The Danger With Fireworks (Holiday Romance Book 3)

by Robin Daniels

  ROBIN DANIELS

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE

  COPYRIGHT

  ALSO BY

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  ABOUT ROBIN

  Published by Bluefields

  Copyright © 2020 by Robin Daniels

  Edition 1.0

  Edited by Jennifer Henkes (www.literallyjen.com)

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ALSO BY ROBIN DANIELS

  YOUNG ADULT NOVELS

  Perfectly Oblivious

  Perfectly You

  Perfectly Summer

  Perfectly Misunderstood

  Fate & Fortune

  Kismet & Karma

  One of the Girls

  YOUNG ADULT NOVELLAS

  The Trouble With Christmas

  The Problem With Cupid

  The Danger With Fireworks

  NEW ADULT NOVELS

  Millionaire B&B

  I pulled into Singing Oak Arts Camp feeling a jumbled mix of nervous and excited. This was my first real job—a.k.a one where my employer wasn’t related to me. My friend Abby told me about the camp. She said her sister worked here and loved it. Then she convinced me to apply. I tried not to be hopeful because the job sounded too good to be true and there was no way I was the most qualified applicant. So, when the director called with the offer, I was shocked but ecstatic. I’d never considered myself a lucky person. Maybe that would change this summer.

  The moment I stepped out of my car, a woman wearing a sparkly visor and clutching a bedazzled clipboard greeted me enthusiastically. “Mr. Jenkins! Welcome to Singing Oak!” She spread her arms wide, showcasing the scenery like a product model.

  This woman was a trip. Big hair, bigger sunglasses, and a feather boa wrapped around her neck. She was every quirky, artsy cliché one could imagine. “Hello, Ms. Rupert. It’s nice to meet you in person.” My final interview had been done by video conference. It clearly hadn’t provided an accurate picture of my new boss’s theatrical personality. But, given where I was, I suppose I should have expected it.

  “Please, call me Vivian. I’m only thirty-five. Not nearly old enough to be a Ms.” Vivian was extremely tall, so when she placed her hands on my shoulders to air kiss both cheeks, it wasn’t much of a stretch.

  I chuckled. “Thirty-five? You don’t look a day over twenty-eight.”

  “Ooh, I like you already.” She grinned at me with an exaggerated wink, then called over her shoulder, “Chloe dear, can you come help Garland with his luggage?”

  A girl, who was clearly related to my friend Abby, wandered around the side of a nearby cabin. She was thin, like her sister, though her long, toned legs made her much taller—five-nine or ten, if I had to guess. She had Abby’s button nose, complete with a dusting of freckles and the same pouty lips. The one thing, besides height, that set the two apart was Chloe’s waist-long mane of stick-straight, shiny strawberry-blonde hair.

  Chloe approached and flipped her sunglasses to the top of her head, revealing bright blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes. She put her hands on her hips, looking me over while she blew a giant bubble with her gum. When it popped, she sucked the sticky pink glob back into her mouth. It made a loud cracking noise as she bit down on it again.

  “So, you’re the guy Abby gushed about,” she said frankly. I couldn’t tell if it was a compliment or a simple observation. “A ginger and a day walker. Nice.”

  My brow crinkled. “A day walker?”

  “Yeah. Like a vampire.” She folded her arms across her chest and waited for me to get the reference. I was too busy watching her mouth move. Every few chomps, she pulled the gum tight over her tongue. It was mesmerizing. When I didn’t respond, she grew impatient, cocking her head to the side. “As in, you can go outside during the daytime without being fried crispy?”

  I gave my head a quick shake, breaking the bubblegum trance. “That I can.”

  Chloe looked me up and down, then wrinkled her nose. “My sister assured me we’d be instant buddies, but you’re barely a redhead.” Huh? What the heck did my hair color have to do with anything? She jerked her chin toward my head and shook hers in disapproval. “Auburn. That’s code for almost brown. I’m not sure we can be friends now.”

  “Okay…” I felt like I’d been knocked upside the head with a stick. This girl might have looked like Abby, but that’s where the similarities stopped.

  She waited a beat, then laughed. “Oh my gosh, I’m messing with you, newbie.”

  “Right.” I choked out a lame chuckle.

  She waved her hand dismissively and reached down to pick up my bag. “Your hair’s great. Your tan, too. Totally jealous. We still can’t be friends, though, because I’m your boss.”

  “Chloe,” Vivian warned, sounding stern but looking as if she were holding back laughter. “Be nice. And don’t abuse the power. I can take it away as quickly as I gave it.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Chloe saluted Vivian, then spun on her heel and marched off toward a trail labeled staff cabins.

  Vivian rolled her eyes, but her smile was warm. It was easy to see she had a great affection for Chloe. “As you know, I’m the camp director. Clint, who’s probably floating around the kitchen somewhere, is the assistant director. You’ll meet him at orientation. We also have five junior leaders, traditionally referred to as group moms or dads. All counselors are assigned to a “family” when they get here, and Chloe happens to be your mom. She might be in charge, but her word isn’t law. Don’t let her convince you otherwise.”

  “I’ll do my best.” I laughed.

  Vivian nodded toward Chloe, who was shouldering my backpack with one arm and hefting my giant suitcase against her hip with the other. She looked as if she were about to tip over. “You better go help her before she drops that on her toe. She’s a dancer; kind of needs her toes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I mimicked Chloe’s salute, grabbed my sleeping bag and pillow, then jogged to the trail. When I caught up, I tried to take the case from her hand.

  “Watch it, buddy,” she growled. “You do that, and I’ll fall backward. I’m perfectly balanced right now.”

  “You’re perfectly moving like a snail.” I chuckled. “Let me help.”

  “If you must.” She sighed and dropped both bags at her feet. “You know, I’m just trying to be a good mother here.”

  I shoved my sleeping bag at her and flexed my biceps like a bodybuilder. “Thanks, but how about you let your strapping son do the heavy lifting?”

  She clasped her hands over her heart and fluttered her eyelashes. In a dramatic Southern accent, she replied, “Oh, goodness me. What a sweet boy, lookin’ out for his mama. I must have raised you right.” Then she stuck her finger out and bopped the end of my nose.

  I blinked hard as I cleared my throat to conceal a snicker. Chloe’s theatrical flair seemed genuine, but I was struggling to
reconcile myself with her personality. She couldn’t be more different from her sister. Abby told me they were close, but the thought of them intentionally hanging out blew my mind.

  I wedged my pillow under my arm, grabbed my bags, and trudged onward. “Vivian said you’re a dancer, but to me, you scream actor.”

  Chloe bounced around my side and walked backward so she could face me. “I sing, too.”

  “Ah, the triple threat.”

  She beamed at the compliment and asked, “How about you? Are you a one-trick pony?”

  I chuckled. “I can carry a tune okay, but you don’t want to see me dance.”

  Her brow furrowed. “You can’t be that bad.”

  “Lucky for me, you’ll never know,” I replied. She grinned impishly, as if she had a wicked secret. It made me nervous. “What? I don’t like the face you’re making.”

  “Nothing.” She hummed.

  I snorted. “Well…that doesn’t sound suspicious.”

  We’d reached a small cabin with a porch that spanned the length of the front. The roof was steep and covered in green shingles. It reminded me of these blocks I used to play with at my grandparents’ house called Lincoln Logs. There were two identical bright-red doors with screens, spaced about ten feet apart. Each door had a small window beside it and a flat mailbox mounted to the front. The box on the right was labeled boys. The box on the left read girls.

  Chloe bounded up the steps and sat on a weathered rocking bench, large enough for two or three people. “Home sweet home,” she said, then added with a hint of sarcasm, “I’ve assigned you to the boys’ room.” She arched an eyebrow, her voice playful. “Unless you’d feel more comfortable on the other side?” I pursed my lips and glared at her. She held her hands up and snickered. “Hey, you never know with theater guys. I didn’t want to assume.”

  I was sure Abby had told her sister about me, including the episode with our awkward love triangle. My preference for girls should have been well known, which meant Chloe didn’t need a warmup phase before razzing complete strangers. I could work with that. “The boys’ cabin will be adequate,” I replied dryly.

  “Good. The girls’ side would have been crowded if we had to squeeze you in.” Chloe popped up from the bench and opened the cabin door, ushering me inside.

  The space was small. It had one bunk bed and one single, a dresser with nine drawers, and a tiny side table with three stools. A lamp sat on the table, and there were frilly blue curtains hanging over the window. Along the far wall was a walk-in closet, just deep enough to make the vanity beside it feel set back from the room. The counter held a shallow sink; the mirror above it was lined with clear globe lights. It looked very much like a performer’s makeup station.

  I was the first person to arrive, so I claimed the single bed by throwing my stuff on it. “Is this the bathroom?” I asked, pointing at the door next to the sink.

  “Sure is.” Chloe turned the brass knob and pushed the door open. I peeked inside to find a standing shower, a toilet with a window over it, and another door on the opposite wall. She must have seen the question on my face, because she answered it before I could ask. “Yes, we all share a bathroom.” She frowned. It was the first time since we met that I’d seen her smile slip. “It’s my least favorite part about this place. The only way it works is if everyone adheres to the strict potty policy.”

  “Potty policy?” I asked, raising my eyebrows and pulling a funny face. Despite my levity, she remained dead serious. I bit down on my twitching lip.

  After a second, she started ticking the rules off on her fingers. “Lock both doors when in use—it sucks to get walked in on. I know from experience. Keep your shower under five minutes. Replace the TP if you take the last of it. And, for heaven’s sake, open the window and use the air freshener when you poop.” My mouth dropped in shock. I choked out a strangled laugh-snort combo. Chloe cocked her head to the side. “What?” she asked.

  “You said poop,” I squeaked.

  She threw her hands on her hips. “Would you prefer I used the cruder term?”

  “No.” I laughed. “It’s not the word itself, it’s that you brought it up at all. Abby would rather die than broach that subject. Most girls would.”

  Chloe arched one brow, pursed her lips, and stuck her nose in the air. “Well, I’m not most girls. And I’m definitely not Abby.” She stared me straight in the eye, daring me to compare her with her sister again. This delicate, willowy-looking girl was a little bit frightening. I don’t know if she expected a response, but my brain chose that exact moment to shut down. Luckily, the creaking of the screen door drew her laser vision away from my rapidly heating face.

  A short, skinny guy with a fair complexion and thick, shaggy brown hair stepped in. He was sporting aviator glasses, cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a T-shirt that read Hey Man, Bach Off! “Matt!” Chloe yelped. He dropped his bags on the floor and opened his arms. She rushed him for a hug. “Oh my gosh, I’ve missed you so much.”

  “I can see that.” He chuckled, peeling her away from him. He glanced at me, a friendly smile spreading across his face. “Is this my new brother?”

  She bobbed her head and bent over to grab Matt’s bag. It took considerable effort on my part to avoid checking out her butt. Dang those frayed cut-off shorts. Chloe spoke as she lugged his duffle to the bottom bunk. “Matt, this is Garland, our new theater geek.” She spun around, just in time to see my face scrunch up, and smirked. “Garland, meet Matt, the music nerd.”

  “Hey, man.” Matt held out his hand. I shook it. He didn’t seem the least bit offended by Chloe’s introduction. She had this peppy snark thing going on that made it hard to tell if she was trying to be funny or masking an insult with a joke.

  “Nice to meet you.” Matt glanced at the mattress where Chloe had set his stuff. He looked at her in awe. “Am I not relegated to the top bunk again this year?”

  “Nope,” she replied with a pop of her p. “You two are it.”

  “Sweet!” He hissed and lunged onto the bed, shoving all his bags back to the floor so he could sprawl out. Then he turned to me and said, “I always get stuck on top.”

  “If you want the single, I could pull rank and make him trade you,” Chloe suggested as she eyeballed me.

  Matt gasped in mock incredulity. “Power hungry much? Am I going to regret requesting you as my mother?”

  “Not if you’re a good boy,” she replied with an evil grin.

  “And what happens if I’m naughty?” He grinned back.

  “I’ll turn you over my knee and give you a whoopin’.”

  “Promise?” he challenged. Their repartee sounded like hardcore flirting, but it lacked the charge of pheromones one would expect to accompany such a topic.

  “You better believe it.” She air kissed him, then giggled.

  There had to be some sort of inside joke behind the banter. Chloe and Matt clearly shared the bond of summers past. I already felt like an odd man out. It would suck if every conversation was so exclusive.

  “Who’s our art freak?” Matt asked.

  “Marissa,” Chloe answered.

  “Oh! Thank the stars.” Matt clapped a relieved hand over his chest. “If I got stuck with Regan two years in a row, I’d have to quit.”

  “What’s wrong with Regan?” I asked. I had a feeling I better start inserting myself if I wanted to be included.

  “Nothing’s wrong with Regan, she’s just a little—”

  “Nuts.” Matt cut off with an eyeroll and a flat tone. “Admit it, the girl’s straight-up psycho-pants.” He shuddered. “And kind of creepy.”

  “Be nice,” Chloe chided.

  “Hey.” He fluffed his pillow behind his neck and crossed his right ankle over his left knee. “I’m not trying to be mean. Just honest.” She narrowed her eyes at him, and a staring match ensued. Eventually, Matt cracked, looking away first. Chloe gloated by sticking her tongue out. These two had the family bit down pat.

  Geek, nerd, freak? They
seemed to have an affectionately condescending label for each art’s concentration. I wondered if that was a “them” thing or an everyone thing. Out of curiosity, I asked, “What do you call the writers?”

  There was a short pause. Chloe and Matt glanced at each other before answering in unison, “Hermits.” They busted up laughing. I didn’t get the joke. I’d done some plays in high school, but I was mostly an athlete. And I was quickly discovering that I had a lot to learn about the “artsy” culture.

  “A little help out here!” a fragile voice called from the porch. “Someone? Anyone?”

  “Aww,” Matt cooed. “Is that Shelly?” He started to roll off the bed.

  Chloe grinned. “Speaking of hermits.” She waved her hand at Matt. “Don’t get up. I’ve got this.” She flew out the door, calling, “Hey, Shell-bell!”

  I looked at Matt. “Geez. Is she always so, so…”

  “Insane?” Matt offered.

  “I was going to say spunky.”

  He snorted. “That’s a nicer way to put it. And yes, she’s pretty much always like that. A tornado with legs.” He raised his eyebrows up and down suggestively. “Crazy sexy legs.”

  I nodded my agreement while keeping a neutral expression. Chloe and I weren’t even close to related, but something still felt wrong about perving on my fake mom. I cleared my throat. “If Shelly’s a hermit, Marissa’s an art freak, you’re a music nerd, and I’m a theater geek, what does that make Chloe?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” He smirked. “Chloe’s a dance diva.”

  I snickered. That was one nickname which seemed totally appropriate.

  Shelly and I stood at the flagpole, waiting for new staff orientation to begin. This was Shelly’s fifth summer at Singing Oak, but her first year as a counselor. I tried to make casual conversation, though getting her to say more than a couple words was like pulling teeth. Matt had warned me that she was shy. Shy seemed to be an understatement. At this point, I was wondering if Shelly was the reason writers had the hermit label.

  “Who are we waiting on?” I asked in annoyance. The meeting was supposed to start fifteen minutes ago, and there was zero shade nearby. I didn’t mind the sun cooking my skin, but I was starting to sweat. If I wanted to be that sweaty guy, I’d have applied at a summer camp in Arizona…or Dubai.