Here Comes Trouble Read online

  What happened next? she wondered. Was that it? A casual, if mind-blowing, fling? Did he hop on his bike now and head out to parts unknown, never to be seen again? Much less go to bed with. Or…did he stay? And, if he did…then what? How did she act? How should she feel? More importantly, how would she feel? She drummed her pencil eraser on the yellow lined paper. She didn’t know what to do with what she’d done. She supposed she’d always assumed her casual lover assignation, when she’d finally had one, wouldn’t be at the inn but somewhere else. That she’d come back, resume her life, then decide if and when she would see the guy again. Control. Calling the shots.

  She laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “Yeah, I’m in control all right.” He was under her roof and very admittedly already under her skin. She sucked at casual. One time—okay, technically two times—and she was already spending way too much time thinking about him. All of her time, actually.

  Not that she had much to distract her, Kirby argued silently. After all, it was the most exciting thing that had happened since…well since she’d almost killed herself falling out of her own tree, but before that? In a very, very, far too many verys, long time. Naturally she was going to think about it, ponder it, analyze it. She felt the weight of her cell phone in her hoodie pocket and was tempted, for about two seconds, to call Aunt Frieda. Frieda wasn’t her actual aunt. Kirby had no idea if she had actual blood relatives left anywhere. Frieda, who had worked at the resort and taken Kirby in when she was sixteen and had left her most recent foster family when they’d told her they were packing up and moving to Texas.

  Frieda had been one in a long line of resort folks who had kind of adopted her after her biological mother, a teenager working at the resort, had left her in the manager’s office with a note pinned to her onesie and taken off for parts unknown. She’d bounced in and out of foster homes and state-funded homes, but had always stuck around the resort because that was really home to her. Frieda had let her stick around until she finished her college degrees, and had become as close as anyone had ever come to being Kirby’s family. Longest she’d ever stayed in one place, that was for sure.

  But while Frieda was solidly supportive of Kirby’s goals, and proud of the career she’d launched after graduation, and the business she was trying to start now, she hadn’t been a huge fan of Kirby’s relationship with Patrick. Given the way it had ended, clearly Frieda had been the better judge of character. So Kirby couldn’t quite imagine how she’d start a phone conversation that needed to be steered in the direction of how she’d had wildly satisfying animal sex in her own kitchen with a virtual stranger. Who happened, apparently, to be kind of famous. If you liked poker. And was also maybe filthy rich.

  Of course, Patrick hadn’t exactly been hurting, but this was a different scale and sort of wealth. At least so she imagined given what Thad had said. Patrick was born into money, but he always seemed to have all of his ready assets tied up in this investment scheme or that new development deal. She had no doubt he’d always be successful as he was a born wheeler and dealer. Why she hadn’t realized that skill would naturally extend from the boardroom to the bedroom, she had no idea.

  Complete naïveté where men were concerned was only a partial excuse for her inability to see what had always been right in front of her face. She supposed it had more to do with her wanting what she’d never had. Stability, a family, someone she could truly count on. A foundation. And in her mind, the older, more mature, well-established Patrick was easily all those things. And he’d chosen her.

  She sighed and thought again about the man who was sleeping right now on the top floor of her inn. Brett hadn’t chosen her, he’d just taken advantage of an opportunity. As had she. She had no idea if he was stable or wise, or what he did with his earnings, much less what had put him in such a quandary that he’d taken off on his motorcycle and headed out for parts unknown. Certainly if she was looking for stable and steady, a new foundation, so to speak…he certainly didn’t seem like a very wise candidate. But then, on paper, Patrick had been perfect.

  And Patrick had never once made her feel so…understood. Not in the way Brett had within their first five minutes talking to one another. Possibly merely a side effect of launching a relationship with one of them rescuing the other from a near-death experience, but that instant intimacy couldn’t be completely discounted, either. She’d had a more frank, open, and intimate conversation within a day of knowing him than she’d had with…well, pretty much anybody, save Aunt Frieda. In years. Even where Patrick was concerned. Not that she hadn’t been open with him, but she realized now, after seeing the intent way that Brett focused and truly listened, that Patrick hadn’t been paying the least bit of attention to her. Not really. Other than as he had to do to get her to do whatever he wanted.

  “Damn, I was a pathetic idiot, wasn’t I?” It was a rhetorical question. She just wished she could be more certain of the decisions she was making right now. It was a bit disconcerting, more than a bit really, to realize that even after everything she’d been through, both with Patrick and with launching the inn, there were still going to be things she had no clue how to deal with.

  Which, of course, would all resolve itself when Brett got on his bike and rode right out of her life. But what she did between now and then could matter afterward. And moving forward. Why make more stupid mistakes if they could be avoided?

  She glanced at the house and wished she could convince herself that continuing to mess around with Brett Hennessey wasn’t going to be a mistake.

  The fact that she’d cried—cried, for God’s sake—in the shower was proof enough she couldn’t handle this…whatever the hell it was. It certainly didn’t feel casual, but what the hell else could it really be? Sure, it was understandable to get emotional. She was forty years old, and Brett Hennessey was only the second man she’d ever let—who’d ever really touched—ever gone—the first to truly…She closed her eyes.

  Yeah. It was understandable.

  She opened her eyes again and forced her attention back to the legal pad. Did she want vegetables? Or just flowers? Was she willing to do the work to have fresh tomatoes on her table? She decided she was. But mostly she wanted flowers. Aunt Frieda had taught her the joy to be found in planting with her own hands, growing things in the dirt…and enjoying the vivid colors, the spicy scents, the organized chaos of beauty that was a well-planned garden.

  So first…the flowers. She was sketching out an outline of the house, the property lines, and had just started to fill in a few dotted line areas for proposed beds, when her phone buzzed in her pocket.

  She pulled it out, shaded her eyes, and read: Front Desk. Which meant the call was from a guest. And she only had one of those.

  She froze. The phone vibrated in her hand again. What did she do? Pretend to be Kirby Farrell, hostess? Or Kirby Farrell, recent recipient of a multiple orgasm in her own shower, thanks to said guest on the other end of the line?

  Yeah, she was never going to try having a fling with a guest, ever again. Ever.

  It vibrated again, which did other vibratory things to her senses that she really didn’t need to be reminded of at the moment. She pressed TALK before her nerve gave out. “Front Desk,” she said, then made a face at herself. She was such a loser. A dork loser who suddenly felt a lot more like a woman who’d only had two lovers in her whole life, than a woman who’d single-handedly bought, built, opened, and was running her own business. Sort of.

  “Ah, yes. This would be Room Seven.”

  God, just his voice was enough to make her melt into a puddle of goo. Good thing she was already sitting down. “Yes, what can I do for you?” She squeezed her eyes shut and swore under her breath. Double dork!

  To his everlasting credit, and her merciful thanks, there was no sexy chuckle, or knowing retort. Although maybe that she could have found a way to respond to outright.

  “Well,” he said, then it sounded like he groaned a little. Stretching, maybe? Which meant, what, he wa
s just waking up? From sleeping? In that big sleigh bed…naked, maybe?

  “Since you treated me to dinner last night, I was thinking I could return the favor.”

  “I thought we’d already gone over that. I owed you. Certainly more than a dinner.” Okay, so she really, really needed to just shut up. Right now. Because Lord knew she’d given him a lot more than dinner, all right. She sure hoped he wasn’t misconstruing—surely he wouldn’t think that she’d ever—

  “Then can I just ask you to join me? I eat alone a lot, and I kind of liked having some company last night.” He said it sincerely, not a shred of innuendo in his tone.

  It was like the whole interlude in the kitchen, in her shower, hadn’t happened. Like they’d jumped from dinner last night to right now. And, to her surprise, she was very okay with that time-space continuum. “I—yes,” she answered, no analysis this time, going with her gut. “I’d enjoy that.” It was, after all, the honest truth. Perhaps not the wisest course, but…it was just dinner. And who knew? Maybe it would get them back on some kind of host–guest footing that she’d have a clue what to do with. “What time? Did you need some info on the local places?”

  “I just need directions to the closest market. Grocery store.”

  “Grocery—you’re cooking? Here?” She might have sounded a bit squeaky on that last part.

  “I prefer smaller crowds.” There was a pause, then, “Is that okay? I promise I won’t burn the place down. And I clean up.”

  “You really don’t have to go to the trouble. There are several places that have good takeout if you just want to—”

  “I’d really like to cook. You wanna help?”

  “I, uh—” Yes, Kirby. Yes, you do. Just say yes, for God’s sake. It didn’t have to be so complicated, did it? It was just dinner. “Sure,” she said. “Okay. That sounds like fun.” And it did. See, simple. Right. “What time?”

  “What is it now?” She heard him make a little groaning noise as he, what, rolled over? In bed? Naked?

  Her body reacted like it had been zapped with a live wire. And the wire’s name was Brett. She closed her eyes and shook her head. Nothing was ever simple.

  “It’s almost four thirty. How about we head out at five?”

  “We—wait, what?”

  “To the store? I thought you were going to help?”

  “I thought you meant cook.” Now was when she might want to explain about her lack of actual cooking skills. There was a reason her inn didn’t serve dinner. But he was talking, so she didn’t push it. She’d tackle the jobs she could.

  “I did. But shopping is part of the deal. Or can be. You can show me around. Cut down on errand time. Are you game?”

  You have no idea, she thought, wanting to swat at her treacherous body, which was so game he could have stripped her naked right there on the lawn. Yeah, she was definitely going to have to figure out what her code of conduct was going to be…and how in the hell she was going to pull it off.

  Maybe in public wasn’t such a bad place for them both to be, to kick off the evening. Give them both a chance to find their footing, figure out what the new status quo was going to be. “Sure,” she said. “That sounds fine.”

  “Meet you out front at five, then.” And he clicked off.

  She stared at the phone for a second, then sighed as she tucked it back in her pocket. She had thirty minutes to do a complete overhaul on her emotional balance and well-being. “Good luck with that.” She got up off the ground and brushed off her pants. Then she realized she looked like a reject from an Earth Day rally. Beat up khakis, worn-out canvas flats, an old T-shirt with a faded frog making a peace sign on the front. Topped off by her lovely garden hat, which was more like an old fishing hat, but it was comfortable on her head and provided shade for her fair skin. Since moving to Vermont, she hadn’t really had to concern herself with the aesthetic value of the clothing she wore any longer.

  It had been a wonderful and welcome surprise side benefit of escaping the trendy, label-conscious world of resort management. Even if the labels she wore then were attached to casual sportswear, there had been nothing casual about the not-so-unspoken pressure from Patrick to always look her trendiest resort and skiwear best. She’d always found a little private humor in the fact that she was a disaster on the slopes, and she hadn’t actually skied again past the age of eight or so when she’d almost broken her neck. Again. Thankfully you didn’t actually have to ski to understand how to best serve the needs of those who did.

  She stopped for a moment and asked herself if Patrick ever even knew that about her…and realized he’d never once asked. How was that even possible? she wondered now. They’d lived right on the damn slopes. She’d always had the latest gear, courtesy of their vendors, but had never once actually used it. Of course she’d always been swamped. She supposed Patrick had just assumed…like he’d assumed so many other things.

  Wow. She shook her head and smiled a bit ruefully, amazed that she could still discover things that made her feel ridiculously stupid all over again. How had she ever been so blind?

  And how had it taken a renegade professional poker player of all people to make her see that? She couldn’t imagine living under the same roof as Brett for ten days, much less ten years, and not have him know every last detail about her. And vice versa.

  Crap. She was wasting precious time. She had—she glanced at her watch—twenty-five minutes to overhaul and find a balance with her internal psyche as well as her entire outward appearance. “Yeah. I’m not holding out much hope for that,” she muttered under her breath. She collected her clipboard, notes, and pens, and then headed back to the house.

  Twenty-four minutes later, she walked down the front steps wearing freshly pressed, much nicer khakis, a pink-and-cream-plaid long-sleeve blouse, and had tied her hair back with a piece of gingham ribbon. She might have even made an attempt at mascara. Possibly there was a light smear of lipgloss as well. She felt like a complete idiot. It was the grocery store. Not exactly a date. And he’d surely seen her looking far worse. In far less. In fact, she’d always looked far worse.

  She imagined him watching her approach, being highly amused at the trouble she’d gone to, possibly assigning all kinds of meaning to it that she certainly hadn’t intended. Was it wrong to not want to look like a garden troll when going shopping at the local food mart?

  Then she rounded the path out to the parking area…only to see him standing next to his bike. He was wearing black jeans and what looked like a freshly pressed long-sleeve, dark green shirt, buttoned up over a short-sleeve white T-shirt. He was freshly shaven and smiling. At her. She found herself smiling, too. But more nervous than if he’d shown up in ratty jeans and a faded sweatshirt. Because now they were both being amusing. And she didn’t know quite what to do about that.

  Then he held out a helmet.

  She slowed her steps. “I—assumed we’d take my truck. Where would we put the groceries?”

  Now his smile was amused, but she found she didn’t mind so much.

  “We’re just feeding the two of us, right? We can fit whatever we get in the saddlebags.”

  She glanced at the bike, remembering now the gear bag he’d stowed in one of the side compartments. “Right.”

  He lifted the helmet in her direction. “Ever ridden on one before?”

  She looked from the black helmet to him, then to the bike. The big, black, beast of a bike. “Uh, no, no I haven’t. Never had the opportunity.”

  His smile spread. “Well, we can fix that.”

  She took the shiny black helmet out of his hands and then turned it to see what was on the back. “Playing cards?” She didn’t really know much about card games, much less poker, but she knew enough that the two cards emblazoned across the back of the helmet didn’t seem to make any sense. “A queen of diamonds and a three of hearts.” She looked at him. “Do they mean something, or are they just symbolic?”

  “Those are the cards I won my first bracelet with
.”

  She frowned. “What kind of bracelet?” She looked at the cards. “And what kind of game wins with a hand like that?”

  His smile spread to a grin, maybe a hint of cocky there for the first time. Only it was kind of adorable on him. “Exactly.”

  “I meant with only two cards, but you meant…oh, you bluffed, didn’t you?”

  “Biggest one of my life.”

  “And…it paid off. With a bracelet?”

  “Super Bowls have big gaudy rings, boxing and bull riding have big gaudy belts. We have big gaudy bracelets.”

  “Do you ever wear it? Wait, you said the first one. How many do you have?” She lifted her hand before he could reply. “Never mind. None of my business. No probing questions.”

  “You can probe all you like. I’ll answer anything you want to know. But I’d rather you just get to know me. I’m more than what I do. Or used to do.”

  “You don’t play at all anymore?” She smiled and shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t seem to help myself. But isn’t that how people get to know each other, asking questions?”

  He took the helmet from her hands and stepped closer until she had to look up to keep hold of his gaze. “I can think of at least a dozen questions I’m dying to ask you, just off the top of my head, but none of them have to do with your job as an inn owner.”

  “Well, that might be because my job isn’t as interesting as yours.”

  “Why people do what they do is always an interesting story. Some happier than others, but a story all the same, and you’re right, it provides insight. But there’s all kinds of insight. And why people do what they do for a living is just the tip of it.”

  “But people find out what you do and pass or make judgments without getting to know anything else. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Let’s just say it distracts them. And then we never seem to get back to the whole getting to know the rest of you part. There’s more there than just a poker player.”