Every Little Thing

  Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author

  SAMANTHA YOUNG

  “This is a really sexy book and I loved the heroine’s journey to find herself and grow strong. Highly recommend this one.”

  —USAToday.com

  “Will knock your socks off . . . [an] unforgettable love story.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Humor, heartbreak, drama, and passion.”

  —The Reading Cafe

  “Truly enjoyable . . . a really satisfying love story.”

  —Dear Author

  “[Samantha Young’s] enchanting couples and delicious romances make her books an autobuy.”

  —Smexy Books

  “Hot, bittersweet, intense . . . sensual, with witty banter, angst, heartbreaking moments, and a love story you cannot help but embrace.”

  —Caffeinated Book Reviewer

  “Filled with heart, passion, intensity, conflict, and emotion.”

  —Literary Cravings

  “[Young] is a goddess when it comes to writing hot scenes.”

  —Once Upon a Twilight

  “Ms. Young dives deep into the psyche of what makes a person tick emotionally . . . [The] one thing you can count on from Ms. Young is some of the best, steamy, sexual chemistry.”

  —Fiction Vixen

  “Smart and sexy, Young writes stories that stay with you long after you flip that last page.”

  —Under the Covers

  “Charismatic characters, witty dialogue, blazing-hot sex scenes, and real-life issues make this book an easy one to devour. Samantha Young is not an author you should miss out on!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Also by Samantha Young

  HERO

  The On Dublin Street Series

  ON DUBLIN STREET

  DOWN LONDON ROAD

  BEFORE JAMAICA LANE

  FALL FROM INDIA PLACE

  ECHOES OF SCOTLAND STREET

  MOONLIGHT ON NIGHTINGALE WAY

  CASTLE HILL (novella)

  UNTIL FOUNTAIN BRIDGE (novella)

  ONE KING’S WAY (novella)

  The Hart’s Boardwalk Series

  THE ONE REAL THING

  BERKLEY SENSATION

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Samantha Young

  Excerpt from The One Real Thing by Samantha Young copyright © 2017 by Samantha Young

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and BERKLEY SENSATION are registered trademarks and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Young, Samantha, author.

  Title: Every little thing / Samantha Young.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Berkley Sensation, 2017. | Series: Hart’s Boardwalk ; 2

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016041980 (print) | LCCN 2016044735 (ebook) | ISBN 9781101991695 (softcover) | ISBN 9781101991701

  Subjects: LCSH: Man-woman relationships—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Romance / Contemporary. | FICTION / Contemporary Women. | FICTION / Romance / General. | GSAFD: Love stories.

  Classification: LCC PR6125.O943 E94 2017 (print) | LCC PR6125.O943 (ebook) |

  DDC 823/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016041980

  First Edition: March 2017

  Beach at sunset © Alberto Biscaro/Masterfile/Corbis

  Cover design by Alana Colucci

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For my nephew Mason.

  I was writing this book when you were born,

  so this one is for you.

  But when you’re older don’t read past this dedication . . .

  because that would be weird for me.

  I love you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My mum was the first person to read a draft of book one in the Hart’s Boardwalk series and the first thing she said after reading it was, “Are Bailey and Vaughn getting a story? Are you writing it now? When can I read it?”

  I knew from the moment I introduced Bailey and Vaughn on the page that their story would be next, and I want to thank you, Mum, for making me confident in my instincts, but mostly for your honesty and for loving my books . . . even though you’re Stephen King’s number one fan. Not exactly my target audience. It means a lot to me that you are genuinely swept up in my worlds.

  Like every writer I get writer’s block but it usually passes within a few days. Just as I was starting to write EVERY LITTLE THING I got hit by the worst case of writer’s block I’ve ever had. It lasted weeks. Perhaps it was because I turned thirty years old during the writing of it, who knows! All I know is that it took my friends, my family, my agent, and the two very insistent voices of Bailey and Vaughn to pull me through it. A massive thanks to the aforementioned non-fictional people for your unwavering support while I was a frantic, frustrated artist.

  On that note, as always, a massive thank-you to my agent, Lauren Abramo, who provides me with a never-ending well of support and advice; and is an exceptional brainstorming partner.

  As is my wonderful editor at Berkley, Kerry Donovan. Thank you for working so hard on this book with me, Kerry. It truly is the best possible version of itself because of your amazing insight. You get me! I love being part of your team.

  Moreover, thank you to the fantastic team at Berkley, including my publicist, Jessica Brock; and the art team for creating another stunning cover for this series.

  A huge thank-you to my UK team at Piatkus, including my editor Anna Boatman, for all their support and enthusiasm for the series. It is so appreciated! And thank you, too, to the art team, for the beautiful cover for the UK edition.

  Finally, the biggest thank-you of all:

  To you, my reader.

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Samantha Young

  Also by Samantha Young

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Ch
apter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The One Real Thing

  ONE

  Vaughn

  The early morning was dull, the waves a little rougher, a little more hurried than usual as they rushed the shore, and gulls flew above in a sky that matched the water perfectly in its melancholic gray.

  Behind the floor-to-ceiling glass of his penthouse suite Vaughn stared out from his boardwalk hotel at the scene and thought how it wasn’t whole without his other senses in play. The boardwalk below, the beach, the ocean, it all seemed but a moving picture. The reality of it was in the caws of the gulls he couldn’t hear behind his expensive triple glazing. The reality of it was in the smells beyond the window—the salt air, the hot dogs, burgers, and the warm sweetness of cotton candy.

  That’s what made his boardwalk feel like home.

  Home.

  Hmm.

  He’d come to Hartwell to escape the ugliness he’d left behind in Manhattan. Hartwell was peaceful. Although it had thousands of tourists pouring in every summer, and there was always some kind of festival or celebration going on, there was a tranquility here that crowds of people couldn’t diminish.

  Vaughn had needed that serenity. The plan was to soak up all that peace until the time came for him to go back to the center of his business operations in New York.

  Somewhere along the way, Hartwell changed from a refuge to home.

  Home is where the heart is.

  His gaze wandered back outside to the stillness of the boardwalk, and to his utter frustration his heart jumped in his chest at a glimpse of bright auburn hair. He leaned forward to get a better look.

  Sure enough.

  It was her.

  Bailey.

  She strode down the boardwalk from the direction of her own establishment, Hart’s Inn, her long hair blowing in the wind. Vaughn pressed closer to the glass, trying to get a better look, but it was impossible from this height.

  All he could make out were the jeans she wore tucked into brown ankle boots and the green sweater that was far too thin to be worn this early in the morning.

  He frowned. The woman needed to buy a goddamn jacket.

  She smiled and he caught sight of her neighbor Iris approaching her. For a moment he envied Iris that smile. It was hard to resist Bailey Hartwell’s smile. It had an effect on people.

  On him.

  Unfortunately.

  Especially since he couldn’t recall a time when that smile had ever been directed at him.

  Bailey followed Iris out of his line of sight.

  He tried to follow them and smacked his head off the glass. “Fuck.” Vaughn rubbed at his forehead and turned away from the window.

  His eyes were drawn to the huge bed across the room where a slender redhead whose name he couldn’t remember was lying sleeping.

  One immediate problem was that he saw Bailey everywhere.

  He even saw her in other women despite his best efforts to channel his attention elsewhere.

  Ignoring the growing ache of longing in his chest, a half-dressed Vaughn took the white shirt that had been pressed and hung up for him off the hanger and shrugged it on. Then he chose a blue silk tie from his collection. His waistcoat and jacket followed suit. Dressed for the day, he strolled over to the bed and leaned down to nudge the redhead awake. She groaned and opened her eyes and instead of clear green eyes that made his blood burn, brown ones stared up at him.

  “Time to leave.” He walked away without looking back.

  TWO

  Bailey

  I was on a mission.

  A mission to cross the distance that suddenly stretched between my boyfriend Tom and me. Ten years we’d been dating. It was safe to conclude that we’d hit a rough patch.

  But when your guy pushed you off him in bed because he was too tired to have sex then there was a problem.

  I aimed to fix that problem.

  First I yelled at him a lot and called him an asshole, because, seriously, asshole move.

  Then I calmed down and I started to think. To plan. To fix the situation.

  With sexy lingerie and a raincoat.

  First I needed the sexy lingerie. I had a few pieces of hot underwear in my closet but Tom had seen them. I wanted to dazzle him with something new.

  Sherry’s Trousseau just off Main Street was an expensive little boutique but none of the other stores or the mall near Dover sold anything as nice as Sherry’s. The only issue with buying lingerie in a small town, however, was the fact that anyone in the store, including Sherry, knew I was planning on getting lucky sometime soon, and had no qualms bringing up the subject like they had a right to the details of my sex life.

  “Tom will have a lot of fun taking those off.” Sherry rang up the red silk bra, panties, matching garters, and sheer silk stockings. I had a pair of red stilettos I planned on wearing with them.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Here’s hoping he’ll explode all over me with excitement.”

  I grinned to myself as I left the store, savoring Sherry’s blushing mortification.

  Apparently it was okay for her to discuss my man touching my lingerie but not okay for me to discuss the consequences of such an act. Oh well. She should have been used to my inappropriate responses by now. It’s how I survived small-town life. I said what I was thinking, no filter, and I beat nosy busybodies at their own game by divulging too much information.

  It was fun.

  I glanced back toward the shop to see if she was sharing her shock over what I’d said with Ellen Luther, the only other customer in the shop at that moment, and—

  “Oof!” Pain shot up my jaw as I collided with something hard that knocked me off balance. The movement caused the paper bag with my lingerie in it to swing, and the thin handle snapped with the force, sending my new purchases scattering all over the pavement.

  I stared down at it in surprise as my jaw throbbed. And then I caught sight of the shoes at the edge of the scene.

  Polished to a shine.

  Black leather Derby shoes.

  I’d bet everything I had they were Prada.

  And there was only one man in Hartwell who wore designer like it was made especially for him.

  My heart sank as I lifted my gaze.

  Sure enough, staring down at my new underwear like he was staring at a lamppost, or something equally mundane, was Vaughn Tremaine.

  Now my whole body thrummed along with the throb in my jaw where I’d collided with one of his broad shoulders. As always he wore a tailored three-piece suit that fit him beautifully.

  I watched in horror as he unbuttoned his jacket and lowered to his haunches to pick up my underwear. If it had been anyone else reaching for those items I wouldn’t have cared less. But Vaughn Tremaine wasn’t just anyone.

  With my new bra dangling in his clutches he looked up and quirked an eyebrow my way.

  Not for the first time I found myself squirming under his steel-gray gaze.

  Silence stretched between us as we stared at one another and I fought the urge to abandon my stuff and run off in the opposite direction away from him. The problem was—well there were a number of problems with Vaughn Tremaine—the fact that a) he was much too attractive for his own good and b) unlike anyone else, he had the ability to make me feel insecure.

  Right now, for instance, as much as I didn’t want the thought in my head I couldn’t help but note how unaffected he appeared at holding my sexy underwear in his hand.

  I was as attractive as a limp noodle to him.

  And it shouldn’t bother me.

  The man was a jerk.

  “Looks like Tom is in for an interesting evening.” Vaughn held the bra up toward me.

  I snatched it from him, my cheeks bla
zing. Clearly karma was getting back at me for what I’d said to Sherry. As he reached for the panties and garter I snapped, “Leave it.”

  “But I’m already down here.” He ignored my demand as he collected the broken bag and carefully placed the underwear back inside. As he stood up Vaughn handed me the bag.

  In my angry embarrassment I leaned in to yank it from him, only to stumble as I did so. Vaughn moved to steady me, his strong fingers curling around my bicep. His touch panicked me and I jerked away, scowling at him.

  Perhaps a year ago I wouldn’t have scowled so hard at him.

  I would have scowled for sure, but maybe not so emphatically.

  Up until last summer our interactions had always been antagonistic because from the day we met Vaughn had made me feel I was the uneducated provincial to his superior cosmopolitan self. He did this by mocking me, mocking Tom, and I didn’t like it. He was no better than me.

  Admittedly, however, there was a certain amount of fun in teasing and mocking him back. That is until last summer, when during one of our many verbal battles he’d out and out said that he disliked me in front of Jess and everyone else whose opinion I valued. And okay, I might have deserved a harsh retaliation because I’d been particularly bitchy to him that day because of an argument I’d had with Tom . . . but . . . well . . .

  The son of a bitch had hurt my feelings, and that was unforgiveable.

  “As ever the gentleman, Tremaine.”

  “Helping you retrieve your belongings was gentlemanly, I thought.”

  “No—the gentlemanly thing to do would have been to assess the situation, realize that touching a lady’s unmentionables is ungentlemanly, ignore said unmentionables, and go merrily on your way while I tried to inconspicuously recover the unmentionables.”

  The right corner of his mouth tilted up in amusement. “You’ve never crossed me as the shy and retiring type, Miss Hartwell. I wouldn’t have thought my seeing your panties would get them in such a twist.”

  “Ha, clever.” I ignored him calling me Miss Hartwell. Or I attempted to. I never wanted him to know how much it bugged me that he never called me by my name. In retaliation I never referred to him out loud as anything but Tremaine.