Over forty books and three RITA® nominations later, Katy claims authorship of the multititled Blueberry Lane series. the A Modern Fairytale collection, the Summerhaven series, the Arranged duo, and several other standalone romances, including the critically-acclaimed fiction novel, Unloved, a love story.
Katy’s books are available in English, French, German, Hebrew, Italian, Polish, Portuguese, and Turkish.
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The Secret at Sunset
Shari J. Ryan
1
Chapter 1
It’s a beautiful sunny morning, the birds are chirping, and so are my two, rowdy girlfriends in the living room. The walls are far too thin in our apartment. I roll over, pulling my white, over-filled down comforter with me. I force one eyelid to open, peering at my smart-alarm that soothes me awake when time. It’s not time. I have thirty minutes more before I have to wake up but Macy and Grace have been pacing over the hardwood floors, back and forth in front of my door for at least an hour.
I reach for my trusty ear-plugs and shove the foam into place, but before I have my right ear secured from noise, I hear a fist bang against my door. “Alexa, it’s time to get your caboose loose!” Grace shouts.
My caboose loose. Does she even know what she’s saying?
“I still have thirty minutes,” I whine.
“No, no, no. It’s my bachelorette weekend, and I’m ready to rumble,” she sings.
I’m not normal. I’m not. Nothing about me is normal. I should be out of my mind, happy for Grace. I should be supportive as a bridesmaid to-be, but the last thing I want to do is go to Cabo San Lucas on a girls' weekend getaway, which makes me an asshole. A totally lame asshole. The thought of a girl’s trip makes my stomach hurt.
I’m not like them. I don’t take pleasure in spending hours getting dressed or dousing my face with bronzer. I don’t enjoy getting plastered or making a tally of how many pick-up lines I can attract in an hour.
Macy has devoted the last week of her life shopping for bachelorette paraphernalia, which I haven’t seen, nor do I have a desire to see. When I get married someday, I’m eloping, and leaving all the bells and annoyingly loud whistles behind. I can’t exactly voice my thoughts on the situation because I’m not getting married anytime soon, and I’d be outlawed as a typical woman. It’s hard to believe I’m alone in this boat. It’s all cheese, and not the fancy soft French stuff—the cheese that comes in a can.
Grace’s fist pounds on my door again. “I’m coming in if you don’t come out,” she states sternly.
I close my eyes for another long second, taking in a deep breath through my nose and release the air from my pursed lips. Before I’m able to expel all the oxygen from my lungs, my door flies open.
Grace and her long ombre-bleached hair, falsies, gloss, bronzer, white skin-tight pants, and a neon pink halter-top jogs into my room, keeping herself steady in her four-inch wedge sandals.
My airport attire will be: sweatpants, an oversized tee-shirt, chucks, and my ten-year-old salty Red Sox hat.
Grace scans my room, in search for something. She spots my open suitcase and grabs it as if it weights next to nothing, which is true since I haven’t packed yet. “Dude, where are your clothes? Oh my God. Are you bailing?” Grace is fanning herself, pre-panic attack mode. “Please don’t do this to me. You have to come. Why aren’t you coming? Why, Alexa? You’re my best friend.”
“Grace, sweetie, I will be ready to leave our apartment within the hour, like planned,” I tell her, keeping my voice calm.
“What? How? I’ve been packing for a week. There’s no way you can pack everything that quickly.”
I finally push myself up, resting my back against my headrest. “I will be ready at the front door in thirty minutes, okay?”
Grace glances down at her iWatch and nods her head. “Okay, have fun.”
The second my bedroom door closes, I slide back down under my covers. How much could I possibly need for a four-day getaway?
Thirty Minutes Later.
I yank the zipper closed, slide my suitcase off my bed and shove it to the door. I look in the mirror, press the messy hair bump into my loose ponytail and grab my phone on the way out the door. “Ready,” I holler.
“How is it even possible you packed and got dressed within thirty minutes?” Macy asks. “I know your drawers and closet aren’t in an organized fashion, so it isn’t because of that.”
Macy is the over-achieving responsible one of the three of us. It’s not that I’m not responsible. I just don’t obsess over details or the small stuff in life. Grace sort of breezes by responsibilities because she’s always focused on something sparkly. She’s adorably irresponsible, though. Grace is the type to get away with missing a stop sign.