Stirring Up Trouble

by Kimberly Kincaid

  Two hours. In two hours, Bree would get out of school, and he’d be damned if she’d cross the threshold into an empty house.

  “Come on, Carmichael. Think.”

  Nope. Nada. The frustrated prompting only made his brain go even more blank. Since they’d moved to Pine Mountain, Bree hadn’t mentioned a single friend, and Gavin had been so busy at the restaurant, the only people he knew well and trusted were those he worked with. Without the babysitting service, he wouldn’t even know Mrs. Teasdale.

  Of course! The babysitting service. Surely, they could send him someone temporary. He scrolled through the caller ID until he found the number, nestled between La Dolce Vita and Pine Mountain Middle School. Highlighting it and punching send, he prided himself on his quick thinking. Parenting might not be instinctive just yet, but he was getting the hang of it. This was going to work out just fine. Crisis averted, no sweat.

  Twenty minutes later, Murphy’s Law had ganged up on him in an epic coup.

  “You don’t have anybody available at all? Not even temporarily?” Gavin raked a hand through his hair and slumped into a chair at the kitchen table.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Carmichael. The short notice makes it a bit of a challenge, and our sitters are in high demand as it is. At the very best, I’d say you’re looking at a couple of weeks. I take it you want us to call if someone becomes available in the meantime?”

  “Please.” Gavin rattled off the number of the restaurant, a fresh wave of trepidation punching through his gut as he ended the call. He didn’t even have hours, let alone weeks to wait for a sitter. He’d been so focused on finding someone for the day that he hadn’t thought of the two fifteen-hour double shifts that followed. And that delivery truck was going to pass through the west gate at the resort in twenty minutes, which meant if he didn’t leave now, he wouldn’t make it.

  If he couldn’t find someone to come to Bree, she was going to have to come to him, like it or not. Flipping the phone over in his hand and scrolling back through the numbers until he found the one for the middle school, Gavin did the only thing he could think of.

  “Mrs. Wilkerson? This is Gavin Carmichael, Bree Shelton’s brother. I’m in a really big jam, and I was wondering if you could help me out.”

  Sloane stirred the steaming bowl of minestrone in front of her, propping one elbow over the table in La Dolce Vita’s empty dining room as she watched the jewel-toned vegetables swirl through the broth like New Year’s confetti in Times Square.

  “Thanks for letting me come straight here. I don’t think I could’ve handled going back to the bungalow just yet.” She cast a look at her best friend, noting that Carly’s chef’s whites already bore dribbles of whatever she’d been working on in the kitchen even though the restaurant wouldn’t open for another few hours.

  “Like I’m going to turn you out. Plus, the dinner staff won’t get here for another hour or so, and Adrian can handle getting the tasting menu started.” Carly waved toward the propped-open doors leading to the kitchen, where the burly sous-chef in question was already creating both some incredible smells and a holy racket. Strains of Sinatra oldies filtered in around the metallic clatter of pots and pans, and although Sloane was tempted to smile, she just couldn’t work it up.

  “I hate to say it, but I was wondering when that wanderlust of yours was going to catch up with you. Greece, huh?” Carly cocked her head, sending her dark braid over one shoulder with a heavy swish.

  The tinge of amusement sparkling in her friend’s glance wasn’t lost on Sloane, who wiggled her brows in a self-deprecating maneuver that was just as much knee-jerk reaction as it was defense mechanism.

  “Yup. One more place to cross off my bucket list. As soon as I can figure out how to finance the trip, anyway.” Each idea she’d come up with on the drive back to Pine Mountain had been worse than the last, to the point that despair threatened to seep past the bravado she normally wore like a fashionably perfect suit of armor.

  “Your bucket list reads like a cross between a world-tour travel manual and a stunt double’s daily agenda.” Carly waved a breadstick with an accusatory flourish before taking a bite. She wasn’t embellishing—Sloane had a bucket list as long as her leg, and at five-foot-ten, that was really saying something.

  A tiny smile found Sloane’s lips, and she let it stay for a brief moment. “Yeah, but you’ve gotta admit. I’m the only person you know who’s hiked to the top of an active volcano and learned how to drive a motorcycle all in the same month.”

  Carly brushed the breadcrumbs from her fingers, casting Sloane a measured glance. “I know that when I moved in with Jackson, it left you without a roommate, and I wish I could help you with the money to make up for it. But even small, intimate weddings are bank-breakers these days.” Her fingers moved absently to the engagement ring hanging on a gold chain around her neck, a definite safety precaution considering Carly’s profession. Sloane’s gut twanged at the remorse on her friend’s face.

  “Don’t even think about apologizing for moving out of the bungalow! Plus, I’m not worried,” Sloane said, feeling instantly guilty at the lie. But what kind of friend would she be if she burdened Carly with a sack full of issues a week before the woman’s wedding? “Something will come up to get me on my way.”

  Carly set her jaw in thought. “Well, let’s see. Maybe you could teach another online class?” Her voice was hopeful, but Sloane cut her off with a decisive head shake.

  “Nope. They take months to organize, and that’s time I don’t have.” Sloane threaded her spoon around the bright pops of carrot and zucchini in her bowl without taking a bite. “Believe me, I’ve thought of everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Including trying to sell my eggs to a fertility clinic.” Of course her mother had been right. The age cutoff for that was twenty-frickin’-seven. Her eggs really were too old for making babies.

  Carly laughed. “I hate to see you leave. I knew you wouldn’t stay forever—hell, I didn’t think I’d be here this long.” Carly’s lips twisted into a wistful smile, reminding Sloane that the original plan had been to stay in Pine Mountain for a year, tops. Until Carly went and fell in love with a local contractor, her new job, and the tiny Blue Ridge town.

  “Ah, true love,” Sloane said without sarcasm. “Maybe I should write you into a short story. I could probably sell it in four seconds flat.”

  Carly’s smile held the tiniest threat. “Don’t even think about it. Anyway, are you sure about leaving? Maybe you could just write the book from here.”

  “Only if I want to kill my career in one swift move. Let’s face it, I have to knock this book out of the park, and I haven’t had a decent idea since I landed here. I don’t just write on location, sweetie. I live on location, and it’s time for me to be moving on. If I want to spark my creativity and write a bestseller, I’m going to have to pack my bags. It’s the only way that works.”

  Her stomach began to ache, and she kept swirling her untasted soup. Forget Greece. If she couldn’t come up with some money, and stat, she wasn’t even going to be able to afford her current rent at the bungalow.

  Which meant that her only available option would be to move home and try to write a career-saving book under her mother’s disapproving nose. Talk about your hostile conditions.

  “You know, selling a short story isn’t such a bad idea. Maybe you could try that,” Carly said.

  “The whole problem is that small-town settings are off-limits, remember? And that’s all I’ve got.” As much as she hated to admit it, Sloane was utterly out of story ideas, other than the one Belinda had shot down. If she wanted exotic ideas, she needed the exotic locale to go with it.

  Carly leaned forward, dropping her chin into her palms. “Maybe you just need a little inspiration.” But the suggestion only prompted Sloane to bark out a sardonic laugh at the double entendre.

  “Please. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve had a little inspiration?” She hooked disdainfu
l air quotes around the word, counting backward in her head to recheck her math.

  Wait, was it January again? Already? Jeez, no wonder her muse was pissed.

  “I’m sorry,” Carly said. “Maybe that wasn’t a good suggestion.”

  “Actually, it’s a great suggestion.” Sloane released her spoon with a plunk, and all the frustration swishing around in her chest burst forth in an emotional jailbreak. “Believe me, nothing would make me happier than to be earth-movingly inspired right now. As a matter of fact, considering the lack of inspiration going on in my life, I think I’m due for a downright out-of-body experience. Not that I’ve ever reached the summit of Mount O during the actual act. Nope, not me. If I’m gonna get there, I’ve gotta fly solo.”

  What a joke. She had to be the only romance writer on the planet who’d never achieved orgasm with someone else in the room. No wonder she had an epic-sized case of the writing blahs.

  “Sweetie.” Carly’s eyes widened, coppery brown and full of astonishment. She reached a hand out, but Sloane had hit her limit. She lifted a hand right back, stopping her friend’s motion cold.

  “No, really. Karmically speaking, is it too much to ask for the powers-that-be to send some mind-blowing orgasms my way? I’m tired of doing all the work. Plus, it’s all in the name of research. I mean, show a girl a little joy, for heaven’s sake!” Sloane knew she was ranting, but blowing off the steam she’d slowly built up felt divine. “Just once, I’d like to give new meaning to the phrase life imitates art. After all the fumbling lovers I’ve put up with who couldn’t find my hot spots with a map and compass, I deserve some really hot, toe-curling, religious-experience sex!”

  “Um, Sloane?”

  But the sinfully good release prompted her to continue without pause. “I mean it, cucciola. In spite of what I do for a living, I’m starting to think men who can dish up Richter scale orgasms are just a cruel myth.”

  Finally stopping for a breath, Sloane registered the odd look on Carly’s face with apprehension. “What? Oh, God, don’t tell me they really are a myth?”

  The deep rumble of a throat being cleared cut Sloane’s breath short in her lungs.

  “Excuse me, chef. I don’t mean to interrupt a . . . delicate conversation, but I’ve got an emergency I need to discuss with you.”

  The sound of the very smooth, very male voice over her shoulder froze Sloane into place and ignited every one of her nerve endings to a slow sizzle. Stunned, she whirled in her seat, only to find herself face-to-crotch with a pair of flawlessly tailored charcoal dress slacks. The wearer jerked backward, looking both startled and more than a little put out at her sudden movement.

  Carly cleared her throat too late to hide the laugh beneath the gesture. “Sloane, you remember my restaurant manager, Gavin Carmichael, don’t you?”

  Knowing she should be utterly mortified and praying for a fault line in the earth to swallow her whole, Sloane threw on a cocky smile instead. Letting her gaze float slowly upward, she looked Gavin right in his stunning, melted-chocolate eyes and said the only thing she could think of.

  “Nice pants.”

  Chapter Three

  A thousand thoughts raced through Gavin’s mind, not the least of which was a) he felt like someone had shoved a furnace under his skin and b) as pretty as she was, Sloane must be doing one hell of an indecent research project. He raked a gaze over the glossy black hair she’d tossed out of her eyes, feeling every inch of her water-color-blue stare as she returned the favor of an assessing up-and-down.

  Damn, she really was pretty.

  “It’s nice to see you again.” Oh, hell. If that stiff-as-aboard reply was the best he could do, he needed to get out more. After all, they’d met before, and he’d seen her a handful of times around the restaurant. Plus, this wasn’t exactly his first rodeo. He could hold his own around beautiful women—hell, Caroline had been a former Miss Santa Barbara, with pretty to spare.

  Right. Just look where that had gotten him.

  Sloane slipped him a catlike smile, murmuring a breathy “likewise” in his direction before angling herself back toward the table, offering her long, cross-legged profile so as not to turn her back on him completely. She didn’t look the least bit embarrassed that he’d overheard her highly personal discussion. It also didn’t seem to fluster her that she’d swung her taller-than-average frame around so fast, he hadn’t had time to calculate where her baby blues would land until it was too late to reposition himself.

  Carly furrowed her brow. “Is there a problem with tonight’s staff?”

  “I’m sorry?” Despite his efforts, all Gavin could come up with was a pair of heart-shaped lips uttering the words really hot, toe-curling, religious-experience sex. The image conjured by Sloane’s words and the fresh memory of her quick turnaround flashed seductively through his head, and the furnace under his skin cranked into overdrive.

  “You mentioned an emergency,” Carly reminded him. “Is everything okay?”

  Reality yanked at Gavin with a vicious twist, and he jammed both hands in his pockets, moving his trousers from Sloane’s natural line of vision even though she’d turned her attention back to her soup.

  Was he out of his mind? How had he forgotten about Bree, even for a minute? His mother had trusted him to take care of her, and here he was, overcome with dirty thoughts for a woman with an even dirtier mouth.

  Nice.

  “Right. Actually, no it’s not.” Gavin paused, trying to think of how to explain things in as little detail as possible. Mixing work with his personal life wasn’t something he made a habit of, not that anything private ever ranked too high on his list of things to share. “My thirteen-year-old sister is on her way here from school. The person who usually looks after her had an emergency, and . . . well, do you know anyone who’d be willing to keep an eye on her for me, at least while I’m on shift tonight?”

  Carly furrowed her brow while Sloane lifted her arms in a languid stretch. Gavin forced himself to ignore the briefly exposed sliver of skin between the hem of her long-sleeved T-shirt and the top of her jeans, focusing intently on the empty four-top just over Carly’s shoulder.

  “Just for tonight?” she asked, biting her lip in thought.

  He shook his head. “I have a priority call in with the babysitting service, but there’s a possibility they won’t find anybody on short notice. I’ll try to figure something out when I’m off on Monday, but I need somebody at least until then.”

  “Your mom’s gone all weekend?”

  Gavin met Carly’s confused gaze and steeled himself. “I’m Bree’s legal guardian.”

  “Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” She left the requisite pause for him to fill in the blanks, but he waited out the awkward silence until she continued. “Well, let’s see. Jackson’s cousins are all right about that age themselves, so they’re out, and we only have eight days to go before the wedding, so his mom is up to her eyeballs in last-minute details . . .”

  Despair crept up the back of Gavin’s neck, booting the words right out of his mouth. “I’ll pay really well. She just can’t be alone all weekend.”

  “Mind if I ask why not?” Sloane unfolded her legs and turned to give him a quizzical look. “I mean, isn’t thirteen old enough to stay home alone?”

  Gavin stiffened. He had this argument all the time with Bree. He wasn’t about to have it with some stranger, even if that stranger’s liquid blue stare could ignite a kitchen fire faster than a faulty broiler. “Yes, technically it is, and yes, I actually do mind if you ask.”

  The words came out more clipped than he’d intended, and although Sloane’s eyes flashed as she fastened them on him yet again, she merely lifted a thin shoulder and returned to her soup. “Okay, then. You’re the boss.”

  Carly’s glance flicked from Gavin down to her friend, a slow smile breaking over her face. “Why don’t you ask Sloane to watch your sister?”

  “No!”

  Gavin was about to apologize for letting the wo
rd rudely barge out, until he realized he wasn’t the one who’d said it.

  Sloane shook her head, adamant. “Look, I’m sorry you’re in a bind, but I don’t do kids. Plus, I have a ton of work to do. I don’t have time to play Nanny McPhee.” Her coal-colored bangs tumbled over one cheek in another firm head shake, and something in Gavin’s chest leapt forward without his consent.

  “That’s just as well, because I didn’t ask. Considering the conversation I just overheard, I don’t think whatever you do for a living would make you a good fit anyway.” Okay, so it was a bit chillier than was probably necessary, but still. Bree wasn’t just some kid.

  “Excuse me?” The ladder of Sloane’s spine rose in an indignant line, and she leveled an icy stare at him.

  “Okay, knock it off, both of you.” Carly stood, knotting her arms over her chest in a way that said she meant business. “Gavin, Sloane writes romance novels. I can personally vouch for her character.”

  “And for the record, eavesdropping is rude,” Sloane added on a grumble. “What’d you think I did for a living?”

  Gavin’s face went hot. “Well, it didn’t sound too respectable. And I wouldn’t have eavesdropped if you hadn’t been so loud.” Okay, so penning naughty books hadn’t crossed his mind as a possibility, and it was a lot more reputable than what his imagination had cooked up, but still. A romance writer who seemed hell-bent on stirring up trouble wasn’t exactly the kind of influence he wanted for his thirteen-year-old sister. He’d just bow out of this gracefully.

  “No offense, but my sister’s in kind of a rough place. She’s been struggling in school lately, and I’d prefer someone with more experience who can handle that kind of thing. She’s got a lot of work to catch up on.”

  Sloane uttered an unladylike noise. “I can handle that kind of thing perfectly fine. I’d just prefer not to. Plus, like I said, I have a book to write.” She pinched her thumb and forefinger together, motioning an imaginary pen across a page.