From the Start

  “Why’s she working alone?”

  “Apparently Megan went home sick.”

  Megan, the angry emo girl? Kate sighed and unzipped her jacket. “Fine, I’ll help for a while. But only for a while.” Because she was supposed to be writing the opening chapter—chapters, if she was lucky—of Colton’s book today. She had to come up with something to send his manager soon.

  She slipped behind the counter and found an apron hanging over a peg. “Help is here.”

  The woman behind the cash register punched at its keys. “You don’t how much of a lifesaver you are. I was about to curl up in a ball and cry.”

  Thirty-five minutes later, the line of customers had finally dwindled to its end. Kate sighed and slumped against the back wall. “For a minute there, I thought we were going to have a riot on our hands. Especially when we ran out of pumpkin bread.” The customers had emptied the glass display case.

  And if Kate never made another mocha in her life, it’d be too soon.

  Amelia untied the apron at her waist, then held out a hand. “Time for proper introductions. I’m Amelia. I work at the paper. And sometimes here. Though if Megan ever leaves me alone again, I’m turning in my resignation.”

  Kate accepted her handshake. “Kate Walker.”

  “Raegan’s sister. The one who’s writing Colton Greene’s book.”

  “One and the same.” Planning to write anyway. And after last weekend, she finally had something to write.

  Why then, every time she’d sat down in the past couple days since then, had her fingers frozen over her laptop keys?

  “Which makes you just about the luckiest girl in town. Everybody’s talking about him. And if he hadn’t turned me down for an interview, I’d be writing about him, too.”

  “Between the tornado and possible upcoming flood, you’d think people in this town would have enough to talk about.” Sunlight gushed through the shop’s front windows, and Kate lifted her hand to shield her eyes. Even from here, she could see the river glistening across the road, its waters lapping higher than usual. “So what happened to Megan anyway?”

  “Took off sick. So sick she shouldn’t have driven herself home. But I don’t think she has any family in the area. Not many friends either.”

  From what Kate had seen of the girl, it wasn’t too surprising.

  “I’d go check on her, but if I put up a Closed sign, that riot might actually happen.”

  Kate glanced at the computer bag she’d abandoned when she took up residence behind the counter. She really needed to write.

  But if Megan was that sick . . . and she didn’t have anybody . . .

  Decision made. Kate untied her purple apron and slipped it over her head. “I’ll go. Know where she lives?”

  “Yeah, only about a half mile away. I’ll write down the address for you.”

  Ten minutes later, Kate pulled up in front of an old Victorian house that’d been remodeled into two residences. Painted cotton candy pink, it stood out from behind a sprawling willow tree. Soooo pink.

  Kate double-checked the address on her scrap of paper—143B. West side. Kate got out of her car and in seconds stood atop the open porch of the old house. It took three rings of the doorbell before the door swung open.

  Megan’s raspy “What?” was pure irritation. Her nose was red and her green eyes glassy, surrounded by dark smudges.

  “Uh . . . hey. You look awful.”

  “Gee, thanks. Is that all?”

  The girl wore a quilt around her shoulders and held it in place underneath her chin.

  “You’re sick?”

  “No, I just like playing Superman when I’m by myself.”

  Even with a hoarse voice—and probably a fever, too, if the redness of her cheeks was any indication—she still pulled off effortless snark. But she’d said she was by herself. And that was enough to tug a maternal instinct in Kate. She brushed past Megan.

  “Hey, what are you doing?”

  At first glance, the entrance of Megan’s house was about what she would’ve expected from someone her age. Band posters lining the wall against the open staircase leading to the second floor, a few items of clothing draped over the railing, and a laundry basket sitting on one of the steps.

  But then she entered the living room. And stopped. It was like walking into a greenhouse—plants, so many of them, such a variety. Draping from end tables and wall shelves. Covering a window seat and lining the fireplace mantel.

  Megan shuffled into the room behind her.

  Kate turned, catching a glimpse of the shock on her own face in the mirror behind Megan.

  But Megan only shrugged. “What? So I like plants.”

  “How do you take care of all of them?”

  She sneezed. “Water and sunlight. It’s not rocket science.”

  Kate stuck her palm on Megan’s forehead. “You’ve got a fever, girl. Do you have any Tylenol?”

  “I’ve been taking it all day.”

  And clearly that’s not the only thing she’d been doing today—not if that ice cream bucket by the couch meant what she thought it did. The thought of stomach flu germs was enough to make her shudder.

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to be here either.” Megan dropped onto the couch. “But you’re the one who barged in. I don’t even know you.”

  “You should go to the doctor.”

  “They’ll just say it’s a virus and tell me to wait it out.”

  “Have you eaten anything today? Do you need groceries? Or more Kleenex? I could go to the store. I could get you some NyQuil—that stuff’s a miracle in a bottle.”

  Megan shook her head, dark hair tumbling from a messy bun, and lay on a pillow. “I’m fine.” She tucked her legs underneath her quilt. “Except for the fact that I have no idea why you’re here.”

  Kate lowered onto the loveseat. “I was at Coffee Coffee. Amelia said you went home sick. She was worried about you.”

  Megan closed her eyes. “I’m fine. Just needed rest. I’ll go back in a few hours.”

  “Pretty sure no one’s going to want you serving their coffee. You should probably call your manager and take the rest of the day off.”

  “Don’t need to call.”

  “You can’t go back to work.”

  She opened one eye. “I don’t need to call because I am the manager. It’s my place.”

  Okay, forget the plants. This surprise won. “Wait, you’re saying you own Coffee Coffee. You’re what, twenty years old?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Twenty-one and you own and operate your own business.”

  Megan must have heard the How? in Kate’s voice. She lifted her head to perch it in her hand. “My grandmother left me an inheritance. To put it delicately, I’m loaded. Or was, until I bought Coffee Coffee.”

  “That’s putting it delicately?”

  “Lucky for me, unlike a lot of inheritances that don’t kick in until a person’s twenty-one, my grandma stipulated that I receive the money when I turned eighteen.”

  She tightened the blanket around her shoulders. “I . . . I think she must’ve known when she finalized the will that my homelife wasn’t all that . . . homey.”

  Megan sneezed again, and Kate fished for a Kleenex box she’d seen peeking out from underneath a curling plant. “Mind me asking how so?”

  “Oh, I wasn’t abused—nothing like that. My parents are both doctors, actually. Really busy. Rarely home. When they were, I usually felt like I was in the way. You ever get the feeling you grate on somebody just by being around them?”

  Uh, yeah, she could think of someone. As in someone in this room. As in not a plant.

  Megan finished her tea, then set her mug on the coffee table. “Anyway, it’s not a sob story or anything, but I made the mistake of telling them when I was seventeen I didn’t want to go to college. They got mad. Next thing I knew I was graduating high school with no plans but a bank account that gave me options.”

  “So you bought a coffee shop?”


  “Not right away. I traveled for a few months, wasted more money than I care to think about. Followed a guy to Maple Valley, which was stupid, but ended up okay because I saw the coffee shop was up for sale and everything clicked.”

  “You are one surprising kid, Megan.”

  Megan flopped back onto her pillow, as if spilling her backstory had sapped her energy.

  “I’m going to make you soup.” Kate stood. “Kitchen’s that way?”

  “You really don’t have to.”

  “I know I don’t.”

  She was halfway through the next room—more breakfast nook than dining room, with an antique-looking round table and wooden chairs—when she heard Megan’s raspy voice call her name.

  She poked her head back into the living room. “Yeah, Megan?”

  “Thanks.” When Megan closed her eyes and pulled her blanket up to her chin, she didn’t look like a saucy twenty-one-year-old business owner but a girl unknowingly hungry for something much more than soup.

  Kate lingered in the doorway, watching Megan’s soft breath fan her bangs for another minute before turning once more.

  She found Megan’s kitchen well stocked—much more so than she ever kept her own. Organized, too. She located chicken broth and a bag of egg noodles. A chicken breast in the freezer and celery and carrots in the fridge. A good-sized pot in the drawer underneath the stove.

  She worked in quiet—only the sound of her knife bouncing against the cutting board and a woodpecker outside the window over the kitchen sink for background noise. And then, the ding of her phone. Signaling an email. Which she waited to read until she’d set the chicken broth boiling on the stove.

  And then wished she hadn’t read at all.

  Gil. Because apparently he just couldn’t leave her alone.

  She jumped as the sound of boiling water spilling over the edge of the pot on the stove hissed into the silence.

  If Ian didn’t stop grumbling soon, Colton was going to hang up on him. It’d be a first.

  It’d be a relief.

  Colton stepped out of the car, clamping down on the desire to defend himself against Ian’s irritation. A tangle of gnarled leaves was visible under the car’s tires.

  “It shouldn’t have been hard. Three minutes of poise, talking about the game you know inside and out.”

  Did Ian not realize he was upset enough at himself after his poor performance on Saturday? It was the same battered feeling he used to get after bad game days, especially early in his career, when the overwhelming desire to prove himself had tailed him like a dogged stalker.

  In front of him now, the two-story home where Webster’s foster family resided gobbled up the bulk of its lot, flanked on both sides by smaller, ranch-style houses. Sure beat some of the run-down sorry-excuses-for-a-house placements he’d found himself in during his nine-year stint in the foster care system.

  And from what he’d heard from Coach Leo and Case Walker, the Clancy family was a good one. He leaned against his car as he waited for Ian to finish his tirade. Who knew whether Webster was home—or would even agree to see Colton if he was.

  If only he’d been smart enough to actually look at his phone before answering it when it’d started ringing on the way over.

  “If you’re done with the lecture, I’ve got someplace to be.”

  “This isn’t a lecture, Greene.”

  “Then what is it? You know I’ve never been good in front of a camera.”

  “You’ve done dozens of press conferences.”

  “This was different.”

  “Why?”

  Frustration beat through him. He ducked his chin into the high collar of his fleece pullover. “I don’t know.” But it was. Somehow he’d managed to get used to groups of cameras and bullet-like questioning from reporters all at once. But there was something different about one camera in his face . . .

  Like the difference between running a play on the football field with his whole team, versus running the field alone.

  A dog barking in a distant yard cut into the otherwise quiet of the neighborhood. Colton let his pause stretch.

  He could hear Ian’s forced exhale loud and clear. When his manager finally spoke again, his tone was low, his pacing steady. “I’ve got a full client list, Greene. You’ve always been one of my best. A favorite. But my patience has its limits.”

  “Ian—”

  “I want to help you land on your feet in a post-team career. I really do. But if you’re bent on sabotaging yourself, there’s nothing I can do.”

  Colton straightened, a gust of wind raking over his hair and stinging his eyes. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you need to decide what you want, and you need to decide soon. No more flaking out or it might be time to find yourself a new manager. I don’t like saying it. But there it is.”

  Yes, there it was. An ultimatum in plain, unmistakable terms.

  He pushed away from his car and started up toward the Clancy house. The smell of someone burning the first of autumn’s leaves drifted over the sidewalk. “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah.” If Ian didn’t believe him, he’d just have to prove it. He’d practice or something. Go buy a camera and have Kate play reporter and learn to put up with the stare of the lens.

  “Fine, then.” Ian didn’t sound convinced. “Oh, and by the way, call Lilah back sometime, will you? She’s been trying to get ahold of you. You’ve got to make some decisions about your foundation.”

  They hung up and Colton let out a long sigh as he climbed the Clancys’ porch steps, the creak of the stairs under his Nikes setting off a round of barking inside the house. He pressed the doorbell.

  “Hush up, Rocky.” The scolding came in sync with the screen door opening, hinges squeaking. A woman appeared in the doorway, bright red hair peeking out from underneath a Maple Valley Mavericks baseball cap. “I am so sorry about our crazy dog. You’d think Rocky had never seen another human being.”

  Behind her, the little dog yapped and jumped. “As in Balboa?”

  “No, as in Colavito.”

  “The baseball player. Nice.”

  “We take our sports seriously around here.” She reached down to snatch the puppy up. He gave one more bark, then quieted. “I told my husband we should’ve opted for a snake or lizard or something, but nooo. He had to have a dog.”

  “I like that your options were between a dog or a reptile.”

  She grinned. “You’re that football player, aren’t you?”

  “Guilty as charged. Colton Greene.” He held out a hand, then gave a sheepish grin when he realized she couldn’t shake it with the dog in her arms. He dropped his arm to his side.

  “Laura Clancy.” She stepped aside to let him in the house. The smell of what had to be chocolate chip cookies engulfed him, his stomach suddenly reminding him he’d missed out on dinner, having stayed late to help Case at the depot. “Nice of you to bid on Webster last week. Him being new in town and all, I wasn’t sure he’d be a quick pick.”

  Laura spoke as Colton followed her into a living room—worn but comfortable furniture, end tables crammed with framed photos, a slew of dog toys spread on the carpet.

  “Is he around? Mind if I talk to him?”

  “Sure, down in the basement. Follow me.”

  She led the way through a dining room—wall shelves crowded with trophies and more family photos—into the kitchen, then to a doorway at the back. She opened it and ducked her head inside. “Hey, Web, you’ve got a visitor.”

  Only silence rose up from the stairway leading down.

  Laura turned, sighed.

  “I’ll head down, if you don’t mind.”

  “Please, have at it.”

  His feet padded over the carpet-covered steps as he descended into the basement, air cooling around him. He spotted Webster right away, hunched over a notebook sprawled atop a desk.

  He paused at the bottom of the steps. Should he go in furth
er? “Hey, Hawks, it’s me.”

  Webster didn’t even glance up.

  “I texted you.”

  “Got homework.”

  Colton nodded slowly and glanced around the room. When Laura Clancy had said basement, he’d pictured wood paneling and shag carpet. Maybe a futon for a bed and pipes running overhead. But this was a nice setup. Carpet couldn’t be more than a couple years old, light-colored walls, a high ceiling, and recessed lighting took away any basementy feel to the room. Flat-screen TV and desk complete with iMac weren’t too shabby either.

  And yet . . .

  Even as nice as it was, he couldn’t help wondering if Webster might feel isolated down here. Maybe in the Clancys’ effort to provide him a space all his own, they didn’t realize that what kids like Webster really wanted—whether they realized it or not—wasn’t so much independence but inclusion.

  Belonging was a tough enough sense to conjure up when all the rest of the world seemed to be divided into family units and you were on your own. It was all the more difficult to grasp onto when feeling like the odd man out in the latest foster home.

  Not that he faulted the Clancys. Their hearts were obviously in the right place.

  “I just came by to drop this off.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the watch Webster had left in that puddle of mud on the field. He’d stopped by the jewelry store downtown this morning—had it fixed.

  Webster stopped writing, still didn’t look up.

  Colton set the watch on the desk next to him.

  Webster’s quiet expanded into something thoughtful. He picked up the watch, ran his thumb over its face. “My dad’s. Only thing of his I’ve got.”

  Colton had thought it might be something like that. He stayed silent, waited while Webster fit the watch over his wrist. And then, “I heard there’s a joint downtown that has good pizza and old-school Pac-Man.”

  Webster finally looked up, an unspoken thank-you written all over his face. “Quarters?”

  “We’ll get some on the way.”

  Webster stood, grabbed the sweatshirt draped over the back of his chair. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  “It’s called an intellectual property transfer agreement.”

  “Uh, Beck, you want to explain that minus the legalese?” Kate sat atop the pink bedspread in her bedroom.