by Lisa Plumley
“But…” Mimi frowned. “Your birthday was four months ago.”
“I know. But the way I go through personal assistants, it’s a wonder I get any mail at all.” She had managed—did manage—her stylist’s business from an office inside her Malibu home. Jenn was far from the first assistant to disappoint her, despite the extra effort Rachel took to ensure that whoever she hired would be efficient and trustworthy. “I can’t believe I missed this!”
Sniffling back tears, Rachel carefully slipped her thumb under the envelope flap. While Mimi looked on, she withdrew the greeting card. The front depicted a cartoon bunny in high heels and lipstick, sporting a va-va-voom dress.
TWENTY-NINEAGAIN? BETTER WORK IT, GIRL!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Rachel laughed. That was just like her parents. Christine and Gerry Porter always embraced pop culture at least a decade too late. Along with the printed message came a few lines of elegant script, a pasted-in photo (years old now) of Rachel and her mom, affixed with some elaborate scrapbook borders, and a scrawled note from her dad. Awww. Then, at the end…
Hope we see you at Christmas this year!
Love and miss you, Mom and Dad
She couldn’t believe she’d missed this. How out of whack had her life gotten anyway?
“Awww, your parents are so sentimental!” Mimi gushed.
Embarrassed, Rachel stuffed the handmade card back in the box. Hastily, she dashed away her tears with the backs of her hands. Nobody in L.A. knew about her background, not even Mimi.
But that didn’t change the facts—or the decision Rachel made next. Somebody still wanted her. That was all she needed.
“I’m going home for the holidays,” Rachel told Mimi. “By the time I get back, this whole debacle will be over with.”
Look out, Kismet, Michigan! Here I come!
Chapter Eight
When his kindhearted neighbor, Christine Porter, had asked Reno to please, please, please pick up her daughter at Gerald R. Ford International Airport in Grand Rapids for a surprise Christmas visit, he hadn’t expected the errand to bring him fifty miles away from home. During a snowstorm. At midnight.
But since the frequent flyer in question was Rachel Porter—former Kismet High School cheerleader and instigator of several of that school’s most renowned rebellious incidents—Reno guessed he should have been quicker on the uptake. Of course Rachel Porter would come back to town in the most unconventional way possible—including full-on snow flurries. It was only natural.
He’d been two years ahead of Rachel in school, already an inveterate jock, so he hadn’t known her well. At all really. But it didn’t take more than a passing familiarity with Rachel Porter to understand she was…unique. Especially for Kismet.
Squinting as he paced along the concourse, Reno tried to conjure up an image of her face. All he got were short skirts, flashing grins, and masses of brown hair streaked with different colors. Dark-rimmed Elvis Costello eyeglasses and unexpected hats, and headphones with trailing cords tucked beneath her shirt, leading to a contraband portable CD player that probably played loud, obscure indie music. In the days before iPods, sneaking tunes wherever you went had required extra ingenuity. Rachel Porter had always had ingenuity to spare.
Reno recalled seeing Rachel pass by in the hall at school once or twice, chewing a wad of gum and talking a blue streak with a posse of girlfriends. Grunge rock princess pretty much summed up the Rachel Porter he remembered, so he figured it would be easy to spot her now. People didn’t change as much as they thought. He, for instance, had hardly changed at all.
Wolfing down a big bite of the Cinnabon he’d bought, Reno jangled his keys, then paced some more. Being in airports always reminded him of his days in the NFL. Then, jetting to games had blurred with practices, media appearances, and matchups on the gridiron. Now the only games he saw were on TV, and the only media appearances he made happened every few years as part of the annual Kismet Christmas parade.
In front of him, the airport security check stood silent, mostly unused at this hour. A few travelers straggled by, wheeling luggage and yawning as they spoke into cell phones. Several of the eateries had shuttered for the night, along with the kiosks selling souvenirs. Only people with emergencies—and cheapskates like Nate—traveled at this hour. Idly, Reno wondered which category Rachel fell into.
Emergency, he decided, and steeled himself for the inevitable tears. He was pretty good at offering a shoulder to cry on. He’d had some practice over the years.
Soon, the trickle of travelers turned into something like, well, a bigger trickle. They emerged from a faraway gate—the one assigned to flights from California—wearing weary expressions and toting carry-on bags, moving in singles and groups.
Chomping the last of his cinnamon roll, Reno wiped off his fingers, then held aloft the homemade sign he’d fashioned with a fast-food tray liner and a borrowed Sharpie: RACHEL PORTER.
Most of the women glanced his way. A few smiled flirtatiously, but none of them had punk rock hair of many colors or even chewed bubblegum. Reno double-checked his sign. Christine Porter wouldn’t have sent him on a wild goose chase, especially at midnight. Although she had once asked him if he wanted to buy “scented scrapbook paper.” Whatever the hell that was. He still thought she’d been joking with that one. Come on.
On the other hand, maybe Christine was in cahoots with Hal. Maybe they’d plotted to get Reno out of town for a few hours to unload a “carpet-cleaning van” full of standup yard displays, industrial LEDs, and a complete set of Santa and his reindeer (with sleigh) to finish off his neighbor’s rooftop display.
If that sneaky bastard tried to pass off so much as one illegally installed C9 string as his own, Reno was going to—
“Hey. You have the handwriting of a six-year-old.”
Startled, he glanced to the left.
The woman standing there wielded a bodacious figure, a head full of shiny, wild dark hair, and a mouth that could stop traffic—a mouth Reno couldn’t seem to quit looking at.
She also sported big black sunglasses and a malformed sense of what time of year it was. Because she couldn’t possibly expect to stay warm while outfitted in a fur-trimmed, fluffy hoodie thing, a miniskirt with jet-black tights, and impractical high-heeled boots. Even Reno—a guy who hadn’t seen a real, live, L.A.-style diva in a long time—could identify her in a flash.
“Rachel, right?”
She nodded, tucking away a tissue in her hoodie pocket. He could have sworn he glimpsed tear tracks on her cheek. But then she tossed her hair and delivered him a brilliant smile, and his initial impression—damsel in distress—vanished.
“Rachel Porter, guilty as charged.” She shook his hand. “You must be Reno. My mom said you’d be here. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“Still, I appreciate it.” With a total lack of the feminine flirtatiousness Reno was used to (she must be having an emergency), Rachel looked him up and down. “Now that we’ve got the introductions out of the way, I guess you won’t be needing this anymore.” She snatched his RACHEL PORTER sign. With surprising vigor, she crumpled it. It hit the nearest bin. “Let’s keep my arrival between ourselves, okay?”
“Ooh. Here on a secret mission, huh?” Sugar-buzzing on the cinnamon rolls and extra-large coffee he’d downed earlier, Reno followed as Rachel blazed a trail to baggage claim. He couldn’t miss the curious gazes snapping toward her. “What is it?”
“For starters? To avoid questions like that one.” She glanced sideways to get her bearings, exhaled, then moved faster, as though reluctant to be seen anywhere near the GRF ARRIVALS zone. “Look, Reno. I know you’re probably a really nice guy and all. But it was a long flight and I’m wiped out. So if you don’t mind, can we just get to the baggage claim?”
“Sure. No problem.”
That prompted a genuine smile. “You keep saying that.”
He shrugged. “It’s true if you’re me.”
“Must be nic
e. I’ve had nothing but problems lately.”
Instantly, Rachel’s face snapped to meet his. Because of her sunglasses, Reno couldn’t see her eyes. But her obvious did I just say that out loud? expression was easy to spot.
It was all over the O of her mouth. Her soft, luscious…
Determined to get a hold of himself, Reno wrenched his attention upward. His eyes met Rachel’s—at least as directly as was possible through a pair of Ray-Bans. For an instant, it seemed she was going to spill the whole story of whatever emergency had brought her here. Halfway across the country. In the middle of the night. In a snowstorm.
Bracing himself—and his shoulder to cry on—Reno waited.
But rather than break down and ask for help the way most women he knew would have, Rachel only pursed her lips. She glanced up at the airport signs, located the path she wanted, then powered forward, her divalicious attitude firmly in place.
“Let’s get moving. I’ve got lots of luggage.”
“You should take that escalator.” Reno pointed as they neared it, jogging to catch up with her. Even if he couldn’t provide his usual sympathetic ear, he could still offer some good advice. “You’ll get to the baggage claim faster.”
Incredibly, she sashayed past the escalator.
“Hold on, you missed it.” Reno touched her arm. “It’s that one right there.” He jutted his chin in the proper direction.
Rachel lifted her face to his. “I saw it. I’m going this way. Thanks anyway, but despite how it might have looked back there—” She stopped, shook off his grasp, then walked onward. “I don’t need any help. I’ve got this covered.”
She had to be kidding. She might have her nose in the air right now, but Rachel Porter had help me written all over her.
“Look, you don’t know me, so I’m going to let that slide.” Reno spread his arms in a patient gesture, his feet rooted in place while he waited for her to correct her course. “But folks around here usually take my advice about things.”
Still moving forward, Rachel glanced over her shoulder. One eyebrow arched. “How ego-bolstering for you.”
Flummoxed, Reno stared. “You’re going the wrong way.”
“Listen, I’ve been here before—on my way out of town.”
“Then you didn’t have to deal with baggage claim did you?” Reno trotted beside her, now headed in the wrong direction also, just like she was. He hoped that wasn’t prophetic. “Exactly how long has it been since you’ve been home?”
She ignored his question. “There’s more than one way to get to baggage claim.” Looking far more energetic past midnight than any of his small-town neighbors would have dreamed of being, Rachel came to a halt. “But if you want to find out whose way is best—and fastest—be my guest. I’ll meet you there.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Call it what you want, He-Man.”
“Fine. You up for losing?”
“That’s what you ought to be asking yourself. See ya.”
With a surprisingly sassy grin, Rachel turned on her high-heeled boots, then strode away. Again, in the wrong direction.
Not that she appeared daunted by that fact.
Reno watched her go, feeling broadsided—and revved up by the challenge they’d struck, too. He wasn’t proud of it, but competition tended to have that effect on him. With a shake of his head, he decided to assess his opposition…and got caught up in an admiring analysis of her sexy walk instead.
Man, that skirt was short. Almost indecently short. Half of Kismet would be scandalized. The leggy tights beneath it didn’t conceal anything either. Really they only compelled a man to look harder, Reno decided. To look…and imagine. Long, long legs like those were his favorite. And with those boots…damn.
As impractical and kooky as that getup was, he hoped Rachel Porter had several more just like it in her luggage. After all, he liked short skirts just fine—and he was looking forward to finding out exactly how she planned to shock Kismet this time, too. She’d probably brought suitcases full of skimpy skirts and kickass stiletto boots, Reno decided. She’d probably packed fuzzy hoodies in every color, and—
Aww hell. He’d never find out what she was up to—or what was in her luggage—if he didn’t make it to the baggage claim. Rachel Porter had gotten the jump on him.
That hadn’t happened in a while. Maybe never.
Hmmm. This was one neighborly favor, Reno decided with a grin as he doubled back to the appropriate escalator, that might turn out to be way more interesting than he’d expected.
Digging in her Hermès, Rachel plucked out a few dollars to tip the skycap who’d spotted her—lost and rushing the wrong way—and given her a warp-speed ride on one of those airport golf cart things. “Thanks a million. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem, ma’am. No problem at all.”
Ha. I wish. Rachel waved away the skycap with a smile. I wish I had no problems to worry about. Wish this was just a friendly visit home, instead of a last-ditch hideout attempt.
Most of all, right at this instant, she wished she’d been strong enough not to nearly crumple—unreasonably—at the sight of the big, tough guy wielding the RACHEL PORTER sign when she’d wobbled off the plane. Because even though her mom had warned her that she and her dad might not be able to pick her up, had warned her that their neighbor, Reno Wright, might be the one to meet her at the airport, Rachel had spent the last tearful half hour of the flight eagerly anticipating a hug from her mom.
Because sometimes, no matter how chic and grown-up a girl was, that’s what she really needed. A hug from her mom.
That hug was going to have to wait, it turned out. Because instead, Rachel had gotten a big hunk of heartland-style beefcake—along with a challenge. A challenge that was doing an excellent job (so far) of distracting her from her smeared mascara.
Competition tended to have that effect on her. Making any kind of bet—no matter how crazy—instantly motivated and energized her. Rachel wasn’t proud of it, but it was true. Which was probably why she’d never been able to pass up a contest.
Spurred onward, trying to seem as if she hadn’t just been exiled from her life (and okay, dumped by her boyfriend and betrayed by a friend to boot), Rachel eyed the mostly deserted, vaguely spooky baggage claim area. She hurried to the correct carousel for her flight, spotted a few familiar people who’d been on the plane with her, then leaned against a support post.
She had just enough time to strike a bored, manicure-examining pose—one she hoped would restore some of her typical L.A. cool—before she spied Reno Wright. He bolted down a distant escalator, taking the moving stairs two at a time.
At the sight of him, Rachel smiled. She just couldn’t help herself. She liked a man who was motivated.
Even if he was a little bossy. And way too helpful.
Because the plain truth was, the more helpful Reno had tried to be when they’d met, the harder it had been for Rachel to maintain her distance from him. And she needed that distance right now. That invisible wall between her and everyone else—especially everyone in Kismet, whom she desperately wanted to still be fabulous for—was all that was holding her together.
Well, that…and the bet she’d made with Reno. Thank God he’d taken her up on it. Because she hadn’t wanted to explain why she just needed to keep moving instead of talking. Or why the airport felt like one big danger zone where someone might recognize her at any second—and call her on why, if she were so incredibly brokenhearted, she was currently ogling Reno Wright?
Sobering instantly, Rachel straightened her sunglasses. She was not in the market for a man. No no no. The last thing she needed was to get caught up in a relationship. She was only here in Podunkville to recoup. To get herself together in a place where nobody knew about her disastrous career flameout.
Including Reno Wright. And his all-too-perceptive eyes.
Just when she’d decided for sure to avoid ogling him in the future, Reno arrived beside her—looking gorg
eously hurried but not the least bit out of breath after his sprint across the airport—and it was impossible not to stare at him. A little.
Apparently, that athletic aura he sported was for real. It was hard to discern much detail about his physique beneath his flannel shirt (yes, honest-to-God flannel!), jeans, boots, and heavy winter coat, but that didn’t stop her from…not trying.
No way was she trying to figure out what he might look like with fewer wintery layers covering him, Rachel assured herself. Definitely not. But a girl had to wonder…was that quilting and padding that bulked him up that way? Or muscles?
Muscles, she decided. There were lots of lovely muscles beneath that big woolen coat of his. Her practiced eye told her so. Also, looking at that coat, it belatedly occurred to Rachel that she might not be appropriately outfitted for the Kismet weather. Nevertheless, this wasn’t the time to go all soft.
“I win,” she announced.
He pointed one blunt-tipped finger at her. “You cheated.”
“So what?” Rachel arched her eyebrow, grateful that her sunglasses hid most of her expression. They made her feel safe. And of course, chic. They also hid the effects of the six-hour crying jag her flight had morphed into once the impact of all she’d lost had finally sunk in…someplace above Omaha. She raised her chin. “I never promised not to cheat.”
Reno appeared nonplussed. “You don’t have to promise not to cheat. Everyone takes it on faith that you won’t.”
“Around here, maybe. Where I come from, it’s different.”
He paused, giving her the uncomfortable sensation that his dark-eyed gaze could penetrate straight through her Gucci lenses and see into her betrayed, turned-down, humiliated soul. Again.
There was definitely something about Reno Wright that got to her. That turned her usual defenses inside out and made her work twice as hard to seem unaffected. Beneath his scrutiny, Rachel nearly caved in all over again. What was wrong with her?
Despite his X-ray vision, Reno didn’t ask her any more questions. He merely turned his attention to the baggage carousel, then quirked his mouth. “I’ll get your luggage.”