Page 140 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

“Oh, and a ‘Bad to the bean’ cookie. The pink one.”

“Absolutely. Anything else?”

“That’s it.”

I tap my credit card and take the cookie from her, tucking it in my bag. Now that I’ve been standing a few minutes, my bladder is screaming.

I hurry to the bathroom. When I wash my hands in front of the mirror, I realize that I’m a seriously hot mess. No makeup. My blond hair is falling out of its messy updo. Nobody would call me Hollywood.

“You’re plain ol’ Kelsey,” I tell my reflection.

It’s fine. It’ll be fine.

I haven’t told anyone in my family I’m coming. I’m not sure I’m staying. That’ll depend on how bad things are when I get there. I put most of my stuff in storage so I don’t have to show up with my entire life in a U-Haul. Not yet.

I spoke to my dad two nights ago, planning to tell him I was headed his way. He said he only had a second because he had to finish the evening chores.

Always the chores. Always more to do.

“I wanted to see how you were,” I told him.

“Be a mite better if my kids hadn’t run off all over creation and bailed on the family farm.”

“Cal’s still there, right?”

“I got left with the laziest of the lot.”

Oh. Gosh. “Well,” I said, “those chores aren’t going to do themselves!”

And that was a long conversation compared to our usual.

When I get to the farm, I’ll reserve the right to escape right on out of there if it’s too awful. I have little hope I won’t eventually be labeled the lazy one as well. Nobody works at the level Dad expects. He should team up with Desdemona. They could be angry and miserable together.

As I head back into the main room of the shop, the barista calls out, “Bold double-oh-seven drizzle with almond milk!” She sets it on the end of the counter.

I head for it right as someone else stands from a chair, slightly behind me. Did we order the same thing?

I walk up, about to ask if this one is mine, when the person behind me trips, bumping into me. I lurch to the side with a grunt. Geez.

A muscled arm reaches for my latte, or maybe it’s his, then whips around so quick that the lid pops off, spilling iced espresso all across my shirt.

“Hey!” I cry, finally turning to look at the guy. “What’s your ...”

The words die on my lips.

It’s Zachery. Zachery Carter, actor of gross-out comedies from the last decade, walker of red carpets, wearing a gorgeous silk T-shirt (Loro Piana, $575) and mohair shorts (Prada, $1,700).

He’s here in Cara’s Caramel Coffee Shop in a coincidence every editor would strike from the script as not believable.

He sets the cup on a nearby table, his hand dripping. “Sorry, miss. I’m pretty clumsy.” He pulls a handful of napkins from the metalcontainer on the table and starts wiping my shirt. “I thought that was my order.”

The room has gone quiet. We’re the most interesting thing happening in the shop.

“I’ll make another,” the barista says, but she doesn’t move.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, but he doesn’t seem to have words. And that’s odd. Zachery is never short on things to say. His brown eyes lock on mine.

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