by Pippa Grant
I reach the recycling bin, and the trash can next to it chirps at me.
I blink at the brown canister on wheels.
The lid thumps, and I shriek and jump back. The lid thumps again, and this time, two glittering black eyes peer out.
“Aaaagh!” I stumble backward, trip on the curb, and land on my ass as two furry paws appear. I crab-walk back toward the house, except—thanks to my job involving sitting on my ass twelve hours a day—I can’t tie my shoes without getting winded. So basically there’s a snail beating me, and that twinge of carpal tunnel in my right wrist is protesting being asked to bear the weight of my torso.
As I scuttle sluggishly away, a raccoon pulls himself from the trash bin, wearing Savannah’s broken string of Christmas lights and dragging a bag of leftover penis lollipops from her bachelorette party that I was helpfully trying to dispose of.
“Drop it,” I hiss, slipping in the slick grass as I try to get back on my feet.
Can raccoons have rabies? And if so, is this one looking rabid? Or is that gleam in his eyes normal for a masked bandit?
He eyes my boots. I glance down, and the sparkly Thor hammer I tied to my laces for inspiration glitters up at me.
“Back,” I say as sternly as I can, because there’s no way I’m beating a raccoon in a foot race unless he trips on that string of Christmas lights.
He leaps to the ground and takes three steps toward me. I crab-walk two steps back. His beady eyes are trained on my shoes, and since I only play a superhero online or at gaming conventions, this isn’t looking good.
Maybe if I pry my boot off, I can fling it at him and make a dash for the door?
I reach for my laces and, swear on my PlayStation 4, he smirks and rubs his palms together like a super villain. As if he’s looking forward to adding my Skecher to his armful of spoils as soon as I toss it over.
This is what I get for drinking decaf. It’s like diet coffee, and who wants to sacrifice the best part of coffee? I need my caffeine.
And more exercise.
And for this raccoon to act like I’m a scary human and run away.
He tosses the penis lollipops like they’re last year’s hard drives and he has his eye on this year’s double-core processors.
“No, you want the lollipops,” I tell him. “They taste so much better than Thor’s hammer, I promise.”
He skitters closer.
I shriek and kick at him. He pauses, but only for a beat before he picks up the pace. Because, dummy me, my flailing is just making the sparkly thing on my boot flash more.
The only other weapons at hand are some pocket lint and damp grass clippings, and I somehow doubt hurling either of those will slow him down. Even if I had a rock or a garden gnome on hand, it wouldn’t make much of a difference. Back in high school, I could fire a softball from third base at sixty-four miles per hour, but I’m so out of practice I almost strained my shoulder tossing a wad of paper into the recycling bin last week.
Which means I have exactly one option left.
“Help!” I yell. “Help! Rabid raccoon!”
The raccoon chitters back accusingly.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I protest. “You’re the one stealing my garbage and getting aggressive about it.”
I swear the little monster rolls his eyes before hunching down in prelude to a pounce. I’m bracing myself to have my eyes clawed out when a calm voice behind me says, “George, back off.”
A calm, masculine, I dreamt-about-that-sexy-rumble-all-night voice…
The raccoon pauses.
My heart doesn’t. It slams against my ribs while I tell myself that’s not Ryan behind me. It’s his voice twin. Someone who sounds exactly like him. And who smells like soap and lemon and fire hose and can control raccoons with his varmint-whispering skills.
“Put the anal beads back and stay out of Savannah’s trash,” he continues.
I gape at the Christmas lights draped around the raccoon’s body.
No wonder I couldn’t find the outlet plug.
The raccoon—George, apparently—shuffles back around to the other side of the trash can and reclaims the penis lollipops, but makes no move to put the anal beads draped over his shoulders back in the trash.
I turn slowly, first noting that there’s a black truck parked in the driveway next door that I haven’t seen before.
And now there’s a big, broad, sleepy-eyed Ryan O’Dell bending over me. “You okay? George is mostly harmless. Likes shiny things, though.”
He offers a hand, and I eyeball his long, blunt fingers.
“You know the raccoon,” I say, easing out of my crab-crawl position. My back twinges sharply, and I wonder if I should add yoga or something to my daily hikes around the lake while I’m here on vacation.
“George Cooney? We go way back. He adopted me when he was just a kit.” We both look back at the raccoon, who grins as he waddles around to Ryan’s side. “Did Savannah mention the rocks on the cans? That helps keep him out of the trash.”
“Oh. The big rocks.”
“Yeah. The big rocks. We learned that the hard way after she tossed out a bunch of half-melted dildos last year. George planted them in our vegetable garden. Was real torn up when they didn’t grow.”
“Did you remember to fertilize them regularly?”
He laughs, that easy rumble of his that always made me feel ten times funnier than I am.
But I’m not funny. Ryan just likes to laugh. He has the easy-going charm thing down pat, which was part of the reason I didn’t recognize his voice right away yesterday. The Tough Firefighter tone coming from him was a surprise.
A sexy surprise, that I do my best not to think about as Ryan says, “No, we didn’t. That must have been where we went wrong. But we ended up with a bumper crop of cucumbers. Hoping for the same this year. You’re welcome to grab a few once they get ripe.” He hooks a thumb at the cottage next door with a wink that turns my panties inside out. “Now, come on, let me help you up.”
He holds his hand out again, fingers spread wide to reveal white scar tissue between his right thumb and forefinger. It’s something new, like that faint white line on his cheek, and it sends a jolt of worry through my chest. Fighting fires is a dangerous job and no matter how deeply this man mortified me when we were kids, I don’t like the idea of him being in danger.
I don’t like it one little bit.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Fine. I’m fine.” I scramble to my feet on my own, feeling like a fool.
Clearly, Ryan O’Dell still gets under my skin.
And Savannah should’ve warned me about her neighbor.
“Cool. Large rocks. Cucumbers. Got it.” I dust my butt as his gaze dips down to my chest, and I realize I’m wearing my Space Vikings Invade Butte game launch party tee.
The one the printer screwed up that reads Space Vikings Invade Butt instead.
I clamp my arms over my chest, trying desperately to cover the worst of it without being too obvious. I love a goofy tee as much as the next girl, but not in front of this man, who already thinks I’m the saddest nerd ever to crawl out from under an old Atari. “I’m sure Savannah will be back soon. I won’t have the chance to mess up the trash much longer.”
“You think she’s coming home that fast?”
No. “Of course. She’s having a fabulous time abroad, but she misses Happy Cat and the office.”
Even the raccoon gives me the yeah, right, crazy lady eyeball while it rubs against Ryan’s leg like a cat.
He grunts. “Interesting. She mentioned selling it before she left.”
Dammit. I hate hearing that—more evidence that Savannah might be serious about giving up on Sunshine Toys.
But she was born to run this company. Some people think she peaked professionally before Savannah Sunshine went off the air—Van played a child sleuth in the hit series for eight years, and yes, there are pitfalls to being the sister of a Hollywood starlet—but there’s more in her bi
g heart and amazing brain than acting talent. She’s truly passionate about helping women lead sex- and pleasure-positive lives. She was outraged when she learned that eleven percent of women in the U.S. have never had an orgasm and vowed to right that heinous wrong or die trying.
Van’s the Joan of Arc of sex toys. It’s a calling for her, one she’s going to come back to—I hope.
“She also mentioned taking out billboards from Atlanta to Orlando with pictures of Steve below the headline Cheating Bastard,” I point out to Ryan. “But she didn’t. She’s coming back, and everything will be fine.”
“Uh-huh.” He nods carefully. “Well, if it’s not, let me know if I can help out in any way. Savannah’s a good neighbor and friend. I hate that things ended so badly for her and Steve.”
I snort. “I’m not. I got bad vibes from that man the moment I met him. I thought I had to be wrong, because she was so happy, but apparently not. I’m glad he’s out of her life for good.”
Ryan’s shoulders slump in what looks like relief. “Right? Me too. He makes my skin crawl.”
I nod with unconcealed enthusiasm, too thrilled to meet someone else who wasn’t blindsided by Steve’s misbehavior to play it cool. “Yes! Right off my body. It’s something in his eyes or his sneaky little mouth or—” I break off with a shudder. “I don’t know, but it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.”
“Preaching to the choir, Sunderwell.” Ryan lifts a palm in the air in a silent amen. “But people around here think he hung the moon for keeping the biggest bank in town from closing a few years ago so I figured my gut was wrong.”
I shake my head. “Nope. Your gut was dead on.”
“Your gut and my gut,” he says, lips curving on one side. “Sound like they’ve got more in common than a person might think.”
“Yeah, well,” I laugh, suddenly acutely uncomfortable. “Every microbiome is its own unique universe, so probably not, but…”
He frowns. “ A micro what?”
“Biome. It’s the, um…combined genetic material of the microbes living in our gut that aid in digestion and other metabolic activity. They’re a counterpart to our genetic material, but actually outnumber the genes in our own genome by about a hundred to one, so…”
Ryan’s lips turn down as he nods. “Wow.”
He sounds as unimpressed by my nerd vomit as his raccoon, who has flopped onto his back and is tugging at the hem of Ryan’s jeans as if to say, “Please can we ditch the geek, and go home and feast upon peen lollies together in manly silence?”
Ugh!
What am I even doing standing here talking to Ryan O’Dell? Who cares if we happen to see eye-to-eye on one stupid thing? Ryan and I have about as much in common as Space Vikings and vegan buffalo chicken wings, and I have a new exercise routine to keep up with. Every second spent chit-chatting with him is a second I’m not walking around the lake getting fit.
“So, anyway, have fun with your raccoon. And Van’s trash.” I stand up straighter. “I should get going.”
He’s still watching me with that intense gaze that keeps dropping to my shirt.
Or my lips?
I probably have a milk mustache or something. That’s my life since I came back to my hometown, one embarrassing interlude after another, interspersed with occasional explosions.
I turn to make my escape into the woods, where no one will care what I’m wearing or how sloppily I ate my cornflakes, when Ryan speaks again.
“Good to see you again, Cassie.”
Damn it. I might not be teenage Cassie anymore, and he’s definitely not teenage Ryan, but the way my body reacts to my name on his lips is exactly the same. He still has the power to make me melt on command.
Another reason to get out of here. Now.
I can’t let myself take a single step down the road to Crushville with this man. I refuse to set myself up for a refresher course in heartbreak.
So I just nod at him before I tromp back to the trailhead with my head held high.
“Being hot as a fire truck doesn’t make him worth wasting one second of your time,” I whisper to myself. “You’ve got better things to do than mess with Ryan O’Dell.”
Liar, my inner voice replies.
I need a new inner voice.
Four
Ryan
* * *
The Wild Hog is as exciting as it ever is on a Tuesday night. Some rednecks with more beer in their bellies than sense are fighting in the corner over who cheated at pool. Emma June, Ruthie May’s granddaughter, and her on-again-off-again boyfriend, Tucker, are apparently on tonight, making out in their usual booth by the bathrooms. And Ruthie May is holding court with the Happy Cat Gossip Queens at two tables pushed together in the center of the room.
Meanwhile my little brother—the oldest of my three younger brothers—is behind the bar, scowling while he yanks the taps and tops off Coke glasses. Jace glances my way, adds a don’t start, jackass sneer to his bad attitude, and disappears into the kitchen.
I make my way through the bar, answering questions about yesterday’s lube fire, which will be a hot topic in Happy Cat until something more exciting happens. Like Sunshine Toys releasing their holiday line-up or a new petition to kick the company out of town starts circulating. We used to fight about installing windmills by the highway or who cooks the best catfish, but lately, it’s been all Sunshine drama all the time.
And, as usual, the town’s split on whether the fire was karmic retribution for the shamelessly perverted or simply an unfortunate accident.
I claim a stool far away from Olivia, who’s at the other end of the bar entertaining three-quarters of the single men in town between the ages of twenty and fifty. Probably reading their chakras or adjusting their auras or something.
More power to her.
Them, too. I don’t always understand her and her new-age mumbo jumbo, but I’ve never known Olivia to say a bad word about anybody, or even bless anybody’s heart. Not in the backward insult kind of way, anyway. What she lacks in Southern education she makes up for in sheer enthusiasm, and there are worse ways to while away an evening than with a friendly woman who likes to smile a lot, even if she may have been short-changed in the common sense department. At least she has good intentions, which is more than I can say for some of the other people in this town.
She waves.
I wave back.
And Jace slaps a bottle of Blue Moon on the bar in front of me with more force than absolutely necessary.
I arch a brow. “That aromatherapy spritzer Olivia worked up for your temper seems to be working.”
“It was for my heart chakra, jackass,” he says with attitude that’s over the top, even for Jace.
I lean in, adding in a softer voice, “Whoa, hey. Something happen today?”
“Nothing I want your opinion on.” Jace heads back down the bar to grab an empty burger basket without further comment, and I stifle a sigh.
Jace has been stuck in the same pattern with the same woman since high school, and about every four months, like clockwork, it gives me a nasty case of heartburn. All I’ve ever wanted is to see all three of my brothers happy. It eats at me that I can’t fix Jace’s bad habit. And hooking up again and again with a woman whose favorite form of entertainment is seeing how close she can get to cheating on him before he explodes is a bad habit, not love, no matter what anyone else has to say about it.
The fact that Ginger is a kindergarten teacher doesn’t automatically mean she’s sweet, innocent, or “too good” for my rough-around-the-edges brother. She’s trouble, the sneaky kind that slips under most people’s radar and makes her all the more dangerous because of it.
Why am I the only person in town who sees this shit clearly?
Even Jessie, my chief and a woman whose judgment I admire in most areas, seems taken in by Ginger’s game.
It’s like with Steve, Savannah’s ex. Just because he’s a good-looking high school football star turned banker prodigy, people think he’s the ca
tch of the fucking town.
Or they did until he got caught balls deep in a sheep. But even now it’s clear some people think there must have been some kind of mistake. I’ve heard a few people say that Savannah wasn’t seeing things clearly. Or that she was making the whole thing up. Or maybe the sheep was asking for it, walking around, all freshly shorn and showing off its hindquarters in that field after dark.
No wonder she left town.
Cassie is the first person I’ve met who pegged Steve as fast as I did.
It makes me curious what she would say about Ginger. I’d ask her, but given her cool dismissal this morning, I’m guessing she’s not interested in more than a civil neighborly relationship. Plus, Jace would be pissed. He already knows how I feel about Ginger, and asking an outsider’s opinion won’t help my case.
The door opens, and the savvy brunette herself breezes into the bar.
Cassie’s bouncy brown pigtails are ridiculously cute, and a wayward part of me is instantly dying to know how they’d feel wrapped around my hands. Knowing my luck she’s probably wearing one of those sexy-as-hell tee shirts of hers, and I’ll be fighting to keep my gaze above her neck for the rest of the night.
I cast a subtle glance south of her pretty smile as she waves at Ruthie May, and sure enough—this time she’s wearing a vintage Ms. Pac-Man tee, the character posed seductively on top of chunky letters. And though I’ve never found a yellow ball wearing lipstick sexy in the slightest, I can’t stop staring.
But of course it isn’t Ms. Pacman that gets to me. Or the shirt. It’s the woman in the shirt, the curvy, sweet-smelling, adorably serious woman who has been running through my mind pretty much constantly since I made an idiot of myself this morning trying—and failing—to offer intelligent commentary on her scientific thoughts about the microbial life in the human gut.