The Romeo Arrangement: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

  Then came the moment I wish I could forget.

  He turned, stared, and winked at me, those bear-like brown eyes so dark, so hard to decipher.

  No, I didn’t know what was going on, but Mom’s sick, strained expression told me all I needed. It also warned me to keep my mouth shut.

  So I did, keeping one hand on my hip, softly pinching the skin under my jeans until it bruised.

  The same spot aches now, remembering that day.

  We’d moved to the farm the same week. Though the place was worn down and needed a lot of money and time to fix it up, it was ours.

  We built Sellers’ Pumpkin Patch into a profitable business. Things were good, very good, until my last year at college, when Mom was diagnosed with cancer. Her health insurance soon maxed out and Dad wound up making a call to Clay Grendal for help.

  Dad would do anything for her, and he swore to drive her to the Mayo Clinic one state over for the best treatment available, even if it cost a fortune.

  I’d been there again when Clay showed up, this time at the farm, sporting another fat bag bursting with cash. He’d acted sincere, concerned for my mom.

  Dad was relieved, and the money made her final days fairly peaceful.

  That’s why I’d never said a word about how Clay looked at me, this lecherous gleam in his eye.

  How he ran a hand down my arm when my parents were out of the room.

  Every last bit of me cringed, knowing what this wolf wanted.

  I still haven’t said a word about it, or the other things that happened.

  The ‘bad luck’ started after Mom died.

  Little things at first. Petty vandalism—someone driving through the pumpkin fields and then the corn maze right before Halloween, our peak season.

  The next year, it was worse.

  The barn and gift shop caught on fire. Since it was ruled arson, insurance wouldn’t pay.

  They wouldn’t cover the cost of all the items that were stolen, either. By fall, we couldn’t even buy a new insurance policy. Not that it mattered, there wasn’t much left to insure, and Dad was in no state to rebuild anything himself.

  I knew it was Clay. Dad insisted it wasn’t, it couldn’t be, he’d never...

  Oh, but he would.

  And he did.

  Dad’s eyes were opened when the demon visited us one night, asking for his payment, flashing this violent sneer as he mentioned our run of hard times.

  Ugh.

  So much for my appetite.

  Tobin’s chicken soup tastes divine, but I can’t bring myself to eat another bite.

  I dump out the remnants in the bowl and go to bed, hoping I’ll be able to sleep and come up with a plan in the morning.

  Dad’s right about one thing—we can’t drag anyone else into our problems. Even if we’re broke, desperate, and for now, effectively homeless.

  I also know Dad needs a doctor. His cough keeps getting worse, and he’s getting smaller and greyer by the day.

  It’s times like this, back when I was little, that Mom would bring me a candle and a soft, angelic smile. She’d stroke my head and speak her catchphrase.

  “If you’ve got a light, you’ve still got a wish.”

  But what do you do when the only light you’ve got is borrowed from a generous stranger and you stopped believing in wishes years ago?

  What do you do when there’s no fight left in a battle that was always lost?

  4

  No Easy Way Out (Ridge)

  Tobin finishes filling a steaming cup of coffee on the table just as I walk into the kitchen.

  A little white bottle of pain relievers sits next to it, waiting for me.

  “I don’t need those,” I say with a snort. “Didn’t get that plastered last night.”

  “Oh? Not even for your morning after headache?” He folds his arms, a smirk barely hidden on his face.

  I’m still amazed he hadn’t seen through my acting last night.

  I pick up the coffee and take an angry slurp, eyeballing him the entire time. He huffs out a breath and shakes his head.

  Honestly, I shouldn’t be amazed.

  It’s what he expected, I’m sure, considering the date.

  Why I was itching to get the hell out of here yesterday, go into town to stock up before the storm hit full force, and stop off at the Purple Bobcat.

  Yesterday was the three-year anniversary of Mom’s death, and I’d wanted to forget.

  Still do.

  “What, dude? You’re looking at me like I went on a wild bender and crashed the truck into a snowbank. I could still drive, Tobin, I wasn’t stone drunk.”

  “Then how, pray tell, did we wind up with guests? Guests who came with plenty of trouble, I might add. You do remember last night, right?” He cocks his head, giving me the old accusatory principal look.

  Well, at least there’s one part of Mom still living on.

  Hell, I haven’t forgotten anything.

  In fact, a pair of soft baby-blue eyes kept me up far past my bed time last night, and I rolled out of bed with them still glued to my mind.

  Grace Sellers. Pumpkin farmer. Sugar sweet smile. Sweeter ass.

  Not so sweet backstory.

  Here’s what I’d really like to know: who chases a frigging pumpkin farmer across three states for a shakedown over a debt?

  And why?

  Those are the things that have me seeing double this morning.

  “What was I supposed to do? Leave them?” I snap. “Just let ’em get marched off to fuck knows where with that bulldog latched on? With the storm, you know Sheriff Wallace and his boys would’ve been too busy to do anything timely. I swear, this town needs more cops for the amount of trouble around here.”

  “And you would be wise not to volunteer to take on their excess trouble, Ridge,” Tobin says firmly, laying strips of bacon into a pan on the stove.

  “Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”

  He gives me a dirty look and curls his lip. But with the usual Tobin O’Hare self-control, he keeps his genteel lips glued shut before anything rude flies out.

  Perish the fucking thought.

  Still grumbling to myself, I carry my coffee to the window and look out across the expanse of white snow glistening around the guesthouse. She’d been scared out of her wits last night by that Jackknife idiot, but other than her eyes, she hadn’t shown the shock I’d expected.

  I’ve lived through trauma many times.

  I know the way a person reacts when they’ve been mugged, or they pick up the phone and hear someone close has died out of the blue, or fate decides to drive an unlucky bullet into their spine on a hot Afghan day.

  It’s different for every person and every situation, sure.

  For her, it just wasn’t there.

  Grace didn’t react with any of the monotone looks or shaking or panic crying I’d expected.

  Almost like she’s used to run-ins with scoundrels like bald-fuck.

  That bothers me, thinking that a girl like her could get used to being scared.

  “A little company won’t be the end of the world. Might even do us both a solid,” I tell Tobin, still gazing out the window. “We’ve been snowed in here since November. Couldn’t even make it over to the Larkins’ place for Christmas.”

  “The roads will be clear enough to the airport in Dickinson in a few days. We could take a trip, if it’s socializing you’re after. The Florida Keys. Lanai. Bali.”

  “No.”

  He looks up from making breakfast, that mask he wears revealing nothing.

  “Miss Silk left a message. Perhaps if you’d agree to meet with her in person—”

  “I don’t care,” I growl.

  My agent, Bebe Silk, cares more about the money I’d make her if I ever returned to the silver screen than anything that has to do with my well-being.

  Let her find another golden boy for Hollywood’s spider trap.

  Tobin sighs. “You’re going to have to go out in public ag
ain eventually, Ridge. You can’t keep yourself exiled indefinitely, and I know Dallas isn’t big enough to satisfy your needs forever.”

  “Needs satisfied. We went out yesterday. We had a grand old time with Grady and our new friends.” I stare out the window, wondering if I just saw someone walk past a window in the guesthouse.

  Probably not. Unless I have eagle eyes.

  “I believe you know what I’m suggesting. Time out, culture and conversation, away from somewhere other than an establishment with Bobcat in the name,” Tobin says dryly. “It’s not too late to meet someone who appeals to you romantically, either. You’re still a young man.”

  I whip around from the window as a solid bout of anger rises.

  “You done?”

  “Forgive me,” he says softly, then turns his eyes back to the sizzling bacon and eggs.

  I know exactly what he’s trying to do, and it pisses me off. My nonexistent love life is none of his goddamn business.

  But I know he means well. I know he cares. I know he’s the only person on the planet who might even love me, like family, for being Ridge Barnet instead of Dane.

  “I didn’t mean to snap. Sorry. But I like the Purple Bobcat, Tobin. I don’t like fucking dating—especially not anyone who’d laugh in my face at the idea of settling down in this town. We’ll still take trips when I’m good and ready. I give you plenty of vacation time; you must have like six months stockpiled since you’ve never taken a day off in ten years. You’re welcome to go wherever you’d like if this place is driving you stir-crazy. I’ll be fine here alone for a few weeks. I do whatever the hell I want.”

  “That was perfectly evident last night,” Tobin mutters. “What if that man decides to press charges?”

  I step over to the counter and refill my coffee cup.

  “That dickhead, you mean? He’s not going to the cops. For Christ’s sake, his name was Jackknife. You don’t get a name like that by being Mr. Rogers.”

  “All the more reason for you not to get mixed up with him,” Tobin says with his head stuck in the fridge.

  I’ve had it with his lecture.

  It’s in his nature, always looking out for me and my interests, often against my own judgment.

  Sometimes it helps. Usually it’s nothing but mad annoying.

  I don’t have a single regret about what I did last night, though, and won’t let him make me think I should.

  “That’s not enough bacon,” I say, nodding toward the pan.

  He closes the fridge and straightens to his full height. “How hungry are you?”

  “We have guests. Make more.” I set my cup on the counter. “Please.”

  He doesn’t respond, just like I’m expecting.

  Still, I also know there’ll be plenty of food for Grace and her father when I come back downstairs after my shower. He doesn’t need to be told twice.

  Tobin may not always like my decisions, but he’s loyal to a fault.

  That’s exactly how it happens after I clean up and head downstairs.

  The table is set, full of food, and Grace and Nelson are sitting there with Tobin at the table within half an hour of when I’d left the kitchen.

  Nelson doesn’t look any better this morning than he did last night.

  In fact, he looks a shade paler if it isn’t just the light. There’s hardly any color to his skin. He resembles someone wearing the first layer of the special effects zombie makeup I used to see when I starred in a horror flick.

  A frown pulls at my lips. This guy should see a doctor.

  “We, um, really appreciate your hospitality, Ridge,” Grace says as the food gets passed around the table. “Last night and this morning.”

  I’m glad because hospitality is the last thing on my mind.

  Now that I can see her in the clear light of day? I wonder how a bona fide angel made it to this table.

  My eyes keep drifting over to her heart-shaped lips as she brings a tall glass of orange juice up to her mouth. The dark blue of her shirt is reflected in her eyes, just a shade lighter, and her cheeks flush soft pink.

  A stormy contrast that puts lava in my blood.

  Fuck.

  She may look like heaven, but my thoughts are in a lower, darker, dirtier place.

  I rip my gaze off her, finally, not wanting to be the guy who adds to her woes by leering like a sex-starved dog.

  “It’s no problem,” I say. “We like having company, especially this time of year.”

  How? How the hell can she be a hundred times prettier this morning than last night?

  “Were you out in the barn already?” I ask her, after everyone has had a good chance to sample their breakfast.

  Nodding, she swallows before saying, “I was. I fed the horses, bright and early like they’re used to. Oh, and Cornelius. I took care of him, too.”

  “He didn’t peck your eyes out?”

  “Nope, sure didn’t.” She grins. “He crowed a few times. You weren’t kidding about the set of lungs on that guy.”

  I nod, fighting back a smile. That sounds a lot more like the literal cock I know.

  “That’s what he does, never misses a chance to announce his presence to the world. I think maybe they haven’t heard him down in Sydney yet.”

  She flashes me a smile fit to kill at my idiot joke.

  Mayday.

  “We’ll be heading out shortly,” Nelson says, taking another bite of scrambled eggs and chewing loudly.

  That’s about all he’s eaten, a few bites of eggs, and his breathing sounds labored again.

  “Not today,” I reply, setting my fork and knife down. “It takes forty-eight hours or more for the plows to make it out here sometimes. Your truck will never make it to the highway through these drifts. Even without a horse trailer.”

  I’d had a hell of a time keeping it moving through the pathway the dually opened ahead of us last night.

  The snow quit falling sometime early this morning, but those drifts must be four to six feet high in all the usual tight overflow spots along the driveway. I could see them from the windows upstairs.

  “Don’t you have a plow?” Grace asks, setting down her fork. “Or even a tractor with a bucket? I could help you clear this place out.”

  Tobin smiles like he’s just switched on one of his damn operas.

  “No, unfortunately,” I say, shooting a glare at him. “They warned me, but hearing it and living through your first winter here is something else. Especially when my friend here thought a plow would be excessive.”

  Tobin winks at me from across the table.

  Leave it to a man who’s spent his entire life in balmy SoCal to underestimate General Winter. Tobin practically laughed at me when I suggested buying a plow back in October.

  He wasn’t onboard with this whole ranch idea from the beginning, and he’d suggested we wait until after winter to decide on more equipment, just in case we decided not to stick it out here.

  “I hire a guy to plow right now, but he has other places on his route and his first duty’s to the city of Dallas. He won’t be here until tomorrow, probably. We never need to go anywhere fast.”

  I flash Tobin a look again, grateful I’d ignored him on one thing last year. At least I’d bought the four-wheel drive dually so we could still push through for emergencies.

  “Well, then, we’ll pay you if we’re well and truly stuck here,” Nelson says. “For lodging and—”

  “Forget it,” I tell him. “I don’t need your money. The good company’s payment enough.”

  Cash is the last thing I need. Between my royalties and a sizable inheritance from Dad’s old company, now absorbed into a major airline, I’ll have a hard time spending a fraction of a billion dollars before I die, even if I live to be two hundred years old.

  “How ’bout flowers? Could you use a few of those?” Nelson asks, lifting his brows.

  “Dad!” Grace shoots her father a scowl.

  I hear her foot scuff the floor, no doubt from giving hi
m a kick under the table. I fight back the urge to smile.

  “Flowers, huh? Enlighten me,” I say.

  “That’s what she does.” Nelson coughs into his sleeve. “The girl’s a natural, puts ’em together in the prettiest arrangements you’ve ever laid eyes on. Does them up nice and fresh, too. Better than the ones you’ve got sitting on that little stand where we walked in. No offense.”

  The amusement in Tobin’s eyes dies. He sits up straighter in his chair, reaching for the food in the center of the table.

  “Would anyone care for more bacon?” he asks, holding up the platter still heaped with crisp, fried strips.

  It’s no secret what he’s doing.

  The flowers Nelson mentioned are the yellow silk roses under my mother’s portrait in the entryway. I’d had it installed right before the house was move-in ready.

  Mom loved yellow roses till the end.

  Our house was full of them growing up. Somehow, her dressing rooms at the studios and most of the hotels she’d ever stayed in had at least one or two bunches of them hanging around, too.

  Wherever that woman went, she left a trail of beautiful, delicate gold in her wake. Like she couldn’t resist making this world just a little bit brighter.

  If only it repaid her in kind.

  When she died, we made sure her casket was draped in a cloud of airy yellow bouquets.

  Tobin knows a touchy subject that might set me off like a stick of dynamite when he hears it.

  At least, that’s how it’s been before.

  Strangely enough, today, I don’t feel the usual anger surging hot in my veins.

  I hadn’t last night, either, when I’d told Grace my parents were dead.

  I didn’t even realize it until now.

  Who the hell knows what that means.

  “You’re a florist?” I ask her. “I thought you raised pumpkins.”

  She nods shyly. “Dad did most of the pumpkin farming. I helped when I lived at home, but then I went to college.” She glances at her father. “I’m an interior designer. Floral design is just part of it, the main thing that caught my interest.”

  I look at Tobin. “We could use some decorating around here, don’t you think? The boys who finished this place left it so neat and tidy it’s almost like a mausoleum. Never got around yet to putting our own spin on it.”