by Lia Riley
“Can’t do that. And you—quit.” He jerked his head at Steinbeck, who halted, mid-belly creep toward the woman’s purse. She must have chocolate in there. He answered that question at least once a week. Yes, chocolate was poisonous to dogs; no, it’s not an old wives’ tale. It contained theobromine, a stimulant that can mimic caffeine that may affect a canine’s heart, central nervous system, and kidneys. And he had a greedy-guts of a dog who seemed to have a death wish anytime a Snickers presented itself within a fifteen-foot radius.
“Sure you can,” she ground out. “Gather your dogs, keep walking.”
“And leave a woman crying alone in the rain? ’Fraid not. Don’t blame me, blame my genetics. Too many generations of manners-instilling Southern mamas.”
She forced what was an obviously humoring laugh and moved to collect her bag. He got there first.
“Who can I call to give you a lift?” Make her a cup of tea. Take her down a notch, or ten. “I’d offer you a ride myself but I’m on foot. Rain came faster than expected.” That’s when he realized how long they’d been talking. In public. Where anyone could see.
His jaw tightened as he scanned the road. Empty. Or so it seemed. But one never knew when they were under surveillance in Everland.
Time to get moving before they attracted unwanted attention, but her own stare fixed on a distant point with an unreadable expression. “I don’t know anyone less than eight hundred miles away.”
Hell. Like it or not, this situation had him by the balls.
“What’s your name?” He shoved his hands into his back pockets and addressed the rain, not wanting to gawk when she was this raw. He was damned if he stayed, damned if he left, so might as well be a fucking gentleman.
She rubbed her temples before nodding, the protocol of introductions seeming to help snap her from her stupor. “Of course. Sorry. I’m Pepper. Pepper Knight.”
“Well, Pepper. Pepper Knight. Welcome to Everland. I’m Rhett. Rhett Valentine.” Her handshake happened so fast that if he’d blinked, he’d have missed it. “There. Guess you know me now.”
“Your name’s Rhett?” Her brows vanished beneath a thick curtain of bangs.
He bristled at the note of incredulity. The Gone with the Wind reference would be coming in five…four…
“Like Rhett Butler?” She made the connection faster than most.
At least she didn’t tack on the usual “Frankly, my dear…” quip.
“Margaret Mitchell published that book in nineteen thirty-six, and it was one of my mama’s favorites, but truth be told, there’ve been Rhetts in my family since fifty years before that.” He sound snappish, but that’s what you get for living thirty-five years as a man named Rhett in the South.
“Only in Georgia.” Her gaze slid across his features with fresh interest before she began walking.
He fell in step behind her, careful to keep his dogs under control. Jesus. The view from the back was as enticing as the front. Pepper had more curves than the letter s, paring the alphabet to the essentials, omitting everything but e, x, and y. Not that it mattered. No, just an observation. “What are you going to do?” he called.
The rain eased to a gentle pitter-patter. “Who knows?” Her shoulders paid a visit to her ears as she wiped her eyes. “Hitchhike to I-95. Apply to the Pump-N-Munch and see what all the fuss is about?”
He hated the quaver beneath her jaunty tone. “Believe it or not, most days in Everland don’t end in tears.”
She plucked a rosemary sprig poking through a picket fence and twirled it beneath her fingers before glancing over one shoulder. “Guess I’ll have to take your word on that.”
There was something stubborn about the way she held herself. And the little mole dotting her top lip classified as adorable. An unfamiliar sensation struck hard, like a sucker punch to the ribs. A feeling that had been gone so long that its existence was almost mythical.
Interest in a member of the opposite sex.
He turned lightly away. Took a steadying breath. “Sorry about the rain.”
“I don’t melt.” She dropped the rosemary on the sidewalk and defiantly swiped a lock of wet hair plastered on her cheek.
He got the picture. She wanted to be left alone. Hell, that was his default setting. Except for the present moment.
Surprising.
Too bad he hated surprises.
They walked in mutual troubled silence. Her trudging gait nagged at him. It didn’t seem fair she should be loaded by an invisible weight, and yet, who was he to offer to carry the load? She didn’t know him from the Man in the Moon, and her gaze might as well be blocked off by caution tape. Anyway, he’d soon be turning off, swinging by his house, and grabbing the marina key. After Doc made it clear that it would be a cold day in hell before the shelter was gifted a single acre of Mama’s land, Rhett needed the solace of the ocean more than ever.
At the corner, she pivoted, leveling a direct stare. He tried holding her gaze, but kept investigating the planes of her heart-shaped face.
“Hey.” Her keen brown eyes narrowed. “Do you mind not following me?”
“Now wait a minute.” He bristled at the unexpected accusation. “You’re walking in my direction. I’m swinging by home to get my boat key.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders flagged, the self-righteous wind dropping from her sails. “Go on ahead then.” She stepped aside as thunder rumbled in the distance.
“Hatching a plot to check me out from behind?” His teasing tone relaxed some of the tightness around her eyes. The strange feeling returned, stealing around the perimeters of his mind, a wary cat, suspicious and skittish.
Curiosity about a woman.
A dog-hating woman.
Another clap of thunder shook the sky, a boom of divine laughter. Guess someone up there thought the joke was on him.
“Hilarious.” Her half smile belied her deadpan tone.
Yeah. Funny as YouTube videos of idiots jumping off diving boards into frozen pools.
“Don’t take my word. I’ve heard it’s a sight to behold,” he drawled, taking a left onto Love Street with a pang at the impending separation. “And here we are.”
Her heel clicks echoed through his brain in staccato pops. He turned back, scrubbing his jaw. “For the official record, who is following who?”
There was no smile in her eyes, just a deepening suspicion. “How’d you know where I live?”
Words deserted him. “Where you live?”
She jerked a chin at the one-story white cottage. “That’s my house.”
“The old Carmichael place?” A FOR RENT sign had gone up in the window a few weeks ago, but he’d given it little to no thought.
“My landlady is Doris Carmichael. She didn’t sound that old.”
“It was her great aunt Katherine’s place. Dot lives Waynesboro way but can’t bear to sell. See the red door?” He pointed to the yellow house to the right.
She frowned in confusion. “Yes.”
“That’s mine.”
“You’re kidding.” The wet, white blouse clung to her chest, revealing fantastic cleavage and the faintest outline of two nipples. “We’re next-door neighbors?”
“Looks like it.” Fuck. What a time for his dick to pitch a tent. Luckily he’d thrown on jeans this morning and not his usual khakis. Good Samaritans weren’t supposed to go hard on the job, especially not while looking out for vulnerable women.
The silence dragged. He counted each beat, willing his untouched-for-far-too-long body under control. But when she swung her hair on the seven-second mark, he forgot what came next. Christ. He almost forgot his damn name.
“All right then. Welcome to Love Street,” he broke the silence first, removing his glasses and giving the rain-spattered lenses a wipe with his shirt cuff. “Feel free to hit me up if you need more motivational speeches, or job advice.”
“Hey. Wait.” Her heartbreaking eyes widened as she fiddled with her front gate latch. “Can I ask you something? It’s proba
bly stupid, but do you believe in signs from the universe? Or curses?” The next thunderclap lent a certain portentous punctuation to her sentence.
He paused, startled, before a furtive motion in his peripheral vision squashed any budding amusement. Across the street, Miss Ida May’s nose pressed against her bay window. Shit. It had been inevitable someone would see them talking. Any second the Back Fence chat room would be lighting up like a Fourth of July firecracker. What would be the headline this time? Some quip about how he knocked a woman head over heels?
“Signs, no,” he said firmly. “Curses, yes.”
Pepper nodded, holding his gaze with curious intensity before walking toward her porch steps. He shoved his glasses back on. It took him another few seconds to register the fact that he still stood there, staring. Quickly, he backtracked toward his place, raking a hand through his hair. His new neighbor was trouble with a capital T. Better get on inside and chug a glass of ice water. That’s it. The heat messed with his head.
Everyone went a little crazy in this weather.
Chapter Five
Pepper cringed at her laptop screen. Eeesh. Underpaid NSA grunts must be calling in emergency antidepressant refills after checking her recent search history.
Law clerk jobs
Last minute opening law clerk jobs
Waiting list law clerk jobs
How to remove a curse
How to break a lease
Tenant rights and responsibilities in Georgia
What to do if landlord has a termination administration charge
Bank of America checking account
Tenant rights law
Can alcohol be delivered to my home?
Best pizza in Everland Georgia
Photos of Hot Guys Drinking Coffee
Photos of Hot Guys
Photos of coffee
I ruined my life
Directions to Smuggler’s Cove
Her chest was tight, like she’d just finished sprinting up six flights of stairs. Each breath came hard, a halting, shallow spurt. No point in teeth gnashing or fist shaking; neither would change the fact that any clerkship worth its salt had been filled. She reached for her third candy bar, but her fingers skimmed nothing but another empty wrapper.
Sucking chocolate-stained fingers, she plucked a sheet of bubble wrap off the kitchen table, popping a row. Not remotely satisfying. She closed the computer and buried her face in her hands. All she wanted to do was live in her favorite city and get stable, career-wise, love-wise, well, everything-wise. Life was happening right now. All around. Except instead of pressing Play, she was stuck on Pause.
No. Worse.
Rewind.
She stamped her feet, punched the empty cardboard box off the table, and screamed. “Fuck!” She hadn’t busted tail to escape one small town only to get mired in another.
Now her throat hurt and the neighbors were probably calling the cops. She picked up the phone and set it back down. Talking to Dad was out. He’d spout off feel-good crap like “failure is success in progress,” but she was facing down a big, black tunnel without so much as a pinprick of light at the end. Cliché phrases wouldn’t help.
Tuesday wouldn’t help, either. She’d say, “move back.” As if this boondoggle could be fixed by a simple bus ride home to New York. Not an option given the fact her savings account had dust bunnies in lieu of zeroes, her credit card was maxed from the move and buying work clothes, and oh, last but not least, Mount Student Loans was poised to bury her in an avalanche of debt. Combine that with the fact she’d signed a lease that couldn’t be broken without a termination fine bigger than her entire current net worth and what did she have?
A whole lot of nothing.
Some Superwoman.
She resumed popping bubble wrap. In law school, classmates clamored for Pepper-in-rural-Maine childhood stories on the rare nights that a happy hour chocolate martini craving overrode her introversion. They hailed from cities and suburbs where events like getting lunch stolen by a black bear at the bus stop or chopping through ice for drinking water were inconceivable.
“Wow. Imagine growing up like that,” they’d sigh, eyes bright with idealism of a simpler life.
But her life in Maine hadn’t been one big Little House on the Prairie–inspired fantasy. It was work. Hard work. Without the benefit of a dashing Almanzo Wilder to whisk her away on nightly buggy rides. Always one catastrophe away from a hungry belly. No, she couldn’t return to that life, could only march forward.
She’d be a success, despite the odds, or the fact she had no idea what to do next.
And one day, Mom would flip open the Times and see her oldest daughter winning a case or attending a swanky fundraiser, and call to say how proud she was, ask if they could have coffee or meet for lunch.
Pepper would smile and say, “Let me check my schedule. Oh. Darn. Looks like I have better things to do than get my ass kissed by a social-climbing adulterous hagfish. Hope you rot in your McMansion. Thank you and good day, sir.”
Or, yanno, some variation on that.
A freshening breeze blew through the window. She peeked through her fingers, palms pressed on her flushed cheeks. Between the crack in the curtains was a direct line of sight into Rhett’s kitchen. Hers was a typical shoebox rental kitchen. Plain. White. Boring. His was spacious, full of inviting natural light and exposed beams. Reclaimed wood cupboards contrasted with stainless steel appliances. Simple. Masculine. No sign of a woman’s touch. In fact, the only thing on the countertop besides a block of knives was a bowl filled with green apples. Her favorite. Tart but subtly sweet.
Her stomach rumbled. According to Google, the best pizza in town was at a place called Smuggler’s Cove. She didn’t have access to a Magic 8 Ball, but a twelve-inch pie might go a long way toward improving her current not-so-good outlook.
It was either that or sit scrolling through Facebook posts of people’s adult coloring book pages and perfectly organized day planners or click around snapshots of Hawaiian honeymoons and drooling babies, until she became nothing but a numb brain in a jar, beyond feeling or emotion.
Pizza was better for mental health.
The rain clouds had moved on, and it took five minutes to walk to the restaurant. Small wins. But hey, she’d take what she could get. Smuggler’s Cove was a red-brick hole in the wall. The placards on either side of the entrance read TWO BEERS FOR THE PRICE OF TWO BEERS and OUR DRINKS ARE COLDER THAN YOUR EX-GIRLFRIEND’S HEART. She opened the door and stepped inside. The cavernous space was crowded; a rousing sea shanty played over the tinny speakers. The décor was Gilligan’s Island kitsch meets Pirates of the Caribbean.
As she approached the WAIT HERE TO WALK THE PLANK sign, the song ended. Someone dropped a fork. All conversation ceased. Her pulse accelerated. Pepper had never been the kind of pretty girl who made a room fall silent. If this was how it felt, then thank goodness for small favors, because it wasn’t nice to be visually picked over like a chicken bone.
“Contacts bothering you?”
“Excuse me?” Pepper startled. A vaguely familiar black woman stood a few feet away studying her with large brown eyes.
“You’re blinking a lot,” the woman said in a sympathetic tone. “That always happens to me when mine get dry.”
“Yes. Right. Darn these lenses,” Pepper lied quickly. Her vision was 20/20. “I need some of that, um, solution.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself this morning. Would you like to join me and my children?” The woman smiled a friendly, conspiratorial smile as she extended a manicured hand. “I’m Elizabeth.”
“Oh, yes. I remember.” The woman from the fabulous house near the park, living the dream as Pepper watched, nose pressed to the glass. “I’m Pepper. But it’s okay. I’m here to place a to-go order. I don’t want to be an imposition.”
“Nonsense. Follow me.” Elizabeth didn’t wait for additional protest, simply turned and sashayed through the maze of tables. Pepper t
railed, a frumpy dwarf behind Snow White.
At the booth, Elizabeth gestured for her to sit on the red vinyl bench. “I hear you’ve come from New York City, and I’m simply dying to hear all about it. I haven’t been up there since having the kids. I believe you’ve already met my Kate and Will?”
“Like…the Kate and Will.” Pepper gave the twins an awkward wave. “The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, Kate and Will?”
“Such a magical couple.” Elizabeth heaved a happy sigh. “I’m the biggest royal fan. I crushed hard on that man when a teenager, but now I’m more obsessed with her. Talk about being my style icon! What I wouldn’t give to spend an afternoon raiding her closet.”
Pepper laughed in spite of herself. “She does have pretty amazing hair.”
“And her purses.” Elizabeth held up a black tote with brown leather straps. “I bought this Longchamp Le Pliage after I saw her wearing it in a magazine while getting a blowout.” Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “It’s silly. You think I’m silly, don’t you? Go on. Admit it. Everyone does.”
“You’re adorable.” Pepper grinned. And it was the truth. There was something unrepentantly high-maintenance about Elizabeth. But she wasn’t competitive, just a woman who liked to indulge in the finer things and wasn’t embarrassed about it.
Will and Kate were elbows deep in their bowls, the sundaes as large as their heads. “Looks like the photo shoot was a success?” When Pepper spoke to kids, her voice went up an octave and took on the beginnings of a Mary Poppins–like accent. It was weird. Especially as she’d never even set foot in England.
“They told you about my bribery attempt?” Elizabeth asked with an unself-conscious laugh, oblivious to the fact she was dealing with a child-fearing weirdo. “Bad mommy here. No shame. I beg and barter with the twins all day. Negotiating international ballistic missile treaties must be easier than convincing my Katydid to smile for a camera.”
“Mama said she was going to put you out of your misery when she called you over,” Will piped through a mouthful of whipped cream.
“William John! That big mouth is going to get you in a world of trouble one of these days.” Elizabeth shot her son a pointed look. “It made my heart hurt to see you standing there with everyone all curious. No one meant any harm, but the limelight can be a lonely place.”