Nothing But Trouble

Nothing But Trouble

Published
by Erin Kern

Cover art by P.S. Cover Design

Smashwords Edition

copyright 2014 Erin Kern

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"Did you know
the
probability that a woman will marry by the age of forty is
eighty-six percent? You have eleven years to beat that statistic
Rebecca Lynn," Rebecca's mother stated matter-of-factly in a
serious tone that was supposed to strike fear into Rebecca's
heart.

"Good morning to you too, Mother," Rebecca
said with a smile plastered on her face that she hoped was
cheerful. Good grief, her mother never said "hello" anymore. Every
time Rebecca stepped through the front door of her childhood home,
she was greeted with another ridiculous marriage statistic. Like
the information was going to make her run out and wed the first man
she came in contact with. The woman acted as though Rebecca had a
hoard of admirers and she'd turned every single one down. Like it
was her choice to remain alone, so she could single handedly defy
the all-mighty marriage gods.

"And you know what else I read?" Patsy
Underwood said as she closed the stained-glass front door on the
early morning cool air.

"I can't imagine," Rebecca replied
automatically.

Her mother hurried after Rebecca down the
hallway. "The risk of miscarriage rises twenty-five percent over
the age of thirty-five. Are you listening to me, Rebecca?"

"It's way too early in the morning to start
reciting baby stats, Mom." Rebecca bit back a groan of frustration
as she entered the living room. The thick draperies were still
pulled closed so the sun couldn't bleach out the brown and orange
plaid couches. Because that would make them look so much worse than
they already were. The things looked like they'd been transported
from nineteen-seventy-four, and they sagged in the middle. Their
appearance was almost as ungodly as the comfort. Her father
insisted they were just as comfortable as the day they bought them.
Rebecca had decided to take his word on that one.

Patsy adjusted her floral robe, or
"housecoat" as she referred to it. "I know you don't want to hear
any of this, but I was twenty years old when I had your
sister."

This time Rebecca did groan. She dropped her
purse on the kitchen counter and rifled around in her mother's
"junk mug" for her father's car keys. "Mom, it's barely seven a.m.
Do you think we could at least wait until lunch time to break down
the nitty-gritty details of my life?"

"Rebecca―"

She kept her attention on finding the car
keys, digging past discarded pennies, paperclips and a green
button. "I know you mean well, Mom. But I need to get Dad's car
dropped off so I can get to work. I have back to back patients and
a ton of paperwork to catch up on." When Rebecca faced her mother
it was to a scowl and pinched lips, a look often associated with
annoyance. She wrapped her arms around her mother's shoulders. The
housecoat was thin from years of use, yet soft at the same time. "I
love you very much, Mom. But I can't have this discussion right
now." She turned back to her task of locating the keys. "Where are
Dad's keys?" she asked in exasperation.

One of her mother's strawberry blonde brows
lifted in disapproval. "Hanging up right there on the hook, where
we always keep the car keys."

Rebecca yanked the keys down and looked at
her mother. "Since when do you keep keys hanging up on the bulletin
board? Nevermind," she interrupted before her mother could
answer.

"Be sure to tell them not to paint the car
black. You know your dad hates black cars."

Despite her mom's "mother hen" tendencies,
Rebecca couldn't help but smile as she picked up her purse.
"Paint's usually the last thing they do, but I'll be sure to tell
them."

Patsy's house shoes were silent on the
laminate flooring as she hurried after Rebecca. "Don't forget that
first gear sticks. And try not to come to a complete stop,
otherwise the car will stall."

"I got it, Mom," Rebecca reassured her
mother. Even if she could be a bit exhausting, Rebecca's mother had
the biggest heart of anyone she knew. Patsy Underwood would give a
person her last dollar if they needed it. Then she'd lecture them
on being more responsible with their money.
Then
she'd sign
them up for a finance class at the local junior college and drive
them there herself. At the end of the day, the person in question
would probably have rather moved into a cardboard box than deal
with Mrs. Underwood.

"Wait," Patsy said as Rebecca opened the
front door. "How are you getting to work?"

"I can walk," she replied. "It's not that
far," she insisted when her mom pinned her with a look.

"You don't need to be losing the weight, but
whatever, Rebecca. And give R.J. a hug for us," she added as she
placed a hand on the door and started to close it.

I'd rather sit on a cactus
.

Instead of voicing her disdain for
he-who-must-not-be-named, Rebecca smiled and hoped her true
feelings didn't show. "Sure, Mom."

The sun was barely able to penetrate the
low-lying clouds, but Rebecca slid her sunglasses on anyway. Mostly
because they would give her a defense against R.J., however false
it was. Those green eyes of his had always been her weakness.

It had been her mother's idea to restore the
old 1967 Chevrolet Camaro as a surprise for her husband's
retirement. Her father had put in more than thirty years at the
wheat plant and had reached his limit, mostly because his body
wouldn't allow him to do manual labor anymore.

Don't ever get old, Rebecca
, her
father had once told her.

He'd developed a serious case of arthritis in
his hands and could no longer pull fourteen hour days. After June,
Donald Underwood would be free do to as he pleased, which would
include driving his wife crazy.

The car, which Rebecca had learned to drive
on, was a hideous shade of gray primer with standard tires and the
original seats. The five-speed transmission was fickle at best and
stalled at the most inopportune times. Her father had called this
car his baby ever since he'd bought it for next to nothing back in
'83. Rebecca hated the thing and had dropped hints for him to sell
it. After realizing Donald Underwood cherished the Camaro almost as
much as his kids, she gave up her quest.

She and her mother figured, if they had to
look at the car, the least they could do was fix it up for him.
Replace the engine, get some more comfortable seats and slap some
shiny paint on it.

The front window was slightly open and the
door was unlocked. Her father was too trusting.

Rebecca slid in the car and winced when her
spine came in contact with a spring beneath the upholstery of the
seat. The car roared to life when she turned the keys over in the
ignition. After saying a silent prayer that her father's pride and
joy would get her to R.J.'s shop, Rebecca pulled out of the
driveway.

As luck would have it, she only stalled
twice. Once at a stop sign. And once right in front of the shop,
where one of R.J.'s employees looked at her like she was some
imbecile who didn't know how to drive a car.

Her dignity was barely intact when she parked
the car, turned it off and got out. Luckily,
he-who-must-not-be-named hadn't seen her display of amateur
driving. Or, maybe he had and was waiting for the right moment to
rub it in. Such was the way with R.J. Devlin.

Even though he was nowhere to be seen, she
found herself trying to smooth her curls back anyway. Like he was
hiding behind one of the bushes and would jump out and scare the
panties off her. Just like he did when she was fourteen.

"What can I do for you, ma'am?" The kid with
the shaggy brown hair who approached her didn't look like he was
much over twenty-years-old. A grease-stained towel was slung over
one of his shoulders.

"Well, this my father's car―"

"I'll take it from here, Sam."

Oh, good. He decided to show up and torture
her after all. And here she thought she could escape unscathed. She
should have stopped expecting that a long time ago.

"Why don't you go see what you can do with
the carburetor in that Pontiac?" R.J. suggested.

The kid shrugged his shoulders and whipped
the towel off his shoulder. "You're the boss."

R.J. watched Sam walk away, then pinned her
with that penetrating stare of his. The sunglasses on her face were
useless at blocking him out, just as she suspected. Hell, she would
need an entire suit of armor in order to protect herself from his
devastating effects.

It was only seven a.m. and his white t-shirt,
which was just tight enough for her to see the outline of those
fantastic pecs, was already stained with grease. Dark splotches
riddled his faded jeans, which molded and hugged his world-class
rear-end. It was so damn unfair how he could throw on the most
basic of clothes, yet look good enough to pour chocolate syrup all
over so she could lick it off.

Rebecca cleared her throat and took a step
back from him. She couldn't stand to be near him because he'd
always made her feel itchy and uncomfortable. Like all he had to do
was look at her and he knew every sordid thought that swirled
through her head. The bastard had always known exactly how he
affected her, and never failed to point it out. That had become a
nasty game between them many years ago, that had started out
innocent enough. Then… well, then it wasn't so innocent. In fact,
her innocence was the one thing she hadn't been able to hold on
to.

"So, what can I do for you, Dr. Underwood?"
he asked in that deep baritone which never failed to make her toes
curl.

Okay, you're an adult. He's an adult. There's
no reason why you can't conduct this business like a mature
person.

"It's my father's car," she gestured lamely
behind her, like he hadn't already figured it out. He knew good and
well whose car that was.

"And?" he prompted

"Well, he's retiring and my mom and I want to
get it restored as a surprise to him."

He shifted his attention from her to the
vehicle behind her. "No shit?" he muttered. Those long, powerful
legs of his took him to the old Camaro. "I've been waiting a long
time for your father to let me get my hands on this baby." He ran
his palm over the surface of the hood; much like a man would touch
a woman in a lover's caress. The thought sent a chill running down
her spine, because she knew exactly what those hands felt like on
her skin. Cradling her face as he kissed the bejeezus out of her.
Trailing the tip of his thumb over her lip as he told her how
beautiful she was.

That was a long time ago, and you need to
stop thinking about it.

R.J. circled the car and his eyes darted over
every square inch, taking in all the details and perhaps already
coming up with ideas. When he came to the taillights, he squatted
and studied the back end. He touched his fingers to the gas cap in
between the taillights with the "SS" emblem. "It's in damn good
condition," he muttered.

Rebecca wouldn't know anything about that.
Her knowledge of cars didn't go far past how to start them and
where to put the gas nozzle. But R.J. was the best at what he did,
so she trusted his judgment.

He stood from his position and crossed his
arms over his thick chest. "Do you know what you want done to
it?"