This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locales, and situations are the work of the author’s overactive imagination and the voices in her head. Any resemblance to people living or dead, events, etc., is purely coincidental. And I don’t mean maybe.

  Copyright © by Whitney Dineen in 2025; all rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, scanned, photographed, or distributed in print or electronic form without express permission of the author. But let’s face it, if you love it, she’ll probably let you share small portions. You still have to contact her first.

  Made in the United States. August 2025

  Print ISBN:

  E-book ASIN:

  https://whitneydineen.com/newsletter/

  33 Partners Publishing

  Dedicated to all the lovely authors in the Maple Falls series.

  Ladies, we have been through it all in our year-plus writing together. Adding loved ones to our tribes, losing others, health scares, moves cross-country, and so much more. You are all amazing and I’m honored to be able to call you my friends.

  CONTENTS

  1. Ashlyn

  2. Jamie

  3. Ashlyn

  4. Jamie

  5. Ashlyn

  6. Jamie

  7. Ashlyn

  8. Jamie

  9. Ashlyn

  10. Jamie

  11. Ashlyn

  12. Jamie

  13. Ashlyn

  14. Jamie

  15. Ashlyn

  16. Jamie

  17. Ashlyn

  18. Jamie

  19. Ashlyn

  20. Jamie

  21. Ashlyn

  22. Jamie

  23. Ashlyn

  24. Jamie

  25. Ashlyn

  26. Jamie

  27. Ashlyn

  28. Jamie

  29. Ashlyn

  30. Jamie

  31. Ashlyn

  32. Jamie

  33. Ashlyn

  34. Jamie

  35. Ashlyn

  36. Ashlyn

  37. Jamie

  Epilogue—Ashlyn

  Cast of Characters in Maple Falls

  Available Now: Pity Date

  About the Author

  Also by Whitney Dineen

  CHAPTER 1

  ASHLYN

  I love my job. I love my job. I love my job. Unfortunately, the repetition of my contentment mantra doesn’t always work. Take now, for instance. I’m standing in Callista Crenshaw’s palatial closet about to sort her shoes according to designer instead of style, which is not how I do things. Ever.

  In my professional (and highly sought after) opinion, shoes are sorted by occasion, then heel height, and finally color. That is, if my client owns the necessary two hundred-plus pairs needed to make this system successful. Being that I’m a closet organizer for the rich and famous, ninety-nine percent of them do. The other one percent are hyper-vigilant hippy-types worried about leaving too large of a carbon footprint on Mother Earth. They hire me to hang their organic, hemp, handstitched-by-Ecuadorian-nuns baggy apparel (so it doesn’t constrict their auras) on wooden hangers carved by the indigenous people of some remote jungle.

  Callista, however, is a reality television star so she is not spending her days worried about anything other than her public image and possibly making my life miserable. I’m starting to think the latter has become her main motivation for getting out of bed in the morning.

  “I want the Louboutin first,” she tells me with her signature wide-eyed stare that makes me think she would make a great serial killer. You know, unsuspecting, but devious. “Then the Nikes, then the Chanel, and finally the Louis Vuitton.”

  I glance up from the pile of footwear mounded around me with what I’m sure is a look of total horror on my face. “You want the Nikes sandwiched between the Louboutin and Chanel?” On what planet does that make sense?

  Her head bobs up and down nearly imperceptibly while her facial features remain immobile. I’m guessing the Botox shots she claims to get for migraines are keeping her from animating anything above her shoulders. God knows, I’ve never witnessed an actual expression cross her face.

  Now that my whole protocol has hit the fan—which is seriously messing with my latent OCD tendencies—I might as well see if she wants me to put all the left shoes together before lining up the right ones across the aisle. No, I can’t bring myself to go quite that far. “Anything else?” I ask.

  “I want you to put a light pair in between two dark pairs so they stand out more.” There goes using a photo of this closet in my portfolio. I’m tempted to ask her to not tell anyone I had anything to do with her project, but she’s not the first crazy person I’ve worked for, and she won’t be the last. I cite the movie producer who had me organize his extensive collection of dog collars by the number of studs they had. He wore the heavily embellished ones on his “special dates.”

  My phone rings before I can beat my head against the Macassar Ebony planking. It’s my mother, but I’m not going to tell Callista that. Instead, I mutter, “These Kardashians are going to be the end of me.”

  Even though it’s physiologically impossible for Callista to show any emotion, I know she’s excited because she moves backwards and tries to block the doorway with her double zero frame. Except for her greatly enhanced chest, I’m pretty sure she still wears toddler sizes.

  “Is it Kim?” she demands. “Kendall? Kylie?”

  I answer the call and declare, “Kris, how are you?” Then I wink to my client and mouth the words, “I need to take this in private.” I easily crawl under her emaciated arm and make my way through the bedroom. From there I walk into the bathroom and lock the door. Once I’m safely ensconced, I ask, “What’s up?”

  “Are you pretending I’m Kris Jenner again?” my mother demands disapprovingly. She isn’t a fan of the kind of people who hire me. But let’s face it, normal folks can generally figure out how to organize their own clothes.

  “It’s important my customers know they aren’t the only bougie people I work for,” I tell her while further enclosing myself in the toilet closet. Now there’s no way Callista can overhear anything. Even if her ear is pressed up against the outer door—which I’m sure it is.

  “Your father is making me crazy,” my mom growls.

  “What now?” My parents have had an ongoing battle for the last two years, the likes of which have made me wonder if they might scrap their nearly thirty-five years together and go their separate ways.

  “Dad and I were eating at the Glass Onion last night and he took four phone calls during our meal. Four.” It’s clear she feels this number is closer to a thousand than say, three.

  Trying to diffuse her anger, I tell her, “Dad’s busy.”

  “Your father is the mayor of the most darling town in the world. His whole job is cutting ribbons for the few new stores that open.”

  “There’s more to being mayor of Maple Falls than that, Mom.” I’m not exactly sure that’s true, but there must be something.

  “He approved a new stop light in town,” she grumbles. “Now that the Ice Breakers are part of the NHL, traffic is getting worse.”

  “You see, there is more to it.” Although barely.

  “Ashlyn,” my mom says in that warning tone of hers that she used to use right before grounding me. “I’m fifty-eight years old and your father has never put me first.” Before I can respond, she adds, “Instead of taking early retirement like he promised, he decided to run for mayor. I’m sick of playing second fiddle to, well, everyone.”

  It sounds like she’s getting ready to make a move. “You aren’t going to leave him, are you?”

  “I just might.”

  “Mom …” Even though I’ve been worried about my parents’ marriage, I truly thought things would work themselves out.

  “I’m fifty-eight years old,” she repeats. “And I look darn good. I’m still young enough to find a partner who thinks I’m worth spending time with.”

  My hands suddenly feel sweaty, which is a sign that real panic is setting in. “Please give Dad another shot,” I beg. “I’m going to get married and have kids some day and I don’t want to have to split holidays between my in-laws and you and dad. You’d hardly see your grandkids that way.” I know I’m playing dirty pool but so be it. Desperate times and all …

  “I don’t know what else to do. Your father knows how I feel, but he refuses to make any concessions. I deserve better.”

  “Why don’t you go away together?” I ask.

  “He won’t leave his stupid job long enough to do that. He thinks he’s indispensable, like Maple Falls would fall to ruin if he isn’t on constant standby.” Her sarcasm makes it clear she doesn’t think that’s the case.

  My brain spins with viable solutions but all I can think of is, “There must be a vice mayor who can take over.”

  “Vice mayor? This is Maple Falls, not New York City.”

  “Who’s next in line, then? You know, should Dad be unable to fulfill his duties.” I giggle inwardly at the image of my dad as the hopeful first runner up in the Miss America Pageant— where I first heard that line. I used to always envision the girl in second place turning rogue and hiring someone to run over the reigning queen with a semi-truck so she could inherit the crown.

  My mom interrupts my reverie. “I suppose the comptroller, but she’s on maternity leave.”

&
nbsp; “And then?”

  She releases a low hum like she does when she’s deep in thought. “There’s Gerald, but he has gout. According to his wife, he could be out for weeks.” I don’t even bother asking what Gerald’s position is. For all I know, he might be the janitor.

  In a final attempt to save my parents’ coupledom, I offer, “I could come home and help.” Not only am I enormously organized—as my profession would indicate—but my dad has been trying to sell me on the benefits of elected officialdom ever since he became mayor of Maple Falls. Of course, that’s primarily because he thinks my job is ridiculous and nobody, no matter how wealthy, needs a closet organizer. Little does he realize the entire ecosystem of Hollywood is based on such triviality.

  “You would do that for me?” The relief in my mom’s voice is apparent.

  “I would do anything for you,” I assure her. Also, I do not want to be the thirty-two-year-old daughter of divorced parents. Especially because I know that deep down my mom and dad really do love each other.

  “How fast can you get here?”

  All I have left in Callista’s closet are the shoes, so I tell her, “I could leave the day after tomorrow.”

  “You’d better come tomorrow. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.”

  “I love you, Mom,” I tell her. “Don’t issue any ultimatums until I get there.”

  “We’ll see.”

  A crisis of this order is the only thing that keeps me from trying to convince my client that her concept of orderliness is total chaos. Leaving the bathroom, I make quick work of placing three hundred and twelve pairs of shoes in such a way, one might think they were swept up by a tornado and dropped willy nilly from the sky. Okay, it’s not that bad, but it’s still horrendous.

  At five o’clock, I walk out of my client’s Beverly Hills compound and drive home to pack. All the while, I say a silent prayer my mom keeps her cool long enough for me to figure out how to save her marriage.

  CHAPTER 2

  JAMIE

  Trying to relax into the lumpy cushions of the ancient sofa that came with my rental, I click the link on my phone sent to me by the editor of the Maple Falls Gazette. It’s the article about my recruitment to the Ice Breakers.

  Coach Dale Hauser of Maple Falls’ very own Ice Breakers has just announced his choice for captain, Jamie Hayes. Hauser tapped Hayes for this coveted position on his newly minted NHL team, claiming, “There’s no one I trust more to lead my guys to victory. Jamie is a straight arrow who knows the importance of teamwork. I’m excited to be working with him again.”

  Hayes comes to us from the New York Blades where he played center for the last six years. Before that, he was with the Chicago Flame. He started his career at the University of Illinois in Chicago where he first played under Coach Hauser.

  I recently spoke with Jamie, who told me, “I’m looking forward to getting to know all the guys and can’t wait to work with Dale again. I owe my continued love of hockey to the dedication he showed to my college team. There are few role models like him left.”

  I continue to skim the rest of the article, hoping it will help to soothe the potential ruffled feathers of my new teammates. I understand from Dale that more than one of them was vying for the position of captain. While it’s common practice that the captain is one of the players who has been with the team the longest, this team is new. As such, they need a leader who’s had the most experience.

  With the exception of Cade Lennox, who also played for the Blades, I haven’t ever been on the same team with any of them. It will be novel to play with them instead of against them like in years past.

  I’ve always admired Weston Smith, who was traded from the Tennessee Wolves. He’s a really determined guy, which is something you need to succeed in this sport.

  Then there’s Carson Crane, who’s one of the few hockey players I’ve ever heard of that’s from the south, which is not at all common in our sport.

  As for me, I most likely would have stayed with the Blades until retirement had my girlfriend not left me for the billionaire she met on a recent fashion shoot in Martinique. After her desertion, I seized the opportunity to get out of Dodge and nurse my wounds in a more secluded location.

  There’s only one problem with my new situation. I’m a city guy, through and through, and Maple Falls is tiny. Seriously, I feel like I’ve been kidnapped and taken to the woods to be held until my ransom is paid.

  I’m renting a small cabin while I figure out what part of town I want to live in. So far, nothing compares to my apartment in New York, which is in the old meat-packing district, halfway between Chelsea Market and the Whitney Museum. Twelve-foot ceilings, with weathered brick walls and giant casement windows. Just add bamboo floors and an outdoor space and it’s the perfect find. I’m leasing it out to a former teammate during the season so I can have it available in the off-season.

  In Maple Falls, I have the choice of residing in the woods or living in town. As far as I’ve been able to discern, the two are not that dissimilar. Seriously, I have never seen this many trees.

  I’m so distracted contemplating my questionable domestic situation that I practically jump when the landline rings. And here I thought the old phone was nothing more than decoration. Picking it up, I stare at it like it’s going to bite me. “Hello?” I say somewhere near the vicinity of the giant mouthpiece.

  “Is this Jamie Hayes?” a gruff voice inquires.

  “It is.”

  The tone immediately becomes more jovial. “Jamie, this is Mayor Thompkins. I’d like to welcome you to Maple Falls!”

  I suppress the burst of laughter bubbling up inside of me. If receiving a call from the town’s mayor doesn’t smack of hick living, I don’t know what does. “Thank you,” I tell him. “It’s nice of you to take the time to reach out.”

  Before I can find a way to cut the call short, he says, “I’d like to invite you to join me for supper tomorrow night. You know, give you the rundown of our little paradise.”

  I have no idea why he thinks I need that information, although I’m guessing Dale would support my attendance, so I tell him, “That would be nice. What do you have in mind?”

  “What are you in the mood for?” he counters. “We have Italian, Chinese, pizza, a sweet little diner that serves the best burgers this side of the Mississippi …”

  Before he can finish regaling me with more options, I interrupt him. “Burgers sound great.”

  “Meet me at Shirley May’s on Main Street at seven,” he says. “I can’t wait to tell you all about Maple Falls.” Then he hangs up.

  Picking up my cellphone, I press the button with Dale’s face on it. He answers immediately. “I just got off the phone with the mayor,” I tell him.

  My statement is met with a snort of amusement. “Bill Thompkins is nothing if not eager.”

  “So you’ve already talked to him?”

  “Once, and it was a lot.” Shoot, maybe I didn’t need to take this meeting.

  “It sounds like you don’t want to join us,” I say disappointedly. “What could he possibly want to talk to me about?”

  “He doesn’t want you to talk at all. He’ll spend about two hours telling you the history of Maple Falls and then if I had to guess he’ll ask you to co-chair Maple Fest.”

  “Maple Fest …”

  “It’s an annual event that put Maple Falls on the map before the Ice Breakers.” He’s quick to add, “It’s supposedly a lot of fun, but if I were you, I wouldn’t get involved.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me.” Co-chairing a small-town festival sounds like as much fun as being a grand marshal of a parade—which is something I’ve done and don’t ever need to repeat. So. Much. Horse. Poop.

  “You ready to meet some of the guys tomorrow?” Dale asks. “The whole team isn’t here yet, but those who are have already started some preliminary practices. They’re a great group.”

  Instead of answering his question, I ask one of my own. “How’s Harry Franks handling my arrival?” Harry and I played college hockey together, and we didn’t get on. While we were decent teammates, our personalities clashed. I'm charming, and he’s more like a viper on blades.

  “He’s not exactly thrilled you’re joining us, but he’ll take it on the chin.”