Perfect Kind of Trouble

by Chelsea Fine

  “My goodness, child. I haven’t seen you since you were just a little girl.” She clucks her tongue. “And now look at you. Every bit as pretty as your mama was. You know, I fed Gia every day when she was pregnant with you.”

  “Really?” Kayla says.

  “Yes. Blueberry tarts were her favorite.” Mrs. Myers looks us over with a happy sigh. “I’m glad you’re here. James told me you’d be coming, you know.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “He did?”

  She nods. “Before he passed, he asked me to hold on to an envelope. He said he had a special treat in store for you and Kayla. He failed to mention anything about handcuffs, though.” She smiles. “James always had a creative imagination, and now look at him, chaining the two of you up and sending you all over town.” She laughs. “It sounds like a complete ball. You must be having so much fun.”

  We raise our eyebrows and look down at our muddy wet clothes.

  Fun. Right.

  She bustles behind the bakery counter and throws a look at Kayla. “Give me just a moment and I’ll be back with your daddy’s note.” She disappears into the back.

  I take a cookie from a nearby display tray and bring it to my mouth.

  “What are you doing?” Kayla slaps my hand and the cookie goes flying, joining the sprinkles on the floor.

  I glower. “I was trying to eat a cookie. What are you doing?”

  “That’s stealing,” she says, looking aghast.

  I make a noncommittal noise. “They’re more like samples than anything else.”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you.”

  “I’m starving,” I say defensively. “We haven’t eaten all day. Aren’t you hungry?”

  We didn’t stop for lunch today, which was fine with me since I’m broke, but I was surprised Kayla didn’t suggest we stop for food.

  “No, I’m fine,” Kayla says. Right on cue, her stomach growls.

  “Ha!” I point at her stomach. “Liar.”

  I reach for the cookie dish and she smacks my hand. Again.

  “Cut it out,” she snaps.

  The front door opens and I turn to see Valerie Oswald enter the bakery with a large box.

  “Navy Nancy,” Kayla whispers, looking the woman over.

  I turn to Kayla. “Navy who?”

  “That woman.” She juts her chin in Valerie’s direction. “I saw her at the funeral.”

  I nod. “That’s Valerie Oswald. She’s the property manager for all of your dad’s business developments in the town square.”

  “Oh.” Kayla nods.

  Valerie looks at us and upon seeing Kayla narrows her eyes. Then she sees me, and then the handcuffs, and her eyes widen. “What on earth…?”

  She frowns at Kayla and I wonder why. Kayla clearly doesn’t know Valerie yet Valerie seems to dislike her.

  “It’s a long story,” I say, smiling. “But basically, James asked us to do this in his will. Have you two met?” I gesture to Kayla. “This is James’s daughter, Kayla. Kayla, this is Valerie.”

  Kayla still looks uncomfortable but manages to smile nicely. “Hello there. Nice to meet you.”

  “Your James’s daughter?” The iciness in Valerie’s gaze instantly melts into warmth as she sets down the box and holds out her hand. “Oh, how very nice to meet you. Your father was a terrific man.”

  Kayla shakes her hand. “Thank you. It’s nice to meet you too.”

  “Found it!” Mrs. Myers returns, waving an envelope in her hand. “Oh, hello Valerie.” She smiles. “What brings you in so late?”

  Valerie picks the box back up and hands it to Mrs. Myers with a smile. “I just wanted to return your chocolate fountain. Thank you for letting the town use it for the Confetti Carnival. It was a hit, as usual.”

  “There was a chocolate fountain?” I say under my breath. “Dammit. I can’t believe we missed that.”

  “I know,” Kayla adds. “I love chocolate fountains.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Myers smiles at Valerie. “You know I always love contributing to the Confetti Carnival.”

  “Well we appreciate it.” She turns to leave. “Well I need to get going. Thanks again.” She smiles at us. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Kayla.”

  She leaves the bakery and Kayla bends to pick up the cookie she knocked out of my hand earlier. “I’m sorry about the cookie on the floor,” she says to Mrs. Myers as she throws it away. “Daren thought they were samples. We can pay for it.”

  I turn to her and mouth, Traitor.

  Mrs. Myers waves her off. “Nonsense dear. Anything that doesn’t get eaten tonight gets tossed, anyway. In fact, if you two wouldn’t mind taking some of these goodies home with you, that would save me a trip to the trash.” She gestures to an array of baked treats behind a glass display.

  “Oh no, no,” Kayla argues. “We couldn’t take your food.”

  “Hush, child.” She hands the envelope to Kayla and shuffles behind the counter, grabbing a paper bag. She starts piling leftover cookies and brownies into a bag and my mouth starts to water. “Here you are.” She shoves a bag overflowing with treats into my arms and winks at Kayla. “I put a few blueberry tarts in there too, just in case you have the same taste as your mama.”

  Kayla smiles. “Oh wow. Thank you for all these desserts.”

  She and I both pull out a cookie and stuff our faces. Well, I stuff my face, but Kayla takes dainty bites and spends time chewing like a person with manners.

  “Of course. I’d do anything for James and his family.” Her eyes sparkle. “Did you know I introduced your parents?”

  Kayla’s eyes sparkle right back as she grins. “I did not know that.”

  Mrs. Myers nods. “Your mother was in here one day, buying up all my blueberry tarts when James walked in. I introduced him to her and a few short months later they were married.” She chuckles and happily sighs. “They were quite the pair.”

  Kayla smiles. “Yes. That’s what I’ve heard.”

  She clucks her tongue. “James never did recover from your mama leaving. Poor thing. Valerie Oswald never had a chance. Did you know she was in love with your father?”

  Kayla frowns. “The woman with the chocolate fountain had a thing for my dad?”

  “Oh, yes. She wanted James’s heart something fierce. But he loved you and your mama, and no other woman could compete.”

  Kayla lifts a brow. “Well that explains why Valerie didn’t like me when she first saw me. She must have thought I was his girlfriend or something.”

  Mrs. Myers laughs. “Valerie is just protective of James, that’s all. And I can’t imagine anyone not just loving you to pieces the moment they meet you.”

  Kayla laughs. “Well that’s sweet of you to say—especially since you don’t really know me.”

  She grins. “Oh, baby. I know all about you. James talked my ear off about his little girl. And then you come in here covered in dirt and handcuffed to my sweet Daren? Well, I knew the moment I saw you that you were every bit as wonderful as James described.”

  I watch Kayla’s face soften and her eyes fill with emotion. It’s obvious she’s not used to people showing her the kind of warm acceptance and compassion that Mrs. Myers is well-known for.

  Kayla blinks a few times and I intervene so she doesn’t have to respond or try to hide the emotion creeping up her face.

  “Well we should get going to let you finish closing up,” I say. “Thank you so much for your generosity, Mrs. Myers.” I tip my chin at the bag in my hand and smile.

  “I hope you enjoy the blueberry tarts.” She moves her eyes from Kayla and smiles broadly at me. “And good luck on your treasure hunt.” She waves good-bye as we exit the bakery armed with more sugar and chocolate than a Wonka factory.

  Back outside, the rain has let up, leaving only the heavy clouds and damp air behind. We climb into her car and Kayla tears open the new clue and reads out loud.

  “ ‘Daren. I hope the game of life has been good to you. Even if you don’t fee
l like you’re succeeding, remember you’re still in the early innings. Lesson number five: The only game that matters is the game of life. And a few lost innings aren’t a lost game. By now, I’m sure you’re both frustrated with me, and probably ready to get your handcuffs off. Go to the lavender ranch at the end of Canary Road for your final clue. Then you’re done!’ ”

  Her face lights up. “The last clue! We’re almost finished.”

  “Awesome,” I say, munching on a cookie as I frown at the setting sun. “All we have to do now is go to an abandoned lavender field… in the middle of the desert… at night… without flashlights…”

  “Yeah,” she says, biting her lip. “Not ideal.”

  “Maybe we should wait until morning.”

  She nods. “You’re probably right. But I don’t have my motel room still booked. That’s why my suitcase is in the car. I thought we’d be done by now and I’d be headed back to Chicago. And as much as I love being your sugar mama, I don’t have any money to book another room. So let’s stay at your place tonight.”

  “At my place? Uh…”

  “What? Do you live with eight frat boys who eat with their feet and fart a lot, or what?”

  “No. Not exactly.” But that would be better than the truth. Anything would be better.

  “Then what?” She juts her chin.

  “My place is just a bit of a mess and not really ready for company. You wouldn’t like it.”

  She sneers. “Then why don’t you shell out the cash to get us a hotel room? It’s about time you and your designer shirt start contributing to this little adventure. I mean, I’ve paid for everything. Like our room last night—”

  “You would have paid for that room even if we’d found the inheritance,” I point out.

  “Okay, then what about my car? Who paid for all the gas that’s been toting you around all day? Me.” She pauses. “Where the hell is your Porsche anyway?”

  “Uh… in the shop.”

  She furrows her brow. “I thought it was parked far, far away.”

  I scratch my cheek. “It is.”

  She looks at me, skeptical. “It’s parked far, far away in a shop?”

  “Yep.” I nod. “Far, far away in a shop of all the other repossessed cars in the county.” I force a smile.

  She pulls back. “Your car got repossessed?”

  “Yes,” I say, shifting in my seat. “And it’s not my car. It’s my dad’s. Technically.”

  She looks confused. “Why?”

  “Because I had to sell my own car to pay some bills and I needed a way to get to and from work. Ergo, I drive my dad’s car.”

  “No.” She blinks impatiently. “Why was the Porsche repossessed?”

  “Oh.” I inhale. “Because I don’t have the money to make any more payments on it. My dad made a year’s worth of payments on the Porsche before he went to jail, which is the only reason I was able to drive it for so long. I couldn’t sell it because my dad owed more on the loan than it was worth, but I also couldn’t afford to keep it because the payments were ridiculous and I have no money,” I say. “Ergo, the Porsche was repossessed.”

  She scans my face. “So you don’t have any money?”

  “Nope.” I shake my head. “I already told you that.”

  “I thought you were being dramatic.” She sighs. “Well I don’t have any money either. So unless you feel like sleeping in my car, we need to stay the night at your place.”

  For a moment, I seriously consider sleeping in her car.

  “Fine,” I say, sucking up my housing insecurities with a groan. “We’ll go back to my place. But just for the record”—I point at her—“I warned you that you wouldn’t like it.”

  She smirks. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  I shake my head as we pull out of the parking lot.

  Famous last words.

  21

  Kayla

  Daren’s been acting weird ever since we left the bakery. Weird in a fidgety, shifting-in-his-seat, jutting-his-jaw-every-five-minutes kind of way.

  Gripping the steering wheel, I follow his directions as the sun disappears and the rainy day transforms into a cloudy night. I glance in the rearview mirror for the hundredth time and bite my lip. The same black car has been behind us since we left the town square. It could be nothing. Or it could be Big Joe.

  “What?” Daren says, watching me bite down on my lip. “What’s wrong?” He turns to look behind us.

  “I think someone is following us again,” I say.

  He watches the headlights in the distance for a moment. “It’s probably just someone headed the same direction as us. If it was this boss guy of yours—what’s his name again?”

  “Big Joe.”

  “Really? That’s what he goes by? Big Joe?” Daren scoffs. “What is he, a mobster?”

  I don’t answer and his eyes widen.

  “Are you shitting me? Your mom owed money to a mobster?” he says then runs his free hand through his hair and mutters, “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  “I’m not sure that he’s a mobster,” I say defensively. “I just know he’s a bad guy.”

  Just then, the car following us takes a turn and is no longer behind us. I sigh in relief as I stare at the empty road in the rearview mirror.

  “See?” Daren smiles at me. “No one is following you.”

  I nod and let out a little laugh. “Wow. I feel dumb. I keep thinking we’re being followed and we’re clearly not. I’m so jumpy. Sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’d be freaked out too if I thought someone who may or may not be a mobster was after me.” He playfully grins, which helps ease my anxiety. “But you’re safe.” His eyes stay on mine. “And besides, you have me.” He wiggles our cuffed hands. “I’ll protect you. You know, with my free hand.”

  I chuckle, my fear slowly draining from my veins as he winks. I’m oddly comforted by the fact that Daren is physically attached to me. I’ve gotten so used to being on my own that I’ve forgotten how nice it is to have someone to share things with. Excitement. Adventure. Fear. Having someone at my side makes everything better. And it certainly makes this whole thing with Big Joe less scary.

  “Oh my!” I smile at Daren. “You’re my knight in shining… steel manacles.”

  He bows his head. “At your service, milady.”

  My smile stays in place for the next few miles as we joke about sword fighting with handcuffs on, and soon all my fear has completely melted away. Daren has that effect on me, I’m learning. He has a way of distracting me from things that might otherwise get me down. It’s kind of… sweet. He’s sweet.

  We drive to the ritzy side of town where the neighborhoods are all gated with grand entrances and Daren directs me to a gated community called Westlake Estates. I turn in and pull up to the security booth at the front of the community. No one is manning the booth at this late hour, leaving the security completely at the mercy of a keypad.

  I lean back in my seat so Daren can easily reach the keypad. “Do you want to—”

  “Five six four five,” he says.

  I stare at him. “Did you just give me the code to your gated community?”

  “I did.”

  I grin. “Oh my. I might just have to start calling you my friend now.”

  He scoffs. “It’s about time.”

  With a laugh, I punch in the numbers. A buzzing noise sounds from the box before the nine-foot-tall grand gates slowly start to open.

  I marvel at the rolling hills and water-featured entrance of Daren’s community and I swear I can almost hear angels singing as we drive through. This is easily the most expensive neighborhood I’ve ever been in.

  “Just follow this road all the way to the stop sign,” Daren says. “Then take a right until you come to a driveway at the end of a cul-de-sac.”

  I do as he says and he points ahead of us. “That’s it, right there.”

  My lips part. Of course he lives on the top of a hill in a cul-de-sac—a cul-de-sac that no oth
er houses are on. He owns his own freaking cul-de-sac! I’m so collecting gas money from him. I cruise up the steep driveway at the base of a mansion. And it is a mansion.

  He points to the side. “Drive around back and park beside the pool house.”

  “You have a pool house?” I shake my head. “Why am I not surprised?”

  He lets out a strained sigh. “Just park.”

  The neighborhood is well lit, with fancy lampposts every few yards, but the mansion and pool house are completely dark. No lights turned on, inside or out.

  I bite the inside of my cheek. “Does anybody else live here?”

  He shakes his head. “My mom lives in Boston and my dad’s in jail, so now it’s just me.”

  “You have this huge house all to yourself?”

  “Something like that.” He points to a nearly hidden area beside the pool house. “Just pull under that tree and park.”

  It seems weird to park in the most isolated area of the yard, but I don’t question his logic as I pull forward and turn off the car. Once the headlights go out, the only light in the car is from the dim moon filtering through the clouds.

  With dried mud still caked to my skin and clothes, I grab the bag of goodies and open the car door, scooting over as Daren and I repeat our getting-out-of-the-car-while-handcuffed routine. He’s seems to have more difficulty in the dark, grunting and cursing as he bangs his knees on the dashboard and knocks his head against the roof. I almost pity him.

  I glance at his dark mansion.

  Almost.

  When we’re both out of the car, I grab my suitcase from the trunk before following him to the back of the house. Instead of heading to the back door, however, Daren moves to a window beside the door. Jiggling the frame, he pops the window out of place and slides it to the side. My wrist flops around next to his. Then he starts climbing in.

  “What in the—what are you doing?” I say, completely confused.

  He picks up my suitcase and tosses it inside along with the bag from the bakery. “I don’t have a key.”

  “How do you not have a key to your own house?”

  “It’s a long story,” he says half in and half out of the window.

  “This is your house, right?” He doesn’t answer and I gasp. “Are we breaking into some rich guy’s place?” My voice grows louder. “Because I am NOT going to be an accomplice in your shady criminal behavior. We already have handcuffs on! If you think—”