patiently waiting, the building tension and anticipation, wondering if you’d return to shore with an empty hook or prove yourself a true angler.

But when your dad’s a high school football legend who’s coached five teams to state championships, there are expectations. Big ones. You’re not just asked to follow in his footsteps—you’re drafted into the family tradition. He’s football royalty, the former head coach of Rock Island High School, the man who turned a team of nobodies into heroes, who united an entire town over blades of grass. Hard work, sweat, and determination on the field—that was his creed.

But football was his dream, not mine. And I saw the gap between what I was and what he needed me to be every time he looked at me.

Even when tourism exploded on the island a few years back, and the need for boats to ferry people became a clear path to success, it wasn’t about business for me. It was about creating something of my own, something as far away from the dirt of the stadium field as possible. I seized the opportunity and built the only open-water ferry running six days a week.

So turns out, neither of us got what we wanted. I didn’t become his champion on the field, and he couldn’t see the man I became on the water.

But on the bright side, business was booming. And I was slammed. I was in the market for another boat, a larger one that would accommodate double the people and cut down on the number of trips across. We had a pretty decent following on social media, thanks to a recent video of Patrick dancing on the top deck with an eighty-year-old guest that went viral on TikTok. She said it was the best day of her life and half the internet thought it was actually Usain Bolt.

The Bolt himself even commented on it and shared it.

So, I was busy. Too busy to be dating.

“So, what’s the verdict?” A silky voice pulled our attention to the end of the table, where a very persistent SHERRY—according to her name tag—stood with her hip cocked to the side.

“I can’t tonight.” I tried to sound as neutral as possible. “Got family plans with an early morning tomorrow.”

“He’d love to, Sherry.” Patrick piped in, glaring at me. “But he’ll take a rain check. My boy needs to get out and I can’t think of a girl more beautiful than you who’d be more fun on a beautiful night like tonight.”

“Sure, rain check it is.” She eyed me and laid the cash-only bill at the corner making a quick pivot to saunter off to another table.

“I mean, do you see that walking away?” His eyes were about to pop out of his head.

“Why don’t you take her on a date then?”

“She’s not interested in me. She’s interested in some weirdo who hasn’t dated anyone in three years because he’s still sulking.”

“I am not still sulking. And I’ve dated, just no one worth dating more than once.”

“That doesn’t count,” he argued. “There are plenty of girls much better for you than Vanessa was if you’d just give them a chance.”

That name still stung. Not like it used to, though.

I stretched my neck to loosen the sudden tightness. “I’m busy running a business, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“She’s just here for the summer, man. Ain’t no harm in getting to know her and having a good time.”

“I don’t want a good time. You know that’s not my thing.”

“But you need a good time.” He leveled his eyes on me. “Hey—”

“Uh-uh, no time for a heart-to-heart, brother. The family’s waiting.” I threw a couple bills onto the receipt. “I need to save some energy for tonight’s interrogation where my lack of dating prospects will be center stage. Again.”

“Just consider it, yeah? My friend deserves to be happy again.” His dark eyes did that lost-puppy-dog thing they do when he starts to get all serious on me.

“I am happy.”

“The grump line on your forehead says otherwise, boo.”

Here’s the thing—I’m not an overly emotional guy. But if you were to ask me whose betrayal irrevocably rocked my world, I wouldn’t have to think hard.

My fiancée left me for my best friend.

I feel like I should get a bit of an extended pass for dealing with the shitstorm of that particular situation.

The whole thing had blindsided me. Tom was the childhood friend who took refuge at my place for days when his dad was a little too rough with him. The best friend who was socially awkward for the first sixteen years of his life then all of a sudden over the summer entering junior year discovered contacts, got a tan, gained twenty pounds of muscle, and learned how to throw a football in a perfect spiral for seventy yards like he’d been doing it since he was born.

He was the best friend who’d introduced me to Vanessa, the woman who’d become my fiancée.

And the best friend who later stole her out from under me.

“Here. Chop these.” Mom handed me a wicker basket full of onions, brussels sprouts, and carrots.

“I know what you’re doing and I’m not in the mood to talk.”

Ever since I was little, she’d corner me in our kitchen and give me a cooking task to get my hands working, then she’d slowly start to grill me on life questions and before I knew it, I was spilling my guts out to her.

“What I’m doing is getting vegetables ready to throw on the grill before your father runs out of patience and burns the steaks.”

Dad never wanted to put the vegetables on first. Always thought they took up too much room and his steaks couldn’t breathe properly.

She handed me the knife.

“Fine, but no serious life questions. Deal?”

“Only not serious life questions allowed. Deal.”

“Hi, Mom!” Lexi strolled in with her fiancé, Rex, trailing behind her. My little sister entered a room the same way Mom did—a lively little ball buzzing with energy locked in a five-foot frame. You couldn’t help but be drawn in by her aura. They even looked alike, both with sandy blond hair reminiscent of Farrah Fawcett’s heyday, naturally windblown and all bouncy like it had huffed a helium balloon.

And Rex was the perfect Ken doll to her Barbie. He moved here to coach the Mariners, the Rock Island High School football team. When Lexi introduced him to the family, it was like Dad had won the lottery. Rex slid effortlessly into the role I’d failed to fill—the Marcs family legacy carried on, but by someone else.

And when Rex took them to the state championship his first season—didn’t matter that they lost. By the look on Dad. . .