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1
The local meteorologist estimated today’s high to reach ninety degrees. The humidity and direction of the mountain breeze will determine whether the cabin will transform into a sauna. Luckily, I dressed for the weather in my comfy sneakers and no-show socks, a loose tee tucked into blue jean cutoffs. This outfit screams summer, and I love it. My shorts might be just a little too short, but who knows me here? A peek of ass cheek poking out from under the frayed edging never hurt anyone.
And it’s always my favorite time of year when I get to box up my teaching clothes and trade out that summer wardrobe!
Finding everything I need at Raubuchon’s is a cinch; pumping myself up to clean for half the day will take a little more effort. As the cashier rings up my purchase, the older gentleman bagging gives me a soft smile and, with the kindest eyes, says, “Welcome to town.”
Meriden is a small place where everyone knows who the locals are, who the summer people are, and who is just plain lost. Despite having spent the summers of my childhood and fewer weekends than I would’ve liked during my adolescence here, I don’t fit neatly into one category.
Because I have more cleaning supplies than a maid service, I have to stash these items in the bed of my truck so they won’t fly out as I drive. I hoist all five feet two inches of myself onto the back tire, one foot on the wheel and one foot leaning on the shopping cart. I grab the hair elastic off my wrist and throw my long hair into a loose ponytail.
I continue to maneuver the bags into the truck, my shorts creeping higher and higher. As I do my last squat to grab the final bag, I catch a baseball hat in my peripheral view coming toward me. I freeze, staying in my squat, ass cheeks dipping low while I whip my head to my left and notice a man who stops me dead in my tracks.
His downward gaze is glued to my ass cheeks, exposed for viewing pleasure. I promptly reposition, his eyes forced to meet mine, and jump off my back tire. My keys, phone, debit card, and license fall under my truck. My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I scramble through the dirt, trying to collect everything. I stand up to regain composure. He hasn’t moved an inch.
Damn, he is attractive. He is wearing fitted blue jeans, dirty work boots, a once-white local brewery shirt, and shaggy blond hair tucked under his backward Red Sox hat. His eyes, his freaking eyes. They are a green you rarely get a glimpse of, resembling flecks of emerald. His cheeks are the brightest shade of red. He saw more of me than I’d intended.
In one smooth motion, he lifts his arms, removes his hat, and finger-combs his hair, revealing a six-pack under his shirt. His mouth curves into a grin when he witnesses my attention traveling to his stomach. He smirks, pulls his hat back on, and tucks his hands into both pockets, thumbs resting on top of his jeans. I wipe the rapidly drying mud on my palms onto my already tanned thighs and tug at my shorts as much as possible while holding his gaze.
What is going on?I’m at the hardware store, prepping to spend the day cleaning, and I am fanning the flames of heat erupting between my legs.
“Hi, I didn’t mean to stare, but you rarely spot such a sweet view at the hardware store. I’m Jackson. You must be new to town.” His stare is intense and breathtaking, and he holds out his hand.
“Yes, I am, and apparently it’s obvious. I’m Solia.” Shocked I can string coherent sentences together, I extend my hand.
“It’s a small town. If I’d seen you around, I would’ve remembered,” he confesses, flashing a boyish smile that will also be hard to forget. “Well, welcome to town. Maybe I’ll bump into you again?” He gives a soft laugh and walks toward the store’s entrance, but not before glancing back to catch me staring at his tight ass as he saunters away.
I guess we’re even now.
Not exactly how I expected my first Meriden interaction to go. When I pulled off exit 23 into New Hampshire today, meeting a hot guy was at the very bottom of my list.
Driving out of the hardware store lot, I open the windows, crank the music, and remind myself that I left every poor excuse of a man behind. I am a force to be reckoned with. I always wanted to be this girl—independent, fearless, taking charge of my life.
Today, I am that girl.
I inhale the fresh mountain air of my new hometown. I won’t let myself dwell on Jackson’s downright sexiness. I will not let myself think twice about walking into the store to find him.
Onward to the cabin.
If you’d asked me where I’d be at twenty-six, I wouldn’t have guessed I’d be driving solo in a beat-up pickup truck, venturing out of my comfort zone, and starting fresh. I finally read the writing on the wall. Sure, I was trading one small town for another, but there had to be more to life than what I was doing.
I’ve always been a type A personality, the girl everyone thought had her shit together. I was checking off my life goals one by one, like a contestant in a race. Live in a small town near where I grew up: Check! Get a job and earn a living as an elementary school teacher: Check! Lease an apartment: Check!
Find the man of my dreams: Nada!
I didn’t think that was too much to ask for. I am an outgoing, adventurous, goal-oriented person. I take care of myself and the people in my life.
Growing up in a small town has its disadvantages, but it has more pros than cons. The community is one big, supportive family. Staying close to family was important, so I rented a furnished apartment in town. I filled each room with things I love—indoor plants in every spot they’d fit, whimsical chimes in a few of the windows, and memories of the people I love most. A picture of my parents, taken during their last trip to Florida, rested on the side table in the living room. A picture of my brother, his wife, and their two kids sat in a frame beside them.
I had a few throwbacks from college alongside recent pictures of Mia, my best friend, and me. People often mistake us for sisters, both blue-eyed, with long, brown hair, and small button noses. But of course, there is the height difference. Mia is a lengthy five foot seven, plus her hair is pin-straight and tame compared to mine. While she may not be my actual sister, she’s the closest thing I’ll ever have to one.
My parents recently helped paint my bedroom a washout white, and I’d purchased new curtains and a comforter. Two wooden shelves by my bed held pictures of Kyle and me. My favorite was the one with our backs to the ocean as the sun set below the horizon at Camp Cronan. Kyle wore the blue bathing suit I bought for him—I knew it would fit him amazingly. I had on my favorite blue bikini and my beach waves blew in the breeze. We both squinted and smiled, my head tilted to Kyle to meet his gaze. We had such a great day.
I had convinced myself things were going great.
My teaching career started in a neighboring town. I taught second grade and the kids were amazing, but the hours as a new teacher were taking a toll. Quitting was never an option; I continued to work hard and trudge through. However, our enrollment declined after a new charter school opened in town. Because of low numbers, a second-grade classroom would be cut. Being the lowest on the seniority list, I was officially laid off at the end of the school year.
In the meantime, I was enjoying my exciting whirlwind romance. Kyle and the phrase “the love of my life” became synonymous, or so I thought. We had just celebrated our seven-month anniversary at Whispering Dunes, a beautiful seaside restaurant on Ocean Drive in Narragansett. Things were an absolute dream—until I received a text later that night.
