Home for Always

Copyright © Mitchell Tobias Publishing LLC, 2022 Cover Design by Temptation Creations Editing by Jenny Sims This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either 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. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher. Visit Ketley Allison’s official website at www.ketleyallison.com for the latest news, book details, and other information. home for always playlist Thinking ‘Bout You - Dustin Lynch, MacKenzie Porter Look What God Gave Her - Thomas Rhett The Good Ones - Gabby Barrett the lifeboat’s empty! - Chelsea Cutler Dreams - MisterWives If I Don’t Laugh, I’ll Cry - Frawley Clueless in Suburbia - Yen Strange Flight Risk - Tommy Lefroy Listen to the rest of the playlist: https://geni.us/hfaplaylis for my readers Hi Pretty, From the bottom of my heart, thank you for choosing to read my second chance romance, Home for Always. It comes from a place in my soul that needed to heal and Stone and Noa’s story helped me get there. I always strive for a happy ending with my love stories, so if you have no triggers, please stop here and turn the page to start reading. If you would like to know the difficult subjects discussed in this book before moving forward, please read below. Potential Triggers include cancer (of a side character) and death, as well as discussion of a past miscarriage. Without further delay, turn the page and dive into the story that stayed in my head for years, but when I started writing it, I couldn’t stop. xoxo chapter one noa “I’ll take an Americano to go, please.” I tap my fingers on the refurbished counter as Maisy rings up my order. “You look asleep on your feet, doll,” she says without looking up from her tablet. Her furry gray brows scrunch together while her pink acrylic nails fly against the screen. “Oh, it’s nothing,” I say, hoping my voice sounds lighter than my body feels. “Been a long week of my patients not feeling well.” “Mmm. Damn modern contraptions … why do I need this? You think Carly would be in charge of this artificial intelligence since she’s the one who demanded this nonsense. Speaking of my wayward daughter, have you seen where she’s hidden my vintage cashbox? That sweet ring it made every time I lowered the handle reminds me of my gambling days.” Maisy lifts her head for a good, nostalgic laugh, her smoker’s voice circling the crowded cafe and drawing other patrons’ attention, who immediately smile back. Say what you want about Maisy, a bird going on seventy-five—her words—but her laughter could stop a spontaneous bar fight any time of the day. “Here, I have cash.” I shove a hand into the pocket of my green scrubs, partially aware of Past Me shoving a few dollar bills in there when I was shopping for groceries yesterday. Maisy’s cataract eyes narrow. “Tell me you have exact change.” “You bet.” “Ah, save your soul, doll.” Her heavy silver bracelets clank as she gestures for it with her hand. “You just saved that gentleman behind you at least ten more minutes of wait time.” She winks at me. Winks. This is Maisy’s not-so-subtle way of telling me there is a very available bachelor standing nearby, and here in Falcon Haven, that is no small feat. Bachelors—indeed, men under fifty—are scarce in these parts, and Maisy knows it. I swear I am not turning around. He’s probably passing through on his way to New York. We’re right off the highway. You can see the Empire State Building if you squint your eyes hard enough, and this man whose face I will never see probably wanted to stop for a pee break and caffeine hit, not a spontaneous match-up from his eclectic barista. He’d want nothing to do with me, dressed in yesterday’s scrubs with two-day hair and … I can’t remember the last time I put on makeup. I say to Maisy, “I’ll ask Carly where she hid your register next time I see her.” Maisy’s lips crimp into a magenta-colored frown, disappointed I wouldn’t flirt and find my future husband where she could bear witness and tell everyone for years to come that she found poor Noa-Lynn Shaw—spinster-at-large but with such a sweet face—a man. Maisy shoves the bills in the tip jar, then waves me to the side. “Off you go.” I sidestep to the pickup counter, waiting for my coffee by staring at anything but the growing line in front of Maisy as the man asks whether the Mercantile does pour-over coffee. “Do I look like I have enough time left on this earth to wait for your fancy beans to dribble into a cup? No. I got milk. I got coffee. I can get you one of each if you’re so inclined.” Smiling at how the man blubbers under Maisy’s commands, my eyes snag on the newspaper stand. Typical papers decorate the wire spin stand, but with the Mercantile being under Maisy’s ownership since the sixties, she also demands the latest tabloids and gossip rags. As I’m idly scanning the headlines, a face cuts through my vision in the same way I picture the Titanic hitting the iceberg. The headline above that devilish, dimpled face shouts, STONE WILLIAMS IS AT IT AGAIN. “Noa? Your coffee’s ready.” The teenager employed for the summer months inches my cup closer to my suddenly immobile limbs. His attention darts from the newsstand to me, then back again. “Um, I gave you an extra shot because … you know.” Chewing on his lip, he gives me one last pitying look before disappearing behind the