Sweet Southern Bad Boy

by Michele Summers

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  Copyright © 2016 by Michele Summers

  Cover and internal design © 2016 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Aleta Rafton

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  A Sneak Peek at Sweet Southern Trouble

  Chapter 2

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To my funny BFF, Paige Barnes, for always, always making me laugh, and for sharing stories that writers only dream about. Let the good times continue to roll.

  And to my Miami peep, Jennifer Quinton, and my new Tarheel neighbor, Sharon Adamo. Your support and encouragement have meant the world to me and I’m forever grateful.

  Chapter 1

  If it weren’t for crazy, crappy luck, Katie McKnight wouldn’t have any luck at all.

  Until today.

  Excitement coursed through her as she put her car in park. Leaning forward to see through the bug-spattered windshield, she stared at the old white farmhouse with a wooden front porch and rusty swing. In the distance stood a picturesque barn with a fading red roof and yellow doors. Katie smiled and started to hum: Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina…

  When she’d gone looking for the perfect location for a horror miniseries, she’d had no idea she’d find it in rural North Carolina. Where she was exactly…she wasn’t sure. But the fresh, crisp air smelled country. Not salty from an ocean breeze on the coast where her dad had requested she go—ordered her to go would be more accurate.

  Katie scooped up the manila folder housing the McKnight Studios contract. Her cork wedges hit the packed-dirt driveway, and she straightened her stiff spine. Hours of driving had taken their toll. Her knees gave a loud squeak. At twenty-eight, wasn’t she too young for creaky knees? Her limbs loosened as she moved toward the ideal location. Her insurance for her future career at McKnight Studios. Her last shot before Daddy gave her the ol’ heave-ho. The late-April midday sun cast a glow over the house as if it were wearing a halo. Blooming daffodils and colorful tulips lined the walkway. Katie sighed with pleasure. Of course, they’d be replaced with something more sinister, like thorny bushes. Minor details. Shouldn’t be a problem.

  The wood steps gave an eerie moan as she climbed to the shaded porch. The breeze had picked up, and the dark-green swing to her right groaned in the wind, causing a shiver to run down her spine.

  This house was perfect.

  The gnarled oaks lining the winding driveway would look especially creepy in the autumn after their leaves had fallen. A few trees might need to be cleared out to make room for the equipment and portable trailers, but it shouldn’t be too noticeable.

  “Here goes nothing.” The screen door gave an ominous groan when she pulled it open. Katie rapped the sweet bunny-shaped wrought iron knocker on the pale blue door. “Nothing some bloodred paint and a ghoulish head knocker couldn’t fix,” she murmured to herself. Easy solution. Faint voices could be heard drifting from the back of the house. A dog barked, and then Katie heard the squeal of a child. She jumped at a loud thump, followed by the sound of breaking glass. Katie wondered if something sinister was already taking place inside.

  “Pixie, no!” a strong male voice yelled from behind the door. “Donald, put down Lollipop and go find Danny.”

  Katie leaned closer to the door, trying to pick up the conversation. More scuttling and dog barking. It didn’t seem anyone had heard her knock over the ruckus building inside. Covering the knocker with her hand, Katie rapped harder the second time and listened to the reverberation through the house.

  “Fuh—Hold on a minute,” the male voice called. Suddenly the front door flew open, and Katie stumbled back. A small boy wearing only Pull-Ups and a backward baseball cap stood inside the door, with what looked to be blue slime covering one hand, hugging a well-loved stuffed bunny with a missing eye and matted hair.

  “You not s’ppose to touch kitty’s butt,” the little blue-eyed urchin said.

  “Uh, okay. That would probably be a bad thing.” Katie smiled, hoping the horror she felt on the inside didn’t show.

  “Danny! Get away from that door.” Katie glanced up at the rough, deep voice that almost knocked her flat. The little boy, Danny, scooted away from imminent danger. Wise kid. On the other hand, not-so-wise Katie stood frozen to the spot.

  She had lost the ability to speak, or maybe she’d just swallowed her tongue. Because she couldn’t have scripted this any better, even in her most fantastical dreams. Before her stood a beast of a man with wild dark hair and piercing black eyes. His worn chambray shirt hung unbuttoned over a well-defined, muscled chest, and his jeans had that lived-in, faded, authentic look that Hollywood spent thousands of dollars trying to copy. Zing went Katie’s insides. There was nothing phony or surgically enhanced about this scary pirate looming in the doorway. And then her eyes widened at the fluffy black kitten with snow-white throat cradled in his big hand, licking his index finger as if it were made of catnip.

  “Thank God you’re finally here.” Pirate Man moved back, making room for her to enter. Katie glimpsed large, tan bare feet. “Come in, and I’ll give you the lay of the land. I’m late for a meeting. The agency said you’d be here an hour ago.” His deep, smoky voice held an underlying layer of Southern twang. Totally authentic. Something most Hollywood stars couldn’t seem to harness no matter how much they paid their speech coaches. Nothing worse than a cringe-worthy,
fake Southern accent on the big screen. Hmmm, maybe she could get her dad to sign this guy. New, raw, real talent…her dad would be thrilled.

  “Um.” Katie stepped onto knotty pine floors into a gracious foyer. Beyond the painted staircase to her left, a white fluffy dog barked and scampered down the hall.

  “Come back, Pixie.” Danny stretched out a slimy hand and chased the dog as it disappeared into the next room.

  “Danny’s three. And there’s Donald, he’s seven, and Dover, who’s five,” Pirate Man said as he gently dropped the kitten onto a pink, furry kitty bed beneath the stairwell. “The kitchen’s this way.” He moved easily, stepping over Tonka trucks, police cars, action figures, and various discarded articles of clothing. Mostly kids’. With the exception of the oversized sweatshirt and huge pair of Nike tennis shoes. “The agency said you cook and clean, and I hope that’s true, because we’ve been without help for…er, a while.”

  Holy freakle! He wasn’t kidding. The kitchen looked like a mad scientist lived there. Spilled bowls of cereal covered the scarred farm table. Milk slowly dripped on the black-and-white vinyl tile floor. Beneath her shoes was the undeniable crunch of chips and crumbled cookies. The smell of burnt toast hung in the air. Dirty dishes filled the porcelain farm sink that sat below a large double window. Pirate Man rinsed his hands under the copper faucet and dried them on a red-and-white-checked dish towel looped over the gas oven door. He had a Jack Sparrow vibe going, minus the dirty dreads, gold teeth, and aversion to personal hygiene.

  “Sorry it looks so bad. I’d love to stay and help, but I’m seriously late for an important meeting, and I can’t seem to find my shoes or my notes,” he said, somewhat distracted. “I won’t be long, and Donald can tell you where everything is.” Again, she was struck by his voice with its relaxed, languid pace. A girl could get silly and lose her head over a voice like that.

  “Uh, Mister—”

  “Uncle Vance! Danny’s shoving a peanut butter sandwich inside the DVD player again.” Another half-dressed boy ran into the kitchen, wearing pajama bottoms printed with green and yellow trucks. He stopped, blinking big blue eyes up at her. His dark hair stuck up at odd angles, and peanut butter and jelly covered both cheeks.

  “Shi—ucks. Donald! Get off the computer and grab Danny,” the boy’s uncle yelled. “Dover, this is your new nanny.”

  Katie’s head jerked as though she’d been doused with cold water. Nanny? Hashtag: not-on-your-life. “Mister–”

  “You don’t look like a nanny,” Dover said, gaping at her with a toothless grin.

  “Dover, go find Donald and Danny. Hurry, I need to leave.”

  “Uncle Vance, Danny wants to go outside,” the older boy, Donald, said as he sauntered into the kitchen, playing a hand-held electronic game, not looking up. His long UNC T-shirt hung just above scabby knees.

  The white fluffy dog scampered into the kitchen, followed by Danny, who was still wearing the backward Durham Bulls baseball cap, Pull-Ups, and nothing else. “Pixieee!” Danny squealed.

  The dog started barking, and suddenly all three children chased it around the kitchen table, screeching at the top of their lungs. The kitten joined the fray, barely escaping death by trampling, and Pirate Man squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead as if in pain. The noise escalated until Katie couldn’t hear herself think. She shoved her thumb and index finger in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle.

  Everyone stopped. Dirty little faces stared up at her, and even the pets cowered under the kitchen table, not making a sound. The kids’ uncle recovered quickly and displayed a brilliant smile, flashing strong white teeth against his scruffy morning beard.

  “Cool. Where’d you learn to do that?” he said in his mesmerizing husky voice. His measured soft speech with the almost nonexistent r’s tingled her spine.

  “Older brothers. Now about this nanny thing…” Katie tore off several paper towels from a roll tacked up under the upper cabinets. She dampened them at the faucet and motioned for each dumbstruck child to come forward. Scrubbing the breakfast grime from their cherubic faces and the blue goop from the little one’s hands, she said to their uncle, “My name is Katie McKnight, and I have a proposition for you.”

  He was shoving his cell phone in his back pocket when he glanced up with a startled expression.

  “Proposition?” He looked interested, but not in the way Katie wanted. She had a feeling he had something more prurient in mind by the way his dark eyes roved over her, stopping at all her very, very hot points. Her spine tingled again. J. Lo’s bootay. This was not going the way she’d hoped.

  “You wanna hold my kitty?” Dover asked, breaking the trance between her and the scary, but mostly sexy pirate/rock-star/badass guy. “Her name is Lollipop.”

  “Sure.” Katie cuddled the chubby kitten in her hands as she gave their uncle a sympathetic look. Clearly this man was in over his head. Time to take charge. “Um, boys? Why don’t you get dressed while I talk with your uncle? Okay?”

  Pirate Man looked up from the stacks of papers, seemingly pleased with her suggestion, and nodded. “Donald, Dover…do as she says. And help Danny.” He indicated the toddler with a jerk of his head.

  All three boys scampered off, and the dog followed, nipping at their heels. Katie tucked purring Lollipop into the crook of her left arm and extended her right hand. “Katie McKnight. And you are?”

  “Vance Kerner. I’m the kids’ uncle.” His big hand engulfed her small palm. And for the briefest second, Katie felt connected…to what, she had no idea. The feeling was foreign and even a little frightening. He shook her hand slowly and gave her a piratical grin. Like he could chew her up and spit out her bones in no time flat. Katie was shorter than he was by four or five inches, but she was by no means petite. More on the heavy side, as her willowy size-two mother constantly pointed out.

  “Is there a Mrs. Kerner?” she asked, needing all the decision makers to be present and in agreement with her proposal.

  “Only my sister-in-law. My mother died fifteen years ago,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, but something flickered behind his dark eyes.

  Lollipop stabbed at the tail of her braid, and Katie shook her hair loose, along with the wayward thoughts inside her head. “Oh, well, then I’m sorry, er, about your loss. Mr. Kerner, I’d like to talk to you about using your house to film a miniseries.”

  “Excuse me?” His dark eyes narrowed, sending a fissure of alarm down her back. This had to be karma or the perfect storm, because not only did he own the ideal house, but he could star in the horror series about disappearing teenagers in love.

  “Yes. I’m from Santa Monica, and I’m a location scout for McKnight Studios, and I’d like—”

  He gave his thick black watch an irritated glance. “You’re not from the agency, and you’re not a nanny.” He started buttoning his shirt in agitation. Disappointment washed over her; she hated seeing his glorious chest disappear behind clothing. She had no business dreaming about his chest or any other part of his anatomy. But she was female, and at the moment, everything female about her liked everything male about him. Think business, Katie. Not body.

  “If you could give me five minutes of your time, I’ll be happy to explain and—”

  “Look, Kat, I don’t have five minutes.” He slipped a piece of paper from under a plastic hamburger magnet on the refrigerator and started to dial his cell. Katie listened as he barked at some person at the nanny agency. She set the kitten down on the faded green oval rag rug in front of the kitchen sink. From the gist of the conversation, she gathered no nanny was coming today, and Mr. Kerner was not happy.

  “Dammit. I can’t believe this bullshit,” he muttered, texting as he cursed. “Listen, I hate to cut this visit short, but I need to pack up Larry, Curly, and Moe, who are probably playing in the toilet this very minute, and rush to my meeting,” he said, shoving papers and folders into a b
rown leather satchel sitting on the seat of one of the kitchen chairs.

  Katie stood on top of mashed cereal and some sort of sticky substance, watching Pirate Man hunt for his misplaced shoes. Her timing sucked—again. He was in no mood to hear her offer, and once he left, she wasn’t sure he’d let her back in again. This called for some quick thinking and a solution he couldn’t refuse.

  “Uh, excuse me? Mr. Kerner, I understand that you’ve got somewhere very important to be, and um…I don’t. So I’d be happy to babysit your nephews while you attend your meeting,” she offered, hoping this would buy her some time and maybe win him over.

  He looked up with startled eyes as he shoved his foot into a brown leather loafer he’d located inside the tall wicker basket of assorted balls next to the kitchen door.

  “What’d you say you did again?”

  “I’m a location scout, but I have experience with children. I majored in elementary education at UC Berkeley.”

  He hesitated, but Katie could tell by his desperate expression he really wanted to accept her fabulous offer. He warred with needing to go and being a responsible uncle.

  “I assure you, I’m normal as baseball, apple pie, and Chevrolet, and the kids will be perfectly safe.” She reached inside her handbag and fished for her business cards. “Here. That’s all my information and my cell number. You can call the studio if you want to check.”

  He took the card and read it. “Thanks,” he said, slipping it in his back pocket.

  “Now, if you’ll give me your information, you can get to your meeting, and I’ll tend to the kids.” She gave a nervous glance toward the back of the house where she heard loud banging and the sounds of a TV. Vance got busy scribbling his information on a piece of scrap paper. “I’m actually pretty good with kids,” she said, smiling, hoping to reassure him—and herself—as he handed her the paper. “You, on the other hand, have the handwriting of a psychopath,” she murmured, trying to make out his chicken scratch. “Is that a five or an eight?”

  He chuckled. “Eight. Sorry. I’m a writer, but I do it all on the computer. Penmanship was never my strong suit. Are you sure you want to do this? I won’t be long. Just a couple of hours, and I’ll pay you when I get back.”