Hooked Read online

  EV BISHOP

  Hooked

  River’s Sigh B & B, Book 2

  HOOKED

  Book 2 in the River’s Sigh B & B series

  Copyright © 2015 Ev Bishop

  EPUB Edition

  Published by Winding Path Books

  ISBN 978-0-9937617-8-2

  Cover image: Kimberly Killion / The Killion Group Inc.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews, the reproduction or use of this work in whole or in part in any form, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Winding Path Books, 1886 Creek St., Terrace, British Columbia, V8G 4Y1, Canada.

  Hooked is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  For my mom,

  I miss you more than words can say.

  And for my daughter,

  I wish you could’ve known your maternal grandma.

  And for my stepmom,

  What a jumbled family we have! Thank you for your love.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from Spoons

  About Ev Bishop

  Chapter 1

  Sam was fresh from the shower, barefoot and dressed only in a robe. She wrapped her arms around herself and turned in a slow circle. Five stars or not, a hotel room was always just a hotel room, wasn’t it? It was beautiful with its teak four-poster bed, matching highboy and desk, and snow-white linens, but generic nonetheless.

  She settled into the leather wingback chair, the room’s best feature in her opinion, and put her feet up. A niggle of surprise tickled her as she uncapped a pen and reached for her spiral bound notebook. Who’d have thought? Samantha Kendall using a diary. But she couldn’t help it. The movement of her hand across page, the scent of the paper, the process of filling the sheet with the mess in her head—slowly at first, then so fast her hand cramped—soothed her and helped her see more clearly than she had in a long time. Her life, once so beautiful and busy, felt empty. Come to think of it maybe that was the appeal of the journaling. She filled something. Created a tangible mark that she was here. That she lived.

  The coffee pot on the desk across the room sighed and sputtered.

  “Ah, my faithful friend,” she whispered, then got up, doctored herself a mug of the dark espresso blend, and settled down again.

  She sipped her hot drink and drummed her fingers on her notebook. What to say, what to say?

  She paused, drank more coffee, and ran her fingers through her damp hair. Finally she began to write.

  Sheesh, three pages minimum is going to take hours today.

  But it didn’t. By the time she had two cups of caffeine in her, she’d churned out her minimum, plus another three pages—yet she wasn’t calmed. She was edgier than ever. She scanned the last page, bit her lip and barely resisted the urge to tear the sheets loose and throw them away.

  There’s nothing I hate more than my sister being right about anything, but I have to hand it to Jo. She is right about this, and the pros and cons I wrote yesterday confirm it.

  I always figured Aisha would reenter my life at some point, if only, like seems to be the case, for medical information and “closure.” (How I hate that damn word!) I just thought I’d be at a spot in time, personally and professionally, that I could be proud of—or at least not a bloody embarrassment. But at the same time, I guess it’s not about me, is it? (Ha ha, quick, someone tell Jo I actually said that!) I would’ve done anything to have someone to talk to, when I was stuck in the same boat Aisha’s in, so how can I refuse her request to meet?

  My two biggest fears: that she’ll ask about the asshole who fathered her. (What can I say about him that won’t just be a huge ugly shadow over her?), or that she’ll hate me—which is pretty hilarious because I definitely don’t want her in my life permanently.

  That was the line that stopped her. She shook her head, crossed the last line out, drew an arrow, and scribbled furiously.

  That she’ll hate me, which I’ll totally understand, or worse, want something I don’t have to give her. All of my love for her went out the door with her the day I gave her a chance for a better life. (Not that it seems to have panned out—but don’t even get me started!) And what if she does want a relationship? I have no frigging clue what I’ll do.

  Samantha closed the book, and stashed it in her suitcase.

  She paid special attention to her outfit and did her makeup and hair just so, but it wasn’t until she sprayed a light mist of perfume in front of her and walked through it that she admitted she’d made up her mind.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. She’d return to Greenridge. She’d see if she could be of any help to Aisha and answer any awkward questions her biological daughter had.

  And then, so long as Jo and Callum were willing to let her monopolize one of their B & B cabins—and why wouldn’t they? Her cash was as good as anyone’s—she’d spend some concentrated time figuring out what exactly she wanted next and why her life, which she’d always enjoyed, wasn’t enough for her these days.

  She cocked her head, smiled at her reflection in the mirror, and nodded approval at both the image she projected and her new thoughts. She was an excellent planner and there was no reason she couldn’t get herself back on track. And once she had a new direction, she’d leave Greenridge in the dust and never return. The place was a black hole. In lieu of a welcome sign at the beginning of town, there should be a plaque that read, “Abandon all hopes of having a life, ye who enter here.”

  And if Jo wanted to visit now and again? Well, she’d have to sojourn out of her hobbit village and head for the city. Sam was done with the ghost town of bad memories. She was sick of the family-focused “great place to raise kids” motto that everyone in town seemed to spout. Not everyone had kids or even wanted them. And she was beyond weary of how the place reminded her that except for her one solitary sibling, Jo, she had no family. Everyone was dead. There’d be no TV movie worthy reunion or redemption scene. Greenridge was like one big beer commercial for all the things she didn’t have. And didn’t want, she reminded herself.

  Chapter 2

  Charles tripped over the stuffed-to-bursting rucksack he’d stowed by his office door and stared at the ringing phone like it might bite. The call display showed T.C.O. Literary Management all too clearly, and unfortunately his agent Theresa, the “T” in T.C.O., knew he was home. After all, he’d just sent an e-mail seconds ago admitting it. He sighed heavily
and picked up.

  “Theresa, hi. Good to hear from you.”

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, and get real. You knew that e-mail wasn’t going to fly.”

  “But—”

  “And no buts.” Her voice softened. “I feel for you. You know I do. And I’m on your side even if it doesn’t feel like it, but it’s time, Charlie. Past time. And if you can’t see that, maybe it’s time to rethink your career.”

  Charles sank into his office chair and rolled back and forth across the room. He didn’t want to “rethink” his work. He loved what he did, what he wrote. Or he used to. And anyway, it wasn’t like he hadn’t considered doing something else. Just absolutely nothing came to him that didn’t sink him even more deeply into the mire of apathy and disillusionment he seemed unable to pull himself from. And now, with Aisha living only God knew where and insisting she was staying there to have her baby, he didn’t even have the occasional bright spot of her presence.

  “You’ve used up all your reserve books, even your earliest ones that were previously unpublished for pretty good reasons. It’s just a good thing some readers don’t care what you write as long as the story says Jax Bailey on the cover.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Oh, you know what I mean. Don’t get pissy. I love your books. You’ve earned reader loyalty, but even diehard fans are starting to grumble on the Interwebs. You can only play the dead wife card for so long before people start to think you need to get over it.”

  Charles managed to not throw the phone across the room, but only just.

  Theresa seemed to sense she’d crossed a line. “Sorry, that was crass. Obviously, healing isn’t an easy one, two, three process. I know you’re doing the best you can, just barely hanging on, and I know it will take time—but I’d hate to see you lose everything you worked so hard to build.”

  Too late. Everything he’d worked for died when Maureen did. Still, Theresa wasn’t the enemy and she was on his side. He knew this. He also knew he’d probably exhausted every possible extension. He made a decent living, and Maureen’s life insurance had paid off the mortgage and left a little besides, but not enough to see him through life—and definitely not enough to provide ongoing stability to Aisha and her little one, should she decide to keep it. And he was a young(ish) man still. Forty-four was nowhere near the time to retire even if it felt closer to eighty these days.

  “They need a new book, or, and it’s pretty nice of them, almost human in fact, they’ll forgive the contract without penalty, but if you ever want to write for them again, it’ll be like starting new.”

  Perish the thought—and no, that wasn’t melodrama. “How long?” he asked.

  “I got you six months, but that’s it, final offer, last extension.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Okay?” Even though their connection was a little static-filled, the surprise in Theresa’s voice was loud and clear. “Just like that you say okay?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No, but I still thought you’d be a harder sell.”

  They wrapped the conversation up quickly from there, and Charles was careful to sound more positive than he felt. Six months, if he was his old self, was more than enough time to get a solid book to his publisher. But he wasn’t his old self, and didn’t think he ever would be again. Maureen had been gone three years, yet in some ways it was like she’d passed away yesterday, the grief would hit so fresh and raw. In other ways, however, it was like she’d left a lifetime ago, which, hard as it was, was sort of the truth. Neither his nor Aisha’s lives were the same. They had new existences altogether, as if their time on earth had been divided into separate realities: Life with Mo. Life without her.

  He stood up, scooted his chair under his desk and turned off his computer, then grabbed his laptop. He was sick of himself and the endless woe-to-me pool he wallowed in. Even his self-pitying thought about everything he’d worked for dying when Maureen did wasn’t fully honest. Only half of what he worked for and lived for had passed on when she did. He still had their daughter, and who knows, maybe a grandbaby too.

  He hit the lights and hefted his bag. Soon, with any luck, he’d be in a better writing space and headspace. For a moment he wondered if he should’ve told Theresa his plan, then shook his head. Where he spent his time wasn’t her business and she’d just worry. Besides, though she’d be skeptical, he could write—or not write—just as easily in the boonies as he could at home.

  And if Aisha was intent on setting up a temporary home in Greenridge, wherever that was, with this aunt whoever she was, in the hopes of connecting with her birth mom—who back in the day had seemed level-headed, but now he worried was a callous flake . . . well, he wasn’t going to just abandon her to the wolves and wilds. He’d take up residence in one of the cabins that were “so far beyond cool that he couldn’t possibly imagine how cool they were,” to quote Aisha, and support her in whatever ways he could. She was the only family he had left, and if anything came between them, damaged their relationship, or hurt her, it would be over his dead body.

  Chapter 3

  Sam veered off the highway abruptly, and her Mercedes SUV skidded as it hit the soft shoulder. A wimpy horn sounded from the white Toyota traveling behind her and it crossed the centerline to give her room.

  Sam flipped the driver the bird out of habit, but without a lot of heat. She had cut him off, after all. She caught a glimpse of surprised anger on the guy’s face—he was cute, actually—then his own finger waved back in return.

  When the small car whizzed past and rounded the bend out of sight, she was alone on the remote northern highway once more. She cut the engine and pressed clenched fists against her eyes. What was she doing? Why the hell was she heading back to Greenridge?

  “It’s the least you can do,” Jo said in her head—except really she hadn’t said that. No, her sister had been annoyingly mellow and pressure-free as usual, even though Aisha was still on the scene, hoping for some birth mother reunion special and sponging off Jo and Callum indefinitely, but at least until she had the baby. The baby. Sam wasn’t even really a mother, and now she was going to be a grandmother?

  “She’d like to meet you, yes,” Jo’s voice spoke again, this time from actual memory not projection. “But only because she wants to know if you regret giving her up or if you think you made the right choice. She’s trying to decide what she should do.”

  “She should’ve kept her legs crossed from the get-go, that’s what,” Sam muttered, knowing her words were completely hypocritical but unable to stem them nonetheless.

  “You don’t have to come.” Jo’s voice again. “Aisha understands. She doesn’t have any expectations.”

  It was that comment, about the lack of expectations, and her own stupid journaling that explained why Sam was in the middle of this godforsaken valley driving to the middle of nowhere. She understood all too well how many stacked-up disappointments it took to yield a “no expectations” approach to things, and from the little she’d heard about Aisha’s life, she couldn’t help but empathize. The least she could do was talk to the kid and answer her questions. She doubted she’d be much comfort or practical help, but for whatever it was worth, she could at least explain what the hopes behind giving her up had been—and let her know that she hadn’t regretted it until she’d discovered that it hadn’t worked out the way she had hoped.

  She slowly raised her head, stretched her neck, and restarted the Mercedes.

  Yes, she’d do what she’d come for, help the kid out the best she could with medical information and details about her own experience so she could make some sort of decision, and then she’d say good-bye. Again. Permanently.

  *

  Sam took the long driveway too fast, then sprayed gravel in the parking area when she braked. She surveyed her surroundings briefly, before pulling off to one side of the main house. She had to give it to her little sister. The setting was breathtaking—if you liked to be surrounded by nothi
ng but trees and mountains and water that is. Personally, she’d prefer a nice stretch of city sidewalk with fun high-end boutiques, the odd skyscraper or two, and a different restaurant to eat out at every night—but to each their own.

  She eased out of the cream leather interior of her vehicle, contemplating whether she should wrangle her suitcases on her own or wait till she saw the cabin Jo was putting her in. Then she spotted something that made her breath catch.

  Damn, damn, triple damn! That annoying little Toyota—she was sure it was the same one she’d cut off—was parked twenty paces away by a tiny bay-windowed cabin bearing a small sign that read “Rainbow” and sported a folk art styled fish.

  Just her luck. The only person she’d annoyed on the road all day and it had to be someone bunking down at the same place she was staying. She sighed. Oh, well—maybe he wouldn’t recognize her vehicle.

  The door from the main house opened and Sam heard voices before she could see the people who went with them.

  “Hey, that’s the stupid overkill Mercedes that practically did a brake stand right in front of me on the highway,” a low, masculine voice growled.

  “Oh, crap,” said Jo—very out of character language for her to use with a client.

  Sam straightened her short skirt, smoothed her hair and walked out from the shelter of her ivory “overkill.” Pompous loser. She held out her hand in greeting before she even cleared the vehicle. “So sorry about earlier—” she started to say, but the words stuttered to a stop.

  When given more than a cursory glimpse at highway speed, the man in front of her was more than cute. Tall and lanky, with longish dark hair like some Victorian days’ poet and a five o’clock shadow that made you want to run your hand along his jaw, he was gorgeous. But worse than that, he was familiar.

  He gave her a foot to head perusal, but there was nothing flirtatious in his overt study—and no mutual recognition, just questions and condemnation. His eyes met hers.