Page 2 of Welcome Home to Ivy Falls

When my brother came back to Ivy Falls and outbid Torran on the house we’d grown up in, he kept it from me until I arrived for an unexpected visit. I was ninety days into my sobriety then and thought I could handle it, but watching Torran and Manny help Beck restore the run-down place, knowing my deceased parents would never see it, catapulted me right off the wagon. It’d taken another trip to rehab, and lots of therapy before I returned home hoping for a second chance. I was two years sober now and never looking back.

I focused on cleaning glasses, trying to ignore the shy glances the guy kept flicking my way.

‘Does he think this place has table service?’

Maisey’s voice must have carried because he stood and approached the bar.

‘Can I grab a menu?’ he asked with a deep Southern lilt to his voice.

‘We only serve coffee and tea. Some specialty pastries in the morning but those are gone,’ I said.

‘Oh.’ His pale blue eyes narrowed with an odd kind of curiosity. ‘Have we met before?’

Maisey snorted into her tea.

‘Nope,’ I said roughly.

He was cute with broad shoulders and a thick curl to his hair, but I could tell a tourist by a mile and he was definitely an out-of-towner.

‘Did you want to order?’ I said.

‘How about a sweet tea? Lots of ice, please.’ He swiped at his sweaty brow. Pulled off his glasses and wiped them clean with a napkin. It was a little too deep into summer to be wearing a blue blazer and khakis.

Yep. Definitely a tourist.

I went to work on his order as Maisey questioned him like she was a covert agent for the CIA.

Where was he from?

Why was he visiting Ivy Falls?

Was he going to buy any books?

I bit into my lip, trying not to laugh. Maisey was a lot sometimes and I loved her for it.

A group of preteens sauntered into the store. Some had skateboards tucked under their arms. Others carried kick scooters. As they approached the bar, I started filling up water glasses because their flaming-red cheeks said they needed it.

Once I passed the plastic cups to the kids, the man managed to take his drink and extricate himself from Maisey’s interrogation, all without answering any of her questions, which was impressive.

‘What’s the latest on the wedding?’ Maisey said, re-adjusting her small body on the leather stool.

A few months ago in a corner of the store, Beck had asked Torran to marry him. They’d met in that same spot as kids and it was a full-circle moment. Since that day, they’d had a lot of wedding issues to navigate thanks to Torran’s show – none of which they could agree on.

I ignored Maisey’s question and went back to scrubbing a mug with a little too much force.

‘Pipe,’ she pressed. ‘Are Torran and Beck going to let Hearth and Home film it?’

I let out a heavy breath and set the mug back in the sink, ignoring that anxious itch in my spine.

Maisey stopped mid-sip. ‘Are they still arguing about it?’

My attention went to the delicate hummingbird tattoo on my wrist, and I used my fingers to trace the outline of its periwinkle wings. ‘Arguing is a strong word.’

She reached out and placed her hand over my frantically moving fingers. ‘Why is it stressing you out?’

It was impossible to hide anything from her.

‘They keep rehashing the same concerns. Wanting to keep it small and intimate, while also feeling pressure from the show’s producer, Lauren. She keeps pushing them, insisting that if the network films it, it’ll send ratings through the roof. That it’ll translate to a bigger contract for next season and more money.’