by Lia Riley
But as she walked, a shiver shot down her spine. She didn’t need to turn to confirm whose cool blue gaze bored into her back. The only choice was to ignore him.
The foster kids clustered around the ticketing area. “Good morning, darlings,” she cried, affecting her “royal” voice. She’d perfected the accent as a birthday-party princess back on the Upper West Side, where she’d made rent entertaining rich kids and smiling so hard her cheeks would ache on the subway rides home. Shove British, Scottish, and Irish accents into a blender and voilà—a vague fantasy lilt. That’s what Grumpy McScowl seemed to misunderstand. Deep down, no one wanted reality. People craved feel-good; they wanted fun. Illusion.
In that vein, she gave the kids a quick run-through of the day’s schedule, with less emphasis on rules and more on excitement. Most looked thrilled to be there, except for the eye-rolling tween in the back, the oldest in the group. Her lank hair had uneven black streaks, as if she’d colored it with a Sharpie. Raccoon eyeliner complemented the sullen “I’m here to have a terrible time” expression. Those oversized headphones blatantly advertised that she had no intention of listening to the orientation.
Tuesday shot the mayor a furtive glance. Had Grumpy McScowl ever gone through a rebellious emo phase? Nah. He was the quintessential speech and debate team type. A master debater. She froze midgiggle when his gaze flicked over and jolted her with a near-painful frisson of awareness. Warmth zinged through her inner thighs.
Did he ever do that? Touch himself?
God, of course he must. All guys did.
Stop. Regroup.
Note to self: Eat more than half a piece of toast in the morning. Low blood sugar caused deranged thinking.
“First stop, bumper cars!” she squeaked, her voice a little dry.
“Miss Knight.” Beau stepped forward, halting her path.
Her wide-eyed gaze reflected in his aviators. She rearranged her features into scornful incredulity. “Can I help you?”
He prickled at her nettling tone and took another step closer. His cologne was vibrant, a mix of mint, green apples, and lemon. Warmth radiated up her thighs. Of course he went around smelling distractingly delicious.
“Am I a joke to you?” He ripped off his shades and stuffed them in his front shirt pocket. “Allow me to fill you in on the punch line. You don’t understand what’s at stake today.”
“Let’s see if I can guess.” She dropped her fake accent to hiss back. Fighting was infinitely preferable to unsettling funny feelings. “An asteroid is hurtling to Earth? We’re the only ones who can stop it?”
Two deep frown lines bracketed his full mouth.
“No? Huh. Okay, let me try again. This ‘tourist board’”—she used air quotes—“is a group of day-walking vampires. Our mission is to ply them with rides so they forget to drain the town.”
“Do you have to always be over-the-top? I’m trying to benefit the town here. That’s it. End of story.”
The tension around his eyes made her relent. This was a horse of a different color. “These guys could help Everland?”
“Yeah. And the park.”
“Really?” Last week Toots had overheard Mr. Wilcox discussing the park’s dismal financials with the Everland Community Credit Union CEO when she’d gone to his office to report that the Pirate Ship had been temporarily closed for repairs. Visitor numbers weren’t booming, and Orlando was close enough that most people went there for their amusement park fix.
He inclined his head. “Really.”
Happily Ever After Land needed a good sprucing up: modern rides, a fresh coat of paint, landscaping, and updated signage. The lackluster financial situation had set off a chain reaction. The more tired the place looked, the less people wanted to come. The old-world nostalgia factor went only so far.
She swallowed her pride, not her favorite flavor. “I’ll do my best to ensure the commissioners have a good time.” When she’d seen the Happily Ever After Land advertisement in the Everland Examiner classifieds a few weeks ago, it had felt like…‘I’ve played a princess before, so hey, why not?’ She was adrift, and this place had ended up being one big cotton-candy smelling, whirligig life raft.
Beau stood close enough that she spied the tiny wound where he must have nicked himself shaving. “Hold up. Don’t tell me that Tuesday Knight is being serious for once?” His eyes were the color of rain—not a wild cloudburst, but a persistent storm. The combination of his intense gaze and unexpected proximity toppled something inside her, like field grass in a torrent.
“I am perfectly capable of being perfectly serious.” It was a trick to remain deadpan when her stomach played host to the butterfly Olympics.
“That’s a surprise,” he repeated, more to himself than to her, his gaze hooded.
She jutted her chin. “I’ll have you know that you’re looking at a Russian doll of surprises.”
An indecipherable emotion flickered in his gaze. If she was the betting type, she’d wager contempt. “Guess it’s good that I don’t make a habit of getting curious.”
She screwed up her features in an “ugh” face. This guy made her behave with all the grace of a six-year-old being denied a trip to Toys “R” Us.
“Hey! Princess? Princess? Can we go on that one?” A kid pointed at the Smash ’Em, Crash ’Em ride.
“Why, that’s exactly our next destination, young squire!” She slipped back into the royal role, leading the charge as a dozen wiggly small bodies provided much-needed distance. “Saved by bumper cars,” she muttered. Getting hot and bothered by Beau Marino was an exercise in reckless stupidity. She adjusted her bodice, wincing as her hardened nipples grazed the stiff lace. Much like pineapple pizza, chocolate-covered caramel, or cheesy French fries, she craved the wrong kind of guy. If she felt magnetism to a man, the sensation should come equipped with a red flashing light: Stop! Warning! Emotionally unhealthy jerk ahead.
She needed to be attracted to another jerk like she needed a third nipple. Face it. The mayor liked nothing about her. Nothing. Nada. No thing. Her romance report cards were solid F for failure, but no more. She wouldn’t keep being the Rizzo, fascinated by the Kenickies of the world. If she couldn’t control her attraction, she’d work hard on reeducating it.
She settled a hand to her throat, her pulse thrumming against her damp palms. Time to knock it off and regroup. The rest of the day she’d double down on being a fabulous princess. Flip to “effervescent” in Merriam-Webster and there she’d be, blowing kisses and breaking into spontaneous song—a very nice, very wholesome, very G-rated princess.
Chapter Three
Beau bided his time in the bumper car line while Angie Robert regaled her fellow commissioners with a convoluted story involving an angry woodchuck, a can of bug spray, and a fall into the Chattooga River. Up ahead, one of Tuesday’s curls caught a light coastal breeze and skimmed back and forth over the place where her neck met her shoulder. With any other woman, the effect would have meant nothing, barely even registered; but with Tuesday…
He had a mad flash of that soft curtain of hair skimming his bare skin in a gentle caress. An invisible screw tightened in his jaw as his stomach tensed, as if punched, a strange, jarring sensation.
Tuesday Knight had a potent effect on men, an obvious fact, like fire is hot, ice is cold, nothing is free, and the Internet decreases productivity. Take the hapless bumper car attendant. She offered the teen a distracted smile and the poor bastard’s Chuck Taylors became rooted to the cracked concrete, his mouth slack.
While the other commissioners chuckled at Angie’s punch line, he pressed the heel of his hand against his temple. Fucking pointless gesture. The headache gained speed faster than Superman on Red Bull. Once upon a time he’d fallen for a member of Deep South royalty, a member of the old blood—blood who ruled the country clubs up and down the Gulf Coast.
There’d been no happy ending to that tale, and hell would freeze before he’d ever pursue another pretty princess. That way was closed to th
rough traffic forever.
“Mayor?” The skinny young attendant wore a quizzical expression.
Shit. Beau was holding up the line. He adjusted his blazer and gave the kid a curt nod.
“Where’d you like me?”
“Pick a car, any car.” The attendant closed the entrance door behind him. Only one left, and because God wanted to laugh at him today, it faced Tuesday, with her billowing dress bunched around her like a plume of cotton candy.
He climbed into the seat, struggling to arrange his long limbs in the cramped confines. Forget about the shorties; rides need to come with a height advisory for tall people. He made the fit, just, knees shoved to his chest like an asshole.
The foster group shrieked. They were all so young. Had it really been a quarter of a century since he’d run wild through this park with Rhett? A long time. Life moved faster as you got older. At thirty-five, days might be long, but years were short. As a kid, everything was about anticipation, the next summer-day adventure and a lazy bike ride to the river, fishing under the Kissing Bridge. Now his life felt more and more engulfed in retrospection.
Wham! Tuesday had put her glass slipper to the pedal and hurtled straight into him. His head snapped back, his back teeth knocking with an audible clack.
“Need a menu, Mr. Mayor?” she cooed. “’Cause you’re about to get served.” She hit him again. “No shame in losing when you’re beaten by the best.” Bang! Another slam. And another and another.
She’d wedged him against the wall like an angel—not of mercy but destruction, tiara askew and sweet evil in her laugh. This fresh-faced she-devil was nailing him, and from the fiery glint in her eyes, loving every second of it.
“Hold up,” he called, unable to refrain from answering the challenge. “Don’t cook me in your weak sauce.”
“Weak?” Her brow furrowed. “What do you meaaaaaaaan!” He hit the accelerator, striking her head-on.
“Oh, it’s on, is it?”
“Like Donkey Kong.” He found himself returning her grin.
“On your left!”
“Right!”
Two foster kids T-boned him as Tuesday cheered, mischief in her eyes.
“Mayor, you’ve got a little something on your face.” She playfully screwed one eye shut, as if to make a careful study. “That’s not a smile, is it? Careful. Your mouth might get stuck that way.”
Then she was off, cackling wildly, before sideswiping a commissioner.
After the ride, most of the commissioners lined up to go another round with the kids. Beau waited near the exit and made a note in his calendar for his assistant: “Book me into the chiropractor tomorrow.” But he had to admit, it was the most fun he’d had in a long time.
“This is my first time at Everland.” Donna Summer, the commission’s executive director, appeared beside him. “I must say that I’m impressed. You folks offer a charming ambience and top-of-the-line Southern hospitality.”
“Glad you think so.” Beau allowed a shallow sigh, recalibrating back to the purpose at hand, presenting Everland in the best possible light. “Many merchants on Main Street have run their shops for decades, and we try to encourage the newer offerings to fit into the ‘mom and pop’ aesthetic. A Coastal Jewel designation will go a long way toward helping secure additional funding to finish off my revitalization plans—building a bandstand near the plaza’s gazebo, getting the covered bridge painted, and restoring the Roxy Theater.”
“It’s rare to have a community retain such a quintessentially Americana character.” Donna nodded. “You’re no doubt aware, we’ll be doing a site visit down the road to Hogg Jaw tomorrow.”
No. He wasn’t. His blood chilled. “Hogg Jaw?” Nothing doused a good mood like the mention of Everland’s neighbor to the west and its biggest town rival. “They’re positioned a little far off the coast?” Beau chose his words carefully.
Donna cocked a brow. “But they’re nearer to the interstate and cater directly to tourists.”
“True.” He cleared his throat. It wouldn’t do to disparage Hogg Jaw’s kitschy offerings like twenty-four-hour laser tag, a pirate wax museum, a haunted house, and a horse track. “Here in Everland, we’re developing a strategy that places a focus on history, combined with a vibrant Main Street. We have what it takes, but are farther off the beaten path and don’t attract as many tourists as we’d like. Local businesses are forced to struggle year in and year out to make ends meet, and many residents drive elsewhere to make an honest wage. I mean to solve this problem.”
Donna fiddled with one dangly silver earring and took his measure. “You grew up in the area, is that right? Local boy?”
“My father’s ancestry is classic Caribbean hodgepodge, a little Afro-Bahamian, a dash of Dutch, and seasoned with some Venezuelan and Dominican Republic. Mama, on the other hand, now, she’s from an original founding family, a dynasty that’s all but gone. I’m the last of the line.”
She smiled sympathetically. “No babies of your own yet?”
“Nope.” He ignored the final word in Donna’s question. Once he’d imagined them. But that door had been shut and bricked over for a long time.
“I heard about your poor wife.” She rested a hand on the back of his. “Taken too young. My Mitchell passed on two years ago this October. Killed by a drunk driver on his way to pick me up from work. We were going to celebrate our thirty-ninth anniversary.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Widowhood is the club no one wants to join.”
He squeezed her hand back, his touch steady even as his stomach churned. “I’m sorry.” This kindhearted woman mourned a long and happy marriage…unlike him. He swallowed forcefully, but the painful lump in his throat remained. It wasn’t the time or place to say that his own relationship had smashed on the rocks, and from the wreckage his wife had left, only to drown in the company of another man.
Afterward, he couldn’t grieve at being betrayed or rage over Jacqueline’s affair—that she’d given up on them, their marriage. How could he be allowed those feelings when she was lost at sea? Lost forever. Her death denied him any self-righteousness or answers to the burning questions “Why hadn’t he been enough? What could he have done differently?”
The only choice had been to numb the pain.
Kill the fury.
Kill the sadness.
The powerlessness.
The bone-crushing fucking waste of it all.
He pruned every feeling, cut every emotion until he was nothing but a trunk, solid, straight, and strong.
And that’s how he survived.
Donna swiped her thumb under her eyes in a too-practiced gesture. “My friends say I should get back out there. But I can’t. I just…I can’t. How about you?”
But he could never quite cut off part of himself that felt like a fraud whenever he spoke to a real widow, someone who had known and lost true love. “I’m committed to my job.” And that statement was God’s honest truth. He’d found a way to stave off the helplessness, confusion, and pain, not at the bottom of a bottle or through mindless one-night stands, but through work. Punishing hours. Long meetings. Packed schedules. At his office, life made sense, had order. Decisions were made. Processes streamlined. Every ticked box felt like a foothold—a way to keep control.
Donna nodded sagely. “Staying busy helps.”
And she was right. Just not in the way that she thought. He’d learned a hard truth. Staying single was better than being stuck in a shitty relationship.
The funny thing was that he and Jacqueline had seemed so good at first. It had been easy. Their opposite personalities fun. Until it wasn’t. Then, no matter how hard he tried, how many hours he devoted, nothing improved. She was a drama queen and wanted him to heed every beck and call. There was no partnership, just her endless need for validation, for attention. He never knew what he’d find when he walked in the front door. Would she worship him today? Or despise him? The roller coaster was exhausting.
No one, not even his family or closest friends
, knew how bad it was behind closed doors. How she broke dishes or would disappear for days at a time with no word, leaving him frantic until he checked the credit card balances and saw she was racking up the charges at malls around Atlanta. And after she died, everyone treated him with deferential sympathy when what he really wanted to do was scream that his life had been a sham, a nightmare.
Guilt and frustration isolated him. And so he worked, because at city hall he got results. And if people thought he didn’t date or socialize much because of grief, he let them. The ruse was a hell of a lot easier than explaining how he’d rather remain single until the end of his days than enter into another toxic relationship.
If he ever decided to branch out again, he would grow old alongside a simple woman with no hint of drama. A woman where what you saw was what you got. No scenes. No production. No pain.
The bumper car ride came to an end and the two groups surged forward. “Okay, folks.” He clapped his hands with forced enthusiasm as the commissioners filed out the exit. “What do you say we head on over to the Visitor Affairs office? I’ve asked the staff to run analytics and prepare a report on—”
“We can grab the dossier on the way out.” Angie eyed Tuesday and the kids heading off to the next ride. “Let’s keep up with their group. She’s fun.”
“A real live wire,” another said. “I haven’t laughed so hard in months.”
“All in favor?”
“Aye,” came the resounding answer.
“Well, then”—Beau forced a smile—“onward and upward to…” His heart sank as he noted the foster kids’ direction. “The Lumberjack’s Revenge.”
A brown plastic log crammed with shrieking people dipped into view, eighty feet overhead. Dread sank through him like a brick as they plunged, screaming, down the steep chute. He took a step back and fished out his cell phone like a talisman. “I’ve got to make a quick call,” he announced to no one in particular. He’d bow out and no one would be the wiser.
But fate threw a wrench in the form of a princess in pink. “Sorry to interrupt.” Tuesday rushed over. “Those children over there are requesting that you go in their log. One of them says she won’t even do the ride unless you’re with her.”