Page 1 of Keepsakes and Kismet

Chapter 1

Peyton

Starting a line is my painfully niche talent. Although, is it technically a line if there’s only one person standing in it? I take a swig of water and decide to give it some serious thought.

Just as I’m about to enter minute thirty-three of character building in the sun, a passerby pauses next to me. “Excuse me, can I ask what you’re waiting for?”

It’s a valid question. Why am I waiting in this maybe-line, on a seemingly uneventful Saturday morning, in the middle of the hottest September Ohio’s seen in the last five years?

The woman holds a small shopping bag from the candle company down the street and her wallet in the other hand. I draw in a steadying breath. Nothing says “I have disposable income and am not afraid to use it” like artisanal candles.

Trying to pretend I’m having the time of my life and not sweating my ass off, I give her a broad smile. “Oh! I’m waiting for the grand opening of this boutique. I’ve loved their online shop for years and can’t believe they finally have a storefront. In Waterton, of all places!” My tone is rehearsed perfection—genuine enthusiasm without suspicious levels of excitement.

Leaning closer, like I’m about to share the coordinates of Bigfoot’s lair, I add, “I heard there are freebies for the first fifteen people in the shop.” I look down at my watch as if I don’t know there are exactly twenty-five minutes left before I have access to air conditioning. “They open in a half hour, and I just know the line’s about to get long. There’s been so much buzz about it.”

Inner thoughts play out on her face, and I watch her expression shift from curiosity to resolve in under five seconds. Then, she steps behind me to form what I can now confidently call “a line.” God, I love when the first person joins me—it’s such a rush.

“I should call my sister to get over here.” She pulls a phone out of her purse and lowers her voice to a whisper. “Jenna’s a self-proclaimed slut for giveaways.”

I stifle a shocked laugh and nod encouragingly, reassuring her that she’s making the right choice. A great choice. A choice heavily influenced by me, a professional. Forming a line where one didn’t exist before is a specialized skill. And, as the owner of Good Taste, I’m excellent at it.

Over the next twenty minutes, several people join us—including Jenna, who, as it turns out, will break traffic laws for doorbusters. I glance at my watch again. Less than three minutes until 10:00 a.m. Go time in t-minus ten, nine, eight…

Jenna gives a small squeal. “Someone’s opening the door!”

I pat myself on the back for another flawless execution of what I call “The 120-Second Rule.” Every shopper is unique, but one thing remains universal: they fucking love when the doors open two minutes early.

Internally, I preen for immaculately orchestrating sweet, tote bag-clutching Jenna’s excitement.

Externally, I join her squeals of happiness, bouncing on my toes so the people behind us can sense our enthusiasm.

My client, Caitlyn Langston, cracks open the door and grins when she spots me. She flips her long, copper waves over one shoulder, and the dainty diamond stud on the side of her nose glints in the light as she steps out of the doorframe. When she spies the line of intrigued customers wrapping around the corner, her jaw drops.

“Oh my God,” she mouths. She stares, eyes bright, for a few moments before clearing her throat. “Well, hello, everyone! I’m thrilled to see your smiling faces this morning. Welcome to Waterton Threads! My team’s ready to help you with whatever you need. Don’t forget to snag a complimentary charm bracelet while supplies last!”

At the mention of freebies, the crowd cheers. There’s even a wolf whistle from—if I had to guess—Jenna’s direction. I walk in first, but pretend to be distracted by something in the front display so real customers can go ahead of me. Caitlyn closes the door once the last person enters, presumably to keep the heat out, and makes her way toward the cash wrap. She motions for me to join her beside the counter, and I casually saunter over, snagging a set of gold bangles on my way.

Caitlyn nudges my shoulder and speaks at a low volume. “You’re a miracle worker. How did this even happen?”

Oh, you know. Good old-fashioned flyers around town, aggressive hashtagging on social media, and a willingness to risk sun poisoning.

“A little bit of this and that.” I set down my water bottle and scan the merchandise, appreciating the timeless pieces she’s curated. Tailored dresses, neutral slacks, and functional blouses line the walls. “You did all the heavy lifting, with your incredible taste. Everything is so chic, yet functional. The dresses could be inspired by Dior’s A-Line collection.”

Caitlyn glows under my praise, and a gentle flush paints her pale skin pink. “That’s quite the compliment. It sounds like you know a lot about fashion.”

“Um, I used to work in haute couture, back in New York, up until two years ago.” I pretend to inspect the bracelet, hoping to avoid any follow-up questions.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. Were you a model?”

I place the bangles on the counter, giving up on my pathetic attempt at diversion. “My last job was a junior designer for Haus of Lamont.”

“A designer? I thought for sure you were going to casually mention your multiple Vogue spreads. Not to make this weird, but you’re like, one of the prettiest people I’ve ever seen up close.” Caitlyn leans back to study me before smiling and snapping her fingers. “You look like that filter I use on my selfies when I want to feel bad about myself. Your cheekbones are so high they’re at risk of altitude sickness, girl.”

I breathe out a laugh, and my curtain bangs fall to the center of my forehead, sticking to the light sheen of residual sweat from the heat outside. While I enjoyed modeling to an extent, it’s not something I like to bring up. Remaining neutral about my looks is best for my mental health.

“So, Peyton. Tell me: what brought you to boring ol’ Ohio then?”

Exhaustion from the crushing, constant rejection of my designs. The boss from Hell. The ex-boyfriend from Hell’s unfinished basement.