by Lia Riley
“I’m so sorry.” She took his hand and held it between her own. She hadn’t been able to stop looking at the dragon Flick had drawn and finally had called Mrs. Boyle and asked if the girl would want to spend some time with her, go on an adventure, do something fun.
Flick was at counseling, but Mrs. Boyle said she’d ask her and phone back tomorrow. Her tone had been “don’t count on it.” After that Tuesday hadn’t been able to sleep, so she’d gotten up and gone for a walk. When she passed the Roxy tonight, she’d gotten a wild hair to explore the interior.
Chalk it up to missing the theater. Even an old one that hadn’t been in use since Reagan was president. Maybe Nixon even. She’d wandered the moth-eaten red velvet chairs and climbed onstage for an impromptu Rockettes routine just like she’d done as an understudy for the group at Radio City Music Hall.
First, though, she’d wheeled the dusty old kettle popcorn cart beneath the window. The abandoned theater definitely registered on the creep factor. A simple “bad guy trap” would at least notify her if anyone else tried to enter.
It seemed like a funny, paranoid impulse until the cart toppled over. Her heart had paid a visit to her throat before she’d reacted on instinct and self-preservation, grabbing a two-by-four from against the stage and bashing the giant in the hoodie creeping through the window.
Unfortunately, the guy happened to be Beau, whom she’d struck three times.
She lightly slapped his cheeks. “Wake up, please. Wake up.” What to do next? Give him mouth-to-mouth. No. Stupid idea. He was breathing. He was breathing, right? She leaned down closer to inspect just as his eyelids slammed open and he lurched forward, wrenching his nose on her chin.
She flew backward and landed hard on her butt, legs splayed.
“Fuck.” Beau clutched his face, his face twisted with pain. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I couldn’t fall asleep, so I took a walk and got curious about the theater. What possessed you to come creeping in here?”
“I felt restless after work, so I went for a run. And I heard someone creeping inside the theater.” He massaged his brows and groaned. “Jesus. You have a hell of a swing, you know that?”
“It’s true,” she admitted. “I was the star hitter for the Moose Bottom Mavericks back in high school. We were undefeated senior year.”
“Moose Bottom?”
“My hometown. Moose Bottom, Maine. Granted, it took almost half the girls in my grade to make up the softball team and—no! No, no. Please don’t get up.”
He looked at her. “Not lying here all night.”
“Let me call nine one one. Shoot. That’s what I should’ve done right away. Get you an ambulance.”
“No!” He tried to rise and collapsed back on his knees.
“Don’t try to be a tough guy,” she said curtly. “I remember this one time my dad was working on the side of his barn and the ladder tipped and he fell and walked two miles on a broken—”
“If you call emergency services, the entire town will know we were here together tonight. The dispatcher is Miss Ida May’s niece.” He hooked a hand around the back of his neck with a groan. “Also, Lucille has taken it upon herself in the name of civic duty and general nosiness to resurrect the Everland Examiner police blotter. The minute any of those women catch wind of this, it will go straight on the Back Fence blog, and no one will talk of anything else for three weeks.”
“And it would compromise me as lobbyist.” Tuesday hugged herself close. “We’re alone. It’d look like I was trying to take advantage to advance my interests.” Like what happened in New York. She swallowed before her throat could close up and she’d choke. “How many fingers am I holding up?” She shoved a hand in his face.
“I’m fine. Let me sit a second and breathe.”
“Why is this place boarded up?” Tuesday shone her flashlight around the space. The red velvet seats were damaged with age, but there was no denying the grandeur of the space. The acoustics were flawless. She sang a few bars from Grease’s “Summer Nights” and had been pleasantly surprised with how it sounded.
“It was built by the original owner of Happily Ever After Land,” Beau said.
“No kidding?” Tuesday beamed the light to the ceiling. An old brass chandelier twinkled in the light. “Holy cow, that’s cut crystal.”
“Yeah, during the park’s heyday.” Beau rolled his shoulders with a muffled groan. “Everland must have seemed poised to become a real destination before Hogg Jaw pressured the highway commission to route the highway in their favor.”
She fixed the flashlight beam back on his face. “Here’s what we are going to do. You sit tight. I’ll run home and get Pumpkin.”
He wrinkled his brow. “Pumpkin?”
“My car! I’m driving you home at least.”
He tried shaking his head, but winced. “I’m good. My bike is parked at the office.”
Stubborn man. She dusted off her hands and strode to the open window, a plan forming in her mind. “I might have given you a concussion. If you think that I’m letting you hop on a bike and drive down a country road populated by deer and freaking armadillos, then you are seriously mistaken, my friend.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked with no small suspicion.
“It means I’m going to take you home.” And while the words came out casually enough, the heat igniting in her belly made her wonder if she was about to take them out of the frying pan and straight into the fire.
Chapter Eighteen
“There.” Tuesday plumped the goose-down pillow behind Beau’s head as he reclined on the black leather couch in Belle Mont’s den. “Better?”
“Feels the same as the last three times you did it,” he said gruffly. The scent of bubble-gum-flavored lip gloss hung in the air. It took almost five minutes before a name could be attached to the feeling warming his chest. Comfort.
Strange, considering she’d caused the injury in the first place. But with Jacqueline it had felt like there was only room in their relationship for one person to ever be taken care of. He was the man, the rock, the dependable one, and cool in a crisis. The truth was that role came naturally to him. Still, every so often it felt damn nice knowing someone in the world cared whether or not you got home okay.
“Refill?”
He gestured toward the full glass of water with cut lemon on the coffee table. “I’ve got plenty, thank you.”
“Fresh bag of ice for the noggin?”
He slid the frozen bag of broccoli off his head and set it to one side. “How about taking a seat? You’re making me nervous with all that hovering.”
“I feel terrible about hurting you,” she said.
He knew she was being honest. For the last half hour he’d dutifully swallowed two ibuprofens and allowed himself to be subjected to her battery of concussion tests, the ones she’d looked up on her phone.
His pupils had dilated in response to the flashlight that she insisted on beaming into his face. No. He didn’t feel nauseous. No. He had no amnesia around the events from the accident. On the contrary, he remembered the details in clearer imagery than he’d like. Every two-by-four thwack was tattooed in his brain. He did have a lingering headache, and that made Tuesday insist on sticking around for further observation.
“And just what are you hoping to observe?” he asked.
She sank into his great-great-grandmother’s carved rocking chair. “It’s just a little something I hear on TV shows. Nurse?” She affected an official doctor-sounding voice. “Ensure the patient is kept under observation.” She giggled and tucked her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her shins and setting her chin on her knees. “Want to know a secret? Once I tried out to be on a hospital daytime soap. I even made it to callbacks, but I never got the part.”
He stretched out his sore back. “Too bad. You are a natural.” He meant it, too.
She crouched beside him. “No sleeping.”
“For how long?” Not th
at he was planning on crashing anytime soon. In fact, between the adrenaline from the accident and the fact Tuesday Knight was in his house, he felt hot-wired and hyperaware.
“I’m not sure. But a while.” She glanced around the large room stuffed with furniture and animal heads on the wall. “Cheerful room,” she said, gesturing to the frowning ancestor over the mantel. “How many bedrooms are in this place anyway? Four hundred?”
“Eight. Plus the carriage house.”
“Good gravy. I bet I could stand up straight in your fireplace, too.” Her eyes were as round as her parted lips. “What’s it like living in an honest-to-goodness mansion?”
He bit back the word “lonely” and cleared his throat. “I keep most of it shut up. Saves on housecleaning.”
“Want to watch a movie?” She seemed to understand not to press the issue.
“Guess so. I don’t watch much TV.”
“But look at the sheer size of that beast.” She pointed toward the large flat-screen mounted over the fireplace mantel. “And those.” She waved to the surround-sound speakers in the room corners.
“I do watch the news.”
“Please tell me this is your valiant attempt at humor.”
“Don’t forget about the city council meetings on Public Television if I miss a meeting for some unusual reason.”
“Sorry, did you say something?” she said, pretending to wake up from a deep sleep.
“Very funny.”
“That is, honest to God, the single most boring reason to own a beautiful TV like that that I have ever heard.” She gawked like he was a mystery she could decipher if only she peered hard enough into the depth. “Go on. Call out the last movie you’ve seen.”
“I don’t have time for stories.” He studied her face, his mouth quirking in the corner. “There’s a but in there, isn’t there?”
“But…” She smiled. “Stories are how we learn who we are, our place in the world, how people live, and how they react. We find our truths in them, figure out the world.”
She was like this beautiful, perfect window into thoughts and ideas that he never had.
“Fine. Let’s just say—hypothetically—that I agree to a movie.” He grabbed the ice pack and placed it back on his head. “Are you going to suggest some chick flick?”
“Now, that depends.” She arched a brow. “Would you prefer a prick flick?”
He burst out laughing. When was the last time he’d done that?
“I mean, we could watch some gross-out comedy about hot tubs and time machines, and hangovers in Vegas, or a horror about chain-saw murders, or maybe superdepressing people sitting around and being superdepressing? Me? I happen to enjoy romances. Why not choose hope? Root for a happy ending.”
She had a point.
“All right, then. Pick something, anything. No, wait. Pick your favorite.” He was curious.
“Careful what you say.” She frowned. “I’m not sure you’ll like my favorite.”
“You went through a great deal of trouble defending what makes for important watching, so put your money where your mouth is.”
“But if you don’t enjoy it, I’ll never get over it.”
“You see me backing down?”
“All right, so we’re doing this.”
He went to the bathroom, and when he came out the screen was filled with black-and-white images of couples dancing provocatively. Tuesday was singing, “Be My Baby.”
He took a seat. “What’s this?”
She side-eyed him, brows mashed together. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Stop.” She shook her head. “You don’t know what this is?”
“It looks from the eighties? Flashdance?”
She pressed her palms together in prayer. “Stop speaking before I start wishing I’d hit you harder.”
“Is it good?”
She squeaked in outrage. “Pineapple and ham on pizza is good. This is great.”
“I don’t do pineapple on pizza.”
She tipped her head back and groaned at the ceiling. “You don’t like pineapple on pizza and don’t know what movie this is?”
He wasn’t sure if he should nod or shake his head.
“Here’s a hint: I carried a watermelon.” She waited expectantly.
“It’s about a picnic?”
“I can’t tell whether you’re trying to be funny or kill me.” She slapped her forehead. “It’s Dirty Dancing, only the single best love story of the late eighties. Forget about the new version. This is the one that counts.”
He shrugged. “I’ve heard of it.”
“Heard, not seen? Jesus, take the wheel.” She sucked in an audible breath. “Where to even begin? Let’s see. Okay, so this wealthy girl named Baby goes on vacation at this summer camp with her family, where she meets a dance instructor named Johnny Castle, a hottie from the wrong side of the tracks. They’re from two different worlds but are perfect together.” She gave a happy sigh.
Tuesday had many talents, but film criticism wasn’t one. Still, the movie wasn’t half bad. Even better was studying Tuesday from the corner of his eye, her face rapt as she soaked in every detail, her body swaying to the music. It was clear that she loved every second, and he loved every second watching her happiness.
At the dramatic finale, she sniffled. He started. “Why are you crying?”
“It happens every time. I love love. No shame.” She wiped her eyes and beamed at him. “Wasn’t that the best?”
“Yeah,” he murmured, and he wasn’t lying.
But he also wasn’t talking about the movie.
* * *
“There’s no need to stay over,” Beau said as she turned off the screen. “I’m a big boy.”
She glanced at the door. Going home would be the easier option, give her some much-needed distance from this man and, more to the point, whatever this was, the tension stretching between them, so thick as to be almost visible. And yet…
“I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.” She dropped all pretext and allowed honesty to creep into her tone, because while it would be easier to run, the way she always did from problems, a new desire rose within her—small but insistent. A little voice urging her to be brave.
He narrowed his eyes as if trying to see her better. “In that case, let me make up one of the spare bedrooms.”
“No, please, don’t go to any trouble,” she said hastily. Bravery had its limits after all. And the idea of sleeping in a bed knowing Beau Marino was on the other side of the wall, well…It was hard to know if that situation would give her sweet dreams or frustrated nightmares. “I’ll crash on the couch. I do all the time at home.”
“If you sleep at Belle Mont, you get a bed. That’s just good manners.” He ignored the hand she offered to help him up.
His grimace was so slight as to be almost imperceptible, at least to anyone who hadn’t become an expert in the finer points of his many subtle facial gestures.
“Slow down, Emily Post.” Worry was making her a little snappish. “What’s wrong? Are you dizzy?”
He stood with a wince, rolling his shoulder. “Tired more than anything. I had a long day at work. I went into the office at six this morning, and it’s what, almost one?”
“You know what they say about all work and no play?”
“A person gets a lot done?”
“Ha-ha.” She noticed the box on the mantelpiece. “What’s this?” She walked over and studied the gold coin. “This is old, isn’t it?”
“Looks like it.” He joined her. “Found it the summer I turned ten, down in the river bottoms.” His gaze grew distant. “Man, I wanted to believe the gold was real.”
“Wait.” A thrill zinged through her. “You discovered pirate gold? The Redbeard legend is real? Not just a town tall tale?”
“I spent the better part of that summer scouring the banks afterward. Mama called me treasure crazy.”
“I don’t blame
you. And you never found anything?”
“Not a trace.” He shrugged. “It either doesn’t exist, or it’s been hidden so well that nobody’s ever going to find it.”
“Never say never,” Tuesday said. “Have you shown this coin to Cedric Swift?”
His brows knit. “The English historian?”
“The treasure is his part-time hobby.”
He snorted.
“He believes it’s real.”
“You know him well?”
That was a jealous tone. “If I said yes would it bother you?”
“No, of course not,” he sputtered. “In fact, I have a date. This week.”
The grandfather clock chimed over her stunned silence. He had what now?
“I emailed her,” he said after taking in her thunderstruck expression. “She wrote back.”
“Let me get this straight. You are going on a date with someone you have never met, never even spoken to?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that sounds nice.” No, it didn’t. It sounded terrible with a capital T. Why couldn’t he get through that thick but sexy head that she was right there and not repulsive and single and attracted.
Which was a problem.
A big problem.
Better not get involved with a guy she found irresistible. It would no doubt cloud her better judgment.
“It’s late,” he said at last. “We have to sleep.”
Their gazes locked and her pulse turned turbulent. She refocused on the portrait of a glum man with a walrus-sized mustache. There wasn’t a faint resemblance to the brooder before her. And yet behind Beau’s frown, she sensed the determined little boy inside him, the one audacious enough to believe not only in buried treasure, but that after three hundred years he’d be the one to discover it.
“Only one room has sheets on the bed,” he said.
“Which one is that?” she whispered, knowing the answer.
“Mine. But I’ll make you a deal. Clothes stay on. No touching. And I won’t get under the covers.”
She studied his face for intent. “Okay, I’m in. As long as that’s as far as this will go.”