Page 1 of The Snuggle Is Real

Chapter One

Emily

“This town can’t be for real,” I mutter as I navigate my car through the town square in Wanted, Kentucky.

It might as well be a movie set for a cozy rom com titled Falling For Love. It comes complete with straw bales, pumpkins by the dozens, a hot chocolate stand, and a gingham festooned gazebo. If I look left there are colorful and quaint shopfronts with huge potted mums in yellow and burgundy and more than one jaunty scarecrow. If I look to the right, I’m met with the lush green grass of the town square and trees whose leaves are bursting with colors from orange to vibrant red.

A woman is walking her dog.

Parents are pushing strollers.

The church bell is ringing. When I roll my window down the crisp air smells like a bonfire is blazing somewhere close by.

This feels like a simulation of a perfect autumn evening in a picturesque small town.

As if on cue, fairy lights turn on, illuminating the entire downtown in a soft glow against the backdrop of dusk.

“Come on,” I say in disbelief.

Now Wanted is just showing off.

I love it.

I can admit it.

As a wedding planner, the goal is always to create a mood, a moment, a whole vibe, without it looking like you tried too hard.

This town has achieved that. It’s screaming fall charm with a capital F.

I pull into an empty spot on the street. No meter. Free and plentiful parking is always something I look for as a wedding planner. Guests having to scan a QR code on a metal sign to pay fifteen bucks to park when they’re in formal dress instantly irritates them.

Sighing, I try to shut off my work brain.

I’m here to attend a wedding, not plan or execute one.

But for someone who has dedicated her entire adult life to her career, it’s not easy for me to just…relax.

Especially since being a wedding guest is not exactly how I would choose to spend my one weekend off this entire quarter but I couldn’t say no.

Opening my car door, I step out onto the pavement and take a deep breath, stretching my shoulders and rolling my neck. It’s not a long drive from Nashville to Wanted, but long enough that I’m stiff from not taking a break.

Wearing loose wide-leg jeans and navy striped sneakers, along with a chunky navy sweater, I feel like I should have worn olive, orange, or yellow instead. I’m not matching the main street’s aesthetic.

I glance up at the street sign.

Not Main Street.

Whiskey Way.

This town was built on bourbon at the turn of the last century.

Bells jangle. I turn to see the door to a place called Dinky’s Diner opening and a very familiar figure stepping out.

Malcolm Lennox.

My Malcolm.

Well, not my Malcolm in that way.