HT Scrappily HEA A15 Read online

  Scrappily Ever After

  grumpy older man, quirky younger woman romance

  By Haley Travis

  Copyright 2021 Haley Travis. All rights reserved. Edited by Rosemary Stewart. Cover Design by Lexie Renard.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted or duplicated in any form whatsoever without express written permission of the author. This book is intended for sale to adults. All main characters are over 18. This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual people or specific locations or details is completely coincidental, or intended fictitiously.

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  ***

  Scrappily Ever After

  Happily Clever After

  Happily Ever Laughter

  CONTENTS

  Prologue ~ Claire

  Chapter One ~ Shane

  Chapter Two ~ Claire

  Chapter Three ~ Shane

  Chapter Four ~ Claire

  Chapter Five ~ Shane

  Chapter Six ~ Claire

  Chapter Seven ~ Shane

  Chapter Eight ~ Claire

  Chapter Nine ~ Shane

  Chapter Ten ~ Claire

  Chapter Eleven ~ Shane

  Chapter Twelve ~ Claire

  Chapter Thirteen ~ Shane

  Chapter Fourteen ~ Claire

  Chapter Fifteen ~ Shane

  Chapter Sixteen ~ Claire

  Chapter Seventeen ~ Shane

  Chapter Eighteen ~ Claire

  Chapter Nineteen ~ Shane

  Chapter Twenty ~ Claire

  Chapter Twenty-One ~ Shane

  Chapter Twenty-Two ~ Claire

  Chapter Twenty-Three ~ Shane

  Chapter Twenty-Four ~ Claire

  Chapter Twenty-Five ~ Shane

  Chapter Twenty-Six ~ Claire

  Chapter Twenty-Seven ~ Shane

  Chapter Twenty-Eight ~ Claire

  Chapter Twenty-Nine ~ Shane

  Epilogue One ~ Claire

  Epilogue Two ~ Shane

  Other Stories and About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  ~ Claire ~

  ~ Two Weeks Ago ~

  Ow!

  As I sling on my shoulder bag, the door of my office lobby swings in the breeze and smacks me in the duff.

  Well, how fitting.

  All day long, I’ve been thinking that sometimes a girl has to stand up and kick her own ass.

  I’ve never been an ass kicker in any way. It isn’t my style. Heck, I don’t even say the word “ass” out loud very often.

  But kicking my own butt doesn’t sound as determined.

  As I leave work and start to walk home by my usual route, I suddenly turn east a few blocks earlier, taking Sherborne Avenue, which is usually a bit less busy.

  I’m a creature of habit and most of the time my day is carved in stone, but it’s time to shake things up a little.

  My feet automatically slow down so that I can look around at the shops I haven’t really passed by before. My parents and brother are driving people, and think that walking is for peasants. Sorry – “other people”. I’m allowed to be bitchy about my family as long as it’s only in my mind, right?

  They’ve been driving me absolutely bonkers lately, with constant fighting and snapping at each other. The stress in my house is even making it hard to sleep some nights.

  I just don’t want any part of it. Every time they try to drag me into the disagreements, I tell them I’m Switzerland. Completely neutral.

  Does Switzerland even have short brunettes with curvy butts? Probably not. Whatever.

  I walk slowly past the window of a gift store and pause. It’s just about to close, and I’m not going to stroll in and be that annoying last-minute customer, but I make a mental note to check them out again soon. Since they’re so close to the company I work for, they should be carrying our stationery.

  I’m not really looking for new vendors, but I automatically skim over store displays, collections, and new products. I need to know what color palettes are trendy, what materials people are using, and what’s the latest new thing.

  Remember three years ago when everyone was suddenly wearing cactus jewelry for some reason? It’s my job to catch things like that at the front edge of the trend, and make sure that we are selling cactus notebooks, gift cards, greeting cards, and pencil sets immediately.

  I wonder what’s going to be the next cactus.

  Since the stationery market has been completely swamped with the influx of new journallers, I have to make sure that Mr. Egler is keeping up with the trends.

  He’s a nice enough gentleman, but he’s in his early fifties or something like that, so it’s hard to tell how much his thumb is on the pulse of the younger generation.

  That’s where I come in.

  And if all goes well, I hope to get a promotion from marketing assistant to product designer very soon.

  Staring at the window display, I see that jewel tones and crayon brights are popular at this particular store.

  I catch the sales lady looking at me with the kind of horrified eyes that distinctly say she wished she had locked the door two minutes ago. I shake my head with a wave and walked away. I think I see a tiny smile of relief. She probably has plans, friends to go meet after work.

  Great, now I’m jealous of a total stranger. Yet again.

  It’s been weird moving back home after college, since most of my friends have taken off in various directions like dandelion seeds on the breeze. Working in a new town, married already, university in Europe…everyone is doing well, but they’re – gone. It’s a little lonely.

  My only contacts outside work lately are my family, which can’t be healthy. I know that Mom wants me to be as social as my older brother, and keeps pushing me to try new things. She’s probably right.

  I wrap my vintage cream sweater around me tighter as the wind picks up and rack my brains. There has to be a way to meet a few nice girls my own age.

  Gosh, I sound like I’m six instead of twenty.

  Glancing across the street, I see a man locking up what looks to be an antique store. He is dressed all in black, with the thickest arms I’ve ever seen in person. Arms like that belong on a bodybuilder, or one of those cage match fighter types. I’m such a sucker for big arms like that. Wow.

  He turns away before I can get a good look at his face beyond that strong jawline, and realize I’m staring quite rudely at his beautifully sculpted butt. Wow again.

  Tearing my eyes away to my own side of the street, I look up to see a bright little café called Henry’s Coffee.

  On a whim, I step inside, instantly overwhelmed by the fresh scent of roasting beans and baked goods. It’s the sweetest room, perfectly comfortable in every way. Black and white tiled floor, heavy wooden tables, and a whisper of classical music in the background.

  “Are you here for the book club?” the smiling older gentleman behind the counter asks.

  “Oh, um…”

  My head swivels to four women at a large table in the corner. They’re all in their early twenties, I think. “Hi!” the perky blonde waves. “Grab a coffee and come on over.”

  I don’t normally believe in signs. But this one is flashing neon pink, and saying, “Go meet some instant friends.” Why not?

  “I’ll have a tea, please,” I say to the man who it’s safe to assume must be Henry.

  He waves to the double row of tea boxes behind him. “Should I start chanting them off, or would you prefer to point?” he chuckles.

  “Let’s start at the top left and work our way across every ti
me I come back,” I giggle.

  “Excellent idea,” he agrees.

  I take my tea over to the corner, sit down at the table, and my life changes.

  Instantly I find a circle of women who not only read a ton of interesting books, but love stationery and journaling.

  Somehow I have found friends, and a new kick butt focus group, just by turning a corner.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ~ Shane ~

  There’s nothing like the feeling of heavy antique bronze in my hand after sifting through a bin of cheap mixed metal, aluminum, and steel. There is life inside bronze. Like the difference between a cheap piece of glass and a diamond. Or between fruit juice powder and fine wine.

  I love working with all kinds of metal, but there’s something about old bronze that elevates a piece from trash to treasure.

  Not that I would ever admit that some of the items I peddle are trash. Even though a few clearly are.

  Pulling the lamp base out of the pile, my breath catches. I skim my rag over the surface. The patina is perfect. The scroll work is intact, without a dent or scratch. With a new lampshade and fresh wiring, this is going to score me at least a couple hundred bucks.

  More importantly, it is going to be reused and enjoyed by a new owner.

  Setting it aside, I dig through the rest of the haul, happy that I have already found at least one item of value. Sorting through rubble and cast off metal every day becomes boring if I don’t find something that feeds my soul now and then.

  Walking from the giant workroom back to the front counter, I sip my coffee while checking my phone. Three texts from my mother to remind me to search for garden ornaments for her friend Agnes, and to have a great day.

  My eyes keep drifting to the window. Every single morning I see the pretty little stranger walking by is a great morning.

  My eyes dart to the giant clock near the door of the antique shop. Quarter to nine already. Dammit. I hope I haven’t missed her.

  My varnish speckled boots casually guide me to the slightly smudged front window so that I can stare across the street at Henry’s Coffee. It’s amazing. People walk around inside with no idea they are about to be graced with the presence of an angel.

  It’s hard to admit, but this is the first spark of humanity I’ve felt since my dad passed away last year. I’ve been numb for so long that joy is a distant memory.

  Yet this precious girl seems to radiate joy like a bubble of light all around her. Or maybe I’ve gone off my rocker. Whichever.

  My eyes lock on the eastern sidewalk as my breath solidifies in my chest like a lump of concrete curing. I can’t actually hear the tick of the clock, but I feel it in my bones.

  Tick. Where is she?

  Tick. Have I missed her?

  Tick. Is she not coming today?

  Suddenly she appears like the sun after a storm, leaving rainbows of my raw lust in her wake. She walks into the coffee shop, and I adjust the tension in my jeans, my body throbbing simply from the sight of her.

  Always the same time, give or take five minutes. Always seeming to say the same thing to the owner Henry, who wishes her a good morning and laughs with her. Always gets a tea, and today she picks up a muffin as well.

  I can’t lip read, but I would assume they discuss the weather, and make other light chatter.

  Although I have a coffee maker here at the shop, I’ve gone in several times to grab a snack since she began frequenting the place two weeks ago to check out Henry’s Coffee personally.

  Henry is a great older guy, married with three kids, so I don’t have to worry about him hitting on her. But where does she go next? Is she safe? Is she happy?

  These are things I desperately need to know, with very little chance of ever finding out.

  The girl looks to be around nineteen or twenty, with gleaming copper highlights in her brown hair. She usually wears a simple short sleeved dress, either in a dark jewel tone, or a muted floral pattern. On windy days like today she adds a dark cream sweater, and wraps it tightly around herself like a cute, stylish burrito.

  Maybe she works in an office. Maybe she is a kindergarten teacher. Somewhere she doesn’t think it is appropriate to highlight her rounded hips, and lush, full breasts. It’s almost as if she is trying to disguise her full, womanly curves.

  Personally, I feel that’s a damn shame, but on the other hand, I can’t have any other man ogling the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

  Her pouty lips and straight nose are overshadowed by her big blue eyes. At least, I assume they are blue. They certainly are in my dreams, or when I fist my dick every night in her honor.

  It’s so crass, but I can’t help it. I’ve never had a reaction to any woman like this in my life, not even close.

  She is so cute, yet has a sensual elegance about her. I can’t make out the logos, but her purse and shoes certainly have that expensive look about them.

  My chances of talking such a gorgeous woman into a date are questionable. A posh girl might not look at a junkyard dealer and antique restorer as instant relationship material.

  Cup in hand, she waves brightly to Henry before walking out the door. Her soft smile lights up the entire street as she walks to the west, strolling casually until I can’t see her anymore.

  She walks out of sight, taking the highlight of my Monday with her.

  For the first time, I don’t turn back to my work. Racing to the front door, I open it and stare down Sherborne Avenue to watch her turn left onto Cedar Street. Several businesses, medical offices, and the library were up that way.

  Maybe she’s a librarian, I ponder as my gut tightens. It’s wrong to want to do such bad things with such a good girl, but where she is concerned the primal instinct is always at the top of my mind.

  In my thirty-nine years, I’ve only been with a few women – brief flings in my twenties. I’ve never met a woman I truly wanted to spend more time with. No other woman has ever been half as gorgeous as my pretty little ray of sunshine.

  Just as she’s about to turn the corner, she stops. Every hair on the back of my neck perks up. Maybe she needs help.

  She digs in her purse for a second, but it’s hard to see much at this angle. Pulling out a lip balm stick thing, she applies it to her perfect mouth, drops it back into her bag and keeps walking.

  But something flutters down behind her.

  I don’t even realize that I am tearing down the street until I pick up a scrap of paper from the sidewalk. It looks old-fashioned, and is torn along each edge in an artsy way. The handwriting is elegant, in purple ink.

  Without being so rude as to actually read it, I rush up the street, eager to hand the note to the copper-haired angel.

  Finally I have a good excuse to talk to her. Something natural and non-creepy. Something that allows me to introduce myself as a business owner in the neighborhood – although I’m pretty sure that talking to a hulking stranger is not on her list of things to do today.

  But she’s completely gone without a trace.

  At a slow jog, I do an entire length of the street, hoping to see a glimpse of a door closing, or any clue where she went. Nothing.

  I do, however, get several strange glances from shopkeepers who know me, and are likely wondering why the gruff guy from the metal shop is prancing along the street with what could be a fancy love letter in his hand.

  Feeling like an ass, I take the note back to my shop, then slump against the counter, disappointed beyond belief. Then I do something I might not normally do. I decide to read the note.

  My hands are actually shaking from excitement as I begin to examine it. This is the clue I’ve been hoping for. A peek into what I’m positive is a wonderful personality.

  Placing the note flat on the glass, I peer at the perfect violet swirls, hoping to gain insight into my dream girl.

  Pen test. Testing the new Swarlon fountain pen. Wow. This pen writes beautifully. It’s almost as good as the Fenson, but at half the price, it’s an absolute steal. This
new Larquetta ink flows well, and dries quite quickly with very little feathering into twenty percent cotton eighty pound paper.