Where Faith Belongs (Book 6)

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Enjoy a sample from Where Faith Belongs

SPOILER WARNING: Do not read this excerpt until you have read Books 1-5 in the series.

Despite what my family says, I am, in fact, an understanding person.

Yes, I have opinions. But I like to think that simply means I have good taste.

That’s it. That’s what I am. A person with good taste.

A person who tries to understand why my older sister insists on wearing open-toed shoes without first polishing her toenails. A person who tries to understand how anyone could watch The Notebook without bawling their eyes out. How my brother can sleep at night knowing he didn’t floss that day. How anyone could dismiss yoga without even trying it.

All these things and more, I try to understand.

But I will never—ever—understand what I’ve just seen on this crisp, sunny first day of May. I grappled with it. I abhorred it.

I am appalled by it.

I blinked, staring out the window of my old Jeep Wrangler. Surely, this would not take place in Camden, in broad daylight, in the Hannaford parking lot.

But no, I wasn’t mistaken—the evidence lay on the ground in all of its coffee-stained, Styrofoam glory.

The driver of the black Ford truck, parked haphazardly between two yellow lines, had committed an inexcusable offense, punishable by at least a five-hundred dollar fine.

Littering.

And this wasn’t any kind of littering. This was so much more than casual, throw-your-paper-napkin-out-your-window-in-the-dead-of-night littering. This was blatant, daylight Styrofoam littering.

I pushed open my car door, nearly forgetting my keys in the ignition. No doubt he thought no one noticed his blatant disregard of nature and civilization. Little did he know, Amie Martin was on the prowl. Amie Martin—short in stature, perhaps having a bit of a bad hair day, but powerful in all things that involved the betterment of humanity.

I threw my shoulders back, the beaded earrings I’d made the night before jangling lightly in my ears. I pushed up the sleeves of my army-green jacket and strode across the parking lot to the black truck.

“Excuse me!” I called as I approached.

Nothing.

I continued toward him.

Don’t pretend you can’t hear me with your window fully down.

By the time I reached the driver’s side of the truck, I fumed. Men. Men, and their callousness toward people and relationships and innocent animals and the environment.

“I said, excuse me!”

A head of dark blond hair turned toward me.

My steps faltered and my mouth grew dry, the fury in my chest changing to shock and, to my horror, a tiny bit of longing.

August Colton grinned at me with twinkling cerulean blue eyes. “Amie.”

My name hung in the air between us as his gaze tangled with mine. I waited for something more. A “You look good,” or “It’s been too long,” or “I missed seeing you at Christmas.”

All the things I wanted to say to him.

I shook my head, scolding myself for faltering in my mission. Surfer-boy good looks tended to do that to me.

He shoved a box of chicken wings toward me. “Want one?”

I gritted my teeth. “I’m fasting.”

His eyebrows rose. “Oh, is that part of your new . . . spiritual explorations?”

I blew out a breath, fanning the hair from my face. “No, it’s not part of my spiritual explorations.” I didn’t mean for the words to come out so snappy. It wasn’t August’s fault my idea to create a group for those seeking spiritual truth had flopped. Sure, I could have given it more effort last summer. Could have been less flighty about it, as Bronson said. But a little support from August wouldn’t have killed him.

Who knows, maybe it would have made all the difference.

“Whoa, sorry. So, is everything okay? Are you having a medical procedure done or something?”

A medical procedure? Oh. My face heated as I remembered Mom having to fast and drink some horrible-tasting fluid before having a colonoscopy last year. “I’m fine. Great, really.” Great. “Fasting periodically is actually a great way to increase autophagy in your cells.”

Autophagy . . . that was the word, right? Or was it autophony? I was forever mixing up words.

“Autophagy?”

“It’s your body’s way of cleaning out damaged cells to regenerate healthy ones. It’s fascinating. You should google it.”

“I will.”

No, he wouldn’t. Since when did he care about anything I thought important?

“You want to sit in my truck?”

It was a pretty truck. Several steps up from the beat-up Chevy he’d driven around in high school.

But no. I hadn’t stalked over to play nice.

“You littered.”

“What?”

I pointed at the Styrofoam cup, clear as day, on the patch of grass by the curb of his truck. “I saw you. You threw it right out the window without any regard for the birds who might chew it up and choke on it or the people who have to pick it up for you—”

“Amie—”

“You always were selfish though, weren’t you, August? Never giving a care about what’s humane and right. Sauntering through life, worried about your hair and your stupid surfboard and—”

“Amie.” My name came out in a near growl, his jaw firm and eyes smoldering as he said it. Without warning, I remembered those smoldering eyes fixed upon me in an entirely different way. I remembered the feel of his hands brushing along my sides, the scent of him all musky and sweet, the taste of his lips on my own.

I blinked, forcing the unbidden—and unwanted—thoughts away. “What?”

“I didn’t litter.”

I jabbed both hands at the coffee cup on the ground. “Oh, really? What would you call this, then?”

“My worst fear.”

I cocked my head to the side, my head spinning. August’s worst fear. Shouldn’t I know what that is?

“An empty coffee cup?” I guessed.

“Come on, Ame, we dated for six months and you don’t remember my worst fear?”

I swallowed. Maybe August hadn’t been the only one less than invested in our relationship.

I shook my head. “I got nothing.”

“Spiders.”

My insides twitched. I wasn’t much a fan of the eight-legged creatures myself. I crouched down, cautiously, peering into the cup. Inside, perched at the very bottom, was a hairy black-and-yellow spider with a body the size of a quarter.

I shot up. “Ew!”

“If he didn’t crawl out by the time I finished my lunch, I was going to dump him out. Figured it would be the most”—he cleared his throat—"humane thing to do.”

My chest deflated. “You weren’t littering?”

What did it say about me that I almost wished he had been littering simply so I didn’t look so foolish?

“Nope. After I escorted our hairy friend onto bigger and better things than the inside of an old coffee cup, I was going to pick up my trash and be on my way.”

I blew out a gust of air, fanning my long blonde bangs out of my face. “Guess I owe you an apology, huh?”

“No worries. I know saying you’re sorry has never been your strong suit.”

Something tiny but sharp pinched my insides. I racked my brain for what apology I might owe August. If anything, he owed me an apology for that horrible day we broke things off a little less than a year ago. He’d accused me of being selfish, inward-focused, and spoiled. He couldn’t see I only wanted the best for my family, the best for him, the best for my community, the best for the world even. At the time, I accused him of being selfish, too, of refusing to see how his actions affected others.

But apparently, he still believed me to be in the wrong. Well, I’d show him I could give an apology.

“August, for what it’s worth—I am sorry. I shouldn’t have stormed over here like the litter brigade.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Litter brigade, huh? Is that a thing, because I’d nominate you as president.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks.” Another silent moment passed between us. “I guess I should get to my shopping. Mom sent me with a list a mile-long.”

“How’s things going at the good ol’ B&B, anyway? Tripp said you all barely got a rest this past winter and things are in full swing again.”

I don’t know why—or maybe I do—but my gaze can’t hold August’s at the mention of his older brother. My sister’s husband. True, I spent most of my teenage years mooning over the oldest Colton. But that ship had sailed the moment he’d chosen Josie. I was happy for them. Of course, I was happy for them. I was not the spoiled, can’t-handle-not-getting-my-way youngest Martin child I’d been in elementary school. I loved Tripp like a brother now, and that was that.

“We’re busy. How about you? Congratulations on graduating, by the way. You going to be some big-shot architect, now?”

“No danger of that while working for Grandpop and big brother.”

Oh. “You’re working for Colton Contractors? I didn’t realize.” For some reason, the news niggled at me. I suppose, deep down, I’d wanted bigger things for August. A big city where he would build skyscrapers and bridges, make his mark on the world. Not boring little Camden, where each day looked almost identical to the next. Where one relegated themselves to the good ol’ family business.

I swallowed. There was nothing wrong with small towns if that’s what one wanted. If that’s what August wanted. But I didn’t have to hunker down and accept the same fate. My life could be different.

I could break free.

“Yeah, I’m happy about it. Grandpop isn’t getting any younger and the company needs a good architect.”

He’d grown up in the last year. He exuded a confidence and stability he hadn’t possessed when we were dating. Something about that drew me at the same time my brain screamed for me to turn and run, fast.

Talk about spiders. I refused to fall back into August’s web.

“That’s good, August. Real good. I’m happy for you.”

“What about you? How’s your art selling?”

“It’s selling.”

Not a lie. My enviro-friendly lampshades sold in the Camden shops faster than I could make them. The problem was, I couldn’t make them all that fast. My profit often ended up being less than an hourly minimum wage. While I’d experimented with a price increase, sales had suffered drastically. Until I could figure out how to make my lamps faster, my profit margin would suffer.

“I actually got accepted to Parsons School of Design.”

If I could save up enough money for living expenses, I’d go. I pushed my hair over my shoulder. While I’d qualified for some financial aid, Mom had offered to help with the rest, but I had refused. Mom wasn’t getting any younger. Not that she was old, but she’d started the bed and breakfast only a few years ago. She needed to save for her own future, for the unexpected. I was a fully functioning woman who could provide for myself.

And once I found the perfect summer job, I’d do just that.

“Where’s that?” Was I imagining the flash of disappointment in August’s eyes?

“New York City. I’ll be moving there in the fall.”

Nope. Hadn’t imagined it. Perhaps I was vain to relish the fact that August obviously still had feelings for me. Perhaps it was selfish and spoiled—all the things he’d accused me of the day we’d broken up—but in that moment, I didn’t care. I savored the twinge of satisfaction that I meant something to August Colton after all.

We bid goodbye shortly after, and once I entered the foyer of the grocery store, I peered back for a last look. My heart swelled at the sight of him crouched low to the ground, gently dumping our eight-legged friend out of his coffee cup.

Then, he picked up the Styrofoam and climbed back into his truck. I might have imagined the last look he gave as he surveyed the Hannaford foyer, but I don’t think I did.

August had always held a flame for me.

Too bad, in the end, he simply wasn’t the man I thought he was.