EverAfter

By K.S. Thomas

Dante has all the makings of a fairy tale prince. The cursed sort. Complete with castle and a heart so broken he's more beast than man. Until he meets Sailor…the sassy Belle to his angry Beast.

 

Sailor is lost.

She's spent her whole life in the same town, going all the same places, with all the same people. She's dated one boy. One boy who grew into a man. And now, he wants to marry her.

Suddenly, Sailor can't help seeing, how easy it is to go astray...without ever going anywhere.

And the only way to find herself...is to leave.

But Sailor's adventure is off to a rocky start when her car breaks down in the middle of nowhere just one day after making her grand escape.

Dante is mostly angry most of the time. Angry with the world. Angry with fate. And most of all, angry with himself.

This feeling only increases when he stumbles onto a woman stealing grapes right from the vine. His vine. On his vineyard.

He doesn't care that she's lost. Or that she's beautiful. Or that despite his best efforts, she continues to stick around spreading her warmth and humor among the vineyard and his family. He intends to stay immune to it. And her.

 

And thus, their story begins.

Because that's the thing with happy ever afters...they often start with an unlikely once upon a time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Never Did Point North Publishing
• Release date: Sep 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386206866

K.S. Thomas

Originally born and raised in Bremen, Germany, I currently reside in sunny Florida with my teenage daughter, our coyote, a three-legged roo, and a tamed wolf (AKA, our dogs). I like to think we have a bit of a Gilmore Girls thing going, except my kid is obsessed with dance not books, and I’m (much to my increasing disappointment) appropriately aged to have a teenager.    I love coffee and yoga and the ocean and cooking and asking 'none of my business' questions whenever possible. While I spent my childhood certain I could be a Disney princess, sitting here, surrounded by my crystals, smudge sticks and tarot cards, eager to get out to my garden and walk on the earth in my bare feet and chat with the lizards about not eating my plants, I’m pretty sure I grew up to be the witch. The good sort. And, obviously, I write romance novels. That is, after all, what brought us together. Our love for...well, love. And who can blame us? Love has the power to bring out the best and the worst in us. It can make us strong or be our greatest weakness. It can make us move mountains or make us do some of the dumbest shit in the history of dumb shit. In short, love is entertaining as hell.

Book preview

Chapter One

SAILOR

I sense a country song coming on as I barrel out of my parents’ driveway, dust flying in the rear-view mirror like the final curtain on my dramatic exit.

The black trash bag overflowing with my closet’s contents, now lying haphazardly draped over the passenger seat beside me, is a pretty clear indication that no one saw this coming, least of all me. Admittedly, Galen is probably a close second. Hell, we may even be tied for first. Given his recent actions involving drops to one knee and a supremely glittery diamond ring, his plans for us likely involved my staying put. Ironically, it was this precise revelation about his intentions which pushed me over the edge and, ultimately, out the door.

My sight obliterated by tears, I navigate the empty back roads on memory. The sun is setting on the horizon ahead and I can’t decide if her blazing descent is meant to signify the brilliance of an ending and the promise of a new day, or simply burning up the sky in a warning that my whole life is about to go down in one flaming red inferno. On the upside, my whole life has been small and uneventful to date, so that would be one hell of a last act.

I’ve lived in the same house nearly my entire life, from the time I was old enough to remember. Everything I’ve done, all the people I’ve seen and all the places I’ve been, all exist within a fifty-mile radius. I didn’t even leave for college. No need to when a major university is standing right outside your backyard.

Have I managed to cross the state line in my twenty-two years? Sure. But that wasn’t exactly some great feat what with it being right at the border of our small town. I’ve always counted it, of course. Claimed I’d at least left the state. But it doesn’t feel authentic now. Not when all I did was go for dinner or visit a friend of a friend who’d actually had the balls to do what I couldn’t. Move away.

I played it small. Played it safe. Because that’s what you do when you’re the sweet girl from Moscow, Idaho. You stay close to home. Close to family. And you keep dating your high school sweetheart. Because, apparently, come college graduation, you’re meant to marry him. Only I didn’t catch that part of the plan before.

Galen didn’t stay home. His scholarship took him southeast and kept him there year-round except for holidays. Having a boyfriend the last four years, felt a lot like out of sight, out of mind. I focused on my studies. Enjoyed my friends. And never once considered how my life would come to a standstill right when it was all supposed to begin.

The rustle of plastic, mingled with the jingle of Bruce’s tags, derails my thoughts just prior to hitting the full-on panic zone.

Hey Buddy. My right hand reaches out to pat his soft little head, which is perfectly groomed before I come along and muddle it all up. For a ferret, he really has it together. Ready for our big adventure? I ask, trying to sound cheerful. I don’t want to freak him out. He’s not the most perceptive pet in the world, but for being an awful lot like a big rodent he still seems surprisingly in tune with the beat of my drum. My out of rhythm, on the verge of driving headfirst into a burning inferno, probably busted-ass, drum.

Bruce climbs to the top of my clothes-filled trash bag to meet me face to face.  You can keep your beady little, judgmental eyes to yourself. I know what I’m doing. Bruce has doubts. I can tell. He’s exceptionally expressive for being the silent type. But he stops staring and scurries off, tail bobbing along behind his lanky body as he makes his way into the backseat where there are several more trash bags and a couple of beaten-up cardboard boxes I stole from the attic in my desperate escape. I probably won’t see him for a while after he disappears in there. It’s a new place and he’s an explorer who’s especially fond of dark, small places I’m not keen on digging him out of. His dependency on food will bring him back eventually, in the meantime, the trip will be smoother without him giving me a stare down at every intersection, daring me to turn back.

I’m not turning back.

Even if I’m not entirely sure where I’m going. Other than west. West is the fastest way out. Of course, there isn’t much left to explore going in that particular direction, but there’s always north and south once I’m across the state line.

My dash beeps at me. I’m on empty. This could have been planned so much better.

There’s a slight chance these minor obstacles are meant to sway me. Signs suggesting a turnaround is best. On the other hand, maybe they’re just testing my conviction. Checking to see if I’m serious, fully committed to seeing this insanity through. Maybe the universe just needs me to prove that I’m as ready as I think I am before it delivers the amazing adventure, I just know is waiting for me on the other side.

Yeah. That’s what I’m going with.

Right after I fill up.

Not willing to give up the satisfaction of driving far and fast in hopes that it will propel me onward and upward in my whirlwind move a la runaway bride (or nearly fiancée), I push my little blue Sebring to the absolute limit, stopping only after the needle is dropping below the empty line and insisting I have zero miles left to a dried up, dead engine.

Two miles from the border. That’s where I pull over into the same gas station, I’ve pumped gas at dozens of times in the last six years. Maybe this will be the last.

As soon as I’m upright and walking around the car to get fuel back into my gas tank, gravity hits and I encounter yet another little moment for pause. I need to pee.

After what feels like a small eternity and involves a great deal of hopping from one foot to the other, I finish at the pump and hurry up to move my car into a parking spot alongside the convenience mart. Then I haul ass inside.

Once my bladder is back in business, I mosey through the store in search of snacks, hoping to avoid the next thing bound to stop me on my course – hunger.

The choices are limited, but I stock up on the essentials. Sugar, salt and caffeine.

Ready to get serious about things, Bruce? I ask, spotting his pink nose poking out from under my pillow, the only part of my bedding I thought to throw in the backseat. It’s currently being weighed down by my favorite black boots, a move I felt was strategic at the time, given the top on my convertible is down for the windblown effect purposes, but will likely make my pillow seem less inviting come time to snuggle my face into it.

A few seconds later and I’m buckled in, key turning the ignition.

Shift into reverse, hit the gas and...GRR GRR K K GR.

What the hell was that?

I hit the brakes and shift back into drive, but it only increases the scraping sounds coming from below my car.

Supremely freaked out now, I bolt from the driver’s side to investigate.

Holy shit. My bumper, if it can still be referred to as such, is flipped forward, scraping across the pavement, and barely hanging onto the hood of my car anymore.

Yanking on it does little to pop it back into place. Bending it only works temporarily because it’s some sort of weird plastic which simply flips back into its more desired state of being, regardless of where I try to guide it.

I can’t drive like this.

My face is burning red hot from fighting the bumper and suppressing tears when I hear someone walk up behind me.

Need some help with that?

A glance over my shoulder and I’m not even sure that’s an option. She’s tiny. Like, smaller than me, tiny, and I’m always the shortest girl everywhere I go. Her jet-black hair is tied back in a ponytail, which is practical and all, but that’s pretty much where the practicality factor ends. She’s in flipflops, like me, wearing a flowy summer dress and even though I’d venture a guess there isn’t a smidge of make up on her skin, there’s a delicate perfection about her face that makes it hard to imagine her capable of lifting much outside of feathers and rose petals.

I’m not sure it can be helped, I say, slumping down beside the car, shoulders sagging. I’m pretty certain this is the Universe putting its foot down and telling me to stop acting crazy.

She laughs. Usually, the Universe is fond of crazy. Unbothered by my decline for help, she walks around the hood of the car to the other side, investigating the bumper situation. Can we pop the hood and get a better look?

Not sure what that will do, but sure. Yeah, hold on. Pushing up, I stand and move for the driver’s seat. It takes a few seconds of fumbling around before I find the latch releasing the hood.

Perfect, she chirps, disappearing underneath. By the time I’m back around to the front of the car, she’s got the hood propped up correctly and is busy examining the three spots in which the bumper is still attached. Against all logical odds, I might add.

My mind wandering back and forth on whether or not to investigate her level of car knowledge or just roll with it, I’m sort of zoning out when her hand shoots out in front of my line of vision.

Marcie, by the way.

I take it and smile. Sailor. And this is Breezy. I pat my car lovingly. My pretty blue convertible, while never having actually been near the ocean, always seemed sort of destined for it.

Marcie grins. You named your car.

My brow furrows. You didn’t?

She laughs. Oh, no, I did. Just not a lot of chicks do, you know?

I shrug. I name everything. I hold my keys out in front of her and shake them. Jingles. I’ve made my point.

She reaches into a small pocket on the side of her dress and pulls out a red Swiss Army Knife. Joe.

We laugh. It feels good. Maybe it’s not all doom and gloom after all.

So, think your buddy Joe there can fix this? I’m not all that serious, but wishful thinking applies itself nicely to my current state of existence.

Her gaze drops down and then up again. How attached are you to the idea of having your bumper in the front of your car?

Um, about as attached as the bumper is to the car.

In that case, I think Joe’s got this. She winks and bends down over the first little nub still connecting my hood to that useless flap of plastic. Using her knife, she pops it off and then continues down the row until Breezy is free and clear of her dead weight.

Yay! I clap my hands in momentary celebration. Then, I remember I’m leaving town. Or at least I thought I was. Maybe it’s time to accept the reality check being hammered into my head. It was crazy to think just loading up the car and taking off was ever an option. I was willing to pretend that the blood red sky wasn’t an omen, and the empty tank of gas wasn’t a glaring stop sign, but even I have to draw the line at losing the front end of my car at the border. I mean, if she can’t hold up long enough to get me out of town, what the hell am I going to do when she continues shedding pieces of herself on the open road, or in the mountains, or the freaking desert? Sooner or later, Breezy will drop something important, like her engine or her steering wheel, and I’d just as soon be within walking distance of Dusty’s Car Shop when that destined moment comes along.

Why aren’t you happy? You were happy two seconds ago? Marcie looks at me sideways, both hands placed firmly on her waist like I owe her a really good answer. I do. She just performed life-saving emergency surgery on my car.

It’s just, tonight was kind of meant to be this monumental turning point of my life, and I was all hyped up and feeling jazzy about this ridiculous idea of running off into the world and finding myself, but now, I’m running a little low on adrenaline to keep me going. I sigh, turning back to look over my shoulder and toward the center of town. I mean, I couldn’t even make it out of Moscow!

I swing my head back around only to find her following my gaze into the darkening horizon. It’s significantly less pretty in that direction. Less scary too, but definitely less pretty.

Sailor.

Yeah?

You should keep going.

Yeah, okay. I point at the ground beside us. I currently have a bumper just lying around which I don’t really have anywhere to keep or any way to reattach. What do I do about that? Can’t just leave it here, can I?

So, take it with you. She squares her shoulders, standing taller. Maybe the first part of finding yourself includes getting chummy with your bold side. You want tonight to be monumental? Demand that it is! This isn’t a freaking canyon splitting the world in half, it’s a measly little bumper, and a cheapy plastic one at that. If this is the thing that trips you up, you don’t deserve monumental and you’re definitely not ready for adventure.

Well, damn, Marcie, I shake my head at her, smirking. You’re not as sweet as you look. 

Hell, no. She grins. I’ve already faced off with myself in search of adventures.

Any of them involve busted bumpers?

Just this one. She winks again. "Come on. Let’s get this show – and you – back on the road." Marcie lifts onto her tippy toes to see past the hood and to the rest of my car. I follow her lead. Short girl problems.

How big is your trunk? she asks, slowly moving down the side of my convertible.

Not big enough for a bumper. I don’t think anyway. I never use it, so it’s been awhile since I’ve even opened it. Which seems sort of dumb now, considering I packed up all my most important possessions and left them flapping in the wind in my backseat.

She observes my overloaded back row. Was this a drop and run move, or is the trunk overflowing too?

The trunk is totally empty. Our eyes lock as we both take a moment of silence to acknowledge we’re thinking the same thing. Then, we start moving.

A few loads of crap later, and everything I own is put away, minus Bruce, who bolted at the commotion and hid under the driver’s seat where I imagine he’ll stay for the foreseeable future.

With the backseat opened up, and, given that the top is down and there’s not much in the way of sides or ceiling restricting us, the bumper just might fit some place after all.

How do we do this? I ask, staring down at the slain plastic noodle and waiting for Marcie to share all the answers to life with me. She’s got them. I can just tell.

You take one end and I take the other? Okay, maybe she doesn’t have all the deep answers. That one was pretty basic.

The bumper is awkward but light enough, so getting it into the backseat isn’t the issue. Convincing myself it won’t fly right out as soon I reach a speed over thirty miles per hour is.

Have any bungee cords? It’s like she’s reading my mind. Only she’s not, because I own exactly zero bungee cords.

Nope.

Her lips twist back and forth, thinking. Seatbelt?

All. The answers. To. LIFE.

Yes! I climb into the backseat, straddling the bumper and with Marcie’s help, we get that sucker buckled up three ways.

Ha! Marcie shouts triumphantly. I knew it could be done!

You’re kind of my hero right now. I laugh. Who knew a knight in shining armor could be so utterly unromantic and yet, so fitting for this very moment in my life? No knight. No romance. Just a couple of fierce chicks handling their business.

That mean you’re going to keep going? she asks, nodding toward the sliver of orange just barely hanging on in the sky, waiting for my final answer.

I take a deep breath, hold it in and wait for all the nervous naysaying butterflies in my gut to suffocate. Yes. Yes, I’m going to keep going.

Marcie nods, satisfied with my answer. Here, she says, holding her hand out toward me, take Joe. You’ll need him out there.

What? I gape at her handy-dandy survival tool as if she’s just offered to gift me her magic cape sufficient in providing flying powers, as well as invisibility. I can’t take Joe.

Sure, you can. Trust me, one post-adventure girl to one about to embark on hers, you want Joe along for the ride.

Wait, post-adventure? You’re done?

She shrugs and tosses her hands to the sky. No one’s ever done. She laughs quietly, as if she’s thinking about a private joke she has no intention of sharing. But, I’m done with the open road. You’re just heading out on it. You need Joe way more than I do.

Reluctantly, I take the knife from her open palm. It feels strange, taking something from her when she’s already given me more in the last thirty minutes than some of my friends have the entire time I’ve known them.

So, any suggestions on where to go first? I ask, slowly moving my way back to the driver’s side door.

Hm, the choices are endless... Her head turns and she stares out at something only she can see. But, if you really want to experience something you’ll never forget, go to Cali. Napa Valley.

Wine country. I’ve never thought much about going there. Never been much for drinking wine.

It’s so much more than that. Her eyes sparkle with the memories of what she’s seen and it’s enough to make me want to see it all for myself.

Any favorite vineyards I should check out? I ask, mentally finalizing my plans.

They’re all amazing, but there’s one, on the edge of the valley, down in the foothills where the beauty of the land will take your breath away. Hardly anyone ever goes all the way out there anymore, but everyone talks about it. Can’t believe all you hear, but the stories do add an element of mystery. She giggles.

Sounds intriguing. What’s it called?

She smiles, her mouth stretching slowly and purposefully around each syllable. "Castello Dimenticata."

Castello Dimenticata, I whisper the words to myself. I think I’d want to go even without the promise of mystery and breathtaking beauty.

Means ‘forgotten castle’ in Italian.