What Were You Thinking, Paige Taylor?

What Were You Thinking, Paige Taylor?

by Amanda Ashby
What Were You Thinking, Paige Taylor?

What Were You Thinking, Paige Taylor?

by Amanda Ashby

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Overview

After her carefully ordered world imploded, Paige Taylor cracks up. On her tenth self-help book, it seemed like a good idea at the time to reinvent herself—move from Manhattan to the tiny beachside town of St. Clair—and take over the local bookstore.

But instead of discovering her spiritual Nirvana, she’s neck-deep in a floundering business, the locals treat her like a plague victim, and her mom’s suddenly decided to visit—with no end in sight—and keeps coming home with one surprise after the next.

Added to that pot of crazy, the one guy who sets her pulse racing has sworn off women forever. He’s got a Samsonite filled with baggage, but damn he looks good hauling it down the street. And giving her those sexy half-smiles. And tempting her to take him for a test ride.

Soon Paige discovers that reinventing herself takes more than just a change of address and a pithy quote on Instagram. She needs to face the truth about her life, and that’s something she can’t do alone.


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781640636866
Publisher: Entangled Publishing, LLC
Publication date: 11/12/2018
Series: Belles of St. Clair , #1
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: eBook
Pages: 349
Sales rank: 1,001,402
File size: 1 MB

About the Author

Amanda Ashby was born in Australia but now lives in New Zealand where she writes romance, young adult, and middle grade books. She also works in a library, owns far too many vintage tablecloths and likes to delight her family by constantly rearranging the furniture. She has a degree in English and Journalism from the University of Queensland and is married with two children. Her debut book was nominated for a Romantic Times Reviewers Choice award, and her first young adult book was listed by the New York Public Library’s Stuff for the Teen Age. Because she’s mysterious she also writes middle grade books under the name Catherine Holt, and hopes that all this writing won’t interfere with her Netflix schedule.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

"It's never too late to say no to the things that don't serve you. Apart from chocolate. Chocolate serves us all."Just Say No

Paige Taylor had a theory. If you were going to start your life over, you should do it in style. Which was why she'd planned to arrive in St. Clair wearing her favorite jeans and a pair of cute brown boots, to show that while she was New York born and bred, she was ready to fit in. Her eyebrows would be perfect, birds would be singing, and this lovely new chapter of her life would welcome her with open arms.

Nowhere was there any mention of her wearing a skintight outfit and the towering heels she'd bought in one of those 90 percent off sales that made a woman temporarily lose all reason.

She blamed the packers. The moving men, not the football team. At least she thought they were a team.

They'd taken her carefully prepared "I'm driving almost three thousand miles across the country to start my own business" wardrobe and left her with the "I once lived in New York and will never ever wear these clothes again" collection earmarked for the thrift shop.

Still, right now her outfit was the least of her problems.

"Please, just give me a little bit of signal. Just one more bar," she coaxed, and waved her phone in the air.

The gas station she'd pulled into was closed, and there was no sign of a payphone. Do they even exist anymore? She could just wait until she reached her new home. But it had already taken her bank manager three days to return her call regarding the line of credit she'd requested to help pay for her new life.

She balanced herself on the bonnet of her old Toyota, and the signal increased by a fraction. An improvement. Now she just needed to get somewhere higher to return the call.

There were no steps or benches she could climb on, and the only other vehicle in the place was a black pickup truck. It wasn't quite Mount Everest, but it might do. She peered around. There was no sign of the owner. She hurried over, praying her East Coast bank manager hadn't decided to go home early.

The uncomfortable shoes rubbed against her heels as she reached the truck. The back was almost as high as her chest, with only a trailer hitch to help her up.

See, if she had been wearing her jeans and boots, climbing would've been easy. Okay, easy-ish. Definitely better than the tubular black skirt she'd bought at Patrick's request last year.

No. Rule number one of her new life — no thinking about her ex-fiancé. She pushed him from her mind and awkwardly clambered up in a penguin-like fashion. She was rewarded by three flickering bars of signal. Gold dust.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

She hit the number with her finger, the ragged, chipped manicure a victim of her cross-country trip.

"First Square Bank, this is —" her bank manager answered before the call once again dropped.

Noooo.

She held the phone even farther up in the air, but the no-signal bars just flickered back at her. All red and taunting. She reluctantly lowered herself into a sitting position at the edge of the truck and discovered her next problem. Getting back down. No way she could jump in the shoes. She flexed her ankle to try and ease them off. It didn't work. Of course not, because it was becoming more obvious by the moment that Satan himself had designed the damn things.

She leaned forward to tug the first one off. Almost there. Just one more —

"Problem?" a voice said just as her foot finally released the shoe and sent it flying over to the owner of the voice. He easily caught the purple suede monstrosity before it could hit him in the head. A flash of impatience threaded across his mouth.

He was in his late thirties with dark hair, starting to pepper, and silvery gray eyes. His face was tanned, and beneath the plaid work shirt and plain jeans, his body was firm and strong, like it had been carved from the Oregon hills that flanked the deserted gas station. Oh, and there was no wedding ring.

Wait. That was old Paige talking. New Paige wasn't interested in men of any description, single or not.

He coughed, and the frown deepened.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to guess he was the owner of the truck.

"Hi." She plastered on a bright smile, while at the same time hoping he wasn't a crazy person. He didn't look crazy. A bit pissed, maybe. Then again, she was sitting in the back of his truck. He had every right to be mad. "You're probably wondering what I'm doing. You see, I was in the middle of an important phone call when it dropped out."

The gray eyes darkened, as if to suggest her excuse wouldn't stand up in a court of law. She gulped.

I should probably stop talking now.

"We're in a gully. There's never much signal," he finally answered. "You should hit some in five miles."

"Good to know." She licked her lips and decided to risk lowering herself to the ground while still wearing one shoe. She wriggled her bottom forward and tucked her phone into the front of her skirt before gripping the deck of the truck with both hands. The pitted steel was cool against her palms as she eased her way down, while wishing she hadn't skipped so many yoga classes.

The only thing that would've made it worse was if he'd offered to help. He didn't, and while she was grateful, trying to finish the task while her core muscles were screaming wasn't fun.

Sweat beaded the top of her lip, and her arms shook as her heeled foot hit the ground, closely followed by her other leg, which was a good three inches lower. She steadied herself by pretending her bare foot was also in a shoe, all under the guy's disarming gaze.

If undignified dismounts were an Olympic category, I'd be a gold medal winner.

"I should get going." She plastered on another smile.

"You might need this." He held up the shoe. His hands were tanned and the nails neatly clipped, and they seemed to mock the frivolous stiletto, making it look out of place and useless.

Definitely not how Day One was meant to go.

"Thanks." She reluctantly slipped it back onto her foot. At least the world was no longer lopsided. "And sorry about standing on your truck."

"Forget it." He shrugged, as if already deleting the encounter from his mind. She swallowed and walked back to her own car, heat rising in her cheeks, as the black truck pulled out of the gas station and headed in the direction she'd just come from.

At least I won't ever see him again.

She slid into the driver's seat and thrust her keys into the ignition, humiliation humming in her veins. For goodness' sake, she was a thirty- six-year-old woman, and most of the time a perfectly sensible person.

Yet here she was making a fool of herself in front of the most beautiful man she'd seen in a good long while.

Correction.

Humiliating herself while wearing a bad outfit was a good a thing. Great even. Because, as her favorite author, Dr. Penny Groves, was fond of saying, "If you want to change your story, then stop auditioning the same cast members."

And Gas Station Guy was definitely a cast member she'd auditioned before. She had no proof he was a two-timing cheater who was sleeping with other women the entire time they were engaged. But those kind of knee-knocking good looks never seemed to go to the nice guys who liked hand-holding and long walks on the beach.

Not that it mattered.

She turned to the passenger seat. It was covered with the evidence of her cross-country trip. Multiple packets of M&M's, sunscreen, empty water bottles, the cute vision board she'd made to inspire her on the trip, along with her well-thumbed copy of Just Say No — A Journey from Servitude to Freedom, by Dr. Penny Groves.

The book responsible for her new philosophy on life.

Put quite simply, whenever she wanted to say yes, she'd just say no instead.

No to her landlord who kept putting up the rent without fixing the heating. No to her ex-boss who sat in her corner office while Paige tried to get publicity for a tween YouTube star whose latest book was about posing with a blow-up unicorn in front of public monuments (she didn't get it either). And definitely, definitely no to men.

From now on she was a no machine.

The old Paige was gone. Dead. Buried under a mountain of yeses.

She kicked her shoes off, pumped the gas, and pulled out. As promised the reception improved farther down the road, but her call went straight to voicemail. She left her bank manager a long message, hoping it didn't sound too much like she was begging.

The last miles flew past in a blur of colors, until she reached a winding road with tall thin poplars flanking either side, allowing dappled sunlight to filter onto the road, while the smudgy blue sky was host to fat, lazy clouds. The road widened, and she caught her breath as her new hometown swung into view.

St. Clair, Oregon. Population two thousand and twenty.

Make that two thousand and twenty-one.

The town was as picturesque in real life as it had been on the internet, with colorful wooden houses dotting the landscape like a child's painting. To the left was a small inlet with a couple of boats bobbing merrily against the tide and a few rustic boatsheds, haphazardly perched in the water on long wooden stumps.

The heavy fall colors that had marked her cross-country trip were still evident, but the oranges and browns were tangled up with late- blooming summer flowers. She slowed down as a tractor pulled out in front of her, not minding it was only driving five miles an hour as it allowed her to drink in the glory of the place. But it wasn't until it abruptly turned up a driveway that she found herself in front of three old Victorian houses.

They were squished side by side, as if trying to stay warm. It was the one at the end she was interested in. A bookstore called Fireside Books.

The bookstore she now officially owned. And, despite having stopped far too many times to deal with her sister-in-law's increasingly snarky phone calls, she'd managed to arrive a day earlier than planned.

She climbed out of the car.

The air was salt laden with a hint of late jasmine from the vine lazily creeping up the framework around the front window. The building was pale peppermint, slightly faded but still endearing, and the sign swung in the faint breeze. It was so dang cute she was surprised gingerbread men with candy canes weren't plastered to the walls.

The other two businesses were equally adorable.

One was a coffee shop, painted blue with a bold modern sign, while the florist store in the middle was a soft yellow. The large window was filled with fall flowers, and an old bicycle was propped against the outside porch, also crammed with a riot of blooms.

It was something out of a dream.

A dream I'm now part of!

Her old life might've sucked, but her new one was going to be amazing.

Her heels sunk down into the soft grass that flanked the pathway leading up to the old wooden door with frosted glass. She fumbled for the front door key. Diana, the previous owner, had FedExed them once the sale had been completed.

A Closed sign was hanging there, and under the doormat were several notes, but before she could scoop them up she caught sight of the brass doorknocker.

It was in the shape of a fox's head, with wide eyes and a long nose, while one paw was held up in a welcoming gesture. Call her crazy, but the way the brass twinkled in the sunshine, it was almost a smile. Like it was saying:

"Welcome, Paige. Say goodbye to the past. From now on it's going to be book-scented happiness, as you engage in long and amazing conversations about literature, while sipping coffee (or wine. Because this is your imagination and I'm not here to judge.) It's everything you want, Paige. And nothing will ever go wrong —"

"It's her. It must be her," a voice cut through the welcoming address in her mind. She swiveled as two women spilled out of the yellow florist shop next door.

One was tall and lean with a pixie cut and a resting bitch face that made Paige want to stay on her good side. She was wearing faded jeans and a plaid shirt. The second was petite with auburn curls and dreamy blue eyes. She was dressed in a navy polka dot dress, and in her hand was an armful of flowers, white, purple, and pink all blended together, wrapped in an old dressmaking pattern and tied with string.

"Yeah, I think the key in her hand gives it away," the tall girl drawled as they walked across the lawn, their sandals making a padding noise against the grass. Up close the hard jaw softened, and the girl gave her a reluctant smile. "Hey, I'm Sam."

"And I'm Laney." The petite girl thrust the flowers in Paige's direction and gave her a smile. "We're the Belles."

"The Belles?" Paige blinked as she took the flowers. "Is that like a girl band or something?"

Laney laughed. "I forgot you're not from here. These buildings were once owned by three sisters and were nicknamed the Belles of St. Clair. I'm surprised Diana didn't tell you when you bought the place."

"I'm not." Sam snorted as she scooped up the notes peeking out from under the doormat, while Laney made a growling noise. "What? I'm just saying Diana wasn't known for her conversation skills."

Paige had to agree, and after her original call with the owner, she'd quickly discovered Diana was a straight-to-business type of woman, and the rest of their correspondence had been via their solicitors. Still, the price had been right, and the deal fast, which was all Paige had cared about.

"She wasn't so bad," Laney protested, though it lacked conviction. "I know you're going to love it. We've been hoping you'd be nice, and I can already see you are."

"You can?" Paige said in surprise, recalling the inappropriate outfit. "I promise I don't normally wear this kind of thing. Well, I did in my old life, but now I'm here —"

"Now you're here you can wear whatever you want," Laney said in a firm voice. "Besides, I like what you're wearing. It shows you have spunk."

"Trust me, spunk's the last thing I want right now," Paige confessed as she adjusted the band of her skirt and wished she'd said no to the breakfast taco. "There was a mix-up with the moving boxes, which means I've traveled across America looking like an extra from Dynasty. All power suits and earrings the size of satellite dishes."

Some of the reserve fell from Sam's face, and she grinned. "I'm guessing you're from New York."

Paige nodded. The intoxicating aroma from the flowers in her arm flooded her senses, easing the tension in her shoulders that had built up from thinking about her old life (which, for the record, was only six hundred times a day). Laney was obviously a floral ninja. She took in another deep breath.

"Did you have a bookshop there?" Sam asked.

"Not exactly. I am ... I mean I was a book publicist, but I've always loved reading, and when I saw this place it just seemed perfect."

Not to mention three thousand miles away from all my problems.

"And it will be," Laney agreed in a cheerful voice, making Paige wonder if she was perpetually happy.

"I hope so." She fiddled with the key in her hand. "Do you want to come inside? I'm dying to look around."

Laney's smile dropped a quarter inch as she tucked her arm into Paige's. "You know, while that does sound fun, I have a better idea! Why not come over to my place and have a welcome glass of wine?"

"It's eleven in the morning." Paige blinked. "Aren't you still open for business?"

"Er, yes, but how often do we get a new neighbor?" Sam appeared on Paige's other arm "We can fill you in on life in St. Clair."

"Yes. There's so much to tell you," Laney echoed.

Paige pushed her lips together. She might not have owned a bookstore before, or lived in a small town — but thanks to dating Patrick for the last six years, she had a PhD in shifty behavior.

"What's going on? Is there a reason you don't want me to go inside?"

"What? No. That's crazy talk." Laney shook her head, but Sam sighed and let go of Paige's arm.

"We might as well just tell her. She's going to find out eventually."

"Find out what?" Her grip tightened on the flowers as her mind filtered through all of the things that could've possibly happened. It wasn't hard. Her friends in New York had been listing them with great frequency ever since she'd announced her plans. "Please don't tell me that Diana didn't own the place and I've been duped. Or she's taken all the stock and only left fishing books? Or —"

"I swear it's not so bad," Laney said before wrinkling her nose. "Hey, are you sure you don't want that wine?"

(Continues…)


Excerpted from "What Were You Thinking, Paige Taylor?"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Amanda Ashby.
Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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