Into You Series: The Complete Collection

1. Nia

CHAPTER 1

NIA

I have two problems right now: my car will not start, and I am a bridesmaid. The two are not directly related, but at the moment, both remain in the forefront of my mind.

My ears fill with the droning sound of the car horn as I press my head against it. I’m not even looking at the ignition as I turn the key again only to be greeted by a sad engine sputtering then moaning its way into death. It doesn’t help that I’m in the summer heat of the South, sweating like a prepubescent boy who just watched porn for the first time. I might even be just as anxious as one.

On the bright side, I’m fairly sure any wrinkles in my bridesmaid dress hanging in the back seat are being steamed out. At least there’s that. Do I have the body to pull off the dress? Maybe. Would I normally be self-conscious about it? Not really. I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman with no more time to waste on the whole ‘body image issue’ thing, thank you very much—at least that’s the mantra I repeat every morning in the mirror, God save my soul.

I digress. Here is the million-dollar question: Am I nervous because I want a certain someone to fantasize about me in that saucy dress?

Boy, does that deserve more of an explanation.

In less than twenty-four hours, I will lay eyes on Ian Chambers, a man I haven’t seen in eight months and was relieved to be rid of once he put in his two weeks’ notice earlier this year. Eight months of no snarky comments from his gorgeous mouth, no drooling over his well-fitted suits, and no constant anxiety that the one man I almost fell for will tempt me to fall again.

But, of course, he’s the best man at this wedding, and I am a bridesmaid. Lucky me.

Sometimes I wonder if we’re not being haunted by ghosts or poltergeists, but instead the spirits of those who spent their life enjoying soap operas. These particular ghosts must be working with the powers that be to engineer my worst possible reality. I’m convinced.

I crank the engine again and both my car and I make pathetic noises. I’m not sure if I’m mocking it or it’s mocking me. I move my pink rabbit’s foot keychain out of the way. Maybe the fur is blocking the ignition? Or maybe this is my punishment for still coveting an ancient item from the 90s, specifically one that was gifted to me by he-who-must-not-be-named.

Trust me, I wish I meant Voldemort.

My brother came over today so I could make him coffee one last time before I leave for the next week. Since he lives only ten minutes away, he always swings by my house in the morning to collect his to-go cup with one or two of my homemade cookies. He’s normally running behind, but this morning I begged him to come early and take a look at my car. It was something along the lines of, “Please, Harry, you mechanic superstar of a man, this is a horrible start to my so-called vacation, and I might die. Help me, help me, help me!” I think using my older sister card worked as I continued to spew my pleas. That or he just felt sorry for me.

After a few seconds under the hood, Harry scratches his chin—leaving behind a five o’clock grease shadow—and concludes, “Yeah, it might be toast, Nia.”

“Is that an official diagnosis?” I shoot at him from the front seat, turning the key over again while he nods solemnly as if wishing the car its best in the afterlife. “Well, great.” I toss my head back. “Just great. I was supposed to be on my way to Florida thirty minutes ago.”

Harry shrugs, putting his hands in his coveralls and leaning against the bare garage wall. He’s a big man, blond like myself but with unruly hair that wings out from under his baseball cap, which is embroidered with the words Smith Mechanics . He’s five years younger than me and just the right kind of chill. I’ve heard his mantra of Whatever happens, happens too many times in my life, and I’m sure he’s applying that to my current situation. My opposing Type A personality refuses to see this as anything other than something I can’t control. I hate things I can’t control.

I step out of my car and swipe through my apps, sending a text to the bride to let her know I’m running late and may not make it to the beach at the intended time.

I get a reply immediately.

Grace: We haven’t left yet if you want a ride! We’re at our place. Cameron is taking his sweet time as always and the dogs need to be walked again.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

Nia: Give me thirty minutes and I’ll be there.

I slam my car door and walk past Harry into the kitchen.

“Hey, can you give me a ride to Grace’s house?” I ask, trying to put on my best puppy-dog eyes. “She offered to drive me down to Florida.”

“Late for work. Sorry, Nia.”

“You own the shop. What’s the point of self-employment if you can’t bend the rules?”

“Are you trying to put my business in the hole?”

I let out a sound that’s a mix between a whine and a groan. Harry chuckles.

I order a rideshare service only to be told by the app that they’re fifteen minutes away. Are you kidding me?

Harry picks up one of my homemade cookies on the counter on his stroll into the kitchen, bending down to hand a crumb to my cat, Jiggy, who gingerly sniffs it. I instinctively turn on my heel and walk back to shut the garage door while also snatching the crumb.

“She doesn’t get human food.”

“Spoilsport.”

Exhaling and placing my phone on the counter, I take my bags and place them near the door so I won’t forget. I can’t think of anything else to do with my hands while I wait. I feel uncomfortable not being productive.

“I’ll be back next week,” I say, running my hands down my skirt to smooth it out. “Have Mom and Dad been grocery shopping yet?”

My brother takes a bite of another cookie then hops up on the counter. One snap of my fingers and he quickly hops right back down with a crumb-filled smile, instead bending to stroke Jiggy, whose actions might make you assume she’s eternally attention-deprived.

“They’re adults,” Harry says in between bites. “Plus, they have me.”

Sure. Adults . In their older age, my parents have fully adopted a hippie lifestyle. They’ve started sporting hemp clothing, growing questionably legal plants, and constantly burning candles they forget to blow out before bed. It’s a blessing in disguise that my brother, at the ripe age of 30, hasn’t ever moved out, though his mechanic shop in town is finally turning a profit and soon he will move out and they’ll be left to their own devices. For now, though, my parents love his companionship and having their granddaughter under their roof, so it all worked out in the end. Plus, with four of their six kids spread out across the country, I’m sure they’re thankful to have one only a couple thresholds away from their living room and another only ten minutes down the road.

I exhale, nod to myself, and check my bags once more.

“Hey Tasmanian devil, you’re doing that thing where you act crazy again,” Harry says, finishing off his cookie and slapping his hands together.

I am. I am nonstop-pacing-around-crazy-pants.

And why is that? Because of one, specific, no-good, charming lawyer.

“I’m seeing Ian,” I blurt out, clearing my throat. There’s a small silence before Harry laughs and I rush to the fridge, throwing my head in and inhaling the cool air. “Need more coffee? Creamer, maybe?” I pull out the carton and place it on the counter.

“You’re seeing Ian?” he asks.

My brother is calm, not at all trying to avoid the subject I just broached but also not even remotely as anxious about it as I am. And why would he be? He’s not the person who is constantly wishy-washy about the gorgeous lawyer.

Ian, the man who got away…sort of.

“He’s the best man at the wedding,” I say. “And it means nothing. Obviously.”

I’m a liar. I’m such a liar. I’ve been dreading this week for months.

“Sure, that’s why you just brought it up—because it’s nothing. I bring up nothing topics all the time, like how the other day Cara learned the word ‘sensual.’”

“She’s five.” I pause, cringing at the thought of how in the world my niece might have learned that word. “Well, if you’re trying to distract me, you’re doing a good job.”

“Oh no, I just wanted to tell you how silly your problems seem.”

“Your humor isn’t hitting today,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

“Yet somehow I feel like it is.”

I put back the creamer I pulled from the fridge without pouring any. I turn off the coffee pot and glance at my rideshare app. Ten minutes away.

“Are you going to be okay?” Harry asks me. It’s a good question and one I don’t have an answer to. There isn’t a giant cartoon piano crashing on top of me, so that’s good. Could be worse.

“I’m an adult,” I answer, speaking more to myself than him. I straighten my spine. “I can handle myself. Plus, I have a whole eight-hour car ride before I see him. I can build up all the comebacks I want during that time.”

“I thought the proper phrase for this situation was ‘kill them with kindness.’”

“I’d rather use a knife.”

Harry leaves shortly after, giving me a few words of encouragement as he goes. I tell him to give my niece some love, and then I’m left with my bags, my dress, and my useless car. I check my phone again, willing it to provide an update for my ride. Nothing. Nada. I walk past my dead vehicle—not even stopping to pat it and mourn my loss—and pace my driveway, pressing a button on my keys to close the garage door behind me.

So, let me correct myself. I have three problems right now: my car is trashed, I’m attending a wedding, and my patience is wearing thin.

When my ride picks me up, I take advantage of the free time to answer emails. It’s the usual suspects for a human resources manager like myself: applications for open roles, questions regarding budgetary concerns I presented, and another extended leave of absence request.

You see a lot in my field of work—horrible harassment claims, arguments regarding policies, people who can’t read an email to save their life—but then there’s also the good side like those who request to be more involved with volunteering or people who finish their trainings on time. I love those people, and despite the mixed bag, I absolutely love my job and my career. The people are what keep it interesting—people like Ian Chambers.

Ian was the most entertaining. He fell right in the middle of good and bad: kind, competent at his job, but also consistently going days without answering an email. I think he might have set up a filter to route HR emails to a junk folder, but that’s just my own theory. Knowing him, he did it as a joke and then forgot about it.

Okay, calm down, Nia.

I need to stop thinking about him. I have to see him for an entire week, and I need to cherish this time alone. Find my center. My zen .

I make it to Cameron and Grace’s house, where I find the both of them leaning against his black Jeep Wrangler, hand in hand, looking positively power-couple-like. I don’t even think Cupid himself could have arranged a more compatible duo. With Grace’s bright red hair and Cameron’s dimpled grin, they’re the epitome of sunshine, rainbows, and unicorn happiness.

The two of them met in a whirlwind office romance two years ago when Grace first started at the company. My hypocritical opinion of Grace as some office floozy didn’t change until she was promoted to a management position and we worked together more closely. Seeing as I’ve spent years imagining what Ian looks like without his clothes on, it was slightly unfair to have judged her for seeing out her own fantasy. As it turns out, Grace is funny and motivated, and now, somehow, I’m one of her bridesmaids. Funny how life works out.

I yank my bags out of this random person’s car and haphazardly try to both thank him and snatch my hanging bridesmaid dress from the back. Come here, you slinky piece of fabric.

“I’m sorry for being late,” I say, out of breath from the humidity that makes the few feet I’ve walked feel like wading through an Olympic-sized swimming pool.

“Don’t worry about it!” Grace says. “We’re still waiting anyway.”

I reach up to put my hair in a top knot, securing it in place to provide some relief against the brutal heat. Cameron loads my stuff in the back of the car, and when I reach out to help him, he waves me away with a smile.

“Thanks, Cam,” I say. I look at the trunk, filled with bags, and the three of us just standing here. One, two, three. “Aren’t we all here?” I ask. “What are we waiting for?”

In that moment, as if I just summoned a demon by saying its name three times, a jet-black Audi whips around the corner, engine revving with the sound of a smooth, well-made vehicle. This car represents confidence and class, and the man who opens the door reflects its very nature.

He’s tall, towering well over six feet, and he maintains the figure of a dedicated swimmer: broad shoulders and all muscle. He wears a plain black t-shirt, and the simplicity suits him. He has pitch-black hair that’s slightly curled at the ends, and I know from years of seeing this man daily that it’s at the best length it can be; any longer and it just gets curlier and bigger . His eyebrows are thick but in a groomed kind of way, and a sliver of the left one is missing, obscured by the tiniest of scars. Apart from how he exudes the charm of a man born into wealth, his entire look still screams bad boy from the wrong side of the tracks .

And then I see them: his piercing, ice blue eyes, which now peek out above the sunglasses he’s lowered to get a good look at me. I’m used to seeing him in glasses, but I much appreciate the change to contacts.

No. No, no, no. I cannot be admiring him already.

I officially now have four problems: my car is sitting in my driveway like a heaping pile of hot summer garbage, I have a red dress in my hand that is begging for some form of cleavage I cannot provide, my impatience has reached an all-time high, and I’m face to face with my worst enemy: Ian Chambers.