Page 11 of The Small-Town Seduction Plan

“I don’t know. Work is crazy right now…” I add vaguely. Suze is a teacher at the local high school, and always trying to rope me into helping out with her extracurriculars. “Can’t Lori do it?”

“My wife is claiming this wasn’t covered in our marriage vows,” Suze replies. “But you look like you’re in dire need of some fun.” She fixes her gaze on me with a determined grin, and I know, I’m not getting out of this one.

I sigh. “And by ‘fun’, you mean building sets for the production?”

“Angel. We also might need you to donate all the equipment and materials, too,” she adds hurriedly. “But it’ll be great! You, me, a hoard of hormonal teens butchering the greatest works of dramatic literature, what’s not to like?”

I have to laugh. “The last time I helped out with one of your projects, I wound up building a miniature replica of the White House,” I remind her good-naturedly. “What play are you doing this time?”

“Romeo and Juliet.”

I laugh louder. “The horniest, most violent of all Shakespeare’s plays? What made you think it was a good idea to get the kids riled up for that?”

She makes a face. “I know, I might have bitten off more than I can chew… but it seemed like such a good idea at the time! I fly too close to the sun,” she declares, and I pat her back sympathetically.

“Easy there, Icarus. Let’s see if we can’t build you some better wings.”

I would prefer to forget that Avery Lawrence and her baby blue eyes ever existed, but news travels fast in Blackberry Cove, and everywhere I go, people are gushing over her unexpected visit.

“I heard she’s signed up to play Marilyn Monroe in a new movie,” Margie gossips in line at the pharmacy.

“I heard she’s fresh out of rehab, after a breakdown,” Linette Walters says breathlessly at the diner.

You’d think they’d never seen a Hollywood celebrity up close, even though we had a whole movie production set up camp here last summer. And they couldn’t get gone fast enough for me.

I’ve been living half my life in Blackberry Cove. I left for a spell to go to college, and set up shop with my construction company in Boston, but when things went south there, I came right back to the Cape. The quiet pace of life suits me here, and I like the simple, down-to-earth vibes. With all the tourists wanting summer homes, there’s plenty of work to go around, and the people here aren’t impressed by status or empty charm.

At least, not usually.

But clearly Avery’s been flashing that butter-wouldn’t-melt smile around town, because everyone’s forgotten what a highly-strung nightmare she was during the movie, and is thrilled to have her back again.

Everyone except me.

“She was in here, asking about a handyman. Pretty as a picture.”

I stop by the hardware store, figuring I’d be safe from the Avery Lawrence fan club there.

I was wrong.

“Seems she’s got a leak, staying out at Jaycee Bennett’s old house. You know, she’s just the sweetest thing,” Earl continues, behind the counter, chatting to the other old-timers who like to hang out here, shooting the shit and kvetching over the news. “I don’t believe those tabloids for a minute.”

“I don’t know,” Artie Bates pitches in. “She had an attitude on her last summer, that’s for sure.”

“But I’m sure she doesn’t mean it. It’s, whatdoyoucallit, professional detachment, like,” Dick from the marina adds. “She’s probably got people buzzing around her all the time, wanting photos and autographs. You can understand her being a little cool to a fella.”

“What do you think, Duke?” Earl asks, as I fill a basket with supplies. “What’s she doing back here, have you heard?”

“No idea,” I answer shortly, and get back to browsing the crammed, dusty aisles. But their chatter drifts over, as they discuss her last movie, and broken engagement, and how if they were forty years younger, they might go making a fool of themselves for her.

“…but I told her, she’d be hard-pressed to find someone to fix it,” Earl is still nattering, when I come to the register to pay. “Say, I don’t suppose you could stop by and help her out,” he adds, looking over at me. “Sounds like it’s just the roof needing a patch. Wouldn’t take you a jiffy.”

“Sorry, busy,” I say shortly, pulling out some bills.

“But—”

“Gotta run. Thanks!” I cut him off, and get the hell out of there before he talks me into doing another favor and has me halfway up a ladder, fixing the movie star’s roof.

That’s the downside about small towns: your neighbors never learn to take “no” for an answer.

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