One Foot in the Grove by Kelly Lane Page A

out about all that had to be done. I needed to plan a breakfast that was just a few hours away. Obviously, I wasn’t going to sleep.
    Now that the rain had stopped, maybe a quick run would help me think.

C HAPTER 5

    I yanked open a drawer in the dresser and grabbed from a small pile of clothes. There weren’t many to choose from—I’d been in such a hurry to get away from the throngs of people camped outside my apartment in Boston—not to mention Zack—that I’d walked away from almost everything I’d owned. I threw on a sports bra and pulled on cutoff shorts before slipping back into my GEORGIA VIRGIN tee and my running shoes.
    Still, before I knew it, rain pounded on the roof again and the palmettos swished wildly outside the door. A lightning bolt lit up the sky, and a rumble of thunder followed. The weather had turned in a snap. Mother Nature had given Pep just enough time to pedal home. But for me, it wasn’t safe to run.
    I sighed.
    â€œNo running for us, Dolly.”
    I wrestled my limp tresses into a knot on top of my head. Over in the kitchenette, I grabbed a loaf of olive bread that Chef Loretta had baked. The last loaf, I thought disappointedly. I knew it’d be delicious. Loretta had made the breadafter I’d asked if she could re-create a loaf that I’d tasted in New England, figuring it’d be a slam dunk to go with Dad’s olive oil. The inspiration bread came from a little Moroccan restaurant just outside of Boston proper in nearby Brighton, Massachusetts. My fiancé, Zack, had liked the restaurant because it was dark and people didn’t recognize him. Zack’s proclivity for going unnoticed when he wasn’t on TV, or making public appearances to further his career, should’ve been a red flag.
    My chest tightened.
    Forget him, Eva
.
    I pulled the cork from a bottle of French oil and poured thick, iridescent liquid into a Blue Willow teacup. Then, I shuffled back to bed, armed with Loretta’s loaf and my teacup of olive oil. I ripped off a hunk of bread, stabbed it into the vibrant green oil, and shoved it between my teeth.
    Outside, there was a
CRACK
and a flash followed by a thunderous roar. The cottage shook. Dolly huffed quietly in her bed. I reached into the nightstand drawer, grabbed another doggie biscuit, and tossed it to Dolly. I tore off a second chunk of bread and ripped it into smaller pieces while still munching on the first big bite. The hard outer crust in my mouth hid surprise bits of soft, savory black olives in the bread. As I chewed, the olive bits infused a piquant brininess that contrasted with the rich, buttery flavor of the bread. Prophetic for my life, I thought. Everything looks good on the outside, but when you bite into it, there’s an unexpected, salty twist.
Like Zack
.
    Zack Black. Fair haired, blue eyed, and oh so charming. The Massachusetts native was heralded as Boston’s “very own” prime-time weatherman for WCVB-TV. We’d met and literally fell in love—or so I thought—five years earlier when a runaway goat crashed into us and we’d fallen together into a giant tub of ice and beer at the Most Beautiful Goat Contest. The contest had been my idea. It was a publicity stunt sponsored by a microbrewery client launching a spring bock beer.
    Anyway, our crash into the icy tub—along with the goatnamed Destiny, who’d landed smack in my lap along with Zack and a TV light stand—had been broadcast all over New England as “soft” news. The public had loved it. The TV station had promoted the hell out of it. Soon after, Zack and I’d begun making appearances together for public and charitable events. New Englanders had come to adore their “very own” couple, Zack and Eva. It was “Destiny,” they’d said. The couple is sure to get married, they’d decided. And when our engagement finally had been announced, people celebrated with