Brighton
Present day - May
The sounds of Britney Spears’s “Gimme More” filled my AirPods as I ran up the driveway to my parents’ bed and breakfast, savoring the vibration of my feet hitting the sidewalk. The familiar sign, Willow Tree Inn, greeted me like an old friend. A warm feeling wrapped around my body. It had nothing to do with the spring weather or the sweat I had worked up running, and everything to do with being home. This had been my safe place for the last few months.
It was a relief that my parents hadn’t questioned my reasons for leaving my job in Boston as a successful divorce lawyer—or my cute little condo I adored—and running back to Boggy Creek as fast as I could. I had expected them to try and figure out that little mystery, but they hadn’t. For the last three-and-a-half months or so, I had safely hidden within the walls of Willow Tree Inn.
Too bad my heart was still as broken today as it was back in January.
I made my way toward the two-story, white colonial house, taking in all the spring flowers that were starting to bloom in the gardens my mother had planted along the front of the house. The large willow and oak trees loomed over the house, as if protecting it. The scent of the different flowers—roses, daisies, forget-me-nots—and the ivory plants that greeted guests filled my senses. I bounded up the steps and onto the large front porch. Hanging baskets filled with colorful plants were strung along the porch, framing the white rocking chairs and the swing that guests could sit in to enjoy the fresh air. May in New Hampshire was a beautiful time of year, and I was honestly surprised not to see anyone out here.
I leaned over to catch my breath, only to have the front door to the house open and my mother step outside. “Brighton! Darling, I need a favor from you ASAP.”
Standing up, I pulled in some air. “Christ, Mom, let me catch my breath.”
“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain, Brighton Willow Rogers!”
Ahh, the joys of living back at home. I was staying in the small cottage on the back of the property. When I’d made my rush back to town, I’d thought it would be fine. I mean, I wasn’t moving back in with them, just near them. My folks lived on the third floor of the bed and breakfast. They had converted what used to be the attic into a little studio apartment. There was a private bathroom and a small kitchen up there, though I was positive my mother never used the latter.
“By the way, you got home late last night,” she said. “Were you with anyone?”
I stared at her as I took in a few deep breaths. It was moments like this that made me realize I had made a stupid decision moving back home and thinking I would have privacy in the cottage. My mother hadn’t gotten that memo. She showed up at my place whenever she wanted, tried to set me up with random guys I went to high school with who were still single, and, for some reason, had left me a list of songs to help mend a broken heart. I hadn’t even told my mother my heart was broken. But apparently, she had some weird hocus-pocus magic shit that made her know these sorts of things, because my heart had indeed been broken. Not in two, but into a million damn pieces.
“Mom, I’m thirty years old as of this morning. I don’t think you can keep calling me by my middle name, nor should you be asking me about who I was with last night.”
Her eyes grew wide with hope.
“But for the record,” I said, “I was out with the girls. We met for dinner and drinks, and then went back to Greer’s house for a book club meeting.”
My mother frowned. “A book club meeting? Brighton, that’s all women.”
“Not true, Mom. There is a one guy in the club.”
She rolled her eyes. “Kyle Larson does not count.”
I had to fight not to laugh. “I’m sure he’d disagree with you on that one. Now, back to you being all up in my business. Mom, you can’t question where I go or who I’m with; I’m not ten. And you can’t call me by my middle name. It’s embarrassing.”
Her brows rose and a look I remembered all too well from my days of getting caught sneaking into my bedroom window appeared on her face.
I took a step away from her. “Or, maybe you can. What did you need me to do?”
Her scowl was quickly replaced with a smile. “We just had a guest check in.” She motioned for me to come closer, so she could lower her voice. “Lord, he’s handsome. No ring on his finger.”