Chelsea had fidgeted in search of an explanation that wouldn’t come. He’d watched her run like she was racing a baseball to home plate before he walked the length of their dock toward the lake alone, the plank on his very own pirate ship of pity. He lay there until the sun went down and it was time to return to the city, sure he’d never see her again. But here she was.
“You ready?”
Chelsea nodded, her color much better now that she was back in her own clothing. “Thank you.” She squeezed his hand, lighting a match in his veins.
He’d wrestled with God, a confused tangle of anger and regret, and worked through it over time. Now Nick knew the strongest thing that emerged from those memories was relief. That night on the dock twelve years ago wasn’t the last memory he’d have of Chelsea Scott. Even if being in a dress made her particularly grumpy.
Chapter 4
Deviation ***3092 in The Plan: canceling the St. Louis Hyatt Place Missy had booked for them in favor of a bed and breakfast owned by the co-op leader’s sister. Waiting on the mechanic’s wife to return from her scrapbooking retreat in the city with a shiny new water pump in tow.
“Isn’t it just darling?” Shirley flicked the lights as they walked into the lobby. “Tracy will be here any minute.”
Oh, it was darling all right.
Chelsea met Nick’s eyes when Shirley turned toward the desk. Stifled a snicker that threatened to escape at the arch of his eyebrow.
Thin, mauve carpeting stretched across the floor, and the walls were covered from ceiling down in antique frames, paintings, and vignette portraits.
“Why don’t y’all have a seat, and I’ll see if I can find her ledger to save some time.” Shirley opened a drawer and gestured to a sitting area through an archway. “I know you’ve had a long day.”
Chelsea eased into a worn settee covered in floral upholstery and set her work bag and suitcase down, but Nick leaned against the archway, eyeing the armchair across from her like a sky about to pour all over his baseball game.
“I’m pretty sure I’ll smash that thing to matchsticks.”
Laughter bubbled out. “Don’t even try it.” Chelsea sat up straighter at the sound of keys jingling, the settee creaking under her. A woman with a strong resemblance to Shirley appeared from a cordoned-off doorway behind the counter. “Hello! I’m Tracy. I have two side-by-side rooms available if you’ll follow me.”
“Thank you.” Nick straightened, the motion knocking at least four frames askew. Chelsea turned as he hurriedly righted them, but the laughter sucked from her lungs as something tangled in her feet.
Cat. She glowered at the devil-creature.
“Oh, watch out for Chelsea. She likes to vet our guests in her own special way.”
Seriously? The cat had the same name? Nick wasn’t allowed even in her peripheral vision as Tracy led them to their rooms and unlocked the first door with an antique key. He couldn’t have that satisfaction.
“This is our Jester room.” Covered with clowns. Lots of them.
Could Chelsea physically fold her body to sleep on that settee downstairs? Because there was no way she was sleeping in a room haunted by maniacal figures.
“And this is our Victoria room.” Lined with shelves and shelves of antique dolls, their features warped into scowls. Chelsea plopped her bag on the bed, aiming a glare at Nick. Just try to fight me for it. Creepy dolls were better than clowns, even if only by a sliver.
“There are restrooms at each end of the hallway and extra blankets and towels in your closets. If you need anything at all, someone will never be far from the lobby.”
Or perhaps the dolls could communicate the message to the portraits downstairs until it reached her.
“Thanks,” she told Nick when the woman was gone.
“You seriously owe me one—sticking me with the clowns.” He rested against the doorframe, the weariness of the day in his grin. “But, hey, whatever helps you sleep at night.”
When Nick had settled in his room, Chelsea readied for sleep and draped a sheet over the bed’s canopy frame. There. No dolls in sight. Hyatt Place or not, it had a shower and clean sheets to crawl into. And Nick in the room next to her.
Chelsea woke two hours early, and after all attempts to go back to sleep failed, pushed her feet into tennis shoes and crept to the first floor.
“Coffee, coffee, coffee.” She smelled a pot brewing somewhere. Ah ha! It wasn’t an espresso machine or fancy Keurig, but settling into bed with a mug of borderline burnt black coffee, a homemade cinnamon muffin on one bent leg, and The Plan on the other was good enough for her.
The interns had taken one of the Chelsea Scott folios and customized it for the trip. Every hour of her itinerary was planned from the time the truck left the office, and it included all the necessary paperwork for meetings and reservations.
Keep your receipts! :) Missy’s neat handwriting. This was why Chelsea had hired them—when she was burned out and living on cold coffee, her apartment a hoarding reality show waiting to happen with its avalanche of product mockups, paper samples, and lists. If she were left to her own devices now, she’d have arrived in Chicago the wrong weekend, wearing Target couture.
And everyone would know that the country’s fastest rising planner brand was hitched to the wagon of the forgetful girl who’d almost failed out of first semester after getting fall break and midterm week mixed up. The lone audible she’d made in The Plan, in fact—hiring Nick—had caused the desecration of an entire itinerary page.
But it had also resulted in dancing with him last night, so it wasn’t a wash.
Chelsea sipped her coffee. Was the warmth spreading through her chest from the magical brew or the memory of her dizzying proximity with Nick last night? It had been so long since she’d breathed in his scent, felt his arms around her. Since she’d allowed herself to take in the hopeful strength in his eyes that had made her open up to him so many summers under the trees. Was being that close to him again more intoxicating or terrifying?
“Or both?” she asked the stern woman framed on the doily-lined bedside table. She turned the page in her itinerary, placing her coffee on a kitschy porcelain coaster.
According to The Plan, in a little over twenty-four hours, Chelsea and her team would be pitching to one of the biggest retailers in the world. Her staff would arrive at O’Hare International Airport on the three-forty flight from Tulsa, they’d assemble the Chelsea Scott Paper booth, then convene on a renowned rooftop garden so Rhonda could brief everybody.
Chelsea took a deep breath. It would be okay. After Rhonda prepared her, she could do this.
A knocking sound broke through her thoughts, and Chelsea was on the floor, tangled in calico quilting. Only, she wasn’t thinking.
She was sleeping.
“Nick!” Chelsea shot to her feet, crashing into the wall and back to the floor.
“Everything okay?”
How could she have fallen asleep? She kicked the bedding from around her ankles. “I’m coming!”
She tore open her suitcase, pulled on the first clothes she found, and ripped through her tangles with her fingers before throwing it all in a knot on top of her head.
“You weren’t answering your phone,” he said through the door, “so I thought I’d check.”
It didn’t even buzz. “No—” Must. Sound. Less. Out of breath. “No, that’s okay. Thank you.” She zipped her toiletry bag, threw everything into her suitcase, and grabbed her phone from the bed. Its battery icon blinked up at her. Dead.
“I’m ready.” Chelsea pulled her suitcase to the door, pausing as she passed an ornate, full-length oval mirror. Twin pinches to the apples of her cheeks later, she opened the door.
“Good morning.”
Chelsea’s workbag clattered to the floor when she saw Nick’s easy half-grin and piercing blue eyes. She couldn’t stop her gaze from passing over his relaxed khakis and the navy T-shirt that stretched across his broad chest.
“Mylanta.” S
he could have kissed him. Not only because his good looks made her unintelligible, but because of the hand with the thermos stretched toward her. Good mocha wafted from its spout, not the coffee from the pot downstairs—bless its heart. “Is that for me?”
“Yes.” Nick’s voice was thick with amusement and sleep as they started down the hall. “Compliments of our friendly small-town mechanic and his wife.”
“How’s Hubert?”
“He’s never been better.” Nick reached behind her for the suitcase and motioned for her to go first down the carpeted stairs. “Those small-town mechanics can work some magic, especially since ours went through the whole inspection checklist before we left and somehow didn’t find anything. How were the dolls?”
“They settled down after I did the Congress Minuet for them. And the clowns?”
Nick snickered and lifted a fist. “The little hellions put up a good fight, but you could’ve taken them.”
Chelsea checked out at the front desk, said goodbye to Tracy and her four thousand friends on the walls, and then climbed into the truck. “Chicago or bust,” she said when Nick was seated next to her.
“Chicago or bust.”
And only twenty-three minutes behind, thanks to her late wake-up. She rolled her eyes and reached for the car charger Missy had thrown in her bag. When her phone came to life, she keyed in her password, bracing for the aftermath of missed messages and emails. Why did she deserve to have her name in lights at an international trade show when she couldn’t even remember to charge her phone? Was it too late to change the company’s name to The Women Who Help Chelsea Scott Not Forget?
She needed a diversion.
“So, GoBroncs314, what’s your end goal?” Chelsea drained her coffee and placed it in the cup holder. “I mean, is it the obvious—ESPN? New York? Covering football on a national level?”
“I’m happy with 140 characters and the occasional blog post for now, honestly.” He eased the truck back onto the highway. “For me, it’s not about growing a platform or anything like that—why I use an alias. It’s just a fun thing to do on the side.”
“Oh.” Wow. That was unexpected.
“I’m actually really happy working with my dad.”
She was used to her client base and case studies, always looking for ways to take their side hustle, as they called it, to the next level.
“I mean, I really want to add trucks to the fleet and hire some more drivers so we can increase our service radius. Oklahoma City has been good to us.”
Chelsea nodded. Vivi. How had she not made that connection? Her college roommate was a business consultant, and hadn’t she started out in transportation? Maybe with a trucking company? Vivi traveled a lot, but if she was in town and could meet with Nick, she could definitely get him started.
“If I did want the sports writing to take off, you know I wouldn’t use any other planner but Chelsea Scott.” He shot her a grin.
Call Viv for Nick, she wrote into her phone and forced a smile through her honey-thick thoughts. “Our Perspective Plum would look really good on you.”
The instant downtown Chicago came into view through the rain-streaked windshield, Chelsea asked Nick to go straight to the convention center. “I just need to see it,” she said quietly, mashing her lips so tightly that they turned white.
She’d gotten progressively quieter during their four-hour drive, and Nick had left her with her thoughts, nudging her from time to time in case she needed to prepare or process anything.
He parked the truck in the designated loading zone reserved for Chelsea’s company, but she didn’t get out right away. “Do you want me to come in with you?”
“No, that’s okay.” But the way her brown eyes widened without moving from the door said otherwise.
“I’ll just stretch my legs and see if they have any more unloading information, then.”
The place was massive—much bigger than he’d imagined. Who knew there was such a huge market for paper and ink? Chelsea hugged her bag to her waist like a shield, smudged the corners of her eyes, and tossed her head like she owned the place.
“You’ve got this.” Hopefully Nick’s words echoed what was playing in her mind.
She leaned into him as they walked through the lobby, so he followed her into the actual convention space, a giant room with bright lighting, clean concrete flooring, and rows and rows of still-empty exhibits cordoned off by painter’s tape.
“Oh my gosh! You’re Chelsea Scott!”
Nick and Chelsea turned to face a woman whose smile took up half of her face. “Hi,” Chelsea said.
The woman pumped Chelsea’s hand. “I used your planners to take my wedding invitation business to the next level. I still do, I mean.” She finally let go of Chelsea’s hand. “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be stocking figurines at the Hallmark Store.”
“Oh, that’s—”
“—and your blog post on burnout? It practically saved my marriage.”
Chelsea’s cheeks could have matched one of her planners. “I’m so glad.”
“Do you mind if we take a picture together?”
“Not at all.” She swiped loose hair behind her ears.
The woman handed her phone to Nick, and he took the photo before she promised to check out Chelsea’s booth and left them in a cloud of caffeinated enthusiasm and too much floral perfume.
“Wow, Scotty.”
She held up a manicured finger. “Don’t even.”
“Helping people fulfill their dreams? Rescuing people’s marriages?”
“Not hardly.”
Goodness, she was beautiful when she was embarrassed. Another of the dormant truths that were coming back with every minute they spent together.
“Let me see which one of these is ours.” Chelsea reached into her bag without looking, as if rifling for something that was always there. Then her eyebrows pinched together, hand plunging deeper before she swung the bag around and opened it to look inside. “No, no, no, no.”
“What’s wrong?”
She handed him a green apple from her bag, a paperback, some kind of exercise band, and her phone before reaching the bottom. “The Plan. I must have left it at the B&B.” Chelsea groaned. “And I can picture exactly where it is, too. I can’t believe I forgot it. It has everything in it.”
“That’s okay.” He offered her the phone. “I’m sure if you call your people, they can send you what you need.”
She nodded. “They’re probably getting to the airport right about now, but I’m sure they can send it real quick.” Her head once more shook in the cadence of self-scolding as she tapped her phone. “I’m not rescuing anything, Nick,” she muttered.
The extent of Nick’s planning consisted of a disjointed stream of consciousness note on his phone that would make sense to no one else, but Chelsea had built her entire business on planners.
She put her phone to her ear, and her tone lifted in half a breath. “Hey, Missy. I hate to do this, but—what?”
Nick stepped forward at the sharp panic in her voice.
“In Tulsa? How much damage?” Chelsea paused. “In Chicago? So, wait. When will you be here?”
All color drained from her face.
“Okay. Yes, please tell Rhonda to call me tonight. And, really, just do what you can. I’ll be here. I’ll be okay.”
When she hung up the phone, the 70s-shag-carpet tinge of her cheeks almost sent him running for a barf bag.
“There was a tornado at O’Hare of all places, and….” Her breath hitched. “And it looks like I’ll be pitching alone tomorrow morning.”
Chapter 5
After a night of no sleep and many prayers, going through pages and pages of Rhonda’s notes with the company of a glass of wine and endless Chopped reruns muted on the hotel TV, Chelsea needed all the coffee. Well, she really needed her team, but she’d take the coffee.
They lived in Tornado Alley, and yet it had been Chicago of all places to get hit. Only part of one termin
al had been damaged, but it was enough to send the well-oiled mechanisms of one of America’s busiest airports into chaos.
This weekend, of all times? Really, God?
She glanced at the door that adjoined her room to Nick’s for the thousandth time. Of course he wasn’t awake. He was probably sawing logs without the future of his company pressing him into the mattress. He was chill like that. All the luxury sheeting and amenities of a nice hotel couldn’t turn off the background noise in her mind.
I’m going to mess this whole deal up.
I shouldn’t do this without them.
I can’t trust myself to make the right decision after what I did.
Could she go back to the dolls? This place was too sterile.
A knock sounded on the door as soon as Chelsea silenced her first wake-up call, a hotel employee bearing a zip-up bag, a blended mocha, and a folder Missy had put together from The Plan. Her angel in LOFT clothing.
Chelsea closed the door and sipped her mocha. Thank you, Lord. Freak tornadoes or not, He had her back. Always. And He would have her back in this meeting.
She hung the dress and stared it down, a form-fitting, elbow-length, color block sheath with a symmetrical emerald bodice separated from a high-waisted white skirt by a blush skinny belt.
“Let’s do this.” Slipping the dress from its satiny hanger, she pulled it over her head, and it slid like butter over her skin until—well, until it didn’t anymore.
What in the world? Chelsea jumped up and down as if gravity would help, but her arms remained pinned above her head by the taut fabric, as if she were diving into a tunnel slide. She felt for a zipper, but got nothing.
No-no-no-no-no. She punched an arm higher to try to gain some leverage, and—pop!—something gave out in the back. This couldn’t be happening.
Suddenly the dress closed in on her like scuba gear, no better than hot, tight neoprene with below-sea-level pressure clamped around her temples. If she couldn’t get out in a few seconds, it was either tear the dress in half and go to her meeting naked or—
”Nick!” She stumbled in the direction of his room until she felt the smooth surface of the door with her knee and kicked it hard three times. “Nick!” She kicked again.
Love at First Laugh: Eight Romantic Novellas Filled with Love, Laughter, and Happily Ever After Page 62