Rushing In: A Small Town Family Romance

by Claire Kingsley

  He cleared his throat and I practically jumped out of my chair.

  “Sorry,” we both blurted out at the same time.

  I pressed my lips closed, and his hooked in a little smile. He glanced away, like he was confused about something, and took a drink of his coffee.

  It felt like I needed something to do with my hands, so I picked up my almost-empty cup. I was used to being flustered when I met someone new, but this was different. Something about Gavin Bailey made my heart flutter and a cascade of tingles rush through my body.

  Hopefully I wouldn’t start babbling morbid facts about gunshot wounds or decomposing bodies. Sometimes I did that when I was nervous.

  Gavin’s phone dinged and he took it out of his pocket. His face fell. “Damn. My brother Logan needs a ride home.”

  Our eyes met again and that arc of electricity was back, sparks flying in the air around us. I desperately wanted him to stay, and for a second, I was almost overcome by the urge to lean over and kiss him.

  Sucking in a quick breath, I tore my eyes away. “Well, it was nice to meet you. Officially.”

  “Yeah, you too.” He stood and got his crutches under his arms.

  I got up and followed him to the door, then opened it for him. He walked through and glanced back at me.

  “Thanks. I’ll see you around?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you will.”

  His eyes flicked up and down and he nodded, a little smile stealing over his features. “Bye, Skylar.”

  “Bye.”

  I stood there in a daze while the door fell closed behind him. What had just happened? Sure, he was attractive. Jaw-droppingly gorgeous, to be exact. But that didn’t account for the way I floated back to my table, my hand still tingling from where he’d touched me.

  Now was not the time for me to get hung up on a guy, no matter what he looked like. I’d just been dumped, for goodness sake. And I needed to get my career back on track. Figure out how to start writing again.

  I sat down and opened my laptop, determined to focus. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get Gavin Bailey out of my mind.

  7

  Gavin

  What the fuck was that?

  My head swam as I hobbled out of the coffee shop, leaving Skylar behind. Tempting was one thing, but I’d sat there staring—daydreaming about making out with her.

  Okay, fine, I’d been daydreaming about more than just making out.

  But why had I acted like an inexperienced kid? I was never like that around girls. Something about Skylar had emptied my brain. I’d touched her hand out of nowhere, stared at her mouth, and had I even said anything interesting? Probably not.

  This was very not like me. Usually I was charming as fuck.

  Of course, I didn’t need to be charming with her. I didn’t want to go over that argument with myself again, so I just struggled into my truck and went back to the park to pick up my brother.

  The next day, I was no closer to figuring out why I’d been so weird with Skylar. I couldn’t stop thinking about her, either. About her captivating eyes and full lips. The way her soft skin had felt when I’d touched her hand.

  Touched her hand? I was getting a fucking boner remembering the way her hand felt. What was that about?

  Cara—Grace’s bestie—had texted me earlier, asking if I’d come over, so I drove over to her place and parked outside her hillside house. I didn’t know what she had going on, but it was better than trying to talk myself out of going over to Chief’s house to see if I could covertly touch Skylar’s hand again.

  Seriously? What was wrong with me?

  Cara’s house was hella nice. She had money. Lots of money. I didn’t know why—I’d never asked—but it was obvious that she did. Even in college she’d driven an expensive car. And remodeling this place had to have cost a fortune. She liked to throw parties, so I’d been here plenty of times.

  I liked Cara, and she was crazy hot. She had that wild redhead thing going on. Cara was dangerous, and normally that kind of thing was like crack to me. But as much as I liked flirting with her, I was just messing around. I’d never really seen her as a girl I could get dirty with.

  Not that I thought she’d invited me over to get dirty. She hadn’t made it clear what she wanted. But with a girl like Cara—who didn’t really date guys so much as decide that she’d allow one to give her orgasms for a while—you never knew what she was going to do.

  But at this point, I was too curious not to go in. I knocked on her door.

  A second later, my phone buzzed.

  Cara: Come in. My hands are dirty.

  Hands were dirty with what?

  I opened the door, crutched my way inside, and pushed the door closed behind me.

  “I’m in the kitchen,” she called.

  My crutches clicked on the wood floor. Most of the downstairs was wide open with big windows showcasing the view of the river. It looked like a magazine spread or a showroom. Almost too perfect—hardly looked like anyone lived here.

  Except for the kitchen.

  The big island was cluttered with ingredients, bowls, cups, random utensils, and a lot of flour. She had a martini with two olives and her phone was on a stand, paused on what looked like a cooking video.

  Cara stood with her hands held up at boob height, wincing like she’d just gutted an animal and was covered in blood, rather than a messy combination of flour, sugar, butter, and probably something else, given how drippy it was.

  “This asshole said to mix by hand, but mine doesn’t look anything like his.”

  I step-crutched my way into the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

  “Baking.”

  “Are you sure?” I glanced into the soupy mess in her bowl. “What are you trying to bake?”

  “Cookies.”

  “That doesn’t look like cookie dough.”

  “I know,” she groaned. “These are supposed to be foolproof, but apparently Chef fucking Hartley hasn’t met me.”

  “Who’s Chef Hartley?”

  She nodded to her phone. “Guy in the video.”

  “Well that’s your problem. You don’t learn to bake cookies from a fancy chef on the internet.”

  “Who are you supposed to learn from, then?”

  “Native grandmas. Or non-Native grandmas, but you can’t convince me that Native grandmas don’t have something special when it comes to cooking. There’s a reason Gram’s pies win at the Mountain Man festival every year and I’m sure it’s genetic.”

  “Well, I don’t have a grandma, Native or otherwise.”

  “No, but you have the next best thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Me.”

  “You know how to bake cookies.” Her voice dripped with skepticism.

  “Fuck yeah, I know how to bake cookies.” I moved to stand next to her and started pushing stuff around to clear a space on the counter. “I learned from the best. Dump that out. We’ll start over. By the way, how’d you text me if your hands are covered in that disaster you thought was cookie dough?”

  “I voice texted.” She dumped the bowl and rinsed it out.

  “Cool. Okay, do you have chocolate chips?”

  “Yeah, four or five different kinds. I wasn’t sure what to get, so I bought some of everything.”

  I glanced at all the shit she’d left on the counter. “I can see that.”

  She dried out the bowl with a clean towel and set it on the counter. “When I texted you to come over, I figured we’d just fumble around the kitchen and then have to dare each other to eat what we made. Not that you’d know what you were doing.”

  I laughed. “I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with Gram. Probably because I was the youngest. She always put me to work.”

  “Of course she did.”

  “Why the sudden interest in learning to bake?”

  “I’m just bored. Thought I’d find a new hobby.”

  “Does that have anything to do with your bestie having a ba
by?”

  She picked up her drink and took a sip. “Obviously. Everyone knows I’m overly attached to Grace.”

  “You guys do have a weird relationship.”

  “I know.”

  Poor kid was lonely.

  I used her phone to find a recipe that looked close to the one I remembered and walked her through it. Chocolate chip cookies weren’t hard, but if you didn’t know anything—which Cara clearly did not—there were plenty of ways to go wrong. I showed her how to measure everything properly and to follow the recipe directions, not just dump everything in a bowl at once. Then we dropped the dough in little balls on a cookie sheet and put them in the oven.

  “You’re going to have to take these home with you,” she said, dropping another row of cookies on the second baking sheet.

  “Why?”

  “Because otherwise I’ll eat them all. I can’t be trusted.”

  “No problem. I’ll take them to the firehouse. They’ll last about five minutes.” I went around the island and hoisted myself onto a stool, then leaned my crutches against the counter. “Just keep doing what you’re doing until you run out of dough. I need to sit for a minute.”

  “Does your leg hurt?”

  “Yeah, and my other leg gets tired from doing all the work.”

  “I should send Sven to see you.”

  “Who’s Sven?”

  “My massage therapist. His hands are magical. I don’t know how I ever lived without him.” She picked up her martini and took a sip. “I made Grace let me schedule her regular prenatal massages. He does in-home appointments so I’ll just text you.”

  “Thanks. That sounds awesome.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said brightly.

  When the first batch came out of the oven, we let them cool for a few minutes, then taste tested. They were perfect—a little crisp around the edges with chewy middles and gooey chocolate chips.

  “Holy shit, Gav, you weren’t kidding.” Cara licked chocolate off her finger. “You really can bake cookies.”

  “Told you.”

  “I must admit, I’m impressed. Turns out you have a side to you I never knew about.”

  When the cookies were all finished, she packed most of them into a couple of plastic containers and put them in a bag for me. I figured I’d head straight for the firehouse and share the goods while they were still warm. Chocolate chip cookies were best that way.

  I drove down there and got out, struggling a little with the bag. Maybe I needed a backpack or something. I went inside and slowly made my way up the stairs. The kitchen was empty, but the cookies wouldn’t last long once word got around that they were here. I opened one of the containers and left them on the counter.

  Chief came in with an empty coffee mug. He was looking a little rough—tired with a stoop to his shoulders. “Those look good. Did Gram make them?”

  “Nope, Cara and I did.”

  He raised his eyebrows while he poured some hours-old coffee into his mug. “Should I try one or just leave them for the guys?”

  “You should definitely have one. They’re good.”

  He reached for one but hesitated.

  “It’s not a prank,” I said with a laugh. “On my honor. They’re good.”

  “Mind if I ask why you and Cara were baking chocolate chip cookies?” He grabbed one and sniffed it.

  I shrugged. “We were bored.”

  “Good reason, I suppose.” He took a bite and his skepticism melted like one of the chocolate chips. “Okay, you’re right. These are good.”

  “Told you.”

  He took his cookie and coffee to one of the small round tables and sat. Grateful to be getting off my feet—or foot—for a while, I sat across from him.

  “You feeling okay, Chief?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “You sure? Is your back bothering you again?”

  His brow furrowed. “How did you know my back was bothering me?”

  “It’s kind of obvious when you stand up, hold your back, and wince.”

  “I’m not very good at hiding it, am I?”

  “Not really.”

  “You have a lot of your Gram in you,” he said. “You notice things.”

  I shrugged. “I guess.”

  “You have a lot of your dad in you, too.”

  Clearing my throat, I glanced away. I didn’t really like talking about my parents. They were a shitty topic for me, best avoided. I decided to change the subject.

  “How’s Skylar doing?”

  “She’s getting settled.” He took a sip of coffee. “But she’s a bit shy. Has a hard time meeting people.”

  I thought about mentioning that I’d seen her at the coffee shop yesterday, but I had a feeling I’d accidentally say something weird. Like how I’d touched her hand and it had felt like my entire life had flashed before my eyes.

  A life with her.

  Fuck. I needed to get my head together, so I went for a little humor instead. “Yeah, she had to run me over to meet me.”

  He gave me a wry look, but I could see the hint of a smile. “Anyway. I suppose it’s not easy being new in town, but I’m a little worried about her.”

  “Why?”

  “She spends a lot of time alone.”

  The thought of Skylar being lonely tugged at me. Shy girl. New in town. There wasn’t anything I could do about that, but I hated the idea of her being all alone.

  Except… maybe there was something I could do about that.

  Chief finished off the cookie and I stared at the wall, suddenly at war with myself. Because I had an idea.

  A bad idea.

  But so tempting.

  Maybe even irresistible.

  “Chief, I think I can solve both our problems.”

  “Both? What’s your problem?”

  “I’m bored off my ass. I can’t even be on light duty for a while. I need something to do. I only know like three cookie recipes, so that’s going to get old fast.”

  “And my problem is?”

  “You’re worried about your daughter.”

  “I’m not making the leap. How can you solve both problems?”

  My lips curled in a smile. Yep, I could totally do this. “I’ll be Skylar’s first friend in Tilikum.”

  I could totally see Chief trying to keep his face neutral. “Hmm.”

  “I know what you’re thinking—”

  “I’m pretty sure you don’t.”

  “Just friends, Chief.”

  He eyed me over his coffee mug.

  “I’m not suggesting I date your daughter. You said she’s shy and doesn’t really know anyone in town yet. I’m the opposite of shy and I know pretty much everybody. We can hang out, I can show her all the cool stuff there is to do. Introduce her around. I can help her get used to Tilikum life.”

  “Why do I feel like I’d be inviting the wolf into my pasture?”

  I grinned. “Evan’s the wolf. I’m just an otter.”

  With a soft laugh, he shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong. I’ve known you your whole life. I know what you’re made of, and it’s the same stuff your dad was made of. Which is also why it makes me a little nervous.”

  “How much trouble can I really get into? I only have one leg.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You and I both know if you’re presented with a cookie jar, you’re going to steal a cookie.”

  I put my hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not going to steal this cookie. Besides, I know how to make my own cookies.”

  His brow furrowed.

  “That kind of sounded like a masturbation joke and I totally didn’t mean it that way.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “But I don’t have any issues with that, so you know, if the cookie jar started to look really tempting, I could always take care of things myself. Make my own cookies, so to speak.”

  “Jesus, Gav.”

  “I’m just saying. It’s like a release valve.”

  “Okay, I
get it. Look, Skylar’s a grown woman. She can be friends with who she likes. You don’t need my permission.”

  “Awesome.”

  “But Gavin.” He met my eyes.

  Wow. I’d never taken the full force of a protective father stare before. It gave me a quick hit of adrenaline. “Yeah?”

  “She’s been through some stuff recently. Be careful with her.”

  “I will. She’ll be totally safe with me. In fact, she’ll be safer with me than she would be on her own because I’ll be able to help her steer clear of any guys who you’d want to keep her away from. Not that I’m assuming she’d date those guys if left on her own. She’s probably too smart for that.”

  “Even smart girls can get caught up with the wrong man.”

  “One of the many reasons she needs me.”

  He nodded slowly, and I could tell he was getting into this idea.

  I sure was. Okay, yes, I was attracted to her, and usually when I was attracted to a girl, I pursued her relentlessly. But I could hang out with Skylar and help her acclimate to Tilikum without crossing that line. I wasn’t a total animal. I had some self-control.

  I could resist the cookies in this cookie jar.

  It was simple. I’d be friends with Skylar, and that was all.

  Now I just had to talk her into it.

  8

  Skylar

  The water pouring out of the faucet in the kitchen sink caught my eye. Absently, I rinsed off the plate in my hand, pondering the clear liquid flowing from the tap.

  A waterfall. No, a dam—maybe one built by beavers. Sticks and debris everywhere. Maintenance workers wade into the murky water to clear some of the mess and find it’s not just river detritus causing the blockage. It’s a body.

  I made a mental note to research the effects of prolonged submersion in water on a corpse.

  Again.

  My Google search history was rather morbid. Job hazard.

  But… where was the story?

  The homicide detective trying to make a name for herself gets caught in a web of lies and danger as she digs into the murder? Internal cover-ups and conspiracy? Or is it a family member of the victim, intent on proving it wasn’t suicide, who stumbles on a secret society, and the penalty for revealing its existence is death?