Tuesday Knight's dream of Broadway stardom has flopped, leaving her unemployed and brokenhearted. Ready to quit kissing frogs and make her own happily-ever-after, she takes a job as a princess in Everland, Georgia's historical amusement park.
Mayor Beau Marino lives an unenchanted existence-all work, no play-which is fine by him. After his marriage ended in disaster, the last thing he wants in his life is more drama. But Everland's new free spirit has a talent for getting under his starched collar.
When the town's beloved but bankrupt park might be shut down, Tuesday and Beau face a choice. Can they join forces, save the day-and each other? Or will their fierce battle of wills destroy any chance of a fairy-tale ending?
In the tradition of New York Times bestselling authors Kristan Higgins, Jill Shalvis, and Marina Adair, comes the second book in Lia Riley's Everland, Georgia series about two city sisters finding love in a small town.
Release date:
September 26, 2017
Publisher:
Grand Central Publishing
Print pages:
368
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Owning a pair of heels that went with everything was convenient, except when they blended into the background like chameleons.
“Where are my glass slippers?” Tuesday Knight scanned her bedroom. They could be hidden anywhere beneath the chaotic avalanche of maxi dresses, celebrity magazines, bohemian scarves, and Lindt chocolate ball foils.
Her twelve-year-old Boston terrier emerged from beneath the quilt piled at the end of her unmade bed.
“Any bright ideas?” Tuesday asked, shoving a loose bobby pin deeper into her French twist.
J. K. Growling spluttered a snort as a rooster crowed from deep beneath the mess. Tuesday hiked up the skirt of her fuchsia ball gown, kicking items left and right. That crow was her nine o’clock backup alarm, the one that meant “Leave now or you’ll be late.”
A vague memory started to take shape as she plucked her iPhone from beneath a back issue of Vanity Fair. Last night, following a ten-hour shift as Happily Ever After Land’s newest princess host, she’d collapsed on the couch—ears ringing from the carousel’s Wurlitzer band organ—to play a game of Oregon Trail.
Of course!
She tore down the hall, skidding to a stop in the living room doorway, and punched the air. Sure enough, the glass—or rather, plastic—slippers, were propped atop a throw pillow. Right where she’d shucked them off after dying of dysentery at mile eight hundred and forty on that stupidly addictive phone app.
A rhinestone-encrusted tiara twinkled from atop the coffee table book Broadway Musicals: The 99 Best Shows of All Time. Tuesday plopped it on her head, adjusted her bodice over her nonexistent bosom, and shoved her feet into the smidge-too-tight heels. Good to go.
J. K. Growling peered around the corner with a bemused expression.
“It’s not easy being a princess.” Tuesday gave her a good-bye head pat. “But if the shoe fits…”
Opening the front door, she paused, struck, as usual, by Everland’s quiet. Manhattan had been a noisy symphony of jackhammers, cab horns, loud neighbors, and police sirens. Here the coastal breeze rustled the hundred-year-old live oaks lining the shady street, dripping moss from thick, gnarled branches. A bird sang. A dog barked. A neighbor tuned a mandolin on a front porch swing.
Just another September morning in small-town Georgia.
Her orange car—Pumpkin—started on the third try, the gas light blinking on. Forehead, meet steering wheel. Her least favorite game was playing “How Low Can You Go” with her gas tank.
But there wasn’t a choice. She didn’t have enough funds in her checking account to afford a refuel, not after giving Lettie Sue, a park waitress, her last hundred bucks before tomorrow’s payday.
Yesterday, the single mom had broken down in the staff room over her inability to cover next week’s day care bill. Afterward, Tuesday had snuck to the snack bar to make an ATM withdrawal and had left an anonymous envelope in her coworker’s locker.
She didn’t regret giving the hardworking woman a single penny, but the impulsive decision couldn’t derail her obligations. In twenty minutes she was hosting a field trip for Foster Friends, a local children’s charity. If she didn’t dillydally she’d have enough in the tank to get to work and home.
It Came Down to Fumes and a Prayer: The Tuesday Knight Story.
A sudden movement caught the corner of her eye. Her big sister, Pepper, and her sister’s fiancé, Rhett, staggered from the house next door, a laughing tangle of limbs and leashes. Between them, the happy couple owned four dogs. At the start of summer Pepper had moved to Everland for an ill-fated legal clerkship. After losing her job on day one, she’d detoured into what had turned out to be the right direction, finding work as a dog walker and falling head over strappy sandals for the hot vet next door. Now she was spearheading the opening of Everland’s rescue shelter as the new executive director.
“Hey, you!” Pepper glanced at her thin wristwatch, brows wrinkling beneath fashionably cut side-swept bangs. “Aren’t you running late?”
“Yup.” Tuesday restrained a grimace. The one drawback to living next door to such a capable, successful sister was frequently feeling like a hot mess. She cupped a hand to her mouth. “Lost my shoes.”
“Again?” No surprise registered on Pepper’s pretty face. They played their respective roles well, the responsible, dependable, reliable one versus the free-spirited, walking disaster. But when Tuesday’s world in New York City had spun out of control, she’d headed straight here. Her big sister was true north even in the Deep South.
“Are we going to see you tonight?” Rhett called. They were hosting a potluck dinner around the theme of “Southern comfort.” Pepper had entrusted her with the napkins. It wasn’t meant as an intentionally insulting gesture, but unintentionally? That was a whole other story.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Tuesday cracked a tight smile before driving away. Downtown Everland was more or less deserted this time of morning. The lovingly restored buildings dated back to the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, but the town was more than a hodgepodge of bright awnings, mom-and-pop-style storefronts, and cheerful planter boxes. The charm lay not just in the brick and mortar, but also the bighearted, warm, and welcoming (if eccentric) citizens.
A bay window etched with the words “What-a-Treat Candy Boutique” stenciled in calligraphy caught the morning light. She gasped as today’s date hit home. It was What-a-Treat’s owner Ginger Reed’s thirtieth birthday. For a week Ginger had been informing customers that she was preparing to enter a mystical time warp whereupon she’d remain twenty-nine forever.
Kitty-corner to the shop sat city hall, the imposing brick building framed by a profusion of late-summer flowers. “Perfect.” She slammed on the brakes. If she hustled, she could pick a quick bouquet for her friend and leave it in front of the candy shop’s door as a surprise.
She climbed from Pumpkin and raced over the damp lawn, crouching beneath an office window to grab Shasta daisies, goldenrod, and a few begonias. The blooms were vibrant, just like her new friend. In fact, they looked so pretty she picked a few more, and just a few more, and what the heck, now that she had this much, she might as well go the whole hog. After all, forever is a long time to stay twenty-nine.
A throat cleared behind her.
“Morning!” She squinted at a security guard, backlit by the bright morning sun. “Don’t mind me. I’ll be out of your hair in a sec.”
“Well, Miss Knight, it’s like this, see…” He shuffled from side to side. “There’s been a report of vandalism.”
“Really?” She glanced around, half expecting a lurker to be slinking from oak to oak, clutching a spray paint can. “Graffiti? Arson? Broken windows?”
The man removed his blue cap and studied the embroidered brim with particular attention before mumbling under his breath.
“Theft?” she repeated, unsure if she’d heard him correctly. “Who’s dumb enough to steal in plain daylight?”
The security official grimaced. “The complaint was about you destroying city vegetation.”
“Who gives a flying fig if I pick a few flowers?” The drape twitched in the window above, and her core temperature dropped. She pursed her lips. “Tell me, whose office is that?”
Dumb question.
“Mayor Marino requested that you be informed this space is Everland public property and not your own private garden.”
“For Pete’s sake.” Her laugh was incredulous. The locals here were as charming as their town except in one respect. Their mayor had a stick shoved far up his (admittedly fine) ass.
“One more thing, ma’am.” The security guard swallowed hard and adjusted his belt buckle over his straining belly. “I’m supposed to confiscate the flowers.”
“Come on. They’re picked.” She waved the gorgeous bouquet under the security guard’s nose. “The damage is done.”
“Orders are orders, ma’am.”
She glanced at the clock tower. “Crap. Is that the time?” Forget getting all “no justice, no peace.” The foster kids would arrive in five minutes. “Fine. Here.” She shoved the blooms into his arms. “Give these to the mayor with my regards.”
“He’s left the premises on official business.”
“Well, inform him upon his return that he’s officially a jerk.” She fumed back to her car. Last week she’d taken J. K. Growling for a walk in the rain. They’d been minding their own beeswax, splashing in ankle-deep puddles on Love Street, when Beau Marino had driven by with a face like she was you-know-what stuck to the bottom of his shoe. He’d rolled down the window and told her she was jaywalking.
She’d told him where to stick it.
She also might have kicked a splash in his direction. She wasn’t proud.
Balling her hands into two fists, she almost smashed a lone Shasta daisy, the sole survivor of Operation: Bouquet Obliteration. Tossing the flower on the passenger seat, she cranked the volume to her beloved Grease sound track. Tuesday might look the part of a wide-eyed, angelic Sandra Dee, but she had Rizzo’s soul.
She increased her grip on the steering wheel as she drove past the abandoned Roxy Theater, a crumbling eyesore off the otherwise neat and tidy Main Street. Even the for-sale sign plastered to the marquee had weathered to tatters. Once someone had built the place with grand hopes, but starry-eyed dreams had a bad habit of fizzling faster than a meteorite striking the Earth’s atmosphere.
Tuesday knew all about that phenomenon thanks to two-time Tony Award–winning director Philip Chandler.
Pumpkin’s wheels hit the road’s rumble strip, the tactile vibration warning that she’d drifted too far right. She bit down on the inside of her bottom lip and corrected, taking shallow breaths to work around the asphyxiating knot in her chest. Despite the eight-hundred-mile distance stretching between here and Manhattan, the name Philip Chandler made her insides roil. Not every fairy tale had a happy ending, especially ones that started as “Once upon a time, a girl was duped by a narcissistic, cheating a-hole…”
A beep from the pink Cadillac in the oncoming lane interrupted her navel-gazing. Tuesday couldn’t decipher Miss Ida May’s face from beneath the straw hat garlanded with silk flowers but made sure to give her neighbor from Love Street a chipper wave. Miss Ida May administered the Everland gossip blog, the Back Fence, and was constantly trolling for a juicy scoop.
Drive along, ma’am. Nothing to see here.
No one in Everland knew the rumors, an ensemble actress trying to seduce her way into a breakout role. Or so the tall tale went. And whoever let truth get in the way of a good story?
Pepper could never find out about those last few terrible months in the city. Her sister didn’t need another reason to think she was an idiot.
Tuesday had wanted to be a star so badly that she had allowed herself to be lured into her director’s net of lies like a stupid fish, unable to escape. Tears prickled in her eyes, and she blinked hard, stamping them out. No pity parties were allowed in Scarlett O’Hara country. She’d take a page from the fierce heroine’s playbook and not think about that now. Instead, she’d toss her head and sing.
The song ended as she passed Happily Ever After Land’s main entrance on the town outskirts. A school bus turned beneath the sign that read YO DREAMS START HERE. The “u” and “r” were missing. The only decent parking spot left in the staff lot was a tight squeeze beside a group of professional-looking people filing out of a deluxe minivan.
Terrific. Reverse parking with witnesses.
Tuesday lowered the volume to “Look at Me, I’m Sandra Dee” and swallowed a groan as her gaze locked on the tall, deeply tanned, dark-haired man in a gray blazer who towered over the group with intense “va-va-voom” eyes that would be completely sexy if not for the stony glare.
Her toes curled in her fake glass slippers as she fought the unwelcome pyrotechnics detonating in the pit of her abdomen.
Beau Marino, aka Hater of Random Acts of Joy.
When not calling security over war crimes against begonias, the man gave good face with his strong, dark features, aquiline nose, stern mouth, and an innately haughty air that earned him the town nickname of “the Prince of Everland.”
She blinked first, and worse, her heart did that thing where it ran flailing into walls, or more accurately, her rib cage. This man’s face had an irritating habit of setting off a chain reaction of unwanted physiological responses.
Stupid beautiful face.
It took three tries to park Pumpkin and she still ended up crooked. Whatever. Good enough. She set the hand brake and fished in the center console for bubble-gum-pink lipstick, taking her time with the application.
The stray daisy on the passenger seat gave her an idea. Tuesday might not know how to behave, but the princess would. “Showtime,” she muttered before climbing out of the car, keeping her gaze wide-eyed and vacant. “Why, if it isn’t the mayor! Oh me, oh my! Always a thrill to have local dignitaries visit our most humble kingdom,” she trilled, inwardly smirking as a muscle twitched near his ear.
Stupid beautiful ear.
There wasn’t a single good reason why such a mundane body part should look so freaking attractive. But it did. Then there were the three faint freckles dotting the center of the lobe, the second thing she’d ever noticed about him, after the pale eyes, blue irises cut by white rays and contrasting with his darker skin. Mesmerizing eyes that matched his tie. Unsmiling eyes that were…currently affixed to the wilting blossom clutched in her hand.
She broke the stem and stepped forward, shamelessly popping the daisy into his buttonhole. “A small token of my great esteem.” She cloaked the needling tone inside her sweetest pitch. Her fingers grazed hard muscle beneath his suit. Dang, what was he packing in there? The muscles in her belly tightened before she blinked and straightened.
If he had any inkling of her agitation, he hid it well behind a narrow gaze, eyes riveted to her chest. “What is that?”
She glanced down with a grimace. A brown blob dangled from the satin bow in the center of her bodice. “Oh, shhhhhhhhhhh—ugar bowl.” No hiding the fact that she’d inhaled a slice of peanut butter and banana toast for a rushed “over the kitchen counter” breakfast.
One of the group members, a middle-aged guy whose mustache gave him a walrus-like appearance, handed over a napkin stamped with the Mad Dawgs logo, Everland’s popular bar and restaurant.
“Why, thank you, kind sir. Good to see chivalry is still alive and well among some.” Tuesday dabbed her torso and gathered the remains of her dignity, lifting her chin like the Queen of England, not an underpaid actress in a stained dress and plastic shoes. “Now, to what do we owe the pleasure of your patronage?”
“We’re from the Georgia Tourism Commission,” a kind-faced, silver-haired woman with funky dangling earrings answered.
“Castles and Cauldrons! Haven’t you come to the right place?” Tuesday plastered on a saccharine smile and wadded the napkin into a tight ball. Obviously Beau Marino had come to the park in a professional capacity. A man who called security over flower picking wouldn’t have fun for fun’s sake, not on a workday. “Why, Happily Ever After Land is the best time you can have around these parts with your clothes on.”
The twitch in Beau’s temple intensified to a thrumming pulse. That vein could pop in three…two…What the mayor needed was a not-so-gentle reminder that life was an out-of-control roller coaster, so you might as well throw up your hands, laugh, and occasionally scream.
“The park just so happens to be hosting another very special group today,” she chirped in her most singsongy voice. “A field trip of foster children awaits a royally good time.”
“My oldest daughter fosters.” The silver-haired woman clapped her hands. “Mind if we tag along? Observe the kids’ reaction to the park?”
“I…” The mayor looked like he’d rather trim his nails with a chain saw, but he was trapped. “Of course, Donna.” His lips curved at the edges, but Tuesday knew better. His flaring nostrils gave away his displeasure.
Her answering smile was 100 percent genuine. Time for Mr. Mayor to buckle up. He’d stepped onto her turf, and she intended to take him on one wild ride.
Chapter Two
Beau Marino plucked Tuesday’s daisy from his jacket. But instead of tossing it on the pavement, he impulsively shoved it into his pants pocket, right next to his phone, the one his assistant, Karen, had lectured him to stay off of during today’s tour.
“Keep your beak off that screen today, sir,” she’d ordered as he’d left the office. “Remember to talk to actual people. You’re getting good at it.”
He’d mashed his brows. “Am I?”
“Well, better anyway,” she’d demurred. “And smile…You have such a nice smile.”
Introversion was a liability for someone in public office. He found it a hell of a lot easier to connect with constituents through social media platforms than to shake hands and kiss babies at town events. While not a natural “man of the people,” he was committed to improving his community and making a difference, as corny as that might sound. His grave brand of cordiality was natural, and served him better than a politically phony persona.
After all, his constituents had elected him for a reason: to get things done. Improve the town’s economy and make it more attractive to investment and growth. For the last six months, a large part of his strategy had been cultivating the Georgia Tourism Commission, lobbying them to grant Everland a “Coastal Jewel” designation, a coup that would yield a prime spot in their nationwide advertising campaign.
Today was a capstone event. Everything hinged on his town tour running smoothly, and here he was, right out of the gate, hitting a tiara-wearing speed bump.
“Right this way, ladies, gentlemen…and goblin.” Tuesday Knight hiked the hem of her ridiculous dress and beelined toward the amusement park’s side entrance, leaving him to bring up the rear like a sullen caboose. His forehead creased into a frown at the not-so-subtle jab.
The tourism board had to take him seriously if they were to take Everland seriously. The last thing he needed today was to get stuck playing court jester to her princess.
Sweat sheened the corded muscles in Beau’s back, prickling against his dress shirt’s cotton. The worst of the summer heat was over, but in another hour the relative humidity index would ratchet into the high eighties. His gaze latched on to Tuesday’s pale arms, the delicate curve to her neck. How did she always look so relaxed and unaffected? She had an almost ethereal quality, as if floating through life.
Just last week he’d driven his best friend, Rhett Valentine, home after their usual Wednesday-night regatta. Rain bucketed down as he’d turned onto Love Street, and there in the middle of the road, Tuesday Knight had been kicking in puddles—barefoot—playing with her fat little dog, the one that looked like it had taken a running leap into a brick wall.
Such behavior wasn’t normal. This was real life, not a musical number. Every time he set eyes on the woman, she bounced like Tigger, incessantly—relentlessly—cheerful. And who the hell had a name like Tuesday anyway?
No one with any sense.
“Care to elaborate on the park’s history, Mr. Mayor?” Angie Robert, one of the junior commissioners, trailed an appreciative gaze down his frame. “Why, it looks as if this old place has been here an age.”
“An astute observation, Ms. Robert.” Beau tried not to stiffen at the woman’s blatant scrutiny, sliding on his Ray-Bans to avoid her uncomfortable eye contact. “Happily Ever After Land is an Everland institution, built in the beginning of the twentieth century despite the fact that financing conditions proved challenging following the Panic of 1907, during that three-week crisis in the New York Stock Exchange, of course—”
“Once upon a time, a man had an ambitious vision,” Tuesday broke in, spreading her arms in an expansively dramatic gesture. The group perked up as she breathlessly went on to spin the tale of Bartleby Hodgeworth, “a young, penniless dreamer who’d come to Everland with nothing but the clothes on his back and saw how this sleepy town a stone’s throw from the Atlantic could be transformed into a place of magic and wonder, a place where children of all ages could forget their cares. To this day the park harkens back to the golden age of amusement—”
As much as Beau hated to admit it, Tuesday’s bullshit had captivated the commission more than his formal spiel on the park’s engineering and safety record followed by a monthly breakdown of visitor demographics. Instead she focused on tidbits such as how Hodgeworth insisted on painting buildings white for elegance and modeled the park’s centrally situated palace after Balmoral Castle in Scotland.
Tuesday slipped to the end of the line as the VIPs filed ahead through the side-entrance turnstile. “You’re welcome,” she hissed.
It was disconcerting how she nearly met his gaze at eye level. Her height always caught him by surprise given she gave off such a dainty air, the kind that made a man instinctively slip into protection mode. Fucking stupid reaction, because here was a woman shot with steel. Her lips might be plump, pink perfection, but those caramel-colored eyes hinted at hidden mettle.
Who’d she be if she ever quit performing for two goddamn seconds and got real?
He curled one hand into a fist, rubbing his thumb over the base of his ring finger, the patch of skin now bare. Better to choke off the unwelcome curiosity and take that flashy “look at me” personality at face value. He needed to get mixed up with another drama queen like he needed a third nut.
Still, his stomach rolled over when the tip of her tongue put in an appearance, dabbing the center of her top lip. “I single-handedly saved your bacon back there. A riveting time line of financial collapses? Good Lord, you’re like a human NyQuil.”
“I have it under control. Or I did until you came along.” Anger grated his voice. Any pretense of politeness frayed. She made a spectacle out of even the simplest interactions.
Her eyes glittered, and her jaw lowered, a chink in her serene princess mask. “If life were meant to be controlled, it would come with a frigging remote.” And with that, she stormed off, taking the last word with her.
* * *
Tuesday bustled past the Skee-Ball booth while Lead Game Attendant Toots Landish wagged a finger. “Tick-tock, tick-tock, Princess, you’re running la—Mayor! Well, now. Butter my buns and call me a biscuit. Ain’t this a surprise?!” Her signature cat-eye glasses magnified her . . .
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