Not the Rebound Guy by Abby Knox (best classic romance novels txt) 📕

most mercurial client needs more hand-holding, as always. “He always does this. You just have to finesse him a little bit. Let him rant until he feels heard, then have someone from the art department explain things, using lots of complicated jargon. He’ll get tired and move on.”

“Nobody knows how to handle that guy like you do. Can you talk to him? He really doesn’t like me,” Debbie pushes.

Why I don’t have Debbie’s job yet is a mystery. Even more of a mystery is that Debbie raised four children, presumably ushering them through toddlerhood. Yet, she can’t handle this extreme toddler of a client. “It’s going to be okay, Debbie. Have him talk to one of the artists, like I said, and tell him I’m on vacation.”

“But—“

“Don’t make me Per-My-Last-Email you. Bye, Debbie.”

I don’t bother to go back and read the seven texts that she sent to me in the last two hours of my flight.

Maybe my attitude is a risky way to behave with a supervisor, but I had made it clear before I left that I would not be checking my phone. I should have followed through on that promise because now I’m starting out my vacation time—my healing and bonding time with Grams—with a nasty attitude.

I’d thought about jetting off to a tropical beach and spending two weeks drinking margaritas in a deck chair, staring at the teal-blue ocean. Have a one-night stand with a stranger to help me get over my breakup with Jared. I would deserve that after three years of sleeping with Mr. “I Don’t Eat Pussy Because It’s Not Masculine.” Yeah. I know.

Instead of jetting off to the beach for solo pampering, I decided what I needed was a human connection, nurturing, and the quiet countryside. The beach will always be there. Grams will not.

While I’m here in cornfield country, I plan to forget about my phone and help Grams make her famous jams and jellies that she sells at the farmers market every summer. I need me some Grams time, and she, now in her 80s, could probably use some help around the house. Win-win.

The only other items on my to-do list for the next two weeks are to wear zero makeup, sit on a blanket and watch a movie at the drive-in theater, spend some time with Nora and squeeze those twins she gave birth to three months ago.

Speak of the devil. As I’m headed out of the concourse and toward the escalator, Nora calls me: “I’m so excited to see you! Hijinks tonight?”

I reply, “Yes, ma’am! Don’t even think about being the DD. I’m getting the new mom sloppy drunk tonight.”

She chirps, “Babysitter is scheduled!”

Debbie calls again when I’m halfway down the escalator, just as I’m about to call Grams. I ignore her.

Gram doesn’t answer, which makes me nervous. Nobody is looking after her these days, so if she doesn’t answer her phone, I immediately think worst-case scenario. Heart attack. Broken hip. Heatstroke while working in the garden.

I leave a breezy voicemail to let her know my plane has landed and I’ll be there shortly; I don’t want her to know how much I worry. Grams doesn’t like it when people fuss over her.

Checking my PayPal and email account is a terrible idea right now; I know this. But I do it anyway, on the off chance…but no. Still no payment from my mother. Did I really expect it? Feeling a little naughty, I shoot her my second email in a month, even though I know she’s not speaking to me. “Hi, Mom. Just checking to see how you are doing. Also, let me know when I can expect payment for services rendered. Love you.”

I shouldn’t have done that, but at least she can never accuse me of not reaching out.

I drop my phone into my bag after deciding against setting it to Do Not Disturb mode, in case Grams calls back.

As I’m headed toward the baggage claim, I’m taken aback when I suddenly see my name in block letters, floating in mid-air about 30 yards away—“Eliza Little”—in black marker set against a bright orange poster board.

What the…?

Looking closer, I see the poster board is not floating in mid-air but situated between a pair of lean-muscled shoulders, clad in a pale green tee-shirt under a worn flannel.

I stop for a second, look the man up and down, and decide he must be here for some other, fortunate person named Eliza Little.

I roll my carry-on right past him, and he calls after me. “Eliza?”

I stop in my tracks and spin around.

“Do I know you?” I ask as the man’s face breaks into a wide grin. He tips the brim of his cap in the familiar way people do in my hometown, but I’ll be damned if he’s from Piper’s Grove. They do not make the likes of him here. I peer up at his faded ball cap, which bears a quaint logo advertising “Gee’s Bees.” I glance down quickly and take in the clay bead necklace he wears, showing a mandala. Then I notice the yoga beads on his wrist. Red flag, Eliza. Some cult has taken over the town and heard I was coming. They sent this thirst trap to recruit me.

“No, ma’am, not directly,” he replies, blinking and smiling. “I’m Garrett.”

I squint. “I’m afraid we don’t know each other directly or indirectly. Wait…did my Grams send you to pick me up?”

He shifts his weight as if he’s intimidated by me. I don’t know why anyone as tall as Conan O’Brien, shaped like Tom Hiddleston and as pretty to look at as Henry Cavill would feel intimidated by me. A lack of confidence in someone who looks that good should be illegal. “Did she not tell you she was sending someone to pick you up?”

I smirk. “She said she wanted to pick me up, but I forbade her from driving an hour by herself.”

Garrett steps forward and takes the handle of my carry-on bag. “Betty said you were forbidding.” This