Stirring Up Trouble (7 page)

 

 

There were a couple of tried and true places to catch a quick nap in between Saturday shifts at La Dolce Vita, provided you weren’t claustrophobic or terribly picky. At his current level of sleep deprivation, Gavin was neither. Not only had he tossed and turned trying to burn the slideshow of Sloane’s exotically golden skin and pouty lips from his short-term memory, but Bree had had a nightmare, her third one this week.

Hearing her cry from across the hall in the middle of the night was hard enough. Her refusal to talk about it, not even to let him comfort her, was nearly unbearable. But no matter how hard he tried, she uttered the same terse “I’m fine” before cranking her mouth shut and turning over in bed, and he had no choice but to give in to her silence and walk away. He’d given up even asking, simply padding across the floorboards to stand in her doorframe whenever he heard her sharp cries, waiting for her to acknowledge him and hoping her words would change.

They never did.

Gavin shook himself back to reality with a groggy blink. If he didn’t get some sleep in the ninety-minute lull between his lunch and dinner responsibilities, he was going to end up making
Night of the Living Dead
look like a frigging beauty pageant. He maneuvered past the swinging doors at the pass, through the hushed quiet of the industrial kitchen and past the office where he heard the indistinct murmur of Carly’s voice. With a silent prayer for solitude, Gavin made a beeline for the small but usually quiet staff lounge.

Mercifully, the lights were off, and he made his way into the lounge with an exhale of relief. Only fragments of muted daylight filtered past the blinds, and even those had turned a heavy gray with a cold front he’d heard some lunch-goers talking about. Not that the daylight mattered. He would probably fall asleep ten seconds after his head hit the throw pillow on the couch even if the sun itself showed up in the room for a song and dance.

Gavin bit back a groan as his frame sank to the cushions. His body was so overjoyed at no longer being vertical that he didn’t realize he wasn’t alone until the gruff sound of a throat being cleared interrupted his bliss.

“Oh, sorry.” He levered himself up from his halfway reclined position on the couch, squinting at the well-muscled figure sitting in the far corner of the shadows.

The hulking outline could only belong to one person on La Dolce Vita’s staff. Adrian Holt might wear chef’s whites and whip up elegant meals with one tattooed arm tied behind his back, but the guy could easily pass for a pro wrestler turned lumberjack. Not the kind of person whose space you wanted to invade.

“It’s cool. I was just trying to catch some quiet.” Adrian’s eyes flickered, barely visible in the low light of the lounge but for the stainless steel piercing marking his dark brow. “Chef’s driving me nuts with down-to-the-wire wedding plans, so I came in here to escape. I’ll be glad after next Saturday, when she’s back to normal again.”

“Yeah, a guy can only take so much discussion about bridesmaids’ dresses and chocolate fountains before he’s tempted to lose his mind,” Gavin agreed.

“Planned a wedding recently, have you?” Adrian’s response was laden with sarcasm, but it arrowed into Gavin’s chest all the same. Damn it, he’d said too much. The thought of airing out those memories, even in a vague admission to a gruff coworker who probably wouldn’t ask questions anyway, still made him uneasy.

“Just stuff I’ve overheard. Carly’s wedding plans are kind of hard to miss.” As tired as he was, Gavin pondered forgoing sleep in favor of a good, stiff drink. “Although I have to say, Chef seems pretty laid-back about it, as far as brides go.”

Adrian nodded, a quick jerk of his platinum-dyed head. “Fair enough. She’s too frickin’ happy to go full-on Bridezilla, anyway.” They sat in silence for a minute, and Gavin’s lingering exhaustion left him unprepared for the shift in subject.

“Hey, she told me you hired Sloane to babysit your sister, huh? Interesting move.”

His gut tightened, and he sat up straighter against the plush couch cushions. “Carly’s the one who suggested it, and so far it’s working out. I take it you know Sloane.”

It made sense that he would, given that Adrian, Carly, and Sloane all had the same hard Brooklyn accent and that Adrian had been Carly’s sous-chef for four years. But since Gavin made it a point not to share his own particulars, that usually meant not hearing anybody else’s either.

Adrian’s low chuckle was full of gravel. “She and Carly have been best friends since they were in kneesocks, man. It’s kind of tough to know one without the other.”

A picture of Sloane wearing kneesocks and one of those infuriatingly sexy short pleated skirts flashed through Gavin’s mind with startling clarity, and he tamped it down with all his might.

“Oh, I, uh, guess so,” he said, clearing his throat. Great. Sleep deprivation was making him insane.

Adrian rolled a thick shoulder, continuing, “I’m surprised she took the job, though. I thought she was writing the great American love story or something.”

The image of the schoolgirl skirt was replaced by that of a floppy blue and white striped sun hat, and Gavin latched on to the quirky image to smooth out his demeanor. “She’s only watching my sister temporarily. Our regular sitter had an emergency.”

“Ah. Well, as off the wall as she seems, Sloane’s all right.” The words were as close to a ringing endorsement as Gavin had ever heard from Adrian, and they sparked his curiosity.

A beat of silence passed, then two before he had to ask, “She takes her career pretty seriously, huh?”

Adrian’s laugh was like a growl without the anger. “Took her long enough to get there, so I guess so.”

His inquiring mind did a slow burn, like embers just waiting for something to engulf in flames. “What’d she do before becoming a writer?”

“More like what didn’t she do. In the time it took me and Carly to move up the ranks as chefs, Sloane’s had some pretty unconventional jobs.”

“More unconventional than writing romance novels?” It wasn’t a dime-a-dozen kind of career, like being an accountant or a doctor or even a restaurant manager. She was definitely the only person he’d ever met to make a living writing steamy books.

“She taught ballroom dancing for a while. Oh, and then she was a hand model. You know, for jewelry circulars and catalogs and stuff?” Adrian’s face split into a knowing grin.

The idea of Sloane teaching the waltz to some poor guy whose mother or wife insisted he take dancing lessons seemed kind of unfair. Hell, he wasn’t half-bad in the dance department, and even he was tempted to trip over his imaginary friend at the sight of her.

Gavin cleared his throat. “That’s not so bad,” he said, although he couldn’t deny that his curiosity was now at a full simmer. Adrian’s lifted brows translated to a nonverbal
we’re just getting started
.

“She also apprenticed in a glass blowing studio someplace in Arizona, ran deliveries for a bagel shop, and did a stint as a blackjack dealer in Atlantic City.” He broke off with a shrug. “I could go on all day, and I’m probably forgetting half of it.”

Gavin’s curiosity skipped catching fire and went right for spontaneous combustion. “Are you serious?”

Adrian nodded. “As a heart attack, man. That woman is going places even in her sleep.”

Unease nestled into the pit of Gavin’s stomach in a series of sharp pokes. As flighty as she seemed, he hadn’t thought Sloane irresponsible, otherwise he’d never have trusted her to look after Bree. Plus, her literary accomplishments were pretty impressive. Something wasn’t adding up.

“So she’s just writing to fill the time until the next thing comes along?”

“Nah.” Adrian settled his kitchen-tested black clogs on the floor and stood to stretch. “She’s been writing longer than she did all of the other stuff combined, so my guess is that it’s going to stick. Still moves around like the freaking wind, though. It’s not hard to lose count of all the places she’s lived.”

Sloane’s story about traveling to Florence threaded through Gavin’s mind, and realization dinged him hard. Of course she moved around a lot, single girl with no attachments. Why wouldn’t she? Hell, his life had been the same way just a year and a half ago.

Watching his mother go through surgery and chemo had made it feel as if the intervening months had been ten times that long. Not that he would trade the chance to have spent those precious last days with her, or the opportunity to be with Bree, no matter what it had cost him. In truth, he’d missed them both every time he got on a plane to start up a new restaurant, and as much as Gavin loved his job, the traveling part always took a toll on him. His mom and Bree were the only family he had ever known, and he’d have gladly lost everything, including the shirt off his back, before he’d give up caring for them when it really mattered.

Adrian cracked a grin, examining him so closely that he was tempted to flinch. “Don’t worry about Sloane. Like I said, she’s all right. Worth having on your side. For as long as she’s around, anyway.”

Gavin nodded, swallowing thickly but cementing his standard cool facial expression into place. The last thing he wanted was to let the weird feeling swirling in his gut show on his face. Why should he care about Sloane’s whereabouts? Where she went and how long she stayed—or didn’t stay—was none of his business. “I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks.”

“No problem. Get some shut-eye. Tonight’s gonna be a killer.”

Adrian pulled the door shut with a tight click, and Gavin sank back into the couch, releasing a slow breath. He’d come in here to find a few minutes of respite to get his head back on straight, but between his restless mind and his churning gut, the chances of it actually happening looked pretty bleak. Cold rain trickled down the window across from the couch, and a stark memory tugged at the corners of his mind, demanding the forefront.

When Bree had angrily compared Sloane to his ex-fiancée, his first response had been to laugh. On the surface, the two women were nothing alike. Yes, they were both pretty, career-driven women—Caroline had taken her job as an interior designer for the Gourmet Network’s makeover show,
Five Star Restaurant,
very seriously—but their personalities seemed like a light, crisp Riesling compared to a full-bodied Merlot. Sure, they were both great wines, but hell if you could find any other similarities.

Gavin closed his eyes, letting the image of Caroline’s blond hair, brown eyes, and petite frame solidify and flood back into his mind’s eye. It had been cold and rainy that night in Philadelphia, when he told Caroline he wanted to put off leaving his family. Not just until his mother recovered from her mastectomy, not only to see her through the last-chance round of debilitating chemo, or to hold her fragile yet steadfast hand when her oncologist gravely told her it had failed. No, he told her. He was done traveling from city to city. He wanted to stay indefinitely.

He wanted to take care of Bree, not just because his mother had begged him to make sure she’d be okay, but because he loved them both, and caring for her felt right. Hell, if he’d been around more often instead of jet-setting all over the planet with his high-profile job, maybe his mother wouldn’t have been too busy to schedule her regular mammogram in the first place. He knew then that he belonged with Bree, as her family, and he wanted Caroline to be part of that. To marry him like they’d planned so they could have a family together.

As soon as the words had come from his mouth, he’d known she wouldn’t stay. Of course, she supported him as he grieved for his mother, and promised to do whatever he needed to help care for Bree. Gavin never doubted that Caroline loved him and that her promise was well-intentioned, but he’d seen the tiny flicker of shadows that had darted through her eyes like a quick jolt of panic, and in hindsight, he knew.

Of course, Bree hadn’t made it easy, fighting Caroline to the teeth at every turn. Add the pressure of Gavin not being able to find a job in the saturated Philadelphia restaurant market, and the inconsistency of Caroline’s breakneck travel schedule for her own job, and it was a recipe for disaster. Things with Bree became increasingly strained, and the nicer Caroline tried to be, the harder Bree fought her kindness. After three months of trying to make things work, Caroline finally admitted that maybe taking care of a child with such an emotional background wasn’t in her future, and he’d had no choice but to watch her go.

An angry gust of wind scattered hard raindrops against the glass, bringing Gavin back to the staff lounge with a start, and he bulldozed the memory into the back of his brain.

Dwelling on Caroline and all the what-ifs was pointless now. What he needed more than anything else was to figure out a way to connect with Bree, to help her past the grief that was clearly still bogging her down. If a woman came along who had the sticking power to help him with that, then great. But no way was he going to roll the dice on anyone who wouldn’t be around for the long haul, especially when that long haul involved the ups and downs of an emotional preteen. So maybe Sloane had more in common with Caroline than he’d thought.

Which was all the more reason he needed to stay the hell away from her.

Chapter Seven

By the time Bree emerged, bleary-eyed and still yawning, from her bedroom at ten forty-five, Sloane had amassed a brand-new pile of failed attempts at a paper hero—or a paper
anything
—by her feet.

“Oh, hey.” She scratched out the latest horrible idea with a sigh and poked the brim of her hat from her eyes before looking up. “You’re awake.”

Bree rubbed her sleep-swollen eyes with one hand. “How come you didn’t wake me up?”

“Um, I didn’t know I was supposed to.” Damn it, Gavin had never said anything about waking her up eventually. How was she supposed to know she had to wake the kid up at a certain time? It seemed kind of mean, considering it was Saturday, but then again, what did she know about this kind of thing?

“Mrs. Teasdale usually wakes me by nine. She says it’s good for me to have a regular sleep schedule.”

Sloane took off her hat and pushed her pencil behind her ear, looking at Bree with interest. “Who’s Mrs. Teasdale?”

“The lady who normally babysits me.” Bree’s face bent into a disdainful frown.

Ah, the regular sitter. Of course that lady probably knew how to take care of kids in her sleep. “You don’t like her?”

“She’s okay, I guess. She says getting up at the same time every morning makes for a happy, healthy day.”

Sloane barely bit back the rude noise bubbling in her throat. What a load of happy, healthy crap. Then again, she was probably a teensy bit biased, being that she was as far from a morning person as a girl could get. “And what do you think?”

Bree’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“I mean what I said. It’s your schedule, right? Do you think waking up at nine is a good idea?”

While Sloane could admit she didn’t have a clue how much sleep a thirteen-year-old was supposed to get and that her own sleep schedule had all the twists and turns of an ancient treasure map, not asking Bree what she thought about her own sleep habits seemed kind of stupid. If the kid was tired on a Saturday, who was Sloane to wake her up?

“I’m usually up anyway.” Bree pulled at the hem of her pajama top. “Plus, it makes it kind of hard to get up for school and stuff if my sleep schedule on the weekend is all messed up.”

Huh. Okay, so that made sense. Still . . . “But that doesn’t answer the question. Do you like getting up early on the weekend?”

Bree measured Sloane with a wary glance, yanking the hem of her top even harder to twist it around her thumb. “Well, it’s hard to get up sometimes. Especially if . . .” She jerked her words to a halt, letting her shirt fall loosely from her fingers. “No. I guess I don’t like it.”

Sloane nodded, looking down at her legal pad. The scratched-out words sent weariness into her bones, and she cast it aside in favor of a good stretch. “I can relate. Lucky for you, you’ve got the whole day to go back to bed if you feel like it. After that last assignment gets done, anyway.”

“Are you seriously going to let me do whatever I want if I finish that paper?” Bree’s skepticism was evident in both her tone and her expression, but Sloane wasn’t about to renege on their deal. How much trouble could one kid stir up at home, anyway?

“As long as it’s not illegal or dangerous, sure.” She shrugged.

“Turn my stereo up as loud as it’ll go?”

“Something tells me if you blow out your speakers, your brother won’t buy you new ones. But if you’ve got the cash to spare, knock yourself out.” Maybe a little loud music would nudge her creative juices into flow-mode. That could be a good idea for both of them.

“Okay, what about letting me wear black eyeliner, red lipstick, and a miniskirt that comes up to
here
.” Bree indicated the top of her thigh in a dramatic sweeping gesture.

Sloane laughed, trying to picture such a brash look on the fresh-faced, sullen preteen. “If you want to Goth up in the privacy of your own home, go for it,” she said. What could it hurt to let the kid parade around the living room dressed like Lady Gaga? It wasn’t like they were going to go anywhere with her looking like that. All in all, a little Gaga never hurt a girl.

Bree’s eyes glinted. “Okay. What if I want to drink a whole pot of coffee?”

“Get me some while you’re up.”

“Go all weekend without taking a shower or brushing my teeth?”

“Um, eww. That’s up to you, but don’t be mad when I nickname you Stinky Sue.”

“Say the f-word ten times in a row at the top of my lungs?”

“Freedom of speech, sweetheart. And I’ve heard it once or twice before.” As a matter of fact, Sloane had hurled the f-bomb at her alarm clock in three different languages before getting out of bed mere hours ago. “Anything else you want to do today?”

Bree’s face flushed, her eyes darkening with emotion as she delivered her next words. “What if I smash the two-hundred-dollar bottle of Merlot sitting in the wine cellar? Then what?”

Whoa!
Sloane jerked her spine to ramrod status, a bolt of fear traveling through each bone before dispersing outward with a hard tingle, like a heat signature. “Why would you do that?”

Bree blanked her expression, taking a step backward toward the kitchen as she averted her eyes. “I . . . I was just kidding. You know, trying to come up with something crazy. Forget it.”

But Sloane couldn’t. “Bree . . .” Thoughts clogged her brain, but none of them made sense. Everything else had been fun and games, silly stuff that any budding teenager might want to try. But not this. This was hurtful, designed to push someone away in anger. And from what little Sloane knew of Gavin, it would more than do the trick.

Why did she want to piss him off so badly?

“I’m going to go finish my paper.” For just a breath, Bree didn’t move, almost as if she was daring Sloane to try to stop her. Sloane opened her mouth to do just that, when a thought clattered unavoidably into her brain.

Sloane’s maternal instincts couldn’t even fill a thimble. What the hell would she say if Bree actually stopped to listen? Clearly, the kid knew she’d crossed the line, and she couldn’t even go down the hall to pee without Sloane knowing her whereabouts, anyway. That made actual bottle-smashing seem highly unlikely. What was more, Sloane honestly didn’t believe she’d follow through on her destructive suggestion even if she did have the chance.

Damn it, this was exactly why she steered clear of kids. How was she supposed to handle this? An argument with a thirteen-year-old wasn’t really on her wish list, and somehow she didn’t think Bree was in the mood for a lecture, either.

Finally, she just went with, “Okay. Do you want any help?”

Bree’s gaze winged upward, as if commanded by the surprise evident on her face. Her eyes betrayed a hint of soft, childlike vulnerability, and in that instant, Sloane actually thought the kid would say yes.

But then she turned back toward her bedroom, not even bothering to slow her steps as she answered, “No. I’m fine all by myself.”

 

 

Gavin trudged up the porch stairs on Sunday night with the firm knowledge that the ache he’d felt a few days ago had merely been child’s play. At least Sunday’s dinner service was abbreviated by an hour, and he’d managed to finish tallying receipts at eleven rather than the usual midnight. For all its tedium, though, his number crunching paid off in efficiency. They could run inventory just as easy as breathing at La Dolce Vita now that he’d implemented a system that worked. Gavin had no worries that his assistant manager would keep things running smoothly tomorrow on his much-needed day off.

He flipped the dead bolt, and just like the last two nights when he’d dragged himself home, the living room was the only illuminated space in the tiny cottage. Similarly, a freshly minted host of crumpled papers lay scattered by the arm of the couch.

The piece of furniture itself, however, was decidedly vacant.

“Sloane?” A beat of silence passed, then two, without even a hint of movement in the rest of the house, and Gavin’s breath quickened in his lungs. He took three strides to double back to the foyer and headed down the darkened hallway, his pulse popping with every step. Bree’s bedroom door was shut tight, but he nudged it open for a quick check anyway.

Relief flowed through his veins as he caught sight of her curled soundly in bed, and he whispered the door shut so as not to wake her. A quick perusal revealed that Sloane hadn’t opted for a snooze in the guest bedroom, and as usual, his bedroom door was firmly closed. Repeating his steps back to the entryway, Gavin’s mounting worry edged out his irritation by only a hair.

Where the hell was she?

“Hello? Sloane?” There were only so many places to hide in the cottage, and unless she was sitting in the dark kitchen all by her lonesome, he’d exhausted the short list of choices. Gavin’s frustration quickly surrendered to cold, hard panic, however, as he finally rounded the empty couch.

Sloane was lying on the floor in front of the coffee table, eyes closed and completely unmoving.

“Sloane!” His heart slammed in an honest effort to shoot free of his rib cage, and he dropped to the hardwood with an unforgiving
thunk
. Dread clutched at him with clammy fingers, and he grabbed her shoulders in a rough hold, lowering his head to instinctively listen for a breath.

A bolt of white-hot pain cracked from his nose all the way to the back of his skull.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard a familiar, feminine voice gasping his name, but he was too fascinated by the pretty, winking lights in his vision to try to figure it out.

Sparkly.

“Gavin! Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God. I’m so sorry.” A flurry of movement rushed past his ears, and somewhere amid the crushing pain reverberating between his temples, he felt himself being eased backward onto a soft surface and covered with a warm, wonderful blanket.

Wait a second . . . the blanket had breasts. Nice ones.

Make that
really
wonderful.

“Gavin? Can you hear me?” The woman’s voice rose and fell over inflections he vaguely recognized, and understanding snapped back at him like a rubber band on raw skin.

Clearly, Sloane was just fine, because she was practically straddling his chest.

“Yeah, of course I can hear you. You’re right in my—
ow!
” Okay, so sitting up was a bad plan. He eased ungracefully back to the floor, highly aware of the heat of Sloane’s body notched against his.

“Okay, shh. Just relax for a second.” Her fingers coursed gently over the back of his neck, and he caught a nose full of the spicy, seductive scent of her skin.

Huh. Relaxing somehow got a little easier.

“What were . . . what were you doing on the floor?” His fragmented thoughts began spooling back together, and finally, blessedly, the marching band in his cranium started to tone things down.

Sloane’s body tensed, a slight shift in the body weight still perched over him the only sign of her hesitance. “Um, meditating.”

He cracked one eye open to catch her gesturing to a bright yellow yoga mat beneath the tangle of their bodies. “Meditating?”

“Yeah. I thought it might give me some good ideas for my book, mental clarity, all that rot. I had my earphones in and didn’t hear you come home. And then, well, you scared me half to death, and I guess I . . . I must’ve headbutted you.” She bit her lip in apology, but then her attention seemed to snag on an unspoken thought. “Wait, what’d you think I was doing?”

Well, that explained the raging face pain. How had he not noticed the damned yoga mat? “I . . . well, never mind.”

Of course, she didn’t relent. “Seriously, why else would I crash on your floor?”

“Please,” he said, letting his exasperation lead the way. “You’re hardly predictable, Sloane.”

She tensed, her muscles coiling tight against his body, and he instantly wished for the words back. Yes, he was irritated with her for scaring the shit out of him like that, but it was no excuse for taking a verbal jab at her.

“I’m sorry. It’s just dangerous for you not to hear things like that. What if I’d been an intruder?” A bit of a lame recovery, but all told, not completely unfounded. What if something happened to her and Bree when they were alone at night?

“Then I’d have cold-cocked you just the same, making the cops’ job easy?” Sloane released the words on a shrug, without the tiniest hint of remorse or worry that he could’ve been some thug with nasty intentions. Her face settled into a rare frown. “You don’t have to worry about a repeat performance, anyway. It’s not like it worked.”

A pang shot through Gavin’s gut. Maybe he
was
being a little tough on her. After all, he had slipped into the house pretty quietly. “I really am sorry,” he mumbled, wincing at the residual twinge in his upper lip.

“No, you’re right. I should be more careful. Are you sure you’re okay?”

The streak of vulnerability on her face caught him so much by surprise that he spoke without thinking. “Sloane, you’re sitting in my lap. Honestly, I’ve forgotten about my face.”

“Oh!” The start-and-wiggle combination caused by her realization that she was indeed suggestively pressed against him destroyed any remaining irritation that she’d scared him. In fact, watching her flail to her bottom on the floorboards would’ve probably been downright amusing if he wasn’t so busy mourning the loss of her body covering his.

Gavin levered himself to a sitting position, face hot with guilt. He hadn’t meant to embarrass her, but surely he must have. He opened his mouth to say something reassuring, but she cut him off at the pass with a burst of throaty laughter.

“Sorry! I’m sorry, it’s not funny.” Sloane giggled even harder. “I didn’t . . . mean to . . . you know, sit on you, but . . . God, I’m an idiot. I’ll just go. Really . . . I can . . .”