A Fine Mess (Over the Top) (26 page)

Except on this particular day, as we near the back counter, a deep male voice says, “Shay?”

And my day ricochets from bad to worse.

Cursing my luck, I glance over. Of course Nico is wearing his uniform blues, like he isn’t hot enough in his usual jeans and T-shirts. Now I have to endure all that male power packed into slim-fitting clothes. His thighs and ass look delicious, his massive chest
massive
. The man could be a professional wrestler. I should have known I’d see him here, should have thought this through. Unaware what station he worked from, I ignored the possibility. Vancouver’s a big city, and getting into it with Shay would have meant inviting questions. After today’s fiasco, my stress level had reached capacity.

Now I’m faced with the Sexy Beast.

When he sees me, he lowers his gaze and scrubs a hand over his buzzed head. “Why are you guys here?” He directs the question at Shay, but his gaze darts toward me.

He must not like my glare, because he looks away quickly.

Shay widens her stance and plants her hands on her hips. “Some asshole bumped into Raven on Wreck Beach, and now her wallet’s gone. Pretty sure the guy stole it, so we have to file a report, and if I see him again, I will personally reassign his gender.” She has on a loose tank top with a pair of skis printed on the front, the hem hanging over her shredded jean shorts. Her no-nonsense tone doesn’t mesh with her casual, twenty-six-year-old vibe, but I love her feisty streak.

“What she said,” I add, making sure to avoid Nico’s blue eyes. Everything about him is big and dark and imposing: dark skin, dark stubble if he doesn’t shave, and eyebrows set in a dark line. All but his eyes. There’s something about those light-blue stunners that is so
disarming
. They’re probably why I opened up to him in Aspen, why I told him things I never share, ever, with anyone. The tequila probably helped, too. (Like it helped me crawl on all fours at my high school graduation.) My heart thundered every second I was with him. Then he took off and never called.

Like my sister.

He narrows that penetrating gaze on me. “Some guy on Wreck Beach bumped into you? Naked?”

I shiver at the thought. “No. I was not accosted by any geriatric genitalia. Some young guy, a student maybe,
clothed
, was playing Frisbee. He probably saw my purse was open and figured I was an easy mark. Which, clearly, I was.”

He shifts on his feet, his gaze raking over every inch of my body in a very non-public-servant way. Awareness lights through me, a memory of his hands dragging up my thighs fanning the flames. Big hands, heavy hands—the weight of them plaguing me with months of flashbacks. I doubt all the civilians he deals with get this sort of probing attention.
Unwanted attention
, I remind myself. As hot as he is, I do not need to walk that road again. My family has gifted me with a lifetime of disappointment. No point suffering in my personal life, too.

“Come,” he says, finally. “I’ll help you at my desk.”

He has us sign a logbook and hands us visitor badges, then he leads the way, and I’m faced with
that
ass in
those
pants, his broad back filling out his shirt, the muscles below flexing as he swings his arms.
Goddamn Nico.

Writing this book was a process. The voices jumped off the page from day one—Sawyer’s immature self screaming in my ear, and Lily’s softer, poetic tones crowding my head—but it wasn’t all smooth sailing. Although finding their personalities came easily, developing their characters through to the last page was a challenge. My editor, Madeleine Colavita, pushed me to step back and pick apart their actions and reactions until I better understood who they were, and the novel is miles improved for it. I can’t thank you enough for your work.

Finding an agent is one thing. Finding one who believes in your writing and champions your work and shares your sense of humor is a gift. Stacey Donaghy, here’s to many more years together. Big hug for the crew at Forever Yours—from the copy editors to the cover designers and publicity team. Books don’t appear out of thin air. You are the wizards who work magic behind the scenes. Thank you for all you do.

Kristin B. Wright, let me count the ways I love you. Actually, I won’t. It would take too long. But I couldn’t imagine producing a novel without your insightful feedback. Esher Hogan, I’m thankful every day that we met during Pitch Wars, and that you continue to fit me into your busy life. Your help on this book was invaluable. Brighton Walsh, your critiques are down and dirty and brutally honest, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Thank you for always pushing me to improve.

Michele Rich, thank you for taking the time to read
A Fine Mess
and offering your psychotherapy expertise. Getting Lily right was challenging, but you helped ensure I tapped into necessary aspects of her headspace. Any of her behaviors that push the boundaries of believability were my doing, elements tweaked for story purposes.

To my beta readers—Mary Ann Marlowe, Heather Van Fleet, Brenna Mills, and Meggy Woodhouse—getting feedback at various stages is key. Every little change affects the novel, and your insight helped shape this story.

To my family, I love you all. From day one you’ve been in my corner, cheering me on. My husband, Steven, where I add the crazy to your life, you keep me grounded. Thank you for putting up with my long nights and ramblings. I love you to pieces.

A massive thank-you to all the bloggers and reviewers who take the time to read my work and spread the word. Your support means the world. My writing community—including my Pitch Wars family, the CD, and the Life Raft—there are no words. You all keep me sane and laughing and have been instrumental in pimping me out. Mad love.

My readers *insert heart eyes here* it’s because of you I get to do this thing I love. If you keep reading my stories, I’ll keep writing them. Thank you, thank you,
thank you
for joining me on this wild ride.

A small-town girl at heart,
Kelly Siskind
moved from the city to open a cheese shop with her husband in northern Ontario. When she’s not neck-deep in cheese or out hiking, you can find her, notepad in hand, scribbling down one of the many plot bunnies bouncing around in her head. She laughs at her own jokes and has been known to eat her feelings—gummy bears heal all. She’s also an incurable romantic, devouring romance novels into the wee hours of the morning.

Learn more at:

KellySiskind.com

Twitter @KellySiskind

Facebook.com/AuthorKellySiskind

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