the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.’
And for some weird reason, Alex felt hope, too. Despite not having a job. Or a place to live. Not to mention the crap coincidence of the other three being in the same situation.
They were together. That counted for a lot, especially with Teague just having returned from deployment in one piece. They were all smart and stubborn—which also counted for a lot. Sure, life had yanked the rug out from under all of them. Things couldn’t get any worse.
So the next year had to be better…
Chapter One
January 4
…or the first day of the rest of their lives
On Christmas Eve, Alex had thought that buying an undoubtedly fake lottery ticket for an inn was the most impulsive thing he’d ever done.
Boy, was he ever wrong.
Agreeing to move to the Eastern Shore of Maryland and run the inn that they freaking won ten days ago? That had to be the most impulsive act of his entire life.
“Do you see that billboard?” Amelia asked from the back seat.
He looked left and right, but only saw the winter-dry remnants of a cornfield and…something that was shorter than corn on the other side of the road. “What? No. I’m busy staring into the abyss of my future,” Alex said.
Damn it. That was too dark. Eight shots of tequila at three a.m. dark.
All four of them had ricocheted through every possible emotion over the last ten days. Alex had been the one leading the charge to do this crazy-ass thing. He’d been positive and pumped and kept everyone on track with believing this was an amazing opportunity.
Until they’d spent five hours in the car actually leaving their lives in the rearview mirror. Then the panic had set in. His gut had been clenched for the whole drive as if bracing for a kick from a muay Thai fighter.
Half-swallowing laughter, Everleigh said, “I saw the billboard. It was for The Family Restaurant. In, I quote, ‘the center of town.’ That’s it. No street name. No address.”
Teague glanced back at them over his shoulder. “Does that mean we’re moving to a town with only one restaurant, or only one street?”
“It means we’ve lost our collective minds,” Alex muttered.
“Dude, this was your idea.”
“It was Amelia’s idea to buy the ticket,” he snarled back. In the rearview mirror, he glared daggers at her laughing green eyes. “She started this whole thing.”
“What’s wrong with you, Alex?” His sister dug her long fingers into his ribs and tickled. Despite his admonitions over and over and over again to never distract the driver. Luckily, he barely felt her through his thick black Grand Orion sweatshirt and turtleneck. “You’ve had a frown on your face the whole drive. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were freaking out. But my calm, logical brother never freaks out.”
Chuckling, Teague said, “Guess that means you’ve never seen him watch a Flyers game. From the first moment that puck hits the ice, he’s a nervous wreck.” Then he gripped Alex’s biceps in mock horror. “Do we have to become Caps fans now? As official Maryland residents?”
Were they trying to make him crash the car? “No. I draw the line at that. I’ll uproot my life, cram everything I own in a U-Haul and drag it across two states, but I’m not rooting for the Capitals.”
“Ooh!” Everleigh waved her hand between the seats to get their attention. “It would be a nice touch if we do make sure to show local games on a big television for the guests. Without any heckling from you two. Do you think there is a big plasma-screen TV?”
How had his life become something where that was an actual question? Did she think they’d be pumping water from a well, too? The old website from when it had been a functioning inn had been taken down, but they’d found a couple of wedding photos that showed the ballroom and enough of the grounds to get Amelia excited. They knew it wasn’t a hovel.
“It’s a historic one-hundred-and-sixty-one-year-old building. But it exists in the twenty-first century, Ever. It has electricity and plumbing and if there isn’t a TV, we’re damn well buying one. Or ten.”
“Huh.” It was more of a high noise in her throat than an actual word. “Amelia’s right. You are throwing off waves of nervous snippiness.”
Making a conscious effort to relax his white-knuckled grip of the Suburban’s steering wheel, he slowly stated, “I’m a thirty-two-year-old man. I am not now, nor have I ever been,