by Jean Oram
“Git. Git along, little doggies.”
He let out a loud guffaw. She pulled at his arm, barely budging him.
"If you can move me, we’ll trade. And the number is well less than a hundred—not including cheek kisses.”
She pulled harder. No luck. She pretended to give up, then dived for his sides, ticking him. His body curled up protectively, tipping her on top of him as she continued her attack. He squirmed, his laugh big and loud.
“Stop,” he cried, helpless with laughter.
“Did I move you enough to win?”
“No. Never. I’m not ticklish.”
She continued her onslaught until he was breathless with laughter. Mr. Tough Guy was so unbelievably ticklish.
He tried to attack back, but she clamped her elbows at her sides. The two of them tumbled off the couch, his hands going to either side of her so he didn’t crush her as he landed. She became aware of the heat that radiated from him, and his laughter quieted.
She wanted to give in to the pull that would have them kissing in seconds.
He planned to go home to his ranch. He wasn’t going to stay here.
Nothing serious would come from them succumbing to their desire and sharing one little steamy kiss on the floor of their honeymoon cottage. She wouldn’t get involved, just have a little fun without the happily-ever-after expectation that always seemed to rear up in her.
Perfect, in other words.
“Logan?” she said softly.
“Hmm?” He was watching her with those steady gray eyes of his, taking in every inch of her, making her feel grounded.
“Would you please kiss me?”
Logan had enjoyed a fresh, delivered breakfast on the small veranda of the honeymoon cottage he was sharing with Ginger. Then he’d kissed her goodbye, just the way he’d kissed her last night. Slow, deep and completely consuming.
Every time he kissed her he had to reorient himself afterward.
There was just something about that woman.
Even without an audience, he was finding himself kissing her when there was no need to put on a show. And he’d found her hand slipping into his when it was only the two of them sharing a meal in private.
Somehow, his least likely option for a visa had become his best.
And yet what he felt around Ginger was more than just a spy game. It was the start of something. A short-term love affair? A fling? A snapshot of what it could be like if he left his world behind and rejoined humanity?
He needed her close, needed her to trust him. And that was happening. He really shouldn’t think any further than that, even though he knew he had to. Lives depended upon it.
From the veranda, he watched her hips sway in that mesmerizing way as she walked barefoot down the sandy shore toward her morning workshop, enjoying the day, her sandals hooked in her fingers. That’s what he liked most about her, he decided. She was genuine. Ready to relish every bit of life that came her way. She took nothing for granted, expected nothing in return.
He waited until she was out of sight, shortly after which their personal butler reappeared in his golf cart to clear away their dishes. Over breakfast, Ginger had managed to convince the man to phone a woman she’d met a few days prior and ask her to join him at the festival going on in town. Neither had someone to go with, so Ginger had taken matters into her own hands, as Logan was starting to realize was the norm for her. She was a sweet little matchmaker, something he found charming.
He tipped the butler, wishing him luck with his festival date. Then, when the coast was clear, Logan double-checked where he’d hidden most of his retrieved weapons and gadgets before Ginger had awakened last night, and, satisfied that all was well, headed down the beach in the opposite direction from his fake fiancée.
He walked for miles, avoiding Seaside Boulevard, which served the cottages. He dropped into his office, which was part of his cover, and tipped his imaginary hat to the police officer, Paul, who was stationed outside, watching for any form of visa abuse. Logan took some razzing from his two employees, who thought their jobs were legit, and continued on, stopping in the shadows here and there to ensure that no one, not even Paul, was following him. Several blocks later, he buzzed to be let into a sprawling old mansion that had been refurbished into an assisted living facility, the Indigo Bay Manor. He was feeling optimistic that he could count on Ginger to come through for him with a marriage by Wednesday, even though it was already Monday. But in case it fell apart and he found himself being deported, he needed to ensure that Annabelle Babkins had a heads-up.
He’d avoided telling her he might have to leave, knowing that sometimes the best option came in a moment of true desperation. But with two days left, it was time to tell her, so he didn’t suddenly vanish and leave her alarmed.
“Hi, Logan.” One of the pretty nurses, Gabby, met him at the locked doors, letting him in. “Annabelle’s just getting ready to go to work.”
Nobody but the director knew he was Annabelle’s guardian; the rest of the staff simply thought he was a good man who volunteered to walk her to work two times a week, as well as play cards with the group on Fridays. Hiding her in plain sight. That’s what he was doing for his late pal Rogue Babkins. Logan had had to move Annabelle from Florida last year, unable to care for her that far away. It was a big risk, settling her close to where he was working, but she didn’t know enough to blow his cover, and what else could he do? Abandon her after her father’s death?
Gabby gave him a spontaneous squeeze, filling the air around him with a lemon scent. “You’re so good with her.”
“As are you.”
“How do I snag a man like you? You volunteer here, at the animal shelter, and tutor kids. You’re gold.”
“And engaged,” he said with a smile.
“Tell your lucky duck that I hate her already.” The nurse gave him a wink and went back to her desk.
Logan walked down a narrow hall on the main floor, where the more independent residents had their private rooms. He felt a cloud shift over his mood. How was he going to move Annabelle from here? She was thriving, starting to open up and live again. She was forging ahead, discovering independence on a whole new level, with her job setting tables at a local restaurant two days a week.
Moving her to Australia wasn’t a good option. And neither was leaving her behind.
He absently knocked on her door as Lucille Sanderson came around the corner. She was a well-known busybody in her seventies, and had nothing better to do than ride him about his single status. If there was anyone who could unearth and expose an undercover agent, it was a woman like Lucille.
“Come in!” called Annabelle.
“Oh, Logan!” chirped Lucille, as he reached for the doorknob. “Logan!” She waved, her high heels taking her as fast as she could go, her still-blond hair tucked into a loose bun. “I’ve set you up on a blind date with my great-niece Maggie from Georgia this Friday. She’s such a doll. You’ll love her.”
“Too late. I got engaged, Lucille.”
“No,” she breathed, her eyes round as she came to a halt. He got the distinct feeling she didn’t believe him.
“Crazy, I know!” He gave her a big smile and opened the door, slipping inside before Annabelle could overhear the news of his newly acquired and fake relationship status. He casually held a hand against the door in case Lucille tried to shoulder her way in. He figured she was too polite, but wasn’t entirely confident that would stop her this time.
Annabelle had been sitting in front of her vanity, carefully combing her fine blond hair. At eighteen she was legally an adult, but due to Down syndrome she wasn’t able to be as independent as the average young woman and was still learning a lot of life skills most teens took for granted.
“You look gorgeous as usual,” Logan said. She beamed and set down her comb, carefully lining it up with her brush before jumping up, giving him an enthusiastic, warm hug. “I’m here to walk you to work.”
He handed her the knit pu
rse he’d bought her for her birthday down at the local market. It was pink with a striped background behind a solitary flower—stripes being her favorite “shape.” Today she was wearing her red-white-and-blue-striped shirt. One of many. In fact, pretty much everything in her room had stripes, from her brush to her bedspread. It was dizzying and disorienting, but she loved it.
“Say something Aussie,” she demanded.
“All right, you pretty little sheila, let’s get a move on and have a good day, mate.”
She cracked up and they began walking down the hall. He signed her out of the manor even though she could sign herself out if she talked to one of the staff first.
As they walked along the boardwalk toward the restaurant, he wondered how he was going to prep her for his absence. He’d already arranged for the manor to act as her guardian in his absence, but he didn’t know how the next few months were going to pan out. If he took another mission, he could go dark for some time, which would worry her, and she deserved more than that. She needed someone present, someone she could rely on.
“Ever think of moving somewhere different?” he asked. A half block up from the boardwalk he could see Officer Paul patrolling a pay-by-the-hour parking lot, looking for expired tags. Logan quickly ushered Annabelle farther down the boardwalk, out of the man’s sight so as to avoid any discussion with him about his soon-to-expire visa.
“I moved here.” Annabelle gave him a stubborn look.
“And it’s awesome.”
“I want to ski.”
“Ski?” he asked in surprise.
“I saw it on TV. I want to learn and I need mountains.”
“Downhill?”
She nodded vigorously. “I like mountains. Snow. Snowflakes.”
“You’ve never seen winter.”
“I like it.”
He could envision her enjoying the wonders of winter. That would be a fun sight to watch. The pure joy.
“How do you feel about Australia? They have skiing. We could move there.” He could move her in the dead of the night when he had to leave. He wouldn’t need a visa for her right away, and months ago he’d ordered her a passport as a precaution. He could tell her it was a trip, then pull the she’s-my-dependent card with officials to get her papers to stay in Oz. She wouldn’t be happy, but they’d be together.
If he didn’t take another mission.
Annabelle was silent for a moment, thinking, leaving nothing but the sounds of their feet hitting the boardwalk and the gulls crying overhead.
He glanced in the direction of the marina where Vito kept his yacht. He’d need to get on board before Thursday and bug it. Get Ginger to marry him before then.
“Wallabies?” Annabelle asked, trying to imitate his accent.
“Wallabies. Koalas. Kangaroos.”
She stared at him for a moment, then burst into tears.
Logan stopped, uncertain what had triggered the waterworks. “You all right, mate?”
She cried harder.
He must have a kangaroo loose in his top paddock, or as Americans said “a screw loose” telling her out here in public. He glanced around for Lucille, knowing she’d immediately see right through his “mere volunteer” status and blow everything wide-open. He’d wanted to avoid anyone in the center, including the visiting Lucille, figuring out their connection—the less they knew, the better protected Annabelle was. But right now? Anyone tailing him might twig that something was up and that he wasn’t just a volunteer escorting her to work.
“What’s wrong?” He led her to a bench and sat her down.
“I like my flag.”
“Your flag?”
“Australia doesn’t have stripes.”
“Well, they sort of do—the union jack.”
“Those aren’t stripes!”
“But we have stars. And the same colors.”
“I want stripes.”
Crikey. That could be a deal breaker for someone like Annabelle. As odd as it might seem to outsiders, it made perfect sense to Logan. She liked stripes and they made her feel happy, secure.
“You’re very patriotic, aren’t you, AnnaBee?” The nickname didn’t make her smile, either. “You could put up an American flag in Australia, you know. Lots of people do it.”
Not lots, but a few expats.
“Are you leaving?” She stood up again, fists balled.
To her, leaving and death had become twisted into one thing, and he had to tread carefully. “I’m not leaving. We could go together.”
“No!”
“Like when we came here,” he explained quickly. “It would be just like that.”
“Dad died! He was leaving. He’s dead. I don’t want to be dead.”
“Nobody’s going to die. Nothing’s for sure, okay?”
She cried harder, as if she knew he was lying, and he felt like a heel for dealing her such a high level of unexpected heartbreak. He had to find a way to stay beyond Wednesday, beyond the next mission. He needed Ginger for more than just capturing Vito.
Ginger soaked up the sun as she headed toward the boardwalk for a little mind-emptying stroll between sessions. She was full of ideas and knew that even though the trip was close to breaking her financially, she was going to return to Blueberry Springs energized and full of lucrative new plans. Her store was popular, thanks to the hard work that Wanda had put into it, and brides traveled for miles to shop there. Ginger had plans on how to expand upon that, reduce her overhead costs and really knock the business to the next level.
She could do it, and once she did she’d finally feel like she had something—a purpose. That she was more than just a boring, small-town woman with a cute store.
Letting her mind drift, Ginger passed the Tiki Hut bar nestled in the sand. Kelso was chatting with Vicky, who was behind the polished driftwood counter, and Ginger gave him a subtle thumbs-up, which he returned with a smile while pointing her out. Vicky turned, all smiles.
A match! Nice.
Up on the boardwalk, Ginger found herself wandering in the direction of the coffee shop that had provided her and Logan with their breakfast, and that Zoe from the cottages’ guest services had mentioned. She could afford a fancy coffee now that her stay was covered by the honeymoon win, and feeling buoyed by how much fun she’d had letting loose with Logan—dreamy, impossibly good kisser Logan Stone—she sighed and just about tripped off the curb while crossing the street. An older man caught her with a “Whoopsy daisy there, little lass.”
Ginger thanked him while laughing at herself. Talk about having her head in the clouds!
Before long she found Sweet Caroline’s, with the signature blue awning. As she opened the door she was assaulted by an influx of amazing smells that reminded her of Mandy’s little cafe back home. Cinnamon, sugar, butter. Coffee.
“I love the smell of this place,” said a man coming in behind her as he caught her inhaling deeply, eyes closed.
“Me, too,” Ginger replied, opening her eyes.
“My last girlfriend claimed I made her fat because I’d come home smelling like this place.”
“For real?” Ginger glanced at the man. He seemed serious.
“For real.”
“Hmm. Are you still single? I know a woman down at the cottages who happens to love this place and all its fattening flavors and aromas.”
“Give her my number,” the man said with a laugh.
Ginger held out her hand with a smile. “I will. My name’s Ginger. Hers is Zoe, and she has a particular thing for the cinnamon buns.”
The man blinked in surprise. Then, as if unable to think of a reason not to, wrote his number on a napkin and handed it to her. “Why not? I love the cinnamon buns, too. As well as Caroline’s award-winning pie. And her cobbler. I’m Ash—short for Ashton. I obviously work out a lot so I can eat here whenever I want.” He gave a warm smile, as rich as the coffee Ginger planned on ordering.
“Well, Ash, expect Zoe’s call,” Ginger said, waving the napkin and knowing
the two would make an adorable couple.
And, hey, if you couldn’t find a match for yourself, why not meddle in the love lives of others?
She stepped toward the counter, where a woman in her fifties was talking to a customer a mile a minute about someone named Lucille being madder than a wet hen because the man she’d set her great-niece up with on a date was now supposedly engaged.
“Not that I blame him,” the woman behind the counter said. Her name tag read Caroline and her apparent knowledge of all gossip reminded Ginger of Mary Alice from back home. “Once Lucille gets an idea in her head…well, look out!”
“Tell me about it,” the customer grumbled. “Add her to the Stuck-up Club and ho boy.”
“Now, now,” said the woman behind the counter as she handed over her order. “The Ashland Belle Society isn’t all bad. They do a lot of good things for the town.”
“I know, I know. But they can be a bit high-and-mighty at times.”
“Can’t we all?”
The two smiled in agreement.
“Now dear,” Caroline said, looking to Ginger, “what can I get for you?”
“A mocha please. Double shot of chocolate if you can.”
“No, honey, you want my sweet tea on a day like today.” Caroline began pouring Ginger a clear plastic cup of cold tea.
Ginger looked at it doubtfully. “I like my tea hot.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“The north?”
“And west.”
“Well, down South we drink it cold.” She handed her the tea at no charge and called out as Ginger left, “Don’t be a stranger, you hear?”
Ginger nodded and waved, with another thanks.
Wow. She was definitely like Mary Alice.
But free sweet tea? She could handle that. She took a sip and stopped in surprise. She backtracked to the cafe and hollered inside, “It’s good!”
“Of course it’s good,” the woman huffed. “I made it myself!”
Ginger laughed and returned to the boardwalk, feeling as though her life was finally making a nice turn. One where she’d start getting what she’d set her sights on so long ago. One where luck was on her side. One with fun.