Kiss or Kill Under the Northern Lights

by Susan Johnson

  “What?” he said, annoyed. “Why won’t you tell me? And why aren’t you dating this guy if you’re so into him?”

  “Well…” She blinked, opened and shut her mouth before beginning again. “The thing is…I’m trying to.” She touched his sleeve.

  “Trying?” He pulled away.

  “I don’t know how…apparently.” Her soft tone hardened toward irritation.

  Fine by him. He felt plenty irritable.

  “He dates a lot,” she continued. “Never serious.”

  “What’s a lot?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “He’s what Mom calls a tomcat.”

  “You’re hot for a player? Are you nuts? Did you sleep with him?”

  “No.” She looked down at her lap and muttered, “But I’d like to.”

  He wanted to get out of the truck and slam the door about six times. “You’re going to get hurt!”

  “I’d like a relationship.”

  “And how exactly do you plan to make that happen?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know, okay? Maybe you could offer me some advice?”

  “Like, don’t?”

  “Like how to catch a tomcat?”

  “That’s a bad idea.” He pointed his finger at her. “A horrible idea.”

  “Then you think the direct approach is the best?”

  “Does he have a clue you’re into him? Do you think he’s ready to settle down? Are you even on his radar?”

  “This is good stuff. Good tomcat-catching advice,” she clarified while scrambling for a pen. Then with the paper against her knee, she began taking notes. “How about cooking?”

  “Huh?” He scowled at her, watching a freaking list form. Unbelievable, another list.

  “You know the saying about winning a man’s heart through his stomach?”

  “Yep.” He wasn’t agreeing, agreeing, but he’d heard the saying.

  She jotted down the number four followed by the word cook. “What about jealousy?”

  “Jealousy? I’m starting to feel sorry for the guy. If you two have any chemistry, he’ll be miserable.”

  “Test the chemistry.” She looked up from her notes to gaze at him.

  “Why are you giving me those eyes?”

  “Practicing.” She purred the word.

  It scared him to his core. He could lose her to some idiot. An idiot who had her running in circles for attention.

  “Now tell me what else to do.”

  “I hate this.”

  “Just one more idea.”

  “Doll?”

  “TJ?” She stopped with a pained look on her face.

  “Make him feel like he matters.”

  “But he always matters.”

  “He’d better know it, or it’ll never work.”

  “If mattering is all it takes, then I’ve got this made.”

  “For your sake, I hope so.”

  “How can I go wrong with this foolproof plan?” She held out the list.

  How to catch a Tomcat in 7 days:

  1. Tell him

  2. Give him a reason to settle down

  3. Get on his radar

  4. Cook

  5. Jealousy

  6. Chemistry

  7. Matters

  “In seven days?” he asked.

  “I have seven days to decide if I move to Grand Marais.”

  “He’s the deciding factor?” TJ felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

  “By this time next Friday, he’ll know just how important he is to me.”

  “Friday is my birthday.” He pouted, feeling dumped by his best friend.

  “How could I forget?” She winked. “It’s also Duluth Days. You’re going, right?”

  “Where else would I be?” He watched her climb out of the truck. “But I think you miscounted your days.”

  “No. Today is day one.”

  “You plan to tell him tonight?” The sun had already set.

  Megan rolled her eyes at him and said, “Love you.”

  “Love you too,” he grumped and watched her shut the door.

  4

  Day 2—Give Him a Reason to Settle Down

  Hunting down TJ, skirting between customers and tables laden with colorful annuals, Megan passed a sleepy-eyed toddler ready for his noontime nap. The little angel gave her a shy smile. It was all the encouragement she needed. More than ready to settle down with TJ, she knew what she had to do, and she knew it’d scare the pants off him.

  She found TJ out back, away from the busy greenhouse, giving himself a workout loading a vast variety of flowering greenery onto a flat trailer. His black t-shirt clung to his body, and she thought the sexy fireman calendar had nothing on him.

  “Don’t you have people for that?” she said by way of greeting.

  “Watch it. I plan to put you to work.” He grinned, looking her up and down. “If you’ll let me.”

  “I didn’t realize the emergency involved shuffling foliage.” She grimaced at her white blouse, periwinkle skater skirt, and peep toe sandals.

  TJ stepped down from the trailer, next to her. “I have a different foliage duty for you. If you agree?”

  “If you’re planning to harass me into wearing a garden fairy costume for the parade, the answer is no. Though I think you’d be adorable in tights.”

  He frowned down at his hairy legs. “No tights.”

  In truth, she’d spend the day digging holes with him if it gave her the opportunity to work on day two, giving him a reason to settle down. When he lifted his eyes back to her, she purred, “In that case, I’m feeling agreeable.”

  “Great!” TJ clapped his hands together. “I’m arranging the landscape trailer for Saturday’s parade. Showing off my awesome talent.” He gave her an effusive grin, transforming his good looks to heart-throb hot, and chuckled over his boasting. Then, wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt, he said, “My folks are driving the truck.” A white pickup with Johnson Nursery and Landscape detailed on the door sat hooked up to the trailer. “Can you make it pretty?”

  “Pretty?”

  “There must be something you can draw with that’ll scrub off later?”

  She frowned, wondering what that would be.

  “Or not scrub off. Could be good marketing to have a flowery truck.”

  “You want me to illustrate your truck? Make it flowery?”

  “Yep.” He rocked on his heels. “My mom will like it, give her something special to ride in.”

  “This will take time,” she said, surprised by his request.

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “I mean, if you have the time? I just woke up with the idea. This morning. And I’ll pay you. I forgot to mention that.”

  “You don’t have to pay for favors. You do stuff for me all the time.”

  “I can write this off as a business expense. And…” TJ snapped his fingers. “If you stick around this summer, I have four more trucks you can detail.” He looked adorably happy with himself and his last-minute idea.

  “You’re offering me a summer job?”

  “Sure. If, you know…” He rubbed the back of his neck, letting the question hang unfinished.

  “If I catch my tomcat and stay in town?”

  TJ shoved his hands in his back pockets while she studied the truck, visualizing her designs transforming it. A fun summer project if she stayed. But if he didn’t love her the way she loved him, she’d need Grand Marais.

  “How’s the plan going?” TJ shifted his feet, looking at his dirty work boots. “You know, last night? Have you scared off your tomcat?”

  “Not yet.” She studied him, noting the hard line of his chin. Knowing he didn’t like the idea of her with a player, she wondered when he’d realize he was the one. Could be any minute. Nervous, she smoothed her skirt.

  “Did you tell him you’re into him?” He kicked off some dirt.

  “It didn’t sink in.”

  “How’s that possible?” He chuckled, looking relieved.

 
“It’s tough to say,” she said, considering her next words.

  “Doll, you look like you’re thinking too hard.”

  Her thoughts floundered, scrambling for a twist to propel the needed conversation. A sales pitch guaranteed to attract TJ to the glorious idea of settling down. On the spot, she blurted, “I want kids,” taking the bull by the horns. Then she bit her lip, waiting.

  He froze, his eyes locked onto hers.

  She pressed on, “The ugly minivan. A house full of people I love. Christmas morning with a row of stockings hanging from the mantle. I’m not getting any younger.”

  Looking deep in uncomfortable territory, he muttered, “You’re younger than me.”

  “Two years.” She took a step closer. “Thirty-one. The last bridesmaid standing.”

  “Lots of people are single in their thirties. Lots.” Sweat trickled down his temple.

  “Not when they know who they love.” She laid a hand on his arm. Couldn’t he see how much she loved him? Feel it in her touch? “I need to know if this guy will hang his stocking next to mine, or if I need to move on. Do you ever think about being a parent?”

  “I’d make an awesome grandpa.”

  “You do know you have to be a dad first?”

  “I’ll be good at that too. Eventually.”

  “Maybe my grandkids can play with your kids.” Her voice turned tart with frustration.

  “I always pictured myself a frisky grandpa. The kind that goes fishing and tells outrageous stories of my youth.”

  “So how old do you want to be when you’re a frisky grandpa…sixty? Then subtract thirty from that and target that age for fatherhood. Oh, wait. Too late. It looks like you’re already a couple of years behind schedule.”

  “Are you trying to give me a premature mid-life crisis?”

  “Sorry. No.” She regrouped. If anyone could pull off frisky grandpa at the age of ninety, it would be TJ. He looked up at the clear blue sky as if a stork might drop a poopy baby on him. She’d freaked him out. Wrong approach.

  TJ was the first to break the silence. “I don’t suggest you tell this player you want to have his babies prior to the first date.”

  She grinned in response, and a new idea formed. “I bet he’s good at it.”

  “At what?”

  “The baby-making part.”

  “Good lord,” TJ muttered, curling all ten of his fingers in his hair.

  “You don’t think I have needs? I’m tired of sleeping alone. I need a man in my bed.” She let that sink in and thought it would be a shame if he yanked out all that pretty sandy blond hair he twisted between his fingers, then pressed on. “I want heart-to-heart sweet lovemaking.”

  His nostrils flared.

  “The kiss-me-before-you-go sex.”

  He ran his teeth over his lower lip.

  “The rug-burn-on-my-knees make-up sex.”

  His eyes lowered to her knees, and she pressed her advantage, pulling out the stops.

  “I want hot, dirty—”

  “Stop!” He backed up. Holding his hands like a traffic cop. “Stop telling me this.”

  “But TJ—”

  He waved her off. “Save it for your girlfriends.”

  “TJ, no!” she shouted her warning too late. Tripping on the trailer hitch, he went over backward.

  Lying there on the gritty asphalt looking up at her, he said, “Have mercy on me.”

  5

  Day 3 – Get On His Radar

  “Do not take mercy on Thomas!” her mother scolded over the phone. They’d been over it all morning. “The Plan gives Thomas an entire week, plenty of time to come around at a pace he can handle.”

  “I’m not so sure he’s handling it, Mom. And what if he doesn’t feel the same? It’ll be humiliating after what I said.” Even the edited version of yesterday’s wanton conversation caused her cheeks to burn.

  “Of course, but you can regroup in Grand Marais. Now get back to drafting Thomas’s flowers, and I’ll get going on your dress shopping.”

  “Nothing crazy.” Megan prayed she hadn’t made a mistake by agreeing to her mother’s help.

  “Dear, it’s not about getting on Thomas’s radar, it’s about owning it.”

  Megan set her sketch aside, flexed her stiff fingers, and took a sip of calming chamomile tea. It did nothing for her nerves. One hour until TJ got off work. Day three’s plan involved luring him over with truck designs and lighting him up by wearing whatever the shopping bag had in store. Megan had left the package, “the goods,” sitting on the table in her entryway, too stressed to see her mother’s choice in seduction wear. It was disturbing on so many levels.

  Moving through her Laura Ashley–meets–farm-girl bungalow, Megan’s feet felt clammy on the yellow oak floor. Picking up the hot-pink plastic sack, she hurried into the bathroom. Tossing off her favorite lavender cardigan, she eyed the package that smelled like cheap perfume. A hesitant peek inside revealed a scrap of black fabric. She slid her hand into the bag as if reaching for a snake. Holding it by its spandex spaghetti straps, she took in the bellybutton-plunging neckline and sheer panels of lace mesh.

  “Hell no!” She tossed the dress on the vanity. The slinky material slipped over the counter and onto the floor.

  “No way!” she said as if the dress had protested, taking her mother’s side. Megan scooped it up, tossing it back toward the sink.

  Shaking her head, she twisted on the vintage shower. Kicking off her clothes, stepping into the claw-foot tub, she eased under the warming spray. Stay calm. There must be something in her closet. Naked would be less embarrassing. Through the plastic shower curtain and window blinds, she focused on the pretty view of her garden and waited for the heat to soak in and relax her. TJ would derail if he saw that dress. The vision made her laugh. Mom had tried to transform her into Sandy at the end of Grease, minus the leather. Honestly, the leather would have been better by a long shot. The idea of a Hollywood transformation, and tone-deaf TJ singing like John Travolta, made her laugh. She was well into the second verse, belting out “You’re the One that I Want”, when she heard TJ holler, “You’re killing me!” and it all came crashing down.

  Stunned, TJ stopped short, his landscape crew hot on his heels. He’d have bitten his tongue had he been alone. But heaven help him, Doll was doing a naked shower dance with the window open, as if her secluded backyard offered privacy. He’d have to beat them all for looking. He never meant to startle her into an accident. That piece of junk vintage shower railing which she found charming crashed down on her when she jumped with surprise.

  “On my way!” he yelled.

  “No. No. No.” Her cry echoed from the bottom of the cast iron tub.

  The bathroom door quivered on its hinges as he stormed inside.

  “Go away!” Her arm swatted toward him, waving above the tub like a feeble flag of surrender.

  In one smooth motion, he flipped the blinds closed, turned off the spray, and crouched next to her while rambling apologies.

  “Stop looking!”

  “I’m not trying to,” he said through gritted teeth and lifted the oval bar that held the curtain. Pulling at the formidable sheet, he worked the material off and onto the floor, struggling to keep her from suffocating under the plastic tarp.

  “Why not?” she cried.

  “What?” He aimed his glance toward her head. Blue eyes flashed through a snarl of drippy hair. Rattled, he threw towels at her, covering her as if his soul depended on it. “I’ll get you out of this. I’ll fix everything.” Swaddling her in terry cloth that refused to stay in place, he helped her to her knees, then lifted her out of the tub. His clothes were soaked through with her body against him.

  “I didn’t look. I swear I didn’t,” he lied.

  “Why not?” she clung to him as he helped her to stand.

  “What?” he said, shocked, and stopped manhandling the towel. “What do you mean, why not?” He tried not to shout.

  “Am I so unappealing you’
d turn down a free glimpse?”

  Oh hell. She looked on the edge of tears. He didn’t know what to do or say now. She was torturing him. Of course, he’d looked.

  “I panicked,” he mumbled, recalling every blessed curve. He snugged the towel around her and brushed her hair back.

  “Panicked?”

  “I think you hit your head.”

  “Not funny.” She pushed at his shoulders.

  “No, Doll.” He shifted, careful not to step on her toes, and tightened his hold around her waist. “I’m serious.” With a light touch, his fingertips examined her forehead. “Does this hurt?”

  “A little.” She stilled. “Am I bleeding?”

  “No. But you have a bump.” He ran his fingers through her hair, smoothing out the tangles, concerned. “Are you feeling dizzy?”

  “I don’t know.” She softened against him, her face tilting to his. “Give me a second.” Her palms moved up his chest to settle on his shoulders.

  Giving her as long as she needed, he held her, cocooned in the delicious heat of rose-scented steam. He studied her delicate face, the point of her chin, the way her lips parted as he considered her mouth; she’d taste sweet, like strawberry taffy. Would he be able to stop at just one sample? One kiss? Or would he be lost to her?

  “Doll,” he growled her name, jolted by desire, angry with himself and the allure to cross the line. He tipped his chin up, dragging in a clarifying breath. Her fingers stroked up his neck, drawing him near, tempting. But she had hit her head and was in love with someone else. Don’t screw up. He felt lost with the impossibility of kissing his best friend.

  “A bench,” he blurted, killing the mood, and stepped back. “I brought you a nice concrete bench. For your garden. It’s heavy. Needed the guys’ help. Sorry.” He cringed at his rambling.

  Megan stood there wide-eyed, clutching the front of her towel.

  “You should get dressed and come see.” He gestured to the clothing on the vanity. Then he frowned, lifting spandex and lace. “What is this?”

  “A dress.”