Tucked away in the Georgia pines, our little town runs on sweet tea, porch gossip, and the belief that love has a way of finding folks right where they belong. Around here, hearts mend over pie at the Peach Pit Café, secrets slip quicker than honey through Miss Vi’s lips, and second chances are just as common as church potlucks.

The Hearts of Briar Creek series brings you stories full of Southern charm, family ties, and romance that’ll make you laugh, swoon, and maybe even tear up a little. Because in Briar Creek, love isn’t just in the air—it’s stitched into the very soul of the town.

Chapter One’s on the house. “Read that excerpt, then go on and hit preorder, sugar.

© 2025 B.K. Stubblefield. All rights reserved.

This excerpt is provided for personal use only and may not be reproduced, distributed, or used in any form without prior written permission from the author.



Lila Hart rolled into Briar Creek just after sunrise, tires crackling over gravel in the Peach Pit’s parking lot. She swung open the car door and stepped straight into a thick wall of early July heat, already making her regret the jeans. Then again, she hadn’t dressed for comfort when she stormed out of her apartment at 2 a.m.

She hadn’t planned this trip. Not unless a midnight meltdown and three cups of truck stop coffee counted as planning. But she wasn't here to fall apart. She came to check on Aunt Mae, avoid Blake Chandler, and leave with her dignity intact.

Two outta three would be a win.

She'd driven half the night on impulse, gas station coffee, and a trunk full of second thoughts. The playlist had started cheerful and ended moody, and somewhere near the state line, she'd killed it altogether.

Morning light spilled over the storefronts like honey. The awning above the flower shop fluttered in the breeze, and a chalkboard out front boasted, "Hydrangeas & Hometown Hope—$5 a stem." American flags lined the main drag from the holiday parade two weeks ago, a little faded but still proud. A golden retriever snoozed on the barbershop stoop, clearly convinced the whole street was his. Everything had that sun-warmed, postcard quality she remembered—brighter in some places, comfortably worn in others.

The town looked the same. That was the worst part. It had waited for her. Or even worse, hadn't even noticed she'd left.

The Peach Pit Café still wore its peach-colored paint and white trim, neat and familiar. The porch railing had a new crack. The flower boxes looked tired. But it still stood. So did she.

The screen door let out its usual creak, part welcome, part warning as Lila squared her shoulders, pulled it open, and stepped inside.

The scent hit first. Cinnamon, butter, a little bacon grease. Her throat tightened, but she ignored it. She wasn't here for old times' sake. She was here because corporate mergers and severance packages didn't leave a girl many options. A month, maybe a little longer if she was careful with her savings. Long enough to catch her breath, dodge her past, and figure out what came next.

"Lila Jean Hart," a voice called from a corner booth, "as I live and breathe."

Miss Vi. Still drinking coffee with one earring missing and her hair piled high in that signature twist she'd worn for as long as Lila could remember, full of opinions and even more gossip. She sipped slowly, watching Lila over the rim of her mug, a slow smile forming as if she'd just hit bingo on a gossip card. A look that said, I knew you'd be back before summer ended. It made Lila want to turn right back around.

"Morning, Miss Vi," she said instead, sliding her sunglasses onto her head.

Vi's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Didn't expect to see you before the breakfast special ran out. Must be a day for surprises."

Lila offered her best polite smile. "Just here to check on my aunt."

"Uh-huh," Vi said. "And I'm just here for the caffeine."

Lila moved toward the kitchen before the woman could launch into a full interrogation.

"Shame about the Pritchard place," Vi added loud enough for half the cafe to hear. "Course, Blake Chandler's making it shine again. Got himself a crew now. Fancy tools. Heard he even got new work boots."

Lila didn't take the bait. She pushed through the kitchen door, seeking refuge in familiar chaos. Same crack in the linoleum by the prep counter, still wearing that sad strip of duct tape like a bandage. Mae's handwriting flowing across the chalkboard menu in those slanted, confident strokes—everything exactly where it had always been, as if eight years were nothing more than a long weekend.

The kitchen door swung open before Lila reached it.

Aunt Mae looked up, startled. Her eyes widened, then softened with recognition as she crossed the kitchen in three brisk steps and pulled Lila into a hug. She looked a little thinner than last year, maybe a little grayer, but her hug was solid and tight.

"Didn't mean to show up unannounced," Lila mumbled into her shoulder.

Mae pulled back just enough to study her, taking in the shadows under Lila's eyes and the way her blouse hung a little looser than it should. "You picked a fine time. I was just saying this kitchen could use a Hart in it."

They stood like that a moment. Then Mae stepped back, her weathered hands still gentle on Lila's shoulders.

"You running from something or just finally remembered your roots?"

Lila laughed, short and brittle. "Company got bought out. The merger meant my job disappeared overnight." Her gaze flicked away, then back with a tired smile. "Seemed like a good time to visit family. I won't be in the way. Just a month or so, till I figure out what's next."

Mae gave her a look that said she heard everything Lila wasn't saying. "You saying you're jobless, tired, and full of questions?"

Lila's smile twitched. "Don't make it sound so romantic."

"Well," Mae said, stepping back through the swing door and toward the stove, "take all the time you need. No one's keeping score but you." She turned off the burner under a pot of grits and wiped her hands on her apron, like she hadn't just poked straight through Lila's emotional armor.

The scent was enough to make Lila's stomach growl—a reminder that truck stop vending machines didn't count as dinner.

"Still the same old breakfast menu?" Lila asked, leaning against the counter, arms crossed as she watched her aunt work.

"Mostly. Tourists want fancier names for the same three ingredients, so I call the sausage biscuit 'Mae's Morning Stack' now. Don't let it go to your head, but it's a bestseller."

Lila smiled despite herself. "You always did know how to market better than the rest of us."

"Shame you had to leave town to figure that out," Mae said, not unkindly.

The silence stretched a beat too long.

Mae sighed and wiped her hands on her apron. "Truth is, I've been thinking about cutting back a few days. My hip's not what it used to be, and we've had a hard time keeping part-timers. Folks mean well, but they don't stick."

"You thinking of selling?"

Mae gave a half-shrug. "Thought about it once, back when the Gazette did a little write-up on our bread pudding? Made me sentimental. And I'm stubborn. You know that."

Lila nodded. She knew all about it. Guilt, warm and thick, started to settle in her throat.

She reached for the stack of fresh napkins near the sink, more out of habit than anything else, and started folding them. Her hands remembered the motion—crisp edges, neat corners. Some muscle memory ran deeper than years away.

"You still doing the peach muffins with the sugar crust?"

"Only on Tuesdays," Mae said. "But I might make an exception."

They worked in comfortable silence for a bit, the kitchen warm with clinks and sizzles and the low hum of the refrigerator. It wasn't much, but it felt right. Like home if you squinted.

"Remember when you burned a whole tray 'cause you got distracted by that boy at the counter?" Mae added, glancing up from her work.

Lila's hands stilled for just a moment. "Wasn't just any boy."

"Mm-hmm. And you still never replaced that pan."

Mae's tone stayed light, but Lila caught the knowing look in her eyes. Some things didn't need to be said outright in a kitchen where Mae had watched every teenage heartbreak play out over biscuits and coffee.

"I can help while I'm here," Lila said softly. "If you need it."

Mae didn't say thank you. She just reached for another egg and cracked it clean with one hand. "Good. We open at seven sharp tomorrow."

Lila let out a long breath. A part of her had expected pushback—or at least some pointed questions about why she'd stayed away so long. But this? Being welcomed like she never left? That was almost harder.

***

Upstairs, Lila stepped into the familiar room and flipped on the ceiling fan. Wood polish and cedar chest memories hung in the air. She dropped her suitcase just inside the door, watching the lace curtain flutter in the fan's gentle breeze. The little dish of dried lavender on the windowsill caught her eye—same spot, same shape, though the scent had long faded.

Her gaze drifted to the bookshelf. There it was, wedged between a cookbook and a snow globe from Gatlinburg—her high school yearbook, exactly where she'd left it eight years ago. She touched the spine, hesitated, then pulled it free. The book felt heavier than she remembered. As she turned it over in her hands, a photo slipped from behind the back cover and drifted to the floor.

She picked it up slowly.

It was from the Fall Festival senior year. She and Blake stood side by side, grinning like fools, his arm slung around her shoulders, her head tipped toward his chest. She could still hear the fiddle music, feel the crunch of hay under her boots.

Lila flipped the photo over.

"Next year's prom, you and me—B"

That festival hadn't crossed her mind in years. But now the memory hovered. Warm cider, Blake's arm around her, the reckless promise of forever when forever was still small enough to fit inside a town like this.

They'd planned everything that night. Senior prom, college plans, road trips. She told herself she'd forgotten. Clearly, she didn’t.

A dozen different scenarios played in her mind, but the heavy, suffocating silence wasn't what she had envisioned for their ending. It had just been the easiest one to live with. Back then, she figured time would fix it all. That the distance would turn sharp memories dull.

It hadn't.

She blinked fast, then tucked the photo back between the pages and shoved the yearbook deep behind the stack. Some things didn't belong out in the open.

Turning away from the shelf, she let her gaze sweep the small, familiar space.

Same twin bed. Same view of the church steeple over the rooftops. She dropped onto the edge of the bed, her shoulders sinking as the quiet settled around her.

She had told no one she was coming. Not Aunt Mae. Not Blake.

Especially not Blake.

She lay back and stared at the ceiling, one hand resting over her stomach, the other tucked under her head.

The ceiling fan clicked softly above her. Outside, the sound of a lawn mower started up somewhere in the neighborhood. Familiar. Simple.

And dangerous.

The longer she stayed, the more she'd remember why leaving was the only thing that had ever felt impossible. And why staying might be worse.

And Blake? She'd deal with him if she had to. But only if she had to.

She closed her eyes for a second. Long enough to wonder how long it would take before he learned she was back. And realized she didn't have a plan for that either. Not really. She'd told Mae she'd stay a month, maybe longer. Truth was, she didn't know what came next. Atlanta wasn't calling her back. No one was.

She needed clarity. Direction. Not a broken promise disguised as a fresh start.

She wasn't here to fall apart. But God help her, it wouldn't take much.

End of Chapter

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