Fancy Meeting You Here

By Christy Hayes

Where there’s smoke there’s fire, and this time there’s no keeping the flames under wraps.

After ending a passionate affair, Shelby Zurlo thinks she has it all—a career built on brains and not beauty and the independence she craves. But her graphic design business is struggling, and her solo status in a world made for couples leaves her lonely. When a client asks a favor—a favor she can’t refuse—Shelby runs headfirst into her biggest mistake and her biggest regret.

Nick Chamberlain is living the dream. He’s got a successful business venture, a strong and supportive family, and a social life most guys would envy. If only he could move on from the woman who shattered his heart and never looked back.

When a chance meeting forces Shelby and Nick to interact, sparks fly and tempers flare. Nick is determined to win Shelby back; Shelby is just as committed to keeping Nick in the friend zone. In a battle of wits, will stubborn hearts bend and sway, or snap in the headwinds of love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christy Hayes
• Release date: Oct 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781625720238

Christy Hayes

Christy Hayes writes romance and women's fiction. She lives outside Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband, two children, and two dogs.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title Page

Fancy Meeting You Here

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Epilogue

Once Upon a Christmas Party

About the Author

Other Romance & Women’s Fiction Titles by Christy Hayes

Copyright

When a chance meeting forces former lovers Shelby and Nick to interact, sparks fly and tempers flare. But where there’s smoke there’s fire, and this time there’s no keeping the flames under wraps. Nick is determined to win Shelby back; Shelby’s just as committed to keeping Nick in the friend zone. In a battle of wills, will stubborn hearts bend and sway, or snap in the headwinds of love?

Shelby Zurlo rushed inside Atlanta’s premier wedding shop, Peach Bridal, with a camera case over one shoulder and a laptop bag over the other.

Sorry I’m late. She flicked chocolate curls from her face. The late summer humidity frizzed her not-quite-dry hair into annoying ringlets. There was a wreck on Peachtree. Between the police cars, fire trucks, and an ambulance, there was no getting around it.

I know. Becky, the store manager, crossed her arms over her chest. We heard.

Shelby glanced at the petite redhead who was wearing her usual pencil skirt and layers of makeup. The irritated line between her brows matched the irritated sound of her voice. Neither matched the syrupy sweetness she usually exuded. What’s wrong? Late appointments stacking up?

Our model was in the wreck. She’s okay but her airbag deployed, and her face is red and swollen. I can’t get a hold of the photographer.

He’s probably stuck in the gridlock.

If he’d answer his phone I could reschedule. If he shows up, I’m on the hook for a sitting fee even though I don’t have a bride.

Shelby looked around the bustling shop. Brides were everywhere, combing through racks of dresses, fingering lace and silk, admiring themselves in trifold mirrors while eager family members squawked and squealed. I think this is what you’d call ducks on a pond.

Excuse me?

Check out the store, Beck. There are more brides than you can count.

"Not real brides. I need perfection. And so do you."

I only need a few candid shots for the website. Peach Bridal had been a client of Zurlo Designs for over a year—one of her only steady clients—and their website required constant updating. I don’t need the professional shots right away. I’m still tweaking the duplicate before it goes live.

"We need the shots. I’ve got advertising lined up next quarter and I have to have pictures of the new fall line. She rubbed her fingers against her forehead. Frank is going to go ballistic."

Frank Ballard, owner of Peach Bridal, found Shelby through a friend of a friend. He disavowed her of the notion all gay men were fun and easygoing. Frank was a ballbuster.

Shelby shrugged, giving Becky her best whatcha-gonna-do grin while inwardly doing a high five. Weddings made her skin itch and everything inside the shop—from the classical piano music piping through speakers to the sickly-sweet smell of flower-scented candles—made her want to snap some pics and get out of there as fast as possible. Wish I could help.

She dropped her purse and camera bag onto a vacant white leather couch, retrieved her camera, and adjusted the settings to accommodate the overly bright backdrop of happily ever after. When she looked around to scope out the best angles, Becky stepped in her line of vision.

Hang on a second. Becky squinted at Shelby like a bug under a microscope.

Shelby’s spine prickled. Why are you looking at me like that?

What size are you?

No. Just no. Excuse me?

You look like a four. Becky looked Shelby up and down. Maybe a six. It’s hard to tell under all those layers.

Shelby huffed. Of course she dressed in layers—anyone with half a brain dressed in layers between the outside heat and the air conditioning blasting through every building in town. She had to be prepared. Sometimes I’m a four, sometimes a six, depending on the cut. What difference does it make?

Your skin is flawless. Becky stalked around Shelby, a lion eyeing its prey. She touched a curl, ran a finger along her collarbone where the white V-neck T-shirt sat beneath her calf length cardigan, and boxed her hands against Shelby’s olive linen pants. Height will work with some heels and you need some makeup. God, what I wouldn’t do for skin like yours. Are you Hispanic?

Italian. Shelby scowled. What are you talking about? But she knew. Instinct and memories turned her stomach inside out.

You’re perfect. I’ve got some spray that will tame your curls and a truckload of makeup in the staff lounge. I can have you fitted and ready before the photographer arrives.

The prickles turned to thorns with razor sharp points. She tried her best to keep the panic from her voice. Uh … no. I’m not a model.

You could be. I bet the camera loves you.

She couldn’t afford to lose this account. Not with the rent due and her bank account as empty as her pantry. Becky …

Becky clasped her hands in front of her chest, scrunching her shoulders and her expression into prayerful begging. Please. Please. Please. You’re the answer to all my problems.

I’m not a model. She’d said those words before. The first time as an excuse. This time as a defense. I’m a graphic designer.

I’m not a seamstress. Becky crossed her arms. But that doesn’t mean I don’t grab a needle and thread when alterations are in a jam.

I take pictures. I don’t pose for them.

Shelby, come on. Frank loves you because you’re a team player, willing to do whatever we need to make us shine.

To make your website shine. Don’t you think it will look a little unprofessional if your graphic designer is featured on your website and in your ads? And wouldn’t having her face plastered all over advertisements be like college all over again?

No one knows you’re our web designer. But they could. Becky straightened to her full height, tapping a manicured finger against her cherry red lips. If you do us this favor.

Are you bribing me with referrals?

I’ve sent more than one account your way.

Yes, you have. I’m very grateful. So was her landlord. Scraping together rent money was becoming more and more difficult.

How grateful?

Grateful enough to tread lightly. Grateful enough to taste the panic coating her throat. Grateful enough to see the handwriting on the wall. This feels like a shakedown.

It’s a desperate plea for help. Come on, Shelby, it’s a couple of pictures. What could be the harm?

She knew the harm. She’d lived the harm. Posing on a whim for the Hottest Girls of Addison State University calendar her freshman year had done more than harm. It had nearly destroyed her college experience.

Becky, I really, really don’t want to.

I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. She snaked her arm around Shelby’s shoulders and maneuvered her to face the main floor podium where a bride tried on veils to match her ill-fitted dress. Do you know why women love to shop for wedding dresses?

They’re narcissists?

Becky ignored her as if she hadn’t spoken. It’s one of the only times in your life you get to play dress up just like when you were a kid. You’re Cinderella trying on gowns for the ball, and everyone’s eyes are on you.

Shelby stared unseeing into the taffeta-filled abyss trying and failing to come up with a plausible excuse to abstain. The pause tipped Becky’s hand and had her threading her arm through Shelby’s and dragging her to the back of the store where charmeuse and chiffon lie in wait. You’ll get the modeling fee. That alone should sway your decision.

She should say no, stop her feet from moving, and demand to be treated as the professional graphic artist she was hired to be. Every fiber of her being repelled against the idea of modeling. But she needed to keep this job, she needed the referrals, and darn it, she needed the extra money.

Shelby gave up the fight and let herself get dragged into the employees-only area of the store as dread seeped from her invisible pores.

Worst. Freaking. Nightmare.

Nick Chamberlain lifted the monogrammed cuff of his custom-made dress shirt and surreptitiously glanced at his Rolex. He had fifteen minutes to wrap his meeting, navigate Midtown traffic, and play hero to his jittery cousin. Sometimes saving the day meant tap dancing through life.

Nothing he hadn’t done before.

CEO Bill Boxcroft of Boxcroft Industries droned on about the joy of his existence—golf. Nick was a scratch golfer. All the Chamberlain brothers were athletes in one form or another. His oldest brother, Zach, played professional football. His middle brother, Dylan, excelled at lacrosse in high school and college. As the baby of the family, Nick was good at everything.

Sometimes, Nick learned, it was better to downplay his prowess and let clients think he had a midrange handicap and a short game that left him frustrated. Not so long ago his narrow-minded focus on winning at all cost had cost him everything.

It was a painful lesson to learn.

Nick closed his portfolio and stood from the conference table, extending his hand to Bill.

We’ll get the proposal details worked out and email them over this afternoon. I think you’ll be happy with the terms.

Counting on it, Nick.

We’ll do lunch next week? Play a round at the club?

Bill nodded, his second and third chin bobbling in response. Count on that as well. But go easy on the old guy.

You’re hitting your prime, Bill. I work too much to shave points off my handicap.

Golf’s a tricky game. Sometimes age trumps experience, sometimes it’s the other way around.

I guess we’ll see which way the wind blows next week. Nick knew which way the wind blew. Straight up Bill’s you-know-what until the contract was signed, sealed, and delivered.

Nick strode to the elevator, stepped aboard, and cursed when he lost his signal in the bowels of the building. As the doors opened in the opulent lobby, he dialed his cousin. I’m on my way.

Chloe huffed. You haven’t left yet?

I’m not coming from the office. I’ll be there in five, and we’ll make your appointment—no problem.

I can’t be late. Chloe’s voice was laced with the tin-roof twang of a bride-to-be on the brink of hysteria. They’ve been so nice—honoring my purchase from that horrible store. Thank goodness I kept my email communication.

We’ll be on time. I’ll text you when I pull up.

He disconnected, slipped outside into the oppressive heat, and slipped the valet a twenty with his ticket. I’m in a rush.

No problem, sir. The twenty-something with a streak of gold in his dark hair took off at a sprint to the valet lot and pulled up with Nick’s luxury sport sedan moments later.

Nick tossed his suit coat in the backseat and slid behind the wheel, winking at the valet as he shut the door and peeled out of the garage. He maneuvered through traffic, cut through a side street, and pulled up to Chloe’s condo with a minute to spare.

She exited the building wearing a smile and, as she climbed into the passenger seat and closed her door, a cloying floral scent that overpowered the earthy leather smell of his interior. Thanks for doing this, Nick.

No problem. He checked his mirrors and pulled into traffic. Although I’m not sure what I’m doing.

As my cousin and a man who exudes confidence, you’re my heavy in case they give me grief about the bill. They agreed I’d only have to pay for alterations. I want some backup in case they conveniently forget the owner’s offer.

He got a lot of good publicity when he rode to the rescue after the other shop closed in the dark of night. I doubt he’d risk the opposite by reneging now.

Chloe shook her head at him. I’ll spare you the details, but pretty much anything that could go wrong with this wedding has gone wrong. Besides the bridal shop disappearing with my dress and my money overnight, the florist claims there was some sort of bug infestation in Columbia and the price of roses has gone up, the caterer is balking at my vegan alternative, and the band I really wanted double booked and is charging a ransom. She blew her highlighted bangs out of her face. My dad won’t stop saying I should have eloped, and my future mother-in-law keeps adding people to the invitation list, which makes the price of everything go up.

Nick reached over and patted her thigh. Deep breath. Everything will be fine. At the end of your wedding day, you’ll be married in the dress you paid for, with flowers and a band and none of this will matter.

Chloe rolled her eyes. Says the committed bachelor.

We’re dropping like flies. Both of his brothers had walked the plank. Any day now he expected the announcement he was becoming an uncle. The only surprise would be which brother became a dad first. Someone’s got to hold the line.

At twenty-five, half his friends were married, the other half were either engaged or on the brink. There was something in the water. After getting his heart squashed, he avoided the tap and only drank from a bottle.

You can’t hold out forever.

And miss all this fun?

Planning the wedding is a pain in the butt. Spending the rest of your life with someone you love is worth the stress.

Nick grunted. I’ll have to take your word.

There’s no one on your radar?

Nick ground his teeth until his jaw ached. The only woman who’d ever been in his crosshairs smashed his radar on her way out the door. Nope.

It’s only a matter of time.

Time was a sneaky fiend. He’d read time was supposed to cure his heartache. But the nagging pain lingered like a bad cold, infecting every date, every social gathering, every woman he encountered. He missed the old Nick—the carefree flirt who looked at every woman as a conquest and not a pale substitute for the woman he’d never have.

He signaled into the bridal shop and found a parking spot near the back. Quit trying to marry me off and focus on your wedding.

That’s all I do anymore is focus on the wedding. I’m annoying myself.

He pulled down his aviators and looked at her over the rim. Let’s get your dress and cross this off your list.

Shelby stood on the carpeted platform, her feet aching in three-inch heels, her ribcage pinched in a binding corset, her face caked in contour cream. She shook the hair from her face and blew an exasperated breath.

Quit fidgeting. Becky stood at the base of the platform, inspecting Shelby from head to toe.

Shelby squirmed. This is really uncomfortable.

You’re a blushing bride. Try and act like it.

I’m a hostage wearing clown makeup.

We’ve been through this. Becky circled the platform, fluffing the train on Shelby’s dress. You have to wear a lot of makeup for it to show in the pictures.

Shelby blew a curl from her eyes and growled when several hairs tangled with her false eyelashes. These caterpillars on my eyelids are eating my hair.

Let me grab a veil and pull your hair back. Becky disappeared into the back.

Shelby was alone with her worst nightmare in mirrored triplicate. She tugged the bodice to no avail. Her boobs formed a butt-crack shelf just below her chin wide enough to lose her credit card, her cellphone, and her self-respect.

Becky reappeared, a flowing cascade of white lace in her fist. Lean down and let me get this in place.

Is that a whole other dress?

It’s a cathedral veil. Very traditional, very elegant, the perfect statement for this amazing dress.

Shelby bowed as instructed, scowling at Becky. The only thing amazing about this dress is the price tag. But I do like the pockets. She slid her hands inside the silky openings. What would you put in here? A gun to shoot yourself for paying this much for a dress you wear once?

Becky ignored her. Stand up, let’s have a look. She fussed with the train on the veil, spreading it out and beyond the end of the dress. Beautiful. Despite your prickly attitude, you make a stunning bride.

Excuse me, Ms. Benefield? A young woman in head-to-toe black motioned for Becky from behind the mirror. The photographer’s here. He’s waiting in the lobby.

Becky clapped her hands. Show time. I’ll be right back. She narrowed her eyes and pointed at Shelby. Do. Not. Move.

Shelby rolled her eyes. Her stomach rolled like her grandmother’s cannoli. Like I could go anywhere in this getup.

Blessedly, painfully alone, Shelby looked anywhere but in the mirror. She couldn’t look at herself in a wedding dress without stomach acid bubbling up her throat. She thought of the three weddings she’d been a part of—her college roommates’ weddings—and drew comfort from the memories.

Kayla, as big as a house, eight months pregnant and outrageously happy. Her dress like a tent, she and a beaming Ben exchanged vows with their hands atop their unborn baby. Their accidental pregnancy resulted in an unwavering lifetime commitment.

Reagan, shy and bursting with joy in a simple bohemian dress. With flowers braided into her hair, she exchanged tear-filled vows with handsome and exuberant Dash. Her organized roommate threw caution and her daybook to the wind and set off on an adventure with the musician who stole her heart.

And Emily, elegant and stunning in her backless sheath dress, fulfilling her destiny with a euphoric Dylan at the altar. Their picture-perfect wedding an exclamation point on a lifetime of love.

Three amazing couples, soul mates found and united in matrimony. Shelby stood as the lone holdout, an independent career woman, no prospects in sight. She shook her head, shook the gloom from her thoughts. Since when was she looking for a groom? Hadn’t she broken a promise to herself and someone’s heart in her quest to escape the suffocating noose of love?

The young woman returned, her hand outstretched. Becky said to try this on, see if it fits.

Shelby reached for the engagement ring in the girl’s palm. Is this necessary?

What’s a bride to be without an engagement ring?

Whose is this? She slipped the princess cut ring on her finger, admired the diamond platinum band, ignored the pull low in her belly.

Our seamstress’s. It’s a fake.

Shelby wiggled her fingers. It’s a good one.

She’s the only one who volunteered to share. The girl shrugged. Becky said to stay put. She’ll be right back.

Shelby saluted. After Becky’s makeup and hair session and squeezing into this dress, all Shelby wanted was to get the photo shoot over with and go home to lick her wounds. A hot shower, a glass of wine, and time with her computer would set her world back on its axis and level her mood.

Movement in the mirror had Shelby glancing up. A man stood behind her, his broad shoulders tensed, his hands in the pockets of his tailored suit pants. He rocked back on his heels as if buffeted by a strong wind.

Shelby gasped, blinked, convinced her walk down memory lane had triggered the illusion.

Well, well, well.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. That voice—caramel coated with steel—breezed over her skin, clogged the breath in her chest, stemmed the flow of blood to her brain. How long had it been? A year? A year and a half? She sees him now? Here? Like this?

Aviator sunglasses dangled from the pocket of the medium-starch dress shirt she knew felt butter-soft beneath her fingers. His eyes, brilliantly blue, sharply lethal, narrowed as he scowled at her reflection.

She knew those eyes. She’d catalogued every shape and shade of those crystalline orbs. Dancing with delight in the brightest of sunshine. Dilated with desire in the darkest of

Reviews for Fancy Meeting You Here

[Andrea Author · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

When Nick enters a bridal salon with his cousin, he's shocked to see ex-girlfriend Shelby there in a wedding gown. He realizes he's never gotten over her. Discovering she was there for a modeling job, he decides it's time to win her back, before it's too late. But Shelby, who grew up with a narcissistic mother and an absent father, doesn't believe love is in the cards for her. Can he convince her to open her heart?

I really liked Nick and Shelby. They've got good chemistry, and Nick is devoted to her, despite how skittish she is. His family also play a large role. This is a book about supporting the ones you love through difficulties, and finding that place where you belong. It's well written and well paced, with a strong plot and characters. While it's the sixth book in the series, it can be read as a standalone.

Thanks, NetGalley, for the ARC I received. This is my honest and voluntary review.