In the Event of Love

Book 1: Fern Falls

by Courtney Kae

Genres: Holiday Romance

Synopsis

With her career as a Los Angeles event planner imploding after a tabloid blowup, Morgan Ross isn't headed home for the holidays so much as in strategic retreat. Breathtaking mountain vistas, quirky townsfolk, and charming small businesses aside, her hometown of Fern Falls is built of one heartbreak on top of another . . .



Take her one-time best friend turned crush, Rachel Reed. The memory of their perfect, doomed first kiss is still fresh as new-fallen snow. Way fresher than the freezing mud Morgan ends up sprawled in on her very first day back, only to be hauled out via Rachel's sexy new lumberjane muscles acquired from running her family tree farm.



When Morgan discovers that the Reeds' struggling tree farm is the only thing standing between Fern Falls and corporate greed destroying the whole town's livelihood, she decides she can put heartbreak aside to save the farm by planning her best fundraiser yet. She has all the inspiration for a spectacular event: delicious vanilla lattes, acoustic guitars under majestic pines, a cozy barn surrounded by brilliant stars. But she and Rachel will ABSOLUTELY NOT have a heartwarming holiday happy ending. That would be as unprofessional as it is unlikely. Right?

Release date: August 30, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

I jab my purple mani at “archive email” and hope management@peakperk feels the sting of Lilac Lover through the interwebs.

Fern Falls. Like some café could lure me home after seven years. Funny how Dad talks about me when he can’t be bothered to send more than a text every other week. The five-hour drive between that minuscule mountain town and Santa Monica is a freedom I won’t surrender, and I’m booked at least through bridal season 2088.

“If it isn’t Morgan Ross,” a voice booms above the roar of the bar. A collar of white chest hair peeks out from Frank’s BIG WAVE DADDY tank top as he leans across the counter to swipe at a glob of something that might be salsa.

I should have had a second glass of wine prior to coming here. Bartender Frank is a buzzkill. I banish my cursed Android to my pocket before it summons more ghosts from my past. “Frank.” I tilt back, praying to the core workout goddess I don’t topple off this bamboo stool. “What’s it been? A year?”

Wish it’d been longer, but my co-worker Sonia loves Five-Dollar Margarita Fridays—and I’ve exhausted my cancellation passes. The Sand Bar is between our apartments, making it tough to skip when she knows my plans for tonight (chilling with my succulents).

Tomorrow, we’ll tie up final details for our biggest wedding yet, and then I’ll be too busy to visit this charming place with all the noise, the people, the sticky-syrup smell, the people, the literal sand piled along the molding, the peop—

“Thought I’d only get to see your face in the Times, but here she is, in the flesh! And in my bar!” Frank smacks the counter so enthusiastically, I jostle, gripping the stool for dear life.

Wearing Manolos to a bar with a beach complex was a terrible idea. As far as I’m concerned, the floor is actually lava. “Ha. Thanks, Frank. That was no big deal.”

It was a huge deal, and I still love being reminded of it, even six months later. The LA Times article flashes in my mind with the pastel photo of the puppy tea party I ran for a local influencer celebrity. It brought so much buzz to The Barnes Events Company, Johanna put me on the McTannum and Sparks wedding, our top-tier celebrity clients. Well, Lexi Sparks is A-list. Chad McTannum was a child soap opera star, and now he just parties so hard and so often that even the tabloids stopped caring. But if all goes well, I’ll be promoted to launch our sister site in New York come January. As far away from my hometown as I can get in this country and closer to running my own business, something that’s all mine, that no one can pull out from under me. Take that, management@peakperk.

“So, tell me. Whatchya drinkin’?” There’s zero counter space, just Frank, as he sprawls closer and whisper-yells, “And is Spum really dishing out a mil for the bachelorette party?”

I nearly choke on my own saliva. I hope whoever gave my clients that god-awful couple name is only referenced by explicit innuendos for the rest of their existence. I give Frank my best Don’t Fuck with Me grin. “So, Big Wave Daddy’s big into gossip mags, is he?”

Frank stands up (thank god) and raises his hands in faux innocence. “Hey, just thought they might consider the most happening dive on the strip is all.”

If my mouth weren’t already dry, I’d choke on my spit again. I’m done with the sweet part of Don’t Fuck with Me. I spread my palms on the counter (regretting it instantly) and look Frank square in the eyes. “Lexi Sparks wouldn’t consider holding her bachelorette party at your bar if—”

“If it didn’t come so highly recommended!”

I snap my gaze to Sonia as she sidles up beside me, all overly cheery as always, brown skin glowing, brown curls flying, a margarita glass that could qualify as a small country in each hand.

I sigh. No one can stay mad around Sonia. It’s sorcery, really. And why we make the best team. I bust the vendor’s balls, and she makes them smile while they comply. Frank’s doing it now.

“Nah, Sonia. You’re too kind.” He’s literally blushing. I didn’t think his face could get more “hopped off a tanning bed like this.” He’s sunburning as we speak.

“We’re considering lots of places, but we’ll add The Sand Bar to the list, okay?” she chirps, as she hoists onto a bamboo contraption and slides my marga-pitcher before me.

“Those are on me,” he says to Sonia and winks, like we should sing praises of his ten-dollar generosity; then, hallelujah, he gets called to the other side of the bar.

My shoulders relax the slightest bit now that we’re Frank-free. “Why are you nice to him?”

“Girl, he’s harmless.”

“He’s gross.”

“True, but the nontoxic kind. Which you’d know if you ever met me here anymore! I miss our weekly drink nights!” Sonia sips her sunrise-colored slush, and guilt brews in my gut. She really does try to be friends with me, so of course, I started keeping her at a distance once drinks turned into deeper conversations. Fern Falls ruined friendship for me. Specifically, Rachel Reed ruined friendship—and romance—for me. And I will not dwell on something that happened over seven years ago. It’d be great to have you around again. Yeah. Real great to relive the most humiliating and painful moments of my youth, thanks so much, random café manager.

“Gross nontoxic isn’t really selling the whole socializing thing, Sonia,” I chide as I take a long drink of mango-rita . . . and, okay. I taste what she sees in this place and hate that it’s absolutely delicious. I suck down another strawful. Or five. Thanks to the rosé I deemed as necessary prep for The Sand Bar, this liquor shoots straight to my head, replenishing the buzz that Frank dampened and then some.

She serves up some major side-eye, dark curls falling over her orange tank-top strap.

“Don’t look at me in that tone,” I say, lips wrapped around my sugared tequila injection.

Sonia narrows her eyes. “What’s going on, Morgan?”

“Black roses.” I slug another gulp and ignore the fact that half my pitcher-glass is drained, and I can’t really taste the alcohol anymore . . .

“Morgaaan.”

That dragged-out a means business. I mean to fully avoid all questions of a personal nature. “Lexi won’t budge. Will we need to get them imported, or can a local florist come through?”

“Imported. Definitely. But don’t change the subject. I’ve only seen you drain a drink that fast one time before, and . . .”

I clutch my glass, drink faster, throw caution to the brain freeze. Damn Sonia and her attention to detail. Getting an email from Fern Falls is not the same as my two-year-old breakup with Josh Taylor. I hate that she witnessed me that night in all my martinied glory, and there’s no way I’m about to unpack my Fern Falls–fucked past in The Sand Bar. No way I’m going to let one stupid email and the stupid memories of the stupid people it’s chained to take me down. Instead, I inhale the rest of my drink and say something so horrifying, my Manolos already despise me for it: “Let’s dance.”

Sonia peers at me like I just suggested an evening of sledding down Third Street Promenade.

I laugh and tug her through the tight crowd onto the dance floor . . . or the part of the floor mostly cleared of sand, where people bump along to some sort of electronic beat. There’s another version of myself, the regular one, standing in the corner with her arms crossed and her blond hair pulled back in a bun, planning an extra-horrific hangover so I’ll never attempt this again. Screw it. I want to forget that email. I want to forget Dad and how we haven’t had a true more-than-surface conversation in years. I want to forget his terrible ex, Christy, who was the cause of our family’s implosion. And I definitely want to forget goddamn Rachel Reed, like I’d been forgetting her every day until that email bombed my in-box. I want to be free again.

I shake out my hair and relish how it sways against my shoulders. Sonia beams, and the serotonin jolt of her high-wattage smile hits so hard, I actually start dancing.

She squeals. “Look at you go, girl! Get it! I haven’t seen you like this since the Rodriguez wedding!”

Fair. The last time I dragged Sonia onto a dance floor was at her cousin Marco’s wedding, the first event we pulled off without a single hitch. We partied until two a.m. Well, it’s almost ten now, and we’ve got an upcoming event we’re gonna ace again, and that’s worth dancing for. Good things are coming, and no email can stop that.

“Listen,” I yell above the noise, “we are badass and we’re gonna knock this freaking Spum wedding out of the park, okay? We are moving to NYC to be our own boss bitches!” I don’t even care that I embraced Spum or that my words slur or that this place smells like tropical sunscreen in the dead of fall. I just want to ride this awesome buzz (okay, more on the drunk end of the buzz spectrum, thanks to my pre-gaming) and let all the worries fall away.

Sonia tilts her head back and laughs. “Yeah! Those positions belong to us!”

I grit my teeth, shake my ass, and let that worry bounce off, too. There’s no way Johanna’s gonna pass me up for that promotion. I’ve been her top planner for years, helped her build this business from the ground up. Soon, I’ll be in a new city, an even bigger place to get lost in. It’ll be me, a fresh roster of A-list clients, and a chic apartment with closets packed full of designer clothes I buy with cash.

That’ll be it.

Then I’ll be something.

“NYC has nothing on me,” I yell, then shake faster. Free, free, free.

A sly smirk creeps across Sonia’s face. “The hottie at your back looks like he wants to be on you.”

As she finishes saying it, a sultry voice wafts on the pineapple-laced air. “Hey, wanna dance?”

Some rainbow-hued disco ball flashes, making me squint as I glimpse his profile. He has a dark hoodie pulled low on his brow, so I can’t even see his eyes, but his razor-sharp stubbled jawline summons my insta-reply. “Yes,” I breathe.

Then the corner of his lip tilts up into a crooked smile, and R.I.P. me. R.I.P. me into the goddamn ground.

Thank the Sweet Lord Jesus for blessing me with bisexuality.

I start to sway against him but glance at Sonia with a raised brow. She beams, a true wingman, and whispers, “You know I’m dancing off a broken heart, friend. Let’s go.” Then she throws her hands up and bops her head to her own beat.

My chest aches. Sonia has reason to hurt. Her girlfriend of two years just moved to the UK, and long distance is tough on them. What reason do I have? This pain was supposed to be over when I left home, when I took what little planning experience I had to LA, got an internship with Johanna, and threw myself into her business. I’m independent now, far from that small mountain town that crushed me, and all it takes is one email to feel the stab of all those broken pieces again? Fuck. That.

So with true dignity and swagger, I grind my ass into the beautiful stranger’s groin.

“Shit, girl.” He chuckles low in his throat and stumbles back, wrapping his fingers around my hips. “You’ve got moves.”

My heart squeezes again.

Whether it’s that damn email or my damn subconscious, I’m seventeen again and at my high school graduation party, right back beneath those twinkling lights, among soft music. Rachel’s lips meet mine. Right before we never speak again. The worst part is that I don’t blame her for cutting me out of her life. Watching Christy break Dad’s heart, break our family in front of the whole town that same night, made me want to break something, too. Rachel happened to be the closest thing. Collateral damage. And even after a lifetime of friendship, a glimpse of more, I wasn’t worth hearing out, forgiving. I wasn’t worth it.

For the second time tonight, I rebel. Push the pain back down where it belongs. The regular version of me storms out, promising hexes atop hangovers as I reach over my shoulder and press a bold finger to Beautiful Stranger’s lips. “No talking,” I whisper in a husky voice that belongs to no form of myself whatsoever.

He smiles, revealing a flash of white teeth, and my thoughts stop in their tracks. My body acts of its own accord as I turn into his neck and run a hand over his chest. His solid, well-formed chest. He slides his palms around my back and pulls me against him, hot, hard, encompassing everything.

There is no other version of me but the one here, now, in this gorgeous man’s arms, my insides bursting to life with lust and thrill and thoughtlessness.

I want more of it and run my hands higher, dig my nails into the soft cotton of his sweatshirt. Strobe lights skew each movement, stroke, touch.

This won’t hurt a thing.

Free, free.

The music crescendos, and he crushes his lips to mine.

Free.

Nothing else exists but his firm, sweet mouth, his tongue coaxing mine. I push back his hood and trail my fingers through his lush, silky hair.

My knees go weak, my blood buzzes, my brain’s a black hole of bliss.

This is the whole wide world and it is so, so good.

Then the real world invades. Lights flash, and I pull away, blinking.

The music spikes, but the crowd is frozen around us.

“Morgan.” Sonia’s voice materializes beside me, jarring with its urgency.

“What’s wrong?” I ask groggily.

Her face is all screwed up, like it was that time a birthday clown showed up wasted and pantless. Everyone in the crowd is holding up phones. My gut lurches into my throat. They’re all pointed directly at me.

I pat my clothes. Shit. This was not the night to wear tight white slacks. Did I tear them while dancing? It’s the end of the month, but did I start my period again? Great. I’m gonna go viral for being that girl with torn, bloody pants kissing a hot-ass guy. Oh my fucking god. I look up at Hot-Ass Guy, and whatever buzz I was riding screeches to a halt. The hood of his sweatshirt slaps his back as he runs for the exit, flocked by his friends.

Sonia takes my hand and tries to do the same with me, but my legs are heavy and everything is thick and bright, like swimming through piña colada pudding. People crowd too close with flashing phones and yell things like, “What’s your name?” and “How long have you two been hooking up?” I’m sweaty-cold-can’t-breathe as I stumble with Sonia out the door.

I gulp fresh air to fill my too-tight lungs, run my clammy palms along my thighs. My heart’s running sprints. “What—happened—”

Sonia braces me with a steady hand on my lower back.

She bends down and shows me her phone. Instagram fills the screen.

It’s me. The photos. They’re all of me. My body snaked with that guy’s, plastered in an infinite, multi-filtered grid.

I barely hear her say, “I’m so sorry, Morgan. I had no idea with the hoodie and the lights,” before I hurl mango margarita into the gutter, splattering my precious Manolos.

For once, I don’t give a shit about shoes.

That wasn’t just some guy. It was the very guy whose face was once on covers of BuzzWhir News for running stark naked out of The Viper Room. And I am the biggest idiot in the motherfucking USA, which says a lot.

I dissolve onto the concrete, swiping the back of my hand across my mouth, reckoning with what I’ve done.

That guy was Chad McTannum.

One half of Spum.

The whole of my career is over.

Curse the asshole who invented windows.

I scramble to draw the curtains, and rushing out of bed does not bode well for me. I trip on the shameful remnants of last night: white slacks, gray blouse, and those damn dirty Manolos, puddled upon my vintage rug as evidence that it all was not, in fact, a terrible nightmare. Shoes never looked so guilty. I throw them across the room, where they slam into the side of the hamper. Traitors.

My life cannot be so fragile that one night—one minute—changes everything. The memory of that kiss makes me rush to the bathroom, where I hurl more evidence of my demise into the toilet. Fucking Chad McTannum. How could I have been so dense? What event planner doesn’t recognize the face of her own client’s fiancé?

I flush and slump to the side, cold tile against bare legs, and run a mental scan of the one in-person meeting I had with Lexi Sparks.

It was back in March, with Johanna and Sonia in the main conference room at The Barnes. She came along to confirm her assistant hadn’t booked her with an actual barn. Half her face was veiled in Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, and her whole six-foot-one entourage was adorned with black suits, dark eyewear, and Bluetooth earpieces. It was like that scene straight out of her reality show when bodyguards followed her so closely, she accidentally kissed one of them instead of her date. Tiffany, her petite, blond, bubbly-to-mask-paranoia assistant, did all the talking—talking that grew progressively higher-pitched the longer the meeting lasted. Which, now that I recall, couldn’t have been more than ten minutes.

Tiffany tapped on her tablet and set a date between Ms. Sparks’ modeling, acting, social, and spa commitments. Lexi did an over-the-glasses scan of us with every ounce of Hollywood producer’s daughter attitude she possessed, pushed them back up her pale pinprick of a nose, nodded at Tiffany, then sauntered out the door with a trail of suits at her heels.

Tiffany blustered up the handbag and full Starbucks tray she toted (because “Ms. Sparks might want a soy macchiato or hibiscus refresher at any given point”), said she’d be in touch (yet didn’t say that meant a minimum of four times daily), then tripped through the door.

So, no. Unless Chad was disguised as a security guard, I’d never actually met him. Until last night.

I groan and melt onto the tile.

Too much pre-bar wine, a margarita that could flatten Lexi’s guest list, and email-induced rage are my only excuses. Otherwise, I would have had to notice him. Even with the lights and that stupid hoodie, he reeked of the white cis male privilege that’s enabled his decades-long, washed-up actor mantrum.

I rest my head against the wall and zone out at the view of my apartment through the frame of my bathroom door. I am this: clean lines and surfaces, pale neutrals swathed in filtered light, houseplants in favor of pets and picture frames, fridge stocked with cold brew and mail-delivery meals, expiry labels face-out.

I am not the girl I was last night.

I am not the girl I am now, moping on herringbone-patterned marble.

And I am definitely not the girl I was in Fern Falls.

I am Morgan Ann Ross. Planner to the stars. Near-future promotee to The Barnes, NYC, running the show and my own damn life. Cool, collected, in fucking charge.

I peel myself off the floor and splash cold water on my face; take in the girl in the mirror.

Maybe she’s dehydrated and the only Californian in need of Vitamin D, but her balayage is well-blended, and her brows are on point. I’ll slap some concealer beneath my eyes to highlight the blue part of the gray, march down to The Barnes, and work this whole thing out with Johanna. Drink some water and cold brew and fix this shit.

Good morning, Morgan.

I freeze as Google announces my fate.

It’s seven a.m. on Saturday, November twenty-sixth. Currently, in Santa Monica, the weather is sixty-five degrees and sunny. Your commute to work is twenty minutes by foot, one hour by car. Your horoscope for today says beware of trouble with work, sex, love, social life, self, routine, thinking, and creativity. You have one hundred three notifications. Have a great day.

I hold my breath as Do Not Disturb shuts off and my purse transforms into a vibrator, nearly launching off the armchair.

I run across the room and scramble for my phone, clutching it like an anchor as I sink onto the edge of my bed. Each ping and flash across the screen swaps my self-affirmations for a splitting headache as I read the first cancellation:

Hey, Morgan. Sorry to do this in a text but Hedges and Stones can’t afford to associate with this kind of press. We’ve got an album dropping with Sony and have to look our best. Good luck finding a band to perform if the wedding’s still on. Peace.

The cancellations roll in—one text, email, DM, tweet after another. Caterer, lighting, venue, some favor company I haven’t used in five years.

I skip right over the text from Dad checking in about the holidays. No sense in replying now, as my plans consist of self-imploding.

Time dissolves into doom as I scan and scan and scan.

Then the most dreaded one lands the final blow and I fall into the pillows, flimsy pep talk armor shot to shreds.

A tweet from the blue-checkmarked avant-garde avatar that is Lexi Sparks, to her 2M followers:


I lurch off the bed to make a beeline for the toilet when my phone rings. It’s Johanna’s ringtone. The one that sounds like a fire alarm.

“Hello,” I choke out as I freeze mid-lunge and swallow stomach acid.

I brace for a yell but shouldn’t. Even in the worst-case event scenarios, I’ve watched her calmly pull someone to the side for making a disastrous mistake, then seen that same vendor sobbing in the bathroom ten minutes later. Johanna Barnes doesn’t need to yell.

“Be in my office by eight.” She hangs up.

It’s seven-thirty.

Looks like I’m heading to my annihilation by foot.

I make it to hell with three minutes to spare.

Dread has turned my life into The Upside Down. Entering the charming boutique-style storefront of The Barnes used to feel like walking into a living dream, but today, the door carves me out as I push through it.

I stand in the entrance, clutching my purse in one hand and my chest with the other, taking in everything I stand to lose if this meeting ends in heartache. The business has evolved so much since we moved in, since Johanna hired me at eighteen straight out of Fern Falls. We’ve evolved, too. From mentor/ mentee to boss/employee, but the heart in this place still beats strong. I tread slowly. My flats tap on the glossy concrete, then sink into the plush rugs I helped pick out. Blues and greens to set a calming tone. I run my fingers over the smooth back of a wooden chair and take in one of the four white tables placed throughout the room, a succulent terrarium in the center of each. Will I ever be able to hold a client meeting here again? Sit with them and reference our past events and current vendors, browse fabrics, florals, caterers, cakes, music, photographers, body paint, dog dresses—anything imaginable to make each event perfect, from the basic to the flamboyant? Goddamn, my gut hollows out. Before clients like Spum, the events were more simple, sincere. I loved that high of working with people, honoring major milestones in their lives, being the one they trusted to make their celebration worthy of all the time and work and love that led to that moment.

It’s why Johanna’s trusted me all these years. Maybe I’m not worthy of being that person anymore, of being trusted at all.

A clicking sound snaps my gaze to the coffee bar in the corner. . . where my nemesis, Miles Knocks, leans against the wall and glares over while pressing BREW on the Keurig. I’m usually out of the office, running my own events, on Saturdays. I’d work a milk-chug contest at a frat party right now if it meant avoiding him.

I fix my eyes on the lovely fiddle-leaf fig beside Miles, because I’d like to keep down the protein bar that I scarfed on my sprint here. Miles has worked at The Barnes for a third of the time I have, and has tried to steal my clients since day one. For a while, he got into the office before anyone else and went through my upcoming events. If there was a task on my list for that week, he was sure to bring it up in front of my client to make it sound like I was falling behind (“Oh, Morgan, you’d better move on that h. . .