Beg, Borrow, or Steal

Two feuding second-grade teachers (and neighbors) find themselves teaming up in this rivals-to-lovers romance by the Emily Walker hates having her carefully crafted world disrupted by anyone, most of all her legendary nemesis, Jack Bennett. He''s the opposite of the wonderful heroes she dreams up in her double life as a romance writer, which is why Emily was perfectly happy when Jack left Rome, Kentucky, mid-school year, with his fiancée. The last thing Emily saw coming was Jack’s return at the start of the summer after calling off the wedding and ending his relationship, but he’s here to stay--as her colleague and her neighbor. Jackson Bennett is glad to be back, eager to renovate his house and work on the next mystery novel under his bestselling pen name. But when he realizes he’s now neighbors with the one woman who has always pushed his buttons, he discovers something he’s even more excited for--thwarting Emily and her petty plans to sabotage his return. With their chemistry-fueled animosity at an all-time high, Emily accidentally sends an email to their school’s principal that could reveal her secret literary side hustle. She needs to steal back her manuscript, and Jack--she hates to admit--is just the man to help her. Surprisingly, Jack agrees. Will their unlikely alliance put an end to their rivalry? Or could it lead to a steamy plot twist they never saw coming?

Auteur
Sarah Adams is the New York Times bestselling author of The Cheat Sheet and Practice Makes Perfect. Born and raised in Nashville, Tennessee, she loves her family and warm days. Sarah has dreamed of being a writer since she was a girl, but finally wrote her first novel when her daughters were napping and she no longer had any excuses to put it off. Sarah is a coffee addict, a British history nerd, a mom of two daughters, married to her best friend, and an indecisive introvert. Her hope is to write stories that make readers laugh, maybe even cry—but always leave them happier than when they started reading.

Échantillon de lecture
Chapter One

Emily

I don’t care who you are, when you live in a town the size of your thumb, if you don’t like the way your hair turns out at the salon, you stuff it deep down and never acknowledge it.

And that’s exactly why I prefer to take matters into my own hands and not allow circumstances to ever reach that point. I tend to speak my mind, and have it bite me in the ass too often, so I know if I tell Virginia that I hate my hair after this appointment, she’ll never forget it. By noon, she’ll have told everyone in our zero-­stoplight town that I’m her pickiest, most unappeasable client. The roasting and poking will start immediately, and by five-­thirty when I go to The Diner, someone will pop up out of nowhere and say, Are you sure that booth is good enough for you or would you like the one we reserve for the queen?

And it won’t stop there. From that day on, they’ll put a plaque on the table that reads Table Reserved for Queen Emily, and nothing I do or say will get them to remove it.

And if it seems like I’m overreacting, please know this is the very same town that started a petition last year, complete with smear campaign, to encourage my youngest sister (who was twenty-­six years old at the time, mind you) to stop dating Will Griffin because they thought she was too good for him. He won them over in the end (Annie + Will forever), but the petition with the final tallies is framed and hanging in The Diner alongside the picture of Dolly Parton posing with the town. And I do mean the majority of the town. They heard she had stopped in for lunch while passing through, and one person called another who called their cousin who called their best friend who called their aunt’s boyfriend, and they all showed up for one huge group photo.

Moral of the story: Never underestimate what the town of Rome, Kentucky, is capable of.

The smell of bleach singes the insides of my nostrils as Virginia—­one of only three stylists in the area—­combines the powder lightener with the creamy developer right beside my face. She’s mixing that stuff so slowly a baby could do it faster, but I keep this thought to myself by picturing the terrifying treasure chest I’ve created in my mind where I lock up all my most antagonistic thoughts. It’s made of black steel and has sharp metal prongs all over it. The thing is deadly and made for keeping the peace in my day-­to-­day life.

“Well—­I don’t like to gossip,” Virginia begins, weighing in on the conversation beside us that Hannah (the other stylist) and her client, Shirley, are having about the reason our packages have all been delivered late this week. Shirley has been the receptionist at the elementary school where I teach for over twenty-­five years. She eats gossip like multivitamins.

Virginia continues, “But I did happen to see a certain someone leaving Brad’s house the other morning.”

Brad is our mailman, if it wasn’t obvious.

Everyone other than me in the salon gasps. I’m too busy staring at the bowl of lightener that’s not going to mix itself as Virginia lazily sways it in front of my face. The sassy grin aimed at the other ladies tells me she has no intention of putting any sort of hustle into my highlighting process.

“You don’t mean . . . ?” Hannah taunts, pausing with scissors in one hand, and in the other, a thin section of Shirley’s white hair, held at a ninety-­degree angle—­pre-­snip.

“Yes,” Virginia states meaningfully with a vicious small-­town twinkle in her eye. Take a picture right now and this would serve as the perfect image to describe Rome, Kentucky.

“But she’s married.”

“Not for long. When Hayes gets wind of what his wife has been doing with the sexy mailman, I expect we’ll see Evelyn’s clothes flung all over the yard and the neon boxers Brad is always giving us a peek of strung up the flagpole.” She pauses and frowns. “Truthfully, though, I don’t think Brad and Evelyn would make such a bad match.”

As fun as this is (and I don’t mean that sarcastically because I can get down with some juicy gossip along with the best of them), I happen to know that the lightener already painted on the back of my head and tucked into foils is getting dangerously close to frying the hair right off my scalp. I need Virginia to get this second bowl applied ASAP so she can start rinsing out the back while the front processes. I’m naturally a dark-­blonde and prefer my highlights to blend seamlessly—­not shine so bright they signal extraterrestrials.

The bowl weaves in front of my face again, but I intercept it this time and balance it in my lap to whisk the hell out of this cream. As all good and unbearable perfectionists know, if you want something done right, you mostly have to do it yourself.

Virginia doesn’t even spare me a glance. She’s used to me by now. The whole town is. When they see Emily Walker coming, they hand whatever it is they’re doing over to me and dive out of the way. Usually with a smile because they know I’ll do it in half the time and with the precision of a military special ops agent.

I finish mixing and hand the bowl over my shoulder to Virginia, who is knee-­deep in speculation about what could have caused Evelyn to stray in her marriage. My next victim: the stack of messy foils on the workstation. I pre-­fold each piece, handing them up one by one as Virginia paints the last of the lightener onto the front of my hair. There wasn’t much left, so thank…