“Nah, he just had something he had to get done tonight,” I said.
“Move his cows, probably.” Cole laughed and shook his head. “That guy spends more time moving his cows around his land than doing anything else. I don’t know how he stands it.”
“Beats being stuck behind a desk all day,” I said. “I don’t know how he did that as long as he did.”
“I do—he was making millions of dollars,” Moretti said, trying to catch the server’s eye to order another beer. It wouldn’t take long—his looks pretty much guaranteed him the eye of every female in the room between the ages of twelve and ninety. He’d always been the charmer of the group, able to flirt his way out of trouble with anyone—teachers, principals, coaches, girls. Even the mothers adored him. “It’s those dark eyes,” my mom said once, a little too dreamily. “They smolder.”
Sure enough, the server, a pretty twenty-something with long blond hair and a shy smile, came rushing over to ask what she could do for him. Moretti gave her the smolder and asked for another beer, and she sighed before saying she’d be right back with it, hurrying inside the pub before anyone else could order anything. Cole and I exchanged an eye roll.
“Hey, has Beckett said anything to you about his dad?” Moretti asked.
“His dad?” I squinted across the table at him. “No, why?”
“My mom said she ran into him at the grocery store the other day, and he seemed confused. Like he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there.”
“Huh. That’s not good.”
Cole moved the ice pack on his shoulder again. “Getting old sucks.”
“We’re not that old,” Moretti said. “We’re barely thirty.”
“We’re thirty-two,” I pointed out.
“Okay, we’re barely over thirty. But what’s so bad about it? We still look good.” He smiled at the server as she set down his beer.
“Could I get one more too, please?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said, before glancing at Cole. “How about for you, Officer Mitchell?”
He thought about it and shook his head. “Nah, I better get home.”
“Okay. I’ll get your check.” She gave him a smile and picked up his empty plate.
“I think she likes you, Officer Mitchell,” I said, laughing as I tipped my chair back on two legs.
Cole rolled his eyes. “Fuck off.”
“No, Griff is right,” Moretti said with a grin. “She didn’t call me by name. Maybe you should ask her out.”
“No.” Cole was adamant.
“Why not?”
“Well, besides the fact that she barely looks older than Mariah, I don’t even remember how to ask a girl out. I haven’t had to do it since high school.”
“It hasn’t changed,” Moretti assured him.
“How many times do I have to say it—I’m good,” Cole insisted, holding up his palms. “I don’t want to date anybody. I live with my mother. I’m raising a daughter. I’ve got enough women to deal with.”
Moretti looked at me. “What about you? What’s your excuse?”
I shrugged. “I’m smarter than the rest of you assholes.”
Moretti shook his head. “Jesus. You guys really are a couple of old men. You’re gonna end up like those two crotchety dudes on the Muppets, Statler and Waldorf, sitting alone up in the bleachers, watching Bulldogs games and complaining about everything.”
Cole laughed. “And where are you gonna be?”
“Oh, my wife and kids will have driven me into an early grave by then.”
I cocked a brow. “I didn’t realize you had a wife and kids.”
“I don’t. Not yet, anyway. But it’s inevitable. In my family, you have a wife—preferably Italian, definitely Catholic—and a bunch of kids. They’re expensive, loud, and they drive you crazy, but then you get to spend the rest of your life making them feel guilty about shit.” He shrugged and picked up his beer. “That’s how it goes. It’s the Moretti circle of life.”
I laughed. “And where are you going to find this wife? You know every single Italian girl in this town, and half of them are related to you.”
“I’m not worried,” Moretti said, lifting his bottle toward the sky. “I figure as long as I have faith, she’ll show up when I least expect it.”
Right then, we heard a huge boom next to us on the street. Since sudden loud noises trigger a hyper-alert response in me—a remnant of my three deployments in Afghanistan—I jumped to my feet and assessed the situation, my adrenaline pumping. But it was immediately apparent that the source of the explosion was a blown tire.
Cole and Moretti stood too, and we watched as a red vintage MG wobbled precariously before jumping a concrete chock block and coming to rest on the sidewalk in front of the Bellamy Creek Credit Union, which told me that the driver did exactly the thing you’re not supposed to do after blowing a tire—panic and slam on the brakes. Luckily, no one was parked in front of the credit union at this hour, and the sidewalk was empty as well. Still, the driver had to be pretty shaken up, if not injured.
Without exchanging a word, the three of us took off toward the car. As soon as we got close, we could see it had been the MG’s rear passenger-side tire that had blown. The driver opened the door and got out of the little car, which took some effort since she appeared to be wearing . . . a big, white wedding gown.
“Holy shit.” Moretti put both hands on his head. “I was kidding.”
We stared as the woman approached us, taking in all the details. The long strapless dress. The tiara perched on top of her dark blond hair. The white gloves covering her arms to the elbow. The shocked expression. She looked like a very confused Disney princess, as if she’d been well on her way to the Magic Kingdom and had no idea how she’d wound up here instead.
But she was undeniably beautiful, with wide-set green eyes and a full lower lip, and even though something about her spelled T-R-O-U-B-L-E, my gut instinct was protective.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She blinked at me. “Is this heaven?”
“It’s Bellamy Creek,” said Cole. “Ma’am, do you need help?”
“I . . .” she started. Then her eyes fluttered shut, her knees buckled, and her body began to collapse into the massive cloud of white.
I moved fast, catching her as she fell.
Two
Blair
Admittedly, I am not a very good driver.
I have a terrible sense of direction, I know nothing about cars, and I have an unfortunate tendency to hit things like curbs, other people’s bumpers, and random stationary objects like telephone poles or fire hydrants. Once I accidentally collided with a lovely old magnolia tree, but I sincerely believe that was not my fault, since I’d pulled into the wrong driveway and the tree appeared without warning where no tree had ever appeared before.
But I could have sworn there was nothing on the road in front of me, when BOOM! It was like something exploded beneath my car.
I freaked out and slammed on the brakes, which suddenly ceased to function as brakes should, which prompted further panic, which resulted in my car jumping one of those parking curb thingies and landing on the sidewalk.
Now, here’s where my memory gets a little hazy. I vaguely remember turning off the engine and sitting there for a moment, breathing hard, gripping the steering wheel, and listening to the rapid gunfire of my heart. Then I got out of the car, gathering the full tulle skirt of my dress in both hands, and making my way onto the sidewalk.
That’s when I saw them.
Three ridiculously hot guys standing there staring at me. For a moment I wondered if I’d hit my head and this was sort of a Wizard of Oz moment, where nothing was real.
“Are you okay?” asked the one in the middle. No joke, he looked like James Dean, only taller and more muscular, with tattoos covering one arm. I didn’t even know guys that hot existed in real life.
That’s when it hit me—I was dead and didn’t know it.
I blinked at
him. “Is this heaven?”
“It’s Bellamy Creek,” said the one to the right of James Dean. He had the brightest blue eyes I’d ever seen. “Ma’am, do you need help?”
“I . . .” Help? Yes, I needed help, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember why. My head began to spin, my vision went foggy, and my knees gave out.
I sank into a puddle of tulle.
When I came to, I was cradled in someone’s arms. I opened my eyes and realized that James Dean must have caught me before I hit the ground.
“Set her down on the bench,” said a voice from behind. “Elevate her feet.”
I felt myself being gently lowered onto a hard surface. Someone grabbed my feet and held them up by the heels of my sandals, and someone else snatched my wrist and took my pulse. “Ma’am! Can you hear me?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Cole, should we call 911?” James Dean knelt down next to me.
“No—please,” I said. I wasn’t sure if calling 911 cost money or not, but on the off chance it did, I couldn’t let it happen. “I’m okay. I just got dizzy.”
He studied my face, his expression skeptical. “You sure?”
I nodded, noticing his eyes for the first time. They were blue too, but not a piercing blue like his friend’s. They were a softer, smokier blue. Hazy and beautiful.
I may have moaned.
“I don’t smell alcohol, pulse is normal,” said the guy holding my wrist.
“I haven’t been drinking,” I said, my voice hoarse. “I’m probably just dehydrated.”
James Dean looked toward my feet. “Moretti, will you run into the Bulldog and get her some water?”
“On it. Cole, you want to take over here?”
The guy who’d checked my pulse gently set my arm on my stomach and moved to take my feet. “Ma’am, do you have any medical conditions?” he asked. “Are you diabetic?”
I shook my head.
“Do you feel any pain?”
“No. Are you a doctor or something?”
“I’m a police officer. My name is Cole Mitchell, and this is Griffin Dempsey. Can you tell us your name?”
“Blair Beaufort.”
“Where do you live, Ms. Beaufort?”
“I’m currently between addresses.”
“And what brings you to Bellamy Creek?”
I tried to remember. “I think it was the pie.”
“The pie?” James Dean—I mean, Griffin Dempsey—sounded confused. “What pie?”
“Can you help me sit up, please?”
He took my hands and slowly pulled me into a seated position, while Officer Mitchell gently brought my feet down to the cement.
“Thank you.” I closed my eyes and took a couple deep breaths as the last hour pieced itself back together in my mind. “I was on the highway and I saw this sign for the Bellamy Creek Diner advertising the best apple pie in the Midwest since 1957. I happen to adore apple pie, so how could I resist?”
“Oh, that pie.” Officer Mitchell sighed and shook his head. “Yeah, that’s an old sign.”
“You mean, there’s no pie?” I asked incredulously. Was that even legal? Surely you couldn’t keep advertising a pie that no longer existed.
“Well, there’s pie,” he said. “But not thee pie. Not the pie from the sign. We haven’t had that pie since Betty Frankel died and took the recipe to her grave.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep.” He shook his head and sighed tragically. “Damn, I miss that pie.”
“Me too,” said Griffin.
Their dark-haired friend who’d gone for the water appeared and handed me a tall Styrofoam cup with a cardboard straw. “Here you go.”
I stared at him for a few seconds, a little in awe of his dark, smoldering eyes and exquisite bone structure. Jeez, what the heck was in the water around here? “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
Grateful, I took a few sips. Then, just in case it was from some mythical Fountain of Beauty, I took a few more.
Griffin pulled his wallet from his pocket. “Hey Moretti, do me one more favor. Can you go settle up my bill? I’ll run over and get the tow truck.”
“Sure.” Moretti took the cash he was offered but stood there a moment longer, looking at me like I might be a ghost.
“What?” I asked, unnerved by the intensity of his stare.
“You’re not Italian, are you?”
“No.”
“Are you even Catholic?”
I shook my head. “Sorry.”
Moretti looked relieved. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll go settle up too,” said Officer Mitchell. “Griff, you good here? Soon as I’m done, I’ll stay with her while you go get the tow truck.”
“Okay.”
A tow truck.
Crap.
I was positive that would cost money, although I had no idea how much. The truth was that I’d been raised with every advantage wealth could buy but remained pretty much clueless about what basic things cost.
I had a lot to learn now that I was on my own.
The reality of my situation sank in hard. I sucked down some more water, wishing it was something stronger.
“So, Blair Beaufort. Is someone waiting for you somewhere?” Griffin Dempsey glanced at my dress. “Like . . . at the altar?”
I gave him a funny look. “This isn’t a wedding dress.”
“It’s not?”
“No, it’s my debutante gown.”
He barely hid a smile. “Of course it is.”
“I’m only wearing it now because it didn’t fit in my suitcase.”
“And the crown?”
“It’s a tiara, and it’s my best one. I didn’t want to crush it.”
He adjusted the ball cap on his head and squinted at me, clearly wondering if I was one brick short of a load.
I sighed heavily. “My car is tiny, so my suitcase is small. Not everything fit in it.”
“Why not get a moving van?”
I shrugged. “I don’t have any furniture.”
“You own a ball gown, but not a couch?”
I sat up taller. “This isn’t just a ball gown to me, mister. I wore it on the most special night of my life, okay? I danced in it and felt beautiful. Inspired. Hopeful. Like my life was just beginning. That’s a feeling I need to hold on to, especially now.”
“Why especially now?”
I sniffed and looked away from him. “It’s personal.”
“Okay.”
I fully expected him to press for details and was slightly annoyed when he didn’t. “If you must know, my life circumstances have changed of late, and I no longer possess the resources I once had.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“My family has fallen upon hard times,” I went on, as if he’d asked for more.
“It happens.”
“My father made some . . . creative accounting decisions, which turned out to be called tax evasion, and now he’s awaiting trial. But he’s not a bad person—he just made some bad choices.”
The poor guy clearly didn’t know what to say, but I couldn’t seem to stop talking (this is a recurring problem I have).
“We had to sell pretty much everything we owned, right down to the furniture, just to cover the back taxes and legal fees. My mother moved back in with my grandmother, who said ‘I told you not to marry a Beaufort’ and offered to set me up with some crusty old tycoon at her country club, but I said no thanks. I’d rather be poor than be someone’s trophy wife.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“Then we had a huge fight, because my family isn’t used to me standing up for myself. They thought I would just do what they told me to do, because I always have. But not this time.” I lifted my chin. “This time, I’m doing what I want.”
“And what’s that?”
“To start over somewhere fresh. I’m going to run my own business.”
“What kind of business?”
“A bakery.”
/> “A bakery?” Griffin sounded surprised.
“Yes.” I sipped up the last of the ice water. “I’ve always loved to bake, and I’m actually really good at it, but my parents said I wasn’t allowed to go to culinary school.”
“Why not?”
“They said I had to go to a university and pick an appropriate major like history or French. So I did.”
“Which one?”
“French.” I smiled mischievously. “And during my junior year abroad, I secretly studied with a Parisian pastry chef. Of course, after graduate school, I took the cushy job my parents wanted me to, lived in the fancy apartment they provided, and attended all the boring social events they insisted upon, where I sipped expensive champagne, danced with men in tuxedoes, and pretended to have a good time.”
“Sounds like torture.”
“It was,” I said, although he might have been kidding. “Because inside, I was slowly dying. I kept asking myself, ‘Is this it? Am I just going to be bored and unfulfilled the rest of my life? Is being rich worth the price of my soul?’”
“I don’t know. Your soul is probably more expensive than mine.”
“So I decided to do something about it, and for the last couple years I worked in the kitchen at a coffee shop every morning on the sly, from five to eight a.m. Then I’d run home, clean up, and make it into the office by nine. My family never knew.”
“Good for you.” He chuckled, and I noticed the dimple in his chin.
“What’s funny about that?”
“I don’t know.” He adjusted his cap again. “It’s just that a job is an odd thing to have to hide from your parents.”
“Not if they’re my parents. Anyway, when this huge reversal of fortune happened, I decided to take it as a sign I needed to escape my old life and start a new one somewhere else. So that’s what I’m doing.”
“Good luck.”
“Thank you.” I studied him then, waiting for him to tell me his story. It was only polite to reciprocate, right? “Sooo,” I prompted.
“So what?”
“So what about you?”
“I’m a mechanic. My parents approved.”
I waited for more. “That’s it?”
Drive Me Wild Page 2