The Path to You: A Small Town Friends-to-Lovers Romance

  The Path to You

  By Allie Everhart

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Note from Allie

  Also from Waltham Publishing

  The Path to You

  By Allie Everhart

  Copyright © 2020 Allie Everhart

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Waltham Publishing, LLC

  ISBN: 978-1-942781-18-9

  Cover Design by Moonstruck Cover Design & Photography, moonstruckcoverdesign.com

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, things, and events are fictitious, and any similarities to real persons (live or dead), things, or events are coincidental and not intended by the author. Brand names of products mentioned in this book are used for reference only and the author acknowledges that any trademarks and product names are the property of their respective owners.

  The author holds exclusive rights to this work and unauthorized duplication is prohibited. No part of this book is to be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author.

  Chapter One

  "Jules, I gotta go. I'm almost there."

  "Okay, but call me later. Moving away doesn't mean you get to stop being my friend. And hey, if you run into any hot guys at your new school, I expect you to send me one."

  I laugh. "I don't think I could afford the shipping."

  Pulling up to the farmhouse, I see Grams hurrying out, motioning me where to park.

  "Talk to ya later, Jules."

  "Yeah, bye. Tell your grandma hi for me."

  "I will."

  Jules has never met Grams but I've told her all about her, like how my grandma is very prim and proper and old-fashioned. I've never seen her wear pants, only dresses, and her hair is always perfect. She gets up early to wash it and set it in curlers so by the time you see her at breakfast it looks like she just left the salon.

  "Welcome to your new home," she says with a smile as I get out of the car. She comes over and gives me a hug. "It's so good having you here." She gives me a squeeze before letting me go.

  "You sure you want me as a roommate?" I kid. "It's not too late to change your mind."

  "Don't be silly. I've been looking forward to this for months." She claps her hands together. "We're going to have such a good time!"

  I smile, happy she's so excited about us living together. I'm still not sure how it'll go but I love my grandma and didn't get to see her much growing up so I'm looking forward to spending more time with her. My only concern is that we might butt heads now and then. My grandma has strong opinions and she isn't afraid to share them. If she doesn't approve of how I'm dressed or what I'm doing, she'll be sure to tell me.

  "Let's get your things," Grams says.

  "Why don't you give me a quick tour first? Then I'll unpack the car."

  A loud crashing noise startles me. It sounded like it came from the neighbor's garage.

  Grams sighs and shakes her head. "You might as well get used to it. I've told him to keep the noise down but he doesn't listen." She glances at the neighbor's house, a two-story farmhouse that looks similar to ours except it's painted a light blue and ours is white. "I even called the police on him but they told me there's nothing they can do. They said it's not loud enough to be considered a disturbance, which is complete nonsense. Obviously it's a disturbance. It scared you half to death!"

  Grams moved here a few months ago and has complained nonstop about her neighbor, a retired man around her age who gets under her skin more than anyone I know. Everything he does seems to annoy her.

  "I wasn't scared, just startled." I look over at the open garage. "What's he doing in there?"

  "That's not Walter. It's his grandson. Some derelict that just showed up one day and has been working in that garage day and night. I'm at my wit's end with the noise, and according to the police, there's nothing I can do about it."

  "Maybe I could talk to him."

  "Absolutely not!" She shudders at the idea. "I don't want you getting anywhere near that boy."

  "Why? What's wrong with him?"

  "Well, for one, he doesn't have a job. He just putzes around the garage all day. I don't want you associating with a deadbeat like him."

  "Maybe he's between jobs. Have you talked to him? Asked him what he's doing here?"

  "I've said hello, simply to be polite. Other than that, no, we haven't spoken, but just looking at him I can tell he's no good."

  "How can you tell?"

  She leans toward me and lowers her voice. "He has a tattoo. Probably more than one."

  I laugh. "Grams, having a tattoo doesn't make someone a deadbeat."

  She huffs. "A proper gentleman doesn't mark up his body with ink. Doing so is a sign that he has no regards for his appearance and no plans to ever pursue a professional career."

  "That's not—" I stop because I know I won't win this argument. Grams will argue her point forever if she has to and I'm not about to spend my time doing that. I'm only here for two years and I don't want those two years to be spent arguing.

  She shoots a dirty look at the neighbor's house as we hear an engine struggling to start.

  "Come inside. I'll show you around." She walks quickly to the door and we go inside.

  The house was originally owned by my grandma's sister but she died last year. She left it to my grandma, who was planning to sell it until I found out I'd be attending graduate school in a town just a few miles from here. She offered to let me stay in the house for free, then suggested we live here together, saying it would give her time to fix up the house to be sold. She also liked that she'd be getting a break from the retirement community she lives at in Florida. She said the people there gossip constantly and she was tired of it, although I'm pretty sure she partakes in the gossip herself.

  "My sister's decor is not at all my style," she says, "but it's not worth changing, given that I won't be here long."

  The furniture in the living room is worn out and dated, the sofa a pastel flowery print that was probably popular in the Eighties. That's when her sister bought the place and it looks like she hasn't updated it since. Shiny mint green lamps sit on either side of the sofa on tables that look like they're made out of logs. They're rustic and kinda cool but don't really fit with the shiny lamps and flowery couch.

  "Her husband made those," Grams says, noticing me looking at the tables. "He made the coffee table too. And the dining room table, the china hutch, the upstairs dressers."

  "I didn't know he was so good at woodworking."

  "He wasn't trained in it. It was just a hobby of his." She picks a crocheted blanket off the couch and folds it into a neat and tidy square. "My sister liked to crochet."

  "It's a beautiful blanket," I say, noticing the bright colors and intricate design. "Do you k
now how to crochet?"

  "I do, and I used to love doing it, but I stopped years ago." She sets the blanket down. "People nowadays don't like such things. They're considered old-fashioned."

  "Not to me. I'd love a blanket like that."

  She motions to it. "It's all yours. In fact, you could have most anything here. I don't have room at home so everything will be sold, unless you or your mother want it."

  Glancing around the living room, I see cow figurines scattered here and there and old teapots on a shelf.

  "The teapots are cute," I say, walking over to look at them.

  "She collected teapots. She and I would have tea parties when we were young."

  The phone rings. It's the landline phone. Grams has a cellphone but rarely uses it.

  "It's probably your mother," she says, "making sure you got here safe. Would you like to answer it?"

  "I just talked to her. You can answer it. I'll go get my stuff."

  As she answers the phone, I go back outside to my car. There's music coming from the neighbor's garage. It's classic rock and one of my favorite songs is playing. I'm tempted to go over there and introduce myself but Grams would have a fit if I did.

  I open my trunk and pull out my suitcase and the box where I tossed the contents of my bathroom drawers. I didn't start packing until right before I had to leave so everything's just stuffed in boxes instead of being neatly organized. It's my grandma's worst nightmare but that's just how I am. My mom's the same way.

  As I shut the trunk I look up and notice a guy walking out of the neighbor's garage, wiping his hands on a towel as he heads to a toolbox that's set up on a tree stump in the yard. His sandy brown hair looks wet, probably from sweating in this sweltering heat. He's shirtless and really tan with muscular arms and washboard abs.

  The neighbor guy is hot. If Jules were here she'd be staring at him with her jaw dropped.

  He grabs a wrench from the toolbox, then glances over and catches me watching him.

  "Hi!" I call out, giving him a quick wave.

  He stops and stares at me a moment, then walks back to the garage. He doesn't seem very friendly.

  When I get back inside, Grams is still talking on the phone.

  "Faith just walked in," she says as I set my suitcase down. "I'll put her on."

  "I don't need to—" I stop as Grams shoves the phone at me. "Hey, Mom," I say into the mint green phone that matches the lamps. It has a really long cord that could probably reach through the whole main level.

  "Hi again," my mom says, laughing. "I told your grandma we just spoke but she insisted I talk to you again. So what do you think of the house?"

  "It's nice." I look around, my eye catching on one of the cow figurines. "It's a little dated but it's big and open and has lots of windows. And it's out in the middle of nowhere so it should be quiet for studying."

  "Not with that neighbor of ours!" Grams says, loud enough that my mom can hear.

  "Maybe you could calm her down about the neighbor," my mom says. "He's an old man. How loud could he be?"

  "I think it's his grandson making the noise."

  "His grandson is staying with him? Mom didn't mention that."

  "I don't think he's been there long. He works on stuff in the garage and can be kind of loud."

  "Maybe you could go over there and talk to him. Your grandmother isn't always good at handling these types of things."

  "I don't think she wants me going over there. She was pretty insistent I stay away."

  "Faith, don't let your grandmother tell you what to do. She has to understand you're an adult now and can make your own decisions. Be respectful, of course, but don't be afraid to let her know when she's interfering where she shouldn't."

  Easier said than done. Grams is so headstrong in her beliefs that changing her mind about something is nearly impossible. If she already doesn't like the neighbors, making them be quiet won't change how she feels about them.

  "Mom, I should go. I need to unload the car and find something to eat."

  "Call me later this week and let me know how things are going."

  "I will. Bye!"

  My mom lives in San Diego. I grew up in Denver but when I left for college my mom moved to California and took a job as an English professor at a small private university. I plan to teach English too but at a high school.

  "Did I hear you say you're hungry?" Grams asks, her eyes lit up. She loves to feed people, especially her granddaughter.

  "Yeah, but I should unload the car first."

  "Go ahead." She motions me to the door. "I'll fix you something and let you know when it's ready."

  "Grams, you don't need to go to any trouble. I can just make a sandwich."

  She shrugs. "If you'd rather have a cold sandwich than your grandma's spaghetti and meatballs…" Her voice drifts off as she turns to go in the kitchen.

  "Forget the sandwich," I say, smiling. "I'll take the spaghetti."

  She turns back and winks at me. "Be right up."

  The way my grandma cooks and bakes I'll probably gain twenty pounds living here.

  She walks through the door to the kitchen while I go back outside to my car. As I'm taking a box from the back seat, the music next door gets louder, so loud that Grams will probably hear it inside the house.

  Maybe I should go over there. The guy acted like he wanted to be left alone but I could just stop by and politely ask him to turn the music down.

  I set the box on my trunk and quickly walk over to the neighbor's garage, my heart beating faster with each step. I don't like confronting people. I avoid conflict whenever possible but the music is really loud and it wouldn't kill the guy to turn it down.

  As I approach his garage I'm tempted to turn back. I just got into town. I shouldn't be stirring up trouble with the neighbors. But hopefully this won't turn into anything more than a calm discussion that will end with the guy agreeing to keep his music down.

  Unfortunately, I'm thinking that's the least likely scenario.

  Chapter Two

  "Um, hey," I say, standing at the edge of the garage. The guy has his back to me and he's bent over, his head under the hood of an old convertible. It's like one of those classic cars you see at car shows, except this one isn't all shiny and fixed up.

  I cautiously walk toward him, pausing a moment as my eyes get caught on his backside. I shouldn't be staring but he has a great ass. His jeans are worn and faded, and hang low enough that I can see the top of his black boxer briefs. My eyes move up to his shirtless back, which is lean and tan.

  Forcing myself to focus on why I'm here, I step up beside him and say, "Excuse me but—"

  "Fuck!" he says as his head hits the hood of the car. He stands up straight, rubbing his head. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

  "Sorry, I just wanted to talk to you. I tried to get your attention but—"

  "You don't sneak up on someone like that!" He walks over to his workbench and grabs a rag, holding it against the back of his head.

  I race over to him. "What's wrong? Is it bleeding?"

  "Nah, I just like holding a towel to my head," he says, rolling his eyes.

  "It's bleeding? Oh God, I'm so sorry. What can I do? Do you need to see a doctor? I could go get my car and take you. I don't really know this town but—"

  "Go," he says, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on mine. Despite the anger in them, he has gorgeous eyes. They're the richest shade of green I've ever seen. His face is rugged, manly, with a sharp-cut jaw covered in a thick layer of stubble. He's probably around my age, early twenties, but looks nothing like the fresh-faced boys I knew from college.

  "I can't just leave you like this."

  "I'll be fine," he says through gritted teeth. "Just get outta here."

  "Let me at least get you a clean towel. That one you're using is filthy. You're going to get an infection."

  "Are you a nurse?" he asks, and I can't tell if he's being serious or being a smartass.

  "I'm not a nurse but
everyone knows that cuts have to be kept clean and I guarantee that rag you're using isn't clean."

  "Trust me, I'm good." He walks back over to the car and picks up the wrench he dropped when I startled him, then tosses the rag aside and gets back to work under the hood of the car. His hair is wet and matted where the cut is bleeding.

  I come up beside him. "I can't leave you with your head bleeding. I really think you need to see a doctor. You might need stitches."

  "What are you doing here?" he asks as he reaches behind the engine to tighten something with the wrench.

  "I came over to—wait, do you mean why am I here in town or why I am in your garage?"

  "Either. Pick one."

  "Okay, well, I'm here in town to go to grad school. I'll be staying at the house next door until I graduate."

  "And then what?" He sets the wrench down and reaches back to undo a screw with his hand.

  "Hopefully I'll get a job. I'm not sure where. I grew up in Colorado but I don't know if I'll go back there. My mom moved to California so I really don't have a reason to go back to Colorado although my friend, Jules, still lives there." I stop talking, realizing he doesn't want to hear my whole life story. I don't even think he's listening, his attention focused on loosening the bolts of whatever part of the car he's working on. I have no clue what he's doing. I know almost nothing about cars, although I do know how to change a tire.

  "What about the old lady?"

  "My grandma?"

  "Your grandma, huh?" He huffs. "Makes sense."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  “You’re just like her. Nosing around in shit that's not your business? Not knowing how to leave people alone?"