Falling for Her

By Alex Winters

Renowned artist Wren Springfield books a lakefront cabin to spend the next two months painting portraits of classic horror movie monsters dropped into scenic locales. But on her first night in town, she stumbles upon her neighbor, Luna, and suddenly the only work of art she can see is Luna every chance she gets.
 
Local real estate magnate Luna Ponce thinks she has the lakefront to herself. Little does she know her business partner rented out the cabin next to hers. The two women are fated to be together all summer long, tempting and teasing each other in more ways than one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Apr 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9781685507374

Alex Winters

Alex Winters is the pseudonym of a busy restaurant manager whose curious young staff would love nothing more than to follow him around the dining room reading his steamiest, most romantic passages aloud! When not writing romantic holiday stories of various heat levels, he enjoys long walks with his wife, scary movies and smooth jazz. Visit him at www.awintersromance.com to see what stories are brewing up next!

Book preview

Falling for Her

By Alex Winters

Published by JMS Books LLC

Visit jms-books.com for more information.

Copyright 2024 Alex Winters

ISBN 9781685507374

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Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

All rights reserved.

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author's imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

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Falling for Her

By Alex Winters

Chapter 1

Wren

What, exactly, are you going to paint in this dump of a town anyway?

Wren Springfield rolled her eyes and gazed out the passenger side window, admiring the cozy, tree-lined streets of tiny Lake Antler, Georgia and savoring the brief respite from big city life.

Like a ten-year-old being dropped off at summer camp, Wren had her hand out the passenger side window, palm pressed flat against the wind, fingers making a wedge shape, rolling up and down on the late summer breeze as her sister's rented Jeep cruised reluctantly down Main Street's picturesque avenue.

Cobblestone pavers, stately elms, tables for two and swaying bulbs fronted each cozy establishment they passed, from the Corner Café to Dale's Deli, from Spunky's Sports Bar to the Barkin' Dogs Bakery and, eventually, Carol's Crafts, the homey art supply store where she'd already placed a hefty order to be delivered that same week.

Wren sighed and, without glancing away from the scenic view, murmured pensively, What I always paint, Hazel. You should know that by now, right? I mean, you're not exactly new here.

Hazel looked out the window with a sour expression, as if they were weaving their way through some kind of zombie apocalypse and not the cover of a Norman Rockwell painting. God, more horror monsters in nature settings? When are you gonna get tired of that shtick and try, I dunno...a famous person's portrait or something?

Wren could only roll her eyes and watch as the tiny town literally retreated into her rearview mirror, struggling to avoid the constant nervous energy that accompanied her sister's aura like drowsy fog over a gray, hazy London afternoon. She'd forgotten how anxious Hazel always made her feel and, though she winced at the thought, was as eager to distance herself from her half-sister as she was the hustle and bustle of midtown Manhattan.

She chuffed, "I guess when people stop clamoring for, what did you call it? Oh, that's right, my shtick. You know, the shtick that keeps you living the high life for basically doing, uh...what is it you do again, Hazel?"

Hazel knew she had overstepped, and her suddenly conciliatory tone implied she was backpedaling. You know what I mean, Wren, she offered with an insincere little chuckle, as dry and flat as the pavement beneath the Jeep's tires. Sure, you make a ton off these things but, you could do them in your sleep by now, right?

Wren finally clucked her tongue and gave her half-sister the outrage she was clearly pushing for. "In my sleep? You think I booked a cabin on Lake Antler for the rest of the summer because I can pump these things out in my sleep? Six years of working for me and you still don't get it, do you? My shtick, as you call it, looks easy because I work damn hard to make it look easy, Hazel."

As usual, Hazel missed the point. By a mile. She scrunched up her face, leathery and too old for her years after sunning herself on the beach at Wren's expense, too often, and for far too long. The off and on drug habit and years of binge drinking didn't help much, either. "For you, Wren? Working. For. You? Much like her world-weary expression, Hazel's voice had the grizzled tone of a Valley Girl way past her prime. I thought the deal was I worked with you?"

Of course you do, Hazel, Wren offered, still staring out the window as the landscape gradually shifted from cobblestone streets and sidewalk cafés of Main Street to the denser forestry of the wooded lake where she would be spending the last few weeks of summer painting the usual suspects of vampires, werewolves, ghosts, zombies and mummies on canoes and kayaks and frolicking in the sun-dappled shallows, beach towels draped over their ghastly shoulders and gaily dappled flip flops on their ghoulishly detailed feet, classic horror stories meeting modern life courtesy of strip malls, gas stations and other tacky tourist traps. Maybe Hazel was right, after all. Her schtick might have been getting a little tired lately, but that's why she traveled the globe, seeking out new landscapes to drop her ghastly creations into.

So far, it still seemed to be working.

Wren nudged her half-sister with a not-so-playful elbow to the bony ribs beneath her sweater. Then she threw in a dramatic wink for good measure. That's why you make the big bucks, right sis?

Hazel gave her a trademark smoldering side eye and kept driving.

Truth be told, Wren wasn't sure why she kept Hazel on the payroll after all these years. She was about as artistic as a kindergartner with a squeeze tube of toothpaste and her business acumen wasn't much more mature than her brushwork. Still, she was the only family Wren had left and, after all, she'd promised their no good, deadbeat dad on his deathbed she'd take care of her, no matter what.

Paying her sister untold sums of money to sit around a Manhattan office all day answering phones and filing invoices, when she wasn't out partying the night away or splurging on a new cocktail dress or buying some new boyfriend an expensive wristwatch, Wren supposed, was the no matter what part.

Hazel was sitting upright, both hands on the steering wheel, knuckles white with either concentration or, more than likely, frustration. I like to think I play a significant role in your business, Wren.

Wren sighed and gritted her teeth. It wasn't worth starting beef with her half-sister when they'd be apart for so long, only to have to mend fences when she finally returned to Manhattan later in the fall. Of course you do, Hazel, she offered in a vaguely conciliatory tone. It's just kind of a trigger when you downgrade what I do for a living so...casually, like that. Kind of the way your mom always did growing up.

Wren's mother had given up custody of her when she was only a child and, shortly thereafter, her father Alvin had taken up with Glenda, Hazel's mother. In quick succession Glenda got pregnant with good, old Alvin, had Hazel and, just as quickly, split the scene as well.

Wren could hardly blame her now, though she certainly had as a young girl. Alvin was a giant dingus who never held a job for more than a few months and switched addresses as often as he switched girlfriends, ho bags, friends' wives and baby mamas, but still...she'd been the only mother figure Wren had ever known and, in the wake of her sudden absence, Wren took over mothering infant Hazel in her stead.

She'd been looking after her ever since.

Sorry, Hazel said, as if following Wren's mental trip down Memory Lane in real time. Dad used to do that to me, too, with my fashion sense, remember?

Wren had no trouble smiling at that one, a testament to their shared history together. Oh, I sure do.

Hazel had been as good a fashion designer as Alvin had been a father and, shortly after failing out of the Georgia School for Design, had started working for Wren.

Sorry, make that...working with Wren.

They settled into a tense silence as the sign for Lake Antler came into view. As if on cue, the paved road gently gave way to gravel, grinding under the rental Jeep's heavily pebbled tires and blending with the New Age radio station Wren had programmed into her car stereo the minute they'd left the airport parking circle.

Wren glanced back out the window, the forest growing more and more dense with each passing turn of the thick Jeep tires. She smiled coyly to herself, the tension of the long ride from the Atlanta airport with Hazel gradually drifting away like the soft sway of the leafy green trees that surrounded them. Soon enough she'd be all alone, in a sprawling A-frame cabin with all the amenities, her home away from home for the next few months, doing what she loved best in her own company. The only company, frankly, she'd ever been comfortable with.

Hazel drove slowly down the winding lane, the windows open, the smell of fresh air and sunshine and green leaves almost overpowering after so long on the busy, hectic freeway straight from Atlanta.

You sure you won't get lonely all the way out here?

Wren stifled a self-satisfied smile. If only Hazel knew how happy Wren was to be lonely for weeks and, preferably, months at a time. No lonelier than I got in that cabin in Alaska during the spring. Or that rundown flat in Barcelona last winter...

Or the drafty apartment in Paris last fall, Hazel finished for her, using a sing-song voice to indicate she'd heard it all before and, for that matter, probably hadn't been all that interested the first time she'd heard it. "I get it, I just...don't get it, get it, you know?"

With the finish line so close at hand, Wren didn't mind a motherly glance Hazel's way as she navigated the winding, unpaved trail to the A-frame in question. That's because you always need a boy around to keep you, uh...company, Hazel.

At last, Hazel perked up, offering a winking nod and a knowing, sisterly leer. Not always, but they sure come in handy on those long, lonely nights, you know?

Wren stiffened, slightly, as the first of several modern, streamlined buildings, all of them slight variations on the towering A-frame style, came into view, nestled in a long, winding cul-de-sac.

Not really, she murmured, hoping Hazel would drop the conversation and switch to something a little less touchy.

Like real estate, perhaps.

Or home design.

No such luck. How long has it been since you've had a boyfriend anyway, Wren?

Wren stifled a shudder, then forced a smile. Not long enough since that last one, I can tell you that much.

Hazel smirked knowingly. "You mean Randy? From Accounting? He wasn't that bad, was he?"

Wasn't that bad? He accused me of finger painting for a living and then stormed out the day I accused his dandruff of having dandruff.

Hazel snorted her raunchy, uncouth laugh, pulling to a stop in front of the first A-frame in the long, curving row around the picturesque lake. It was the very essence of cozy, wrought iron and glass tempered with plenty of weathered wood and featuring a wide, sweeping porch that looked just perfect for long, solitary evenings spent around the clay chiminea that was the centerpiece of a cluster of assorted deck chairs splattered with autumn toned throw pillows.

So I'll set you up with someone new, Hazel was still prattling, putting the Jeep in park but leaving the engine on as she turned conspiratorially to her half-sister. That was years ago, Wren. Like, literally, years.

I'm well aware of my deficiencies in the dating department, Hazel.

Her half-sister turned in her seat to give Wren a condescending grin. I know you like your alone time, Wren. You always have. But your dry spells are getting longer and longer, hon. I don't want you to normalize spinsterhood, okay?

Wren winced at Hazel's sudden perceptiveness. She might have had no interest in Wren's art, or proclivities in the business department, but when it came to sexy times? Hazel was all ears--and all words, apparently.

Wren bristled just the same. Who says I'm not wining and dining every boy toy I see on the streets of Paris and Barcelona and beyond, Hazel?

Hazel wagged a bejeweled finger. Those flared nostrils and big eyes of yours, Wren. They always get like that when you're fibbing.

Look, Hazel, is that... Wren sat gently back, giving her half-sister a good up and down. Is that why you insisted on accompanying me on this little trip today? To lecture me on not...not...drying up before it's too late.

Hazel smirked knowingly. Speaking of drying up... Hazel gave Wren a good up and down herself, settling on her crotch. If you stop using that thing, I hear it seals up. You don't want that, do you?

Jesus, Hazel, this is embarrassing. Not to mention inappropriate. Can't we just have one discussion where my sex life isn't the central topic?

I'm just saying, there are plenty of guys at the Gallery Home Office who'd kill to get with you. Hazel paused, their eyes meeting in the suddenly claustrophobic cabin of the rental Jeep. Girls, too.

Stop, Hazel, Wren moaned, slithering from the leather seat and putting her feet on the ground for the first time since they'd left the bustling airport hours earlier. Not this again.

It's 2023, boo, Hazel urged, following suit and emerging from the Jeep in a flourish of gaudy colors and cheap perfume to pop open the back door. You do you. I've seen you giving that new curator the odd glance or two.

Who wouldn't? Wren huffed, struggling to keep the blush out of her ever-expressive face and avoiding Hazel's eyes at all costs. I'd kill to have a body like hers.

They stood at the back of the Jeep, hands stilled on respective suitcases--the only two Wren had picked for the entirety of her stay. "You sure you wouldn't kill to have her body next to yours, Wren? It's okay, honest. You're an artist type, it's expected you'd be a little...unconventional."

Jesus, Hazel, you sound just like Dad right now.

Hazel chuffed her chin out and swaggered just like good old Alvin had just before those three packs of cigarettes a day had caught up with him a few years back. Well, now that he's gone, somebody has to have your back and give you outdated Boomer advice.

Their