It’s release day for my pen name Anna Poe. My latest Nail Polish and Nails, Fox Hollow Book 4 is officially out in the world! This is a fun, sweet, grumpy-sunshine 😠🌞romance story.
When the great-aunt she never knew leaves her a falling-down inn, Lyssa Pruitt throws her whole heart at saving it — fresh hospitality degree, no plan, and one stubborn deadline. Tate Dempsey has cared for that inn for thirteen years and resents the dreamy stranger it went to instead. But the woman who left it behind knew exactly what she was doing.
(this is a sweet romance and not a faith-based novel)
Get your copy on Amazon today: https://link.amazon/B04O3S2gC
Here’s the first chapter:
Chapter 1
“Well,” Lyssa said, looking up at the man on the scaffolding. He had on a pair of jeans, a blue T-shirt, and a pair of work boots. His hair was brown, wavy, and the sun had kissed blond into it. He looked like a model for the tool belt worn low on his hips. “If I’d known you came with the place, I might have gotten here a little sooner.”
The man looked down at her and did not say a word. He held the look for a full second then went back to what he was doing. She had a feeling the silent gentleman was Tate Dempsey, resident of the cottage somewhere down the lane.
She leaned her shoulder against the column of the portico and folded her arms, waiting. He never looked down at her. Instead, he pushed a metal probe into a visible crack in the trim. Then he drew it back and peeled off a length of blue painter’s tape he had hanging from his wrist like a child’s bracelet. He pressed the tape into the brick beside the spot. Then he moved the probe further down the trim and began again.
She took a deep breath of warm Kentucky air and looked out past the black wooden fence to the field beyond.
Hers.
She could hardly believe it. Honestly, it felt like trying on someone else’s coat—Great Aunt June’s coat, specifically. Except June had been six inches taller than her five-two. Two weeks ago, she was finishing her final college exam and wondering what she would do next, then she got a certified letter in the mail that changed everything.
She decided to walk the building while Mr. Dempsey pretended she wasn’t there. At the front door she pressed the latch. It didn’t give. She looked up at the man. He had the keys. She could wait.
She cupped one hand against the wavy old glass of the parlor window, but couldn’t really make anything out. In the photos Mr. Branch had mailed her, she’d seen one with her eighteen-year-old grandmother standing on this porch wearing a sundress. She turned and looked out, making the same pose as her grandmother.
She wished she’d known about the Fox Hollow Inn before the letter. She’d lived just seventy miles away.
Wanting to take the whole thing in, she carefully stepped out into the grass in her heels and walked backward.
The inn was three stories of red brick. A row of dormer windows broke the roofline. Chimneys stood at either end. Above the porch roof, three tall windows had round arched tops. White windows accented with dark green shutters marched across the front.
The porch ran the length of the front, with a white railing. She could picture rocking chairs on the porch. Glasses of lemonade sweating in the sun.
Leaving Mr. Grumpypants to whatever he was doing, she went around back and tried the kitchen door. No give.
A set of cement steps dropped to a basement door below grade. She looked down at them, and then down at her bubblegum pink heels. They’d looked perfect this morning with the denim skirt and the white blouse printed with little pink hearts. Not her best decision of the day.
She gathered some nerve and picked her way down anyway, one hand on the rail, squirming past cobwebs and overgrown weeds and whatever lived in them. She tried the basement door.
Locked. With a heavy sigh, she realized she would have to wait for the key.
She walked down the path and opened the gate to the pool. Despite the disrepair of the main building, the pool appeared clean, well-kept. Obviously, it was regularly used.
She headed back to the front of the house, intending to firmly demand Mr. Dempsey quit ignoring her.
He stood near the front door holding a manila folder and a key ring, as if he’d been the one waiting for her all this time. She slapped on a bright smile and climbed the steps onto the porch.
He had gray eyes fringed with lashes too dark and thick to be fair. They were currently fixed on her with an expression somewhere between irritation and outright hostility.
A pale scar cut through his left eyebrow. His hair fell over his forehead and for some reason she could imagine running her fingers through it, brushing it back. She shook her head to get the image out of there. The corners of his mouth were turned down in what she suspected was their permanent resting position.
“Miss Pruitt,” he said, and held out the keys.
“Lyssa’s fine.” She gave him her brightest smile.
“Miss Pruitt,” he repeated. “Tate Dempsey. Your aunt’s attorney asked me to drop these off.”
She took the key ring from him. It contained three brass keys, an iron key, and a silver key. It made her feel like she was being sent on a quest in a fantasy book.
“The brass keys unlock all of the interior doors. The iron one opens the exterior doors.”
She waited for him to say what the silver one was for. He didn’t. Instead, he opened the folder and showed her a clipped stack of white pages and said, “This is a preliminary list of what needs immediate attention. I’m sure more will be discovered as the contractor gets to work.”
He snapped it shut and handed it over to her.
“What were you doing up there?” she asked.
He glanced at the scaffold. “Marking what needs to be repaired or replaced in the cornice trim. You might want to just replace the whole thing. The bases of the pilasters are worse. The pilasters have to be rebuilt.”
“They look like they just need a fresh coat of paint.”
He looked at her again. He didn’t roll his eyes or sigh, but he did, very slightly, draw a breath.
“Miss Pruitt. The inn needs months of restoration. I don’t know the exact details of the will, but there’s a lot of work in front of you.” He paused, then shook his head. “Paint will be one of the last things you do.”
“Wait—you’re not doing the work? Mr. Branch said —”
“No.”
“Oh.”
She had a bachelor’s degree in hospitality and tourism and a master’s degree in retailing and tourism management. Owning an inn was always her ultimate goal. But now she suddenly felt very lost.
She did not say but you were just up there working on it. She bit her lip instead. “Well.” She put her shoulders back. “I’m grateful for whatever you’ve been doing to keep it standing.”
She put out her free hand and smiled again. Her best one.
He didn’t take it.
Instead, he went down the steps and crossed the cracked asphalt to his truck. He never looked back at her. He got in and started the engine. The truck made a tight half-circle on the drive, then went off down the lane that led, she assumed, to the cottage.
Lyssa stayed against the warm column of the portico and watched it go.
“Fine,” she said aloud, to the empty drive and the truck dust still settling. “Be that way, Mr. Grumpypants.”
She stuck her tongue out at him then turned her back on the lane, dismissing him even though he couldn’t see her do it. She found it satisfying anyway.
She fit the iron key into the front-door lock. It turned easily, as if the house, at least, had been waiting for her. The door swung open, and Lyssa walked into her inheritance.
‹—☙—∞—❧—›
Tate came awake with his heart pounding and the taste of old fear at the back of his mouth.
He lay still, not really ready for Atreides to know he was awake yet. The Boxer energy would be a bit much right now. Instead, he looked at the gray dawn out of his window and went through the breathing exercise that would help his mind let go of the dream.
He was no longer a helpless, weak fourteen-year-old. He was twenty-nine, strong, skilled.
When the taste of fear left his mouth, he got up and Atreides immediately jumped up with him.
“That’s a good boy,” Tate said, kneeling to make eye contact with the dog. He cupped the dog’s face in both hands, staring into the dark brown eyes, rubbing his thumbs along the white undershot jaw. Atreides leaned his whole brindle weight into Tate’s palms and groaned, low and theatrical, like the contact brought almost more joy than a dog could possibly expect to bear.
“I know,” Tate said. “I know.”
Atreides was ready for the day to start. He made the moan again, almost like he was trying to talk, then wiggled his whole body trying to wag a tail that wasn’t there. As soon as Tate straightened, Atreides darted out the dog door. Tate smiled as the flap shut behind him and shook his head.
He changed into his swim trunks and grabbed a towel and slipped his feet into slides.
Atreides ran circles around him as he walked up the path to the pool. When he darted into the trees, his dark brown and brindle striped fur made him almost impossible to see but for the flashy white face and chest. He rustled loudly through the underbrush, then a rabbit darted out from the tree line and crossed the path. A second later, Atreides shot out, following it.
The pool sat behind the inn inside a low wrought-iron fence. Atreides appeared as he opened the gate and went through ahead of him. He jumped in with a big clumsy splash, then paddled to the stairs and climbed out. He shook off, water flying everywhere, then pawed and danced around as if telling Tate the water was fine, go on in. When Tate put his towel across the back of a metal chair, the dog dropped onto the concrete and looked out at the water.
He made a clean dive into the deep end and came up about midway across. He swam with clean strokes then tagged the edge of the pool on the shallow side. He turned around and used the wall to push off.
He focused on his day as he cut through the water. His assistant Clarissa took Tuesday mornings off, so he needed to be in the office until she came in at lunchtime. He had a bid opening at two today for a renovation of the original train station. The city had opted to turn it into a museum, and his partner Adam had done the engineering drawings and his good friend Grayson had done the architectural plans. It was pretty much his job to lose.
He didn’t intend to lose.
And at four, he had to be at Branch’s office. If he wasn’t in the midst of a stroke that required him to take a breath, he’d sigh out loud. This meeting should be the last of it though. Then he’d wash his hands of the inn and how June dumped him.
After forty laps, he pushed out of the water and grabbed his towel. Water slid down his body and puddled on the ground at his feet. He dried his face and hands, then slung the towel over his shoulders.
He turned and spotted Lyssa Pruitt. She wore a leopard print skirt, a tan tank top, and another ridiculous pair of high heels. Red this time instead of pink. Clearly, she hadn’t learned any lessons since yesterday. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her lips were painted an impossible glittery red. She looked like she was about to take a boardroom by force instead of a massive renovation project.
“Good morning,” she said, brighter than the sun.
What did she actually expect of him? Did she not understand what June did?
Instead of returning her greeting, he pushed through the gate. Atreides rushed past him and wiggled toward her. She cooed and purred, “Oh, beautiful. Hello there.” The dog wiggled his back end so hard that he almost turned himself in a circle. Finally, he managed to get close enough to her that she crouched down and started petting him. Atreides was in dog heaven.
“Such a pretty boy,” she said. “Oh, my. Oh, you like it when I scratch here?”
The sound of her voice did strange things to the inside of his stomach.
Tate had started walking home when she asked, “Which key opens the basement door?”
He stopped and turned. For some reason, his dog hadn’t moved from her side. “Is it an exterior door?”
She opened and closed her mouth, looked back at the back side of the inn, and said, “Well, yeah.”
“Then I think I gave you all of the instructions you need about doors yesterday. If it’s stuck, tell your contractor.”
He turned and kept walking.
After a second, he heard her say, “Rude!”
He continued to ignore her, but realized about halfway home he walked alone with no dog clearing the path ahead. He felt a little betrayed, if he were honest with himself.
After his shower, as he lathered his shaving soap with the brush, Atreides came darting back through the dog door. Tate just gave him a glare and continued with his morning.
Get your copy on Amazon today: https://link.amazon/B04O3S2gC
Thank you for sharing my stories. 🥰