Here Comes Trouble (12 page)

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.”

“I would never have thought otherwise. Doesn’t anyone take the time to figure that out, to find out the rest?”

“Bright shiny objects tend to blind a lot of folks.”

She smiled. “They can’t get past the bling, huh? Well,” she gestured to herself, “as you have probably figured out, I’m not much of a bling type. And, for what it’s worth, I’ve never gambled or been to Vegas.” She studied his face for a moment longer, and he let her. “I also know there is a lot to you. And I’m curious about all of it. But trying to tiptoe around parts makes it hard to see the whole. Like a jigsaw puzzle with a bunch of pieces missing so you can’t see the entire picture.”

“Kirby—”

“Just let me ask you this. If I promise to ask about other things, take the time to probe your brain about how you feel about things like environmental awareness, or do you prefer crunchy or smooth peanut butter, who you voted for in the last presidential election, are you more excited about the Super Bowl or March Madness, and if you’ve ever been to Paris, or Sydney…which are both high on my personal list, would it be okay if I also asked questions about what it’s like to win big gaudy bracelets by playing cards?” She made the sign of an X over her chest, then held up her hand, little finger crooked. “Pinky swear?”

He stared at her a moment longer, his smile growing, until he finally shook his head and laughed. “You think I’m making a mountain out of a molehill, and maybe I am. I haven’t been away from the mountain long enough to put the molehill in perspective.”

“Pinky swear,” she repeated.

He ducked his chin, still chuckling. But he surprised her by shifting the helmet under one arm and extending his own little finger. “Okay. Deal. But it goes both ways.”

“Deal,” she said, hooking fingers with him.

He tugged her closer with their linked fingers and then unhooked them and tipped her chin up. “You’re an original, Kirby Farrell.”

“I’m just me.” She smiled, even as her body shot right past tingling awareness to full throttle take-me mode. “Maybe you should get out more.”

“That part I figured out. That’s how I got here.”

“Some folks just get a hobby, you know. Broaden their social circle.”

“I think, in my case, I needed to shrink it. Drastically.”

She thought about the world he’d lived in and really couldn’t wrap her mind about what it would be like, to live, work, and play in that environment all the time. “You never really got away from it? Didn’t you have somewhere you could retreat to, pull back, hang out?”

“I thought I did. It wasn’t enough.”

“I guess it’s hard to escape the bubble there.”

“Something like that.” He leaned down and kissed her.

It was short, and more tender than hungry, but it was also more poignant than sweet.

“Thank you,” he said when he lifted his head.

She had to blink her eyes open, clear the fog a little. He really was kind of entrancing. And maybe she needed to get out more often, too. “For?” she asked.

“This. You. Hanging out, pulling back, escaping the bubble, and retreating. It’s better now. With you.”

She felt her skin flush, both with pleasure and a little embarrassment. “I’m not, I mean, I haven’t—thank you,” she said, wisely breaking off and opting to shut up and accept the compliment. She could obsess and stress over all the possible implications and potential meanings behind it later.

He slid the helmet onto her head. “Come on. Dinner awaits.” He put his own helmet on, and she saw that there was no adornment on his. He slung his leg over and settled his weight. “Put your foot here for leverage,” he said, motioning, “then kick your leg over—right.”

She settled in behind him, but wasn’t sure what to do next.

He settled that question by reaching back for her arms and nudging them forward. “Hold on. Lean when I lean, move with me when I move. Don’t work against me.”

Oh, she thought as her thighs snugged around his and put her hands on his waist, I want to work against you, all right. Visions of everything they’d done in the course of the past day and a half clicked through her mind like a rapid-fire slide-show display. She squirmed a little in her seat.

He pulled her hands from his waist to his stomach, which snugged her front up against his back.

“Your back, the scratches,” she said, raising her voice so he could hear her with their helmets on.

“Feels better with you against it,” he responded, tugging again until she was literally wrapped around him.

So much for taking a step back and reassessing her place in this situation.

“Hold on tight,” he shouted.

And she instinctively tightened her entire body around him—legs, arms, torso pressing tight—so that when he lifted his weight and came down on the throttle, and the bike roared to life, it was only by some miracle she didn’t come right then and there.

Holy crap.

She could only hope that when he started moving the damn bike she didn’t fall apart entirely. Would he even know she was back here, climaxing all over the place?

They coasted down the long drive, and she sighed in relief. Then he pumped them out onto the main road, and she squeezed her legs, tightened her hold…and prayed she was able to concentrate well enough to hold on and not become Pennydash roadkill. Of course, she’d be the only roadkill who’d died with a smile on her face, but still.

Once they were up to speed—a very fast speed, if you asked her—the vibrating smoothed out a little, even if the effects continued to linger. She eventually managed to let go with one hand long enough to give him hand signals on which way to go, but silently freaked out every time a car or truck passed by. They arrived at Harrison’s Food Mart about ten minutes later, but that was plenty of time for her entire life to flash before her very eyes. Several times. In the end, she’d been thankful for the physical distraction he’d provided. It was the only thing that had kept her from losing her cool entirely.

He parked and got off the bike first, then helped her off, cautioning her to be careful not to brush her leg against the exhaust pipe. Once safely on two slightly shaky feet, they took their helmets off. He was grinning. She…forced a smile.

“So, what did you think of your first ride?”

She was tempted to tell him that the only ride she wanted him to give her was the kind they’d had earlier, back at the inn, but he seemed so excited to share his apparent love of motorcycles with her that she didn’t want to disappont him. “It was…an adrenaline rush,” she said, quite truthfully. She just didn’t add the part about needing to go throw up now.

“You probably know the back mountain roads pretty well. Maybe we can plan a little day trip. Winding mountain roads, have a little fun on the tight turns.”

She tried not to turn green, but it was really beyond her control. “Um, sounds like a plan.” One she would find a way to politely decline when she wasn’t being put on the spot.

He took the helmet from her and strapped it to the backrest. Then caught her hand before she could start across the parking lot. He tugged her back beside him and bent his head. “You’re too nice, you know.”

She glanced up at him, eyebrows raised in question.

“Your face, just now?”