It Happened on Love Street

Book 1: Everland, Georgia

by Lia Riley

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

The most romantic place she never wanted to be . . .

Pepper Knight moved to Everland, Georgia, as step one in her plan for a successful legal career. But after this big-city gal's plans go awry, going home with her tail between her legs isn't an option. So when the town vet-and her sexy new neighbor-offers Pepper a temporary dog-walking job, she jumps at the chance. No one needs to know that man's best friend is her worst nightmare . . . or that Everland's hot animal whisperer leaves her panting.

The last thing Rhett Valentine wants is to be the center of small-town gossip. After his first love left him at the altar, he's been there, done that. These days, life is simple, just the way he likes it. But sultry southern nights get complicated once sparks fly between him and the knockout next door. When she proposes a sexy, secret fling-all the deliciousness and none of the prying neighbors-it seems too good to be true. And it is. Because Pepper's determined to leave Love Street, and when she goes, she just might take his heart with her . . .

Release date: April 25, 2017

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter One

One week later…

Pepper glanced around the cul-de-sac, another bead of sweat trickling down her brow. Sun charred the silvery Spanish moss draping the live oaks while the high-waisted Spanx beneath her pencil skirt compressed her organs into diamonds. Good thing she didn’t believe in signs from the universe because this shortcut through Hopes and Dreams Way had turned out to be a dead end. Moisture prickled behind her knees, under her boobs, and between her thighs.

Please, Universe. Don’t be a sign.

Her judicial clerkship offer had hinged on an immediate start date. The last week was a blur, packing her Manhattan life into three suitcases. She’d stepped off the Greyhound yesterday afternoon with barely enough time to pick up the keys for her new rental house and visit the local Piggly Wiggly, never mind getting oriented.

The absence of a city skyline or a street grid left her sense of direction as broken as the GPS navigation on her smart phone. She huffed a small sigh, blowing up her bangs. Everland, Georgia, appeared to be block after block of grandly renovated antebellum homes, all with jasmine-smothered wrought iron fences, rocking chair–lined verandas, and names like Love Street, Forever Boulevard, Hopes and Dreams Way, and Kissing Court.

Better find a dentist. A year surrounded by this much sugary sweetness put her at risk of a cavity (or five).

A glance at her wristwatch revealed that her Human Resources appointment wasn’t for another forty-five minutes. Her shoulders relaxed. It paid to be prepared. Dead end or no, she’d left herself ample time to fire Siri and navigate her own route to the courthouse.

The lace curtains in the gingerbread Queen Anne across the street twitched and a blue-rinsed older woman peered through the slit with a frown. Pepper adjusted the strap on her leather computer bag and bit down on the inside of her cheek. First impressions were everything, and a Yankee fish out of water marinating in a pool of her own perspiration wasn’t a great one.

Head down, she quickly backtracked, retracing her steps. Homesickness nipped at her heels. Or more accurately…sister-sickness. Tonight there’d be no cuddle fest over Chinese takeout in Tuesday’s Hell’s Kitchen walkup, no debriefing about her day before her sister performed—in side-splitting detail—impersonations from her latest Broadway casting call. There wasn’t time for a check-in, but she could fire off the next entry of their ongoing Ugly Selfie Challenge and let Tuesday know she was in her thoughts.

Pepper paused beneath the Forever Boulevard street sign, stuck out her iPhone, and contorted her face into a hideous, triple-chinned expression.

And that’s when it happened.

The menacing growl sluiced icy dread through her insides, numbing her core. She didn’t have to turn her head to confirm what her body reacted to on instinct.

Dog, two o’clock.

Collapsing her shoulders in a protective cringe, arms shielding her face, she recoiled in jerky steps as fast as her tight skirt allowed. A white ball of fluff with matching organza ear ribbons sat on a red-bricked walkway in the shade of palmetto fronds—devil’s spawn in a lap dog disguise. It curled back its lips to reveal razor sharp fangs.

Pug or Pit Bull, it didn’t matter. Man’s best friend was her worst nightmare.

The tiny tail twitched. She swallowed a whimper. Easy, easy now. The fence separating them was five feet high. Fluffy wasn’t going to spring through the air, latch on to her throat, and gnaw her jugular like a corn cob. Dogs were statistically more likely to lick a person to death.

By a lot.

By a lot, a lot.

But try telling that to her dry mouth and trembling hands.

The growls crescendoed into shrill yaps. Fluffy reared on hind legs, an eight-pound demon cavorting in the seventh circle of hell.

Pepper’s stomach responded with a queasy burble. More yowling rose ahead, a Boxer-looking hellbeast tried cramming its fat head through its white picket prison. Nope. She veered around a parked minivan and crossed the street, pulse leaping with panic.

“They don’t want to hurt me. They don’t want to hurt me,” she chanted a mantra from Canine Calm, a weekend cognitive therapy clinic she’d shelled out three hundred bucks on after a close encounter with a Shih Tzu in SoHo last summer left her, well, shit-tzuing her pants.

Blink and breathe. Unravel the negative feelings within before they unravel you. Observe fearful emotions and give them space as they arise, watching them float away like soap bubbles. Blink without judgment. Remember, there is no right way or wrong way to blink. Simply be the blink.

Blink that. She’d dropped out an hour into the nonrefundable session. But now her ears were hot and her jaw tight, all the hallmarks of spiking blood pressure.

She could chant “They don’t want to hurt me” all day, but the faint white scars on her cheek, one below her eye, and the other to the side of her nose, the exact match to a Doberman pinscher’s mouth, begged to differ. Her nervous system issued a warning: Imminent threat to life and limb. Take cover.

Two Corgis joined the din, followed by a baritone bow-wow-wow from another backyard.

Which way to go? No direction was safe.

“Is that lady dancing?” a high-pitched voice asked behind her.

“Dunno,” another answered.

Pepper turned, and two kids, the girl in a full-skirted pirate getup, the boy in artfully ragged breeches, froze on identical scooters. Their chubby pink-tinged cheeks offset tawny skin, and matching skull-and-crossbones hats perched on top of their thick, black curls.

“Ahoy there, mateys.” It sounded like she’d been sucking helium. She cleared her throat, striving for a more natural tone. “Don’t you two look cute.”

The little girl scratched the side of her nose. “Mama’s using us as models—”

“For the Village Pillage ad.” The boy fiddled with his eye patch. “She works for Mayor Marino’s office, and we gotta beat Hogg Jaw—”

“Village Pillage?” Any distraction from the canine chorus was welcome. Even if it meant hanging out with kindergarteners.

“Memerating Cap’n Redbeard—”

“And Everland’s true claim to the lost treasure.”

Deciphering hieroglyphics might be easier than understanding those last sentences. Pepper frowned. “You mean commemorating?”

“And Mama promised us ice cream afterward if we smile real good.” The girl bared her teeth in an overwide grin or grimace, hard to say which. “Two scoops of Superman flavor for me and mint chip for Will. Daddy said it was bribery, but Mama calls it in-cent-i-vi-zing.” She pronounced the last word with careful enunciation.

“Mint chip is one of my favorites, too.” Thank God, her ploy worked. The dogs were losing interest the longer they chatted.

“Why do you talk funny?” Caution crept into the little boy’s voice, presumably William.

“You mean my accent? Well, see, I’m from Manhattan.” A five-year-old had burned her, but who cares? The longer she rambled in the street, the better the chance that awful barking might eventually stop. “Lower East Side. At least that’s where I feel that I’m from. I was born in Moose Bottom, Maine, a place even smaller than here, if you can believe that. Located between Podunk and Boondock. No joke. And that’s not taking into account Boonie to the south or Timbuktu to the west.”

The children’s mouths hung open.

Had she spoken too loudly? Too friendly? Too weird? She had no experience chatting up small people. Kids might as well be aliens from the planet Crayon Gobbler, but these two saved her from a public panic attack. She’d had to suck it up and owe them one.

“William John! Katydid!” An elegant black woman appeared on the top step of an ivy-covered house on the corner. Her tailored fuchsia wrap dress popped against her skin’s rich bronze, and her long dark hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail. “Get your scrawny behinds back here and brush your teeth. Ah, ah, ah!” She held up a hand, a diamond catching the sunlight. “Don’t go telling me that you already did because your toothbrushes aren’t wet. Let’s go, let’s go, we’re not going to be late, I’ll tell you that much for free.”

“Aw, man!”

“Coming, Mama!” The siblings shot Pepper a last lingering look before pushing off on their scooters, whispering as they powered toward the crosswalk.

She gave the woman a just passing by, I’m a friendly new-in-town stranger who is not trying to kidnap your sweet children wave. The tentative gesture was met with a distracted smile.

Pepper tucked the corner of her shirt back into her skirt, swallowing an envious lump as the woman reset her Bluetooth earpiece and disappeared inside the magnificent home. Fat chance she ate a Pop-Tart for dinner. Imagine having a big house. Cute kids. Effortless fashion sense. The total package.

Must be nice.

Someday she’d meet Mr. Right. One teeny tiny clerkship in Georgia and she’d be off to bigger and better things back in New York. At this very moment, her true love might be staring out his corner office with sweeping views of the East River as inexplicable longing compresses his chest. “You’re out there,” he’d mutter, slamming a fist against his open palm. “Out there somewhere. And I shall find you, my dearest darling.”

Sooner or later, their gazes would connect in a crowded intersection and boom, a part of her soul would lock into his and that would be it. Cue the balloon drop. Blazing meteoroids. Unicorns dancing the fox trot. Rainbows—make that double rainbows—bursting over the cityscape. She’d plan a wedding in the Hamptons, stop hitting snooze on her biological clock, and have her own perfect life.

Yeah.

Someday…

But on the bright side, right now she was finally heading in the right direction. A statue of Lady Justice rose from the end of the street, keeping watch over the Scooter B. Merriweather Courthouse, armed with a sword, balance scales, and a fierce resting bitch face. Pepper flashed her a thumbs-up. Ahead, her reflection beamed off the courthouse’s glass front door, projecting the image of—

Oh. Schnikey.

Desperate times called for a discreet bang fluff. Taming these frizzy, more-brown-than-blond locks into an A-line bob was a battle at the best of times. Georgia humidity required full-scale war with a leave-in conditioner offensive followed by a barrage of mousse, a wide-toothed comb, professional-grade blow dryer, and straightener.

God as her witness, she refused to sport flyaways on her first day. She smoothed her part, shifting left and right, checking for VSL—visible Spanx lines—a real and present danger as her skirt warped and wrinkled.

Wrenching the door open, she stumbled beneath the rotunda, stifling a relieved moan. Got to credit the South’s mastery of the fine art of air-conditioning. The wall directory listed Human Resources on the second floor, down the hall from her new boss, the Honorable Aloysius P. Hogg. Judge Hogg maintained a notorious reputation on the law clerk circuit. Whispers hinted that he didn’t interview for a Monday-through-Friday job, but expected seven-day-a-week indentured servitude, including all public holidays.

On her way upstairs, the brass handrail cooled her damp palm. This wasn’t a dream job, but no one hired professional cupcake testers. And this year of dues paying in Nowheresville, USA, would land her back in Manhattan with a real shot at making junior partner with Kendall & Kline Associates, an elite corporate law firm with an impressive starting salary and more impressive annual bonus.

Her phone buzzed with a text. Tuesday’s image flashed on the screen, her sister’s full lips pressed in the ultimate duck face as she did that unsettling trick where she crossed only one eye. The message read: Good luck today! You’ve come a long way, baby.

Pepper grinned. Her sister was right. This courthouse was a far cry from her family’s sugar bush farm in Maine’s North Woods.

The sticky truth about the maple syrup business was that people didn’t get into it to increase their bank account balance. Yes, there’d always been food on the table (provided coupons were cut), (hand-me-down) clothes on her back, and a (sometimes leaky) roof overhead—although prohibitive heating oil costs meant huddling around a cast-iron stove during the winter months.

Dad boasted they were rich in love, but Mom’s parting words before leaving them behind for New Hampshire were tattooed on Pepper’s brain. “Whoever said money can’t buy happiness must have been poor, honey. Never ever forget that.”

And she never ever did.

Dad tried to put a positive spin on the situation: “From now on, girls, we’re a trio. Good thing three is my lucky number.” But there was no glossing over the fact that Mom had reinvented herself into a far-off Bedford suburb, remarrying a banker and becoming more invested in his stock portfolio than her two girls.

Pepper tried to be a de facto wife to Dad—cooking, cleaning, organizing appointments—and a surrogate mother to Tuesday—nagging her for homework, making lunches, styling her long blond hair before they hurried to catch the school bus.

The more Mom faded from their life, the more Pepper stepped in as Superwoman, self-appointed guardian of the family, and good thing, too. These days Dad was one bad sciatica attack away from being unable to handle the farm’s rigorous physical demands, and how long before Tuesday’s dreams of Broadway stardom dimmed? Her father and sister were reality escape artists, but someday they’d need her and her pragmatism. Pepper was the third little pig, busily building a sensible future.

Or do you need them to need you?

She lengthened her stride, walking faster than the whisper of doubt. At the end of the hall, Human Resources waited, promising the answers to her prayers. She let out a huge breath, the smallest trace of a smile settling on her lips. Almost there. A little routine paperwork and she’d carpe the heck out of this diem.

Chapter Two

The hum from the fluorescent lights cut through the examination room’s silence. Rhett removed his stethoscope eartips with an inward groan.

“Well? Is he gonna pull through, Doctor?” The redhead in the sunflower sundress hitched her breath. No one gave a performance like Kennedy Day. No wonder she’d done well in all those pageants back in high school.

But the real kudos had to go to Muffin, the Bichon Frise valiantly playing dead on the stainless steel surgical table. Still, not even expert training could override a strong, healthy heartbeat.

Proper Southern manners dictated a few words of comfort, but his growing migraine crowded out any chivalrous impulses. “He’s going to live to lick another day.”

Kennedy clapped her hands without a hint of embarrassment. “Aren’t you a regular miracle worker?”

And aren’t you one hell of a dog trainer?

He reached into his white lab coat pocket and removed a treat. In an instant, Muffin bounded to his feet with a short but definitive yip. “Seems Lazarus here has worked up a healthy appetite.”

“Praise the Lord and pass the mashed potatoes. Come to Mama, Muffin Wuffin.” Kennedy scooped up the dog and smacked wet kisses on the top of its head.

Muffin stared at him darkly, telecommunicating, See what I’m dealing with? Be a bro and hand over a Barkie Bite.

Rhett passed the treat in solidarity.

“Silly me!” Kennedy’s shoulders shook with her tinkling laugh. “Before I forget, I brought you something special.” She reached into the bedazzled insulated bag beside her chair and removed a cake, as if bearing a fake dead dog and baked goods were normal occurrences.

Everland, his hometown, could be described many different ways, but normal wasn’t the first adjective that sprang to mind.

The real miracle to this appointment would be shuffling Kennedy out before getting asked around for dinner. She sported that same determined look while wielding a pump-action shotgun on the opening day of turkey season. She might primp into the textbook definition of a Southern belle but had crack-shot aim when a tom was in her sights.

“This right here is the praline Bundt that’s won the Everland Fair’s Golden Fork five years running.” She positioned the cake to make it impossible to miss the caramel glaze or her cleavage. “You do like a nice Bundt, don’t you, Dr. Valentine?” She dropped her voice to a purr. “Or are you more of a sour cream pound cake man?

Dessert had never sounded so dirty.

“Rhett,” he snapped automatically. “Plain Rhett suits me fine.” The words Dr. Valentine made him want to check over his shoulder for his father and make a sign to ward off the evil eye. “We graduated a year apart. My dad coached Sailing Club. Your brother Kingston was on my team.”

“Of course.” She leaned forward with a suggestive wink. “And might I say you’ve gone from a dingy to a yacht.”

Time to hustle her out before things turned dangerous. He didn’t want to lead her on. Not when her megawatt smile gave him flash blindness, even as shadows haunted beneath her eyes. Everyone knew last year’s divorce had hit her hard. Breakups sucked. He understood. He even sympathized. But at the end of the day, her failed marriage wasn’t his circus.

He had his hands full with his own damn monkeys.

“Listen. About the cake.” He handed it back and led her toward the door. “My office policy is never to accept gifts from—”

“Gift?” She halted so fast her heels scuffed the linoleum. “Why it’s nothing but a harmless little nut cake!”

“Did Lou Ellen put you up to this?” His sister acted like her fourth term as second vice president of the Everland Ladies Quilt Guild was a mandate to nominate him as the town’s most eligible bachelor, as if his single status was due to circumstance rather than choice.

Online dating profiles kept popping into his inbox, as well as invitations to donate a dinner and movie date to the upcoming Village Pillage silent auction, or meet so-and-so’s third cousin, niece, dental hygienist, or belly-dance instructor. If he dared to smile at a woman at the post office, the local gossip blog, the Back Fence, posted a poll about wedding cake flavors by sundown.

He’d rather lick one of his waiting room chairs than date under that kind of scrutiny. Besides, bachelorhood came with undeniable perks:

He never woke without the covers.

Never got an arm ache from spooning.

Never had to fake laugh at a chick flick.

And when blue balls struck, well, his right hand had him covered.

Yep, all a man needed was a cold beer, a boat, and a couple of dogs.

And if he ever hit his head hard enough to climb back on the relationship horse, it would be to a low-maintenance country girl who made up for a lack of drama with a love of big bird dogs. Labs would work. Or Chesapeake Bay Retrievers.

“Weeeeell, I did run into Lou Ellen last week at the club.” Kennedy’s cheeks tinged pink as he opened the exam room door. “And she may have let slip that you were in need of a little female companionship. After all, it has been a long time since…well…”

Ah. And there it was. His own personal elephant in its own personal corner.

He reached for the knob, careful not to grind his molars, at least not audibly. If there were a better way to deal with references to that one time he was left at the altar…he hadn’t found it.

Once, just once, it would be nice to make it a goddamn week without some reference to Birdie.

“Remember this, Rhett Valentine.” Kennedy squeezed his bicep, her thick gardenia perfume exacerbating his headache. “There’s no I in happiness.”

“Come again?”

She screwed her nose like he’d come up a few Bradys short of a bunch. “H-a-p-p-y-n-e-s-s?”

He took a deep breath. She had to go. Now. Before he said something he regretted.

He ushered her and Muffin into the foyer. “Don’t forget to grab a Milk-Bone in the bowl by the magazine rack.” He shut the door, the loud snick cutting her off mid-protest.

He scrubbed his jaw, eying the locked cabinet that stored the horse tranquilizers. Lou Ellen was going to raise hell once she caught wind of this snub.

Tempting, but nah. “Suck it up, Buttercup,” he muttered. If the biggest problem in his life was a bossy big sister determined to sail him off into a happy-ever-after sunset, he should be grateful that things were looking up.

Or at least not facedown in the gutter.

Was he happy? Well-meaning busybodies pestered him with the question, but no one ever quit talking long enough to hear his answer.

Yeah. He was. Happy enough anyway.

He didn’t return to his office until Kennedy’s Miata convertible screeched from the parking lot. His three Golden Retrievers, Faulkner, Steinbeck, and Fitzgerald, dozed on their respective pillows and didn’t flinch when his desk phone rang.

“Valentine Veterinary,” he answered.

“The council work session got postponed to next Thursday,” Beau Marino drawled in his deep, no-nonsense tone. He was Everland’s youngest mayor in a century, son of a Bermudan bartender and local blueblood, and Rhett’s best friend since kindergarten. “Weather service predicts it’ll be blowing seventeen this afternoon with gusts to twenty.”

“Sounds good.” Rhett broke into a grin. They jointly owned the Calypso, a bachelor pad in the form of a coastal cruiser moored at Buccaneers Marina. “I don’t have an appointment for an hour. I’ll swing by home for the marina key and pick you up after work.”

“You know where to find me.” Beau lived in Belle Mont Manor, the biggest house in the county, but he called city hall home. Worked around the clock.

Rhett hung up and drummed his fingers on the desktop, shedding the irritation from Kennedy’s appointment like an onionskin. An evening sail should screw his head on straight. Always did.

As his headache faded, the wall clock chimed ten o’clock. Outside the street-facing window, a silver-haired man in a seersucker suit led a Maltese whose lavender ribbons matched his bow tie. Doc passed the same time each day, a warm and cozy thirty seconds carefully orchestrated to make his only son feel like shit.

And the gambit worked.

Migraine roaring back, Rhett opened his top drawer, shook two ibuprofen from the bottle, and chased the pills with a swallow from the cold coffee in the mug next to his keyboard.

What masqueraded for an innocent pleasure stroll was, in point of fact, a one-man protest against Valentine Veterinary. Doc had made good on his long-ago vow never to darken the door to Rhett’s office—going so far as to drive to TLC Pet Hospital in Hogg Jaw for Marie Claire’s care—a dick move, but it proved the saying about Valentine men. They did stay true.

Even if it was to words spoken in anger.

Rhett was groomed to study family or internal medicine at Duke and join his dad’s practice, not bolt to UGA and become a doctor of veterinary medicine.

Mama’s death had sent them both to hell, but they dealt with different devils. Seemed his old man was bent on sailing into his final years on a bitter ship.

God-fucking-speed.

As for him, Rhett had his dogs, a growing practice, and low tolerance for bullshit. He was sick and tired of being the bad son for having a different vision of his future. He sank into his leather office chair, shoved his glasses up his forehead, and exhal. . .