Your New Best Friend Read online

  * * * * *

  FREE EBOOK OFFER

  Sign up for our newsletter to be the first to know about our new releases, special bargains, and giveaways, and as a bonus receive a FREE ebook!

  Sign up for the Gemma Halliday newsletter!

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  YOUR NEW BEST FRIEND

  by

  JAYNE DENKER

  * * * * *

  Copyright © 2017 by Jayne Denker

  Cover design by Estrella Designs

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  For my son—all the love now, all the royalties later

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Where would I be without these rock stars? Not here, that's for sure.

  Super-duper agent Jordy Albert, for hooking me up with...

  Gemma Halliday Publishing, for taking a chance on an up-and-coming five-year veteran of the chick lit writing world, and for hooking me up with...

  Editor Gwen Hayes, for her oh-so-wise and insightful advice.

  Viola Estrella of Estrella Designs, for the cover art I've always dreamed of.

  Chick lit authors Glynis Astie, Tracie Banister, and Tracy Krimmer (and Jordy again!) for reading early drafts of Your New Best Friend, even though they weren't anywhere near mean enough with their critiques. Love these ladies!

  Tracie Banister (again), because she demanded a beach scene with a "wet, shirtless Conn," and I could not refuse.

  My mother, who can't manage to wrap her mind around the publishing process but fakes it really well.

  Mike Decker, for generously allowing me to use the details of his Appendix Saga. By including him in this list, I can say, "Look! You're in another one of my books!" (Happy now?)

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Melanie Abbott is in the house!"

  "I'll alert the media. And don't say you're 'in the house' ever again. It's just wrong."

  Ooh, somebody sounds cranky. I let the door to the coffeehouse swing shut behind me. The place immediately reverts to its standard half-gloom, an arty kind of light, and a relief from the bright May sunshine outside. I cross the wide, pegged planks of the two-hundred-year-old floor, familiar with every odd dip and rise, and push against the wooden counter.

  "It's three o'clock," I say lightly.

  As if my friend Conn, the owner, needs reminding that I show up at this time every day. He barely glances up from the papers spread in front of him, and I twist the upper half of my body to get a peek. All I can tell is they look financial before he sweeps everything up into a neat stack.

  "Get away. Nosy."

  I've seen that expression before, many times. It's a cross between a can't-you-see-I'm-busy scowl and a half grin that assures me he's not actually in a bad mood. Okay, if he wants to be all secretive, that's fine. I'll get it out of him later. For now, I strike a pose, a bright smile on my face. My arrival, after all, is the highlight of his day.

  Or not.

  He ignores me.

  At least he pretends to. Then, not missing a beat, he puts down his pen, stuffs the papers under the bar, and reaches for a small white cup to make my usual triple espresso.

  "Aw, you do love me."

  He shoots me a glare from under the ledge of his eyebrows but says nothing, then focuses on skillfully and smoothly grinding the beans, packing the grounds, and finessing the temperamental machine that's held pride of place behind the counter since Deep Brew C opened three years ago.

  "Haven't you heard that bartenders are supposed to be chatty?"

  Deep Brew C is also a bar and restaurant with an environmentally conscious bent, so Conn wears several hats: manager, barista, bartender, host, herb garden pruner, rainwater collector, compost turner, and recycler. I don't know a whole lot about organic, locally sourced, farm-to-table (and ocean-to-table) practices, but there must be something to it because the food is phenomenal, at least in my opinion. DBC has everything I need—coffee, food, and drink—which makes it my second-favorite place in the world. My own home comes in first, and that's only because I can wear pajamas and ditch my bra there. If I didn't care about proper dining attire, I'd live here instead.

  Still Conn says nothing, just to be contrary. I know darn right well he can talk up a storm when he feels like it. I fill the gap, shouting over the gurgling sound of the espresso maker. "Hey, I had the weirdest dream last night." I wait. The noise dies away, but he doesn't ask for details. I end up watching the broad expanse of his back as he pares a bit of lemon rind. I clear my throat, subtly. Nothing. I clear my throat a little less subtly.

  "Coming down with a cold?" How the guy's voice can be smooth and rumbly all at the same time is a mystery, but there it is.

  "Oh, good. You're still able to talk. I thought maybe Harvey had taken the whole cat-got-your-tongue thing literally."

  "Harvey's too old to make that kind of an effort, and you know it." He turns around with a genuine smile. Even a mention of his geriatric feline best bud gets him all mushy. The softie.

  "Do you want to hear about my dream or not?"

  "Not."

  "So okay," I charge on. I knew he'd say no. I was going to tell him anyway. "I was late getting to this party, right?"

  "Accurate so far."

  "Quit it. It was at my dad's house, but it didn't look like my dad's house." I pause as Conn's head drops to his shoulder, his eyes close, and he starts snoring. "Are you going to listen to this or not?"

  "I already said not. Nobody wants to hear somebody else's dream. They're always boring, and they never make any sense."

  Mine is no exception, I realize. At least I'm not going to be able to explain it easily—how the party was crowded with everyone in town (a couple thousand, many of whom I actually know, at least by sight), but I couldn't manage to engage anyone in conversation. How bereft I felt when people started leaving but I had to stay. How I got lost in the dozens of rooms I didn't recognize. It wasn't the events, but the weird feeling the dream gave me, the mood it put me in that lingered even after I woke and put in most of a full day's work, that's still compelling me to decipher it. I know Conn could offer some insight…if he were interested.

  "Would you change your mind if I said you were in it?"

  Conn raises one eyebrow as he slides the espresso toward me, a curlicue of bright yellow lemon rind standing out against the white of the cup. "Depends on what I was doing in this dream of yours."

  I make a face at the innuendo. "You were there at the party. And so was George the mail carrier, and Chelsea who runs the daycare, and—"

  "Okay, Dorothy, I get the idea."

  "Oh—and there was a creepy doll room. I mean wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling bug-eyed antique dolls."

  "You do know the connection between dreams and the dreamer's mental state, right?"

  I adjust my bag on my shoulder and pick up my drink. Conn holds out one large hand, palm up, and flicks his fingert
ips in an expectant gesture.

  "Put it on my tab."

  "Your tab rivals the national debt."

  "You know I'm good for it." His hand is still out. "What?"

  "Tip?"

  "Use SPF 45 or higher."

  I head for my usual seat, a wingback chair by the hearth. Then I hear it: a voice. Coming from my chair. My chair. A woman, on the phone. Well, I hope she's on the phone, because there's nobody else in the place. Then we'd have more of an issue than the fact that she doesn't know enough not to sit in my chair.

  Really, this is unheard of. I gawp at Conn, shocked. He just grins, the bastard, and shrugs. As if this were no big deal. But it so clearly is.

  Do something! I mouth to him.

  "Hey, it isn't the Friends couch. It's not automatically reserved for you."

  "Yes it is," I say, incredulous, then add belatedly, "unofficially." Sure, when the summer people get here in a few weeks, all bets are off. The place will be packed with pie-eyed tourists who don't know the rules, habits, traditions of our Massachusetts seaside town. But till then, that's my seat.

  "Too bad. She's a paying customer. You, on the other hand…" he says, glancing significantly at the espresso-on-credit I'm holding.

  "You could have steered her to another seat," I hiss.

  Conn snorts and starts wiping down the bar. "Sit someplace else, blondie. It won't kill you."

  I can't even fathom this. "What? Where?"

  "The other chair?"

  There is indeed a second wingback chair opposite mine. But it won't do. It faces the large, sixteen-paned mullioned window looking out on the main road. "The sun gets in my eyes."

  "Oh, for God's sake. Here," he says, gesturing to one of the bar stools. "Sit, and I will admire your beautiful face."

  It's my turn to snort. "Don't get all sentimental on me, now." Guess it's up to me to right this ship. I come up on the woman quietly and peek around the wing of the chair, a painfully fake-feeling smile plastered on my face. "Excuse me."

  She jumps a mile, turning to me with a shocked look, and I immediately feel terrible. Almost terrible enough to let her stay there, but not quite.

  "Yes?" she whispers.

  She's about my age, maybe a little younger, but dressed older, in tan pants and a beige and pink striped tailored shirt. Everything about her, from her wardrobe choice to her freckles to her skin to her hair that extends out from her hair band in every direction, is some variation of light brown. She does have a phone tucked under her curls, held up to her left ear. Thank goodness. Not crazy.

  "Sorry to disturb you, but…I'm afraid you're in my seat."

  Her (tan) eyebrows converge above her thin nose. Her eyes are also light brown. I want to buy her turquoise contacts to break up the monotony. "What?"

  "My seat," I repeat. "You're in it."

  After staring at me for a second, frozen, she bursts into a flurry of motion, putting her phone away and frantically gathering up her things scattered at her feet—(brown) purse, some sort of (tan) messenger bag, short (beige) trench coat. She stands and stares forlornly at her mug and small plate, unsure how to bus her dishes.

  Now I feel like a complete turd.

  "Oh, hey, no," I backpedal. "No, don't get upset. I'm sorry. You stay right where you are—"

  Her eyes brimming with tears, she stumbles out the door and rushes past the window, possessions clutched to her chest and head bowed.

  I'm not sure what just happened.

  "Way to run off my customers, Abbott."

  Conn's close behind me, his substantial arms crossed, a dishcloth dangling from one hand.

  "I didn't mean to," I protest. "She was not exactly normal."

  "And you weren't exactly the epitome of graciousness." He glances at my espresso, still in my hand, now uselessly tepid. "New one?"

  Handing over the cup, I mutter, "I don't feel like it."

  Then I'm out of the shop as well, heading in the opposite direction from Miss Beige.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Stupid Garvey," I mutter as I fling myself onto my couch, my phone clamped to my ear. I've already changed into flannel pajama bottoms, fuzzy socks, and a cami. I'm in for the night, even though it's only late afternoon.

  "Connacht Garvey is a lot of things, but he's not stupid," says the familiar voice of my bestie, Taylor.

  I sit up straighter, surprised to get the real Taylor and not her voicemail. "Oh! You're there!"

  "I'm always there for you, babe."

  "Give or take a hundred and fifty miles."

  "Don't be picky."

  She's right. I'm thrilled Taylor is so busy—and happy—with her new broker's job in Provincetown, which she started a couple of months ago. It was a great opportunity, and there was no question she should take it, but it isn't the same around here without her, especially at the real estate office. It's tough to go from seeing her almost 24/7 to hoping to catch her by phone or text a couple of times a week.

  "What did he do this time?" she demands, prepared for another round of my favorite pastime, complaining about Conn.

  "Nothing," I answer with a sigh. I can't bad-mouth Conn—not this time, anyway. I was a jerk to that poor girl this afternoon. His witnessing it, however, made it so much worse. "He was just…there, doing his judgy thing. I hate it when I screw up in front of him and he looks at me with his disappointed-parent face."

  "Tell him to stuff it. He's not your parent."

  Not even close. Conn is only a little older than I am—five years and four months, to be precise—yet he's got that older-and-wiser thing down to a science. "Yeah, well, he acts old enough to be my grandfather."

  "Your grandfather was never judgy. Neither is your dad, for that matter."

  True. My father is much more forgiving…too much, sometimes. He probably wouldn't have batted an eyelash at my behavior today. He probably would have blamed Miss Beige for the whole thing.

  He'd have been wrong.

  I'm not proud of the way I acted. I've been brought up quite properly, and I have a reputation to uphold. My family, the Abbotts, own this town, and that's not just a figure of speech. It is called Abbott's Bay, after all, thanks to some Puritan ancestor whose first order of business in the New World was to stake claims all over a prime piece of the future Commonwealth of Massachusetts. We own far less of the town these days, but our chunk is still significant, and our history gives me a certain standing in the community.

  "Conn is the antidote to my indulgent relatives. Always has been."

  The Garveys have lived in Abbott's Bay for ages—not nearly as long as the Abbotts, but then again not many families have—and our lives have always been entwined. In other words, Connacht Garvey, all-around good guy and pride of Abbott's Bay, has plagued my existence for almost the entirety of my nearly thirty years.

  The years Abbott's Bay was Connacht-free, first when he was at Harvard getting his BA and MBA then when he spent several years in Seattle, were the most peaceful of my life. Also the most boring, if I'm going to be honest, but if anyone asks, I'll deny it.

  Taylor laughs. "Hey, he hasn't had to do any Melanie-shaming in quite a while. You're great."

  I flinch. That's not entirely true—as illustrated by today's little adventure—but I don't want to discuss it. "Tell me about all the sales you're making on the Cape."

  Taylor takes the bait. We spend the next several hours talking shop, and it's almost like she's back in Abbott's Bay.

  * * *

  Right. New day, better Melanie. I have resolved to get back in my groove and not let Conn get me down. In fact, I've decided to get some DBC coffee on the way to work. It's a beautiful day, the town is already bustling, and I've managed to get out the door early enough.

  I've greeted half a dozen people on the street, including police officer Pauline who's already writing a ticket—what with all the tiny, twisting lanes of our historic district, parking violations are a goldmine—and gourmet grocery owner Henry, who's prettying up the fresh fruit
displays on the sidewalk, when I spot Miss Beige headed straight for me. What a perfect opportunity to redeem myself.

  She draws closer, and I try to smile in an encouraging, friendly way. I'm really an all-right person! Let me prove it to you! When she spots me, her eyes widen in alarm. She drops her gaze to the pavement, rocks back and forth a little as though she can't decide which way to turn, and spins around to go back the way she came. She's not getting away that easily though. I have amends to make, dammit, and I'm going to make them. I lunge forward and grab her elbow.

  "Hey! Hi!" Whoa, way too high-pitched and perky. I dial it back. "Um, I guess you remember me. Deep Brew C yesterday afternoon?" Still saucer-eyed, she nods. I take a breath. "Look, I'm sorry about…you know. I was totally out of line, and I didn't mean to upset you. Forgive me?" I beg with my best smile.

  I feel her arm relax in my grip—oh God, I'm still clutching her elbow. That won't help matters. When I let go of her, she finally smiles back.

  "I'm not a loony tune. I promise. I mean, Conn can vouch for me." We're standing near the coffeehouse, and fortunately he opens the door at just this moment, broom in hand. He really does sweep the sidewalk each morning, like a character in a Disney movie. All he needs is the full-length white apron. "Right, Conn? I'm completely normal. Tell the girl."

  "Good morning to you too." He leans on his broom, studying me as though he's never really thought about my state of mind before, then declares to the woman, quite definitively, "Melanie here is completely unhinged."

  "Thanks a bunch."

  He grins and starts sweeping. "I'm kidding. She's fine. A little high strung at times…"

  "Could have stopped a few words back."

  "Are you here for coffee or to jack up my stress level as early as possible?"