Twist of Fate Read online

  Twist of Fate

  Tia Louise

  Contents

  Twist of Fate

  Preface

  Prologue

  1. Daisy

  2. Scout

  3. Daisy

  4. Scout

  5. Daisy

  6. Scout

  7. Daisy

  8. Scout

  9. Daisy

  10. Scout

  11. Daisy

  12. Scout

  13. Daisy

  14. Scout

  15. Daisy

  16. Scout

  17. Scout

  18. Daisy

  19. Scout

  20. Daisy

  21. Scout

  22. Daisy

  23. Scout

  24. Daisy

  25. Scout

  26. Daisy

  27. Scout

  28. Daisy

  29. Daisy

  Epilogue

  This Much is True

  Prologue

  When We Kiss

  Chapter 1

  Books by Tia Louise

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Twist of Fate

  By Tia Louise

  A friends-to-lovers, second-chance, stand-alone romance by USA Today bestselling author Tia Louise.

  To be “just friends” with a guy, you’ve got to follow The Rules:

  Don’t touch him unnecessarily.

  Don’t share your intimate dreams with him (even if he asks).

  Don’t kiss him, and definitely don’t sleep with him.

  Scout Dunne and I have been “just friends” since childhood.

  He’s everything you could want—sexy, charming, confident—every girl’s wet dream.

  Until we broke The Rules.

  We broke them in the ocean, in my aunt’s bathroom, in my bed…

  It was the hottest week of my life.

  I’m one of the few people who knows the first-round NFL draft pick wants more than a life of sports.

  Because we’re friends, right?

  Not anymore.

  Now he’s gone, and I’m trying to get my career back on track.

  Mamma said a guy would never put your dreams ahead of his.

  But the twist of fate?

  It’s something you never see coming.

  (TWIST OF FATE is a STAND-ALONE friends-to-lovers, accidental pregnancy romance. No cheating. No cliffhanger.)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are 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.

  Twist of Fate

  Copyright © TLM Productions LLC, 2021

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Cover design by Shanoff Formats.

  Photography by Wander Aguiar.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, photocopying, mechanical, or otherwise—without prior permission of the publisher and author.

  Created with Vellum

  Dedicated to my loyal readers.

  I see you, and I love you more than I can say.

  And to Mr. TL, always.

  “What’s meant to be will always find a way.”

  -Trisha Yearwood

  Prologue

  Scout

  People used to say I could sweet-talk the devil into going to church.

  My mom, who was a librarian and English teacher and one of the smartest people I ever knew, said I was a misunderstood character.

  She said people looked at me and saw a handsome young man—her words—with blond hair and blue eyes, who slept with a football instead of a pillow and didn’t make very good grades and assumed I traded on that to get ahead.

  That’s where they were wrong, she said. Mom said talking to people and listening to what they said made me just as smart as any valedictorian. She said my brother John, who we all call J.R., is more serious because he’s older.

  I loved my mom, but I’m not sure she’s right either. I just learned pretty quickly growing up in Fireside, South Carolina, one of the smallest towns this side of Charleston, I’d get a lot further with being nice to people than being shitty.

  For example, when I was in fourth grade, Ms. Myrna was going to flunk me because I couldn’t analyze Stargirl to her liking. I just didn’t understand it. The girl was weird, and I get it, Leo was a nerd with no friends, but what was I supposed to be learning from this story?

  What was way clearer to me was Ms. Myrna’s husband had thrown out his back working construction at the new development down on the coast, at Oceanside Beach. He was laid up in the bed for weeks, and I could tell by the tightness around my teacher’s eyes, it was wearing on her.

  So maybe I couldn’t write an A paper, but I sure could mow her grass and cut that old vine off her back fence and hold the door for her when she carried too many books from the teacher’s closet.

  Ultimately, she said if I could at least recite the plot of the story, she’d give me credit for reading the book.

  What did that teach me? Getting in there is better than keeping people at arm’s length like my brother. It’s not manipulation. It’s simple facts.

  Facts I never shared with my mom.

  She was also the kindest person I knew. Laying in that sickbed, she would trace her fingers along my forehead as I knelt at her bedside, and I never wanted her to leave us.

  The night she died, the man from church said heaven must’ve needed another angel. He said she was too good for this earth—something even I knew. He said it was fate.

  Losing my mom was a truckload of bullshit. I’ve never felt anger so intense, burning so hard in my chest, it radiated up the back of my neck. It made me want to break things. It made me almost forget…

  My life was like an Etch A Sketch Fate scooped up and shook hard. I hated that feeling. It sucked. I never wanted to feel it again.

  J.R. and I were left with my dad to figure out what the hell to do with ourselves, so we did what we knew—football. Dad threw himself into work, only noticing us when we were in the backyard drilling, and when J.R. and I became superstars.

  Then I was cast in a few school plays, and I discovered I could be somebody else. I learned all that anger and pain disappeared on the stage. People liked watching me, and when I made them laugh or gasp or cry, I felt like I’d done something huge.

  I’ve only ever told one person that story, a girl in glasses I discovered at a junkyard, and she didn’t misunderstand. She wanted to know more.

  * * *

  Daisy

  Fear was my earliest memory.

  I can still see my mom looking out the kitchen window at the horizon, her body rigid and her mind far away. Even then, she was planning her escape, and it scared me.

  I’d go to her and tug on her shirt, but she wouldn’t pick me up. She’d exhale a noise of resignation and go back to hand-washing the dishes. Sometimes she’d break one.

  Sometimes, when she was sitting in her chair, tearing the pages in one of dad’s old books, she’d tell me to forget about trying to be pretty.

  “Smart is the only thing that matters,” she’d say. “No matter how pretty you are, it’s our fate to be alone.”

  I didn’t know what she meant. I thought she was pretty. I can still see her hair shimmering like turned maple in the sunshine, rare and beautiful, and I was here.

  She left us in late May. I don’t know what finally made her do it.

  I was a junior in high school, listening to boy bands and wishing my stick-straight blonde hair would have the slightest bend. I had a crush on the cute boy in my Algebra 2 cl
ass, but he turned out to be a real dickhead.

  “Don’t ever expect a man to put your dreams ahead of his.” Fear knotted my throat as I watched her slamming her clothes into the open suitcase. “Men are selfish, self-centered… You have to look out for yourself. Men won’t make you happy.”

  What about me? The question pressed against the insides of my temples. Daisy means happy. She’d told me a thousand times. The daisy is the happiest flower. I could make her happy.

  I followed her to the door, unable to make my voice work, and she paused one last time. “I’ll send for you as soon as I’m settled.”

  But she never did.

  She wasn’t the person I thought, either. She threw us away like old trash. Then one day, standing in a junkyard, someone magical found me...

  One

  Daisy

  It’s a giant cock.

  Shoving a curl behind my ear, I wrap my arms around the oversized metal rooster, doing my best to lift it out of the back of my light blue Ford Bronco without destroying the paint.

  Last time I scavenged Owen Pepper’s junkyard was senior year with my cousin Joselyn, who we all call Sly. Scout was there with his brother J.R. helping us move the heavier scrap.

  I can still see him, golden brown hair flopping over his forehead attractively, golden skin and lean muscles flexing as he worked. His shirt lifted, revealing his luscious, lined torso, the V that disappeared into his jeans…

  He caught me looking. Then he smiled and asked me to homecoming. Then he kissed me.

  That was years ago, before I left for college, before I got my degree in interior design with a focus on antiquities. Before I offered to help my aunt transform her late husband’s family home in Fireside into a bed and breakfast.

  “Where the hell did you find that thing?” Spencer Carrollton scowls down at me, snapping me from my trip down memory lane.

  He stands at the top of the red-brick steps leading to the front porch of Aunt Regina’s massive colonial. I offered to fix it up for her if she’d let me use it to build my résumé.

  “I found it in Owen Pepper’s junkyard.” Where I find all my treasures. Pausing on the sidewalk, I squint up at him. “Don’t give me a hand or anything.”

  My hopefully future coworker is dressed in navy pants and a tan blazer over a light blue tee. His dark hair is cut short and slicked back from his face. With that square jaw, he’s totally Tom Ellis, prepared for a three-martini lunch, not helping me.

  “A metal rooster? Seriously, Daisy. When I worked with Miles Klaut on the Sledge House, we designed the concept based on the native birds of south Louisiana. Each room was anchored by a massive Audubon print, the blue heron, the brown pelican. It was featured in Antiquities Today.”

  “That’s not Fireside.” Shaking my head, I grip the giant yard bird around the neck and take the steps one by one so I don’t fall. It’s as tall as I am, and in my tank and denim overalls, the metal edges prick at my skin.

  “Maybe not, but you have the power to transform Fireside… And possibly a moral imperative to do so.” He strides to the side of the porch with a sniff. “This old place has such stunning curb appeal. The interior should be equally stunning.”

  “Aunt Regina doesn’t want stunning. She wants cozy. She specifically said it should be a place where anyone might feel instantly at home, surrounded by warmth.”

  “Red checks equal warmth?”

  “It’s one tablecloth.” I drag the sculpture up the final step. “And aren’t we supposed to give the client what he or she wants?”

  “Yes, but we also steer them away from design faux pas.”

  “Mixing old and new is very on-trend, haven’t you heard?”

  “Says who? Elle Décor? Didn’t they also say arches were out? Idiots.”

  “I’m making it fun.”

  As I lift it, the bird turns in my arms and the metal beak scrapes across my bicep. “Ow! Shit…”

  Spencer leans in for a closer look. “The skin isn’t broken. Luckily.” He tugs the denim strap of my overalls. “You should wear long sleeves if you’re going to be digging around in a junkyard. You’ll get tetanus.”

  “I won’t get tetanus. Hold the door.”

  “You’re bringing it in the house? Isn’t this more of a yard ornament?”

  “It’s going in the kitchen.”

  “Seriously, I thought you were trying to showcase your style with this job.” His snobby tone makes me even more defiant.

  “You’ll like it when I’m done.

  “Doubtful. I couldn’t possibly add my name to this renovation.”

  “I don’t want your name on this renovation. It’s mine.”

  We cross the oak-paneled foyer, and I carry the statue down the narrow hall into the oversized kitchen. It has the same paneling, but the windows make it brighter during the day.

  “You should cut this down to wainscoting.” He drags a finger across the wood.

  “Maybe.” Pushing around the table, I position the rooster in the back corner. “I found the most amazing gold velvet armchair for the master suite at my dad’s store.”

  “Your father has impeccable taste.”

  Stepping back, I cross my arms to survey the finished room. Distressed-white cabinets cover most of the walls, and minimalist red and white floral wallpaper takes up the small spots where they don’t. It matches the upholstery on the kitchen chairs and the curtains in the windows.

  I decide not to cover the yellow pine table with the offensive red-checked tablecloth, but my prized addition, a blue and white Gzhel Porcelain teapot, sits in the center. It’s not really an antique, but it feels vintage.

  “I love it.”

  Spencer’s eyes narrow, and he’s clearly struggling to find something to say.

  “It’s okay.” I wrinkle my nose at him. “I know you have difficulty admitting defeat.”

  “Hardly. I was trying to find the right word. It’s unexpected.”

  “Unexpectedly awesome.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m heading out. I’ll pick you up for dinner at six.”

  “I’ll meet you there. I don’t mind driving, and I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  “Don’t make me wait.”

  I met Spencer in my dad’s antiques store in Greenville. He was searching for Fenton art glass, and I was in town helping dad unpack a shipment.

  When I saw the name Spencer Carrollton, I knew immediately who he was—one of the top antiques buyers in the country, often featured in Antiques Today.

  He was amazed by my dad’s extensive inventory, which was great for the store, so I gave him a tour, doing my best to show off my knowledge of the trade.

  Then he invited me to dinner, and the rest is sort of a platonic history. Don’t get me wrong, Spencer is very handsome in that classic, stuck-up billionaire sort-of way, but our relationship is based more on competition than physical connection.

  He’s seven years older than me, and with his background and connections, he could really help me achieve my dream of becoming an antiques buyer and traveling the world searching for rare finds.

  So, I do my best to keep things friendly between us.

  I follow behind him down the steps and out to his gleaming Tesla.

  He pauses before he gets in, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I will say this. You have your father’s eye.”

  My eyebrows rise. “That’s quite a compliment, considering all your bitching today.”

  His hazel eyes drift along the lines of my face. “Don’t make me wait too long tonight.”

  “I won’t.”

  His lingering gaze just now makes me want to have my own car, even if it is the ancient Ford Bronco Dad gave me that only has a stretched canvas tarp for a roof.

  “I can’t believe we’re dining at a place called Tuna Tiki.”

  “It’s the best sushi around.”

  My hands are in the sides of my giant overalls, and he gives me another lingering look. It makes me clear my throat and s
tart for the Bronco and the remainder of my treasures waiting in the back.

  “See you in a few hours.” I keep my tone light.

  “Right.”

  I dig around until he’s gone. I don’t mind having dinner with Spencer if it’ll lead to my dream job. I’m not really interested in dating right now, and he knows it. I want to get my career off the ground.

  I lift out a hand-painted metal sign I originally gave to my dad. It says, “Please wash your hands before returning to work.” I’ll put it in the downstairs bathroom. Today, I found another, marine blue one that says, “Beach, 2 miles.” It’s weathered and fun, and considering Oceanside Beach is only about ten miles from here, it’s perfect.

  Aunt Regina gave me a generous budget, but I’m doing my best to stay well below it. I have more than half left, and I only have the master suite left to finish.

  Leaving the beach sign at the front door, I carry the smaller one to the half bath midway down the hall. A staircase lines the wall to the second floor, where all the bedrooms are located, and I see Cosmo, my aunt’s enormous calico cat, has come down to sleep in his usual spot on the fourth step from the bottom.