Happily Ever Kissed

By Vicky Bolt

Starry-eyed Ava Simmons, co-owner of the ramshackle Heartbeat Inn, needs to steal her first kiss on the historic Heartland Cove Bridge before the Mayor has it torn down. Then she can join the ranks of her entire family tree in having her first kiss on the second longest covered bridge in North America. In a race against the Mayor's bulldozer, she sees every hot and available guest of her B&B as First Kiss Potential.

If only she could escape the judging eyes of her omnipresent handyman, Sebastian Haddock. He's too busy, too dusty, and too local for Ava's tastes. She likes her heroes straight off the covers of the romance novels she devours like her guests eat her amazing baked goods. Yep, her First Kiss recipient needs to be strong yet sensitive, handsome but modest, hard-working but relaxed, and dreamy yet grounded.

Basically, she needs one of her Book Boyfriends to step out of a love story and kiss her! Because convincing her guests to visit the bridge with her turns out to be as tricky as baking the perfect cupcake in a broken oven. How do the romance novels make it look so easy? And how come Sebastian keeps catching her with her nose in a book? And when one of her guests turns out to be a kissable romance novel cover model-why isn't she ready for her First Kiss after all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: V. L. Holt
• Release date: Nov 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519981417

Book preview

An ORIGINAL work of Victoria L. Holt,

Also known as V. L. Holt or Vicky Holt

Happily Ever Kissed

2015 by Vicky Holt [e-mail]

@RiseoftheBattle

VLHolt-Author Facebook Page

Dedication

To Glen. You weren’t my first kiss, but you were my first best kiss.

Chapter One

Wherein the Heroine Meets No One of Significance

Stay shut you friggin’ piece of junk! I cursed at my oven while banging on it. The springs were shot, and I either had to stand beside it and hold the door closed for sixteen minutes or use painter’s tape to hold it shut. There was no way I was going to stand next to the oven pressing against the door; I had better things to do. I glanced at the dog-eared book on the counter by the mixing bowl. Of course, reading and holding the door shut was kind of like multi-tasking...but no.

The tour bus was going to be here in an hour, and I still needed to take the folding table out front, spread grandmother’s antique quilt over it, and arrange the cupcakes I’d decorated earlier into the cupcake tree for effect.

The oven light blinked ‘door’ at me while I frantically searched the junk drawer for the painter’s tape. I tossed a couple books out of the way and felt around inside the drawer. The tape wasn’t there.

I held the door shut with one hand while I stretched to reach the mop leaning against the counter. My clean floor was still damp, but I thought nothing of it as one hand pressed the oven door and my other one reached...ever...so...carefully to get the mop. Snagged No, I didn’t go to college, but my problem-solving skills were epic. I jammed the mop handle just-so against the door and levered it against the wall, but I needed a weight for stability.

I looked around my kitchen for something I could use. The butcher-block counters were mostly tidy, with crockery pots on one end marked ‘flour’, ‘sugar’, and ‘kelp’, and a coffee pot with She Sees in the Dark beside it and the microwave and toaster on the counter across. There was a breadbox which came in handy when I needed to stash a book quickly. My kitchen had a gigantic pantry; it was perfect for storing everything I needed to make breakfasts for my guests. I kept all my food storage items, an extra fridge, frosting buckets, root vegetables...

Potatoes would do the trick.

I padded gingerly on the wet floor, found the bag under Cecelia Takes the Cake, and returned to the oven to jerry-rig it as a counterweight on the end of the mop. My oven light stopped blinking at me, and the Oatmeal Butterscotchies would bake to perfection now.

I set the timer and put my flip flops on so I could take out the table.

The blast of July heat made my oven feel like air conditioning. It was unseasonably hot here in Heartland Cove. But hopefully, the tourists would spread the word about our quaint little town despite the heat, and especially tell others about my romantic getaway bed and breakfast.

Heartbeat Inn was the name of my place, well, our place, since Grandma cosigned on the loan for me three years ago. She helped me when she could too, but recently she could only help with bookkeeping or other things that could be done from a wheelchair or bed.

We were proud of it, even though it was kind of in disrepair. I just couldn’t seem to get around to the upkeep it needed, what with taking care of Grandma’s health needs, and the constant influx of tourists. Plus my plans were kind of grandiose. I didn’t want to just update the plumbing in the Honeymoon Suite, I wanted to install a heart-shaped whirlpool tub with jets. I didn’t want to just paint the dormer shutters, I wanted to repair the gingerbread trim and place copper flashing on the corners of the building. I wouldn’t be happy with rewiring the parlor’s electric so that the lights didn’t pop every time someone plugged in their laptop...I wanted to install mood lighting and automatic surround sound stereo speakers too. Our seasonal guests barely paid for the mortgage and supplies as it was, which brought me to the reason I was dragging the folding table out to the sidewalk.

My flip flop caught on a weed, and I started to lose grip of the unwieldy table.

Ohhh sh-! I almost said it, but my grandmother’s voice fluttered down from the third-floor window.

Ava, dear! Be careful on the wet grass, she called. I had run the sprinkler earlier.

I waved my hand at her without looking.

I barely managed to grasp the table more firmly, and my flip flop lay abandoned while I stutter-stepped my way to the sidewalk.

Sweat poured from my hairline down my neck and down my back. It was hotter than Lord Cunningham in my latest Regency romance. (I kept the Regencies in my small studio apartment on the third floor.) There was a huge stack of them on my nightstand.

I looked down the street. It was clear of the tour bus so far. I set up the table, and then took the thin quilt that was slung over my shoulder and spread it artfully across the table. A couple trips later and I had the cupcakes arranged in the cute wrought iron cupcake tree. I stood admiring the effect until I heard Grandma.

What’s that smell? she called out through the open window.

Oh snap! I shouted and turned to run into the house. My flip flops had zero traction and I fell to my knees right away. I left the shoes pell mell on the lawn and ran barefoot to the door, grasped the screen door handle which came off in my hand, scrabbled to open it, and then jumped into the kitchen. The acrid smell of burning Oatmeal Butterscotchies hit my nose first, followed by the floor. Yes, I slipped on the still-wet floor, and landed face first, palms second right in front of the oven door. I scrambled to my feet and opened the door, forgetting in my haste that a ten-pound bag of potatoes was suspended ‘just so’ from the mop handle. My contraption collapsed on top of me at the same time that smoke billowed out of the oven. At least I had the presence of mind to grab a potholder before I took the tray out. I cursed and fumed as I took the tray to the screen door at the side entrance and dumped its contents right on the shoes of a complete stranger.

I squeaked in my horror and dropped the burning hot tray on the cement slab with a loud clang.

A set of startling blue eyes met mine, but their owner didn’t say a word. He stood there in form-fitting carpenter pants that looked good in spite of a heavy tool belt, an oversized button down shirt that had paint smears on it, and smudges of something sooty on his unshaven jaw. He had a shock of dirty blond hair that kind of went every which way, and the man did not so much as smile at me.

My mind flipped through its internal Rol-A-Dex file searching for a hero that this man could match in any number of my romance novels. I pursed my lips as I studied his stern face. He was much too sweaty to be Mr. Darcy, though he did have the brooding thing mastered. His wild hair could summon the idea of Heathcliff on the moor, but his eyes were so blue and keen that that image would never work. Heathcliff’s eyes and mood were black. I hadn’t seen this man move yet, so the jury was out on whether he was ‘as lithe as a cat on the prowl’, a phrase I’d seen in too many contemporary romances to count. Disappointed, I sighed and opened the door wider.

Did Grandma Simmons call you? Because I told her we couldn’t afford to get the inn fixed up this week, I told him.

He blinked slowly, like he didn’t quite get what I had just told him.

Ma’am, I just came over to ask you if I could use the hose to spray off some buckets. I’m over at the Adams’ place repainting their shed, he said. And their well pump is out of order.

Oh, I said. I was all geared up to have an argument like the heroine in Love Must Be Hungry when her brother-in-law hired a contractor to fix up the house she inherited when her parents died. Well this guy was turning into a complete disappointment on all counts. It could have been fun to have a little row with him. Plus, he called me ma’am. I was only twenty-three.

Be my guest, eh? I told him and let the door shut. But it didn’t close all the way, because the hot tray was resting partway on the stoop and partway in the house. I sighed and pushed the door out of the way. The man, quite handsome in full sunlight, gave me a harder look.

Are you okay? Your nose is bleeding, he said and reached for my face.

Startled, I dodged his hand and swiped my finger under my nose.  Sure enough, Ava Meets Floor had ended in a bloody nose.

Oh snap, I muttered and brought my apron up to my nose.

Yeah, I’ll be fine.

He pulled a white handkerchief out of his back pocket and thrust it at me. Use this. You don’t want to ruin that pretty apron, he said. He glanced down at the smoking tray.

Sorry about your cookies, he told me before he turned to go out back. I looked down at my beautiful cookies, perfect in the middle, and blacker than hellfire around the edges. There was a good six dollars down the drain, since I sold them two for a buck at my table. I looked up in time to catch him staring at my feet. Then he turned.

As he walked away, he said, You’ve got grass in your hair and in between your toes.

My gaze wasn’t far from my feet already and I wiggled my toes. Sure enough, I had grass all over my feet. My knees had grass stains too, and my hair was, no doubt, a sight. Between mopping this morning, baking in the hot kitchen and then falling on my way to rescue the Scotchies, I looked like something the cat would turn its nose up at before it would drag it in. Well, he was no prize himself, with his work-stained clothes. I chose not to think about those blue, blue eyes.

I could be like Polly in Paint the Town Persimmon, except Polly was a petite brunette with curvy hips. I was taller than most girls with fine and wispy blonde hair, blue-gray eyes and a smattering of freckles across my nose. My figure was slender, like a cyclist’s, but I couldn’t actually ride a bike worth beans. Allie was forever getting into messes, like the time she walked under a ladder and a paint can tipped over on her head. Or that other time when she accidentally walked in wet cement. Why did it seem adorable for a fictitious character, and just annoying and embarrassing for me? Not that it mattered what this guy thought. I didn’t care how blue his eyes were.

I glanced at my oven light. This time it was on the clock setting only, and I had exactly 22 minutes before the tour bus arrived on the other side the bridge. My cupcakes wouldn’t hold up much longer, and they sold fast, so I really needed one more tray of cookies. My first batch was cooling on the wire racks on my kitchen island.

I kicked the pan with burnt cookies further outside so the door could shut, and then spooned the last of the dough onto a clean cookie sheet after cleaning up my face. I finally found the painter’s tape in the island drawer behind Raging Fires of Love, and used it to tape the door shut. It worked in a pinch.

I found myself grateful for Grandma’s disability for once, since she stayed upstairs a lot of the time, and even when she came down, she couldn’t see very well. If she knew about the oven door springs, she would throw a hissy fit and call someone right away.

I loved being able to take care of my grandma, but I had to admit to myself; it did get kind of exhausting. Shaking that thought off, I hustled up the rest of my things, stuffing a book in a large apron pocket too, just in case.

This week just wasn’t going to work budget-wise. While she did a great job managing the money with some computer software, there was something I kept from her.

I was socking money away like crazy.

See, I chose not to go to college. I stayed behind to help Grandma when all my friends left. But I dreamed of going away on a real vacation of my own someday...tropical breezes, palm trees, white sand, and cerulean blue water. So I had been saving money for a dream vacation. And then the unthinkable happened.

I heard a rumor that they might take down the bridge...the second longest bridge on the North American continent, and if there was any way my measly pocket change could help preserve it, then I was doing just that. The bridge went over the meandering Kissaway River, or whatever it was called, and I had a vested interest in that thing. It wasn’t just a tourist attraction.

Heartland Cove was my home, and the bridge was full of history, including my own family history. Grandma Simmons had her first kiss there, and so did my mom, and so did the mailman, the organic flower shop owner, my neighbor’s cat and heck, even the Mayor. I was pretty sure I was the only one in Heartland Cove that hadn’t had a first kiss on that dumb bridge and that was the primary reason it needed to stay. There was no way the Mayor was taking that thing down until I had a kiss on it. So help me, if the bulldozers came to raze the pilings, I would French kiss the bulldozer driver before he put his foot on the gas pedal.

Musings aside, I had to get my cookie table set up. My baked goods weren’t going to make us rich, but the money came in handy. Especially since some of it was going to a very good cause. And hey, if I had a couple dollars left over to buy a book from the used book store, the better for me.

I arranged the final baggie of cookies in a pretty basket, and waited.

A distant rumble signaled the tour bus’s arrival on the other side of the Heartland Cove Bridge. It wouldn’t be long now, and hungry visitors would amble down my way to ogle the ramshackle Victorian mansion and snag cookies and cupcakes. I could usually count on about twenty-five bucks a bus run, and since three buses came a day during the high season, that was seventy five bucks a day. It wasn’t much, but I was putting my money where my mouth was. Since no one else was putting anything near my mouth.

I sighed and chewed on a piece of grass as I watched tourists stumble out of the badly lit bridge and mill around. I ran my fingers through my hair and put it back in its ponytail, then tucked my shirt back in, mopped my face with a clean handkerchief I kept in my back pocket and tried to look as fresh as a daisy. No small feat when it was already 85 degrees at ten in the morning. I spied a couple potential guests headed my way.

I double checked my little box of business cards. Cookies today, booking tomorrow, was my motto. Those two people had cameras slung around their necks and were pointing at the unique architectural features of the houses on my street. Most were quaint colorful little things, unlike anything the tourists would have seen where they’re from. I looked behind me at my place.

It was a late 19th century wonder of peeling paint, mottled window glass, broken trim from the occasional storm, and a kind of general feeling of disrepair cloaked it. I felt a twinge of guilt.

I really should try harder to get it fixed up, but when I looked at all the houses along the street, they were similarly neglected. Maybe Mayor Jefferies had a point in razing the bridge and trying to modernize Heartland Cove.

I shuddered at that negative thought. The vintage feeling in the town was part of its charm. That’s what I told myself even as I remembered I needed to figure out a way to fix the screen door. I pasted a smile on my face and greeted the Asian tourists with my best Canadian smile.

How would you like some cookies? I have Oatmeal Butterscotchies, chocolate chip and Macadamia nut or I have these vanilla cupcakes.

While the two men looked over the choices, I saw that several more tourists were on their way down the street. Excellent. Maybe I’d break thirty bucks this time around.

I accepted their money with a smile and passed out napkins and business cards. Come again and stay awhile, I told each and every one.

Business was steady for the next two hours or I would have had time to read the romance I snagged off the kitchen counter on my way out the door. Danger in a Small Town would have to wait. Just like me and my first kiss.

Chapter Two

In Which the Heroine Meets the Reluctant Hero

I learned the hard way last summer that I couldn’t just leave my table and baked goods out after the tourists left. The European starlings would swarm down and eat crumbs and crap all over the ground and the table, then leave without so much as a thank you very much. Kind of like the tourists, to be honest.

As