Overdue: A Small Town Romance: Dansboro Crossing, #1

By Avery Samson

The first time I saw her, I knew she was the one. 

Then she broke my nose. 

She started a war, one that would last through our childhood. 

 

After years of being gone, I'm home for good this time. If that isn't bad enough, guess who I find bent over a filing cabinet, looking better than I remember? 

Everything in me tells me to run. But I'm a glutton for punishment. 

How can I convince her I'm worth a second look if she sneers whenever she sees me? But I'm not the same boy she thought she knew.

 

He was my nemesis, but also my childhood crush. 

He threw shade, I ignored him. 

He irritated me, I retaliated. 

 

It was a childhood war for the ages. But that's all about to change. Now we're all grown up and back in the small town where it all began. 

 

He's always been the most beautiful boy I've ever known. He's just as stunning as a man. 

His attitude though? I can still do without it. 

 

We might be able to build something, if he'd just keep his mouth closed. 

 

Can I learn to get along with the boy from down the street? 

Only if he learns to play nice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Avery Samson
• Release date: Aug 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223606147

Book preview

one

AUSTEN

How did my life get reduced to this? I was going to leave this small town behind. The giants of the literary world were going to bow before me in awe of my life-changing prose.

I was going to be one of the select few to win both a Pulitzer and Nobel Prizes in Literature. Instead, here I sit slumped behind the large desk in the middle of the local public library.

But I didn’t escape that small town. I’m now the head librarian at the tiny library in the middle of downtown. This is where I wound up. Dansboro Crossing, population three thousand four hundred fifty-eight happy smiles. That’s what the sign on the way into town claims, anyway.

Miss Caraway? says a small voice somewhere behind an impressive armload of books. With a thump, they’re set on the front of the circulation desk. A toothless grin looks out from behind the books.

My mom said I’m finally old enough for my own library card. Please, Miss Caraway, can I get my own card? I plaster on a smile.

Of course, sweetie. I don’t have to ask the little girl's name. After growing up in a town this size, I know just about everybody on sight. She gives me all the information needed. I print out the card and show her how to check her books out.

Don’t forget story hour is on Tuesday, I remind her. I cram as many books as I can into her book bag.

I won’t, Miss Caraway, she assures me.

I watch as she lugs the heavy bag out the front door. When did I get old enough to be called Miss Caraway instead of Austen?

It’s not that I hate the town. I loved growing up here as the middle daughter of three sisters. My parents are wonderful, if not a little too scholarly. Not in a bad way though, more like two people who held five degrees between them and taught at a small exclusive private university two towns over scholarly.

They moved here before I was born to escape the totalitarianism of the city. Okay, whatever. However odd, they’re still loving, supportive people.

Mom teaches feminist literature and philosophy. Dad is a theoretical physics professor. How they chose the names for my sisters and me, I don’t know. It must have involved psychedelics.

At least I got Jane Austen Caraway. My poor oldest sister was labeled with the male-sounding name George Eliot Caraway. At least Eliot had been a woman, but that didn’t help matters.

Just as strange, my youngest sister is Charlotte Brontë Caraway. What a mouth full. By the time they chose Brontë’s name (complete with the two dots over the e), they must have just been throwing darts at a bookshelf.

I spin around in the old desk chair to check the clock hanging next to the office door. It’s not even six in the evening? I let out an impressive groan. No one seems to notice. Is there even anyone in here? I’ll make a loop and then see what I can do in my office.

Tonight is Thursday, and the library always stays open late on Thursdays. It has for as long as I can remember. Anyone unable to make it during the rest of the week to pick up books has at least one evening they can stop by. I stop next to my office door to straighten the books on the holds shelf. Yeah, they’re still in perfect order.

My office isn’t great, but it’s all mine. Mrs. Brown, who retired after fifty years of working as the head librarian, left behind several plants. Her husband convinced her to head for the sandy beaches of Florida to live out the rest of their retirement.

So far, I’ve managed to kill two of the three plants almost immediately. I’ve worked here less than two weeks, but failure seemed to have followed in my wake. Those plants never stood a chance.

In addition to the desk, wobbly desk chair, and dead plants, there are a set of short filing cabinets against the back wall that hold patron records. I found a coat rack and a couch that look like they used to occupy a doctor’s office in the fifties to round out the tired but comfortable look.

My desk is piled with books. One stack is new books needing to be put into the system. Another one is a stack needing to be retired. And still, another is of interlibrary loan request. I’ve moved the growing pile of loan requests, recent library card forms and other assorted paperwork to the top of the file cabinet.

If I don’t gain control of the stack of paperwork soon, it’ll likely bury me alive. It’s still quiet in the main part of the library, so no time like the present to take on the mess. I’ll start with the loan requests. Of course, I manage to upend the papers at the back of the cabinet.

Monkey’s ass. Several slide behind the heavy file cabinets. Stupid wanker. I know. You’re jealous of my command of cursing. But back to the papers. Damn it. Wasn’t every day a Monday now? Maybe if I move the other stacks to my desk, I can reach behind the cabinet for the stray papers. Anything is worth a try.

I have one of those weird library stools in my office. I roll it over and kick off my shoes. I can almost reach the papers. If I can just wiggle a little farther over the cabinet, I’m certain I can. We won’t think about my ass encased in a tight pencil skirt stuck in the air.

I almost have them. Just a little more. There. I’ve snagged them with my fingertips. Now I just have to get off the cabinet. If I do an awkward version of the worm backward, I should be able to push myself off. Who thought it was a brilliant idea to leave the cabinet pulled out a little from the wall in the first place?

Wahoo. I wave the papers in triumph when my feet hit the stool again. I spin around and leap off the stool.

Whoredog! I squeal.

Leaning against the doorjamb of my office is my worst nightmare. With his long golden locks, fathomless blue eyes, and perfect white teeth shown to their full glory by a shit-eating grin. He is the last person I want to run into since moving back.

Reed Campbell. The same boy who lived down the street when we were kids. Although, Reed doesn’t look much like a kid anymore.

Hey, brat, he teases. I see you still need a bar of soap for that mouth. What an ass.

What do you want, Reed? I snap.

Reed moved in down the street from me when I was twelve and he was fourteen. His parents had been killed in an automobile accident, and he was forced to move in with his grandmother.

I met him the day after he arrived. He tortured me the entire rest of the way through school until he left for the Army after graduation. I can still remember the day we met as if it was yesterday.

I’m sitting on the porch swing using one Converse-clad foot to push it slowly back and forth. Mom brought me home a copy of The Lord of the Rings and I’m plowing through it.

I‘m outside because, with my sisters around, it’s impossible to find a quiet space where someone of my literary prowess can think. Not to mention focus on such a mature book. Okay, it is a little complicated to follow, but I’m twelve now. I’m basically an adult.

Hello, Austen, Mrs. Campbell from down the street calls, completely interrupting my brilliant insight into the mind of J.R.R. Tolkien. I brought my grandson over to meet Eliot. They’re going to be in the same grade this year. Is your mother inside?

Standing next to my neighbor is a skinny boy the same age as my older sister. He has long messy blonde hair and a scowl that could rival even Gollum. But those eyes are definitely something. Doesn’t matter, I’m not interested. Not even a little.

Yes, ma’am. She’s in the kitchen if you want to go on in. I don’t know where Eliot is. Mrs. Campbell opens the door calling out to Mom. I return to my book until I realize I’m being watched. Reed is sizing me up. You can follow your grandma, I point out with a flick of my hand at the door.

Nah, I think I’d rather stay out here for a while. He could suit himself, I’ll just pretend he isn’t there. I have just begun to focus on my book again when there’s a thump against the house.

I roll my eyes and place a finger in my book to keep my place before closing it. Trying to mimic the stern look of consternation I often receive from Mom, I look at Reed.

He’s staring right at me. Calmly, without looking away, he throws a hard rubber ball he produced from somewhere against the house near the porch swing. Expressing a derisive snort (I learned that one from Eliot), I dismiss his behavior as immature and resume my reading.

Reed doesn’t stop bouncing the ball, however. With each throw, he moves closer to where I’m sitting. I know that the only thing to be done with an obnoxious boy is to simply ignore him. I heard that bit of wisdom from both Mom and Eliot, so it must be true.

I pretend the constant wallop of the ball against the wall doesn’t affect me whatsoever. At least for as long as I can maintain my sanity. This Reed character seems to have a strong need to drive me crazy.

What is your problem? I ask, pausing my reading again. I can hear my teeth grind together as the noise continues. The ball is barely missing me at this point.

Do I really have to put up with some rude twat of a boy? That’s my new favorite bad word. It’s British, I think. If you looked it up in some British dictionary, there would be a picture of him.

I still firmly hold onto the belief that all boys are jerks. I will never get all stupid acting around them like my best friend has this summer. Bleh. They will never hold any interest for me. I’m moving on to more lofty pursuits. But I have to do something about this one. Either that, or I’ll go mad.

The next time the ball is thrown at the house, I reach out and catch it. I haven’t played Little League with the boys since first grade for nothing. Standing quickly, I pull my arm back and wing the ball at Reed.

It must catch him by surprise. The ball hits him square in the nose. As if in slow motion, I watch in fascination as a spray of blood erupts from his nose. I suppose I should feel sorry for him. But he brought it on himself.

Oh my lord, Reed. What did you do? Mrs. Campbell asks, hurrying out of the house followed by my mom. Craptastic. This is where I get grounded for the rest of my life. At least school is just a couple of weeks away. They have to let me go to school.

Nothing, he snuffles. He’s sitting on the ground, holding his hand to his face, blood oozing out from between his fingers. I got distracted and missed catching the ball.

I’m completely flabbergasted. Since when have I ever known a boy who didn’t happily rush to get me into trouble? There must be something wrong with him. Reed meets my eyes around the two women fussing over him. They narrow with the promise of retribution. Shitballs.

Let’s go get that cleaned up. Sorry, Elise. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Helping Reed to his feet, my mother walks them to the sidewalk. She waits until they disappear into their house before turning around. She places both fists on her hips with a frown.

Austen Caraway, she says sternly. I was trying to sneak quietly back into the house to disappear upstairs before she noticed. Busted. I turned around to meet Mom’s eyes. What actually happened?

Is it my fault he’s a klutz? I deflect. Mom tries to call my bluff, but I’m not stupid. If he wasn’t going to say anything, then I wasn’t either. She can’t ground me if she doesn’t know what happened.

Austen! I look up from my desk, startled to see Reed still standing at the door. I’ve been talking to you for fifteen minutes. Are you still as big an airhead as you were in school?

Just FYI, I have never been an airhead. I just have other, more important things to think about. Right now, that includes how to get him out of my office without punching him in the throat. Or tearing his shirt off. Damn it!

Is there something you want, Campbell? Or are you just here to look stupid? There’s a zinger. He doesn’t even flinch. Wait, weren’t you off somewhere playing soldier? Why aren’t you there? Reed had gone directly into the Army from high school.

I had to move back to help my Gran after she had her stroke.

Oh, that’s right. I’m sorry. Now who looks like a jerk? How could I have forgotten our sweet neighbor had a stroke a month ago? Am I a monster?

I should take a casserole over this weekend. There’s not much money in my checking account, but surely I can throw something together to help out a neighbor. I’ll just dig through Mom’s pantry and see what I can do.

Just let me know when you’re ready. I wouldn’t want to interrupt that vastly superior brain of yours. He’s now slumped on the couch across from my desk. Is that a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth? Asshat. Wait, when did he get so good-looking all manspread on the couch and stuff? Ugh, he drives me nuts. Still.

What do you want, Reed? I’m very busy. I’m not, but whatever.

It looked like it from the door a moment ago. Nice skirt, by the way. Was that sexual harassment? Sounded like it. Typical of the Reed I remember. I should educate him with Mom’s lecture on sexual harassment rules in the workplace. Oh, what’s the point?

Were you looking at my ass?

It was in the air in a tight skirt. Of course, I was. Come on, brat, do you really think I could resist that?

What in the hell? And to make it worse, I can feel my face growing red. I’m not a blusher. None of his taunts in the past have resulted in this response. I’ll just chalk it up to a long week. Exhaustion, that must be it.

Stop calling me that. I’m trying to snarl. If he would stop staring at me with those eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea on a sunny day, it would help. And the publishing houses said I have no talent for description. Hah! They should see me now.

Yes, Miss Caraway. No, that’s much worse. That makes things tingle that shouldn’t be tingling. Can you please order me a couple of books on landscaping? I don’t care which ones, just so they’re current.

Landscaping? That’s an odd choice. Since when did the high school baseball star with the panty-melting smile become interested in plants?

Uhh, sure. Let me look. My fingers start flying over the keys on my ancient computer.

No hurry. Just let me know when you get them in. I have to go start supper. Reed pushes off the couch. Damn, he’s stacked. No! Bad Austen.

Hey, Austen. How is he already at the door? Good, he can just walk his tight ass… I mean asshole self out of here. It’s good to see you again, brat. He flashes me with one last you know you want to climb me like a tree smile and then he’s gone.

Wow, what just