The Right Time: A Best Friends to Lovers Small Town Romance
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Synopsis
Adrienne and Lucas' friendship spans a lifetime, woven with shared secrets, dreams, and the white picket fence that divides their worlds. But when Lucas returns home, Adrienne’s heart stumbles into uncharted territory—a web of emotions she can’t untangle.
As she grapples with her feelings, Jasmine, her confidante, throws her a curveball: set her up with Lucas. The impossible choice looms—risk their lifelong friendship for love or play matchmaker and silently ache as love blooms elsewhere.
In this tender small-town romance, Adrienne must decide: Is it time to confess her heart’s truth, or will she forever watch from the sidelines?
Will she learn that sometimes the sweetest love may be found in your own backyard
Release date: February 7, 2024
Print pages: 117
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Behind the book
The Right Time is one of those books that wasn't planned. In 2023 I worked with an incredible set of authors on a romance collection called the "The Meet Cute Book Club".
Eight friends from the same college who stayed connected via a monthly book club meeting.
My contribution to the collection was called "The Right Guy". In it Catherine March, from my Lake Hope small town romance series, received her HEA.
The plan was a one and done novel. However, in the novel, Catherine's younger sister, Adrienne, stepped on the page with a magnetic, look at me, force that couldn't be ignored.
She, and a number of readers, demanded that she get her own story. Hence, the origin story for "The Right Time."
I hope you enjoy this sweet romance that warms my heart.
Author updates
The Right Time: A Best Friends to Lovers Small Town Romance
Mel Walker
Chapter One
Adrienne
“It’s about time,” I mock scream at a bleary-eyed Jasmine as she enters the glass doorway of the greenhouse in the rear of my workplace.
“It’s too early, Adrienne.” She stretches as she yawns a response, lifting her thin arms high. Her tight, pink tank top lifts with it, the sunlight glinting off her navel piercing.
“It’s never too early to be great,” I shoot back, already through two-thirds of my early morning coffee, my feet shuffling beneath me as I rush to her and pull her into an embrace. My words may sound corny, but they’re one-hundred-percent authentic, one-hundred-percent me.
She plops her head onto my shoulder, and I hear her fake snore. “Why did I agree to this again?” Jasmine isn’t a morning person—no person our age is, but there’s a reason we’re here, only the early summer sun rising before we did.
I push out from the hug but not before rubbing my hand through her ponytail, knowing how much she hates it. I know she’s sleepwalking when she doesn’t react. She needs to get her blood boiling, and I know the perfect remedy.
“Because you’re looking for a boyfriend, and I’m the absolute best at matchmaking.” I pull her by the hand toward the ring light, where I snap my phone to the connector. Behind us is a bed of early summer perennials. The strong early rays bounce off the glass wall behind us. Dozens of multicolor flowers provide a backdrop not found anywhere else in Mesa, Arizona. Stephanie’s Flower Shop is the largest storefront of its kind. Its greenhouse is massive and, at this hour, deserted. “Stand here.” I point toward a piece of worn red tape. “That’s your mark.”
She scratches her head as if I’m speaking a foreign language. Jasmine is white, a year younger than me at twenty-two, with dark hair and matching penetrating eyes she hides behind a pair of thick prescription glasses. Jasmine and I had connected my senior year in college, and she somehow had followed me after graduation back to my hometown of Mesa. I had helped her find a marketing gig at one of the big-box retailers. Having settled into a new city and position, she’s asked me to help her with her next project—finding a man.
Jasmine, like most women in their early twenties, is a walking paradox. She can swing from overconfident to insecure in the time it takes to read a text from a guy. She can master adulting and present an innovative proposal to her leadership team at four p.m. and then curl up in the passenger seat of my car and snort-laugh at SpongeBob SquarePants at sundown. I do my best as her friend to remind her that life is a marathon. We won’t solve all our problems tomorrow or the next day, but we will get there. In the meantime, enjoy today.
She adjusts her ponytail and bounces on the tips of her toes, twisting her wrists and shaking her hands at her hip, manicured fingers stretching as if she’s about to step onto a volleyball court. “What am I doing again?”
I giggle. She’s not a morning person. “TikTok,” I say, stepping behind the tripod and pointing to my phone. Every Sunday morning, my boss has an employee check in on the greenhouse. We have a complex overnight irrigation system in the greenhouse, along with cameras and a monitoring app on our phone, but my boss, Stephanie, insists we manually come in and check. One technical blip ages ago keeps her on edge. The thought of the harsh Mesa Sunday destroying the more sensitive flowers is a constant fear of hers.
Every Sunday, the staff rotates the assignment. Today’s my turn. After checking the systems, I take advantage of the location and the emptiness. I shoot TikTok videos and cue them for the week.
“Shouldn’t I rehearse or something?” Jasmine adjusts her white denim shorts, not noticing that I’ve already started recording.
I spin for no other reason than because it’s the first thing I think of. “Life’s best moments aren’t rehearsed. Don’t think—act.”
Her giggle floats in the air as she lifts a hand to the sky and performs a pirouette. “You’re such a weirdo.”
My fingers tap, and a Lizzo anthem blares out. “I know.” I roll with the compliment. I pride myself on being different. All my life, I’ve acted this way. I’ve marched, danced, and lived life to the beat of my unique drum. And the best part is most people get it.
Jasmine shifts her dance to the tune, twirling her hips and pumping her chest to the driving beat. Without thinking, my feet lead me in front of the phone, and I join her. We’re two dancing fools, enjoying the sunshine and relishing all that life has to offer.
“I still can’t believe I’m doing this,” she says as we bump hips, toss our hair back, and spin in a fit of laughter.
“Not another summer,” I remind her of her pledge to me last fall. She had gone through the third summer in a row with a boy breaking up with her the last month of the spring college semester. The breakups ruined her mood and summer. Then in the fall, the pattern repeated.
This time, she spent her senior year avoiding relationships, not wanting to risk another guy leaving her heart on the tarmac while they hopped on a plane back to their hometown and probably a local girl on speed dial.
This summer will be different for a lot of reasons. One, she’s in a new city, and two, she’s recruited me as her wingwoman. Today is the start of Operation It’s About Freaking Time.
Besides, working at the flower shop, I’m a social media influencer. My brand is unique, not easily fitting into any predefined box, just like me. Somehow, I have over seven hundred thousand followers. I’ve been able to monetize my platform with over two dozen clients, a list that’s still surprising to me.
A simple post highlighting Jasmine’s charm, along with a few well-placed tags, should have her social media account blowing up and a pick of guys who should keep her busy and happy all summer.
The song ends, and Jasmine races to grab my phone. She pulls it off the tripod, biting down on her lower lip, and pulls the screen an inch from her nose.
“Glasses!” I yell at her. Jasmine is blind without her eyeglasses, yet she insists on taking them off every chance she gets. I understand why—her dark eyes are one of her best features. I’ve seen firsthand more than one guy stop dead in their tracks, unable to speak, hypnotized and helpless. Too bad Jasmine never gets to see their reaction up close without her glasses. Blurry, carnival-mirror images is how she had once described it to me.
She adjusts the wire frames across the bridge of her nose, swipes across the screen, and strides toward me. “I look as goofy as you,” she says, holding up the screen.
She’s right. We look like besties enjoying a private party. It’s perfect. “Take it as a compliment and get ready for your phone to blow up with notifications once I post.”
Her hand lowers, along with the smile on her face. She chews on her tongue, and I know she’s about to ask a question.
“You think Lucas will see it?”
My heart skips a beat. Lucas is my next-door neighbor and best friend in life. Has been since his family moved in when I was eight years old. Lucas and I have always been connected at the hip, our bond not missing a beat, even when he went to a different college on the opposite side of the country. He graduated this weekend and is coming home today. Jasmine knows Lucas never misses one of my posts. She’s known the answer to the question before she asked. “Are you interested in Lucas?” I hear the disbelief in my tone.
Her chin lowers to her chest, her eyes avoiding me.
She is.
I feel a tightness in my chest, something that has appeared recently whenever Lucas and I’ve chatted, and he shares updates on the latest schemes by the girls on his campus. I’ve gone from being his wingwoman in high school to feeling pangs of jealousy. I know why, but I’m not ready to admit it aloud just yet.
“I know you two are super tight. And he’s finally coming back home. I don’t want…” She can’t get the words out.
“If Lucas and I were ever going to be a thing, don’t you think it would have happened by now?” I say the words my friend expects to hear. I hold my truth tight, buried deep in my chest—Lucas and I have a long history and, if I’m correct, an even longer future ahead of us. But I’m not in a rush.
“So, you don’t think of him in that way? Never have?”
Heat races to my neck. It’s a question I was asked a lot back in high school when we shared nearly every free moment together. My friends finding me sitting on his lap or his arms around my shoulder was a common occurrence. But we were friends, close friends who shared everything—except what they questioned. I know I can outwait the question. Few of my friends have the patience or willpower I possess, and when Jasmine’s lips part two seconds later, I expect to be proven right.
“Have you guys ever kissed?” Jasmine doubles down with her interest, and my arms cross against my chest. There’s no simple answer. There never is when it comes to Lucas.
“When we were in high school, once,” I scoff out an answer, hoping to kill this conversation. My breathing stutters at the memory of us behind a closed pantry door. A high school party game, seven minutes in heaven. Four hundred and twenty seconds that changed me forever.
“Whew.” Jasmine lifts her shoulders and then lowers them. A half-smile returns. “Good, because if you ever decide… No one on the planet would stand a chance.” She bats her eyelids at m0e, allowing me to speak now or forever hold my peace.
Chapter Two
Lucas
“Lucas!” my mom shouts from the porch as my Uber pulls up to the house. She screams with an excitement most people wouldn’t expect from a parent who just saw their child in person at their graduation two days ago. But this is pure Mom.
A crooked, hand-painted sign hangs across the porch: Congrats Grad—Time to get to work. I chew on my tongue to hide my true reaction and steal a glance next door at the Marches’ home, our neighbors since the day we moved to Mesa when I was just a tadpole. My eyes automatically lift to the second-floor bedroom window of my best friend and the artist of my welcome home sign—Adrienne.
Two seconds home and already I’m consumed with thoughts of her. But this time, I tell myself it’s different. For five years, I’ve been on the road—a year of travel abroad followed by four years of college on the East Coast. I went from being around Adrienne practically twenty-four hours, seven days a week, from the moment we met to being on different coasts, different time zones, and living different lives. We went from sharing every thought with each other within moments of having them to following each other on social media, random texts, late-night calls, and the always-too-brief visits home.
I’ve missed her more than my mom’s jerk chicken. More than racing mountain bikes across the heated desert sand. I can’t wait to hold Adrienne in my arms again, breathe in her unique essence, absorb her very special energy. I’ve traveled the world, been to places I had only dreamed about as a child, and have studied side by side with students from all over the globe. Yet, there isn’t another soul anywhere on the planet who compares to Adrienne.
Her live life out loud, I know what I want, and I’m going to get it attitude is something I’ve never had. I thought five years away would provide the answers, and in some ways, it has but not when it comes to the most important things in life. Five years later, and I’m still floundering.
Dad’s friend has a seat waiting for me to start my career in a corporate office twenty miles away. I should be excited, but every time I think about it, my chest fills with a sense of dread. Becoming yet another office drone seems like a quick path to boredom and becoming a zombie. A steadily employed, able to put a roof over my head, tax-paying robot, but still a soulless creature going through the motions.
Mom wraps me in the world’s best mom hug. It’s filled with happiness, warmth, joy, and home. “Weh yuh ah seh?” she asks, her Jamaican accent thick. It always is when she becomes emotional. She’s dressed in a green, gold, and black summer wrap dress, the prideful colors of Jamaica on full display. Her skin is mahogany brown, two shades darker than mine.
A snicker escapes my mouth as Mom kept her patois under wraps during the trip east. Three decades in the United States has removed much of the edge from her accent, but not when she’s like this—home, happy, and filled with emotions.
I’m a born and raised US citizen but know my way around my heritage. “Mi deh yah, yuy know.” My accent is more performative, but it still brings joy to my mom’s face. I’m home and doing well.
Dad nods at me from the porch, coffee cup in his hand, one shoulder pressed to the pole, his feet in a kickstand. He’s the quiet one in the house with a biting humor. He shoots me a smirk before diverting his gaze up toward the sign. “Your girl’s been by.” Dad hides a smile behind a sip of coffee. He’s said his peace. He’s a man of few words. Dad grew up black in the South and doesn’t talk much about his past. Grandpa shares even less, both saying it’s best I concentrate on the future and the opportunities ahead. I suspect their history is part of the reason why we landed in Arizona, of all places.
I stretch my hand back and wave to my travel companion, who stands a few feet away, observing. “Mom, you remember my friend Trent?”
Trent’s hands are stuffed deep into his pockets, shoulders raised. His gaze is lifted, admiring the hand-painted sign. It’s on brand for Adrienne, seven different colors, the letter O’s written like a sunburst. She painted my name in a cartoon font, a reminder she took calligraphy lessons and that we share a history of sitting side by side watching the Power Puff Girls and Power Rangers together.
Trent is white and lean, standing just five seven, with stringy, dark hair that’s both too long and not long enough. He runs a nervous hand through his hair before leaning forward for a handshake.
“Any house guest in the Hobbses’ household gets a hug,” Mom says, squeezing him tight. Mom is aware of Trent’s situation. He lives in Northern California, and he’ll be staying with us for a week while his parents finish the renovations at their home. Trent’s mother is converting Trent’s bedroom into an artist’s studio for her painting. His dad had dropped multiple hints last semester that it might be a good idea for him to find and take a job in anyplace but his hometown. They’ve gotten rid of his childhood bed and dresser and have boxed up everything else. His parents have fallen in love with their empty nest and want to keep it that way. They aren’t subtle, and I’ve watched the damage their actions have caused Trent over the years.
“I hope you’re hungry. I’ve cooked up some of Lucas’ favorites—slow-braised pork, glazed carrots, and garlic mashed potatoes.” Mom rattles off a menu that’s far from my favorites. It’s not just Trent’s living situation I’ve shared with Mom. It’s been over a year since his parents have prepared him a home-cooked meal. Mom believes cooking for someone is one of the greatest expressions of true love. When she heard about Trent’s parents, I had to talk her out of hopping on a plane to California to confront them. I convinced her to do this instead.
Her accent was thick with disgust when we spoke on the phone. “Dem crazy Yankees don’t want no chile, shouldn’t have no chile.” I try not to judge because it doesn’t matter. All I know is Trent needs a friend, and that much I can control.
“Oh wow, that sounds delicious. Those are some of my favorite dishes as well.” Trent’s voice hitches, and his eyes water. Trent is a tender soul, and he’ll find his way. I’m hoping his temporary visit here will show him that not all parents act the way his do.
When Trent leans down to grab the handle of his luggage, Mom shoots me a wink. “Trent, I’m sure Lucas told you he has to run out for an errand, but after dinner, Wesley and I are streaming the Obi-Wan series on Disney Plus. We make popcorn from scratch and have a shelf full of bad candies—M&M’s, Raisinets, name your poison.”
Two weeks ago, Mom didn’t know what Disney Plus was. I gave her my sign-in info and told Dad about Trent. I don’t think they’ve watched a Star Wars movie since the original trilogy played in theaters, but Trent hasn’t stopped talking about it. My parents will do anything to make people feel special. Family means everything to us.
“If you keep saying things like that, I may not leave in a week,” Trent jokes and fails to realize his statement is filled with more truth than he thinks.
“Stay as long as you want. Lucas has been spoiled as an only child.” Mom leads Trent into the house as I shake my head, trailing behind.
I may have been an only child, but I’ve never felt alone. Especially not since moving to Mesa. The girl next door and I have been together since day one so often that she feels like family. At least, she did for many years.
As we get older, things get more complex.
“Be right in,” Trent says as he lets the door close in front of him. He juts his neck for me to step to the side of the porch and points up to the sign. “I assume that’s Adrienne’s handiwork?”
I feel the pull on the tops of my lips, an undeniable sense of joy spreading through my body as my smile provides all the answer he needs.
“And that’s her house?” he asks as his gaze lingers on the two-story, ranch-style, brown-and-gold home I could draw with my eyes closed. “Are you ready for it?”
I nod. Trent is aware of most of my history with Adrienne, but not all of it. He has also been my sounding board as I’ve spent the last three months wrestling whether to tell a lifelong friend that I want more. I’m not sure she’s ready—I’m not sure I’m ready. Just the thought of the conversation wrecks my nerves. The cost and damage to our friendship is a heavy price to pay, but my heart reminds me she’s worth it. She’s the brightest star in a sky littered with ordinary. If only I could muster up the courage.
“Let me get you settled, and then I’m going to run off to meet Adrienne. Wish me luck.”
Trent slaps me on my back. “Now I get it. Why you’ve always had a smile on your face, no matter what the world threw at us. Your parents are remarkable, and you have a best friend thirty yards away. You’re one lucky man.”
My scoff hides my truth. What I’m feeling deep in my chest is much more than a friendship. I’ve spent five years searching for something that has always lived next door.
It’s time I told her.
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