Episode 1
529 Words
BACK TO ASHMOOR
Eloise Granger’s GPS chirped “You have arrived” just as her front tire hit a pothole the size of her last bad decision.
Ashmoor.
Even the name sounded like a sigh.
She rolled down the window of her rental car, inhaling the crisp scent of pine and paperbacks—okay, maybe just pine. But there was something about small towns that always smelled like secrets and cinnamon rolls.
Her agent had said she needed a break. Her therapist had suggested a “creative sabbatical.” Her ex had publicly declared she was “unhinged, oversexed, and emotionally unstable” during a podcast interview that trended on BookTok for all the wrong reasons.
So here she was. Emotionally unstable? Maybe. Oversexed? Tragically no. But unhinged? Well, she’d packed three bottles of wine and a box of her own backlist novels to reread in case she forgot she was a bestselling author. Unhinged was debatable.
The rental cottage stood nestled behind a grove of oaks at the edge of town, its porch sagging like it hadn’t heard a good story in years. She tossed her suitcase onto the bed, flung open the French doors to her tiny writing nook, and was immediately greeted by the screech of birds and the comforting echo of silence.
Perfect. Boring. Just what she needed.
Until she ran out of coffee.
Fifteen minutes later, wearing a “Romance Writers Do It Better” sweatshirt and a bun that was one sneeze away from collapsing, Eloise pushed open the door of The Book Nook—Ashmoor’s only bookstore, according to Yelp reviews that included such gems as “Smells like history and heartbreak” and “Hot guy behind the counter makes the best recommendations.”
She barely made it past the entrance before smacking directly into a brick wall disguised as a man.
The collision sent her tote bag flying, its contents—a planner, two pens, a crumpled workshop flyer, and a half-eaten croissant—raining down in a tragic display of uncoordinated chaos.
“Oh my god, I’m so sor—”
Her apology died in her throat.
Because the brick wall had a face.
And that face had stormy gray eyes, a familiar jawline she once traced at 2 a.m. with the pad of her thumb, and a mouth that had once whispered promises against her collarbone.
Rowan Hale.
He looked like ten years had been kind and cruel to him all at once. His hair was longer, wilder, like it hadn’t forgiven him for growing up. His shirt hugged shoulders broader than memory. And his expression? A perfect mix of disbelief, annoyance, and something that made her heartbeat trip over itself.
“Eloise?” His voice was a husky echo from a different life.
She blinked. “Rowan.”
A beat. A breath.
Then he said, “Of course. Of course you’re the one leading the writing workshops here.”
And she, not to be outdone, tossed her hair, straightened her sweatshirt, and replied, “And you’re the guy who just crushed my croissant. We’re even.”
Some towns smelled like secrets. Ashmoor? It reeked of unfinished business.
- Writer
