Fall Hard (Dating Season Book 3) Read online

  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

  Paige Press

  Also by Laurelin Paige

  Also by Kayti McGee

  About Laurelin Paige

  About Kayti McGee

  Copyright © 2021 by Laurelin Paige & Kayti McGee

  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.

  Paige Press, LLC

  Leander, Texas

  ISBN: 978-1-953520-44-9

  Content Editing: Paula Dawn at Lilypad Lit

  CopyEditing: Erica Russikoff at Erica Edits

  Proofing: Michele Ficht, Kimberly Ruiz

  Cover: Laurelin Paige

  One

  There is nothing in existence more sensual than a man with a beard. Prove me wrong. You can’t. Without a doubt, if I were a guy, I’d have a beard. And not a scruffy half attempt either. I’d commit and grow that baby out to its full potential. It would cover my jaw with its lustrous hair, complete with a mustache to accentuate my lips.

  That lush panty-dropper would hang below the tip of my chin, perfectly trimmed. It wouldn’t just drop panties, it would annihilate them.

  It would be sexy.

  It would be…beardiful.

  Just like the guy in front of me.

  “I think you’re in my booth,” Beard Man says in a voice as decadent as Granny Mae’s cake.

  I wrench my gaze from his beard and stare into smoke-colored eyes. “Um, no. This is the space they designated me. Sixty-nine.”

  “Me too.” He looks at the paper in his hand. “Are you sure you read your confirmation correctly?”

  “Positive.” He’s a stranger, so I won’t disclose the reason I’m so sure is that rather than the obvious oral connotation of sixty-nine, the first thing that popped in my mind was the difference between six and nine is three. Dating has really screwed me up in the head. But what are mistakes if we can’t learn from them? We need to repeat them until we get it right. Everyone justifies things in different ways, and that’s mine for wanting to climb Beard Man like a tree and perch gently atop his beard.

  “Well, this mix-up is a problem,” he says.

  It’s more than a problem, it’s a catastrophe. Autumn is my season, dammit. I’m changing just like the leaves and today is my transformation into a businesswoman. I’ve spent months preparing for my pottery debut.

  “What’s going on?” Charlotte asks.

  “We’re both assigned to the same booth,” I say. “He has sixty-nine too.”

  “Well, that’s not good,” she says with alarm in her dark eyes. “The craft fair opens in thirty minutes.”

  Beard Man scrubs a hand across the hair on his face. “I’ll contact them and see how we can fix this.”

  That’s a positive sign he chose “how” and not “if.” He pulls a phone the size of my head from his jeans pocket and wow, his beard is something to behold as he explains the mess up to whoever is on the other end. “Do you have something I can write on?” he mouths.

  His Respect the Beard T-shirt has me scurrying away to snag a sticky note and pen. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you.” He jots something and hangs up. “Well…good news and bad news,” he says. “Which do you want first?”

  “Bad news. It’s best to get the disappointment first.” I’m a firm believer in saving the best for last. “Give it to me.” It must be horrendous judging by the way he hesitates and bites his succulent lip. “Wait. I’m not ready. Do I want the good news first?”

  “Well—”

  “No, tell me the bad news. I’m ready.”

  “There are no other available booths. We were both assigned this space by a computer glitch and nothing can fix it. According to time stamps, I registered first, so the space is technically mine.”

  Narrator: she wasn’t ready.

  “Why didn’t you warn me? That’s not bad, that’s horrible news,” I say, sagging against a column.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  Sorry is really an inept word.

  “And the good news?’

  He clasps a hand on the back of his neck and lets out a breath. “They’re very sorry for the mistake.”

  See? It’s a polite adjective that in no way soothes the ache of disappointment. Whoever guides my life in the universe thinks they’re a comedian and I’m not amused.

  “I’m living in a clown world,” I murmur.

  Three sets of eyes glance around in awkward silence at the hard work Charlotte and I did this morning. Not to brag, but my faux kitchen presentation is kick-ass. It took several Saturdays of trolling rummage sales until Charlotte and I found standing bookcases with doors to replicate cabinets. I even purchased cool granite laminate from the hardware store to stick to the table so it resembles a countertop. Don’t get me started on the fake stove and refrigerator. Clever, right? Actually, I am bragging. I deserve it.

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Charlotte says. “You can always share the space?”

  “Yes,” I say, not ready to give up. “We can do a little remodeling and instead of displaying all my product, I can refill as needed?”

  Mr. Beard surveys the space. “I’d be cool with that,” he says. “I can put my T-shirts in the stove and refrigerator.”

  “I’d kiss you if you weren’t a stranger,” I say, smiling. “You rock.”

  A strange vibe fills the air as he tilts his head and studies me. I wonder if there was a tad too much hopefulness in my kiss comment but the moment evaporates as Charlotte claps her hands, dispelling the weirdness. “Let’s get busy.”

  We spend the next few minutes working out logistics, and then he stalks away to get things from his truck so he can set up his half of our new living arrangement.

  Charlotte scoots next to me when he disappears from sight.

  “So, what’s your opinion on beards?” she asks.

  Charlotte’s casual question flies from her mouth, unaware of the depths of my psyche she is now plumbing. It’s an embarrassing fact I’ve always kept vaulted—that as a little girl…Bob Ross was my first crush. While I painted happy little trees, I envisioned a Van Dyke Brown cabin tucked in the towering woods where my bearded Prince Charming lived, laughed, and beat the devil out of his brushes. RIP devil! I even wrote a poem about it for a school art presentation.

  Long and scruffy, somewhat fluffy.

  Perm that is full, hair you can pull.

  Beards have no fear, this much is clear.

  A beard rules the world, like my heart unfurled.

  Clearly, I’m not Maya Angelou and my poem caused endless teasing from my classmates, but my eight-year-old heart didn’t care. Funny enough, as an adult, I’ve never dated a man with a beard. It’s not like you can just demand someone grow one. Not every man can sprout glorious hair from their face. But the ones that do? Oh man, hotness.

  “I’m waiting on your answer,” Charlotte says.

  I shrug. “They’re okay.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she says. “That look on your face says otherwise. Did you know full beards imply long-term commitment?”

  I look over at her. “I’m the last person on earth that would know anything about long-term commitme
nt.”

  “That’s not all. I wrote a fascinating article for the magazine about how women perceive men with beards to have good fathering abilities.”

  Her words cause flannel-clad babies to toddle into my mind. I shoo them away for a nap. “Can we not do this? You know I’m a businesswoman now, not a baby maker.”

  She holds up her hand in mock surrender. “Don’t hate the messenger.”

  Thankfully, the conversation ends when my new boothmate returns laden with goods in his arms.

  “Is this your first time?”

  If I hadn’t sworn off dating to focus on being a businesswoman, and also because I am horrible at it, I’d be tempted to flirt. That’s a lie. I am tempted to flirt and I do, “Well, I’ve never done it in a booth before.”

  My innuendo sails into oblivion, undetected. Yeah, okay, no more flirting. “I almost forgot.” He removes a crumpled sticky note from his pocket. “They said to call this number if you want a discount for next season.”

  “Thanks.”

  And then he spins my world off its axis. “Did you know these were invented because a guy wanted a bookmark for his church hymnal?”

  I’m gobsmacked. Beard Man just quoted a history fact, and I may be barefoot and pregnant in my faux kitchen by the end of the day. “I knew this,” I say, sort of breathless. “Art Fry. His name is two of my favorite things.”

  “No way.” His beard moves when he smiles. “I’m impressed.”

  “Random history is a passion of mine.”

  “Yeah? I love history. Knowledge is power,” he says.

  While he sets up shop, I avert my gaze from his spectacular beard to the remaining box filled with pottery. Arranging their contents in my faux kitchen is my focus, not beards. Today, I am officially a businesswoman. Businesswomen do not opine about masculine beards. They do business things. I’ve spent two months hermit-ing and preparing for Mae’d With Love’s premiere, and I didn’t make a spreadsheet for my spreadsheets only to become hypnotized by a beard. Or glimpses of a black underwear band as he bends and stoops to unpack his merchandise.

  “Beard Man keeps staring at you,” Charlotte whispers as he leaves to fetch more things.

  “He’s probably just checking out the competition,” I say. “We may share a space, but that doesn’t mean he wants to share customers.”

  I’ve read on the craft message boards how competitive vendors can be, so it’s plausible he’s looking to sabotage me. What better way than to turn me to putty by flaunting his beard?

  “Oh, please. He’s definitely checking you out.” She ties on an apron. “Mr. Charlotte-to-be may need a beard. It’s perfect for our winter wedding in the mountains.”

  “Can you believe it’s only a few months away?”

  “No, I can’t.” She sighs. “Who am I kidding? My dream wedding with a sleigh ride to a snow-covered cabin is going to be a boring ballroom wedding at the Hilton.”

  “Really? I thought he wanted a mountain wedding too.”

  “Yeah, but since his parents are paying for all the things, he thinks we should compromise,” Charlotte mutters. “The audacity of my future husband to side with his parents against me.”

  “There’s still hope.” I rub a hand down her arm. “You haven’t rented anything yet.”

  “We have to soon, or I’ll end up with nothing. I realize I may seem ungrateful, but forever and ever I’ve always wanted a winter wedding in the mountains. It’s unique and romantic and fun.” She rattles on about the fusses she has with Mr. Charlotte-to-be about the wedding venue.

  “He’s obviously sleeping on the couch.”

  “Then you’ve already punished him. It’s all good.”

  “Except I haven’t punished his parents, and this is their fault.”

  “Kind of seems like it’s Mr. Charlotte-to-be’s fault, but maybe there are different rules when you’re engaged? I’ve never been engaged. Probably never will be. Really, I shouldn’t do this art show. I should stand on a corner of Colfax and find myself a husband.”

  She laughs. “I hate to tell you, summer child, but they only rent milk off Colfax. They don’t buy the cow.”

  Beard Man returns, extinguishing our conversation, and we scatter to finish setting up.

  When everything looks perfect, we stand at the front and admire our cluttered kitchen.

  “I appreciate you sharing with me,” I tell him. “You could’ve tossed me aside and never looked back.”

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  I tilt my head. “Do I know you?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say you know me.” He picks up a clay stone paperweight from a basket and studies it. “But I seem like a very nice person and you wish me luck in my future…”

  Say it isn’t so. “I drunk-messaged you a rock and then politely turned you down when you wrote back?”

  His brows lift. “Bingo.”

  No wonder he looked at me strangely when I told him he rocked. “Speaking of bingo,” I try an awkward subject change, “did you know it originated—”

  “In Italy in the 16th century,” he finishes for me.

  Goosebumps erupt on my skin. “I’ll just put it out there…Drunk Chloe makes poor choices.”

  “It’s all good.” If eyes can twinkle, his do. Like two stars in the night sky over a cabin in the Pthalo Green woods. “Things happen for a reason.”

  He and his beard walk away and, well, doesn’t that figure. I’m consistent in making bad choices. I whip my phone out, click on the FriendsOfFriends app and search for my life’s greatest mistake. Ah, there he is in all his bearded glory. Ryan.

  To think, I spent months climbing mountains while my dream mountain man got rejected. The irony isn’t lost on me.

  I look over to Charlotte and mouth, “Moo.”

  Two

  There are too many cooks in the kitchen. I’m doubting the validity of my internet gurus. One thing they didn’t prepare me for—customers. They’re an ornery lot.

  “I can get this cheaper a few booths down,” a menacing brunette says to me.

  I glance at the plate in her hand as if it’s going to speak something to change her mind. “Well, hm. You sure?”

  Unless the other vendor has psychic abilities and copied my work, she can’t and she knows she can’t. But I’m probably not supposed to say that as a businesswoman.

  I’m ready to tell her she can have it for free when Austin saves me.

  “Maybe that’s true, but can you get chocolate cake?” he asks, setting a box of perfect mini-cakes topped with dollops of frosting on the table. “These are made from the recipe on the card.” He winks and bestows a charming grin upon her. “By me. Why don’t you taste one?”

  It’s really unfair the power an attractive man has over women as a species. Pardon the pun, but we are putty in their manly hands.

  Menacing brunette drops the grimace and replaces it with a smile. “Okay. I’ll try one.” Austin plates one for her and she pops it into her mouth. “Oh, yum. That’s amazing. What’s your baking secret?”

  As Austin extolls the virtues of measuring flour correctly, a “psst” pulls away my attention.

  “What’s a guy got to do to get one of those cakes?” Ryan whispers.

  Let me touch your beard seems like an inappropriate response. Let me feed it to you does too, so I go with a more cliché, yet less offensive giggle. “Tell me your sales secret and I’ll give you two.” I hold out the delicacy.

  Sparks radiate through my palm when he takes it from me.

  “My shirts kind of sell themselves. As long as it’s relatable, they’ll buy.” I’ve never wanted to be a tiny cake more in my life than when it flies past his full lips. “People like to wear their feelings.”

  “I like to eat mine,” I say.

  His eyes sweep over my body and now I wish I hadn’t had the fantastic marketing idea of wearing an apron. The bulky material prevents him from seeing the goods. Horrible thought that diminishes my empowerment as an i
ntelligent woman, but does it matter in this clown world?

  “Do you have a lot of feelings?” is a strange question from him, but I’ll let it slide because beard.

  “Well, maybe slightly above average?” How does one measure emotions? “On a scale of one to so many feelings I can’t contain them, I’m probably a solid six on average. Today, maybe more. This is pretty stressful, having people critique me.” I glance over to the brunette who is now deep in conversation with Austin. “I deal with customers at my job, but this is personal because I made these things.”

  “I get it. Most people would just say, ‘thanks for looking, take a card,’ roll their eyes at their co-worker then go about their day. But artists feel things deeply,” he says. “And I think it’s a good thing. The higher the level of emotion, the better the work.”

  I truly need a do-over of my rock choices. We’re having an actual conversation where sex isn’t the central focus. Ryan tells me he works in graphic design for a franchised marijuana company and screen-prints shirts in his spare time. And not just any old generic screen print, he too is an artist. It’s all very me, and I’m a whole lot sorry I didn’t pick him over Finn back then. Oh, well. He’s here now, and he seems interested. I think?

  Our brief exchange ends when a wave of customers floods the booth. With a pretend smile, I amble back into the fray, and attempt to sell my wares. Until another grump squashes my self-esteem.

  “Why would I want something I have to hand-wash?”

  “Because it’s pretty?” I say. “And one of a kind?”

  She gives me a flat look. “Do I look like I care about those things? I’m not wearing these sweatpants because I care about pretty. They’re convenient. I didn’t get up today and think I want to look pretty. I got up and thought I want a convenient elastic waistband. I live for convenience. I like my mayo in a squeeze bottle because it’s convenient. I don’t want to screw off a lid and find a knife. I want quick and easy. Do you care if a ketchup bottle is pretty? Or do you like it because it’s convenient?”