by Lia Riley
“I don’t even want to hear you-know-who’s name until after Halloween.” She shook her head. “Whatever happened to it’s better to give than to receive? Now what was I saying?”
Lou Lou wouldn’t rest until he had enough kids to fill his own soccer team and spent every weekend at Little League with Snapper. He loved his sister, but she drove him crazy. “There’s something to be said for peace and quiet.” Rhett took a step, then another, backing away.
“What’s the fun in that? Oh, go on, walk away,” Lou Ellen called. “You can’t hide from the truth. This day has been a long time coming, Sugar Booger. An answer to all my prayers.”
He scowled at the sidewalk as his sister drove off laughing. The throbbing in his head intensified. For years he’d been the subject of town gossip, and the only way he managed to stay out of the Back Fence headlines was to lie low. Be dull as water. This passing interest in Pepper Knight wasn’t worth the hassle. She wouldn’t be sticking around, and he had to live here, day in, day out, without going crazier than a peach orchard pig.
Time to fly under the radar and put her out of his mind for good.
Chapter Eleven
To the telephone line. Come on. Push through to the telephone line,” Pepper panted, running along the gravel road the following week. Okay, so not technically running. Senior citizens could outpace her with their walkers, but that wasn’t the point. She was out here, putting one foot in front of the other.
At last she passed the telephone pole and threw her arms up in a victory V. Mission accomplished. Trouble was, she’d gone a mile and a half, and now needed to make it home. That feat required extra motivation. Popping on her earphones, she pulled out her phone and turned on her new running app, Zombie Sprint. It had been worth the download for the tagline alone: “We’ll make you run for your life.”
“Let’s do this.” She hit play and tugged down the brim of her favorite hat, a Christmas present from Tuesday that said WILL JOG FOR CUPCAKES.
“One’s coming up on your left, kick it into gear if you want to keep your brain,” the authoritative female voice commanded in her ear. She was fond of her brain, so she dug in, picking up speed. Go. Go. Go. Her thighs burned. Lungs seared. Okay, no way could she keep this pace up long.
Or for another thirty seconds.
Oh God, it hurt to breathe.
If she were in a zombie apocalypse movie, forget about being the heroine. She’d be the extra who tripped during the scene one stampede and got skull-munched in the background next to the dumpster fire.
“They’re coming toward you. The only way out is to dig deep, give it everything and leave nothing behind,” the voice faded behind simulated static and zombie groans. On her left, screams came through the forest, from the direction of Happily Ever After Land, heightening the ambiance. Roller coasters left her queasy at the best of times, but the idea of hurling around a hundred-year-old track made her downright nauseous.
She grit her teeth and swung her arms. No one would eat her brains. Not today. Not ever. She rolled her ankle on a loose rock with a sharp gasp.
Holy shit painful. She braced her hands on her knees and squeezed her eyes shut. That hurt. That hurt a lot. Luckily the coast was clear, and no one bore witness as she limped off the road to brace against a tree trunk. Below, the Everland River moseyed along, the current unhurried, sunlight bouncing off the water. She stretched, pointing her toes with a wince. A sweet wildflower scent hung in the air. She gingerly put weight back on her foot. The pain subsided as a gust of wind shook the branches and snatched off her cupcake hat. It floated down, down, down into the scrub brush.
“No!” Her sister felt far away, and that cap was sentimental. Bum ankle or not, she had to get it back. Gingerly, she scrambled down the embankment. The path was narrow and smooth. The riparian area stretched to a wide sandy shoal as thick vegetation blocked the road from view. Alone with the cicadas, rustling trees, and gurgling river, the real world felt far away.
And there was her hat in the middle of the Everland River, perched on a patch of dry bark on an otherwise submerged log.
She’d have to swim out, but if she jumped in wearing these shorts, the homeward run would be one heck of a thigh chafer. But she couldn’t walk away. That hat had emotional value, dammit.
She’d worn it on weekend jogs in the city, before meeting up with Tuesday to hit the Magnolia Bakery in Rockefeller Center. The hat conjured up memories of German chocolate cupcakes smothered in coconut, caramel, and pecan icing and people-watching the tourists posing in front of the Prometheus statue outside 30 Rock. It was more than just a hat; it held happy pieces of her past, sweet city days with her sister.
“Ta-weet! Ta-weet!” A nondescript brown bird watched from a bush.
“I’m not leaving,” she told it, setting her phone on a flat rock and hiking off her shorts. “I can’t abandon it. I won’t.”
And darned if that little guy didn’t burst into woodland song.
She hung the shorts on a low-hanging branch and frowned at her legs, a grooming no-man’s-land. Glossy hairs dotted her calves. She hadn’t shaved in order to get a wax but was now too broke for a salon. If she buckled down until Halloween, she could go as Mr. Tumnus, the hairy-haunched Narnia faun.
Her racer-back jogging top came off next. It had a built-in bra shelf, which meant that except for her panties she’d stripped almost naked. This felt like the beginning of a bad idea, except that hat flapped out in the river, daring her on.
She eyed the water, hugging her chest. Sentimentality was cold and wet, but she was in for a penny now.
Holding her breath, she dipped in her toe, and huffed a relieved sigh. The water wasn’t cold, in fact, the temperature felt nothing short of refreshing. She waded deeper, sweat whisking from her body. Why, she was as good as Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn, splashing around the ol’ swimmin’ hole.
Except Tom didn’t have boobs that floated in water. Time to kick hard before she was spotted. She shoved off the bottom and tried for a decent freestyle stroke. The current was stronger in the middle, but no real challenge. When her fingers closed around the brim, she gave a victorious splash. Unbelievable. She’d swum into the river, tits out, in the middle of the day. That was the most physically daring thing she’d done since leaving Maine, when she used to go frog catching at the pond, or hike Bradbury Mountain State Park during the fall colors, or explore the tidal marshes around Cape Elizabeth.
She plopped the hat down on her head, blinking as water drops rolled off the brim to splash in her eye. Her throat was tight from the unexpected walk down memory lane. It had been a long time since she’d thought about any of that, but she couldn’t hang out and reflect, treading water mostly naked. Time to get back to shore and dress before anyone was the wiser.
Halfway back, the strengthening breeze increased to strong gusts. Her shorts swung on the branch, once, twice, and whoosh! They took flight, skimming the air, light as a feather, before coming to a rest ten feet downstream, catching the current.
Shit the bed.
In three strokes she’d reached the bank, scrambled out and gotten her tank top safely in hand. But a fat lot of good it would do her without those shorts. She dove in. Good thing they were bright pink. She wasn’t sure of the color when buying them on sale, but now the outrageous color shone like a beacon from the dark water.
But the harder she stroked, the shorts stayed ahead, tantalizingly close but elusive. And town was fast approaching. “Stroke,” she ordered out loud. “Stroke!” The consequences of failure were too great to contemplate.
The moment of uncharacteristic sentimentality fast retreated behind a gathering shitstorm of reality. If she didn’t catch those shorts, doom and hellfire would reign on her nearly bare butt.
The Kissing Bridge loomed ahead, the last stand before town. She kicked double time and remembered. Oh. Shit. For real shit. After the Kissing Bridge was a waterfall. Nothing big. No Niagara. But a respectable ten-foot plunge that wouldn’t f
eel so great clad only in a pink ball cap and pair of cotton bikini briefs. Her legs became eggbeaters, churning the water.
And then…the shorts bobbed beneath the bridge, struck a half-submerged rock, flew into the air with a cheerful farewell and disappeared over the edge.
“Nooooooooooooo!” She grabbed a bridge piling and hauled herself onto the concrete stump, managing a few inches of toehold. Below, her shorts zipped around the bend, heading straight for downtown Everland’s river walk. She knocked her forehead against the wood. What did she do to deserve this, run over a guardian angel’s halo?
“Pepper? Pepper, is that you?” a low voice whispered. Not any voice either. Rhett Valentine was up on that bridge.
She jerked, releasing her hold on her tank top. It too rocketed over the waterfall with what remained of her pride.
Chapter Twelve
At first he’d thought it a trick of his imagination. The splashing caught his eye and he slowed as a bare leg shot into sight. Hell of a nice one, too. He knew the exact curve of that calf because it was the same one he’d been covertly checking out all week.
What the hell was Pepper Knight doing swimming under the Kissing Bridge?
He pulled his Bronco to the shoulder and cut the engine, cranking the window. And why was she cussing up a storm, saying words he hadn’t heard anyone ever use, expressions he’d never even thought of?
A pink Cadillac pulled alongside.
Rhett cracked a knuckle. Miss Ida May, town windbag extraordinaire, had an uncanny instinct for turning up at the worst time.
“Whatcha doing, Cupid?” She propped her elbow on the window ledge and fingered a string of pearls.
He gave a low whistle, ignoring his bristle of irritation at the nickname. “Why, look at you all gussied up.”
Her gaze narrowed even as she gave an appreciative chuckle, patting the salt-and-pepper curls cut close to her head. “You could charm the balls off a bull, boy. But do tell, what’s the news?”
“News?” He kept his features stoic. “No news here, ma’am. I’m checking out the river conditions.”
Her lips pursed. “Why?”
“Fishing.”
“You don’t fish.”
“Thinking about starting.”
There was another splash beneath the bridge. He pretended to cough.
Her eyes narrowed. “Something fishy’s going on, though.”
Time to take charge of the conversation, drive it in a different direction. “The only thing fishy around here is you, you old catfish.”
She batted her eyes. “Another woman might take offense to that kind of talk.”
“Another woman wouldn’t realize I meant it as the highest praise.”
“Rhett Valentine, ooooh, go on.” She swatted him away. “You’re so cute it should be illegal.”
“Make a citizen’s arrest.” He winked. “I don’t mind handcuffs.”
“You’re nasty and I like it,” she said with a throaty chuckle, starting the engine back up. “Now I won’t keep you. Got to get on over to Quilt Guild. They’re all waiting on my sweet potato pie.”
“Quit before you make me want to take up sewing.” He ground his molars. He was laying it on too thick. But she blew him a kiss and drove off.
He waited until she cleared the other side of the covered bridge before creeping to the edge and calling out.
“Pepper?”
Silence.
“Pepper, come on. I know you’re there.”
More silence.
“Are you okay?” Concern built.
“Don’t come any closer!” Her voice was high. Unnatural. “I mean it. Stop right there.”
He scrambled down the embankment and froze. Sweet fucking Christ. He’d prided himself on having a halfway decent imagination, but he hadn’t made it out of t-ball. Pepper Knight was a major-league home run. And practically naked, water beading on every sexy curve. Except the scowl plastered on the pretty face peeping out from beneath her pink ball cap could douse the most raging hard-on.
Almost.
“Looks like you went and got yourself stuck up a creek without a paddle.”
“Don’t ask.” She was more irate than a feral kitten plunged in a cold bath.
He’d be happy to keep watching her try and fail to cover herself all day, but Mama raised him to be a gentleman. “Let’s get you out of here before anyone sees.” He strode down the riverbank and held out his hand. “Can you swim?”
“How do you think I ended up in this situation?” Her dark hair shone even in the shadows while that lush mouth compressed into a prim line.
“Trust me, that’s high on my list of questions.”
Her eyes narrowed at the humor lacing his voice. “I can’t come out. Not like this.”
She was right. They weren’t going to have much time before another car came along, and hell if he wanted anyone else seeing her this way.
He loosened his tie and unslung it from around his neck before unbuttoning his shirt.
“Are you insane?” she hissed, bouncing on her toes. “We can’t both be naked!”
“This is called being chivalrous, part of my Southern charm.” He stuffed the tie in his pocket and shrugged out of his shirt, holding it out. “Get over here and stick this on quick.”
Her gaze lingered on his abdomen. Her eyes were large and round. Well, how’d you like that, she is perving. He subtly flexed, not about to turn away from her probing stare. Confusion etched in her face. This time his muscles tightened of his own volition.
“I’m not checking you out or anything.” Her glance rose to his mouth, and her bewilderment grew even more pronounced.
“Guess that makes one of us.” He winked, baiting her like a cranky kitten.
His reward was an outraged squeak, one he’d like to hear again somewhere more comfortable, like his king-size bed. A fast-sinking sense of self-preservation warned him that this situation would be a serious bite in the ass, but he was in for a penny now.
She licked her lips. “Can you at least try to be mature about this?”
“That’s the pot calling the kettle black,” he muttered. He couldn’t stop poking at her, like a kid with a first crush.
A splash bounced off the underside of the bridge and a moment later she snatched the shirt from his proffered reach. “Ouch.”
He turned as she winced, barefoot, from the gravel. Her toes were painted a bold red. Something about that shade was a major turn-on.
“My shoes and phone are upstream.” She shoved her arms through the holes and leaning forward to do up the buttons from the bottom. The swell of her breasts teased him through the half-open gap before vanishing from sight.
“I’ll drive you to them.” His body tensed from both anticipation and nerves. He stepped forward. “Let me help.”
“What are you doiiiiiiiing?” she cried as he swung her off her feet. “You have two seconds to put me down.”
Her skin felt even softer than it looked, and the strands of her hair tickling his forearms killed him slowly. She smelled like apples, ones that had been bobbing in a river for the afternoon, but apples nevertheless.
“I said put me down!” She twisted this way and that. “I don’t need help.”
“That’s not how it looks to me.” He readjusted his grip. Shit. That was her ass. He’d accidently grabbed a damn near perfect handful. “And this would go a sight easier if you’d stop wriggling.”
“I can take care of myself. I have two perfectly good legs.”
God help him, they were better than good. He knew every square inch of those two particular appendages better than the back road to Hogg Jaw. “High school kids party here. There can be broken glass around. You don’t want to get cut.”
“Okay, but…” She raised her chin a fraction, visibly searching for another excuse. “The hill is steep.”
“Pepper Knight, you are the most headstrong, stubborn, bullheaded woman I have ever met, and even that is an understatement.” And he mea
nt it as a compliment. She was also smart, direct, and trouble with a capital T. But if he told her that, he might let other truths slip out, too, like how his gaze swung to her front door every time he left his house. How a man could melt in those dark eyes, pools of bittersweet chocolate. “But you need to accept help when it’s freely offered.”
She lowered her lashes, and hesitated, unsure. “I’m not exactly a lightweight.”
He drew a long slow breath. Here was the difference between Northern and Southern women. All the ladies he knew—down to a one—would say, “Why, thank you,” and accept the act of chivalry as their due.
“What can I say?” Not that her thighs were perfect. Or how all he could wonder was how the weight of them would feel, hooked around his shoulders. “I like a challenge.” He started walking. Withstanding the way the side of her ass skimmed his dick going to be the ultimate test of willpower. “Now I have to ask—”
“I’m pleading the fifth.” They reached the top and she slipped from his grasp faster than an eel. The sight of her bare thighs emerging from his shirt was the hottest sight he’d seen in a long time.
Guys were supposed to want it all the time. But after Birdie, he’d tried a few times. Not with anyone local—just tourists—but anonymous sex wasn’t his thing, and the fact the whole town wanted to spy on his bed had been a boner killer.
He stepped back and reached for the passenger door. His dick had nine lives. “Your chariot awaits.”
“Thanks,” she murmured, clutching at his shirttail while stepping inside. “Like it or not, guess I needed a hero.” Her smile was unexpected, the real deal, and lodged right in his heart.
When he returned to his seat, the cab smelled like a goddamn orchard. He leaned toward the window, sucking in a gulp of country air. Didn’t help. Tonight he’d dream of apple pie. “What were you thinking?”
“Long story short, I wasn’t.” Her brown-eyed gaze bounced around the car, refusing to land on anything. “Enough about me though. Why’s this called the Kissing Bridge?” she asked.