Maybe It's You: Fairfield Romances, #1

By L.R. Reeves

What if you could have everything you ever wanted...but only for one night?

Ellen's not looking for love. And if she were, it sure as hell wouldn't be in tiny, blink-and-you'll-miss-it Fairfield, Indiana.

But when a summer rainstorm and her car (that's admittedly seen better days) conspire against her, sexy bookstore owner Sam is there to help her out. And ruin all of her plans.

Too bad she'll be gone by morning.

Unless he can convince her otherwise. Unless he can convince her their obvious incompatibilities aren't so incompatible after all. She doesn't think he can do it—after all she's got a life behind her and dreams ahead, and Fairfield isn't even a blip on her radar.

But she's happy to let him try.

Maybe It's You is the first of the Fairfield Romances, a series of standalone stories set in the sleepy, sweet but sexy town of Fairfield, Indiana.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glasswing Press
• Release date: Feb 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781733782746

Book preview

Chapter 1

ELLEN

My mother named me Sparrow. She claims it was because the trilling birdsong was the first sound she heard after I was born, but I maintain it was more likely that she’d been high as a kite on whatever magical drugs the hospital had given her, and never stopped to consider that her choice of name might traumatize a small child. My father, however, had had the foresight to sneak an extra middle name in on my birth certificate—just in case. And so, it was this name—his mother’s name, the somewhat more functional Ellen—that my friend Dana used when I called from the car to tell her I was about six hours away from her house in eastern Ohio, and probably wouldn’t get there until well after midnight.

Ellen, it’s fine, she said, seeming to understand that I needed to be reassured I wasn’t putting her out. I’ll just leave the door unlocked and the porch light on. Come in and make yourself at home.

It was true that I felt awful for keeping her waiting—after all, I’d originally planned to be there the day before, but time got away from me, as it so often did. But Dana just laughed and assured me that she knew me well enough to know I’d be there whenever I got there, and she was excited to see me whenever that might be. I blew her a kiss and hung up.

It had grown darker in the time I’d been on the phone, the clouds gathering to block out the setting sun, and the first drops of rain hit my windshield as my headlights lit up a sign for the next exit, just five miles down the highway. I realized I was starting to feel sleepy. After a day and a half on the road, I’d exhausted my music collection and was more than ready to get out of the car and into a real bed. I hated to make the trip last a second longer than necessary, but if I was going to make it through in one piece, I was going to need caffeine.

The exit appeared out of the darkness to my right and at the last second I took the ramp, glancing at the sign as I went. Fairfield, Indiana. Another sleepy midwestern town surrounded by cornfields.

Well, as long as they had coffee.

The rain was coming down harder as I made my way into town, searching for a gas station. It didn’t take long to find one, and I pulled in, figuring I’d go ahead and fill up my dented Honda Civic while I was there. Two donuts and a steaming paper cup of coffee later and I was waiting for my car to fill up, eager to get back on the road for the last leg of the journey.

I hadn’t seen Dana more than a handful of times in the nearly eight years since we’d lived together. She’d been my roommate in college, at the illustrious Savannah College of Art and Design. Or at least, she had been for the two years I’d been there, before I decided college wasn’t for me and moved across the country to try to make it as a freelance illustrator in San Francisco. But we’d kept in touch over the years, as she’d graduated and found a job in Ohio, then gotten married, had a baby, and settled down.

I, on the other hand, had quickly grown tired of the bustle of San Francisco and relocated to a tiny town near the border in southern Texas. Another year and I made my way overseas to Paris, then found myself bouncing around Europe for a couple of years. Back in the States, I tried my hand as a starving artist in New York City for about six months before I was offered something I’d never considered before—a job with a fixed location. So, with much trepidation—and much encouragement from Dana (less so from my mother)—I accepted the job and moved again, this time to sunny San Diego. And there I stayed, settling in the same place for three years—the longest stretch of my life.

It probably shouldn’t have been a surprise when that didn’t work out.

So, off I went again, to Phoenix this time. Six months there before the restlessness got the better of me once again, and here I was, back to the comforting familiarity of being on the road, driving through the middle of nowhere.

The pump clicked off and I replaced the nozzle, climbing back into my car and heading back out onto the road.

To be fair, this part of the middle of nowhere was pretty cute. It was hard to see through the sheeting downpour, but the little road ran right through what appeared to be the center of town on its winding way back to the interstate. Tall brick storefronts rose on either side, bright streetlights illuminating their colored awnings. I’d already forgotten the name of the town, but it seemed warm and cheerful, even in the pouring rain.

There was no one else out on the road tonight, and I slowed for a stoplight, looking around the intersection with interest as I waited for the light to change. The coffee was kicking into my system, and I felt a little more alert as I squinted through the darkness, reading the signs on the illuminated storefronts. An antique shop on one corner, a used bookstore across the street, and what appeared to be a barber shop next door, complete with old fashioned striped pole. Amazing. I didn’t know they still made towns like this.

After a long moment the light changed, and I stepped on the gas. My car, my sturdy little Honda Civic that had taken me across the country multiple times without complaint, chose that exact moment to give a mighty shudder, then stall out in the middle of the intersection.

Blinking in surprise, I turned the key in the ignition, shutting the car off, then back on. Nothing happened. The headlights flickered once, twice, then went out. I tried the key again. Nothing. In the darkness, the pouring rain was loud against the windshield as I sat, dumbfounded in my unresponsive car.

It only took a moment for my wits to kick in. Sitting in a car with no lights in the middle of an intersection during a storm at night wasn’t ideal. I tried the hazard lights, and again, nothing, so I grabbed my purse from the passenger’s seat and ducked out of the car.

I was drenched in a matter of seconds. The rain plastered my hair to my head and soaked through my clothes as I hurried through the rain and tried to figure out what to do.

It was late enough that all the stores were closed, and I was miles away from anyone I knew. I hugged my purse to my chest, hoping my phone was safe and dry inside. Okay. First step—get out of this downpour and figure out who to call for help.

The antique shop was closest, with an awning stretching over the sidewalk, so I headed toward the dry spot there, glancing nervously over my shoulder at my car, sitting dark and lonely in the road, just waiting for someone to come along and hit it. Everything I owned filled the trunk of that car, and I really didn’t want to deal with being rear-ended right now.

Under the relative safety of the awning, I huddled against the glass storefront and dug my phone from my purse, dialing the number for roadside assistance. That was one thing I’d learned from years of traveling, and I felt a pang of gratitude toward my parents for drilling its importance into my head. I could still hear my dad’s voice. Always have someone to call for help, and always make sure someone knows where you are.

Hello, a friendly female voice answered.

Hi, I’m— I broke off when the voice continued to speak, and I chuckled when I realized it was obviously automated. Your call is very important to us. Please hold for the next available representative.

Ten minutes later I was still on hold. I fidgeted, pulling my damp shirt away from my torso. I turned, looking worriedly back toward where my car sat, dark and lonely in the middle of the road, and only then did I notice a dim light coming from inside the bookstore across the street. The store was clearly closed for the night, but the light came from deep within the store, shining faintly through the rain-spattered windows. Was someone in there? Someone who could help me?

Praying for luck, I ended the call and dashed back out into the rain. I hurried across the street and pounded on the door.

I’d knocked three times and was on the verge of turning away when the door swung open and my breath caught in my throat.

The man in the doorway was tall—a foot taller than me easily, and I wasn’t exactly short—and not just tall, but big and solid. Backlit in the entryway, all I could see was that his hair was dark and his eyes were dark, and he had a presence about him that for a brief moment made me forget why I was there in the first place.

It was only when he wordlessly stepped aside and gestured for me to enter that I remembered my car and managed to form a coherent thought.

I’m sorry, I said, feeling grateful as I stepped into the dry warmth of the store. I know you’re closed, but my car broke down in the middle of the road, I gestured back with one hand, "and I don’t know anyone here; I barely know where I am, I was just passing through—I needed coffee—and now I need to. Um. Call someone. About my car. And I’m dripping water everywhere. I’m so sorry."

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