Fall For Me – Chapter One

June 23, 2026Leave a comment

COMING July, 2026

firefighter Romantic Comedy

Running from a wedding… into a fake fall romance!

Fleeing her wedding and a toxic relationship in her white gown, Peyton jumps on the first bus out of town—and straight into billionaire Liam Rockwood. Literally. Distracted by her search for a place to stay, she steps into the street and sends the town’s most eligible bachelor crashing off his bike!

Liam is furious. His suit is ruined, he’s late for an event at his hotel, and now the runaway bride responsible is trying to check in. Worse, the small-town rumor mill quickly decides Peyton must be his secret new wife.

When Liam’s father arrives ready to celebrate the “happy couple,” Liam makes Peyton an offer: a temporary marriage of convenience. She gets protection against her vindictive ex, a home, and a fresh start. He gets the wife his family expects.

As crisp fall days turn into cozy nights, they carve pumpkins, steal kisses in the corn maze, and share secrets in the dark. Suddenly, their fake marriage starts feeling dangerously real. But falling was never part of the plan…

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Fall For Me – Chapter One

Peyton

Being a runaway bride is terribly inconvenient. Nothing romantic or momentous like in the movies. No handsome ex-boyfriend whisked me away from the altar, begging me to choose him.

No, I did this to myself.

Turns out the hardest part of running away from your wedding isn’t making the decision, but doing it in a dress designed to prevent escape.

The bustier of my wedding gown must’ve been engineered by someone who studied medieval torture devices rather than fashion. The boning digs into my sides, turning every breath into a struggle. My lower half fares no better with the skirt smothering me in an avalanche of fabric that wraps around my ankles like tentacles and turns each step into a potential face-plant. And the tattered train drags behind me, collecting street grit like a filthy mop that gains weight the longer I walk.

Why did I let Matt’s mom convince me that more is more and let her pay ten thousand dollars for me to slowly suffocate in silk?

Each step hurts. The stilettos that seemed a good idea in a plushly carpeted bridal boutique send a fresh bolt of agony from my mangled toes up to my scraped heels every time my feet hit the ground.

The early evening air nips at my bare shoulders. I wrap my arms around myself as I shiver on the sidewalk of a random town somewhere on the Lake of the Ozarks, where the bus line ended. The early October weather that was supposed to be atmospheric and romantic in my fall wedding fantasies is just plain cold.

“It’ll be magical,” the wedding planner had said. “Think of the foliage in the photos.” No one mentioned I might end up freezing to death on the shore of a podunk small town if I bolted. Not that I’d planned to bolt.

The wind whips across my back, slicing through the delicate, impractical fabric of my gown. More goosebumps rise along my arms and shoulders.

How stupid to run away in just my dress, but I hadn’t picked out a bolero or a cape to go with it. I’d counted on the champagne to keep me warm. I thought that by evening, I’d either be tipsy enough not to feel the chill or flushed from dancing. Or both. Also the reception was indoors.

Should I turn the train into a shawl? I check behind me, but the fabric is more gray than white by now, and I’d rather not drape myself in street grime.

A bolt of lightning cracks across the sky. Behind me, dark clouds gather on the horizon, and the air smells of rain. Getting soaked would be the perfect cherry on my abandoned wedding cake: five layers of Madagascar-vanilla chiffon with champagne sponge, topped with sugar magnolias rimmed in edible gold.

My stomach growls. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

I should’ve stolen the damn cake before I left.

I blink the image away and hobble on as my teeth clatter. What was wrong with being a summer bride? In June, I could’ve fled barefoot on a beach somewhere, hair loose in the breeze instead of having my scalp turned into a pincushion for bobby pins.

But hey, nothing says “fresh start” like hypothermia.

Speaking of summer, this wind-beaten town must be a tourist hotspot in the warmer months. Perched right on the edge of the lake, its main street slopes up from the water, crisscrossed by string lights. The road is lined with stores, their picturesque windows marked by wooden signs hanging from wrought-iron brackets and decked in pumpkins, garlands of autumn leaves, pinecones, and other quaint fall décor. But despite the festive effort, the street is deserted now.

I pass a coffee shop, The Daily Grind, closed. A hair and beauty salon, Dye Hard, closed as well. A bookshop, Shelf Indulgent, its window brimming with colorful paperbacks I’d spend too much time admiring despite the shop also being closed. But I’m freezing off, and I need to keep moving. I pass a bakery, a general store, a florist, a hardware store—all closed. The only open place is a faraway pizzeria, A Slice of Heaven. The restaurant overlooks the harbor, where water laps against the docks, moored boats creak in their slips, and the wind looks twice as vicious. I should move more inland.

I stop in front of a clothing boutique, squinting through the darkened glass. A display of scarves and sweaters mocks me from the other side. I tug at the locked doorknob, as if my desperation might somehow override their business hours.

It doesn’t.

The wind picks up again, sending a shower of russet leaves spiraling down around me. A leaf lands in my hair, joining the wilting roses. I pick it out, crumpling it in my fingers.

Main Street is very charming until you realize nothing is open. Every window is dark. The entire town has tucked itself into bed early even if it’s Saturday night. They must’ve wanted to escape the wind that keeps howling off the water like it wants to personally escort me to Pneumonia.

Which begs the question: Where the fuck am I?

I fled the church with nothing but my phone. I have no money except what’s in my digital wallet. No jacket, no change of clothes, no plan whatsoever beyond the primal need to get out, get away.

Fingers clumsy from the cold, I unlock my screen. I put it on airplane mode before anyone could realize I was on the run. And it’s been like that since I climbed out the chapel’s stained-glass window, sprinted to the station, and jumped on the first bus out of town without checking the destination.

I needed to save battery and become unreachable. But I’m down to 15 percent anyway. A red bar of impending doom.

I hover my thumb over the airplane mode toggle. The moment I turn this off, reality will flood back in. I’ll be tossed into the world where I left Matt standing at the altar in front of two hundred guests. The world where my family is probably having a full-blown, Chardonnay-fueled meltdown.

But I have no choice. I need to figure out where I am, find somewhere to sleep while I can still use a virtual card to pay, and get warm. I can’t survive without the internet.

I tap the icon.

The phone convulses in my hand, buzzing frantically as notifications fill the screen. The numbers tick up like an unbridled slot machine:

Missed Call: Mom (17)

Missed Call: Dad (11)

Missed Call: Matt (23)

Voicemail: Mom

Voicemail: Matt

52 new messages

Mom

Where are you???

Peyton, answer your phone. We’re worried sick

Matt is devastated

I doubt devastated is how my fiancé—ex fiancé?—is feeling. Angry. Self-righteous. Vindictive. All would be better suited.

Mom

His family is furious

Yeah, this is more the vibe with the VanCamps.

Dad

Bug, what happened?

Please call us. Let us know you’re safe

I reply only to my parents with a short message to let them know that I’m alive and swipe the rest of the messages away. But more crop up underneath. Notification after notification invades the screen, stacking on top of each other so fast I can barely read them.

Emma

Okay, honestly? Leaving the groom at the altar if you weren’t feeling it: hero move. A heads-up would’ve been nice, though. I could’ve been your getaway driver

Are you okay?

I’m hiding six bottles of champagne in my car. Send me your location. We can get trashed

My best friend and maid of honor is the only person I’d want with me. But first I need a location to send her. I swipe her messages away, too. More follow.

Cousin Greg

Hey sweetie, Cousin Greg here. Sorry to hear the news. Is the open bar still happening, or should we head to Applebee’s?

Aunt Mable

May I take the centerpieces home? The roses are dying, and it seems like a waste

Great Aunt Shirley

I knew your mother shouldn’t have let you eat carbs this week. It clouded your judgment

Rebecca (second cousin)

Mom’s live-stream of the empty altar has gone viral

I’m getting drunk now as her social media has become more popular than mine

Also, is it okay if I hook up with Matt’s brother, or is there a waiting period?

A wave of nausea sloshes in my stomach, making me want to throw up. I shove it down. I can’t deal with any of them now. With a few frantic taps, I enable the Do Not Disturb mode, silencing the assault. The buzzing stops. I push the thought of the wreckage I left behind into a locked box in the back of my mind to reopen later. Or never. Never sounds nice.

I tap the map app. A little blue dot pulses, showing my location. I’m in a town I’ve never heard of called Blue Crescent Harbor. The name suits the curved shoreline of the bay.

I zoom out, confirming I’m still in Missouri. About two hours north of Springfield, where I’m from.

I switch to a travel app and search for “Hotels near me.”

Several options pop up, most with reasonable rates. Thank goodness they’re open even in the off-season.

At the top of the list is a place called “Rockwood Resort” with five-star average ratings, wide-angle pictures of luxury balconies overlooking the water, an infinity pool, and a swanky lobby. The room price per night makes me wince.

It’s four times what the others cost. But it’s also the closest option, less than half a mile away according to the map.

My feet throb in protest at even that short distance just as a raindrop lands on my screen, then another on my shoulder. Perfect timing. The storm that has been brewing all evening is making good on its promise while I’m still out in the open.

Between the cold, the pain in my feet, and the impending downpour, money seems like the most expendable resource.

My bank account can recover. My toes might not.

I search for an Uber, but the closest car is forty minutes away. I’ll be frozen by then. Resigned, I tap on the resort’s “Get Directions” link.

Two blue lines appear on the map, one lining the coast, the other continuing down Main Street with a right turn at the end onto Lakeside Drive. The second is two minutes slower, but the downtown buildings promise a little shelter from the elements. I tap that one.

A calm, disembodied female voice tells me to proceed to the route. I follow its instructions, my gaze locked on the phone, watching as my location dot inches forward. Another raindrop hits my screen. I wipe it away with my thumb, leaving a smear across the glass.

I trudge on. Each step feels like I’m walking on broken glass. I consider taking the shoes off, but limping barefoot on dirty, wet-cold concrete seems even worse.

My train catches on a crack in the sidewalk. I slip, catch myself, tug the fabric free, and keep stumbling ahead.

The hem of my skirt keeps catching under my shoes. I hold the excess fabric up with one arm, but it is not enough.

I trip again, and this time, my ankle gives out. My heel skids off the edge of the curb, and I pitch forward, landing in the middle of the street. I fly my arms out to keep upright, barely holding on to my phone as the underskirts snare my feet more tightly and I land on my hands and knees.

A sound rips through the quiet evening. A deep, guttural rumble that vibrates through the asphalt and up into my bones.

I lift my head and freeze. A beam of light, blindingly white, is rushing toward me. It pins me in its glare. The rumble escalates into the deafening roar of an engine pushed to its limit as a red sports motorcycle barrels down the street at full speed.

I register its advancement in fragments. The lacquered gleam of the bike. The dark figure hunched over the handlebars. The screech of brakes. And the smell of burning rubber filling the air.

The bike fishtails, the front wheel jerking to one side as the rider fights for control. But the headlights still fill my vision, inexorably rushing toward me along with the certainty, bone-deep and absolute, that I’m about to die.

In a wedding dress.

On a random street in an unknown town.

My last thought, absurdly, is that getting hit by a motorcycle sounds less painful than taking one more step in these heels.

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Rein Me In – Chapter Two

April 28, 2026April 28, 20261 Comment

COMING May 6, 2026

READ CHAPTER ONE FIRST IF YOU HAVEN’T…

firefighter Romantic Comedy

Can he lasso her heart?

Faye came to Blue Crescent Harbor for a fresh start. A place to disappear, teach first grade, and keep her secrets buried. She didn’t expect the hottest single dad in school and small-town royalty to march into her classroom to share his stubborn opinions. Tall, rugged, and fiercely devoted to his son, he’s a walking complication in flannel and cowboy boots.

Ryder has no patience for anyone telling him how to raise his kid. Especially not a sharp-tongued teacher with city polish and eyes promising trouble. Their mutual dislike is second only to their explosive chemistry!

Too bad she can’t avoid him. At parent meetings. On the dancefloor at the local dive bar. In her dreams, wearing that backward baseball cap and a grin that makes her forget she’s sworn off men. But he’s off-limits. She’s his son’s teacher, and this town loves to gossip. Yet Ryder’s flirty banter, his son’s adoration, and his dedication to his family’s ranch make sticking to the rules difficult. Staying invisible was the plan, but he makes her want to be seen. What if the real risk is not running, but wanting to stay?

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Chapter TWO

RYDER

Miss Oh-So-Prim whips the question at me all silky steel and flawless composure. She’s sitting with her spine stiff, looking down on me with eyes—a shade between honey and whiskey that the afternoon light turns to amber—that size me up as if she’s already marked me a few acres short of respectable. A person’s worth, in her world, probably comes down to polish and price tags.

Everything about her screams expensive. Her clothes, jewelry, even the way she’s got her dark blonde hair twisted into some complicated low knot that makes her neck look elegant and long. Not a strand out of place.

How can Rhys stay in a room with her for seven hours a day without getting frostbite?

And how the hell is this the same teacher my son hasn’t shut up about since August? Miss Rose said this, Miss Rose did that, Miss Rose is the best teacher in the entire world, Dad. He talks about her like she hung the moon, but the woman in front of me looks like a stuck-up high society doll who’d faint if she got dirt under her manicured nails.

Sweet mercy, is my seven-year-old crushing on his teacher? Maybe my son inherited my terrible taste in women. At least he has the excuse of being young. What’s mine? Because yeah, I’m not blind to the fact that underneath the city-princess polish, Faye Rose is a knockout. The kind of beautiful that makes men—apparently of all ages—do stupid things.

What a waste to wrap such a pretty package in judgmental silences and a highbrow attitude. She’s one of those people who show up in Blue Crescent Harbor thinking they’re doing us a favor, bringing culture to the unwashed masses or whatever.

“Please.” I cross my arms, mirroring her hostile pose while keeping my cap out to the side, not to squash it. “Go ahead.”

Irritation colors my words, but what did she expect? She called this meeting, pulled me away from monitoring the fields for soil moisture—I still need a clear read to see which fields are ready for seeding—and now she’s wrinkling her nose down at me like I tracked mud through her pristine little kingdom. Which, okay, maybe I did. But it’s a rural community; if she wants to stick around, she’d better get used to a little dust. I cross an ankle over one knee to make it clear I’m not ashamed of what I do for a living and wear the dirt that comes with working the land with pride.

Her gaze flicks to my boot before returning to my face. The corners of her mouth tighten as if she’s cataloging every single thing wrong with me. The simple clothes. Messy hair. The three-day stubble, because who has time to shave while running a farm and raising a seven-year-old?

“Mr. Evans,” she begins, her voice like broken glass floating in syrup—sweet on the surface but with hidden edges that slice. “Thank you for coming. I know how busy you must be this time of year.”

Yeah, lady, I don’t think you get how swamped I am.

What would someone like her know about harvest schedules and weather windows?

“The reason I asked you to come today has nothing to do with questioning your family structure or your parenting.”

Another standard introduction to some backhanded criticism.

“I wanted to discuss the Mother’s Day event because the way schools frame these occasions needs to change.” She leans forward, and I catch a hint of perfume, an upscale spicy fragrance like the rest of her. “Not just for Rhys, but for all students who might feel excluded or spotlighted by events that assume a specific family dynamic.”

The tension coiled behind my sternum since she mentioned Rhys’s mother loosens, but confusion takes its place. This isn’t going where I thought it would. Whenever a teacher calls me in about Abigail’s absence, it’s always the same thing: checking that poor little Rhys isn’t left out because his mom decided parenting was too much trouble. Every damn school event, every family photo day, every time some well-meaning teacher wants the kids to make crafts for Mommy.

“What I’m proposing,” she continues, regarding me not with anger, but… disappointment? As if I were a student who gave the wrong answer to a simple question. “… is that we reframe these gatherings. Not as Mother’s Day or Father’s Day, but as inclusive events that recognize families come in different forms.”

Each word lands like a slap on the Evans pride that I threw in her face. I have a chip on my shoulder the size of Missouri, and she’s talking about… inclusion?

“We have students in foster care.” Emotion bends the steel in her composure. “Kids being raised by grandparents, aunts, or older siblings. Kids with two moms or two dads. Or like Rhys, who have one parent doing the work of two.” Compassion flickers across her face—not pity, like I’d assumed before. “The last thing any educator should do is single out a child because their household doesn’t fit a narrow definition.”

I sink back in the chair, feeling about two inches tall. The defensive anger I’ve worn as armor for the past fifteen minutes dissolves, leaving me feeling exposed and foolish. She’s not judging Rhys or me or our family. She’s protecting him and other kids in similar situations.

“The traditional approach, while well-intentioned, can inadvertently hurt the children we’re celebrating.” Her hands move as she speaks, graceful gestures that emphasize her points. I try not to stare at her dainty fingers or think about how soft they felt when we shook hands. “Imagine being six or seven, watching your classmates make Mother’s Day cards while you sit there wondering if you should make one for your foster mom who you’ve known for three months, or for the birth mother you can’t remember.”

A wisp of hair escapes her perfect bun, falling against her cheek, but she doesn’t fix it. “We should celebrate the people who love and support our students, regardless of titles or blood relations. The grandmother who does morning drop-off. The foster dad learning how to braid hair from YouTube videos. Or the big brother who comes to parent–teacher conferences—whoever represents family to them.”

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

The more she talks, the smaller I feel. I came in guns blazing, accused her of not understanding families like ours, of pushing her city ideas on our town. But she gets it; I’m the one who got everything wrong.

“Before bringing this topic to the attention of the school board,” Miss Rose concludes, “I thought it best to consult with the parents of children affected by the current structure. To see if they would back the proposition and to gather signatures for a petition that would give the proposal more weight with the board. Something concrete to show this isn’t only the opinion of an outsider.”

The emphasis she puts on “outsider” has enough bite to let me know she caught my earlier comment. Has she been shut out more than once for being from out of town? I want to kick the assholes who did that where it hurts, starting with myself.

She smiles then, sweet as honey, sharp as a knife. “I’m sure the signature of an Evans would carry considerable weight.”

Oh, she’s fucking with me now, and with such grace. Throwing my words back at me. Every pretentious, self-important declaration I made, she’s serving right back with interest. The woman’s got more spine than I gave her credit for, and damn if that doesn’t make her harder to look away from.

“Your son”—her edges soften when she mentions Rhys—“is a remarkable boy. Bright, funny, and kind to his classmates. You’ve done an excellent job raising him.” She meets my eyes. “Which is why I presumed you’d understand the importance of assuring every child is comfortable, regardless of their circumstances. But perhaps I misjudged.”

All my self-righteous indignation cools into shame. Because she’s right, isn’t she? I was ready to fight her about Rhys, ready to defend my boy against some perceived slight, while she was looking out for every kid who gets that punch to the gut when everyone else is making cards for someone who left.

The silence that follows is oppressive as a sky pressed low with heavy clouds that refuse to break. She’s called me out without raising her voice once or losing her temper. But she methodically dismantled my entire tantrum and made me look like the ass I am.

I clear my throat, but words don’t come. What can I say? Sorry I assumed you were a judgmental city princess about to rub my failures in my face? Sorry I didn’t let you talk for five minutes because any mention of Abigail makes me see red? My apologies for acting like having the Evans name meant I could treat you like you were beneath me, or like you didn’t belong in Blue Crescent Harbor?

“Mr. Evans,” she says after the silence stretches too long, that sweet-sharp smile still in place, “this is your cue to share more of your opinions. Unless you’ve run out?”

Fuuudge, she’s roasting me. Politely, professionally, but thoroughly roasting me. And I deserve every singe.

“Err…” I cough. “Where do I sign?”

Her eyebrows lift as if she expected more of a fight. But she reaches for a clipboard on her desk, calm as ever, and slides it across to me. Our fingers don’t touch—she’s careful about that. Ten minutes ago, I would’ve blamed the gesture on snobbery about my appearance; now I’m pretty sure it’s contempt for my attitude. And she’s got every right.

I scrawl my name on the petition, noting that mine is the third signature after Rita Holbrook and Jennifer Martinez. Both single moms.

I return the clipboard and stand to my feet. She rises too, her eyes burning ambers that shine with disdain. I must’ve confirmed every ugly assumption she might’ve had about narrow-minded, small-town men.

“Miss Rose, I—” The words tangle in my throat. I want to explain about Abigail, about how she left when Rhys was barely walking, about how every mention of mothers scrambles my good sense. About how I’ve spent six years making sure my son never feels less than, only to have someone suggest I wasn’t doing enough. “I mean, it’s been a—”

“The pleasure has been all mine, Mr. Evans.” Her smile is still polite, but a wall has sprung up behind it, solid as the limestone bluffs along the lake. She’s done with me, and I can’t blame her.

It’s been a pleasure to meet you is not what I wanted to say. Not even close. More like, It’s been a few hard years. But as she graciously glares at me with those incandescent eyes, I realize I’ve burned through whatever patience she had for me. Anything I say now will make it worse. I’ve already shown her my worst side—hotheaded, defensive, quick to judge. A man who storms into a classroom ready for war without bothering to check if there’s even a fight.

“Right.” I reach for my Bobcats cap, pulling it on backward. It’s a retreat, and we both know it. “Thanks for… for thinking of Rhys.”

“I think of all my students, Mr. Evans.” The dismissal in her tone is clear as lake water. “It’s my job.”

I nod, because what else can I do? I’ve torched this bridge before I even knew if I wanted to cross it. Not that I want to. Or that I could, since she’s Rhys’s teacher. Even if first grade is almost over and soon, she won’t be his teacher anymore. No. Nope. Not going there.

I turn and head for the door, glancing back when I get to the threshold. She’s pushing papers into a leather messenger bag like not only have I been dismissed, but also already forgotten. Her profile is sharp and lovely in the golden light, and I understand why Rhys raves about her nonstop. She makes you want to be better just by existing in the same space.

Too bad I’ve introduced her to all my worst flaws instead.

I step out, my boots heavy—and not for the mud caked to the soles.