Page 1 of Really Truly Yours

Chapter 1

Grayson

This was a bad idea.

Hopefully not as bad as the worst-case scenario I’ve conjured since the disturbing call I received two days ago.

I should have sent Archer in my place. My agent excels at handling trouble.

Mine, in particular, although that was a fleeting phase. Embarrassing, and living for eternity on the internet.

What can I say? Last time I checked, everybody makes mistakes.

I send up a flare prayer and tug the ballcap low over my eyes.

Given the possible nature of the looming meeting with a stranger, I see no need to advertise my identity.

I’m not exactly Tom Brady. Yes, wrong sport, but I get recognized once in a while, and today, I’d like to fly under the radar. This time of year, with my team in the playoffs and the championship series in the offing with or without us, people are paying more attention to my sport.

I slump low in the chair and eye the coffee house’s dining area, full-up with coffee sippers. This crew in smalltown Chandor is notably different from the place I frequent at home a block from my condo downtown. Moms who have a few precious, kid-less hours between eight and three, a table of students, probably from the local community college. The only hipsters like I’m used to seeing in the city are behind the counter. Lots of tattoos, nose rings, and gauges there.

Even small towns have changed since I was a kid. This updated version makes me, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, feel like I’m already an old man. Or maybe it’s my arm doing that. Stupid arm, probably needing stupid surgery, still stiff and occasionally painful, is a near-useless appendage at the moment. Hopefully only for the moment, if I follow my cadre of doctors’ orders and don’t do anything more strenuous than lift a coffee cup.

Shoot. The whole situation ticks me off.

Save it, Smith. You may be about to add a real problem to your list of first-worlders.

I scan the toned-down crowd as I wait for my appointment to arrive. That’s a nicer word than what I fear this meeting might end up being—my own personal doomsday.

For the moment, the order line has stretched to the point that it partially blocks my view of the entrance. I should have considered this complication before I chose the most remote seat in the establishment, a dark corner near the one-seater bathroom. I tap my paper cup, half-full of straight Americano.

The front door swooshes open. The middle-aged man it births is clearly not the feminine SydneeI’ve been told to expect. A second before it sucks closed, it swings open again, this time delivering a young woman roughly my age. I strain for a better look. Maybe.

I hold the at-ease posture, but from beneath the hat’s brim, my gaze sharpens. I arrived well ahead of schedule. It’s now two minutes after, so the timing works, and she is close to my age. As the blinding sun that backlights her disappears with the closing of the tinted door and she moves deeper into the shop, I blow out a breath. She’s okay looking, although hardly the type to make me throw my principles out the window. Unless I was in a compromised state—

Oh, right. I regularly was in the aforementioned compromised state often enough for a spell there.

What a moron. The whole too-big-for-my-britches thing, as Grampa Smith called it, nearly cost me my britches. And may yet. The fog has since lifted, but actions do have consequences, some more than others.

I’ve held one long breath this last year, and all was rocking along swimmingly until, in a weak moment two days ago, I answered a number I didn’t recognize. The unwelcome caller wouldn’t stop, nor would they leave a message. I was ticked, and instead of blocking the number like a sane person might, I decided to deliver a piece of my mind.

And there went my peace of mind.

The woman said her name was Sydnee. No familiar ring to it, but, well, again, in an inebriated state, it’s entirely possible I wouldn’t remember. I don’t handle alcohol well.

At all.

Probably because the first drink that ever passed my lips came late and my body was wholly unprepared for the stuff once I finally imbibed.

See? I can explain away the stupid if given the chance.

The woman’s gaze sweeps the space, seeking. The urge to hide, to put my head down like I’m back in third grade playing the quiet game when Mrs. Harris was on her last nerve on Friday afternoons at ten minutes until three, almost overwhelms me.

The lady’s eyes land on me. Catch and hold. She veers my way.

This is it. The moment. The culmination of my worst fears. Well, the worst ones that started roughly two years ago. Until then, I was squeaky clean, and had a strange woman tried to corner me into a meeting with a vague and nebulous purpose—it’s a family matter—I would have hung up on her and never given any of it a second thought.

Except…stupid has consequences.