Sugar Moon (Vermonters Forever) Read online

  Sugar Moon

  A shy musician surrounded in mystery and a spunky athlete with irresistible allure can’t deny their attraction when they find themselves as roommates. There’s a tacit understanding they are off limits to one another, as neither one wants to risk getting involved with another long-time local and dealing with the inevitable awkwardness that would ensue. But when you live with someone, boundaries get blurred and hearts get involved, despite best intentions. And when one of them has a secret identity, it’s bound to get complicated.

  Sugar Moon

  Vermonters Forever

  Ali Dean

  Edited by Leanne Rabessa at Editing Juggernaut

  Cover design by Hang Le

  Copyright © 2021 by Ali Dean

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  About the Author

  Also by Ali Dean

  Brazen Rush Sneak Peek

  Chapter One

  “It’s not me, it’s you,” Topher tells me as he lies sideways on my bed, looking like he’s posing for an underwear shoot.

  “Don’t you mean, it’s not you, it’s me?” I ask.

  He frowns a little, clearly confused.

  “It is?”

  “Yes, Topher. When you break up with someone, you let them down easy by telling the other person it’s not about them. It’s not their fault, you’re the one with the problem.”

  Topher bobs his head a little, blue hair falling in front of his eyes. I’d thought the blue hair was cool, a sign the hot guy I met at the Sugarville Fourth of July concert might have more depth to him than it initially appeared. Maybe once I got to know him he’d be the broody artsy type, or the rebellious punk. But the blue hair is false advertising. The guy isn’t even good in bed.

  “Oh, yeah. I guess that’s what I meant then.”

  “It’s you, not me?” I clarify, doing another sweep of his body. It’s what enticed me in the first place, and I might as well get one last eyeful.

  “Yeah. You’re a really cool chick, Charlie. But I don’t want a girlfriend.”

  I should really let him off easy; after all, I was about to cut him loose any day now myself, but this is annoying. He’s breaking up with me not ten minutes after we had sex. I’d been about to fall asleep when he told me he wanted to talk.

  “I’m not your girlfriend, Topher. I don’t want to be your girlfriend.”

  “Oh yeah, I know that. But this town is so small. If we keep sleeping together, it will be a thing everyone knows about, and then I won’t be considered single.”

  All right, now I’m really annoyed. Who does this kid think he is?

  “You mean you won’t be able to hook up with anyone else around here if you’re sleeping with me.” Look, I know he isn’t the brightest bulb in the box, but he can attempt a little subtlety, can’t he?

  “Are you pissed? You sound kind of pissed.”

  “Burlington isn’t far. Lots of hot girls there who don’t know the happenings of Sugarville,” I remind him. There is no way I’m sleeping with this guy again, but he’s stung my ego and that deserves a little pushback.

  “You know I just graduated from UVM, Charlie. I spent five years in Burlington. I’m looking for a fresh start.”

  “You mean you already slept with all the hot girls in Burlington and your reputation needs a break?”

  “Well, yeah.” He’s still lying on his side, chiseled muscles on display, and the waistband of his boxers peeks out from the sheets, half draped over his bare legs.

  I never should have hit on a guy four years younger than me. But that’s the problem, I don’t want a boyfriend either. And that means dating guys who are usually recent college graduates living the ski bum life before moving on. I don’t want to get involved with men who are in Sugarville for the long haul. I can’t even call most of the dudes I date “men” and frankly, describing it as dating is a stretch. I’ve never been ashamed of any of this; in fact, I’m even a little proud of how good I am at the short-term not-quite-a-real-boyfriend thing. But in this moment, looking at the blue-haired twenty-four-year-old man candy in my bed, I’d be lying if I said a little trickle of shame isn’t creeping in. It’s just a drop though. Nothing serious.

  “All right, I get it.” I hop up from my bed, suddenly disgusted. With him or me, I’m not sure. I walk to the other side of the room to pull on sleep shorts over my panties.

  “Cool,” I hear Topher say. When I turn around, he’s lying back on the bed now, arms behind his head on the pillow.

  Well, if he’s going to take his time getting out of here, I’ll clue him in a bit.

  “But dude, you really need to work on your breakup skills.”

  “Huh?” He sits up again.

  “Trust me, I’ve got mad skills with breaking up.” It’s true. In fact, one of the reasons this stings so bad is that I’m nearly always the one ending things. Usually if I sense a guy losing interest before I am, I beat him to it. Those are the easiest breakups. I can even do them by text sometimes. But Topher is so bland to begin with, I didn’t see it coming.

  “First, don’t end things right after sleeping with someone.”

  “Really? Why not? Seems like we should do it one more time. Get the most out of it before it’s over, you know?”

  “You know what? Never mind.” This lecture is pointless.

  How have I tolerated this guy for an entire month? It isn’t just the underwear-model-worthy body lying back on my pillow again, and I know it. But I do not want to think about the other reason. It’s impossible to ignore, an ever-present emptiness. I have to go easy on myself. I was desperate for a warm body to try to fill that empty space in my house.

  “What are you doing? Why are you still lying in my bed?” I stand over him, hands on hips.

  “I’m going to sleep. Aren’t you?”

  “Hell no, you’re not going to sleep. We just broke up. Get out.”

  “Whoa, no need to be a bitch about it. I was thinking we might get to hang in the morning again, you know? You said you weren’t pissed.”

  “Topher, I don’t want to sleep with you anymore. And that includes sleeping.”

  “Seriously, Charlie? It’s late and I’m in my boxers.”

  “Topher, get out of my bed.”

  He grumbles, but he does it.

  With my hands on my hips, I watch him slide on shorts and a t-shirt and shove his feet in flip flops. I notice his hoodie on my armchair and toss it to him. He definitely isn’t the kind of ex I’ll keep a memento from. Only a select few fall into that category, and then only if it’s a particularly nice item, like a Patagonia fleece from that pompous banker guy who’d been visiting for Presidents’ Day weekend a couple years
ago. He’d been in his twenties or thirties, but acted like he was in his fifties. It lasted two days, but the fleece I’ve had two years.

  Topher brushes his long hair out of his eyes a dozen times as I shoo him down the stairs and out the door, shutting it behind him. The second I do, the house immediately feels too big, too empty, and too quiet. The big windows facing the mountains don’t bring the peace they used to. After racing upstairs, I pause at Mia’s old room.

  We lived in this house together since she returned from graduate school over three years ago. She’s been my best friend since preschool. And six weeks ago, she moved in with her boyfriend. Granted, they live just over a mile down the road, and I one hundred percent approve of them being together. But that’s part of the problem. There’s no bitterness, nothing to be angry about or fix. This is just part of the unfolding of life, adulthood. It still sucks. I feel left behind, untethered, without Mia Bright sleeping in the room beside me.

  The room still has most of her furniture in it, since her boyfriend’s place is already furnished. It depresses me every time I walk by. I’m the queen of bouncing back after breakups. I make the whole process fun until I’m cleansed of my last relationship, or non-relationship, as it may be.

  But moving on from Mia? How do I do that when she’s still my best friend? She’s making a new best friend, or a different kind of one, I guess. My status in her life isn’t going to be the same, and I’m not in denial about it.

  I stare at her old bedroom, empty of any personal Mia touches. If I want to get rid of this horrible emptiness, it’s time to treat her moving out like I would a breakup. Go through the same breakup recovery process for Mia’s moving out as I would for Topher. Actually, I’ll just do it at the same time. It’s efficient, and Mia always appreciated efficiency. I talk about her in my head sometimes in the past tense, even though I still see her practically every day. This is all so confusing.

  With a huff, I shut the door to her room and go back to my own room. At least I still have Donut, the dog I share with Mia, to keep me company. He’s already passed out on his bed beside mine, curled up with his chin between his paws. But Donut isn’t enough to fill the void.

  It’s time to get a new roommate. A human one.

  Chapter Two

  Tanner

  It was time to implement my exit strategy before she woke up. I rolled to the side and got out of the bed as gently as possible. As I took my first step, I heard her shift under the covers and froze. Peeking behind me, I found her eyes were still closed and I relaxed. In three long strides I reached my dress pants and the button-down shirt I’d hung over the hotel room’s chair the night before. While the bathroom called, I knew from experience getting dressed first was ideal. If the woman woke up when I flushed the toilet and I came out in my underwear, she had a much harder time letting me go than if I was already dressed.

  Fortunately, the bridesmaid who’d invited me to her hotel room was still asleep when I sat on the edge of the bed a few minutes later and tucked some hair behind her ear to wake her up. I’d released the pins from her elaborate updo last night, but the hair was still stiff from hairspray.

  With makeup-smudged eyes, she cracked a small smile when she saw me.

  “Hey, I have to head out to work. Just wanted to say goodbye.”

  She dropped the sleepy smile and quickly sat up partway, propping herself on her elbows. “Work?” Her eyes darted to the window. “What time is it?”

  “Barely six. Sorry to wake you. I just didn’t want to be an asshole and leave without saying goodbye.”

  “You perform this early in the morning? Or are you traveling to your next show?”

  Show. I didn’t really consider singing covers with my friends from high school a show, but I’d gotten used to people calling it that.

  “No, it’s another job.”

  She pushed her lower lip out in a pout. “I told you last night that everyone at the wedding was obsessed. You could probably get like a huge record deal or something instead of singing in a wedding band.”

  It wasn’t exactly a wedding band, even if that defined the bulk of our shows and income. We also performed at retirement parties and local events.

  “Thanks. I like my other job though. Hey, go back to sleep. I had a great time last night. Give my best to the newlyweds.” I’d met so many people at the after party I couldn’t even remember the name of the couple who got married. Nick Maple, the drummer for our band Maple Moonshine, arranged our gigs, and I just showed up.

  The bridesmaid, whose name I fortunately recalled was Kathleen, sat up all the way now.

  “You really don’t have time to stay? There’s going to be brunch later.”

  I seriously doubted the newlyweds would want some random dude from the wedding band crashing the after-wedding brunch. But that wasn’t the reason I was getting out of there.

  As I stood up, I told her, “Wish I could. We were up late though, you should try to get back to sleep. Again, sorry to wake you.” I reached for the door handle, giving her a gentle smile.

  I’d tried one too many times leaving without saying goodbye and discovered women nearly always managed to find my name from the band and contact me. I only ever engaged in this kind of behavior if it was a destination wedding with out-of-town guests. Typically, they lived too far away to entertain any ideas of meeting up again. Well, that wasn’t true. The women usually suggested trying to connect again once she tracked me down through the website or social media for Maple Moonshine. But since she was never a local, it was easy to brush her off without hurting anyone’s feelings.

  This was why I wasn’t the classic one-night-stand guy. It wasn’t worth it if I hurt someone’s feelings.

  “Wait! Can I get your number so that when I’m in town visiting, I can call you?”

  This, too, was a request I’d learned to handle over the years.

  “Sure.” She frantically searched for her phone on the floor by the bed and when she found it, I rattled off Shira’s number. Shira sometimes joined us on piano. It was her idea to respond to texts from my one-night stands as a thank you for all the handy work I did around her house.

  A few minutes later, I was in my old pickup, watching the sun rise in my rearview mirror as I drove down the mountain from the resort.

  I wasn’t a bad guy. Everyone knew wedding hookups or vacation hookups were just that – hookups. I’d make it easier and leave before falling asleep, but the romantic in me didn’t like rushing out of there. It killed the entire vibe if I knew I’d be executing an exit strategy immediately after being intimate. See, I had no plans of actually being romantic with anyone, but I liked to pretend for a night that I did. I’m really not sure how anyone could get into the whole wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am thing without temporarily deluding themselves they could really fall for the other person. But then again, not everyone had my imagination. I was very good at turning it on and off, and I was well aware this was a rare trait.

  I also knew it was why women had such a hard time letting me go. Maybe I pretended too well. In any case, I enjoyed women and they enjoyed me, and then I did my best to cut ties without hurting their feelings. Living in a tourist town definitely made it easy.

  I parked my truck in front of Muffins and Steam and heard my phone ringing as I got out. It was Shira.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself. Have fun last night after we played?”

  “It was fine.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm. Well, Kathleen had an amazing night and really hopes to stay in touch. With lots of kissy winky faces.”

  “Just respond, ‘Me too. Thanks.’”

  “Um, no. If I text me too it means I want, I mean you want, to stay in touch.”

  “It’s vague enough. Maybe it’s me too to the amazing night.”

  “But you said it was just fine.”

  I mean, parts of it might be called amazing. But I wasn’t telling Shira that.

  “Shira.”

  “Tanner.”

&
nbsp; “Just think of something benign that neither hurts her feelings nor encourages her to stay in touch.”

  “How about not responding?”

  I was leaning against the hood of my truck, pinching the bridge of my nose. It wasn’t even seven AM yet, and I’d only slept three or four hours. I needed coffee.

  “Fine, don’t respond.”

  There was a brief pause before Shira reminded me, “But you don’t like them to feel bad, like you didn’t like them or enjoy your time. You don’t want her to feel used even though you both used each other.”

  “I think I’m going to stop giving women your number.” This had been Shira’s idea, and now that I was thinking about it, it was a lousy one. Here I was listening to her psychoanalyze me as she asked how to respond to this text. Is this why she suggested it? The whole point was to avoid the hassle. Wait no, the whole point was to avoid getting sucked in because I felt guilty. Sometimes I wished I was better at being an asshole.

  “But I need you to clean out my gutters.”

  “I’ll clean out your gutters.”

  “Good, you know how I feel about heights.”

  “Bye.”

  She sighed, exasperated with me. “Later, Tanner.”

  It was no surprise to find a line of people waiting at Muffins and Steam. I was restless, like I always was by Sunday morning, but I took the time to think about the characters in the new book I was writing. I planned to spend the next six days, until Friday, holed up in my cottage writing. With the exception of a trip to the market on Tuesday morning – the least busy time to shop – and a visit with my mom and stepdad, I’d have no human contact. Then it would be another weekend filled with people-ing. I liked to tell myself I only kept up with the band gigs for my bandmates, since I was the lead singer and guitarist, but it wasn’t only that. Without it, I’d be a true hermit. And besides, I got nearly as restless if I went too long without performing as I did about writing. I didn’t really understand, since I hated the attention on me, but I’d come to accept it as necessary.