Page 1 of In Every Chapter

Prologue

Paisley

I’d rather take my chances with Tolkien’s giant spiders of Mirkwood than be forced into socializing. In general, because, why go out when you could get lost in a good book? But specifically on January twenty-eighth of all nights.

Yet luck was not on my side. And neither were my friends.

“Park your rear right there and don’t even think about moving without winning,” my best friend, Juliet, instructed, her strong hands all but shoving me down onto the worn brown leather barstool at the high counter in front of a large TV screen.

Donovan’s Downto’n was the local small-town hangout in Serenity Springs, Idaho, famous for its trivia nights, community atmosphere, and line dancing. Don’t ask about the name. The W in the neon sign went out forty years ago, and no one bothered fixing it. So yes, it really was pronounced like Juliet’s favourite TV series, Downton Abbey.

My three besties had pretty much dragged me out of the apartment for a night on the town and demanded I put on makeup and real clothes—sweats and a ratty University of Washington tee apparently didn’t count—on this anniversary I desperately wanted to forget. I understood the appeal of alcohol for some. Anything to numb the heart-shattering pain even two years later. Anything to forget. But after spending years in foster care because my own mother was a negligent alcoholic, I wasn’t gonna risk it.

Just thinking of her… of today… of him made my eyes burn with tears. Anger and shame churned in my gut, threatening to send me upchucking any minute. I’d been so blind, so foolish. Falling for a charming smile and a nice guy—the first to show any real interest in me.

Desperation was a hard pill to swallow.

Jared Nichols. He was charming, in a boy-next-door kind of way, with a boyish grin just like Jonathan Crombie’s in the superior version of Anne of Green Gables. (Forever our Gilbert Blythe.) Maybe I fell in love with him because of that smile. Or maybe it was the way he made me feel less alone. Like I, Paisley McBride, was desirable. Beloved. Valuable.

Instead of an unwanted afterthought.

And that was the thing about desperation—even poisoned water was still water to a parched soul starved for love.

No. Do not wallow. I needed to focus. If my friends were going to force me into every woman’s staple—the little black dress—and heels that pinched my feet, I was walking out of this place with the cash prize and my head held high.

Downto’n’s legendary trivia competitions were community-building events, each table armed with a scorecard and buzzer. But the ultracompetitive ones always sat at the bar counter—which never served hard drinks until after eight to keep the family-friendly vibe. Tonight’s theme was The Lord of the Rings. Which was why I wasn’t with my three besties whispering at a booth in the back corner.

No. I sat hunched on the barstool like a shrimp with scoliosis, nursing a Shirley Temple, homed in to the questions on the screen. The Lord of the Rings was in my blood, and I wasn’t giving this victory up without a fight.

It was down to me and my archnemesis.

Maybe that was a bit strong. He might be a great guy. I hadn’t given him more than a cursory once-over when he sat two seats down, although there was something vaguely familiar about his profile. The two of us were the only die-hard competitors left. And he knew his stuff.

The questions whittled away the ones who only knew about the franchise from the Peter Jackson movies—which were excellent but nothing compared to the extended lore of Tolkien’s world-building.

Books had long been my primary means of escape, and if that turned me into a nerd, well, that was a small price to pay compared to what I could have used to cope instead. So, what was Cute Guy’s excuse?

Cute? He was not cute. Handsome or gorgeous maybe, if that jawline was anything to judge by. We are not noticing men, Paisley Grace. It only led to heartbreak, and I had terrible taste in partners, given my track record. Of one. But one was enough in this case.

I picked at my thumbnail, body poised and ready to smack the buzzer. This wasn’t just trivia; it was war. The stool squeaked as I shifted.

Cute Guy mirrored me.

Oh, we were so on.

The next question flashed across the screen.

What was the name of the Balrog encountered by the Fellowship in Moria?

I hit my buzzer, blurting out, “Durin’s Bane!”

“That’s correct.” Denver Donovan, the current trivia host, grinned at me approvingly under his blond mustache.

I ignored him and his creepy lip fuzz. No offense to facial hair, but he couldn’t pull that ’stache off—few men could. Jared couldn’t either. My leg bounced restlessly, and my hand drifted to my left ring finger to twist my wedding ring.

But it wasn’t there.

Of course it wasn’t. It hadn’t been for eighteen months. So instead, I fidgeted with the silver band stamped with sunflowers on my right thumb, trying to soothe the rising nerves. The sunflowers had been Juliet’s idea, plant lover that she was.