It Happened on Love Street

by Lia Riley

  “Call me crazy, but I can’t see tuna surprise or Jell-O pie hitting the New York Times best-seller list.”

  “Oh, shivers. The pie was disgusting. And remember how she’d force-feed you deviled ham sandwiches?”

  “Don’t make me relive dietary hell.” Pepper stuck a bag of kettle corn in the microwave. “Thanks for hanging out. I needed the distraction. All I’ve been doing is staring at my bank account, willing a nest egg into existence. That and taking long romantic walks to the fridge.”

  “Why. Not. Ask. Mom. For. A. Loan?” Each word was punctuated by a Rockette-style high kick.

  “Ugh. Never.” A vein throbbed in her temple at the mere idea. “I’d rather live in a van by the river, or sell Hot Pockets to truckers at the Pump-N-Munch.”

  “The Pump and excuse me?”

  “Don’t ask.” Pepper punched the microwave’s Start button. A few seconds of silence ticked by. They both knew without saying there was no point in suggesting Dad. He’d love to help but needed a new evaporator before the next sugaring season. The old wood-fired one barely made it through last spring. “But I’m serious. Mom will never be the option for anything. I’ve got nothing left but my pride at this point. I’m content keeping our communication limited to reading her humble-bragging holiday newsletter.”

  “The worst. Remember the last one?” Tuesday affected a WASPy female accent. “This year has been a whirlwind for Clyde and me. First came the trip to Denmark in February (Brrrr!) followed by the Norwegian cruise and jaunt to Palm Springs. Finally, I threw up my hands and said, enough is enough! We need a vacation from all these vacations. But of course, how was I to know Clyde had booked us in for a French wine tour through Burgundy for our twelfth anniversary? That man! He’s a keeper.”

  “Enough!” Pepper couldn’t hold back a laugh, even if it was tinged in bitterness. Lisa Knight had been right about money buying love—er, Lisa Clark. She left Dad and a simple North woods lifestyle to implement a get-rich-quick plan that culminated in a walk down the aisle with a guy fifteen years older and five hundred times more boring. Clyde Clark was human valium with a seven-car garage.

  “Moving on. Want to hear the worst thing ever?” Tuesday asked.

  Pepper made a face. “Worse than my first day at work coinciding with my last?”

  “Terrible in a different way. Angus hit on me.”

  “Angus who?” She jolted. “Wait. Not Angus—”

  “Our stepbrother.” Tuesday gave a grim nod.

  “But that is—”

  “Gross? Nauseating? Barftastic?” Tuesday filled a small watering can at her sink. “Tell me about it. He was in the city on a business trip and Mom called and asked me to play tour guide. He insisted we go to the Empire State Building, at noon, on a Saturday.”

  “No! But the crowds…”

  “I know. We waited in line for three hours.” Tuesday watered the basil on her windowsill. “He talked about mutual funds and kept tacking the expression ‘if you will’ to the end of his sentences until I was stabby.”

  “Ew.”

  “And then he asked me out on a date.”

  “Double ew. Did you alert Mom?”

  “No, because which would be worse? Option A, where I tell her and it starts drama, or option B, and she gives me her blessing. He flew back to Bedford yesterday. Guess I’ll look forward to most uncomfortable family Christmas ever.”

  Pepper shuddered. “Just say no to stepbrother dating.”

  “Amen. Back over to you. Have you given any thought on your next professional move?”

  “A little.” She traced invisible circles on the laminate countertop as the timer’s seconds ticked. “Making cotton candy at Happily Ever After Land?”

  “Happily Ever After Land?” Tuesday recoiled. “Do I even want to know what that is?”

  “Whatever, Grinch. It’s a cute, historic amusement park on the edge of town, like Coney Island but more charming, with a wooden roller coaster and an old-fashioned Ferris wheel. Anyway, I’ll stop complaining. I’m fine.” Wow, that sounded believably easy breezy. Guess Tuesday wasn’t the only actress in the family.

  “I have no doubt.”

  At least that made one of them. “I’m going to go eat dinner.”

  “Wait, promise you’ll consume a food group other than Orville Redenbacher. Give peas a chance.”

  “Hello? Pop-corn. Counts as a vegetable. Plus I love beans. Coffee beans.”

  Tuesday waved her phone in front of her Terrier’s face, her way of ending the subject. “Tell J.K. Growling you miss her, that absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  Pepper grimaced as J.K. heaved at the screen, snorting loudly through her smushed-up nose. “I’m like George Washington. I cannot tell a lie.”

  “For shame.” Tuesday stuck out her tongue and clapped a hand over her dog’s ears. “Don’t listen to horrid Auntie Pepper, Sugar baby, her brains have been rotted by fake butter. She doesn’t mean it.”

  I do, Pepper mouthed. “Wait! Before you go. Show me your view.”

  “What view?”

  “Please,” she cajoled.

  “All right. All right. Here you go. It’s no Park Avenue.” Tuesday positioned the camera to catch the brick building across the street, and the alley below.

  “It’s also not Kissing Court or Hopes and Dreams Way.” Pepper sighed. “Oh! A dumpster. And oh! New graffiti. What does it say?”

  “Go fuck yourself,” Tuesday deadpanned.

  Pepper giggled. “Home sweet home. Thanks for indulging me. Be sweet, Parakeet.”

  “Take care, Polar Bear.” The screen clicked dark.

  Pepper traded her phone for her e-reader with a sigh. Tuesday once quizzed her on why she still read romances. When not going to casting calls, her sister moonlighted as a kiddie birthday party princess, but scoffed at the idea of happily-ever-afters. At the time, Pepper changed the subject to her latest Netflix series addiction because the truth was tricky to articulate, even to her sister and best friend. It wasn’t because like some people assumed—she wanted her bodice ripped or to be ravished. The truth was far more subversive.

  These books educated her on how to have an orgasm—life-changing in and of itself—but (possibly) more importantly, had taught her not to settle, reinforced that she deserved to be cherished, mind, body, and soul. Unlike Warren, her last boyfriend, who’d slunk his arm around her waist in the fifteen-items-or-less-checkout-line and announced, “I’m dating someone else and she asked me to choose.”

  At least Pepper had already paid for the pint of vanilla fudge Häagen-Dazs. Then there was her first (and only) Tinder date with the guy who’d taken her to the movies and moaned under his breath during the steamy scenes.

  The only benefit to having a dating closet full of losers was that each one got her another step closer to Mr. Right.

  That’s how it worked. Hopefully.

  The microwave dinged, and she rose to grab a mixing bowl. Time to eat her feelings and the niggling fear that she’d die alone, watching a Golden Girls rerun, while clutching the paw of one of her twelve cats.

  A knock came at the front door as she poured out the popcorn. Her bare toes curled against the linoleum. Couldn’t a girl stuff herself silly on artificial flavoring while finishing her book before watching The Princess Bride for the six hundredth time in peace? Plus she was dressed for a self-pity party in her NYU Law hoodie paired with her comfiest yoga pants, the plum-colored ones with the hole in the thigh.

  The knock came again. Three insistent raps. She cursed under her breath. Unexpected visitors ranked high on her list of least-favorite things, right below getting fired on day one. She reached for the light and paused, fingers hovering over the switch. Going dark was too obvious. Should she tiptoe to the bedroom? Pretend not to be home?

  Or stop being ridiculous? Her crown might be battered, but she was still queen of this castle. Thrusting back her shoulders, she yanked down her hoodie strings and marched to the hall, tripping on a box of pa
perbacks. Her forehead struck the door with a bang and she yelped.

  So much for dignity.

  “Everything okay in there?”

  She froze, hands splayed on the wood. That rich molasses voice. She’d know it anywhere. Hot neighbor was on the other side. Here. Now. And she was in the thigh-hole leggings.

  Covert breath check. All good. The peppermint she’d nabbed leaving Smuggler’s Cove came in handy. With a deep breath, she flung open the door. Rhett stood floodlit by the porch light, dressed in a navy collared shirt that did his eyes all kinds of favors.

  “Hello, hello.”

  “Hey.” His hair stuck out behind his ears, unruly and damp as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. The idea of him sudsy and, God, sans clothing caused a tightening below deck. “I heard a crash. You need backup?”

  In those Clark Kent glasses he did resemble a secret hero, especially in how he projected the right amount of strength, a rock solid internal fortitude.

  “Oh. Right. Well, there was this mosquito. A big one.” She gestured vaguely with her hands before clasping them behind her back, nails biting into her palms. “What can I do you for? A cup of sugar?”

  “Two things. The first is this.” He whipped out a bar from the back pocket of his jeans. “I brought chocolate.”

  A jolt shot through her with such intensity it became difficult to swallow. “My three favorite words.”

  His sleeves were pushed up. Holy forearms, Batman—lean, deliciously veined with the promise of delivering sensational cuddles. Her fingers trembled as she took the bar, glancing at the colorful silver foil. When was the last time anyone had given her anything? “My kind of kryptonite.”

  “I wondered what flavor would be your weakness.” His inscrutable gaze locked on hers for a millisecond before bouncing to an indefinable spot between her neck and shoulder. “Ginger over at What-a-Treat makes the best rocky road in the Low Country. The candy shop’s an Everland institution, been around forever.” His deep drawl performed the sort of sex acts on her eardrums that were illegal in thirteen states. She grinned like an idiot, but it felt too good to care.

  “There. Better.” He gave a satisfied nod. “Happiness is a good look on you.”

  Her hand flew to her throat. “It is?” Her pulse pounded beneath her fingertips. As a rule she loathed when a man asked her to smile, but this was different. He didn’t sound like he wanted to be all up in her space, demanding her attention; rather, he wanted to cheer her up with a random act of kindness.

  “Yoo hoo! Tootle-loo!” A horn honked. Rhett’s features shifted into a scowl as the woman from across the street peered through the window of her pink Cadillac. “Why Rhett Valentine, is that you?”

  “Not past your bedtime yet, Miss Ida May?” He held up a hand in sociable greeting even though annoyance underwrote his tone.

  “Had Quilt Guild tonight, but looks I got back right on time. Y’all having fun?”

  “Being neighborly.” He started rocking on his heels, as if shaken off his foundation.

  “Bet you are, I bet you are.” Ida May pulled her pink Cadillac into her garage. Insinuating chuckles echoed up the street.

  His teasing manner from a moment before evaporated in an instant. Rhett’s half smile was replaced by a focused look that meant business. “I said I’d come for two reasons. The other is this. A family friend shattered her leg in a car accident this afternoon. She owns a local dog-walking service.”

  “O-kay?” She mashed her brows. The accident sounded awful, but talk about a random thing to come over and share.

  “She needs to hire someone.”

  “Oh!” Everything was clear. “Like a caregiver…I could do that. Cook meals. Read out loud.” She grinned. That wouldn’t be so bad.

  He shook his head. “To handle her client roster on a temporary basis.”

  Her smile froze. “Wait.” She snapped a loose string dangling off her thigh hole. “You can’t mean—”

  “You need a job,” he said firmly. “And this is a great way to get over cynophobia.”

  “Cyno-huh?”

  “Fear of dogs. It can’t be much fun being scared of a common household pet.”

  “No,” she said faintly. “It’s not.” She was desperate for cash to get out of Dodge, but was she this desperate? This opportunity was like wanting a snack, but broccoli’s the only thing in the fridge.

  “My boys liked you,” he was saying. “Especially Faulkner. And dog behavior is predictable if you learn to read their body language. I can help with that.”

  “I have no problem reading dog body language. They look at me with their beady eyes and say, ‘Mmmm. Rawhide!’” She cleared her throat. “Look. This offer is sweet. Really.”

  He crossed his arms. “But…”

  “But you know how the world is divided into dog lovers and cat lovers—”

  “And fish people.”

  “Huh?”

  “People who prefer fish.”

  She frowned. “Huh. Never considered that.”

  “And snake people. Bird people. Rat people.”

  “Ew, what? Rat people?” When he made such intense eye contact it was hard to think, but easy to squirm. “Don’t make this difficult.”

  “Rodent lovers. Lizard lovers. Hell, tarantula lovers walk among us.”

  She shuddered even as an unwilling smile tugged her lips. “If you won’t quit destroying my worldviews, could you stop trying to give me nightmares?”

  “Never a bad idea to challenge your preconceptions. It’s part of my job description to appreciate all creatures big and small.”

  “So about this job…” She had been spending quality time with fear. What was the harm in sprinkling in more? By the time she’d leave Georgia, she really could be Superwoman. Nothing would ever rattle her again. She’d leap life uncertainties in a single bound. “So, you’re a dog walker, too?”

  “Me?” He startled. “No. A vet. Valentine Veterinary.”

  “Wait. Hold the presses. A vet?” The plot thickened. “Rhett…the vet? Like a poet who doesn’t know it?”

  He frowned at her playful tone before briskly outlining the details of Norma’s business.

  She regarded him more closely. His rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed an inked phrase near his elbow. Too hard to read the tattoo at this angle, and she wasn’t going to stare. Instead she doubled down on studying his face. That chin. Wow, and that jaw. And hello there, cheekbones.

  That scruff would deliciously grizzle against her top lip.

  “What do you say?” he asked, no hint in his face that he was secretly quagmired in his own lascivious thoughts. His face was all business. As it should be.

  This teeny-tiny crush scared her. Today she’d hit a dead end on her dream of becoming a hotshot law school grad with an out-of-the-gate judicial clerkship. That fact should be the only unsettling part today.

  Becoming a clerk was the cornerstone to achieving her dream life. And when one loses one’s dream, one should feel crushed like a cartoon character walking under an anvil. There shouldn’t be space in her body for lust unless she hoped to salve the disappointment with desire.

  Ah. But wait. She huffed a sigh of relief. That could be it. What if her humiliating job loss had in fact destroyed her to the point where she now eyeballed the closest decent—fine, more than decent—man in sight hoping for relief, physical distraction.

  But she wouldn’t grasp for that kind of salve to heal this wound. Facts were facts. She was terrified of being broke and had a childhood phobia of dogs. But avoiding these fears would only make them scarier. She couldn’t stand another minute being crushed by impending doom. If she stood her ground and faced them, maybe—just maybe they’d fade.

  “Okay, you know what? Why not. You win.” She spoke the words carefully. “I’m a gal attached to eating and electricity, so any income is useful. Thank you for saving me twice in one day, Rhett the vet.” That poke was impossible to resist.

  He hooked his hand to the b
ack of his neck. His rumpled shirt rode up, exposing a flat inch of tanned skin above his worn leather belt. The unexpectedly intimate sight shot her through with tingles, as if she’d brushed up wet next to an electrical socket.

  His bright eyes narrowed. “You like pressing buttons, Miss Knight?”

  “Not as a rule.” She pressed her knees together while he appeared every inch in control.

  He cocked his head. “I see.”

  What exactly do you see? The question danced at the tip of her tongue. Was it a woman crashing and burning following a total loss of control? A big sister whose loneliness grew more acute every hour she spent away from Tuesday? Or a character from Sex-Starved in the City, who hadn’t romanced anything besides her six-speed vibrator in eighteen months?

  She didn’t look away. Neither did he.

  “Okay then, Miss Knight.” He flexed a large, powerful hand. “Have yourself a nice evening.”

  She gripped the doorway, legs boneless. She wanted to call out “Nothing’s okay” as he opened the gate, but her gaze fastened on his ass and her mouth dried. Have to credit a man who didn’t skimp on daily deadlifts. She swallowed. Hard.

  Enough already.

  If she wanted to be a good neighbor, she needed training. First lesson? Down, girl.

  Excerpt from the Back Fence:

  Everland News That You

  Actually Care About

  Classifieds:

  Quilt Guild: The Everland Quilt Guild meets Tuesday at 6pm in the Merriweather Common Room at the Public Library. New members welcome. Call Ida May at 912-555-0025

  Missing: An “X” Scrabble tile. Last seen at Everland Dog Park. If found, please put in Lucille Munro’s mailbox. 102 Hopes and Dreams Way.

  Kissing Bridge Work Day: It takes a village to beautify our town. This month the Mayor’s office is sponsoring a spruce up of The Kissing Bridge. Help preserve the only covered bridge in the Low Country. Come dressed for work, bring a snack to share and good attitude. See you Saturday from 9am-1pm. Water and sweet tea provided.