by Tawna Fenske
“Honey, you’re looking at him like he’s an ice cream cone on a hot day.” She laughs when I open my mouth to protest. “Don’t worry, he’s doing the same to you,” Kim adds. “I’m just saying, those aren’t friendly sort of looks.”
My cheeks go hot, and I wonder who else has noticed. Is it that obvious I want to jump Hottie Cop’s bones?
My answer comes in the form of Genevieve Dugan, celebrity wedding planner extraordinaire, who comes sailing into the room with a tray lined with more glasses of pink lemonade. She makes a beeline for Kim and me, jostling us both as she plunks down on the sofa between us.
“I found the vodka,” she announces, handing us each a glass. “One for you, Kimmycakes, and one for Bree-who-says-she’s-not-Austin’s-girlfriend-but-totally-wants-to-tear-off-his-clothes.”
So much for subtlety. I grimace and accept the lemonade then take a dainty sip.
“Thank you.” For the lemonade, not the awkward intrusion into my innermost thoughts. But hell, Austin did warn me. “Do you make it out to Central Oregon very often, Genevieve?”
“I’ve only visited a few times. It’s certainly changed over the years.” She takes a drink of her own lemonade and gives me her trademark smile I’ve seen dozens of times on TV. “I remember visiting in the late nineties when the city was a half-dead former mill town with about thirty thousand people.”
“What are we up to now, about ninety thousand?” Kim asks.
I nod, grateful my resort-opening research has given me something to contribute to the conversation. “It was about ninety-two thousand in town with the last census, but we see about twenty-five thousand tourists a day during peak summer season.”
Genevieve smiles and swirls the ice cubes in her lemonade. “And I’m guessing that was a factor in your decision to open a resort?”
“You must have been talking to Austin.” I shoot him a grateful look, relieved he provided the foreplay to my conversation with his uber-famous aunt. He flashes me a smile that shoots straight to my toes and makes me miss the first part of what Genevieve says next.
“…with the destination wedding market?” She looks at me expectantly, and I consider fudging a response to hide the fact that I totally tuned out.
But I might as well come clean. “I’m sorry, I was ogling your nephew and totally missed the first half of that. Would you mind repeating the question?”
The two women bust out laughing, and Genevieve nudges Kim, nearly sloshing her lemonade over the rim of the glass. “I knew I liked her.”
The conversation continues from there, with Genevieve asking questions about our capacity, the facilities, and the big-picture vision for Ponderosa Luxury Ranch Resort. I chatter happily about my favorite thing in the world, while doing my best to ignore the guy who’s quickly becoming my second favorite thing. How did that happen?
“It looks amazing.” Genevieve taps the screen of my iPhone, which I’ve pulled up to show her some of the resort’s stock photos. “I’d definitely love to take a look. Can we set something up in the next few days?”
“Absolutely. I’ll clear my whole schedule for you, and I can make sure Jade and Amber are open at the reindeer ranch, too.”
“Perfect. I’ll be in touch.” Genevieve pockets the business card I’ve handed her as Austin ambles over carrying the half-full bottle of IPA he’s been nursing all afternoon.
“Ladies.” He nods to the tray of empty glasses on Genevieve’s lap. “Vodka?”
“Can’t get away with anything in a family full of cops.” Genevieve giggles and sets the tray on the coffee table before standing to wrap her arms around her nephew. “Don’t worry, it’s just a little splash. Your girl is still perfectly sober and capable of consent.”
“Jesus, Aunt Genevieve.” Kim shakes her head, but the look she shoots her aunt is more fondness than dismay. “Austin, were you there the night of my senior prom when dad pulled my date aside and gave him a talk about drinking and sex and respect for women and God knows what else?”
Austin looks pained. “Was this while Genevieve was giving you the talk about demanding at least one orgasm before he gets his?” He shudders. “I’m still traumatized.”
Kim laughs. “That’s right, you were there. And when you tried to escape, she told you that learning to pleasure a woman is the single greatest skill you could develop.”
“I was twelve,” he says, shaking his head. “At that point, I was more interested in honing my skills at Mario Kart.”
Genevieve gives me a wink before stooping down to gather the tray of empty glasses. “Don’t worry, Bree. Odds are good my nephew eventually took my advice to heart.”
The look Austin gives me is pure heat and leaves little doubt that Aunt Genevieve is spot on. I cross my legs, reminding myself of all the reasons I should keep my distance. That I’m protecting a lot more than my heart.
But the organ in question isn’t the only one that bursts into a flaming ball of need as he smiles at me. It’s a smile that’s full of promise, and my heart trips over itself to sign on the dotted line for whatever the hell he’s offering.
Lord, I’m in trouble.
Chapter 7
AUSTIN
The sky is a big swath of star-speckled velvet as I drive Bree home from the birthday party. She’s more relaxed than she was on the drive out, and I’m pretty sure it’s not just the vodka.
“I only had one of those spiked lemonades,” she assures me, even though I haven’t asked. “I’m not much of a drinker. Even with wine—which I love—I seldom have more than a glass.”
“No judgement here,” I assure her, not sure why she’s worried about it. “I would have knocked back another beer or two if I weren’t driving.”
She shifts in her seat, making her chocolate-colored skirt hitch higher up her thigh. It hits below her knees when she’s standing, so I love that there’s a lot more flesh visible when she’s sitting here in the passenger seat of my car. What would it be like to reach over and rest a hand on her knee? To push that skirt up and keep going, to glide my fingers beneath—
“Tell me about your senior prom,” she says.
The question catches me off-guard, and it takes me a second to even remember the event. When I do, I can’t help feeling a little embarrassed. “I went with a girl I’d known since middle school,” I say. “Stacey Fleming. She’s a teacher now. Anyway, back then she had, uh… a reputation.”
“For putting out?”
Bree’s tone is neutral, so I can’t tell if she thinks I’m an asshole or what.
“Yeah, I guess.” I clear my throat. “I was still a virgin at that point, and I had it in my head that maybe she was my ticket to losing my v-card before graduation.”
“And did it work?” She folds her hands in her lap, and the primness in her answer suggests I’m walking the thin line between “horny teenage boy” and “insensitive user of women.”
I’m grateful that my honest answer will likely tip me back into the former zone. “Nope,” I admit. “Not even close. I was too chickenshit to make a move. Plus, she snuck a flask of tequila in her purse, so I spent the whole evening trying to keep her safe and out of trouble.”
“Wow.” Bree eyes me in the dimness of the cab. “That’s noble of you. So you graduated a virgin, huh?”
I turn the car onto the side road that leads to her place. “I didn’t say that.”
“Who was the lucky girl?”
I laugh and shake my head. “I’m not naming names. Let’s just say she was older, and she taught me some very useful lessons.”
Bree grins. “So you took Aunt Genevieve’s advice to heart.”
“More or less.”
“I’ve wondered what it would have been like,” she says. “Going to prom. Having a normal teenage existence.”
There’s a wistful twist in her voice that makes me glance over. Her hands are still on her lap, balled up in the folds of her skirt. I wonder if a girl like Bree Bracelyn would have given me the time of day in
high school.
“If it makes you feel better, I’m betting your education put mine to shame,” I tell her. “I don’t know much about boarding schools, but I’m guessing there’s a reason parents pay good money to get their kids into places like that.”
“I suppose so,” she says. “Though I’m not sure academic stuff is always the reason.”
I start to ask about other reasons but stop myself. She’s got that ramrod-straight posture again, and the look that tells me I’m not getting any closer. I decide not to push my luck.
I turn the car onto the asphalt road leading to the resort. The buildings are lit up—the Cedar Golf Club, the Aspen Springs Day Spa—but I cruise past them en route to Bree’s cabin.
“Do all of your siblings live here?”
She laughs and does a funny little shrug. “Not everyone, but most of us running the place. That was sort of the deal when we decided to turn Dad’s ranch into a resort.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was—a substantial inheritance,” she says carefully. “Not just the land, but barns and outbuildings and a few cabins that had been built for ranch hands. We remodeled those and then started building more.”
“So you could each have your own place?”
“Pretty much. I guess we figured some of us might eventually get married and start families, that sort of thing. We built with that in mind.”
I haven’t seen the inside of Bree’s place, but there’s something touching about knowing it was constructed with a future family as part of her plan. Is that what she wants?
“Your cousin lives here, too, right—Brandon?”
“Right. He did tons of construction work for free, so we ended up just giving him his cabin. That’ll probably go into the rental pool after he and Jade get married.”
I hadn’t realized they were actually engaged, or maybe Bree’s just assuming. She’s closer to the sisters than I am. “Brandon’s moving into Jade and Amber’s place?”
“It makes the most sense. Jade’s more hands-on with the animals, so she’s not going anywhere. I’m guessing Amber will eventually move out and live here with Sean, so she’ll still be close to her sister and their business.”
“That’s handy, falling in love with the neighbor,” he says. “My sister, Katie—the one you didn’t meet tonight?”
“The one with four girls?”
“Exactly,” I say, secretly pleased she’s already learned my family. “Her husband’s from Minnesota, so they all live there. It’s tough on my mom not getting to see them as often.”
“You, too, I’m guessing?”
“Yeah. We’re a pretty close family.”
“I noticed.” She smiles, and there’s something wistful in that, too. “I always wished for that. Growing up, I mean. I got it a little late in life.”
“Your brothers seem pretty cool.” And terrifying, I add silently, recalling Mark’s look of silent disdain. “Sean seems really nice.”
“He is,” she says. “They’re all great. Infuriating sometimes, but I love them.”
I pull up in front of her place and kill the lights. The faint yip of coyote song carries through the car windows, so I roll mine down to hear better. There’s a full-on orchestra of frogs croaking and a creek burbling somewhere nearby. They’re sounds I grew up with, but I’m guessing this is still new to Bree. I turn to see her watching me in the half-light.
“I had a good time today,” she says. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“I hope it was helpful. With Genevieve, I mean. I hope that turns into something.”
She unhooks her seatbelt but doesn’t reach for the door. Instead, she turns in her seat to face me and gives me a smile that turns my chest cavity into dough. “I didn’t agree to come just so I could meet your aunt.”
“Why did you come?” I hold my breath, hoping for a certain answer.
“Because I like spending time with you.”
There it is, exactly what I’d hoped to hear. It’s all I can do not to pump my fist like a teenage football star.
Bree looks down and fiddles with a thread on the hem of her skirt. “You’re a good guy, Austin Dugan.”
“Thanks.” I think. Did I just get friend-zoned?
Her eyes lift to mine, and the heat there is anything but friend zone. I should kiss her. I should kiss her right now. I should—
“Is that smoke?” Bree’s eyes go wide, and she looks around the car, sniffing.
“I smell it, too.”
She looks around, frantic. “Is something burning in the car?”
“No, that’s not it.” I turn to my cracked window and breathe deeply, frowning. “It’s outside. It’s—”
“My cabin!” Bree shoves open her car door and sprints up her walkway.
I’m a few steps behind her, slowed by my still-latched seatbelt and the fact that she figured it out before I did. We’re halfway up the path when I notice the door is ajar.
“Bree, wait,” I urge. “Don’t go in—your front door—”
“Oh, God.” She pounds up the front steps, ignoring my warning. “It’s my fault. I totally forgot—”
“Yeah, you did.” A hulking, bearded figure clad in lumberjack plaid steps into the doorframe.
Mark. Bree’s brother. And he’s holding a fire extinguisher.
He puts out a hand to halt her in her tracks. “It’s fine. Everything’s good. I got it out.”
Bree bursts into tears. “It’s all my fault,” she sobs. “I lit a candle, and I totally forgot about it.”
Mark looks utterly dumbfounded, like he’s never seen a woman cry before. “Uh, hey.” He drags her awkwardly against his chest and pats her back. “It’s fine. The only thing that burned is that ugly tablecloth thing. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”
The helpless befuddlement on his face is almost comical, and he meets my eye with a look of utter terror. “Here,” he says, pushing her away as gently as possible. “Why don’t you let the cop take you in. You’ll see, everything’s okay.”
Bree sniffs and steps back, running a hand down the front of his shirt. “I got snot on you.”
“It’ll wash out.”
“Mark, I can’t ever thank you enough—”
“Yeah, you can.” He frowns. “You can quit crying and go inside where it’s warm.” He chucks her under the chin then starts down the path with the fire extinguisher in his hand.
“Stay safe, kids,” he calls over his shoulder.
Then he vanishes into the darkness. Bree turns to me and sniffs again. “He’s not used to seeing me cry.”
“Not at your dad’s funeral?”
She shakes her head a little sadly. “I cried after, and a lot by myself. But not there.”
I put an arm around her, not sure if she needs comfort or reassurance. “Come on. Let’s take a look at the damage.”
She nods and leads me inside. The smell of fresh cedar mingles with the thick odor of smoke and something oddly fruity.
“Apple blossoms and oak.” Bree stares forlornly at a rustic wood table with a charred edge and a pile of foam in the middle of it. She looks up at me with a mascara smudge under one eye. “That was the fragrance of the candle.”
“It’s uh—nice.”
She shakes her head and looks like she might be on the verge of tears again. “I almost never use real candles. I have a zillion of the battery-powered kind, but I wanted something that smelled nice for a change. God, I’m such an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot. You have an MBA, and you’re one of the driving forces behind a gazillion-dollar resort that shows every sign of being a brilliant idea. You are definitely not an idiot.”
I can tell she doesn’t believe me. She stares down at the foamy wreckage of her side table and sighs. “I even thought twice about lighting it. I was like, ‘is it really a good idea to have an open flame in a house made entirely of wood?’ But I was so sure I’d remember to put it out. God, I’m dumb.”
“Bree, qui
t.” I grab her hand and pull her away from the mess. “Come on. You’re not dumb. We all do dumb things sometimes, but that doesn’t make us dumb.”
She lets me tow her toward the couch. There’s a laptop open on the coffee table, and the screen flickers to life when she bumps it with her hip. I catch the words “juvenile records” at the top of a website before she pushes the laptop shut and drops onto the couch beside me. My cop antennae tingle, but she did mention googling gift ideas for kids.
I have bigger issues at the moment. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “Your house is safe, you’re safe, and there’s hardly any damage.”
“Name one thing.”
“What?”
She looks up at me, green eyes still watery. “Name one thing you’ve done in your whole life that was this dumb, Officer McPerfect.”
“That’s easy,” I say, ignoring the nickname as I hold out my left hand and tip it sideways to show the edge of my middle finger. “See that scar?”
Bree reaches out and brushes a finger over it. “This?”
I nod. “I can’t feel that, by the way. You touching me.” Damn shame.
She looks up at me. “What is it?”
“It’s a scar from a third-degree burn. I got it when I ignited my own hand on purpose when I was sixteen.”
“What?” Her expression is equal parts horrified and amused, but at least she no longer looks humiliated.
“Yeah, it’s this magic trick my friends used to do.”
“This doesn’t look very magical.” She’s still touching my hand, and I’m grateful. Her touch is light, and I can feel it butterfly-soft outside the edges of the scar.
“It wasn’t very magical,” I admit, dropping my hand to my lap. “You spread rubber cement on your hand and light it on fire. The flame burns the cement, but not your hand. In theory, anyway.”
“You might need another theory.” Bree traces a finger over my scar again, inching higher up my arm and back down again.
“I used too much rubber cement. My father still hasn’t let me live down the fact that he had to come pick up his son who intentionally ignited his own hand.”