I Came for a Fresh Start. The Biker Next Door Wasn’t Part of the Plan.

Chapter One

Emily

Sweet suffering saints, I hate Sundays.

Not all Sundays. The quiet ones are fine. The kind that involve an oversized cardigan, my favorite spot on the couch, and my e-reader balanced on one knee while heavy metal hums through my earbuds. Add a mug of tea, and I can happily waste an entire day.

This Sunday, however, involves pearls.

Well, not my pearls. My mother's.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel as I guide my aging Honda around the corner and merge onto the interstate. Beside me, Patricia Harper sits ramrod straight in a navy dress she probably bought fifteen years ago but somehow still manages to make look stylish. Her purse rests primly in her lap, both hands folded over it as if we're attending church instead of driving to Sunday brunch.

The radio plays softly in the background. I surrendered control of the music the moment my mother climbed into the passenger seat.

"You're awfully quiet."

I glance sideways. "I'm driving."

"Mm."

That particular hum carries decades of maternal disappointment.

Outside, the first hints of autumn have begun touching the trees, gilding a few leaves beneath the pale end-of-summer sky. Last night’s rain still gleams on the highway, but I barely notice. I’m too busy mentally calculating how long I have to endure brunch before I can reasonably claim a headache.

Two hours, probably.

Three if Cynthia decides to bring out the photo albums again.

I’d rather run a marathon. Barefoot. In August.

"I think the blue is a lovely color on you," my mother says after a moment.

I look down at my cardigan. "It's gray."

"Well. Blue-gray."

"It's definitely gray."

My mother waves a dismissive hand. "You know what I mean."

I smile despite myself.

My mother is fifty-one and still beautiful in the effortless way of women who never realize they're beautiful. The years have added laugh lines around her eyes and silver strands to her dark hair, but men still watch her when she enters a room.

Not that my mother ever notices.

She got pregnant at seventeen by a boy whose last name she'd never learned and spent the next thirty-four years making sure her daughter didn't repeat her mistakes.

Be smart, Emily.

Study hard, Emily.

Boys only want one thing, Emily.

I listened.

I did my homework while other kids snuck out to parties. I earned scholarships. Built a respectable career. Dated exactly three men, all of whom were appropriately vetted by my mother.

Laurence Emerson Beaumont III passed inspection with flying colors.

Successful.

Polite.

From a good family.

The kind of man who wears sweaters draped over his shoulders without irony.

The kind of man who discusses five-year plans over dessert.

The kind of man I've been dating for three years and have never once looked at in a way that makes me forget my own name.

If I close my eyes, I can't picture Laurence sweaty or disheveled. I can't imagine him losing control or saying something inappropriate or pressing me against a wall because he can't wait another second to kiss me.

I can, unfortunately, picture several fictional men doing exactly that.

My Kindle history is nobody's business.

I turn onto Maple Grove Drive and immediately feel my shoulders sag.

Every house looks identical.

Perfect lawns. Perfect hedges. Perfect flower beds arranged with mathematical precision. Even the mailboxes seem aggressively respectable.

No bicycles abandoned in driveways. No wind chimes. No evidence that actual human beings live behind any of the doors.

Soulless.

The thought slips through my mind before I can stop it.

"I do love this neighborhood," my mother says wistfully. "Everything is so well maintained."

"Mm."

"It would be nice to see you settled somewhere like this one day."

I slow for a stop sign. "Would it?"

"Of course."

I almost ask why.

Instead, I swallow the question and focus on the road ahead.

Last night I stayed up until nearly midnight finishing a dark romance novel I'd absolutely never admit to owning. The hero was morally gray in the way only fictional men are allowed to be, all dangerous smiles and impossible devotion.

Touch her and die.

The phrase appeared no fewer than six times.

Ridiculous.

Completely unrealistic.

And yet.

I imagine walking through my front door and being met by someone who looks at me as if I'd hung the moon. Someone who can't hide the fact that he wants me. Someone who kisses me like he's been thinking about it all day.

Heat blooms low in my stomach.

God.

I press my thighs together as I navigate a curve in the road and immediately feel ridiculous.

Thirty-four years old and getting flustered over fictional men.

"Emily?"

"Hm?"

"You've missed the turn just now."

I blink.

I have.

"Oh."

I sigh and flick on my turn signal before making a legal, if somewhat abrupt, U-turn.

"You've been distracted all week." Mother's voice softens. "Nervous?"

"No."

"Excited?"

I laugh before I can stop myself.

My mother frowns. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Emily."

"It's just..." I tighten my grip on the wheel. "I'm fairly certain brunch with Laurence's parents isn't supposed to inspire excitement."

"It might if someone is planning to ask an important question."

My fingers still against the steering wheel.

There it is.

Of course.

I should have seen it coming.

"Oh?"

My mother’s smile turns almost girlish. "Cynthia called me on Thursday."

I nearly drive onto the curb.

"What?"

"Oh, don't look so surprised."

"You talked to Cynthia?"

"We're friends."

Since when?

I open my mouth, close it again, and settle for, "And?"

"And she mentioned that Laurence has been making inquiries about family diamonds."

The world seems to narrow for a moment.

Family diamonds.

The neat little life I've spent every conscious moment building one sensible decision at a time.

"Oh."

My mother reaches across the console and pats my hand. "You've always been such a good girl, Emily. I'm happy for you."

Good girl.

The words settle heavily in my chest.

I've spent my entire life being exactly the kind of woman people approve of.

The Beaumont house appears at the end of the cul-de-sac, all white columns and expensive landscaping.

I park behind Laurence's BMW and switch off the engine.

Silence fills the car.

My mother smooths nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt. "Ready?"

I stare at the front door.

Somewhere inside, Laurence is probably discussing quarterly earnings with his father while Cynthia arranges flowers and worries about place settings.

The afternoon will unfold exactly as it always does. Small talk. Polite laughter. Discussions about careers and investments and appropriate vacation destinations.

At some point, Laurence will take my hand.

At some point, everyone will smile.

At some point, my life will continue exactly as planned by everyone but me.

My chest feels strangely tight.

I force a smile onto my face and hope it looks convincing.

"Ready."

"Good." Mom’s expression softens. "I have a feeling this is going to be a very special day."

The front door opens before we've climbed the last step.

"Patricia. Emily."

Laurence stands framed in the doorway in pressed khakis and a pale blue button-down, the sleeves rolled precisely twice. His dark-blond hair sits exactly where it's supposed to, and I would be willing to bet my retirement account that his shoes are polished.

He smiles.

It's a nice smile.

I've spent three years trying to convince myself that nice is enough.

"My dear." He leans down and brushes a kiss against my cheek before turning toward my mother. "Ms. Harper, it's lovely to see you again."

"It's lovely to be seen," my mother says with a laugh.

I stand on the doorstep for a moment longer than necessary, looking past him into the house.

Everything is cream and polished wood and expensive artwork chosen to complement the furniture rather than because anyone actually liked it.

It smells faintly of lemon polish and something simmering in the kitchen.

"Emily?"

I blink. "Sorry."

Laurence's smile doesn't falter. "Long week?"

"You have no idea."

"I imagine the start of the school year must be taxing." He says it the same way someone might comment on an unexpected rain shower.

Before I can answer, Cynthia appears in the foyer.

"You're here!" She air-kisses my mother, then me. "Come in, come in. Harold's already opened the wine, and the soup is getting cold."

Of course there's soup.

There’s always soup.

I bend to unlace my purple high-top Converse, then line them up neatly beside Laurence’s loafers. Even our shoes look incompatible.

The dining room takes my breath away.

Not because it's beautiful.

Because it looks like a wedding reception.

The table is set with fine china edged in gold. Crystal glasses catch the afternoon light spilling through the windows. White linen napkins sit folded beside each plate, and a centerpiece of white roses and silver-dollar eucalyptus runs nearly the entire length of the table.

There are candles.

At brunch.

"Oh, Cynthia." My mother presses a hand to her chest. "This is stunning."

Cynthia preens. "I may have gone a little overboard."

A little.

I stare at the place cards arranged beside each setting.

Mr. Harold Beaumont.

Mrs. Cynthia Beaumont.

Mr. Laurence Beaumont III.

Ms. Patricia Harper.

Emily Harper.

"You've outdone yourself, Mother," Laurence says.

"Well, one only gets so many special occasions."

I look up.

Cynthia smiles serenely and adjusts a flower that doesn't need adjusting.

Harold appears in the doorway carrying a bottle of wine. "There she is! Emily, my dear." He kisses the air somewhere near my temple before clapping Laurence on the shoulder. "Come. Sit. I've just been telling my son about the expansion plans."

Of course he has.

Lunch begins with butternut squash soup served in bowls that probably cost more than my monthly electric bill.

It's delicious.

It's also somehow beige.

I stir my spoon through the soup while Harold and Laurence discuss commercial real estate as if they're the only two people at the table.

"...the market is correcting itself."

"Temporarily," Laurence says. "I expect another increase by the third quarter."

"I told him the same thing," Harold says, nodding approvingly. "He's got a good head for business."

"He gets that from you." Cynthia smiles.

My mother smiles.

I eat my soup.

"And how are things at the school?" Cynthia asks.

Four heads turn toward me.

"Oh. Fine."

"Fine?"

"One of the third graders tried to convince me his dog ate his math homework despite the fact that it was a digital assignment."

There is a polite ripple of laughter.

"Children are delightful," Cynthia says.

"They certainly are."

The conversation moves on without me.

I watch Laurence gesture with his spoon while discussing investment portfolios with his father and wonder if he's noticed I cut six inches off my hair three weeks ago.

"...Mother handles the charitable foundation, of course."

"She's always had a talent for organizing people."

Cynthia lowers her eyes modestly. "Oh, Harold."

"And Emily has always been wonderful with children," my mother says suddenly.

My spoon pauses halfway to my mouth.

"I remember she used to line up her dolls and teach them arithmetic."

"Oh, that's adorable," Cynthia says.

"It was practical," I mutter.

"She's going to make an exceptional mother," my mother continues.

My appetite disappears.

Laurence nods. "I have no doubt."

Funny. I'm suddenly having several.

“Of course, Emily will stop working once we have children,” Laurence says, reaching for the breadbasket. “There’ll be no need for my wife to work. I’m perfectly capable of supporting my family.”

My fingers tighten around my spoon.

Nobody objects.

Nobody asks if I want children.

Nobody asks if I want to stop working.

My mother's expression softens. "Oh, Emily has always wanted a family."

I look at her.

Have I?

I honestly can't remember.

Harold raises his glass. "To the next generation, then."

Crystal chimes around the table.

I take a sip of water instead.

The conversation shifts to golf memberships and vacation properties in the Hamptons.

I look around the table.

Cynthia hasn't spoken in at least twenty minutes. She smiles when Harold speaks and nods when Laurence agrees with him.

My mother is glowing.

Laurence is discussing where we'll spend Christmas in five years as if we're finalizing a business merger. "...and the guest room on the second floor would make an excellent nursery."

The word lands somewhere beneath my ribs.

I don't remember discussing nurseries.

I don't remember not discussing them either.

A strange buzzing starts in my ears.

Laurence clears his throat.

"Actually, there is one more thing."

Cynthia goes perfectly still. "Oh, Laurence."

No.

No, no, no.

Laurence reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and removes a small navy box.

The room falls silent.

Of course it's navy.

Even his ring box is tasteful.

"I had intended to do this after dessert," he says, "but it seems appropriate while everyone is here."

Appropriate.

My God.

He slides the box across the table until it comes to rest beside my water glass.

"Emily."

My name hangs in the air.

My mother has both hands pressed over her mouth.

Cynthia's eyes are shining.

Harold looks unbearably pleased with himself.

I stare at the box.

Then I pick it up.

The hinge clicks softly.

An oval diamond catches the light, surrounded by smaller stones that probably have names I don't know because I have never spent an afternoon researching engagement rings.

It's exactly the sort of ring I should love.

I feel absolutely nothing.

"Emily?" Laurence says softly.

Four people are watching me.

My heart thuds once against my ribs.

Is this it?

Is this my entire life?

Thirty more years of Sunday brunches and tasteful centerpieces and discussing children I haven't agreed to have?

I look at Laurence.

He smiles at me with calm confidence.

He thinks he already knows my answer.

I realize, with sudden, startling clarity, that everyone at this table thinks they know my answer.