Perfect Kind of Trouble

by Chelsea Fine

  Our cuffs clank together as we set off to search the station. It’s completely deserted, but not in a spooky way. The high ceilings are framed with beautiful wood molding and dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows cover nearly every wall. Long wooden pews stripe the floor and a row of private phone booths line the side wall. I bet this was a vibrant place when the train was running. I can imagine dozens of people bustling about, reading the newspaper or calling a loved one while they wait for their train.

  “I’ve never been on a train before,” I muse out loud as we walk past an old ticket counter.

  “Neither have I,” he says, looking around. “I’ve never even been on an airplane.”

  “Never?”

  “Nope. The farthest I’ve been from Copper Springs is fifty miles outside of town at Willow Inn, where I work.”

  “No way. Surely you’ve been farther away on vacations or something.”

  He shakes his head. “My parents used to travel a lot but they never took me with them. ‘It’s not a vacation if your kid is there,’ my mom would say.”

  I gape at him. “That’s horrible.”

  He shrugs. “She was just being honest. My mom was never crazy about being a parent—neither was my dad. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have liked vacationing with them, anyway.” He says this with a smile but hurt flashes in his eyes.

  I stare at him, half-confused and half-sad. His parents sound awful. In fact, his entire childhood sounds somewhat depressing and a little lonely.

  He acts so cool and confident but a few times now I’ve noticed a ding in the armor of arrogance and playfulness he wears so easily. He’s cocky but wounded, charming but lonely, with the sureness of a wealthy man and the desperation of a pauper. I can’t figure him out, but one thing is certain.

  Daren is not as tough or undamaged as he lets on.

  “What?” He smiles at me crookedly. “You’re making a weird face.”

  I shake my head. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. I pictured you jetting around the world every summer in a private plane with an entourage of other rich people.”

  His eyes harden. “I told you. I’m not rich. My family used to be wealthy but we—I—don’t have money anymore.” He looks away, dismissing the topic. “Let’s check by the baggage area.”

  I follow him in silence, wondering how he can claim to be “not rich” when two days ago I saw him driving a Porsche and right at this moment he’s wearing an outfit that probably cost more than my car is worth. But I drop the subject, not wanting to argue with him right before finding the inheritance.

  It’s not an overwhelmingly big station, so we’re able to walk through the entire place rather quickly, without success.

  “Nothing,” Daren says after we make two rounds of the building. “No other lockers or storage units of any kind with the number twenty-three.”

  I tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “There has to be something we’ve overlooked. This is the only train station for miles. Let’s check outside on the platform.”

  We pass through the waiting area to the outside where more dust and cobwebs fill the corners. The platform has no storage areas, and the old railroad tracks are rusty and covered in dead leaves. On the other side of the tracks are several empty crates and a string of out-of-service train cars covered in dirt and frozen in time on the maintenance tracks beyond.

  Aside from that, there is nothing.

  I rove my eyes over the area. “Maybe we should go back to Milly Manor and check the suitcase again. Maybe we missed some instructions or better directions or something.” I bite my lip. Or maybe my father didn’t actually leave us any money and this is all just a waste of time.

  “Kayla, look.” Daren points ahead as his gaze zeroes in on something past the empty crates.

  “What?” I follow his eyes to the old abandoned train in the distance. Five boxcars sit side-by-side on the maintenance track, and the very last car is red and stamped with two giant white numbers: a two and a three.

  He gives me a wide grin. “Eureka!”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “You don’t think…”

  “Oh, I think.” He nods with bright eyes. “I very much think.”

  My jaw falls open. “My dad hid money in an old train car? What did he do, pack a bunch of bills in a duffle bag and toss it onto a pile of hay? Geez. Did no one ever tell him about safety deposit boxes?”

  He laughs. “I don’t care where he hid it. I’m just glad we found it.”

  Hurrying down the platform steps, we cross over the railroad tracks, pass the empty crates, and walk over to the red boxcar on the old maintenance tracks.

  The door of the train car reminds me of a garage door, where the lock is at the bottom beneath a wide industrial handle. I pull the big golden key from my purse again and hold it up to the lock.

  “Perfect match,” Daren says.

  I wedge the key inside the hole and, with a few jiggles, the wide door unlocks with a loud click. Standing beside each other, we wrap our hands around the large horizontal handle and, using all our strength, pull up the heavy door. The hinges squeak and moan as it rolls up and locks into place. We peer inside and…

  Nothing.

  Well, not nothing, exactly. But certainly not money.

  The boxcar is completely empty except for a single, folded piece of paper.

  “What the…?” Daren sighs.

  My face falls, speechless.

  “What do you suppose it is?” He tips his chin at the piece of paper.

  “A check for a million dollars?” I say hopefully.

  The paper is in the very back of the train car so the only way to reach it is to climb inside. Which won’t be easy since my chest barely reaches the bottom of the car and we can’t climb in one at a time because of the handcuffs.

  I lift up on my tiptoes. “How do you want to do this?”

  Daren scratches his jaw. “Why don’t I hoist you inside first then I’ll jump in. Come here.” He turns me around to face him and I step into the circle of his arms.

  The summer sun is now high in the sky, burning down on us. I stare at his chest where his T-shirt pulls tight against the hard muscles of his pecs, and a trickle of sweat slowly slides down the back of my neck.

  The corded muscles of his neck ripple as he turns his head. “Hold on to my wrists. Then I’ll lift you up.” He places his big hands on my waist.

  His thumbs slide under my shirt, grazing the bare skin of my stomach, and a warm zing shoots down my belly.

  I look up at him. “Did you do that on purpose?”

  “Do what?” His expression is neutral but there’s a glimmer in his eye.

  “Whatever,” I say, eyeing him shrewdly as I wrap my hands around his wrists.

  He glides the pads of his thumbs over my tummy again and another, more powerful, zing darts straight down my belly and between my legs as I suck in a breath.

  I narrow my gaze at him and his eyes dance with amusement.

  “Cut it out,” I say.

  “Cut what out?” he says.

  “You know what.” I try to look stern.

  “I certainly have no idea what you’re talking about.” A mischievous grin spreads across his face and I can’t stop the smile that starts to play at my own lips.

  “Daren…”

  His eyes lock on mine and the twitching low in my belly starts up again. Then his gaze drops to my mouth and I absently part my lips.

  Hunger lights his eyes as he leans in and whispers, “Now do you want to kiss again?” His words flutter over my ear like soft, warm butterflies beating their wings against my sensitive skin and a shiver runs through me.

  The answer is yes. I do want to kiss him again. It felt so good to have his mouth on mine last night. To feel him up against me. To give in to the wild passion inside me.

  When I don’t answer, he brushes his thumbs over the naked skin of my stomach again, but this time dips them inside the waistband of my skirt and skims the lacey top of
my panties.

  I inhale sharply, tightening my fingers around his wrists as my nipples harden and heat builds in my core. I rub my thighs together, trying to alleviate the ache slowly building between my legs, but it’s no use. I’m already a tight puddle of need.

  How come this beautiful man, who smells like clean citrus, can make me melt with just a simple touch? And how come it’s always so difficult for me to snap out of his sexy gaze?

  I blink away from Daren’s pretty brown eyes and playfully whisper, “No,” before shifting back a few inches.

  His eyelids, which were heavy with desire just moments ago, open fully as he scans my face and throat.

  “Liar,” he says with a smile.

  I smile back, grateful he doesn’t try to convince me otherwise. I’d surely give in if he did. Because Daren affects me.

  Every other guy on the planet is just that: a guy. But Daren is a force. And I am a feather.

  “Ready?” he asks, getting back to business as he moves slightly away from me.

  My body protests and disappointment washes over me, but I pull it together and try to look unfazed as I nod and brace my hands against his wrists. “Ready.”

  Bending his knees, he easily lifts me up and sits me on the boxcar’s open frame. Then he steps back and hoists himself into the car beside me. He carefully stands up, and offers me a hand to help me to my feet.

  My high heels waver on the uneven metal floor of the train car but Daren keeps me upright until I’m standing on my own.

  Good God. I’m never wearing high heels again.

  We walk to the back of the boxcar to retrieve the paper. I’m still hoping it’s a check. Or a savings bond. Or a money order. Daren swiftly picks it up, unfolds it, and both our faces fall. Another note.

  Daren mutters a curse and I groan.

  “Why couldn’t I have had a normal father?” I say.

  Daren reads the letter out loud. “ ‘Congratulations on finding this clue. Lesson number two: Always bring the heart. Wherever you go, however you get there, bring a loving air with you and leave kindness in your wake. Life is too short to keep your heart to yourself. Now I’m sure you’re frustrated and wondering where the money is, but not to worry! The money is very real and will soon be yours. The next place you’ll need to go is the thing Kayla liked more than stickers and the thing Daren looked forward to every February. Ask for the Turner key.’ ”

  “Another clue?” My mouth hangs open. Oh my God. This really is another one of my dad’s quirky scavenger hunts. I can’t believe he thought a scavenger hunt would be a good way to share his money with me. Ugh!

  I throw my arms up in exasperation, accidentally whipping Daren’s wrist against the wall of the boxcar with a loud bang.

  “Hey now,” he grunts. “There’s no need for violence.”

  “This is all just a big game, you know.”

  He blinks at me. “What is?”

  “This!” I gesture around wildly, accidentally thwacking his hand against the train car. Again.

  He rubs his banged-up hand with a scowl. “Okay first of all, cool it with the hand gestures. Second, what do you mean this is a game?”

  “This thing that we’re doing?” I hold up the note. “It’s all a big scavenger hunt that my dad must have orchestrated before he died.”

  “A scavenger hunt?” He screws his face into a befuddled look.

  I nod. “He used to make scavenger hunts for me all the time when I was little. And now he’s sending me on another one and giving us clues to find the inheritance.”

  He bobs his head. “Cool.”

  “No. Not cool,” I say, pointing at him. “Annoying.”

  He scoffs. “So we follow some clues, so what? Why is that annoying?”

  I let out a sigh. “Because scavenger hunts were something my father used to do for me back when he still cared and was all involved in my life. Being sent on one now just feels… insulting. Like I’m a puppet in his little game—a game he didn’t bother playing with me for years, mind you—and now he thinks he can just handcuff me to strangers and send me out on wild-goose chases whenever he pleases. Don’t get me wrong, I’m beyond grateful that he left me money in his will. But by wrapping this inheritance in a scavenger hunt and asking me to play along, he’s destroying one of my favorite childhood memories.” I rub a hand down my face, my heart twisting. “It just hurts, that’s all. I don’t want to be his puppet. I want to be his daughter.”

  14

  Daren

  Kayla looks positively forlorn. Her rosy cheeks have lost their color, her bright eyes are clouded with sadness, and her pouty lips are… well, they’re still sexy as ever. But the point is that she’s obviously unhappy and I don’t know how to change that. So I try to distract her.

  “Well frankly, I’m disappointed,” I say in a righteous manner. “For the last time, Kayla Turner, we are not strangers.” I let out a dramatic breath. “Good God, woman. What does a guy have to do to achieve ‘friendship’ status with you? I thought tonguing each other would do the trick but clearly we didn’t do it right. So come on. Let’s try it again.” I sigh in mock weariness, waving her in. “I’m willing to rub tongues all day if that’s what it takes. Hell, I’ll tongue you all night if it’ll get me off your Stranger Shit List.”

  She shakes her head and snorts through her downtrodden expression. “You are shameless.”

  I place a hand against my chest. “I prefer to think of myself as an opportunist.”

  “That too.”

  “So what do you say?” I flash my dimple. “Are we friends yet?”

  Amusement plays in her eyes. “Why do you care so much about being friends with me?”

  I scratch my cheek, feeling more unsettled than I care to admit by her question. “No idea. I’ll get back to you.”

  She straightens her shoulders. “Okay. Well while you’re pondering that, I’ll be over here trying to figure out this clue.” She pulls the note from my hand and examines it with a frown.

  “What does ‘something you liked more than stickers’ mean?” I glance at her.

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. What about your thing? Something you looked forward to in February? What, like Valentine’s Day?”

  I choke on a laugh. “Yeah, no. Valentine’s Day is my least favorite holiday. Too much pressure.”

  “Oh-kay. Good to know where you stand on that,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “So it’s probably safe to assume this clue doesn’t have anything to do with Cupid’s holiday.” She mutters, “One possibility down. A trillion more to go.”

  “Let’s head back to the car and do our sleuthing on the road. I’m starving.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  I tuck the paper clue in my pocket as we walk to the edge of the boxcar and stare down. “Do you want to climb down first or should I?”

  Below, the ground declines into a steep hill just a few feet from the boxcar, but the drop to the flat area before the descent isn’t too bad.

  Kayla says, “Let’s just jump.”

  “All right.”

  She takes off her shoes and grips them in her free hand while I wrap my cuffed hand around hers.

  “On the count of three,” I say. “One… two…”

  “Wait. Wait,” she says. “Are we jumping on three or after three? If we jump at different times and go flying in different directions, we could snap our arms off at the cuffs.”

  Girls. So dramatic.

  “Yeeeah, no.” I shake my head and press my lips together. “We might bruise a wrist—or two—but I’m pretty sure our arms won’t snap off.”

  “Still.” She juts her chin. “On three or after three?”

  “After three,” I say.

  She nods.

  “One… two… three!” I tighten my hand around hers as we jump out of the boxcar. But we overshoot it and jump too far out. We miss the flat area and land in the dirt with heavy thuds at the top of the hill. Then we promptly tumble over each other down the
steep decline.

  Our bodies flail in opposite directions as we roll, but the handcuffs force us to smack back together as we topple over each other, skidding through the gravel and dust in a tangle of limbs until we finally reach the bottom of the hill and come to a dusty stop.

  Kayla lands sprawled across my chest with her long hair no longer tied back but now completely loose and splayed over my face. My right knee is wedged between her legs, where her skirt has ridden up and is now barely covering her ass. And our shackled hands are trapped between us, with my open palm pressing against her large, soft breast.

  There are worse ways to fall out of a train.

  Kayla raises her head and glances over our bodies before removing her breast from my hand and lifting her gaze to mine. Her blonde hair is tossed all around her face, tangled with tiny pebbles and twigs while smudges of dirt mark up her face and her clothes are covered in dust. Her blue eyes stand out against her flushed cheeks and throat, and there’s a dead leaf stuck to the shiny gloss on her pink lips as she tries to catch her breath.

  I let out a low chuckle. “You’re a hot mess.”

  Her eyes rove over my ripped clothes, dirty skin, and dusty hair with a sparkle. “So are you.”

  We sit upright and stare up the hill at boxcar #23.

  She sighs. “Well at least we can say we’ve been on a train now.”

  I smile. “We sure can.”

  15

  Kayla

  I’m hungry. I’m handcuffed. And I’m covered in dirt and dust.

  Today isn’t going as smoothly—or as quickly—as I imagined.

  I glance at the afternoon sun as we drive through Copper Springs. The day is almost over and we’ve hit a dead end. My father’s scavenger hunts never lasted this long. There would sometimes be lots of clues and, therefore, the game took longer, but never an entire day.

  “Where should we eat?” I say as I turn down Main Street.

  He shrugs. “Someplace that’s not too fancy.”

  “And somewhere affordable,” I add.

  “Yes.” He nods. “Affordable is good.”

  We cruise past the grassy park in the center of the town square and find it bustling with people who are milling around a large Ferris wheel. Happy music plays from speakers perched on the tall park lampposts while street vendors and performers show off their goods and talents under colorful tents and canopies.