Are You For Reel?

  ABBY KNOX

  Cash

  It’s been a year since I’ve been back in my hometown, and I only came here to do two things: help my parents out at their bait shop/general store/boat repair garage, and eat homemade ice cream. A certain curvy intruder is making that second part extremely difficult. She might be cute if she didn’t thwart me at every turn.

  Caroline

  The housing market has been brutal, but I’m a flexible woman. I can write my romance books anywhere, so this month, I’m chilling in a remote village in the Great Lakes. The folks here have adopted me as one of their own and I’m growing fond of them. There’s one local man who doesn’t appreciate me hanging around much, though. Could he really be that mad that I ate his ice cream, or is he just denying his feelings for me? Sooner or later, that grump is going to surrender to my sunshine. There’s simply no other choice.

  Copyright © 2023 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  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.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is coincidental.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Cover Designer: Cameron Hart from Grown With Hart

  Hello from Abby!

  Thanks for picking up my book! If you want to check out more of my titles, please visit my author page at www.authorabbyknox.com.

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  Happy reading!

  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

  Epilogue

  Also by Abby Knox

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Cash

  The first thing I plan to do is shovel a massive bowl of homemade ice cream into my mouth.

  Coffee flavored. My favorite.

  But I’ve only just crossed the big bridge and an hour’s drive remains until I’m on Paradise Lane.

  Driving over the bridge that spans the strait—Lake Michigan to the left, Huron to the right— settles something in my bones.

  I cannot wait to get home.

  I zip past the farm pastures and wooded rural roads of the Upper Peninsula, going way above the speed limit, and I can already taste that coffee ice cream.

  I haven’t visited in over a year. When my mom said she could use help sprucing up the place, the guilt hit hard. That’s code for “Dad needs help.”

  My parents, Bonnie and Bill Young, are my heroes. My mom taught me everything she knows about business and people skills. My dad got me interested in fixing everything mechanical, and I inherited my stubborn streak from him.

  None of us like change much, and none of us Youngs enjoy asking for help.

  But I know Dad won’t fuss too much if I show up and pick up a hammer. It’s the asking that chaps him. So, I dropped everything after talking to Mom, and booked the next flight to Detroit.

  The drive through the Northwoods in the rental Jeep restores something in me that I can’t explain. Dallas is a great city, but something’s missing.

  Maybe it’s the trees. The fresh air. Cooler climate. The wildlife. And the people.

  Interstate 75 stretches all the way to Canada, but I take the last US exit at Three Mile Road and meander west and north toward home.

  Paradise Lane, a tiny bayside enclave around a decommissioned lighthouse on Lake Superior— that’s home. Freaking freezing in the winter, but in the summer it’s a respite from the Texas heat.

  There’s the post office: my last chance to check email and answer phone calls—if I even had my phone turned on. But I turned it off as soon as my plane landed in Detroit. The seventeen restaurants in the Young Dallas Foods family of fine dining establishments are in good hands, each one with managers more than capable of handling anything that comes up.

  I’m a hands-on type of boss but I’m learning to delegate. I still like to show up and fix equipment when things go south at any of my restaurants; kitchen components are costly, and I’ve saved a ton of money over the years by DIY-ing it.

  This trip is a true test to see if I’ve learned to let the business run itself.

  I roll down my window and breathe in deeply.

  Soon enough, the shroud of firs, birch, and cedar opens up, and the bay comes into view, the vast Lake Superior gleaming in the distance.

  A few small boats bob in their slips at the small marina at Snug’s Landing. The dockside restaurant is the only place to dine out on Paradise Lane, and for outsiders, it’s mainly accessible by boat. Snug’s is a hidden gem. My mouth waters as I inhale the aroma of fried fish and spicy chicken wings.

  I roll up the road toward my parents’ bait store/boat repair shop/general store, and my stomach growls.

  Dietitians love to say that food can’t love you back, but they haven’t tried the ice cream and Young’s Bait Shop and Boat Repair.

  I don’t see Mom or Dad anywhere, but Matthew Brendan, who runs one of the small fishing resorts on Paradise Lane, greets me with his signature firm handshake that could break a man’s hand off.

  “It’s good to have you home,” he says. I notice he’s got a bit of engine grease on his cheek, which is weird. The man’s a licensed medical doctor, so it’s pretty odd to see him looking like he’s been tearing apart outboard motors.

  “Good to be back. What’s happening? My dad teaching you how to fix boat engines?”

  Matthew gives me an odd look. “He didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  Sheepishly, Matthew replies, “I thought that’s why you came back.”

  A knot of worry forms in my stomach. “Matt, what’s going on?”

  He knows by now he’s going to spill everything. “Your dad’s been having complications since his knee surgery, and it looks like he won’t be back in the shop for months instead of weeks.”

  “Knee surgery?”

  Matthew grimaces. “Your mom didn’t tell you about the knee surgery?”

  I curse, my worry turning into a ball of annoyance. Not at Matthew, but at the whole situation.

  “No. Neither of them said a word about it.”My parents take the whole “I don’t want to be a burden” thing to a new level. As they get older, it gets more and more infuriating. I have the means to help; all they need to do is ask.

  “I see. I’m happy to help out your parents, you know that,” Matthew says.

  I pat his shoulder and say, “I know, I appreciate you looking after them.”

  He shakes his head. “The truth is, and I hate to say this about your dad because I love the guy, but he’s kinda running your mom ragged.”

  And now my annoyance is squarely aimed at my dad. “What do you mean?”

  With a guilty look, Matthew explains, “Two home health nurses have quit over his refusal to let them assist him. So now Bonnie’s dividing her time between harassing him to do his physical therapy and running the register. She’s tired, Cash. Everyone’s pitching in with the store and the shop, but there’s only so much. You know you’re mom. She doesn’t complain about how she’s feeling.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Shit. He’s having complications because he isn’t doing the therapy, isn’t he?”

  Matthew lets out a long sigh. “That’s about the long and short of it, yeah.”

  “Fuck me,” I grumble.

  “To tell you the truth, I think it will do her a world of good to have you here,” he says.

  I glance around the surroundings and notice the wind and harsh weather have taken a toll on the place since I was here last year. For starters, the woodwork could use a fresh coat of sealant, and a hornet’s nest is visible on the eaves in the far corner.

  To top it off, the grass along the drive looks like it hasn’t been mowed in a month.

  As always in summer, Mom’s flower boxes are overflowing with blooms, and far too pretty for a run-down old bait shop and garage.

  “Why don’t you show me what you’re working on, and you can head on home,” I tell Matthew.

  “Honestly, that’s good news, ’cause I gotta help Gretchen plan the fish fry. The neighborhood association is trying to raise funds to buy the lighthouse and turn it into a bed and breakfast. Figure it could bring in some more income for everyone along Paradise Lane. You gonna be around for the fish fry? It’s on the 15th, and we’d love to see you there.”

  That’s in two weeks. “I doubt I’ll be here that long, but I’ll be sure to write a check.
That’s a great idea, Matt.”

  He nods, unable to hide the disappointment that this trip won’t be long-term. How can it be when I’ve got seventeen restaurants to run back in Dallas?

  I mean, I could be a little less hands-on…but no. If I stay here long term, I’d lose my mind. There are no single people on Paradise Lane, and I’m not about to hit the rutted road every weekend for a Tinder date that might or might not work out. I’m not interested in dating; in fact, the next time I come home to visit, I aim to have a fiancée on my arm.

  Matthew shows me what he’s been working on, which is a simple enough fix for me. We say our goodbyes outside, and I head inside the bait shop, the doorbell tinkling overhead as the door swings open.

  I am ready for ice cream.

  “Hello?”

  The front of the shop is empty except for the aroma of stale coffee and popcorn.

  I try again, moving past the small display of local crafts and souvenir shot glasses. I see some customers’ gas money on the counter but no one at the till.

  That’s not unusual. Mom often wanders off to chitchat with friends in the neighborhood, even when the store is open.

  Moving farther into the store, I decide I’ll have to get ice cream before that hug from Mom.

  I go behind the ice cream cooler and pick up a cup and a scoop, then open up the lid to all eight flavors of the day: Moose Tracks, cinnamon bun, peppermint, blueberry, cherry, vanilla, and triple chocolate, and one empty container. My smile falters when I see that there’s no coffee flavor.

  “What the heck happened to the coffee ice cream?” I ask aloud to no one. Now I’m extra grumpy. Dad’s being a pain in the ass to nurses and to my mom, he’s working Matthew and my mom to death, and now there’s no ice cream.

  Unexpectedly, someone nearby clears her throat.

  “Oh. That would be me. I the-heck-happened.”

  Startled, my gaze snaps up to the worn-out diner table and chairs that Mom added last year. To the left is the shelf display of bug spray. On the wall to the right of the table is a taxidermied northern pike with a bright orange lure hanging from its gaping fish mouth.

  And in between the two, seated at the table, confessing to having eaten the last of the coffee ice cream, is…a woman.

  She’s in her twenties, and not here to fish. That this person is out of place in a bait shop in an isolated village in upper Michigan is the understatement of the year. With her hot pink leggings, off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, headphones, and open laptop, she obviously thinks this place is a Starbucks. And yet, the woman looks back at me with eyes so big and green that I feel like I’m looking into her soul.

  “You ate all of it?” I rasp.

  Who is this? I’ve never seen her before. Maybe she’s a friend Gretchen’s, Matt’s wife. Or maybe she’s here with Josh and Penny, or Bree and Cody, both young couples who sometimes spend a week up here at the end of summer.

  The woman nods. “What was left of it, anyway, after the afternoon rush.”

  Afternoon rush. That’s funny. A rush in Paradise Lane is three, maybe four customers at one time.

  “Well, I hope you enjoyed it,” I snap, giving her a dark look.

  The woman seems taken aback by my grouchy behavior, and I wonder if that was harsh of me.

  Then, as if sensing I’m all bark and no bite, a slight smile pulls at her lip, and she lifts one sassy, mostly bare shoulder. “I sure did.”

  Guess I’m not getting an apology.

  “That was my ice cream. I came all the way from Dallas for it.”

  She purses her lips and says, “Do they not have coffee ice cream in Dallas? How sad.”

  I hem and haw, trying to think of what to say next.

  “They do,” I say stupidly.

  Her perfect eyebrows lift. “Oh. That’s good news. You can toddle on back to the Lone Star State and get yourself a heaping helping.”

  I don’t know why I’m engaging with her sass. “Toddle? I’m 32. I don’t toddle.” I really shouldn’t speak with gritted teeth. It’s not a good look.

  The woman laughs prettily. The kind of laugh that could make a man perform stupid human tricks to keep her laughing, if she weren’t so sharp and irritating.

  “Oh! I assumed you were a baby because of your little tantrum over the ice cream. But if you’re a grown man? My mistake. Sorry.”

  Not the apology I was looking for.

  She looks past me and shuts her laptop, and for the first time, I can see all of her. The neckline of her sweatshirt—if you can call it a neckline—sweeps loosely across her sternum, revealing the tiniest hint of the swells of her breasts. The sweatshirt she wears is a midriff, showing off a pleasing little belly roll that begs to be nibbled. I inwardly groan and bite the inside of my cheek, trying to think of a comeback. And suddenly, my brain has stopped working. My mouth is full of cotton, and I have no words. No witty comebacks.

  Damn it, who is this girl? Her sass is over the top, her outfit is deranged, her laptop is covered in lewdly worded stickers about something called “book boyfriends,” she ate all my ice cream, and she has annoyingly attractive tits.

  Someone save me.

  Or don’t.

  I’m fine to just stand here and glare at this irritating, smart-mouthed intruder, trying to think of something to say.

  “Cash James Young! How did I not see your car go by?”

  Oh, thank god. Saved by the shop door bell, and my mom.

  I bring the older woman in for a tight hug and let out the breath I’m holding. “’Cause you were probably too busy gossiping with Deb and Dottie to look over here.”

  She swats me on the back.

  “Terrible,” she says with a laugh. “My son is just terrible.”

  Over Mom’s shoulder, the mystery woman with the laptop has an entirely new expression.

  She looks completely horrified.

  Chapter Two

  Caroline

  I don’t know why I didn’t notice the resemblance right away.

  That’s Cash James Young, son of my new best friends, Bonnie and Bill.

  Bonnie and Bill talk about him constantly. And now that Cash and Bonnie are standing side by side, I see it. They have the same sharp cheekbones and chin. And I’m doubly a dumbass because there’s a photo of him on the shelf behind the register. I’ve been here three weeks and looked at that photo a thousand times.

  I’ll have to ask Bonnie why she has no recent photos of Cash around the place because that photo was taken before he had scruff. And definitely prior to the arrival of chest muscles. Yep, a more recent photo could have prevented my snarky ass from making an idiot of myself.

  “You’re Cash?” I ask dumbly.

  Bonnie claps a hand over her mouth, aghast. “Oh my gosh, did he not introduce himself?”

  Cash’s gaze is severe, locked on my eyes. His scruffy jaw tics. “You two…know each other?”

  “Yes!” Bonnie exclaims. “This is Caroline! We’ve been having coffee together every morning for the last…how long, honey?”

  I smile at the older woman. She and Bill are the only people allowed to call me honey.

  “Three weeks to the day,” I tell her, and she gives me a warm smile.

  “She’s staying at one of the Brendan’s River Rocks cabins.”

  I nod and say, still trapped by Cash’s stony expression, “Yep. Cabin Number 2.”

  And why did I just offer up the other exact location of where I sleep at night to a strange man? Not smart.

  Still, I’m sure he’s safe. Everyone I’ve met since I took over Cabin 2 at the Brendans’ River Rocks Resort a month ago has been fantastic. Bonnie refuses to let me pay for my coffee. I’ve been to dinner at the homes of at least three retirees. The Snug’s Landing restaurant is a veritable hootenanny of gossip—nobody gets away with anything around here. Everyone on Paradise Lane is curious about the young lady at the fishing resort who doesn’t fish. And they all eagerly ate up the details about my past. I washed up on Paradise Lane after a month at a hotel in Ann Arbor. Before that, I was kicked out of my apartment in Crown Point, Indiana, where I’d lived for ten years since I was emancipated from my parents at 16. The sympathy from the older folks at that little fact got me an extra helping of dessert.