From the Moment We Met
CHAPTER 1
Most women spend an average of 150 hours fantasizing and dreaming about the perfect wedding. Not Abigail DeLuca. Nope, she’d spent the past seven years planning the perfect divorce, which as of—she glanced at her watch—eight hours ago had finally been granted. And nobody was going to ruin her first day as a happy divorcée.
Nobody, she thought grimly after the doorbell rang and she opened the front door to find a bear of a man in grease-stained coveralls standing on her front porch. The man pulled his Rodney’s Recovery, Repossession & Party Rentals trucker hat low on his forehead and flashed a copy of Abby’s marriage certificate. “Are you Abigail Moretti, wife of Richard Moretti?”
Abby realized she had to amend her previous statement that nobody could ruin her Divorce Day, because there was one person who could ruin it—her pencil dick of a two-timing ex.
“Ex-wife. As of today,” she clarified, pulling her robe tighter. Her new, silky blue robe that did amazing things to her skin—and her cleavage. She’d bought it specifically to wear today, wanting a perky start to her new life. A bold and confident start. None of which included coming face-to-face with Rodney. “And my name is DeLuca. Abigail DeLuca.”
She’d stopped going by Moretti the day she discovered that Richard’s favorite pastime during intern season was playing hide the salami.
“Abby?” A weathered voice called out from over the picket fence that separated her property from the busiest busybody and gossip in St. Helena, save her Nonna ChiChi. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Mrs. Kincaid. Just getting the morning paper.”
“Well, you might want to invite your gentleman friend inside before tongues start wagging,” Nora chided, peering over the fence. “This is a respectable neighborhood.”
Nora was the self-appointed neighborhood watch commissioner of the cul-de-sac and Krug Court, and took her job seriously. She meticulously chronicled her neighbors’ comings and goings, being sure to report any odd findings to the community Facebook page. Even issuing citations for infringement of the Good Neighbor Code.
Nora had been looking for a reason to cite Abby ever since the St. Helena Sentinel ran an article stating that Abby’s dahlias were the best summer bloom in town—a golden stamp of approval that resulted in the upstaging of Mrs. Kincaid’s royal crown magnolia tree.
“He’s not my gentleman friend,” Abby clarified, and because she was raised in a house where being rude to one’s elders was considered sacrilege, she refrained from pointing out that spying on thy neighbor was also not a respectable hobby.
“If you say so.” Nora sounded unconvinced. “It would be a shame if the neighborhood became a drive-thru for the town’s bachelors.”
Nora would actually be ecstatic if that happened, because she’d capture each and every transgression on film and post it on Facebook. Not that there would be any transgressions of the male variety. Abby was finally single, and she meant to keep it that way.
So with a polite smile, she said, “And he was just leaving.”
Only Rodney didn’t budge.
Raising a brow, Abby reached for the door handle and—as though anticipating her next move, which was to disappear back inside her house, pull the curtains, and toast her D-day with a mimosa—he took a step forward. And wasn’t that just like a man: self-centered, domineering, and, even though he was the one who was crapping all over her good morning, determined to be heard.
Abby took in the receding hairline, the frown marks, and the cab of the flatbed tow truck peeking out from behind Nora’s enormous manicured shrubs—her gaze landing on the Repossess part of his title—and rolled her eyes. “If you’re here to repossess Richard’s car, you wasted your time, because like I explained only seconds ago, Richard is not here.”
Nor was he her problem anymore.
“So if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for an appointment.” Which was not until later that afternoon. But standing on the front porch in her sexy robe, talking to a strange man, where her neighbors idly placed bets on whether he was the first post-D-day walk-of-shamer, was not her idea of easing into respectable singlehood.
“I’ll make it quick then. The name’s Rodney, of Rodney’s Recovery, Repossession & Party Rentals.” He pointed to the logo on the front of his hat as though that was all the identification required, and extended a newspaper clipping. “I need to confirm if you are the Abigail Moretti, uh, the Abigail who placed this ad in the local paper.”
Abby’s face heated as she looked at the full-page ad from the Sentinel. It was a copy dating from last summer, boasting a missing persons announcement with a photo of Richard that had been taken on their wedding day. He was dressed in a tux, looking handsome and faithful and like a man in love. Abby nearly snorted.
Most women spend an average of 150 hours fantasizing and dreaming about the perfect wedding. Not Abigail DeLuca. Nope, she’d spent the past seven years planning the perfect divorce, which as of—she glanced at her watch—eight hours ago had finally been granted. And nobody was going to ruin her first day as a happy divorcée.
Nobody, she thought grimly after the doorbell rang and she opened the front door to find a bear of a man in grease-stained coveralls standing on her front porch. The man pulled his Rodney’s Recovery, Repossession & Party Rentals trucker hat low on his forehead and flashed a copy of Abby’s marriage certificate. “Are you Abigail Moretti, wife of Richard Moretti?”
Abby realized she had to amend her previous statement that nobody could ruin her Divorce Day, because there was one person who could ruin it—her pencil dick of a two-timing ex.
“Ex-wife. As of today,” she clarified, pulling her robe tighter. Her new, silky blue robe that did amazing things to her skin—and her cleavage. She’d bought it specifically to wear today, wanting a perky start to her new life. A bold and confident start. None of which included coming face-to-face with Rodney. “And my name is DeLuca. Abigail DeLuca.”
She’d stopped going by Moretti the day she discovered that Richard’s favorite pastime during intern season was playing hide the salami.
“Abby?” A weathered voice called out from over the picket fence that separated her property from the busiest busybody and gossip in St. Helena, save her Nonna ChiChi. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Mrs. Kincaid. Just getting the morning paper.”
“Well, you might want to invite your gentleman friend inside before tongues start wagging,” Nora chided, peering over the fence. “This is a respectable neighborhood.”
Nora was the self-appointed neighborhood watch commissioner of the cul-de-sac and Krug Court, and took her job seriously. She meticulously chronicled her neighbors’ comings and goings, being sure to report any odd findings to the community Facebook page. Even issuing citations for infringement of the Good Neighbor Code.
Nora had been looking for a reason to cite Abby ever since the St. Helena Sentinel ran an article stating that Abby’s dahlias were the best summer bloom in town—a golden stamp of approval that resulted in the upstaging of Mrs. Kincaid’s royal crown magnolia tree.
“He’s not my gentleman friend,” Abby clarified, and because she was raised in a house where being rude to one’s elders was considered sacrilege, she refrained from pointing out that spying on thy neighbor was also not a respectable hobby.
“If you say so.” Nora sounded unconvinced. “It would be a shame if the neighborhood became a drive-thru for the town’s bachelors.”
Nora would actually be ecstatic if that happened, because she’d capture each and every transgression on film and post it on Facebook. Not that there would be any transgressions of the male variety. Abby was finally single, and she meant to keep it that way.
So with a polite smile, she said, “And he was just leaving.”
Only Rodney didn’t budge.
Raising a brow, Abby reached for the door handle and—as though anticipating her next move, which was to disappear back inside her house, pull the curtains, and toast her D-day with a mimosa—he took a step forward. And wasn’t that just like a man: self-centered, domineering, and, even though he was the one who was crapping all over her good morning, determined to be heard.
Abby took in the receding hairline, the frown marks, and the cab of the flatbed tow truck peeking out from behind Nora’s enormous manicured shrubs—her gaze landing on the Repossess part of his title—and rolled her eyes. “If you’re here to repossess Richard’s car, you wasted your time, because like I explained only seconds ago, Richard is not here.”
Nor was he her problem anymore.
“So if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for an appointment.” Which was not until later that afternoon. But standing on the front porch in her sexy robe, talking to a strange man, where her neighbors idly placed bets on whether he was the first post-D-day walk-of-shamer, was not her idea of easing into respectable singlehood.
“I’ll make it quick then. The name’s Rodney, of Rodney’s Recovery, Repossession & Party Rentals.” He pointed to the logo on the front of his hat as though that was all the identification required, and extended a newspaper clipping. “I need to confirm if you are the Abigail Moretti, uh, the Abigail who placed this ad in the local paper.”
Abby’s face heated as she looked at the full-page ad from the Sentinel. It was a copy dating from last summer, boasting a missing persons announcement with a photo of Richard that had been taken on their wedding day. He was dressed in a tux, looking handsome and faithful and like a man in love. Abby nearly snorted.