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    Not The Rebound Guy
    Not The Rebound Guy
    Not The Rebound Guy
    Ebook153 pages2 hours

    Not The Rebound Guy

    By Abby Knox

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Eliza

    A freshly broken heart has sent me back to my grandmother's small town for some rest, relaxation, and healing. 
    The one-on-one time I planned for quickly takes a turn when I discovers that my generous, feisty Grams has an unexpected houseguest in the form of a tall, handsome beekeeper named Garrett. He and his menagerie of animals are constantly in the way. If only Garrett and he his furry friends weren't so darn cute, then I wouldn't keep forgetting that I'm not in the market for a rebound relationship.

     

    Garrett

    I have no problem sleeping on my generous neighbor's back porch while I get back on my feet, but this arrangement seems too for comfort for my neighbor's gorgeous granddaughter, Eliza. Our differences take a back seat, though, when Grams suddenly needs help keeping up with her orders for her famous strawberry jam. The ensuing sticky shenanigans solidify in my mind that Eliza was meant for me. So, what's it going to take to convince Eliza? I'm more than a rebound guy -- I'm her long-haul man.

    If you like: Forced proximity, feisty grandmas, small town romance, bad farm animals, bees, new uses for strawberry preserves... Then this fun and sexy novella is your jam!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAuthor Abby Knox, LLC
    Release dateJun 19, 2024
    ISBN9798227345370
    Not The Rebound Guy
    Author

    Abby Knox

    Abby Knox writes feel-good, high-heat romance that she herself would want to read. Readers have described her stories as quirky, sexy, adorable, and hilarious. All of that adds up to Abby’s overall goal in life: to be kind and to have fun! Abby’s favorite tropes include: Forced proximity, opposites attract, grumpy/sunshine, age gap, boss/employee, fated mates/insta-love, and more. Abby is heavily influenced by Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Gilmore Girls, and LOST. But don't worry, she won’t ever make you suffer like Luke & Lorelai. If any or all of that connects with you, then you came to the right place.

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      Book preview

      Not The Rebound Guy - Abby Knox

      CHAPTER ONE

      Eliza

      If you are lucky enough to be loved by an inexplicably generous grandmother, protect her with your life. And make sure you visit her more often.

      If that person happens to be my grandmother, be prepared for a battle royale should you dare offer to stay in a hotel on those visits.

      Case in point: a flight attendant glares at me while I’m trying to wrap up this ongoing argument on my phone. This plane is supposed to take off from LaGuardia in five minutes. For the last day and a half, Grams and I have been going back and forth about my accommodations on this visit.

      Grams, your house is tiny, and this is the height of your jam-making month. I’ll be in the way. When I sleep, I’ll be snuggling up against a crate of mason jars.

      No granddaughter of mine is sleeping at that fleabag no-tell motel. I have plenty of room! Grams is also part me, which means she’s not only stubborn but also tends to embellish.

      It’s a bed and breakfast in a historic house, I correct her.

      It’s a dump, she grumbles.

      I can’t help but laugh because I know she doesn’t believe that. It’s just up the street from you. I can walk over to you first thing in the morning to have breakfast with you. In my pajamas! That’s how much I love you, Grams. I’m giving up eggs Benedict. Not to mention that gourmet breakfast comes with accommodations at rural Illinois prices and not NYC prices. She has no idea what I’m sacrificing. However, Grams does make the best breakfast on the planet. And her guest bedroom is cozy.

      I should have given in on the hotel argument and instead focused all my energy on the question of the rental car, but like I said, I’m stubborn.

      She insists, The guest room is already ready!

      The flight attendant has passed me three times to deliver an evil eye and is now hovering. I honestly feel as if I’m in danger of being removed from the plane now. All right, Grams. But I’m driving myself to your house. I’m renting a car, so do not come to get me, okay, goodbye!

      Like hell you are! I can hear her reply just as I disconnect.

      I give the flight attendance a sheepish look and apologize, setting my phone to Do Not Disturb and dropping it into my bag.

      As soon as I deboard the jet in Middle-of-Nowhere, Illinois, and check my phone, my notifications blow up.

      In descending order based on the number of texts, my ex Jared has messaged me nine times; my supervisor Debbie, seven; my childhood friend Dylan, three.

      I read Jared’s text messages first because of all three, he is most deserving to be left on read.

      Just want to make sure you’re okay, he writes. And then two minutes later: I’m sorry for the way I ended things. One hour after that, he added, Don’t be mad, but I asked around because you blocked me on Facebook. Debbie said you took your vacation time. I’ll take that to mean you’re finally doing something for yourself. I’m happy for you. Have fun.

      I shake my head and scroll past the six other messages from my ex that were just versions of the previous texts. He has a weird way of showing he doesn’t want to bother me. Come to think of it, Jared exhibits odd behavior overall for someone who just dumped me for some bimbo he met on a spiritual retreat.

      The phone rings while I’m scrolling through the messages. Debbie, of course, can never wait until I’ve texted back before needing my help with something.

      I’m so sorry, I say calmly with a smile on my face, not even bothering to say hello. I’ve been practicing drawing boundaries with certain people, and Debbie is number one on the list. I’m on vacation.

      Debbie launches in anyway. I know, and I really appreciate that, Eliza. But there’s a problem with the last batch of Helix pages. The CEO says the final version doesn’t reflect his notes from the mock-up.

      I sigh heavily. My most mercurial client needs more hand-holding, as always. He always does this. You just have to finesse him a little bit. Let him rant until he feels heard, then have someone from the art department explain things, using lots of complicated jargon. He’ll get tired and move on.

      Nobody knows how to handle that guy like you do. Can you talk to him? He really doesn’t like me, Debbie pushes.

      Why I don’t have Debbie’s job yet is a mystery. Even more of a mystery is that Debbie raised four children, presumably ushering them through toddlerhood. Yet, she can’t handle this extreme toddler of a client. It’s going to be okay, Debbie. Have him talk to one of the artists, like I said, and tell him I’m on vacation.

      But—

      Don’t make me Per-My-Last-Email you. Bye, Debbie.

      I don’t bother to go back and read the seven texts that she sent to me in the last two hours of my flight.

      Maybe my attitude is a risky way to behave with a supervisor, but I had made it clear before I left that I would not be checking my phone. I should have followed through on that promise because now I’m starting out my vacation time—my healing and bonding time with Grams—with a nasty attitude.

      I’d thought about jetting off to a tropical beach and spending two weeks drinking margaritas in a deck chair, staring at the teal-blue ocean. Have a one-night stand with a stranger to help me get over my breakup with Jared. I would deserve that after three years of sleeping with Mr. I Don’t Eat Pussy Because It’s Not Masculine. Yeah. I know.

      Instead of jetting off to the beach for solo pampering, I decided what I needed was a human connection, nurturing, and the quiet countryside. The beach will always be there. Grams will not.

      While I’m here in cornfield country, I plan to forget about my phone and help Grams make her famous jams and jellies that she sells at the farmers market every summer. I need me some Grams time, and she, now in her 80s, could probably use some help around the house. Win-win.

      The only other items on my to-do list for the next two weeks are to wear zero makeup, sit on a blanket and watch a movie at the drive-in theater, spend some time with Dylan and squeeze those twins she gave birth to three months ago.

      Speak of the devil. As I’m headed out of the concourse and toward the escalator, Dylan calls me: I’m so excited to see you! Hijinks tonight?

      I reply, Yes, ma’am! Don’t even think about being the DD. I’m getting the new mom sloppy drunk tonight.

      She chirps, Babysitter is scheduled!

      Debbie calls again when I’m halfway down the escalator, just as I’m about to call Grams. I ignore her.

      Gram doesn’t answer, which makes me nervous. Nobody is looking after her these days, so if she doesn’t answer her phone, I immediately think worst-case scenario. Heart attack. Broken hip. Heatstroke while working in the garden.

      I leave a breezy voicemail to let her know my plane has landed and I’ll be there shortly; I don’t want her to know how much I worry. Grams doesn’t like it when people fuss over her.

      Checking my PayPal and email account is a terrible idea right now; I know this. But I do it anyway, on the off chance…but no. Still no payment from my mother. Did I really expect it? Feeling a little naughty, I shoot her my second email in a month, even though I know she’s not speaking to me. Hi, Mom. Just checking to see how you are doing. Also, let me know when I can expect payment for services rendered. Love you.

      I shouldn’t have done that, but at least she can never accuse me of not reaching out.

      I drop my phone into my bag after deciding against setting it to Do Not Disturb mode, in case Grams calls back.

      As I’m headed toward the baggage claim, I’m taken aback when I suddenly see my name in block letters, floating in mid-air about 30 yards away—Eliza Little—in black marker set against a bright orange poster board.

      What the…?

      Looking closer, I see the poster board is not floating in mid-air but situated between a pair of lean-muscled shoulders, clad in a pale green tee-shirt under a worn flannel.

      I stop for a second, look the man up and down, and decide he must be here for some other, fortunate person named Eliza Little.

      I roll my carry-on right past him, and he calls after me. Eliza?

      I stop in my tracks and spin around.

      Do I know you? I ask as the man’s face breaks into a wide grin. He tips the brim of his cap in the familiar way people do in my hometown, but I’ll be damned if he’s from Piper’s Grove. They do not make the likes of him here. I peer up at his faded ball cap, which bears a quaint logo advertising Gee’s Bees. I glance down quickly and take in the clay bead necklace he wears, showing a mandala. Then I notice the yoga beads on his wrist. Red flag, Eliza. Some cult has taken over the town and heard I was coming. They sent this thirst trap to recruit me.

      No, ma’am, not directly, he replies, blinking and smiling. I’m Garrett.

      I squint. I’m afraid we don’t know each other directly or indirectly. Wait…did my Grams send you to pick me up?

      He shifts his weight as if he’s intimidated by me. I don’t know why anyone as tall as Conan O’Brien, shaped like Tom Hiddleston and as pretty to look at as Henry Cavill would feel intimidated by me. A lack of confidence in someone who looks that good should be illegal. Did she not tell you she was sending someone to pick you up?

      I smirk. She said she wanted to pick me up, but I forbade her from driving an hour by herself.

      Garrett steps forward and takes the handle of my carry-on bag. Betty said you were forbidding. This description intrigues me, which he says with a shy grin. She got around that by sending me to pick you up. I’m her neighbor.

      Up close and in my personal space, this hayseed smells like the outdoors: meadow grass, wood, and something else I can’t identify. If a smell could be warm and feral, that would be Garrett.

      He’s already rolling away with my bag before my brain can process that scent.

      I can roll my own bag, I say, taking off after

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