My better life, p.1
My Better Life, page 1
My Better Life
Sarah Ready
Also by Sarah Ready
Stand Alone Romances:
The Fall in Love Checklist
Hero Ever After
Josh and Gemma Make a Baby
Once Upon an Island
* * *
Soul Mates in Romeo Romance Series:
Chasing Romeo
Love Not at First Sight
Romance by the Book
Love, Artifacts, and You
Married by Sunday
My Better Life
* * *
Stand Alone Novella:
Love Letters
* * *
Find these books and more by Sarah Ready at:
www.sarahready.com/romance-books
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Sign up to receive bonus content, exclusive epilogues and more at: www.sarahready.com/newsletter
My Better Life
When East Coast elite and wealthy bachelor Gavin Williams wakes up in a rural West Virginia hospital, he doesn’t remember who he is or where he’s from.
He doesn’t remember his heiress fiancée, his luxury homes, his exotic travels, or his private plane.
And he especially doesn’t remember insulting local country-girl and fiery redhead Jamie Sutton, smashing her dreams, and leaving her in a pinch.
So when a redhead in overalls stands over his hospital bed and convincingly tells him he loves banjos, hound dogs, and rustling chickens, what’s he supposed to do?
Suddenly Gavin is scrambling to fit into a country life that doesn’t feel familiar and that can’t possibly be his. A wife? Kids? A chicken coop?
His life is full of holes and secrets, desires and dreams, and as Gavin learns more he begins to wonder—will he ever remember? And what happens when he does?
W.W. CROWN BOOKS
An imprint of Swift & Lewis Publishing LLC
www.wwcrown.com
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This book is a work of fiction. All the characters and situations in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to situations or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real locations are used fictitiously.
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Copyright © 2021 by Sarah Ready
Published by W.W. Crown Books an Imprint of Swift & Lewis Publishing, LLC, Lowell, MI USA
Cover Illustration & Design: Elizabeth Turner Stokes
All rights reserved.
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2022910417
ISBN: 978-1-954007-38-3 (eBook)
ISBN: 978-1-954007-39-0 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-954007-40-6 (large print)
ISBN: 978-1-954007-41-3 (hbk)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Get a Bonus Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Sarah Ready
1
Jamie
* * *
A piece of glass can be as cold and desolate as the depths of a lonely man’s heart, brittle and eager to be broken. Or a piece of glass can burn, a bright, wild inferno that blazes as hot and desperate as first love, undulating with passion as I fill it with my breath.
The blue-green waves of glass curl with white froth, the promise of a rising wave, right before it breaks. I run my hand over the cold, smooth surface, and even though I know a glass sculpture can’t love you back, I put enough sweat, tears, and heart into this piece over the last three months to pretend that it might. My studio, an old stone barn that squats like a tired donkey at the corner of the property, is tinged with the sweet scent of seared cherry wood, and the acrid smell of smoke lingers on my overalls.
The early morning is dark, full of country racket—the percussion of the bullfrogs and the melody of the cicadas, interspersed with the occasional crow from our resident rooster. Out the barn door I can see the crescent moon and the morning star hanging low in the indigo sky. It’s nearly six, the kids will be up soon, but not yet.
I still have a few minutes before the mad school rush where eating breakfast, bathrooming, packing lunches, and managing to get three kids dressed with two matching socks and matching shoes, becomes as impossible as using ice to melt glass.
I stick my thumbs in the pockets of my overalls and breathe out a long sigh.
The sculpture, a three foot by five foot iridescent wave, is one of the best things that has ever happened to me. It’s our ticket to a better life, the chance I’ve been praying for, and it’s all thanks to a man I’ve never met.
Gavin Williams.
I don’t know much about him. We only corresponded by email. Short, terse, uninformative emails. But I know enough. Mainly, he’s rich. At least, rich enough to commission a ten-thousand-dollar piece of art and pay a ten percent advance. Which is the best, the absolute best thing that’s happened in this little corner of West Virginia in a long, long time.
I stroke my hand over the cold azure glass. I can still feel the waves of my breath flowing through it. Gavin wanted the sculpture to represent rapids on the Cambodian river where he met his fiancée. It’s a wedding present, which is nice for the fiancée but even better for me.
Ten thousand dollars better.
I stroke the line of white froth at the edge. The glass is as soft as a kitten’s paw. I smile. That’s some nonsense Bobby would’ve said. He was a pure romantic, always coming up with ridiculous metaphors and turns of phrase. Me, I never had time for romance. And with Bobby gone, there isn’t any call for romance anyway.
Besides, I’ll take cold, hard cash over love and romance any day of the week. I’m no fool.
That old curmudgeon rooster crows again, and I expect the kids will wake up soon. But before I start grilling pancakes and sliding bacon into the oven, there’s one thing I have to do. A cool breeze from the open barn door stirs up dust from the dirt floor and lifts the scent of beeswax and smoke from my overalls. Bobby said that smell was the best, most exotic perfume in the world.
See? A romantic.
I tug the silver chain necklace from around my neck, lifting the dented heart locket from under my overalls. I don’t take off the necklace unless I’m working glass, but I do now, lifting the warm, delicate chain from my neck. The necklace coils in my palm, the links settling into my hand with a soft metallic hiss. The heart locket is dull, the metal is discolored and scuffed. It clicks as I pry open the latch. Most people put a picture inside, but Bobby wasn’t most people. I drop the sliver of glass into my palm. The orange-tinted shard glints against my skin.
I can hear the memory of the shattering stained-glass window, a thousand shards raining to the stone floor, the noise of all that senseless destruction an echo of my life.
Six years ago I took this shard, dug the needle-sharp end into my pointer finger, pushed out bright red blood, and promised that I’d keep going, that we’d be okay.
Today, after six years of sweat, struggle, and clinging to okay by the skin of my teeth, I’ve finally done it.
I press the shard into the same spot, right over the white star-burst scar on my pointer finger. I ignore the sting and grit my teeth until the glass slices into my skin and the warm tang of blood slides over my finger. I stare at the crimson drop welling up, as round and new as a dew drop on a curled leaf. I can almost taste its coppery tang.
Then I curl my hand into a tight fist. Holding onto the locket, the glass shard, my promise.
“I did it. I promised I would, didn’t I? The kids are going to be okay. We’re all going to be okay. You can rest easy now. Alright? I told you we’d be okay.”
The breeze drags its fingers over the back of my neck, rustling my hair, and although it’s only the wind, I’ll take it as a sign. From this day forward, everything is looking up.
Elijah will finally get a pair of new shoes, heck two pairs. And I’ll have enough money for gas to drive him to play on the little league team, and enough money to pay the club fee. I’ll be able to afford a math tutor for Tanner and finally take him on that weeklong camping and rafting trip he’s been begging for.
And Shay, she really, really wants that cedar shake treehouse, the one that looks like a miniature replica of a seaside mansion. It’s been stationed in the parking lot of Beaner’s hardware store for a year now, and every time we go shopping, she parks herself in that treehouse and sits cross legged on its wood plank floor for the whole thirty minutes I’m in the store. I’d be able to get her that little house. My heart nearly doubles in size at the thought of how happy the kids will be.
And me…I’m dreaming of a meal, one with crispy-skinned chicken where the salty grease drips down your chin, hot yeasty rolls that flake off and melt in your mouth, sweet corn slathered in creamy butter, and greens braised with salty bacon. I’d have gallons of iced tea with fresh lemons and fancy sugar, and there’d be pies, peach pie with double the peaches, and lemon meringue with the meringue so high it’s excessive, and strawberry shortcake, with gallons and gallons of strawberries, and while I’m gorging on the best food I’ve eaten in years, I won’t be worrying, I won’t be worrying about anything at all.
And it’s all thanks to Gavin Williams.
Like I said, I don’t know much about him, but I do know that he’s an angel.
2
Gavin
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“You are such a prick. I told you last week, we’re done. D-O-N-E. The wedding is off.” Lacey has a death grip on the metal scalpel she’s holding, her knuckles white, and I think about backing up, because by the look in her eyes, she just might be considering plunging the sharp point into my heart. Or jugular. Whichever would kill me faster. And she’d know, considering she’s a doctor.
Even in ugly lima bean-green scrubs and a long white coat, she still manages to look poised and, of course, pissed.
Not that I’m afraid, but I step around the stainless steel patient table and put some space between us. The cold smell of antiseptic pinches my nose, and the patient room, barely big enough for two adults, much less the swabs, gauze, cupboards, syringes and scalpels, presses on me.
Ever since I was a kid I hated being inside, hated being stuck, and this six by eight room, with anatomy posters on the wall and a flickering, buzzing light, is making my skin itch. I want to grab Lacey’s hand and pull her out to the fresh air. Take us back to the lush jungle where we first met, to the perfume of orchids and vine-covered trees instead of the tang of antiseptic, to the hum of insects instead of the buzz of artificial lighting.
“Do you remember when you saved my life? How I fell in love with you while you saved me from that snake bite?”
She narrows her eyes. “A good deed never goes unpunished.”
It’s then that Lacey realizes she has a death grip on the scalpel. She carefully sets it on the cracked laminate counter and lets out a long-suffering breath.
“Gavin.”
The way she says my name makes me step around the stainless steel table and reach for her. The room, the way sounds are muted inside, with all the cupboards and boxes and clutter, makes me feel trapped. It also makes me feel like I’m nine again and I’m standing in my dad’s office, my head bowed, waiting for him to say whatever it is he called me in to say. I’d breathe in the harsh cleaning solvent used on the tile floors and eventually that smell became synonymous with his disappointment.
“Gavin—” he’d say. My name, I came to realize, meant a thousand things, all of them bad. Gavin meant—Why can’t I sit still? Why can’t I remember the multiplication tables? Why can’t I read better? Why can’t I be more serious? Why can’t I be more respectful? Why can’t I be more like Will? Why can’t I stop being a disappointment? Why can’t I be anyone, anyone at all, except me?
The way Lacey says “Gavin” is exactly the way I hoped to never hear again.
It hits a sore spot that I’ve buried deep and run away from. I’ve spent years avoiding any situation where I got close enough to someone for their disappointment to matter. To trap me. Until I met Lacey.
“Please. I love you. I messed up.” I reach out, and although Lacey’s face is colder than the winter I spent in an igloo in the Arctic Circle, she still lets me take her hand. I pull her close and fight against the overwhelming urge I have to run, to fly to New Zealand for cliff-diving, or to Iceland to chase the Northern Lights. That’s not me anymore. I love Lacey and I’m going to prove it. So instead of focusing on the pressing claustrophobia of this closet-sized patient room at this depressing free clinic where Lacey’s volunteering, I’m going to focus on her.
Her hand is cold, her fingers dry from scrubbing with sanitizer and constantly changing out rubber gloves. I rub the back of her hand, and her eyes narrow.
“Honestly, Gavin, you don’t know what love is. I value myself too much to waste my life on a man-child who thinks so little of me that he believes a bunch of old ladies when they tell him another woman is his soul mate. It’s asinine. I knew you were having a hard time adjusting to the idea of settling down. The idea of picking out kitchen towels terrified you, for goodness sake. Fine. I understood you didn’t feel prepared to run a charity with me. I was prepared to make accommodations and compromises with your desire to roam. What I’m not prepared to do is marry a man who can’t discuss his hesitations like an adult and who kisses other women days before our wedding.”
Lacey’s eyes cut me, not with the anger she’s wielding like a scalpel, but with the disappointment so clearly written there.
I grip her hand and struggle to draw in a bracing breath of the antiseptic-coated air. “I know. I know I was wrong. You’re right, I was an idiot. I was scared. I let my fear cloud how much you mean to me—”
“How much?” She tugs her hand away.
“What?”
“How much do you care? Would you be willing to give up your lifestyle for me? Give up all your international trips for me? The skydiving, the parasailing, the climbing, the scuba diving, the rafting, visiting all the exotic locales, would you give all that up for me?”
My skin goes cold at the thought, but… “Of course—”
“Really?”
“Yes. I love you. I want a home. A family.”
Lacey crosses her arms over her chest. She taps her heel against the old cafeteria style floors, the click, click, click, loud in the suffocating room. “I’m not sure which of us you’re trying to convince when you say that.”
I shake my head in denial. “When I saw you for the first time, all woozy from the snake bite, your face shining above mine, I knew we were meant to be.”
Lacey studies me, her blue eyes as cold as the stainless steel table. “Would you still think that if I told you I wanted us to live here the rest of our lives?”
She gestures around the dingy room.
I raise my eyebrows at the peeling, cracked walls, the cupboard full of blue cotton exam gowns, the smell of antiseptic, and below that a hint of mold, and grimace at the “Remember to wash your hands” poster circa 1978.
“Live in this clinic?”
She rolls her eyes. “No, Gavin. Not in this clinic. In that log cabin you bought six months ago the last time I volunteered here. We’d live in Hollow Creek, West Virginia. I’d run this free clinic. You’d volunteer on the business side. We’d live in this town for the next forty years, until I retired. We’d be too busy for vacations or travel. Instead, we’d stay here. Every single day of the year. On this mountain. We’d settle down, have kids. Live, work, and die. Here. Here for forever.”
She points at the brown and gray tile floor, stained with decades of grime. The walls of the room crush me, the weight of forever stuck in one place making it hard to breathe. Decades of never, never leaving one place? I wouldn’t be living on a mountain, I’d be buried under a mountain. I can already feel it crushing my chest, heavy and constricting.
