Where We Belong

About the Author

With big dreams of being a published author since she was an 11-year-old girl writing Beverly Hills 90210 fan fiction before fan fiction was even a thing, SHANN McPHERSON has been writing angsty, contemporary romances for most of her thirty-something years.

Living in sunny Queensland, Australia, when she’s not writing Shann enjoys making memories with her husband and cheeky toddler son, drinking wine, and singing completely off-key to One Direction’s entire discography.

Where We Belong

SHANN McPHERSON

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Shann McPherson

Shann McPherson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008381967

Version: 2019-12-31

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Acknowledgments

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For Niall

Chapter 1

I push my glasses up my nose for the millionth time, and while holding my breath and with one eye narrowed, I wipe a tiny smudge of frosting from the silver turntable holding Mr. and Mrs. Robertson’s fiftieth wedding anniversary cake. It may have taken me two full days and most of last night, but I’ve finally finished. Exhaling the breath I’ve been holding for a beat too long, I take a step back to really appreciate my craftsmanship. Four layers of lemon and blueberry perfection, covered in a fluffy whipped buttercream frosting, decorated with beautiful red roses, delicate peonies, and a smattering of baby’s breath, all of which have been hand-piped by yours truly.

I place a hand on my hip, smiling proudly. “Alice Murphy, once again you’ve outdone yourself,” I whisper under my breath, mentally high-fiving myself.

The bell above the door to the shop jingles, pulling me from my musings, and I walk through from the kitchen to the front of the store, still smiling at the thought of my latest masterpiece.

“Welcome to Piece O’ Cake,” I sing in a cheerful customer service voice. “How can I help yo—” Stopping dead in my tracks, my eyes go wide as I gawp at the unexpected figure standing in the middle of the shop. He’s shadowed by the afternoon sun shining in through the windows, backlighting him to nothing more than a darkened silhouette, and I blink hard, unsure whether or not I’m imagining things. But then he speaks. And I would know that voice anywhere. This is definitely not my imagination playing tricks on me.

“Hey, Murph.” The shadow takes a step forward, coming in to the glow of the overhead lights, and I’m immediately enamored by that all-too-familiar grin.

“N-Nash?” I gasp.

His smile is bright and those eyes. I’d remember those eyes anywhere after spending such a big part of my life dreaming about them.

“Oh my God!” I scream, covering my mouth with trembling hands until I finally come to, ripping off my apron before practically throwing myself over the counter. Jumping up, I wrap my arms around his neck, and emotion gets the better of me as I stand there in the familiarity of his warm embrace with tears of happiness streaming down my cheeks.

He’s here.

The love of my life.

He’s home.

***

The May sun simmers gently upon my shoulders. Birds chirp in sync, their chorus singing through the air. Butterflies flutter aimlessly, whisked away by the gentle breeze. And, in the distance, a child is giggling full of an infectious happiness that I can feel through to my soul. I can’t possibly wipe the smile from my face. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. Nash Harris is actually here, by my side, as we walk beneath the canopy of the lush magnolia trees. The moment couldn’t be any more perfect.

“What are you doing here?” I ask incredulously, my cheeks stinging from smiling so hard.

“I wanted to see you.” Nash stops, turning to me and pulling my hands into his. “Actually, Murph, I needed to see you.”

I look up at him, our eyes meeting as his thumbs gently stroke the backs of my fingers. But when I catch sight of something unfamiliar in his gaze, something unsettling, my heart sinks a little in my chest. I know Nash. Something is wrong. He continues smiling that same beautiful smile, but I can see it in his eyes.

“Nash, what’s wrong?” I ask, suddenly worried. Is he in trouble? Oh, God. Is he sick? I wouldn’t be able to handle it if something happened to him. Not to my Nash.

“I’m fine, Murph.” He shakes his head once with a light chuckle, dismissing my concerns, and then, letting go of one of my hands, he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, causing my eyes to widen of their own accord. For a moment my mind begins to get carried away with itself. Between the chirping birds and the fluttering butterflies, the beautiful warm sun, and the backdrop of the inky river reflecting the fluffy white clouds in the sky, it’s all too perfect. And, as he reaches into his pocket, I begin to wonder if Nash Harris is about to drop to one knee and make all my dreams come true.

The realization that Nash doesn’t have a ring box in his hand snaps me from my reverie. Instead, he presents me with an envelope. And not just any old plain white Staples envelope, but a sparkly gold one, made of real fancy paper. My brows pull together in confusion as I look back up at him, meeting his eyes once again.

“What is this?” I ask, tentatively taking it from him. But he doesn’t answer. He just takes a step back, letting go of my other hand and scratching at his lightly stubbled jaw as he watches me, waiting. He’s nervous. So am I. And, right now, I almost wish something was wrong with him, because I have a terrible sinking feeling in my belly that whatever this is, I am not going to like it one bit.

I lift the tab with my index finger and pull out a single piece of card. Looking closer, I push my glasses up my nose, and it takes my eyes a while to adjust to the dim light of the shadows cast by the overhead trees. But then I manage to read the words embossed into the card in my hand, and in that moment, it feels as if my whole world comes crashing down around me.

Mr. and Mrs. Howard E. Hutchins request the pleasure of your company …

I stare at it—the invitation—reading the words over and over again as a painful ball of emotion wedges itself into the back of my throat. Suddenly I find it difficult to breathe. “W-what is this?” I finally ask, trying so hard to keep my voice from quavering. I glance up with a tight smile I know doesn’t even come close to reaching my eyes. “You … You’re getting m-married?”

Nash nods slowly, the ghost of an uncertain smile playing on his lips.

A flush heats my cheeks, and I know tears are imminent, but I try to keep what little composure I have, looking down at the invitation in my trembling hands in an attempt to avoid his eyes.

“I wanted to tell you in person,” Nash says. His words are soft and gentle, as if he knows what they’re capable of doing to me.

“Wow.” I try so hard to sound excited and happy, but I know I’m not even close to pulling it off. My heart is breaking. Actually, no. It’s already broken. And then I do a double take, looking closer at the invitation, and I actually can’t even believe my own eyes. “Next week?” I shriek, finally forced to meet his gaze.

“Yeah.” Nash tucks his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, shrugging a little sheepishly. “I know it’s sudden. But with my final year of med school coming up, and Anna studying for the bar, if we don’t do it now, we’ll probably be waiting another whole year, and we really don’t want to wait any longer.”

“Anna?” I ask, looking down at her name embossed in shiny black lettering on the invitation. Annabelle Victoria Hutchins. I can only imagine what she looks like. Her name is elegant enough. I bet she’s tall and beautiful. Thin and probably blonde. Nothing like me, Alice Murphy. I once thought Alice was a beautiful name. Beautiful like Alice in Wonderland. But Murphy? Bleh. When all the guys started calling me Murph, I just went with it. Because, let’s face it, I’m certainly no Annabelle Victoria Hutchins.

“Yeah.” Nash’s wistful smile is enviable as he ruffles a hand through his sandy blond hair. “Murph, you’re gonna love her. She’s great. She’s a lawyer. Well, she will be once she passes the bar. She’s so smart. And funny, and kind, and … Well, she’s just perfect.” His blue eyes actually glaze over for a moment while he gets carried away with himself, and I wince as the bitter taste of bile begins to rise up the back of my throat.

Thankfully, before he can gauge my reaction, Nash turns, continuing to tread the stone path that trails down to the boardwalk at the river’s edge, and I follow, still speechless as he proceeds to talk. “I was coming out of my favorite juice shop. You know, the one on the same block as my dorm? And Anna was walking with her head down, looking at her phone.” He chuckles, scrubbing a hand over his smiling lips. “She collided headfirst with me, and my smoothie spilled all over the both of us.”

I smile, but really, all I want to do is cry. But I swallow the emotion, clearing my throat. “B-but, isn’t it a little soon?” I ask, adding a casual shrug to try to lighten my question. “I mean, when I came up to visit you for New Year’s you were … happily single.” I meet his eyes with a knowing look. He and I slept together after a drunken night of celebrations on New Year’s Eve. It had been a night of promises, the night I thought everything was going to change. I thought this was going to be our year. And now he’s marrying some woman named Anna?

“What’s it been? Like, a few months?” I guffaw, shaking my head in exasperation.

Nash looks at me, and I can see he wants to say something, but he’s hesitating, considering my question. “I guess … when you know, you just know.” He shrugs, looking down to the ground a moment before tentatively meeting my eyes.

Never before have I imagined someone’s words could feel like such a brutal kick to the stomach, but he’s just about crippled me with that.

“Yeah.” I look down at my hands as they twist together. “I guess I wouldn’t know.”

We continue along the boardwalk and, despite the obvious shift in the air between us, Nash keeps talking about his wonderful, perfect Anna, and their impending nuptials. All the while I’m considering whether or not to just jump into the murky water of the Chelmer River and save myself any further torture. He’s killing me, and he doesn’t even know it. Or, worse. Maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing, and he just doesn’t care.

The thing about Nash and me is that we have a past. It’s more than just the occasional New Year’s hookup. He’s not only my best friend, he was my first crush, my first kiss, my first love, my first everything. He and I were childhood sweethearts who actually thought our love would last forever. But life managed to get in the way and, after we left for college to live our happily ever after together in New York City, my mother’s illness brought me back to Graceville, and our love suffered. I literally went from seeing him every single day, to every third weekend of the month, then every other month until we finally ended things and visited one another when we could.

Now, he’s marrying someone who isn’t me, and I’m still stuck in Nowhereville, Georgia, running my dead mother’s bakery. Suddenly I begin to wonder how different things could have been if she’d never fallen sick. It’s not like I haven’t thought about it over the years, but now the what could’ve beens are as real as my broken heart.

“So? Will you do it?”

Realizing I haven’t been listening, I glance up from the wooden planks at my feet, meeting his hopeful blue eyes, and he offers me a knowing smirk. “Our wedding cake! Will you please make it?” He nudges me playfully with his elbow. “I know it’s late notice, but I always did love your cooking.”

So, not only has he flitted into town on a whim to tell me he’s marrying another woman, he also wants me to make his damn wedding cake? I … I … I can’t even. I swear, it takes everything I have not to give him a piece of my mind. But the longer I gape at him, finding nothing but innocence and sincerity within his eyes, the more I know I have no way of saying anything but yes to this boy. I’ve never been able to say no to him, and I can’t start now.

“Of course.” I smile with a nod. And then, because I need to get the hell away from him, I glance down at my watch, not even really paying attention to the time. “Actually, I have to get back to the store,” I say all flustered and pathetic. “A customer is coming by to pick up their order.”

“Okay.” Nash grins. “I have to head into Chelmer to pick Anna up from the airport.”

At the mention of her my stomach twists at just how real this whole situation is.

“We’re having a small get-together tomorrow night at the club.”

“The club?” I ask, quirking a brow.

“Harrington Country Club.” He nods. “That’s where we’re staying for the week to prepare for the wedding.”

My face scrunches up at the thought. Nash Harris at a country club. It doesn’t make sense. We used to make fun of the rich kids who came into town every summer to stay at Harrington’s. We’d sneak onto the golf course through the pine forest, steal their golf balls before they could get to them, and laugh at how long they would spend looking for them. Now, Nash is one of them, and I feel sick at the thought.

I’m suddenly brought back to the now by a pair of strong arms wrapping around me in an all-too-familiar embrace, and that unsettling feeling in my belly is immediately gone. I find myself smiling as I rest my cheek against his shoulder, closing my eyes and breathing him in. He smells like him, like he always has, like home.

“You’re my best friend, Murph.”

My eyes fly open as I remain in his hold. Best friend? Those two words are suddenly like a slap to my face. I slowly pull back, finding him looking at me with that same innocence he’s had his whole life and I sigh, forcing another smile onto my face as the realization comes crashing down upon me like a ton of bricks. I’ve lost the love of my life.

Chapter 2

For two hours I’ve been torturing myself. While designing a rough draft of the cake I’m now making for the love of my life’s wedding to a woman who isn’t me, I’ve been going over mine and Nash’s last night together, wondering how I’d managed to get it all so wrong. I thought we were going to get back together. The only reason we broke up in the first place was because of the distance. I couldn’t leave Graceville, not when Momma was sick, and especially not after she passed away. I had so much to do here; everything had fallen into my hands. So I was stuck here, and Nash was in New York City at college.

We both agreed that the distance between us was too difficult and we broke up, but it was never really final. We continued to see one another. We continued to talk almost every day. We even continued to share ‘I love you’ texts before bed. Of course I’d thought we were going to get back together, eventually. Nash and I were meant to be together. So, I surprised him by flying up to New York at the last minute on New Year’s Eve. The flights cost me more than I could afford, but I just had to be there with him. He couldn’t get home for the holidays because he was scheduled at the hospital. And when I’d spoken to him over the phone he sounded so sad, so forlorn. I made it my mission to be there with him.

And he’d been so surprised to see me, but there was something else, as if he was actually relieved that I was there. We spent the night in Times Square with a million other revelers, drinking cheap wine, freezing our butts off in the snow while waiting for the ball to drop. And, when it did, when the clock struck midnight, when the fireworks started to explode from the sky, Nash turned to me. He grabbed my face with his gloved hands, steadying me with a look that took every ounce of my breath away, and despite the deafening sound of a million people singing along to ‘Auld Lang Syne’, I heard every ounce of yearning in his words when he told me he missed me, kissing me in a way he’d never kissed me before.

I look down at the design I’ve sketched, and I shake my head, scrunching the paper into a ball and tossing it in the direction of the trash can. With a heavy sigh, I look around me, at the place I’ve called home my entire life. Momma’s bakery was always my safe space, the one place I could come and feel as if everything in life was good, no matter how far from good things truly were. But now, it suddenly feels like my prison, the one place that’s kept me trapped here, the reason I’m not the woman marrying Nash.

I need to get the hell out of here before I completely lose it and drown my sorrows in what’s left of today’s cream cakes in the display cabinet. My already rounded hips are relying on what little self-control I have. I need to go home, have a long, hot bath, and lose myself in a cringeworthy Netflix series and the box of Girl Scout cookies I keep stashed away for times of crisis, like this. But, just as I finish locking up the store and turn to my car parked out front, my eyes zero in on the flashing neon ‘End Zone’ sign across the road, and I’m like a moth to a flame; I don’t even remember so much as crossing the street and, yet, here I am pushing my way through the saloon doors like I own the damn place.

The End Zone is the only bar that exists in the tiny town of Graceville. It’s the kind of place with sports memorabilia hanging on the walls, a couple of pool tables taking up most of the space in the back, flat-screen televisions displaying every kind of sport you can imagine, and an old restored jukebox playing classic hits. Everyone knows everyone, at The End Zone, and everyone knows everyone else’s business. It’s comforting, though. It’s like the family home I unfortunately no longer have, the same family home most people wish they had.

As I walk in, my eyes narrow. The place is dimly lit and eerily quiet, which is no real surprise since it’s only four o’clock in the afternoon. Aside from a couple of die-hard regulars, Bob and Leroy, sitting in the booth by the front windows, sharing a pitcher of beer, I’m the only other person. I wave to the two men as I make a beeline directly for the bar, taking a seat on one of the stools. I search for service but, after a few minutes of waiting, I give up waiting and reach over the counter, grabbing a bottle of whiskey before plucking a glass from the overhead rack.

“What the hell are you doing, Murph?”

I roll my eyes, ignoring the familiar voice coming from somewhere behind me while I continue to pour myself the shot that I need so bad. The warmth of a body sidles up beside me, taking a seat on the very next stool, and I can feel his eyes watching me, but I ignore that overwhelmingly imploring gaze as I throw back the whiskey without even wincing at the afterburn as it trails down the back of my throat, because that’s how pent up I am.

“Huh,” he muses from beside me and I cast a sideways glance to see him nod once. “So, I guess this means you saw Nash then, huh?”

I turn with a quirked brow, meeting his dark emerald eyes and I sigh. Harley Shaw is and always has been the proverbial pain in my butt. It’s nothing sinister. I don’t hate the guy. He just he knows me too damn well. I’ve known Harley for as long as I’ve known Nash. The two of them were the very best of friends before I came along and stole Nash for myself. Of course, Harley was always hanging around like a bad smell. He was the third wheel we just couldn’t seem to escape. We grew up together and, for the last few years, with everyone off at college and grad school, or working in the city and starting their adult lives, Harley’s really the only person I’ve had. He’s like the older brother I never had. The confidant I never knew I needed. He knows me better than anyone, maybe even better than I know me. And because of that, right now, I know he knows the pain I’m going through, and that only frustrates me more.

Even though I don’t answer him, I catch him nodding in understanding from my peripheral vision. But, instead of further chastising me for reaching over the counter of his bar and pouring my own drink, he grabs the bottle from me and pours another, pouring one for himself, too, and that’s exactly what I need right now. Someone.

“He’s 25 years old.” I balk, downing my second shot. “I mean, who even gets married at 25?”

Harley says nothing, choosing instead to listen. And I thank God that he does. I don’t need someone trying to correct me, or argue. I want to vent—I need to let it all out—and the only person I have right now who will listen is Harley, and he does, so I continue. “Does he even know this woman?” I laugh once under my breath, shaking my head as I stare straight ahead at the shelves of liquor bottles lined up behind the bar. “Who the hell marries someone after knowing them for just a few months?”

I throw a hand in the air in exasperation, curious as to why Harley isn’t nearly as incredulous as I am. This whole thing is ridiculous. Why am I the only one who thinks so? And, at that thought, I swivel on my stool, gawping at him, watching as he casually sips his whiskey with little to no emotion, his eyes trained on the television overhead playing some English soccer game.

“Did you know about this?”

Slowly, his eyes flit to the side, and he carefully places his glass onto the counter as he turns to face me, albeit reluctantly. “Well, yeah.” He sighs, adding a casual shrug. “But, I mean, I am his best friend.”