Page 8 of Should Have Been Me

Waking up every morning at four thirty was the only way I could guarantee I’d have time to get in a workout before my day officially started. If I wasn’t up before the sun, I was already late. However, the storm that went through some time in the night while I was sleeping had apparently knocked out the power, knocking out my alarm clock.

It was my internal alarm that had me shooting up from a deep sleep at five, but without time to hit my home gym, I already felt like I was starting the day off on the wrong foot, which set the tone for the hours to come.

I had a day full of conference calls and Zoom meetings, so after a scalding shower to wash the cobwebs left from a jarring wake-up, I moved to the closet and donned one of my suits. At thirty-eight, I should have been sick and tired of the routine of twisting a tie into a perfect Windsor knot and slipping monogrammed cufflinks into my cuffs morning after morning, but dressing for business every single day was something I was used to.

My mother liked to tote me around from time to time when she felt the need to play the strong, successful single mother, and during those times, a suit and tie were a requirement. Just as they were with the private schools I’d been forced to attend since leaving Pembrooke. At thirteen—hell, even at fourteen and fifteen, those suits had been my goddamn nightmare, but I eventually became accustomed, and now they were like a second skin.

I donned the expensive Italian fabrics that had been tailored to my body’s specifications like armor. Each business day was like a battle, and I went in prepared.

However, when I headed into the kitchen for a cup of coffee, I discovered not only did the expensive-as-hell coffee maker get knocked out with the power, but a surge had seemed to fry it, because the son of a bitch refused to turn on.

A man could go into battle with his armor on, but if he didn’t have a necessary weapon, it was useless. I somehow managed to slug my way through my first call without the aid of caffeine, but that was the extent of my brain function.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, so I called my assistant, who was still back in Denver, and had her push my next video conference by an hour so I could run to town for a cup of coffee. As I guided my car through the sloping backroads that led from my house to the town below, I questioned my need for solitude for the very first time.

At least in my penthouse I could have used an app to get something delivered, but, even though Pembrooke was caught up on recent technology enough to offer DoorDash and Postmates, I lived too far out for anyone to make the drive.

I’d hired a service to come in and stock my fridge and pantry with food and paid a chef to meal prep every Sunday, so as I drove down the main drag of downtown Pembrooke, I was seeing it all for the first time in more than two decades. What struck me hardest was just how familiar it still felt. Memories started flooding my brain like a dam had just busted.

The corner store and barber shop directly across the street from the salon were just as they’d been when I was a boy.

The Drunken Moose was right where it had been when I was a kid and my dad would take me there once a week to eat wings and watch whatever game they had playing on the television. He called those evenings our guy time, and kept them up even after he remarried and my stepmother had my half-sister.

Until I saw that familiar sign, I’d forgotten all about those evenings.

Guilt shot straight through my chest like a bullet piercing my skin.

How could I have forgotten about them?

I shook off the shame that coated my skin like a clammy sweat and guided my car through the streets that’d been locked in time, preserved for the past twenty-five years. This wasn’t the type of town to have a Starbucks on every corner or a big-box store where you could stop to get anything from groceries to clothes to a new set of tire chains. The people here liked things at a much slower pace. It was one of the reasons my mother hated it.

Sinful Sweets had been one of my favorite places back in the day, having served the best cupcakes and sweets a kid could want, and I recalled every time my father brought me in for a treat, he’d get himself a cup of coffee.

The bakery was still there, only now it was even bigger and had been retitled to Sinful Sweets Café. As soon as I pushed through the heavy glass doors, I recognized the old mixed in with some new. The shop hadn’t been redone so much as expanded. On one side was the familiar bakery and coffee shop, while the other side had the café with a kitchen and seating for eat-in dining.

It was barely seven in the morning, and already, both sides were quickly filling to the point discomfort had my skin tightening over my bones and muscles. I needed to get my coffee and get the hell out of there, so I moved toward the bakery side and joined the line that had already formed.

Just then, the door behind the front counter swung open and the redheaded woman who moved through was one I would have recognized anywhere—mainly because I’d had a crush on her from the time I was old enough to appreciate women until the day I was forced to leave. Chloe Delaney had run this place for as long as I could remember, and if I liked people, I might have said it was nice to see she was still at it.

I moved to the counter when it was my turn, ordering a large black coffee from the woman I used to have a crush on, and noticed her smile was still as bright; she was still a knockout, even all these years later.

My muscles tightened as recognition sparked in her eyes. Her gaze narrowed on me as she slid my coffee across the counter. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?” she asked, clearly trying to place me.

If I’d been a nice person, I would have reminded her of who I was. Instead, I dropped my change in the tip jar and took a step back. “Don’t think so,” I lied, holding up my cup. “Thanks for the coffee.” I turned on the heel of my leather Ferragamos and headed out the way I came, ignoring the curious looks from the people around me. It had been a while, but I knew all too well that nosiness was a small-town thing. I was the mysterious new guy they’d never seen, and I was sure it was only a matter of time before tongues started wagging.

I climbed into my car without sparing a look to a single person and started back toward my house with barely a free minute to spare before my next meeting.

I’d brought the cup to my lips, taking the first sip of coffee that was a hundred times better than I’d expected it to be, when all of a sudden, something darted out into the road.

I slammed on my brakes with a curse, sending the coffee flying, the scalding hot liquid spilling down the front of my crisp white shirt and into my lap, the heat of it peeling layers of skin off with it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I shouted, gripping the wheel with both hands as I whipped the car to a stop and threw it into park before shoving the door open, all while trying to pull the fabric of my shirt away from my skin to keep it from causing any more damage.

I made the mistake of climbing out, and shit went from bad to worse.

“What the fuck?” I managed to shout just before I was attacked.

5

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