Katie J. Cross

Three years ago, my best friend joined the Marines without warning. Our plans of attending state university together—demolished. He left me in a world of discarded dreams. We haven’t spoken again.

The last thing I ever asked for was a divorce. Four amazing boys, one awesome life, and one failed marriage later, I’m smack dab in the middle of my forties with nowhere to go. Talk about unexpected. Then again, romance has always let me down.

Once upon a time, I thought my stutter was the worst thing that ever happened to me. But now I know better. Being held at gunpoint outranks a speech impediment any day. Thankfully, my longtime crush Jayson Hernandez tackled that problem to the ground with those broad shoulders.

I can be many things (barista, karaoke legend, impromptu-actress, whatever), but a famous author I am not. Which makes it even weirder when a guy named Bastian rushes into my coffee shop and wants me to pretend to be him, a famous romance author hidden under a female pen name. Um, what? No thanks.

When it comes to men, I'd rather not. In fact, I prefer paints. Cleaning the Frolicking Moose at night, renting the loft out by day, and sinking into my oils and charcoal drawings are really all I want out of life right now. Simplicity and space. Then Hawk walks in on a snowy night.

There are three rules I implemented five years ago that govern my safety around men. 1. Never alone. 2. Never stranded. 3. Never unaware. In those five years, I've never broken those rules. Not once. Because I will not be a fool again.