Page 1 of One Last Thing Before You Go

CHAPTER ONE

LOTTIE

Iuse the lemon twist in my martini to absentmindedly swirl the contents of my glass. The dim overhead lighting of the bar bounces off the tiny shards of ice floating in the vermouth and vodka, casting tiny rainbows in my drink in a way that fascinates me, but not enough to distract me.

Sighing, I drop my head in my hands, messing up my already mussed curtain bangs.

I’m sad. Of course I’m sad—I just came from a funeral, for god’s sake. But I can’t help the way my mind wanders to the potential consequences of Walter’s death. And just as it does, just as I begin to consider how I’ll have to adjust it to get my life back to what it used to be, to move back to New York, find myself another job, and leave this small town (for good this time), another wave of grief crashes over me—followed quickly by one of guilt. Today is supposed to be about Walter, and I’m here freaking out about what his death will mean for my future?

I scoff, disgusted with myself, before tossing back what remains of my favorite cocktail, silently toasting to my fallen boss, friend, and mentor. The alcohol burns my throat on the way down morphing my expression into a grimace, but it’s okay. I deserve the pain.

In a practiced motion, I raise my hand slightly and flag down my favorite bartender. “Can I get another?” I ask Alejandro.

“No problem; I got you.” He nods sympathetically and walks away with my empty glass.

“Holy shit. How’d you do that?” The sound of a disbelieving voice—deep, smooth like butter—pulls me from my dark thoughts. I swivel in my barstool to face the person responsible for preventing me from diving into a downward spiral—thank god. “I’ve been standing here for legit ten minutes, and he hasn’t so much as looked in my direction. Yet one wave from you, and you’ve got the bartender at your feet.”

He scratches the stubble on his square jaw as he stares down at me with a tired, yet excited gaze and a lopsided smile so adorable it knocks the breath out of me. From his disheveled hair and dark under-eyes, it’s obvious this man hasn’t been having the best day either. But even so—even looking like he hasn’t slept in days—with just one glance I can tell there’s a lightness to him that has my heart beating faster. The stranger towers over me, running his fingers through his dark brown hair. The worn leather jacket he wears covers the wide expanse of his back, moving with every single one of his muscles, making it seem like it was almost custom-tailored to his body.

A deep instinct, left dormant for several years, seems to awaken inside, shaking me to the core. It’s been a while since I’ve wanted to be with anyone—I mean, what’s the point?—but one word from this man, and suddenly my body doesn’t care about anything that’s happened, everything I’ve been through. It doesn’t care that we made a vow a couple of years back to never date again.

It’s not like I lost my sex drive since my divorce—that definitely isn’t it. I have a nice collection of, ahem, helpers in my top bedside drawer that are on regular rotation. I even gave my favorite one a name (Henry Cavill, of course, because how could I not). But it’s been a long time since I’ve been with a real man.

Since leaving New York several years ago, I’ve been on a few dates—most of which were because I was forced into them by my siblings as a result of their fear of me dying alone. The last one was such a mismatch I actually stood up in the middle of dinner, walked away, and Venmoed him for my half of the bill (even though I most certainly could not afford it). That’s when I made the call to never date again. Since then, I’ve been focusing most of my efforts on getting the hell out of this town again. Focusing on saving up enough money to go back to New York. Easier said than done, though, since I destroyed my career, my personal life, and my finances. But I don’t want to think about that now.

Alas, we persist. Kind of.

So, not a good idea to pursue him. Plus, he looks way younger than me.

Still, I’m human, so I stare at the man, completely dumbstruck because I think from the way he’s looking at me that he might be into me? Thankfully, I recover quickly and slap on a poker face.

Emboldened mostly by the vodka, I say, “It’s all about who you know,” with an air of self-confidence I one-hundred percent do not feel. “And you don’t really look like you’re from around here.” I allow myself to give him a conspicuous once-over to make my point.

He snorts and places what looks like a camera bag on the bar before taking the stool beside me. “Definitely not,” he says, as if insulted by the idea.

I should be a little more protective of my small hometown, but I don’t blame his derisiveness—I know exactly what he means. All I ever wanted growing up was to get the hell out of Ceres Cove—which I managed to do. It’s the staying away part I failed at. Though it wasn’t really entirely my fault, was it? All because I… Anyway, I didn’t have any other choice but to come back.

“Just passing through,” the stranger continues, but doesn’t elaborate.

Though we’re a small beach town that does get a surprisingly significant influx of tourists during the warmer months, we rarely see out-of-towners in the off-season. Needless to say, this man’s arrival into town is bound to make a splash in the local rumor mill.

With a heartbreaking smile, he removes his leather jacket and sets it on the stool beside him before pushing the sleeves of his shirt up his arms. I have to stifle a groan when my eyes flicker down to check out his forearms because… well, forearms. Muscular and sprinkled lightly with hair, the hint of a tattoo peeks from underneath the sleeve of his shirt on his right arm. Up until this very second, I didn’t know I had a thing for tattoos, but I suddenly find myself needing to run my fingers over the lines of ink.

Jesus.

It doesn’t help that the navy waffle henley he’s wearing is fitted enough that it shows off every single one of his muscles, stretching over defined pecs, strong biceps. Not too tight—just right. My mind wanders to all the different ways in which I could get him to take off that shirt. To find out whether it’s the only tattoo he has or whether there are more.

Phew. Okay. Calm down, crazy.

“To be fair,” the stranger starts, pulling me back to the present as he looks me over slowly in a way that heats my skin, “you don’t seem to be from around here either.”

I smirk because I suppose to the untrained eye, it would be a safe assumption to make. But my black pencil skirt with the slightly snagged hem, yellowed white silk blouse, and worn designer heels tell a different story. They’d tell you I had another life before coming back to Ceres Cove, and that now that it’s over, these clothes are all I have left of it.

Before I can reply to the stranger, Alejandro slides a fresh vodka martini in front of me and I thank him with a smile. From the corner of my eye, I watch the stranger attempt to order a drink, only for the world’s most overprotective bartender to shoot him a glare and walk away.

“What’s a guy gotta do to get a beer around here?” He sighs.

I burst out laughing, surprising us both. A wide grin spreads across his face as he watches me, glacier eyes brightening even in the darkened bar. “Sorry, sorry,” I say, slowly coming down. “I don’t mean to make fun of you.”