Sweet Love and Country Roads Read online

  Sweet Love and Country Roads

  (A Small Town, Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy)

  First Comes Love Series

  Book 7

  by Camilla Isley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright Camilla Isley 2022

  FIRST EDITION

  Digital Edition May 2022 ISBN: 978-8-887-26970-3

  Print ISBN: 978-8-887-26971-0

  All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express permission in writing from the author.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return it to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  To all long-distance couples, may you find your happily ever after…

  One

  Bitter Pills May Have Blessed Effects

  Dread fills me as I ask my boss to repeat himself because I can’t possibly have heard him right.

  See, certain things are annoying. Bad hair days. Not enough vanilla syrup in my latte. Pen clicking. Hiccups.

  Then there’s the truly hateful stuff. Cars that take up two parking spaces. People who read over my shoulders. Slow Wi-Fi. Humblebraggers.

  And finally, there are the things with the potential to ruin my life forever, like the words about to exit Winthrop Cargill-MacMillan’s mouth.

  The head of Denouement Studios, the movie production company I work for, is presently holding my happiness in the palm of his hand and he’s about to close his fist and squeeze.

  Winthrop flares his nostrils. “I said I want you to move to Emerald Creek for the duration of filming, not fly over for a quick fix.”

  Yep, I’d heard him right the first time.

  “But shooting will last at least three more months,” I protest. “If I can settle things in a few days, I don’t see why I should stay on location. I can always return should other issues—”

  Winthrop bangs a fist on his desk so hard even the sturdy window panes of his Manhattan fiftieth floor office might’ve rattled. “We can’t afford anything else to go wrong!” he shouts. Then, taking a steadying breath, he adds, “Three months is all it should’ve taken to wrap up the project. Instead, we’re already a month in and still deep in the weeds. For goodness’ sake, they haven’t shot a single scene in the past week.” He points a finger at me. “Samantha, I’m tired of hearing excuses. You can either pack your bags and move to Indiana or pack your office.”

  I’m so shocked by the finger-pointing and by Winthrop’s threat to fire me, I don’t know what to say.

  Thankfully, my boss seems to realize he went too far and backtracks right away. “Sorry, Sam, I didn’t mean to threaten you. But we’re hemorrhaging money on this movie and we can’t afford to lose another penny. Not after the last couple of years,” he says, referring to the global pandemic that stopped movie productions worldwide, kept movie theaters’ doors shut for months, pushed new movie releases forward by one or two years, and left many film studios with serious cash flow issues. “Please,” Winthrop continues, “I need you to make sure everything goes smoothly down there.”

  The carrot always works better than the stick with me… I swallow hard and regretfully agree to a three-month sentence in hell.

  “Oh, come on,” Winthrop says as I’m about to leave his office, “Emerald Creek isn’t Siberia, and a few months of country life might even put a little natural color in those cheeks of yours.”

  Ah, easy for him to say when he’ll still be living within walking distance of a Nobu. And what does he have against my Too Faced Papa Don’t Peach blush, anyway?

  ***

  Dazed, I stumble on my stilettos as I walk down the hall toward my office. The temporary relocation is making me dizzier than a third round of Cosmopolitans would.

  As I reach my door, I beckon Celia, my assistant, to follow me inside. She eagerly scurries up from her desk and comes in behind me.

  “Please close the door,” I say as I collapse on my white leather swivel chair.

  Celia eyes me with a worried expression—as she should—awkwardly standing a few feet from the desk.

  “Please sit down.” I gesture at the two empty chairs in front of her.

  I sigh, ready to relate the awful news, when she anticipates me, “Oh my gosh, you’re firing me.” I close my mouth as she goes on, “I know the company isn’t doing well. I have a friend in accounting,” she explains. “But I never imagined layoffs were a possibility. Are the studios going under? Is everyone fired? What am I going to do now? I’ve still got a ton of student loans to pay—”

  Before she can drive off a tangent, I raise a hand to stop her. “Celia, you’re not fired.”

  She fans herself. “Oh, thank goodness.” Still a little out of breath, she adds, “Okay, tell me what it is then, because this is the first closed-door meeting we’ve held since you hired me three years ago.”

  I don a reassuring smile. After a job-loss scare, a transfer to Indiana will sound marginally less horrific. Or at least so I keep telling myself.

  “It’s about Sweet Love and Country Roads.” Celia nods intently, hanging on my every word. “Winthrop has asked me to bring the filming back on track. And he feels the only way to achieve that goal is if I’m on-site for the entire duration of shooting.”

  Celia’s hand goes to her chest. “You’re moving to Indiana?”

  I give her a steady look. “We are moving to Indiana.”

  The expression of horror on Celia’s face deepens, and she couldn’t have a more sympathetic audience than me. But the decision is made, and I don’t allow her time to hope she might get out of coming with me. Instead, I carry on to the practical aspects of organizing the move.

  “Do you have anything major planned in the next three months?”

  Celia swallows. “My sister’s baby shower is in two weeks.”

  “Then you’d better give her your present sooner.” Before she can protest, I add, “You can take the day of the shower off and follow the event on Zoom. Everyone’s used to digital events. Your sister won’t even notice you aren’t there in the flesh. Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I need you to book the plane tickets and hotel rooms.”

  “When do you want to fly out?”

  As expected, she has heroically accepted her destiny and turned businesslike.

  “Sunday, the earliest flight you can find. We’ll need half a day to settle in before we tackle the production team on Monday.”

  “You mean this Sunday, like in three days?”

  “Yes, why? Did you have plans?”

  “A Tinder date, but I can cancel.”

  “Great,” I say. “Take tomorrow off to pack or sort anything else you might’ve planned outside of Tinder and say goodbye to the city. I sure will. The sooner we leave, the quicker we can return. And, Celia—” Here comes her carrot. “You want to be a producer one day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great, this will be a unique opportunity to gain in-the-fie
ld experience and build up your resume.”

  ***

  As I walk home from work, I search Emerald Creek, Indiana, on my phone. I usually take a cab, but today I’m skipping the ride in favor of a last stroll among the streets of my beloved New York City. I wait expectantly for the search results to load, but even the map app has trouble finding that speck of dirt in the world. To find a major nearby city, I have to zoom out six or seven times, and the closest result is Indianapolis.

  What’s in Indianapolis? Are they famous for anything other than the race track?

  With a longing glance at Bloomingdale’s bright summer clothing windows, I curse myself for the hundredth time for approving Indiana as the shooting location for Sweet Love and Country Roads. The movie will be my next romantic comedy blockbuster, assuming I can get the filming completed. And on paper, Emerald Creek looked perfect. The small town had all the features I needed: a lake, a quaint city center, endless fields, and it was cheap as hell compared to other sites. But now that I have to move there for three months, I’m wondering why the ranch we rented as the primary setting lowballed the rest by so much. Is the area so vile no one wants to live there?

  I’m going to find out soon. I put the phone away and navigate the pedestrian-packed sidewalks, enjoying the view of tall skyscrapers, high-end hotels, and shops. My heart breaks a little more with each step forward as I say goodbye to my one true love: Manhattan.

  At home, I kick off my shoes in the hall and move into the open kitchen to pull a bottle of white wine out of the fridge. As I work on removing the cork, I drop my phone on the countertop, shooting a group call to my two best friends.

  Taylor picks up first. “Sam, what’s up?”

  “I just got home from work and I need moral support.”

  A short pause. “You left the office before eight? Are you ill?”

  “Worse.”

  That’s when Holly joins the call. “Hellooo—aaargh.” A dreadful crashing noise comes through the speakers, then silence, scuffling, then Holly is back. “Sorry, I dropped my phone. What’s up? Why are we having a three-way call in the middle of the afternoon on a random Thursday, is someone dead?”

  “Sam is home from work,” Taylor replies.

  “Then someone is definitely dead,” Holly concludes.

  “Not just yet,” I say. “Maybe soon.” I pour myself a huge glass of wine.

  At the telltale glug-glug-glug sound, Holly nails me immediately. “Are you at home drinking in the middle of the day?”

  “Four o’clock is hardly the middle of the day,” I retort.

  “Come on,” Taylor cries out. “The suspense is killing us. What happened?”

  “I have to move to Indiana,” I say, and take a long sip of wine.

  Dead silence fills the line.

  “Girls, are you still there?”

  They recover from the shock at the same time and fire questions at me.

  “For how long?” Taylor.

  “Why?” Holly.

  “Two to three months to supervise the production of my latest movie. Filming has fallen behind and Winthrop got tired of hearing excuses, so he sent his attack dog—aka me—to fix the mess. Apparently, the location manager and his two assistants can’t manage on their own. This is punishment for being good at my job.”

  Taylor speaks first. “Well, three months isn’t so bad. You’ll be back just in time for Labor Day. And summer in New York sucks.”

  “No season sucks in New York,” I protest. “Anyway, I’m calling because, as a dead woman walking, I have a right to my last meal. Cancel all your plans for Saturday. I want to spend the day soaking in everything Manhattan has to give.”

  ***

  And I do. I start my weekend by waking up at six to go to my Pilates studio for an early session. With my muscles toned and stretched, I take a sauna, a long shower, change, and meet the girls for breakfast at Tiffany’s—or more precisely, brunch at The Blue Box Cafe at the Tiffany New York flagship store.

  In the afternoon, we spend a few hours at our favorite salon, getting mani-pedis, facials, and I get my hair trimmed and refresh my highlights.

  My shoulder-length bob requires constant maintenance. As I watch Jean-Luc, my hairstylist for years, expertly layer the tips so they’ll fall beautifully without effort, I cringe. Who will cut my hair in Indiana?

  I imagine an old lady with too much hair spray on and bright fuchsia and blue eyeshadow approaching me with a pair of jagged scissors. Panic strikes before I remember a SWAT team of professional stylists and makeup artists will be on set to take care of the actors. If I can’t have Jean-Luc, they’re the next best thing.

  When we exit the salon, we have just enough spare time for a quick shopping spree at Saks Fifth Avenue before we cab to Momofuku Ko for our dinner reservations.

  At the restaurant, the cocktails are delicious and incredibly pretty, and so is the food. After we open the second bottle of wine, I do my best to stay a happy drunk as opposed to spiraling down into a my-life-is-over rabbit hole. My friends cheer me and pull jokes on cowboys’ stamina and rolls in the hay. Holly even hands me a printout of an article:

  Ten reasons why moving to Indiana is the right choice for you.

  That night in bed, I scroll a few.

  Great nature.

  I’m not outdoorsy.

  Sports.

  I don’t follow any.

  Item number three informs me that Indiana is the covered bridges haven of the Midwest. I didn’t even know covered bridges were a thing. But when the article tries to pass off Indianapolis as a city with a beautiful skyline, they lose me. Guess whoever penned this deceitful list has never set foot in New York.

  The only point I can agree with is the low state taxes, but since I won’t be changing my residence, that won’t apply to me.

  And now I should sleep. I need to be up in less than four hours to catch my flight to the Hellish State—I mean, the Hoosier State.

  Two

  The First Hundred Yards Are the Hardest

  Cocktails and two bottles of wine sounded like a great idea last night, but as my alarm goes off at four in the morning, I curse the day I was born.

  Instead of coffee, I’m tempted to start the day with an espresso martini. Someone wise once said that to keep drinking is the best cure for a hangover. And, maybe, if I stay tipsy for the next three months, I could even like Indiana.

  Pity I’ll need a sharp mind to overhaul this production. So instead, I pop an Aleve and drag my two huge silver metal suitcases down the hall and into the elevator. The rest of my things—shoes, mostly—wouldn’t fit, and Celia shipped those separately.

  Downstairs, my assistant is already waiting for me in the lobby and helps me roll one of the suitcases to the black SUV that will drive us to the airport.

  The driver takes the cases from us and struggles to fit them both in the trunk. Next to Celia’s single, smaller bag, my luggage seems disproportionate.

  Oh, well… One can take the girl out of Manhattan, but not the sense of fashion out of the girl.

  Celia must disagree. She’s wearing practical slacks and white sneakers, a sensible traveling outfit. But style will always win over practicality for me.

  I stroll forward, proud in my intentionally distressed skinny jeans, high-heeled, leopard-print, calf-hair stilettos, and Armani power-suit black jacket.

  In the end, the driver has to give up trying to fit both cases in the trunk and secures my second suitcase to the front seat with a seatbelt.

  Time to go.

  Goodbye New York, goodbye my love.

  At the airport, I discover we’re not even flying to Indianapolis but to Louisville, Kentucky. Emerald Creek is closer to the southern border of Indiana and the drive across Kentucky will only take an hour as opposed to the two and a half hours it would’ve taken from Indianapolis.

  Whatever.

  I navigate through the airport security checks like a malfunct
ioning human droid, and just before boarding, I indulge in the last decent cup of double-shot vanilla latte.

  As I sit on the plane, I pull my sleeping mask over my eyes, ready to snatch a couple of hours’ extra sleep during the journey.

  Once we land, I rinse and repeat, pulling my sleeping mask on the moment Celia and I step into the black truck a member of the film crew drove to Louisville to pick us up.

  I’m jostled awake a while later when the pickup comes to an abrupt stop. The arrest is so sudden, only a fastened seatbelt prevents me from bumping my head into the front seat.

  I yank off the sleeping mask. “What’s going on?”

  Jerry Mallon, the driver and our on-set carpenter and handyman, turns back toward me. “A cow is blocking the street.”

  “A cow?”

  I exit the truck to check the situation. We’re on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields. No, not even fields—more like pastures. An endless expanse of grass on both sides. And in front of us, blocking the way, a gigantic brown cow with white patches is grazing the grass growing at the side of the road.

  I get closer and Jerry and Celia join me. “Can’t we just side-step it? The ground seems pretty flat at the road’s edges and we have a pickup.”

  Jerry inches his chin in that direction. “There are ditches on both sides, hardly noticeable in the tall grass, but I’m not sure how deep they go and I wouldn’t want to risk getting tipped over or stuck.”

  I shield my eyes with my hand against the midday sun and squint at the winding road ahead. Nothing beyond the cow.

  “Can we take a different route?”

  Jerry removes his baseball cap and scratches the back of his head. “The thing is, the GPS gets iffy in these parts, and I’m not exactly sure where your farm is.”

  “My farm? What do you mean, my farm?”

  “Sagebrush Ranch, isn’t that where we’re going?”

  “No. We’re going to a hotel in town.” I turn to my assistant. “Aren’t we?”

  Celia wrings her fingers and looks at me apologetically. “That was the plan, but the two inns in town had most weekends booked and couldn’t accommodate us for such a long stay. I had to find a more creative solution. A ‘bed and breakfast’ sort of thing.” Celia puts her hands forward. “Which is much better because we’ll have access to a fully equipped kitchen. We couldn’t have survived three months on take-out.”