"Here Comes Trouble" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kauffman Donna)

Chapter 9

Well, Kirby had gotten it half right, anyway.

The whole wild and crazy spontaneous casual sex thing-that part she’d figured out. The part about not falling apart and crying afterward because she was already getting emotionally involved? Yeah, that part she had to work on. She wondered if Brett even knew. He’d stood behind her, under the spray, for quite some time before reaching for her. She’d tried, desperately, to stop the tears, but in the end had worked on being really quiet about it. Had he known? Is that why he’d reached for her?

He’d been…different, that second time. Less intent and hungry, more…she wasn’t sure how to describe it. Not as intent, no, but maybe all the more intense because of it. He’d been…gentler. Thorough. Like he’d had his appetite slaked the first time and now just wanted to savor the intimate contact. She wasn’t sure which had been more effective in destroying whatever defenses she’d built up in the past few years. Any physical defenses she’d built were gone before he’d pulled her pants down in the kitchen, but she’d thought, after waking up next to him on her bed, that her emotional defenses were shot, too. Hence the tears in the shower as the totality of the step she’d taken, and what it meant, what it signified to her, personally, hit her fully.

But that second time…yeah, she’d still had emotional defenses left to shatter as it turned out. She was thankful for the phone ringing and the stupid vendor asking whether she was wanting to stock up on wine and champagne for high season. She wasn’t sure what she’d have said to Brett. As it was, she’d asked the vendor if perhaps he was high, or if he’d bothered to notice that with no snow, there was no season, of any level.

Yes, perhaps it was best that she’d said her first post-earth-shattering-moment words to a salesman…and not to the man who had been responsible for all that world shaking.

At the moment, she was hiding. Unashamedly. She’d stayed in her office for a bit after ending the call, chicken that she was, and when she’d gone back to her room, Brett was gone. She’d dressed, paced, laundered towels and bedspread, paced some more, then finally climbed the stairs to his room. His door was closed, and there was no sound coming from behind it. His bike was still parked out front, so she assumed he was in there. Probably sleeping.

She’d crept down the back way to the kitchen, only to find her clothes and panties folded in a pile on one of the kitchen chairs. Mortified and kind of amazed at herself still, she’d added them to the laundry, set out a bottle of wine, along with some cheese and crackers, in the front parlor, in case he came down. It was part of his room and board, after all.

Then she’d grabbed the legal pad and pen she’d started her garden design on and headed outside again. Kind of full circle, a bookend to how and where it had all started. She sat, cross-legged, between the trees and the open hillside on the side of the house, supposedly dreaming up her garden pattern and subsequent planting schedule. But the pad remained empty of sketches and lists. Instead, she found her gaze drawn to Brett’s bike. Again. And her mind replaying what Thad had said on his answering machine message.

What happened next? she wondered. Was that it? A casual, if mind-blowing, fling? Did he hop on his bike now and head out to parts unknown, never to be seen again? Much less go to bed with. Or…did he stay? And, if he did…then what? How did she act? How should she feel? More importantly, how would she feel? She drummed her pencil eraser on the yellow lined paper. She didn’t know what to do with what she’d done. She supposed she’d always assumed her casual lover assignation, when she’d finally had one, wouldn’t be at the inn but somewhere else. That she’d come back, resume her life, then decide if and when she would see the guy again. Control. Calling the shots.

She laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “Yeah, I’m in control all right.” He was under her roof and very admittedly already under her skin. She sucked at casual. One time-okay, technically two times-and she was already spending way too much time thinking about him. All of her time, actually.

Not that she had much to distract her, Kirby argued silently. After all, it was the most exciting thing that had happened since…well since she’d almost killed herself falling out of her own tree, but before that? In a very, very, far too many verys, long time. Naturally she was going to think about it, ponder it, analyze it. She felt the weight of her cell phone in her hoodie pocket and was tempted, for about two seconds, to call Aunt Frieda. Frieda wasn’t her actual aunt. Kirby had no idea if she had actual blood relatives left anywhere. Frieda, who had worked at the resort and taken Kirby in when she was sixteen and had left her most recent foster family when they’d told her they were packing up and moving to Texas.

Frieda had been one in a long line of resort folks who had kind of adopted her after her biological mother, a teenager working at the resort, had left her in the manager’s office with a note pinned to her onesie and taken off for parts unknown. She’d bounced in and out of foster homes and state-funded homes, but had always stuck around the resort because that was really home to her. Frieda had let her stick around until she finished her college degrees, and had become as close as anyone had ever come to being Kirby’s family. Longest she’d ever stayed in one place, that was for sure.

But while Frieda was solidly supportive of Kirby’s goals, and proud of the career she’d launched after graduation, and the business she was trying to start now, she hadn’t been a huge fan of Kirby’s relationship with Patrick. Given the way it had ended, clearly Frieda had been the better judge of character. So Kirby couldn’t quite imagine how she’d start a phone conversation that needed to be steered in the direction of how she’d had wildly satisfying animal sex in her own kitchen with a virtual stranger. Who happened, apparently, to be kind of famous. If you liked poker. And was also maybe filthy rich.

Of course, Patrick hadn’t exactly been hurting, but this was a different scale and sort of wealth. At least so she imagined given what Thad had said. Patrick was born into money, but he always seemed to have all of his ready assets tied up in this investment scheme or that new development deal. She had no doubt he’d always be successful as he was a born wheeler and dealer. Why she hadn’t realized that skill would naturally extend from the boardroom to the bedroom, she had no idea.

Complete naïveté where men were concerned was only a partial excuse for her inability to see what had always been right in front of her face. She supposed it had more to do with her wanting what she’d never had. Stability, a family, someone she could truly count on. A foundation. And in her mind, the older, more mature, well-established Patrick was easily all those things. And he’d chosen her.

She sighed and thought again about the man who was sleeping right now on the top floor of her inn. Brett hadn’t chosen her, he’d just taken advantage of an opportunity. As had she. She had no idea if he was stable or wise, or what he did with his earnings, much less what had put him in such a quandary that he’d taken off on his motorcycle and headed out for parts unknown. Certainly if she was looking for stable and steady, a new foundation, so to speak…he certainly didn’t seem like a very wise candidate. But then, on paper, Patrick had been perfect.

And Patrick had never once made her feel so…understood. Not in the way Brett had within their first five minutes talking to one another. Possibly merely a side effect of launching a relationship with one of them rescuing the other from a near-death experience, but that instant intimacy couldn’t be completely discounted, either. She’d had a more frank, open, and intimate conversation within a day of knowing him than she’d had with…well, pretty much anybody, save Aunt Frieda. In years. Even where Patrick was concerned. Not that she hadn’t been open with him, but she realized now, after seeing the intent way that Brett focused and truly listened, that Patrick hadn’t been paying the least bit of attention to her. Not really. Other than as he had to do to get her to do whatever he wanted.

“Damn, I was a pathetic idiot, wasn’t I?” It was a rhetorical question. She just wished she could be more certain of the decisions she was making right now. It was a bit disconcerting, more than a bit really, to realize that even after everything she’d been through, both with Patrick and with launching the inn, there were still going to be things she had no clue how to deal with.

Which, of course, would all resolve itself when Brett got on his bike and rode right out of her life. But what she did between now and then could matter afterward. And moving forward. Why make more stupid mistakes if they could be avoided?

She glanced at the house and wished she could convince herself that continuing to mess around with Brett Hennessey wasn’t going to be a mistake.

The fact that she’d cried-cried, for God’s sake-in the shower was proof enough she couldn’t handle this…whatever the hell it was. It certainly didn’t feel casual, but what the hell else could it really be? Sure, it was understandable to get emotional. She was forty years old, and Brett Hennessey was only the second man she’d ever let-who’d ever really touched-ever gone-the first to truly…She closed her eyes.

Yeah. It was understandable.

She opened her eyes again and forced her attention back to the legal pad. Did she want vegetables? Or just flowers? Was she willing to do the work to have fresh tomatoes on her table? She decided she was. But mostly she wanted flowers. Aunt Frieda had taught her the joy to be found in planting with her own hands, growing things in the dirt…and enjoying the vivid colors, the spicy scents, the organized chaos of beauty that was a well-planned garden.

So first…the flowers. She was sketching out an outline of the house, the property lines, and had just started to fill in a few dotted line areas for proposed beds, when her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She pulled it out, shaded her eyes, and read: Front Desk. Which meant the call was from a guest. And she only had one of those.

She froze. The phone vibrated in her hand again. What did she do? Pretend to be Kirby Farrell, hostess? Or Kirby Farrell, recent recipient of a multiple orgasm in her own shower, thanks to said guest on the other end of the line?

Yeah, she was never going to try having a fling with a guest, ever again. Ever.

It vibrated again, which did other vibratory things to her senses that she really didn’t need to be reminded of at the moment. She pressed TALK before her nerve gave out. “Front Desk,” she said, then made a face at herself. She was such a loser. A dork loser who suddenly felt a lot more like a woman who’d only had two lovers in her whole life, than a woman who’d single-handedly bought, built, opened, and was running her own business. Sort of.

“Ah, yes. This would be Room Seven.”

God, just his voice was enough to make her melt into a puddle of goo. Good thing she was already sitting down. “Yes, what can I do for you?” She squeezed her eyes shut and swore under her breath. Double dork!

To his everlasting credit, and her merciful thanks, there was no sexy chuckle, or knowing retort. Although maybe that she could have found a way to respond to outright.

“Well,” he said, then it sounded like he groaned a little. Stretching, maybe? Which meant, what, he was just waking up? From sleeping? In that big sleigh bed…naked, maybe?

“Since you treated me to dinner last night, I was thinking I could return the favor.”

“I thought we’d already gone over that. I owed you. Certainly more than a dinner.” Okay, so she really, really needed to just shut up. Right now. Because Lord knew she’d given him a lot more than dinner, all right. She sure hoped he wasn’t misconstruing-surely he wouldn’t think that she’d ever-

“Then can I just ask you to join me? I eat alone a lot, and I kind of liked having some company last night.” He said it sincerely, not a shred of innuendo in his tone.

It was like the whole interlude in the kitchen, in her shower, hadn’t happened. Like they’d jumped from dinner last night to right now. And, to her surprise, she was very okay with that time-space continuum. “I-yes,” she answered, no analysis this time, going with her gut. “I’d enjoy that.” It was, after all, the honest truth. Perhaps not the wisest course, but…it was just dinner. And who knew? Maybe it would get them back on some kind of host-guest footing that she’d have a clue what to do with. “What time? Did you need some info on the local places?”

“I just need directions to the closest market. Grocery store.”

“Grocery-you’re cooking? Here?” She might have sounded a bit squeaky on that last part.

“I prefer smaller crowds.” There was a pause, then, “Is that okay? I promise I won’t burn the place down. And I clean up.”

“You really don’t have to go to the trouble. There are several places that have good takeout if you just want to-”

“I’d really like to cook. You wanna help?”

“I, uh-” Yes, Kirby. Yes, you do. Just say yes, for God’s sake. It didn’t have to be so complicated, did it? It was just dinner. “Sure,” she said. “Okay. That sounds like fun.” And it did. See, simple. Right. “What time?”

“What is it now?” She heard him make a little groaning noise as he, what, rolled over? In bed? Naked?

Her body reacted like it had been zapped with a live wire. And the wire’s name was Brett. She closed her eyes and shook her head. Nothing was ever simple.

“It’s almost four thirty. How about we head out at five?”

“We-wait, what?”

“To the store? I thought you were going to help?”

“I thought you meant cook.” Now was when she might want to explain about her lack of actual cooking skills. There was a reason her inn didn’t serve dinner. But he was talking, so she didn’t push it. She’d tackle the jobs she could.

“I did. But shopping is part of the deal. Or can be. You can show me around. Cut down on errand time. Are you game?”

You have no idea, she thought, wanting to swat at her treacherous body, which was so game he could have stripped her naked right there on the lawn. Yeah, she was definitely going to have to figure out what her code of conduct was going to be…and how in the hell she was going to pull it off.

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?”

“That green, huh?”

He nodded. “You can say no thank you. You don’t have to do something because I like it.” He pulled her another half step closer still, until her hip bumped his and leaned even closer. “I’m sure there are plenty of other things we’d both like to do,” he said, then glanced at her and laughed. “Much better face.”

She laughed, too, but part of her cringed. “Good to know I’m that transparent.”

“Hey,” he said, bumping her with his hip, then taking her hand as they set off across the lot. “Don’t feel too badly. You’re playing with a professional.”

She couldn’t help it, she just shook her head and laughed again. He really was incorrigible. Incorrigible and sweet and ridiculously sexy.

It wasn’t until they were stepping up on the curb to head into the store that she grew aware of the looks. It took her a second to process, then she realized what she was doing. Holding hands. With Brett Hennessey. Not that probably anyone in Pennydash, Vermont, knew who Brett Hennessey was in terms of his poker fame, but what they did at least see was her, clearly attached to a much younger, hot motorcycle guy.

That part didn’t bother her, but before she could consider any other possible ramifications to their public display, Helen Harklebinder was calling her name.

“Kirby!”

She casually slipped her hand from Brett’s as he opened the door for them and the trailing Mrs. Harklebinder. Kirby stepped into the store and turned back as the older woman caught up. “Hello, Helen, how are you?”

Helen had already forgotten all about Kirby. She was too busy beaming up at Brett. “Well, aren’t you the nice young man. Too many of your generation don’t know their manners these days.”

Brett nodded. “My pleasure.” He stepped forward and unstuck a cart from the queue and rolled it to her, handle first.

Helen’s smile deepened and Kirby swore there was a bit of a pink flush to her feathery cheeks. “Why, you’re just a big Boy Scout, aren’t you.” She turned to Kirby. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend?”

Kirby had been caught up in the byplay, watching the spell Brett so effortlessly wove and was thinking he probably did that, rather pied piper like, everywhere he went. So it took her a split second to switch gears. “Oh, he’s not my-I mean, he’s-”

Brett stepped forward and extended his hand. “Brett Hennessey.”

“Mrs. Harklebinder,” she said, eyes twinkling now. “But, please, you can call me Helen.”

“Helen, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He rolled another cart out, which Kirby grabbed like the lifeline it was. “Have a nice evening,” he said to Helen, and then expertly guided Kirby and her cart toward the fresh vegetable department.

Kirby threw a little wave over her shoulder. “Nice to see you,” she said, then so softly only Brett could hear, added, “Thank you.”

“Actually, I should apologize.”

She glanced up, honestly confused. “For?”

“Not thinking. Small town. And your town. I know what you said about it not bothering you, but I don’t want to put you in a deliberately uncomfortable or awkward situation.”

“No, no, don’t-”

“Stop being nice,” he said, but was smiling as he said it.

Which made it easier for her to say, “Well, to be honest, I hadn’t even thought about it, beyond the general not caring about other folks’ opinions on my personal choices.”

“But you haven’t actually encountered them yet. Right?”

“True. So, yes, I guess I’d like a little processing time.” She took a steadying breath and added, “and more time to get to know you.”

She risked a glance up, and found him smiling but looking at her quite intently.

“What,” she asked, wishing she could read him as well as he apparently read her.

“Good,” was all he said. Then he nodded, and his expression was…happily content. “That’s good.” He covered her hand on the handle of the shopping cart and steered her toward the lettuce. “You get stuff to make a salad. I’m heading out to find us some pasta. Meet me in the bread aisle.”

“Ten-four,” she said.

“Horrible hand. I’d fold with that one,” he called back to her as he headed off.

She frowned. “It’s a radio sign-off,” she called after him. “Not a poker-never mind.” He’d already ducked down the soft drink and chip aisle. She turned and resolutely rolled her way through the fresh vegetable bins, choosing a fresh head of romaine, a few decent-looking tomatoes, some thoughtfully preshredded carrots, an onion, and a bag of croutons. She had no idea what kind of dressing he liked, so she picked out a ranch and a spicy Italian. Not so bad. A salad even she couldn’t screw up. Probably.

She pushed the cart along the aisles, heading toward the small bakery and bread area on the far side of the store. She heard Brett before she saw him. He was talking to somebody. She pushed the cart a bit faster, then slowed before she rounded the end of the last aisle and peeked around the corner first. Crap. Thad had Brett cornered between the dairy and the bread rolls. Thad, who knew exactly who Brett was. And had no idea he’d prefer no one else did.

Thad was pumping Brett’s hand, and to his credit, Brett was smiling easily enough, but it wasn’t the same kind of twinkling, truly sincere smile he’d favored her with. This was more…well, it was hard to say, exactly, because he looked quite sincere as he listened to Thad ramble on about something. She pushed the cart around the corner and headed their way, her mission plan to extricate him-them-as soon as possible. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

“You in town for an exhibition of some sort?” she heard Thad ask.

She winced inwardly as she noticed a few other shoppers shamelessly listening in on the conversation. If she didn’t do something quickly, he’d have folks asking him to autograph their grocery lists or something. Everybody loved a celebrity, even if they had no idea who he was.

“No, nothing like that,” Brett was saying. “I don’t think Vermont even has a gaming commission,” he joked with an easy smile. “I’m just taking a break, doing a little sightseeing.”

“Hey, Thad,” Kirby said as she closed ranks.

“You get my message earlier?”

She forced herself not to so much as glance in Brett’s direction or she was certain a neon sign would pop up over her head, announcing exactly what it was the two of them had been doing right before he’d left said message. “Sure did, thanks.”

He nudged her with his elbow. “Coulda told me you had a celebrity booked at your place.”

“It wasn’t an advance booking. And Mr. Hennessey here was looking for a bit of relaxation and a chance to get away from Vegas for a bit. If you know what I mean.” And she hoped to hell Thad did. Unless he’d already blabbed it across town. Which, come to think of it, he probably had. She should have thought of that and headed off this little excursion at the pass.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Deputy Johnson,” Brett put in, setting the box of pasta and cans of tomato sauce he’d been juggling into Kirby’s cart.

“No, the pleasure’s all mine. Thanks for the tips,” he said, clearly loving the idea of feeling he was suddenly a poker insider.

“Catch you some other time,” Kirby said, rolling the cart forward a bit and hoping Thad would catch on and move himself and his little handheld basketful of items on along.

“Sure, sure.” He glanced at the cart. “You making your guests do their own grocery shopping now, Kirby?”

Thad was about five or six years older than Kirby, divorced three times, no kids, and had made more than one attempt to get her to go out with him since she’d moved to Pennydash. She’d always politely but firmly declined. Thad was nice enough, in an overly-loud-but-friendly kind of way, but he had “lonely divorced guy looking for number four” all but made into a badge and pinned to his chest right next to the real thing. That was not a combination she was interested in tangling herself up with.

Thad had always taken her kindly worded rejections well, and he’d seemed to back off once the season had begun, or had geared up to begin, anyway. Word was he was seeing the new twenty-four-hour video store night manager. Kirby wished them both well.

“I needed a few things,” Brett interjected in response to Thad’s jibe. “Kirby was headed this way, so I tagged along. She’s a very accommodating innkeeper.”

Kirby almost choked on her own spit; then she quickly pasted a smile on her face when Thad looked at her with concern. “That’s me,” she said brightly. Probably too brightly. “Well, you’re probably wanting to get home before the game.”

“What game?” Thad asked, confused again but mercifully no longer ogling their comingled cart items.

“Uh, hockey.” There was always a hockey game on this time of year. “Tip-off is soon.”

“Face-off,” Brett said under his breath.

“Right,” Kirby said, smiling as she maneuvered her cart between Thad and the huge display of muffins and cinnamon bread. Once clear she gave the universal sports fist pump. “Go, uh-”

“Bruins,” Brett offered, and she could see his lips twitching now and that twinkling light was back in his eye.

“Exactly,” she said, unable not to smile back. Until she caught Thad looking between the two of them and snapped right back out of it. “Go New England!” she said, giving another little fist pump and then swiftly angling the cart when Thad shifted his feet a bit, looking at her like she’d lost her mind. At that point she didn’t care if she ran his toes over or cleared off half the display stand. She shoved the cart the rest of the way past the display case and kept on going. Brett was just going to have to save himself.

Which he apparently did, as he was beside her before she reached the bakery counter. “Sorry about that,” she said.

“About what? He seemed like a nice enough guy. And it’s Boston. You know, in case you ever get stuck again.”

“Boston?” Then her expression cleared. “Oh. Boston Bruins. Well, Boston is in New England. I was close.”

Brett just chuckled.

Kirby rolled her cart to a stop beside the baskets of French bread. “And you’re right, Thad is basically harmless. Thanks for being so nice to him. You probably just got him at least a half dozen free beers down at Swingert’s Pub on that one story alone. Of course, it will probably sound a little different by the time he’s telling his buddies. By that time he’ll have been the one giving you poker tips. Fair warning.”

“Warning taken.” He was still smiling.

“I just-I thought you’d rather not have it blabbed all over about…you know. And Thad is worse than an old woman when it comes to gossip. Mostly because he makes it his business to know every last thing about everyone within a fifty-mile radius of the town limits, and given we’re not exactly riddled with crime, and with the resort hotel more than half empty, he doesn’t have much else to do except run his mouth. So I’ll apologize up front if you’re suddenly inundated with questions from nosy townsfolk.”

He slid the long loaf of bread from her hands and merely smiled at her as he put it in the cart. “There’s only one nosy townsperson I’m interested in talking to at the moment. What do you say we blow this pop stand? Do we have everything we need?”

“I have wine back at the inn, so…yes, I think we’re good.” She looked in the cart. “Wait, where is the spaghetti sauce?”

He pointed to the cans of tomatoes and tomato sauce. “Right there. You have a decent spice rack?”

“Um…well. Like what, exactly?”

“Oregano, salt, maybe a little garlic to make garlic toast with the bread. Butter?”

“Maybe we should hit the spice aisle. Just in case.” She silently groaned, thinking that getting there entailed crossing to the opposite end of the store again. All she needed was for them to cross paths with Thad again, or Helen, or anyone else Thad had cornered in order to share his latest piece of news.

Brett’s long-legged stride kept up pretty easily with her sprinting pace. “Hungry?” he asked as she took the spice and condiment aisle almost on two wheels.

“Just not big on dawdling.”

He plucked the appropriate spices off the shelf so easily it was clear he’d made his way around them in the past. “Or cooking,” he said, half teasing, half asking.

“I do okay.” As long as it came out of a box, can, or prepackaged tray. And was only responsible for feeding herself. There was a reason the only actual full meal she offered was a box lunch. Sandwiches and chips she could do. Bagels, muffins, little boxes of cereal in the morning, some hot coffee and juice? Check. She’d been doing setups for that stuff since she was six years old and had proved to Mabel, the resort dining room manager, that she could reach the countertops without knocking anything over. But cooking where actual ingredients and a hot burner or three were involved? Yeah, the fire department could only do so much. Why risk it? Not to mention that poisoning her guests by actually preparing full meals from scratch generally wasn’t seen as a good business-building tool.

“Just okay?” he asked, that teasing glint surfacing again. And she realized then what she’d missed before, when he was talking to Thad.

His smile had been easy enough, his body language friendly and open, but his easy smile hadn’t reached his eyes. She wondered if it was sort of like a role he played. It went past just being polite to charming enough that most folks probably didn’t notice they were bothering him. Both Helen and Thad had surely felt like he’d personally connected with them.

“All right, barely okay,” she said, figuring what difference would the honesty make at this point. “I’ll be in charge of chopping up the fresh things that don’t require a stove.”

“Ah,” he said. “Got it. But you’re safe with knives?”

“I can chop anything from an onion to firewood. But you’re only supposed to burn the latter one. I know my limits.”

“Ah. So was that the reason for the last-minute change in menu at dinner?”

“In my defense, the pot roast barely fit in my Crock-pot after adding the potatoes and other stuff. I’m usually good with the Crock-pot. Okay, I usually only use it for mulled cider, but it just didn’t look all that hard.”

Brett was grinning again. “Well, I appreciate the effort. And the chicken and biscuits were wonderful.”

She gave him a little curtsy. “Thank you.” They moved to the front of the store and she scanned the check-out stands but didn’t see Thad or Helen, or anyone else likely to interrupt their progress in getting out of the store without being further accosted.

Brett leaned in as she stopped her cart by the conveyor belt. “So, how is it that a person who dreamed of being an innkeeper doesn’t know how to cook?”

She started setting items on the conveyor belt. “It’s not for lack of trying. I learned early on to go with your strengths. I figured if I ever became wildly busy and folks were clamoring for home-cooked food after a day on the slopes, I’d hire someone. Frankly, running a full house doesn’t really leave any time for that anyway.” She glanced up at him as he leaned past her, his chest brushing her shoulder, to help her unload the cart. “So, how is it that a professional poker player also knows how to make his own spaghetti sauce from scratch?”

“Man can only live on room service for so long.”

She pretended to pause and think about that, then said, “Right. I could see where that would get old. Ordering from an extensive menu and having one of the world’s best executive chefs in a world-renowned Vegas resort hotel whip something up, then having it delivered to your door, and, oh, right, no cleanup, either.” She patted him on the arm. “I don’t know how you managed.”

He smiled. “It’s a trying existence.”

He resumed putting things on the conveyor belt, but Kirby was left thinking about his life. He was a professional poker player, which essentially translated to professional gambler. It was funny, but she’d always kind of pictured gamblers as either a seedy, desperate bunch, spending their days and nights in smoke-filled rooms, never knowing if the sun was shining or the stars were out, drinking too much, losing too much. Or the opposite, with flashy bordering on tasteless fashion choices, overly groomed hair, too much jewelry, expensive dental work, and at least two surgically enhanced companions hanging on their arm at all time.

Both were the extreme clichés and she should be embarrassed by thinking like that, because, clearly, Brett Hennessey with his fine cashmere sweaters and well-maintained cuticles was hardly seedy or trashy-flashy. Actually, he was more college professorial than anything else. She hid a private grin. Yeah, if there was such a thing as a really hot, Harley-riding professor.

Still, it made her wonder what it was really like, to be a high roller, to live like that. Although technically she supposed high rollers were men who had made their fortunes in other realms and simply enjoyed the luxury of risking gambling huge chunks of it away whenever the whim struck them. Men who made huge fortunes usually were risk takers, so she could see the draw.

But that wasn’t Brett, either. He did it for his livelihood. What must that be like? According to Thad, Brett was very successful, so it was doubtful he was scrabbling to keep a roof over his head these days, especially if that wad of bills was anything to go by. But he had to have started somewhere. And where was that, she wondered? What led a person to that career path?

“Kirby?”

She blinked and looked up to find their purchases bagged, paid for, and back in the cart. “Oh. Sorry, my mind was drifting there.”

Brett and the check-out guy both smiled indulgently, but only Brett’s expression was tinged with a little something else. He knew where her train of thought had gone. She sighed inwardly. So much for keeping their respective jobs off the conversational table. If she was going to spend continued time with him, then there were things she was curious about, wanted to know. She’d just have to find a way to make him understand that whatever money he did or didn’t have, wasn’t of any interest to her.

He was. All of what he was. Or wasn’t.