In the Event of Love

Sneak Peek

Courtney Kae

• Publisher: Kensington Books
• eBook ISBN:
  9781496741868
• Year: 2022

Be one of the first to read this sneak preview sample edition! Morgan Ross can plan world-class events, but she didn’t plan on returning to the hometown that broke her heart seven years ago—and re-discovering the girl of her dreams... With her career as a Los Angeles event planner imploding after a tabloid blowup, Morgan Ross isn’t headed home for the holidays so much as in strategic retreat. Breathtaking mountain vistas, quirky townsfolk, and charming small businesses aside, her hometown of Fern Falls is built of one heartbreak on top of another... Take her one-time best friend turned crush, Rachel Reed. The memory of their perfect, doomed first kiss is still fresh as new-fallen snow. Way fresher than the freezing mud Morgan ends up sprawled in on her very first day back, only to be hauled out via Rachel’s sexy new lumberjane muscles acquired from running her family tree farm. When Morgan discovers that the Reeds’ struggling tree farm is the only thing standing between Fern Falls and corporate greed destroying the whole town’s livelihood, she decides she can put heartbreak aside to save the farm by planning her best fundraiser yet. She has all the inspiration for a spectacular event: delicious vanilla lattes, acoustic guitars under majestic pines, a cozy barn surrounded by brilliant stars. But she and Rachel will ABSOLUTELY NOT have a heartwarming holiday happy ending. That would be as unprofessional as it is unlikely. Right? “Perfect for the holidays!” —Helen Hoang, New York Times bestselling author of The Kiss Quotient

CHAPTER 1

I jab my purple mani at “archive email” and hope management@peakperk feels the sting of Lilac Lover through the interwebs.

Fern Falls. Like some café could lure me home after seven years. Funny how Dad talks about me when he can’t be bothered to send more than a text every other week. The five-hour drive between that minuscule mountain town and Santa Monica is a freedom I won’t surrender, and I’m booked at least through bridal season 2088.

“If it isn’t Morgan Ross,” a voice booms above the roar of the bar. A collar of white chest hair peeks out from Frank’s BIG WAVE DADDY tank top as he leans across the counter to swipe at a glob of something that might be salsa.

I should have had a second glass of wine prior to coming here. Bartender Frank is a buzzkill. I banish my cursed Android to my pocket before it summons more ghosts from my past. “Frank.” I tilt back, praying to the core workout goddess I don’t topple off this bamboo stool. “What’s it been? A year?”

Wish it’d been longer, but my co-worker Sonia loves Five-Dollar Margarita Fridays—and I’ve exhausted my cancellation passes. The Sand Bar is between our apartments, making it tough to skip when she knows my plans for tonight (chilling with my succulents).

Tomorrow, we’ll tie up final details for our biggest wedding yet, and then I’ll be too busy to visit this charming place with all the noise, the people, the sticky-syrup smell, the people, the literal sand piled along the molding, the peop—

“Thought I’d only get to see your face in the Times, but here she is, in the flesh! And in my bar!” Frank smacks the counter so enthusiastically, I jostle, gripping the stool for dear life.

Wearing Manolos to a bar with a beach complex was a terrible idea. As far as I’m concerned, the floor is actually lava. “Ha. Thanks, Frank. That was no big deal.”

It was a huge deal, and I still love being reminded of it, even six months later. The LA Times article flashes in my mind with the pastel photo of the puppy tea party I ran for a local influencer celebrity. It brought so much buzz to The Barnes Events Company, Johanna put me on the McTannum and Sparks wedding, our top-tier celebrity clients. Well, Lexi Sparks is A-list. Chad McTannum was a child soap opera star, and now he just parties so hard and so often that even the tabloids stopped caring. But if all goes well, I’ll be promoted to launch our sister site in New York come January. As far away from my hometown as I can get in this country and closer to running my own business, something that’s all mine, that no one can pull out from under me. Take that, management@peakperk.

“So, tell me. Whatchya drinkin’?” There’s zero counter space, just Frank, as he sprawls closer and whisper-yells, “And is Spum really dishing out a mil for the bachelorette party?”

I nearly choke on my own saliva. I hope whoever gave my clients that god-awful couple name is only referenced by explicit innuendos for the rest of their existence. I give Frank my best Don’t Fuck with Me grin. “So, Big Wave Daddy’s big into gossip mags, is he?”

Frank stands up (thank god) and raises his hands in faux innocence. “Hey, just thought they might consider the most happening dive on the strip is all.”

If my mouth weren’t already dry, I’d choke on my spit again. I’m done with the sweet part of Don’t Fuck with Me. I spread my palms on the counter (regretting it instantly) and look Frank square in the eyes. “Lexi Sparks wouldn’t consider holding her bachelorette party at your bar if—”

“If it didn’t come so highly recommended!”

I snap my gaze to Sonia as she sidles up beside me, all overly cheery as always, brown skin glowing, brown curls flying, a margarita glass that could qualify as a small country in each hand.

I sigh. No one can stay mad around Sonia. It’s sorcery, really. And why we make the best team. I bust the vendor’s balls, and she makes them smile while they comply. Frank’s doing it now.

“Nah, Sonia. You’re too kind.” He’s literally blushing. I didn’t think his face could get more “hopped off a tanning bed like this.” He’s sunburning as we speak.

“We’re considering lots of places, but we’ll add The Sand Bar to the list, okay?” she chirps, as she hoists onto a bamboo contraption and slides my marga-pitcher before me.

“Those are on me,” he says to Sonia and winks, like we should sing praises of his ten-dollar generosity; then, hallelujah, he gets called to the other side of the bar.

My shoulders relax the slightest now that we’re Frank-free. “Why are you nice to him?”

“Girl, he’s harmless.”

“He’s gross.”

“True, but the nontoxic kind. Which you’d know if you ever met me here anymore! I miss our weekly drink nights!” Sonia sips her sunrise-colored slush, and guilt brews in my gut. She really does try to be friends with me, so of course, I started keeping her at a distance once drinks turned into deeper conversations. Fern Falls ruined friendship for me. Specifically, Rachel Reed ruined friendship—and romance—for me. And I will not dwell on something that happened over seven years ago. It’d be great to have you around again. Yeah. Real great to relive the most humiliating and painful moments of my youth, thanks so much, random café manager.

“Gross nontoxic isn’t really selling the whole socializing thing, Sonia,” I chide as I take a long drink of mango-rita . . . and, okay. I taste what she sees in this place and hate that it’s absolutely delicious. I suck down another strawful. Or five. Thanks to the rosé I deemed as necessary prep for The Sand Bar, this liquor shoots straight to my head, replenishing the buzz that Frank dampened and then some.

She serves up some major side-eye, dark curls falling over her orange tank-top strap.

“Don’t look at me in that tone,” I say, lips wrapped around my sugared tequila injection.

Sonia narrows her eyes. “What’s going on, Morgan?”

“Black roses.” I slug another gulp and ignore the fact that half my pitcher-glass is drained, and I can’t really taste the alcohol anymore . . .

“Morgaaan.”

That dragged-out a means business. I mean to fully avoid all questions of a personal nature. “Lexi won’t budge. Will we need to get them imported, or can a local florist come through?”

“Imported. Definitely. But don’t change the subject. I’ve only seen you drain a drink that fast one time before, and . . .”

I clutch my glass, drink faster, throw caution to the brain freeze. Damn Sonia and her attention to detail. Getting an email from Fern Falls is not the same as my two-year-old breakup with Josh Taylor. I hate that she witnessed me that night in all my martinied glory, and there’s no way I’m about to unpack my Fern Falls–fucked past in The Sand Bar. No way I’m going to let one stupid email and the stupid memories of the stupid people it’s chained to take me down. Instead, I inhale the rest of my drink and say something so horrifying, my Manolos already despise me for it: “Let’s dance.”

Sonia peers at me like I just suggested an evening of sledding down Third Street Promenade.

I laugh and tug her through the tight crowd onto the dance floor . . . or the part of the floor mostly cleared of sand, where people bump along to some sort of electronic beat. There’s another version of myself, the regular one, standing in the corner with her arms crossed and her blond hair pulled back in a bun, planning an extra-horrific hangover so I’ll never attempt this again. Screw it. I want to forget that email. I want to forget Dad and how we haven’t had a true more-than-surface conversation in years. I want to forget his terrible ex, Christy, who was the cause of our family’s implosion. And I definitely want to forget goddamn Rachel Reed, like I’d been forgetting her every day until that email bombed my in-box. I want to be free again.

I shake out my hair and relish how it sways against my shoulders. Sonia beams, and the serotonin jolt of her high-wattage smile hits so hard, I actually start dancing.

She squeals. “Look at you go, girl! Get it! I haven’t seen you like this since the Rodriguez wedding!”

Fair. The last time I dragged Sonia onto a dance floor was at her cousin Marco’s wedding, the first event we pulled off without a single hitch. We partied until two a.m. Well, it’s almost ten now, and we’ve got an upcoming event we’re gonna ace again, and that’s worth dancing for. Good things are coming, and no email can stop that.

“Listen,” I yell above the noise, “we are badass and we’re gonna knock this freaking Spum wedding out of the park, okay? We are moving to NYC to be our own boss bitches!” I don’t even care that I embraced Spum or that my words slur or that this place smells like tropical sunscreen in the dead of fall. I just want to ride this awesome buzz (okay, more on the drunk end of the buzz spectrum, thanks to my pre-gaming) and let all the worries fall away.

Sonia tilts her head back and laughs. “Yeah! Those positions belong to us!”

I grit my teeth, shake my ass, and let that worry bounce off, too. There’s no way Johanna’s gonna pass me up for that promotion. I’ve been her top planner for years, helped her build this business from the ground up. Soon, I’ll be in a new city, an even bigger place to get lost in. It’ll be me, a fresh roster of A-list clients, and a chic apartment with closets packed full of designer clothes I buy with cash.

That’ll be it.

Then I’ll be something.

“NYC has nothing on me,” I yell, then shake faster. Free, free, free.

A sly smirk creeps across Sonia’s face. “The hottie at your back looks like he wants to be on you.”

As she finishes saying it, a sultry voice wafts on the pineapple-laced air. “Hey, wanna dance?”

Some rainbow-hued disco ball flashes, making me squint as I glimpse his profile. He has a dark hood pulled low on his brow, so I can’t even see his eyes, but his razor-sharp stubbled jawline summons my insta-reply. “Yes,” I breathe.

Then the corner of his lip tilts up into a crooked smile, and R.I.P. me. R.I.P. me into the goddamn ground.

Thank the Sweet Lord Jesus for blessing me with bisexuality.

I start to sway against him but glance at Sonia with a raised brow. She beams, a true wingman, and whispers, “You know I’m dancing off a broken heart, friend. Let’s go.” Then she throws her hands up and bops her head to her own beat.

My chest aches. Sonia has reason to hurt. Her girlfriend of two years just moved to the UK, and long distance is tough on them. What reason do I have? This pain was supposed to be over when I left home, when I took what little planning experience I had to LA, got an internship with Johanna, and threw myself into her business. I’m independent now, far from that small mountain town that crushed me, and all it takes is one email to fee...

Table of contents

• Title Page
• Table of Contents
• Copyright Page
• Also by
• Dedication
• Fundraiser Quote
• CHAPTER 1
• CHAPTER 2
• CHAPTER 3
• CHAPTER 4
• CHAPTER 5