Nothing but Trouble (Chinooks #5)

by Rachel Gibson

  Bo rested her forehead in her hand. “Don’t make me kill you, Jules,” she said through a tortured sigh. “Not today. I’m just not in the mood to clean up the mess.”

  After Jules left, the girls moved to the couch and settled in for a little R&R. Recuperation and reality television. A small cooler filled with Coke sat on the coffee table, and they kicked up their feet and tuned in to the brain rot that was New York Goes to Work.

  Chelsea pointed at the reality star who’d made her first appearance on Flavor of Love. “She used to have such a cute body, but she ruined it with those big stripper implants.”

  Bo nodded. “Sister Patterson should have smacked her upside the head. Why would any woman do that to themselves?”

  It was a rhetorical question. “I can completely understand reduction though.” Chelsea decided to test the waters and see if her sister’s opinion had changed. “Boobs get in the way of everything.”

  “Yeah, but have you seen the way they do the reduction?” Bo asked as New York shoveled pig manure. “It’s a form of mutilation.”

  Chelsea guessed that answered the question. “It doesn’t look that bad. Not like it used to. The scar isn’t even very big.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re thinking about that again? They carve out huge chunks of your flesh. Like a pumpkin.”

  Bo sounded just like their mother. There was no talking to her about it, so she let it go.

  “Remember when we sent in an audition tape for The Real World?”

  Chelsea laughed. They’d been nineteen and learned the MTV reality show was going to be shot in Hawaii. They’d wanted to go in the worst way. “Yeah. We thought for sure they’d pick us because we’re twins.”

  “We were so sure we’d get chosen, we started picking out swimsuits.”

  “I was going to be the bad twin that flirted with the male cast members and you were going to be the one to lecture me about saving myself for marriage.” Believing they’d needed a hook to make themselves memorable to the casting directors, they’d played up the whole good-twin, bad-twin scenario on their submission tape. Bo had pulled her hair back and put on a pair of fake glasses to look the part, while Chelsea had dyed her hair purple and borrowed a friend’s leather biker jacket. On the outside it might appear as if they were still playing those roles, but Chelsea wasn’t playing at anything. She was just being herself. Chelsea Ross. Twin sister and loving daughter. Actress and assistant to a hockey superstar with a terminal case of bad mood-itis. As she watched New York artificially inseminate a pig, she wondered what her life would look like in a year. Hangovers always tended to make her kind of moody and introspective about her life.

  In a year, she’d be living in L.A., going to auditions again. She’d be chasing her dream, but she wanted to do things a little differently this time so she didn’t get burned out. She didn’t want to work as an assistant to the stars anymore.

  Maybe she’d start an event-planning business. Hire her own assistant to boss around. Not that she’d be mean or unreasonable. She knew what that was like. She’d worked with a lot of event planners in the past, and she liked to arrange and organize fun things. She was good at it, and she generally liked to be around people. That sort of enterprise wouldn’t take a lot of startup money, and hopefully she’d have more free time to go to auditions.

  And by this time next year, she’d like to have a man in her life. A nice man with a hard body. An image of Mark Bressler popped into her head. No, a nice man.

  Bo’s brain must have been on the same wavelength. Something that didn’t surprise Chelsea. “Do you ever wonder if we’ll find someone?” her twin asked.

  “We will.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Chelsea thought about it and said, “Because, if women on My Big Fat Redneck Wedding can find men, then we can too.”

  A look of horror entered Bo’s blue eyes. “Those men pig wrestle, eat roadkill, and wear camouflage 24/7.”

  Chelsea waved away her sister’s concern. “I think it’s fairly safe to say that neither of us will get married under a beer can arbor to a camo-wearing redneck yelling, ‘Git ’er done.’ We do have some standards.”

  Bo bit the side of her lip. “You flirted with some guy in a git-’er-done trucker’s hat last night.”

  “That wasn’t flirting, and he wasn’t a redneck.” She knew because she’d checked out his teeth. None of them had been stained or missing. He’d just been some guy trying to be tragically hip. “And I didn’t make out with him like you did with Jules.”

  “I’d never make out with Jules,” Bo said, and turned her attention to the television. “Look. New York is roping a goat.”

  “Oh no. Don’t try and distract me. I saw you.”

  “Probably some other short girl with dark hair.”

  “You’re right. It must have been some other woman who looks exactly like my twin sister.”

  “Fine.” Bo sighed and turned her pale face toward Chelsea. “I’ve been known to get drunk and call Jules.”

  “How often?”

  “Two or three times.”

  “If you like him, why do you have to drunk-dial him?”

  “I didn’t say I liked him.” Bo scowled as if they were ten again and boys were yucky. “Jules has a huge ego and dates a lot of different women. We’re just friends. Sort of.”

  She remembered what he’d said once about liking girls who didn’t like him. “Maybe he wants to be more than friends.”

  “Then why hasn’t he ever called and asked me out? No. He just wants a booty call.”

  Chelsea’s mouth dropped. “You’ve given him the booty?”

  “Not yet, but I’m afraid I will.” She pushed her short hair behind her ear. “Did you see his body? I don’t know how much longer I can hold out before I go all Basic Instinct on his ultra-fine behind.”

  “Like stab him with a pick?”

  “No. Like throw him down and jump on him.”

  She liked Jules. “Maybe you should let him know how you feel.”

  “I don’t know how I feel.” Bo reached into the cooler and pulled out a Coke. “Sometimes I don’t even like him. Sometimes I like him a lot. But it doesn’t really matter. I could never date Jules.”

  “Why?”

  Bo popped the top. “Because we work together. You can’t date someone you work with.”

  Chelsea rolled her eyes, forgot she was hungover, and winced. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “No. It’s not. It’d be like you dating Mark Bressler.”

  “There is a difference between work with and work for.” She could never make out with her surly employer, let alone date him. He was a rude hard-ass, and those were his good qualities. The thought of a booty call with Mark was…was…

  Was not as disturbing as it should be. The thought of her sliding her hands all over his muscles should freak her out. For some reason it didn’t. Instead, the thought of touching him triggered thoughts of deep-kissing his mouth. Of looking into his dark brown eyes as she combed her fingers through his hair. Of putting her lips to his warm neck and pressing her hot, sticky skin to his.

  The fact that these thoughts didn’t disturb her, disturbed her more. Sure, he was a handsome man, but she’d never had a thing for big guys. Macho guys who used their bodies and punched each other in the head. Yeah, hockey players wore helmets, but she’d seen the tapes of Mark hitting other players and getting hit himself.

  And she’d certainly never had a thing for superstars and athletes. Certainly not superstar athletes. Athletes were the worst kind of superstar. A lot of them partied hard in the offseason and deserved their bad reputations. She’d never read anything bad about Mark, but she figured if she looked hard enough she would. She doubted he’d been an angel.

  It didn’t matter that Mark no longer played professional hockey. When he was in public, he was still treated like a star athlete. He was given the sort of deference that she’d always found so disgusting.

  So why didn’t the t
hought of sliding her hands on his rock-hard body disturb her? She didn’t know. Maybe because it had been a while since she’d slid her hands over anyone but herself. Maybe Bo was having the same dilemma. Or maybe it was Bo’s sexual frustration being transferred to Chelsea. It really was true that she could sometimes feel her sister’s physical pain. When they’d been younger, if one of them fell off her bike, the other felt it. It didn’t happen as much these days, but last year when Bo had broken her clavicle skiing, Chelsea had felt the pain in her shoulder and they hadn’t even been in the same state at the time. So she supposed it was possible that she was attuned to Bo’s hot, pent-up lust. Especially since they were lounging together on the very same couch.

  She turned and looked at her sister, sitting there all innocent, watching junk TV and drinking a Coke. “You have to go get laid by a random stranger.”

  Bo pointed to the television. “Can I wait for a commercial or do I have to git-‘er-done right now?”

  “You can wait.”

  Chapter Ten

  Luckily, Chelsea didn’t have to depend on her sister to cure herself of her not-so-disturbing thoughts. Mark took care of it by being his usual disagreeable self.

  Thank God.

  Monday morning when she arrived for work, he stood across the kitchen, looking at her as if he was trying to figure something out. Something he was extremely unhappy about it. She left him alone and worked on his fan letters, which seemed to grow by the day.

  Tuesday he seemed even less happy, and by Wednesday, he acted like she’d committed some unforgivable sin. Like she’d kicked him in the leg or wrecked his Mercedes.

  Thursday morning she spoke with a real estate agent and put together a few listings that Mark had expressed an interest in seeing. Then she looked for him in the big rambling house. After five minutes of searching, she climbed the long, curving staircase. She’d never been on the second floor, and stood on the landing and looked about. She glanced through the open door of the master bedroom. Rumpled white sheets and a thick blue comforter lay in a tangle on the unmade bed. A pair of jogging pants and flip-flops rested on the floor next to an over-stuffed couch, and beyond the bed, a second door led to a bathroom with stone floors.

  A series of clangs drew Chelsea’s attention and she moved down the hall. She passed several empty rooms and stopped in the doorway of the last room on the right. It was filled with a big home gym, a workout bench, and rows of free weights. She knew that he worked with a physical therapist up there, but today he was alone.

  Mark sat at the leg press, pushing the bar with his feet, while he watched his progress in the wall of mirrors. Soundgarden poured from hidden speakers and filled the room with “Black Hole Sun.” Sweat dampened the hair on his head and bare chest. He wore a pair of gray cotton shorts and white running shoes. An ugly pink scar gouged the skin of his left thigh to his knee. For several moments, Chelsea watched him through the mirror, his powerful legs pressing out a steady rhythm. She lifted her gaze to the moist, hard planes of his muscular chest and shoulders, to the determined grimace flattening his lips.

  She reached for the control switch next to the door and turned down the volume of “Black Hole Sun.” The weights dropped with a loud clang as Mark jerked his head around and looked at her. His dark gaze landed on her face. He stared at her for several heartbeats before he asked, “What do you want?”

  She held up the papers in her hand. “I just wanted to give you some information I printed out about the houses you were interested in seeing.”

  He lowered his feet to the floor, grabbed a bar in front of him with his good hand, and stood. He pointed to the workout bench a few feet away from him. “Leave them there.”

  Instead of doing as he asked, she rolled up the papers and tapped them against her leg. “Have I done something today to make you angry?”

  He reached for a white towel and wiped his throat. His brows lowered as he watched her from across the room. “Today?” The corners of his mouth turned down and he shook his head. “No, but the day isn’t over.”

  She moved to the weight bench and set the papers on top. She had to talk to him about a few things. He would call it prying. She called it doing her job. “Did you get an invitation to the big Stanley Cup party?”

  He scrubbed his face. His muffled “Yes” came from within the towel.

  “Are you going?”

  He shrugged one big, bare shoulder. “Probably.”

  “Do you have a suit?”

  He chuckled and hung the towel around his neck. “Yeah. I gotta suit.”

  She sat on the bench next to the papers and crossed one leg over the other. Today she’d worn an orange lacy tunic, a brown leather belt, and a pair of beige capris. Sedate for her. She wondered if he’d notice. “Do you need a car service to pick you up?”

  “You’re not going to insist on driving me?”

  “I don’t work weekends.” She shook her head. “But even if it wasn’t on a Saturday night, I’m going with my sister.”

  “The mini sisters.” One brow rose up his forehead. “That should be interesting.”

  She wondered if he meant “interesting” in a good way. She decided not to ask. “Have you given any more thought to the charity golf tournament?”

  He tilted his head to one side but didn’t answer.

  “Coaching youth hockey?”

  He held up his bad hand, and she noticed he wasn’t wearing his splint. “Stop.”

  “I just hate to see you sitting around when there is so much more you could be doing.”

  Mark reached above his head and grasped the chin-up bar. His right middle finger pointed toward the ceiling, and damp curly hair darkened his armpits. “Let’s talk about you for a change.”

  Chelsea placed a hand on the front of her blouse. “Me?”

  “Yeah. You want to get all up into my life. Let’s get into yours.”

  She grasped the bench with her hands and locked her elbows. “I’m just your average, ordinary girl.” Staring at fine pecs covered in short, dark hair. Normally Chelsea wasn’t a huge fan of chest hair, but looking at Mark, she could become a convert. The fine hair growing on his chest surrounded his flat male nipples, then tapered to a fine line running down his bare sternum to his navel. Just like in the sports drink ad.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “There’s not a lot to get into.” He’d lost the defined edges of his eight-pack, but his belly was still tight as a drum. Defined ab muscles bracketed his stomach. A thin slice of white elastic was visible just above the waistband of the shorts hanging low on his narrow hips.

  “Let’s get into it anyway.”

  The kind of elastic that meant he wore briefs. More likely a pair of boxer briefs because she just couldn’t picture him in tightie whities. Not that she should be picturing him in his underwear. That wasn’t right. She worked for him. Well, maybe not technically, but…

  “You think that I should do something with my life. What are you doing with yours?”

  “At the moment, I’m your assistant.”

  “Isn’t there ‘so much more that you could be doing’ other than driving me around and butting into my life?”

  She raised her gaze before her interest wandered lower and she started to speculate about his magnum package—again. “I have plans.”

  “Like?”

  She looked up into his brown eyes. “I’m working and saving money.”

  With his good hand he motioned for her to continue. “Saving for?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  A slow smile curved his lips. “Something personal?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are only a handful of things that a woman won’t talk about.” He lifted a finger off the bar. “The actual number of past lovers for instance. You all want to know the exact number of women that a man has had sex with, how often, and every juicy detail. But you don’t want to share the same information.”

  “That’s because there is still a double standard
when it comes to casual sex.”

  He shrugged one shoulder and leaned forward, still holding on to the bar above him. “I get that, but women shouldn’t ask me about my sex life if you all don’t want to talk about yours.” He straightened and dropped his hands to his sides. “Some things are private.” He moved to the weights and lowered the pin. “Maybe I don’t want everyone to know my personal business.”

  Too late. That letter from Lydia Ferrari had been posted in the guest book for several months before Chelsea had deleted it. She figured she should probably tell him about it because someone else might. “Do you know a Lydia Ferrari?”

  His brows lowered, and he moved to the seat he’d been in when she’d come into the room. “Like a car?” He grabbed the bar above his head and lowered himself.

  “No. At least I don’t think so. She wrote a letter on your guest book page.”

  He spread his hands wide and pulled the bar to his chest. “I don’t know her.”

  “She claims that you met her at Lava Lounge, had sex with her at her apartment in Redmond, then didn’t call.”

  The weight stopped mid-air, and he looked at her through the mirror. “What else did she write?”

  “That it was the best sex of her life and her feelings were hurt when you didn’t call her back.”

  He raised the bar and lowered it, the muscles in his arms and back hardened and flexed. “She was a freak.”

  “You do know her.”

  “I remember her. Hell, it’s hard to forget a woman with that many sharp body piercings.” His jaw tightened as he pulled the weight.

  “Where was she pierced?”

  “All over. I was half terrified I’d end up with some missing skin and lasting scars.”

  “Obviously the terrified half wasn’t below your waist.”

  A deep chuckle escaped the smile cracking his lips. “Is the letter still posted?”

  “I deleted it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She watched him for several moments, then said, “You don’t seem all that upset that ‘everyone’ knows your ‘personal business’ with Lydia Ferrari.”