Here Comes Trouble Read online

  “You don’t mean that,” Dan said, sounding far more subdued, maybe even a little hurt. “This is your town, your people, your family.”

  “Sometimes people grow up and move away from their families.”

  “Brett—”

  “Dan…it’s not about you. Or your dad, or Vanetta.”

  “I know that. We all do know that. We just…we can’t imagine you anywhere else.”

  “I think that’s been my problem all along. It’s why I got stuck for so many years, doing what I never expected to be doing, not for that long. I really couldn’t imagine myself anywhere else.”

  “And what, working for my dad, or with me—”

  “Was good for my soul, and saved it. Regularly, Dan. You know that. Your dad was the closest thing I ever had to a real male role model. You’re my brother. And, in her own way, I guess Vanetta is like my crazy old grandmother. You are my family, always will be. At least I would hope so. But maybe in order to figure out what I’m supposed to do, or what I really want to do, the thing that will truly satisfy me, fulfill me…I need to not be there. Where routines and patterns and ruts—no offense, you know better—aren’t there to pull me back into that sense of complacency. Because it doesn’t feel complacent any longer. It feels suffocating. Not the people, the work. And I need…I need more than people.”

  “I wish it was different,” Dan said quietly. “I don’t like it, and I wish there was more for you here, but…” They both took a break, and a breath. Dan spoke first. “So…it’s Vermont, huh?”

  “For now. I need to stop running. I need time. To allow myself to just be, to think, to figure out what works. Or what might work. But, right now, what works isn’t being in Vegas. That much I do know.”

  “Okay,” Dan said. He didn’t sound happy about it, but he sounded, well, resigned to it. Which was a start.

  “I still need you to keep an eye out, just…don’t let your guard down. Okay?”

  “Sure. But I swear to you, nothing’s happening. I really think it was all just a freak bad streak.”

  “All the same—”

  “Right, got it. I will. Has anyone been in touch? Anyone hounding after you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Then maybe, at least, while you’re sitting there contemplating your navel, you can let that part go. We’re all fine here. We miss you, but mostly we just want you to figure out what comes next. Consider what is, not what might be. Okay? Promise me that much.”

  “Dan—”

  He sighed deeply. “Right. I’ll keep an eye, okay? I have to get back to work. Enjoy your…stay.”

  “I already am.” Then he hung up before Dan could piss him off again, or worse stick his nose in, and his unwanted opinions, about Kirby.

  Speaking of which, she walked, just then, into the kitchen. He had just clipped his phone back on his belt and was stirring the sauce again, but he stopped when he saw her face. “What’s wrong?” She was pale, well, paler than normal, and she looked…hollow. “Is everything okay?” Which was a stupid question, given everything clearly was not okay, but what else was he supposed to say? He didn’t know enough about her yet, or anything really, to know what to ask about.

  It was right then, however, that he realized that he wanted to know. Wanted to be more involved.

  He put the sauce spoon down and walked around the center cooking island to the kitchen table where she’d stopped. She was looking at him, but it was obvious her thoughts were somewhere else completely. “Kirby?”

  It was like the little bubble they’d created had burst. First with Dan’s reality check and now with this, and suddenly he didn’t know what the boundaries were or what she’d accept from him. But what the hell, he thought, he’d saved her from falling out of a tree. He’d made love to her. He figured that gave him some options. At least ones he wouldn’t have to apologize for making assumptions about later.

  So he did what he instinctively wanted to do, which was take her hand and tug her gently forward. She stutter-stepped into him, still looking poleaxed, and he put his arms around her and nudged her face up so she looked at him, but it was more like through him. “What’s wrong?”

  Her expression shuttered then and she ducked her chin.

  So he lifted a hand to her face, cupped her cheek, and tipped her face up again. “Maybe I can help. Or at least listen. Tell me what happened.”

  “It’s…not your problem.” And then her eyes got glassy and he tensed, because that’s what guys did when women cried, or looked like they were going to. Except this wasn’t about him, or even them, like it might have been in the shower…so he stuck with it.

  “It doesn’t have to be my problem to listen, does it?”

  “I—you want a nice dinner. Not to hear about—about—” And then her bottom lip was quivering and he could see where this wasn’t so much about not wanting to tell him as about pride and integrity. And being made to cry in front of him about it, when she clearly wished she was being strong, was just making it worse.

  So he did the only thing he could do. He kissed her.

  And it took a moment, several actually, before she kissed him back. He shifted her arms up to his shoulders and pulled her more deeply into his arms. He let her guide the kiss at first, then slowly took over, taking it deeper, coaxing her to be more aggressive, until he was pretty damn sure they weren’t thinking about anything except the kiss and what it was doing to them, what it was making them want, making them feel.

  When he finally lifted his head, his breathing wasn’t all that steady, and there was color in her cheeks now. He stroked her cheek with his thumb, pushed the hair from her forehead, and searched her eyes. “I get that living here, running this place alone, makes you a very self-reliant person. And someone like that probably has a hard time even sharing a problem they might be having. It’s hard to lean once, because there is a fear that the urge to lean would become stronger, and that would make you weaker, if you gave into it like that.”

  Now her gaze sharpened on his, and he thought he’d hit right on it. But then she said, “You say that with utter confidence and more understanding than simply being a compassionate person would imply. So…I take it that you know whereof you speak.”

  Ah. He was in such a hurry to help take that stark hollowness away, so used to his ability to see into others, to intuit more than the average person, that he hadn’t taken into consideration that he might leave himself vulnerable. He never showed his hand. That was more than a little unnerving. But trust had to be gained somehow. He supposed it wasn’t too big a risk to take. So he took the bet. “You could say that. Maybe more than a little.”

  “You’re right, but you know that. I don’t lean. Not anymore anyway.”

  “It’s not always a sign of weakness, you know.”

  Now her eyes crinkled at the corners and her lips quirked. “Where did you read that? I have a hard time believing you actually practice what you just preached.”

  “You might be surprised about that. I certainly didn’t get to where I did all by myself.”

  “Me, either.”

  “So, you have a support network? Is there someone you want to go call, to talk with, someone you can trust with whatever it is? Dinner can wait.”

  “I heard you talking when I was coming through the foyer. You sounded…animated. Your support system?”

  He smiled more fully this time. “You’d make a good promoter.”

  She lifted one brow. “But not a player, I take it?”

  “You’d have to work on your poker face a little.” He grinned. “Okay, a lot.”

  To her credit, she smiled, too. “So, why a good promoter?”

  “You are good at keeping the focus where you want it, which is usually not on you but on what you want.”

  “And what do I want in this instance?”

  “To keep whatever just happened on that phone call to yourself.”

  Her expression turned considering. “You’re very…formidable. When it
comes to reading people. It shouldn’t be a surprise that people might be uncomfortable confiding in you.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You already know too much as it is. See too much. It would be hard to know exactly how much you’d be handing over, even with the smallest of revelations.”

  “And what is it, exactly, that you think I’m going to do with whatever information I’m able to ferret out? I’m harmless.”

  She laughed outright at that. “You’ve been under my roof less than forty-eight hours and you’ve already gotten me naked. Hardly harmless.”

  He stroked her cheek again, touched her lips. “I haven’t done harm, have I?”

  She shuddered under his touch, and his body sprang more fully to life.

  “Maybe just to my peace of mind.”

  He appreciated the honesty, but it didn’t keep him from pushing. “So, what else then? You share details, whether tedious or important, and you’re afraid I’ll…what, exactly?”

  “Play Good Samaritan again. You’re very good at that.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “It can be, to a person who maybe doesn’t want to be rescued every time a problem crops up. Falling out of trees notwithstanding.”

  “Rescue is something a person does for someone in a situation beyond their control. Like the tree. Otherwise, it’s just called help. We all need that from time to time. It’s not a bad thing. It doesn’t signify failure. Sometimes it’s even a good thing. You learn who you can count on, who is really there for you.”

  “And just how often are you the one on the receiving end?”

  “Often enough to know it’s there for me when I need it.”

  “So, what, are you like the Yoda of poker?”

  “Hardly. Just trying to make you feel better about bending an ear or using a shoulder if you need to.”

  “You think it should be easier. Or is easy. Asking for help, I mean. Even if a willing ear is all that is needed.”

  “That’s what friends, family, are for. I guess I don’t understand what there is to gain from persevering alone if help is available.”

  “You gain the peace of mind and security from knowing you can be self-reliant when things get tough. That you can take care of business, no matter what. That’s not a small thing. In fact, it can be everything.”

  “So, once you’ve figured that out…is that still the only way it goes?”

  “If there are no shoulders to lean on and ears to bend, then sometimes that isn’t a choice.”

  He let his hands fall to her shoulders and squeezed gently. “You have that choice at the moment,” he said quietly. “Is that good enough?”

  Her lips curved a bit, but her expression remained mostly shuttered. “You sure you’re not an event promoter? You’re pretty good at being focused yourself.”

  “It’s a wonder we get anywhere in conversation, I suppose.”

  “Actually, I think I’ve had deeper, more thought-provoking conversations with you in the short time I’ve known you than I’ve had with anyone in a long time.”

  He tilted his head, searched her face. “But, at least from where you sit, that’s not entirely a good thing, is it?”

  “It can be a disconcerting thing. I haven’t quite decided on whether or not it’s good for me.” She straightened and took a step back.

  He toyed with the ends of her hair, then reluctantly let her go.

  “And, for a guy who didn’t want to talk about himself much, you sure don’t seem to mind nosing in my business.”

  “I don’t think I’d mind. Anymore. If it was you asking the questions.’” He was surprised by how easily that truth just popped up. But now that he’d said it, he knew that he meant it. “If you think it would help, or just distract you from whatever it is that’s worrying you—” He spread his arms. “Ask away. Open book.”

  She smiled easily then, and it almost reached her eyes. “One night only?”

  “We can figure that part out later.”

  Her smile faded. “See, that’s the part that trips me up.” She held up her hand when he started to speak. “I hate to renege on dinner; I really do. It smells amazing. But there are some things that require my immediate attention. I’m afraid I’ll have to take a rain check.”

  For once, he didn’t push. Knowing when to fold was just as important when it came to winning the bigger prize. “I’ll put some aside for you. You can heat it up later, if you want.”

  She nodded. “Thanks, I appreciate that. And…thanks for the rest, too. It’s not that I don’t want the help, or even the ear. I appreciate the offer of both, I do. No insult intended.”

  He nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. “None taken.”

  “Good. It’s just…it’s complicated.”

  “Most trying things are.”

  She ducked her chin, then looked back at him, and some of her defenses were clearly wavering. But he still didn’t push. That wouldn’t be fair. To either of them. If and when she wanted his help, or just a sounding board, she’d ask.

  “You’re almost too good to be true. Maybe that’s part of it. Things that are too good to be true rarely are. Or rarely last.”

  “I’m just sincere. And honest. The offer stands, okay?”

  She nodded, and the defenses crumbled a bit further when she folded her arms in front of her chest, tucking her hands tightly under them and against her sides, as if giving herself comfort and support. She stood there a moment longer, and he was just about to go against instinct and reach for her again, when she turned on her heel and walked away. “Don’t worry with cleaning up,” she called back. “I’ll take care of it later.”

  “Just like you take care of everything else,” he said under his breath as he heard her bedroom door close on the other side of the front foyer. “Including yourself.”

  He turned back to the stove, back to his sauce, which had cooked down further than he’d wanted it to. He stirred, added a bit more water, a bit more tomato sauce, tasted, then pinched a bit more oregano into the mix and kept on stirring. As did his thoughts.

  He should just take a giant step back and leave Kirby to her business. After all, she had a point about things not lasting. She didn’t want to allow herself to lean on someone who might not be there a week, or even a day later. Hard to fault that. Then there was the bigger issue at hand, which was that she’d only be concerned about that if she was worried she’d come to care about how long he stayed or when he might leave.

  Which meant maybe she already did.

  He tasted the sauce, but was too busy deciding his immediate course of action to pay any real attention to flavor. He knew, if he examined his own behavior right now, he’d be forced to admit that maybe, just maybe, this mental back and forth wasn’t purely about his fascination with Kirby…but also a convenient substitution for his own problems. He’d told Dan that he needed to stop, to think, to figure out what came next. But there was no timetable on that. For once, there was no place he had to be. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever, if that was the way he wanted it.

  Right that very second, he was exactly where he wanted to be. With no plans whatsoever to go anywhere else. It was a nice change, to be certain of at least one thing. He’d figure out the rest.

  He tasted the sauce again, and smiled. Yeah. But in the meantime, he still wanted to know the rest of Kirby Farrell’s story. Find out what was the best way he could help. Which meant, for now, he wasn’t going anywhere.

  Chapter 11

  Kirby sipped her coffee and shuddered at the volcanic strength of it. But she desperately needed something to kick-start her into the day. Day One of her personal thirty-day death march. Well, her inn’s death march, anyway.

  She stared at the computer monitor and the online bank statement she’d opened up; then she finally slid her glasses off and closed her eyes. She’d been juggling bills for almost three months now, pretty much since the day she’d opened. Initially, she’d still had a little s
omething to juggle with. She’d known that without a sudden drop in temperatures and some snow, she was courting total failure. But she’d been trying to remain hopeful, positive. After all, how long could the damn heat wave last? It was unnatural. She’d honestly thought that things would turn around.

  The call yesterday evening from Albert, a local tax accountant she’d hired early on to help her set up her books, had made it clear that her turnaround time was pretty much over. Her tax bill come April was going to be the felling blow, but the bank was already grumbling about her loan payments and Albert wasn’t sure she’d even make it long enough to be worrying about the IRS.

  At the moment, she was numb. Too numb to even cry. She’d poured so much of herself, of…well, everything she’d had left in her after the disastrous end with Patrick, and every bit of what she’d been able to summon up after her life had taken such a drastic new course. She’d been determined to look at the ending with Patrick as the beginning of herself.

  This was her rise from the ashes; this was her celebration of what her life could be. This was the middle finger she’d given to Patrick, to fate, and anyone else who’d ever made her feel like she couldn’t take care of business. Which, when it came down to it, she’d realized, was all on her. As Aunt Frieda had said often enough, “Just because folks don’t understand, respect, or support what you think is true about yourself doesn’t mean you have to listen to them.” Kirby had only needed to listen to herself. But she’d let the other voices, so many of them, drown her own out.

  It had taken seeing her chosen partner for who he really was—who he’d always been if she’d just been more willing to see the truth—and the following hard look at what she’d allowed herself to believe, to accept as okay, for her to finally, at the age of thirty-seven, examine her life, her choices, and what she was going to do about it—moving forward.

  And she had moved forward. She was proud, almost fiercely so, of what she’d accomplished here. The one thing she knew now was that if the current combination of events conspired to end this new dream, this new path…well, she’d simply find another one.