Accidental Rebel: A Marriage Mistake Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  Heck, I’m several years older than she was when she had me. By the time she was my age, she was working two jobs and still being wonder-mom.

  Despite working all day and staying up half the night writing, she never missed a PTA meeting, or parent-teacher conference, or field trip, or concert, or play, or anything.

  She gave me everything I truly needed, and it wasn’t material.

  I never knew how badly she wanted to keep on giving those things until I saw her tonight. Her interest in the kids wasn’t just faked for politeness.

  She was glued to every word they had to say, and she adored telling them about me. Even when some of her tales were embarrassing, I couldn’t stop her, because she’s worked her butt off for me since the day I was born.

  What a flipping mess this entire thing is.

  That’s what infuriates me most.

  How I’ve let two asshat men screw things up so bad, so fast.

  I should’ve fought harder, absolutely refused this kind of crazy, taken my boss to court if he insisted. Then I wouldn’t be where I am right now.

  Right at the edge, where I’d relish telling Manny and Miller and maybe any man whose name starts with M to buzz off out of my life.

  But at the same time, I stuck around, didn’t I?

  I fell for the magic trick, the illusion, the lie.

  I’ll never admit it, but Mother and I are too alike. What we had for a couple hours at her place tonight is exactly what I’ve always wanted.

  A family.

  A badass husband.

  A couple kids running around, complete with adorable little issues and triumphs worth all the agonies and laughs and feels.

  Something greater than just me and Mother. People we can share our past escapades and memories with, our hopes and dreams, and our futures.

  Miller might be a huge swinging dick, but his kids aren’t.

  They’re pure sunshine. They’ve already touched my heart in ways I’m afraid to admit. But I let my guard down. And for that, there’s no one to blame but Toby.

  Back up.

  It’s not quite the same, Toby was a dog, this sweet little beagle, but at the same time...that’s what I’m remembering, comparing these feelings to.

  He’d shown up at the little house we’d rented south of the Twin Cities years ago, barging inside like he owned the place one fine evening when Mother left the back door open. Because he had.

  Or rather, the people who owned him, had.

  They’d built a new house across town and rented out their old one. Somehow, Toby had gotten out of his new place and ran all the way to his old home.

  He spent a week with us before his people thought to check with us.

  God, I’d loved that pooch. So had Mother.

  So had his owners, who he’d gone back to live with again.

  Now, Miller’s going to take Shane and Lauren away just like Toby’s owners took him. And even if I kinda-sorta-wanna march right up and let my hand fly across his face for the verbal lashing he gave me, you want to know the worst part?

  I hate, hate, hate that he’s going to take his big, snarly face away from me, too.

  The same rough, beardy face I’ve imagined kissing far more times than I even want to count since the second he showed up.

  A little while ago, Miller stormed past me into the house. I haven’t gone after him because I’m worried he’s about to make the kids pack. So I drag myself inside later, bracing for more misery.

  “Gwen, there you are! Want to help me make a necklace?” Lauren asks, perched on a stool.

  She has the jewelry making kit spread out on the kitchen island, one of the two things she picked at Mother’s place. The girl’s got good taste.

  “Sounds like a plan, Lauren,” I tell her.

  I peer around the corner, toward an odd buzzing noise. Gripping his new controller, Shane’s busy making the remote control car speed around the coffee table in quick laps.

  Movement draws my eyes to the sliding glass door, where Miller paces the small deck, phone pressed to his ear. I look at him, subtly glaring, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.

  Go ahead, Mister. Feed your ego.

  Manny will tell him exactly what I just did.

  Shrugging, I walk over to the island. “So what kind of necklace are we making?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. There’s a ton of styles here.” Lauren points to the supplies laid out neatly on the table. “But there’s plenty of chains and beads and little copper pieces, so...we could make matching ones if you’d like?”

  “Not a bad thought,” I say, pulling out a stool to sit down. “I always liked copper and beads. Something simple and rustic.”

  “Me, too!” she chirps. “We could even make one for May. Then we’d all match.”

  Something hot and totally annoying stings my eyes as I nod. “I bet she’d like that, Lauren. She’d like it a lot.”

  Just then, a hulking grizzly bear comes inside as we’re laying out a bead design, but only long enough to grab his laptop off the coffee table. Miller takes it back outside without so much as a glance at me, closing the door behind him.

  God.

  Where did this caveman learn to push my buttons so well?

  The kids don’t say anything about that. They don’t notice, so I pretend I don’t either. Until Shane asks if he can take his car outside.

  “I don’t care,” I answer, “but maybe ask your dad? The noise might bother him while he’s working.”

  “Got it!” Shane says, scrambling up. “But he won’t mind.”

  Strangely, I know that’s true.

  I may be pissed at him, and think he’s a major league ass, but there’s no denying Miller his status as superdad. I’ve never seen him be anything but kind and caring and fair to these kids.

  Even the warning looks he gives them that he thinks are stern are full of love. For their own good.

  So much goodwill, it makes my insides tremble.

  They’re lucky to have each other.

  The thought of something awful happening to them because of this stupid mess or an even dumber fight makes me feel sick. And yeah, okay, slightly less like I want to spit in Miller’s handsome face.

  “So your mom must be really proud of that poem you wrote,” Lauren says, smiling at me.

  Mother pointed out the framed newspaper hanging in her dining room like it was a herald sent from above.

  “I guess. It isn’t much, really. Just a sappy little thing I wrote about a summer day. Crickets, frogs, lightning bugs, sunshine, and stars. I was eleven.” I don’t dare mention that she has two other copies hanging upstairs, one in her bedroom and one in the hall. “It’s not exactly Shakespeare or even Dr. Seuss.”

  “Are you still writing? Something besides poems?”

  “Oh, yes,” I answer, trying not to shudder at the dozens of half-completed manuscripts on my computer and the boxes of spiral notebooks under my bed. “Someday I might even finish a book.”

  “Finish?” Lauren asks. “You mean you haven’t...”

  She looks down, too shy and polite to finish what we already know: I suck at this authoring thing because I have a hard time turning in my homework.

  “It’s okay to laugh, Lauren. I know how crazy it is. I just get about halfway through, going great guns with my characters and plot, but then...I want to start the next book. I see a shiny new plot bunny I have to chase all the way to Wonderland.”

  Her little face scrunches as she frowns. “Is it...?”

  I shrug. “Different reasons, I guess. Or maybe I just have the attention span of a squirrel.”

  “No, I mean, is it writer’s block?”

  I smile at that. She’s sweet for giving me some way to save face.

  “Perhaps.”

  Her face lights up then. I can practically see the invisible light bulb over her head switch on. “That’s no prob! Maybe we should write a book together. That way when you get stuck, I can write, and when I get writer’s block, you
take over.”

  A writing buddy isn’t the worst thing in the world. I never thought I’d consider pairing up with a ten-year-old. No matter how smart she is, I don’t think she’d be at home with my kind of thriller books, but...what if I let her be my pint-sized muse?

  What if she gives me new ideas? Fresh inspiration?

  “Now there’s a thought,” I say, resting my hand on my chin.

  “We could start on it later tonight after we finish our necklaces.” She’s gushing now.

  Poor little thing.

  Only a matter of time until she finds out what it’s like having me as a freaking author-buddy.

  Threading more beads onto my chain, I ask the inevitable. “So what would our story be about?”

  “Hmmm...” She’s quiet, thinking while putting more beads on her chain. “Hey, I know. How ’bout two kids who find buried treasure while looking for golf balls?”

  “Fun idea. And realistic, too,” I say with a wink.

  But actually, my mind goes to a man and woman who are forced to live together due to bad guys chasing them down. A grumpy, handsome man with knockout blue eyes and savage ink crisscrossing his skin, who falls in love with Ms. Impossible against the odds.

  Too real? Or too ridiculous like my kiddie poem?

  “A huge treasure...and then there’s like a bad antique dealer who used to be a pirate who tries to steal it but...but they outsmart him and build themselves a mansion to live in with everyone. Their mom and dad and grandma!” Lauren sets down her necklace, smiling like she’s just cracked the secrets of the universe. “That would be a really good story with a happy ending, wouldn’t it? That’s important. People love happy endings.”

  “They sure do,” I agree.

  The thin real life details she’s basing her tale on don’t have a chance of ending the way she wants. There won’t be happy endings for me and Miller, and the only treasure I’ve got coming is one I’m not sure I want anymore.

  But there can happier times for her and Shane.

  I hope with all my heart they’ll find it, wherever they wind up.

  Someday, once her father gets them out of this jam, they deserve nothing but the best. Tonight, at least I’m here to make sure she has a happy-for-now. Despite her beast-daddy being a butt and a half.

  We finish our necklaces and put them on, comparing how they look.

  Not half bad for an amateur effort.

  I won’t be tearing up the runway any time soon – do jewelry shows even have modeling runways? – but it’s better than one of those ugly summer camp projects I had to do a few times as a kid.

  After putting the rest of the kit back in its plastic case for safekeeping, we find ourselves a gift bag for the third necklace she’s made for Mother. I’ll hang on to it until I see her again.

  The closet also has several spiral notebooks, so we take two out and carry them back to the kitchen, where we sit down and start brainstorming her wild treasure hunter tale.

  “Is it okay to use real names in a story?” she asks, biting her little lip.

  “Well, it’s yours, so you can use any names you want to. No famous people, but common names are fair game. That’s part of the fun of writing. Creating the characters. You give them looks and names and plenty of attitude. Any way you want to slice it, honey.”

  “Wow, I never thought of it like that.” She nibbles on the end of her pencil. “Sooo...I could have a girl with pink hair? Who only wears white clothes? And, oh, has a cat, too. A big fat tabby with black and orange stripes!”

  “Only limit here is your imagination.” It’s sage advice I wish I could follow.

  Her eyes nearly sparkle. “And the cat’s name is Tiger, and hers could be Sally. I’ve always liked that name.”

  “Genius,” I say, giving her shoulder an encouraging pat.

  She starts writing furiously, scratching the paper so hard I can hear it. “This is gonna be so fun!”

  Ah, another wish. Finding her kind of carefree satisfaction writing again.

  When you’re an adult with a bestselling mother, it’s different. Books are minefields of second-guessing, agonizing revisions, ego-bashing feedback, and that’s just the beginning.

  I’ve never even made it to the real arena, where you’re at the mercy of agents and publishers and big fricking bookstores, then the professional reviewers and the readers who will either think it’s the best thing ever or will want to light your little book-baby on fire.

  My chin slips off my hand, and I sit up, blinking. I’m thankful Lauren’s still busily scribbling away so no one saw it.

  Okay. Focus.

  Just like Mother used to do for me when I was younger, I etch out an outline for her, complete with directions on how to create a beginning, middle, and ending to her story that should flow naturally.

  I hope that’s what it does, considering I’ve never finished a book.

  The entire time I’m writing, a completely different story forms in my head.

  The one with the man and woman forced to live together, and how they fall in love. A slow burn hate bleeding into love like a spring thaw.

  I’ve never tried to write a true love story. I didn’t want to follow in Mother’s romancey footsteps.

  But for some reason, this time, a weird rush of magic fills me like never before.

  While Lauren pencils away at her story, I start outlining one of my own and quickly become engrossed.

  Miller finally comes inside and tells the kids it’s bedtime. I’m surprised at the time we’ve lost. Over two hours have gone by, and now it’s well past nine o’clock.

  I close my notebook and tell the kids goodnight. But then, as soon as Miller follows them upstairs, I open the notebook back up to write down one more thought about the hero, and another, and then describe the flag and eagle tattoo on his upper left arm.

  So maybe it is a lot like Miller’s, but that doesn’t mean anything.

  Honest.

  Neither does the fact that the hero has short dark hair and sky-blue eyes and this irresistible scruff that would feel like the finest burn ever on a woman’s soft skin.

  Sigh.

  At least my hero’s name is Graham Rivard, right? That’s nowhere even close to Miller Rush.

  Other details? There might be an artistic resemblance. But only that.

  Too bad the sixth-sense tinge inside me says he’s right behind me. I close the notebook and spin around.

  “Working on the next great American novel?” he asks, one brow lifted.

  I don’t say anything. My pout look tells him it’s none of his business.

  He nods and leans a hip against the side of the center island top. “Sorry about earlier, in the garage. I wasn’t myself. Didn’t mean to put your head on a pike over my shit, Gwen.”

  I wasn’t expecting an apology. But I can figure out why I’m getting one.

  “Oh? You called Manny, didn’t you? And he told you there’s no one else except little old me. So you’re stuck here, just like I said.”

  His grin is half smirk as he nods again. “Yeah, babe, that’s pretty much what he recommended.” He pushes off the counter with one hand. “But I’m not stuck with you. Or I should say you aren’t stuck with us. We’re leaving in the morning, bright and early.”

  My heart leaps up in my chest. “Leaving? Going where?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  He hesitates, then shrugs. “Both, maybe. I’m still working on our route. Still, the less you know, the –”

  “Don’t say it. You don’t even know if it’s for the better, Miller.”

  I know how ridiculous it sounds. I shouldn’t care so much.

  In fact, I should be ecstatic to be done with all this, out of whatever danger zone he might be putting me in every day he hangs around, but...

  But I’m so not done.

  Him leaving like this, practically storming out, just leaves me living the very definition of unfinished business.


  “Listen, I’ll pay you for letting us crash here. I know it wasn’t easy.”

  “It’s not about money,” I throw back, hurt and disgusted at the same time. The worst part is, I can’t even say more without digging myself a deeper shame pit.

  Through his eyes, I’m sure he sees a silly, overly emotional girl. Not an adult. Not someone who ever should’ve been his fake wife and his lifeline to begin with.

  Well, he’s flipping right.

  He lets out a half chuckle. “I almost believe you, Gingersnap.”

  I look up, anger burning in my eyes at that stupid nickname. “Almost?”

  He nods.

  This isn’t helping anything. I pick up my notebook and stand. “I was right about one thing – you really are a ginormous dick.” Heading for the stairs, I add, “Enjoy your last night on the couch.”

  * * *

  Morning takes forever to come.

  At the same time, it comes well before I want it to.

  Before I’m ready for it, even though I hardly sleep a wink.

  I dress quickly, clip up my hair, and brush my teeth before heading downstairs, where the smell of coffee brewing fills the air. It’s almost haunting, this thick roasted scent in the air, like leaves in a crisp bonfire blazing away to ash.

  The way he’s erasing our little...I don’t even know what to call it.

  Arrangement? Ships in the night? Pretend marriage?

  Miller’s in the kitchen, pouring a cup. My mind flashes between reality and fantasy, and for a second, I freeze.

  This image, a man wearing jeans and a t-shirt, barefoot, pouring coffee could be straight out of the romance thriller novel I started last night. Of course, in it, he’d turn around smiling, and hand the heroine a steaming mug of coffee that’s perfectly fixed to her liking.

  Back in reality, I’m expecting him to scowl, or look up anxiously, just hoping to keep the peace so he can leave.

  But sometimes, reality blurs.

  Miller turns, sees me, grins oddly big, and reaches around. He lifts a cup off the counter and holds it toward me. “Half a cup of creamer. Just how you like.”

  Damn!

  My insides nearly melt for absolutely no reason at all.