Love in a Pickle: A Silver Fox Small Town Romance (Green Valley Library Book 9)

by Smartypants Romance

  “Don’t you worry, sweetheart. You’re his kind of catnip,” Todd interjects from behind the bar, but I have no idea what that means.

  Striker’s eyes roam me once again from my high-heeled shoes to the white stripe in my hair.

  “No, pussycat, I bet you capture hearts all over the place.” He shifts on his seat. “Want to capture me, kitty?”

  “She’s with Big Poppy,” Todd intercedes, and my head swivels in surprise. I most certainly am not with the grumpy, gruff man who just exited the room without a look back.

  “Don’t see him standing here,” Striker notes, and I admit he’s correct.

  “Want to dance?” he asks me. He’s another lion playing with a mouse, so it’s a good thing I know how to move and protect myself. I’m becoming steel with the rejection from Big Poppy/Chester Chesterfield/Chet, once again.

  I dance with Striker for several songs before a man named Bones cuts in for two more dances. I’m actually having . . . fun. It’s been a long time since I’ve been so carefree. I’ve let my hair down, as the saying goes, or rather, removed my mouse ears.

  Bones and I rock right, kick left, and then release one another, spinning out so we’re side by side. Without missing a beat, we turn back to each other, hands reconnecting, and we shift left, right, left. It’s been forever since I’ve danced like this. Bones releases my right hand and twirls me away from him. I spin outward and collide with a hard wall of man chest.

  I hiccup as I look up and meet narrowed eyes as dark as ink.

  “Dance over,” Big Poppy says, directing his gaze to the man behind my back, still holding my fingers.

  “The song ain’t over yet,” Bones clarifies in a soft Tennessean drawl. He’s not as tall as Big Poppy, not as dark, nor as crisp and fresh scented, but he’s attractive in his own right.

  “It is now,” Big Poppy states, still glaring over my head as he crosses his arms over his chest. His eyes don’t leave the man behind me.

  “Excuse me, but I think I can speak for myself, and I’m not finished dancing.” My focus remains on Big Poppy’s face. He’s so good-looking in a lumbersexual, manual-labor kind of way. My insides flutter when I look at him, even though he’s everything I haven’t been attracted to in the past. He looks unrefined, a bit wild, and on the edge of breaking the man still holding my fingers. Everything about him screams all male and his imposing presence says I’m all his. Everything about this moment is in contrast to his earlier stance of not chasing. Maybe it’s because he’s already claimed me.

  Then again, my interpretation of the scene could be inhibited by the three chocolatey wonders Todd’s made me this evening. The lines between Chester Chesterfield, Chet, and Big Poppy are blurring in my head as my body loosens up, and my tongue feels thick. I might be a teeny-weeny bit tipsy.

  “Tell him the dance is over,” he commands, lowering his gaze to me. Those eyes demand I follow his orders. However, I rarely do as I’m told.

  “I don’t think so,” I say, spinning to face my dance partner, but as soon as my hand connects with his shoulder, my waist is encircled, and I’m tugged backward.

  “Party’s over,” Big Poppy mutters near my ear. My real ear, not the mouse substitutes, which I’ve kept lowered since walking up to the bar. Naomi and Nathan disappeared a while ago, presumably for the motel. Beverly and Jedd left two songs back, possibly for the same location. I don’t want to consider where Big Poppy has been for the past half an hour. I’ve been left alone in this strange place, and I’m enjoying myself despite my being without a date.

  Screw Chet Chester Chesterfield Big Poppy.

  However, Bones releases me and steps back, holding up both his arms in surrender. His eyes remain on the man behind me as if the two men are having a conversation without words.

  “She was safe with me,” Bones states as though clarifying something unsaid, and I don’t like his tone or how this silent discussion is literally over my head.

  “Excuse me again, gentlemen, but this mouse can determine what’s best for her.” And what’s best for her . . . er, me . . . is letting the man at my back know he’s interrupting a perfectly fun evening. I spin to face him, ready to speak.

  “Don’t,” he barks so sharply I flinch. He catches my hand in his and walks around me, pulling me behind him. Nearly dragging me through the pool room, we near the emergency exit and step into the brisk coolness of a late October night.

  “What the heck?” I snap once the metal door slams at my back. Big Poppy halts, and I smack into his broad shoulder blades. “What in the devil are you—”

  “Hop on,” he commands, keeping his back to me. I have no idea what he means. Craning his neck to look over his shoulder, he repeats himself. “Hop on.”

  “I don’t know—” Big Poppy squats a bit and wraps his palms around the back of my thighs.

  “Hang on,” he warns, and I’m suddenly rising into the air, against his body. I squeal as I’m lifted by the back of my legs, and my arms circle his neck. He stumbles backward for a moment.

  “I’m too heavy for you,” I squeak, praying he doesn’t fall backward and crush me as I’m attached to him like a barnacle on a wooden ship.

  He chokes out his reply. “Loosen up a bit.”

  Realizing I’m cutting off his airway, I slacken my hold at his throat, and he hitches me upward. My body jostles against his, forcing my thighs to spread and tighten at his waist while the heat of his body seeps into mine. He secures his large palms on the underside of my thighs and starts walking to his bus.

  “Just what are you doing?” I grumble. This has to be the most ridiculous position I’ve ever been in.

  “Giving you a piggyback ride. You’ll sink in those heels in this mud.”

  Gazing over his shoulder, down at the dark soil, I note the moisture from days of autumn rain. It’s rather thoughtful that he’s carrying me, but he hasn’t answered my question.

  “Are we headed to your bus?”

  “I’m taking you home,” he mutters.

  “Oh,” I state, unable to mask my disappointment. I was actually having a good time tonight, and for a moment, I think of my old friend Diane Donner. She once went to a biker bar and had herself a good time being there. There’s nothing wrong with being over forty, flirty and fun.

  Gosh, I don’t know what’s happening to me lately.

  Big Poppy drops his hold on my thighs once we reach the opening to the bus, and I slither down his large body, landing on an outdoor mat at the base of the metal stairs leading up to the entrance. He reaches around me, pressing on the folding door, which opens inward. When he places a hand at my lower back, it seems I don’t have a choice—I’m going inside. This is confirmed when two big hands grab my hips and lift me onto the first step. As I climb the three stairs, I take a better look at the entry than I did the first time I was here. The driver’s seat is the first thing I notice. It’s a warm brown leather captain’s chair and looks comfortable but crisp as though it hasn’t been used often.

  Immediately turning to my left, I take in the faux hardwood flooring and the shiplap paneling on the walls. The space is decorated in light browns and soft grays—masculine but somehow pretty. It’s very tidy for such a compact size.

  Big Poppy follows behind me and stops near the driver’s seat to tug off a boot. Hopping from one foot to another to remove the second one, I expect the bus to rock and wobble. I recall school buses being bouncy and unstable. For such a large man, it’s surprising he has so much balance and equally surprising is that the bus doesn’t shift from side to side with his moving mass. When he looks up at me, I hiccup.

  “What are you doing?” I question as the second boot drops with a thud. Hiccup. “I thought you said you were taking me home.”

  “Do you want to go home?” He stands taller, his eyes softening a bit.

  “No,” I whisper. Hiccup.

  “I meant, I was bringing you to my home.”

  “Oh,” I answer again, my insides doing little cartwhee
ls of relief. “Am I still supposed to call you Big Poppy here?”

  With a crooked smile, he shakes his head. “Chet works.”

  Chet.

  He watches me, and the intensity of his gaze has me looking away and scanning the remainder of the space. I spin to take in the full layout, realizing I’d missed the back of the bus on my first visit.

  “Is this the bedroom?” Hiccup. After taking a few short steps, I find myself at the end of a raised platform with a thick mattress that fills the entire width of the back of the bus. Helping myself, I climb up and flip to my back, swishing my arms and legs spread eagle, making a mattress angel. It’s silly, actually, but I’m riding the high of a few too many chocolate drinks and the attention of a few good-looking men. Accepting I’d never see those biker dudes again, I gave in to one night of letting loose. My legs open and close, open and close, until warm palms land on my inner thighs in the open-wide position, halting my exercise.

  I tip up my head as my heels are removed from my feet. My heart races. My core pulses. I hiccup again.

  “Do not be sick on my bed.”

  “I’m not going to get sick on your bed.” Hiccup. Then I recall my track record with this man. Vomiting on the night we met. Having my period mishap on another day. Almost having sex with him on my desk. Giving in to sex in a barn. I’ve been a hot mess more times than not in his presence.

  And I don’t understand what I’m doing here.

  There’s a subtle shift to the mattress, and I glance up to find Chet crawling over me. My legs spread apart. His knees come between my thighs. I’m instantly thrown back to that morning we shared together. He’d asked me if I was certain I wanted to do what we did, and I’d never been so sure of something in my life. This moment is no different. I want him, even though he ruined my night.

  Hiccup.

  “Scotia Simmons, why are you such a mess?”

  “I am not a mess,” I stammer. Hiccup. I’m one of the most put-together people I know. Just ask me, and I’ll tell you how put together I am. Mask in place, Scotia. But as I lie on his mattress, reality slowly seeps in. I’m coming unraveled, one loose thread at a time, and it’s all because of him. “Why are you so grumpy?”

  Chet shakes his head, ignoring my question, as he balances on all fours over me. He stares down at me, the intensity of those dark eyes making me feel naked under him despite my silly costume. I’d like to be naked under him but not with him looking at me like this—looking at me as though he sees beneath my skin. He knows how ugly I feel inside.

  “You gonna puke on my bed?” While my stomach suddenly feels unsettled, it has nothing to do with the alcohol I consumed.

  “I am not going to puke on your precious bed,” I snap.

  Suddenly, I wonder how many other women he’s brought here. Am I one of many? “You know, you could improve your seduction skills.” It’s a reminder of what he said to me on that first morning.

  “I’m not trying to seduce you, Scotia.” He slips to my side, perching himself up on an elbow and looking down at me.

  “You’re not?” My voice drops as I peer at him, and disappointment fills my stomach again.

  “Nope.” He continues to stare at me, and my skin begins to itch a bit. I’m suddenly overheating in my fleecy mouse onesie, and remembering my costume makes me wonder if this is why he’s not seducing me. Who would want to seduce a mouse? The costume does not fit my personality one bit. I’m the cat. I need to be on top at all times.

  “Because I’m not sexy,” I quip, and Chet snorts.

  “Oh, you’re sexy, darlin’.” He throws himself on his back and stares up at his ceiling.

  “Then I don’t understand?” I snap, feeling all kinds of foolish.

  “You’re a danger to yourself, and Nathan asked me to look after you for the night.”

  “Like a babysitter?” I huff, taking a second for the endearment to rattle over my heart. “I do not need a babysitter. I can take care of myself.” I’ve been doing it forever. I always look out for me first. I’ll figure out a way home on my own. To prove my point, I sit up, ready to leave his bedroom, or bed, or whatever this portion of his crazy bus-house is, but a thick arm hooks my waist, and I still.

  “I don’t need you doing Nathan any favors,” I quip, growing irritated myself.

  “How much you have to drink tonight?” he questions instead of replying to me.

  I hold up three fingers, wiggling them. He sighs.

  “If you want me to drive that road in the dark, I’ll take you home myself.” There’s more to his words as we both know he means The Tail of the Dragon and the twisty-turning highway that could be dangerous in the best of light and deadly in the dark of night. “But I want you to stay.”

  His softened tone loosens my tense shoulders. I slump a little in my seated position.

  “My brother died on that road,” I say, keeping my voice quiet. Why those words slip from me, I do not know. Chet remains silent. “He was coming here to The Fugitive. Naomi had called him.” I take a deep breath before continuing. “She was here to celebrate her twenty-first birthday. She’d been with Nathan. That’s how they met.” I smile weakly. “Jebediah had been drinking, and he crashed into the boulders.”

  I stay quiet a second, recalling the phone call from my parents informing me of his death. I hadn’t been living at home. By then, I’d been in my beautiful house in Green Valley, raising my adorable Darlene and conspiring with Karl. He’d begun his practice, and with the perfect life built around him, his secrets were safe. I was safe. I had married into society and proved myself over and over again to be worthy of a Simmons. It had been exhausting.

  “I’m sorry about your brother,” Chet says beside me, and I shrug as if the loss doesn’t still hurt. I wasn’t particularly close to my reckless brother, but he was still my brother. I hadn’t always been a good eldest sister.

  Giving in to the arm around me, I lie back on the bed but curl onto my side, placing my back to Chet.

  He rolls toward me. “That might have been the most real-you you’ve given me, Scotia.” His deep gruff voice quiets a little. I tuck my hands under my cheek and stare at the wall opposite me. The space is enclosed, intimate as I’d thought earlier, and the world spins just a little bit. It’s not the alcohol, but something else inside me, like my axis is tipping off-kilter. I need to right myself, but I don’t know how, and I don’t want to move. That’s where the alcohol takes over, I decide. I’m relaxed and slipping into the comfort of this bed and the man at my back.

  His hand comes to my side and travels up the curve of my hip. He stops and retreats, skating down the slope of my hip to the dip of my waist. He halts again. His hand moves upward, reaching for the neckline of my costume, and thick fingers connect with the zipper.

  “I thought you said you weren’t trying to seduce me,” I mutter, a pleasing grin curling my lips.

  “I just want to feel your skin.” My heart leaps to my throat, and the pulse between my thighs beats double time. He only wants to touch me? It’s such a foreign thought after years of Karl’s distance. Karl was not cruel. He just wasn’t comforting. At least, not in the manner in which the heated palm slips into the costume now unzipped to my waist. Thick fingers spread over my belly as if he wants to touch as much of me as he can. The tail of the costume is trapped behind me, and the hood has ears on it, but with his heavy hand on my stomach inside the onesie, I don’t feel so ridiculous. I’m not certain what to feel.

  “Tell me something else that’s real about Scotia Simmons.”

  “I’ve never felt how I feel when I’m with you.”

  The sharp intake of his breath, and the weight of silence behind me after what I’ve said tells me my admission might have been a little too much truth.

  “That is to say, you annoy me,” I teasingly remark, and he softly chuckles behind me.

  “I don’t like you when you’re like this,” he jests, and my eyes close under the warmth of his hand over my belly.

&n
bsp; I like you, I wish to tell him as I said last night, but I’ve already said too much.

  “Why do you live in a bus again?” I question instead, hoping to ignore the unspoken.

  He sighs. “Why does it matter where I live?”

  “I’m just trying to understand you. You’re a millionaire, and you live in a converted school bus in the woods behind a biker bar in the middle of nowhere.”

  “This isn’t nowhere. It’s North Carolina. I own these woods, and I like my converted school bus. Stop being a judgmental Judy.” His tone turns defensive.

  “I’m not judgmental. You could own a mansion in the hills. You could have a sports car or an airplane.”

  “I don’t want an airplane. I do own a sports car, and this year I’m on target to make over a billion.”

  “Fine, you make over a billion in oil.”

  “Who told you that?” His voice lifts in wonder.

  “Fortune 500.” I read up on Chester Chesterfield, knowing I’d meet the Tennessee-famous entrepreneur who went from rags to riches. There wasn’t much info on the rags part of his story, though, only the riches in oil.

  “Fine. I’m proud of Stop-and-Pump,” he admits. Now, I’m stumped.

  “Stop-and-Pump?” I snort, shifting on the mattress to look at him over my shoulder. “Those are gas stations with convenience stores attached.”

  “Yes, and I own them.”

  I flip completely onto my opposite side to face him. “You own service stations?”

  He falls onto his back. “Got something against service stations?”

  “No, but how does it make you a billion unless you own the entire company?” I snark, pausing a beat as he stares at me with a gleam in those dark eyes. “You own the entire company, don’t you?” I hold my breath waiting on his answer.

  “Yes. That’s the company that makes me a billion dollars.”

  “But I thought—”

  “Again, something wrong with owning gas stations?” he defends, his eyes narrowing.

  “No, but the article said oil.” Chesterfield Oil is one of the largest companies on the East Coast, specializing in oil production and related services.