Chapter 1: The Poker Table Is Set

The folding table was sticky with old beer rings, and the smell of fried bologna drifted in from the kitchen. Somebody’s uncle was already griping about the rules, and the Christmas lights on Main Street blinked out of sync through the window. We were one person short for poker, and I’d already burned through my contact list. In a last-ditch move, I dialed my ex-boyfriend.

He answered on the second ring, his voice as chilly as a Kentucky December. “So, you finally realized you messed up? Or is this the part where I get a groveling apology?”

I snorted. “No, we’re one short for poker. You wanna come or not?”

There was a pause, the kind where I could practically hear him rolling his eyes. Then: “Address.”

I rattled it off without thinking: “Cedar Creek, Millbrook Township, Harlan County, Kentucky.”

He went silent. “Say that again?”

That’s when it hit me—Ryan Mitchell, the Manhattan golden boy, probably thought Cedar Creek was a brand of bottled water. My stomach dropped. What was I thinking, inviting Ryan Mitchell to the middle of nowhere?

I tried to play it off. “Never mind, I can’t explain it to you city people.”

But the next morning, I woke up to the sound of barking and chaos outside. There was Ryan, zigzagging past the Dollar General, arms flailing, while Mrs. Henderson’s beagle nipped at his designer jeans. The whole town was out on their porches, phones in hand, getting their morning’s entertainment. It looked like something out of a bad comedy flick—Ryan in his $500 sneakers, chased by three mutts who probably thought he smelled like money.