The Romeo Arrangement: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

  I laugh to myself. He’ll never admit what a softie he is.

  “Fine. Did she mention any new ideas for all that old crap we found?”

  “The antiques, you mean?” He stops in the doorway and looks at me, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

  “No, the mummy we unearthed in the field. Come on, man, you know what I mean.” I groan, dragging a hand across my face.

  “Their age commands a certain respect,” he says, suddenly the old-timey teacher rapping me across the knuckles for a dumb answer. “It sounds like you didn’t notice all the work she did today.”

  “Work? Where? You mean she’s already getting it in place?”

  “You’re a hopeless man, Ridge Barnet.” He huffs out a breath. “Follow me.”

  I bite back a grin.

  Even Tobin has his limits with my shit sometimes.

  “Been busy. I haven’t had a chance to prowl around the house all day,” I say, catching up to him.

  We head to the next floor.

  As soon as I enter the foyer, I stop, stare, and look around.

  I was so focused on my own work when I’d walked in, I hadn’t noticed anything, and now I wonder how the hell I’d missed the obvious.

  The entire area is transformed.

  Mother’s portrait, the vase with the yellow roses, it’s all there, but...

  “Damn,” I whisper, glancing at Tobin.

  He nods, not even trying to hide a smile like usual, and then turns, heading for the living room.

  I walk to the center of the foyer, taking it all in.

  It’s the little things that make it shine. An old horse harness hanging on the wall. An aged wooden barrel with the hooked end of an umbrella sticking out the top. Two crocks on the base of the stairs, one full of pinecones, the other a few pine boughs that give my nose an instant punch of freshness.

  Then there’s an antique—I’ll use the proper word for Tobin’s sake—washboard with the word WELCOME painted on it in a girly script.

  Finally, an old, scuffed-up grey board, with a rope looped around it and several pictures attached, hanging on the wall near my mom’s portrait.

  Walking closer, my heart swells as I realize they’re candid photos of my mother throughout her career, carefully selected from several different movies.

  Talk about memories galore.

  Shit, the one where she’s smiling, half toppled over, dusted with flour...I remember being on the set.

  I think I was seven years old. The set crew even let me fling big fistfuls of flour around to help create the scene where Mom fell over in her own cake factory after trying to keep up with a hundred delicious confections for a big Italian wedding with eight hundred people.

  It’s one of those classic, funny, awkwardly organic rom com scenes. Very I Love Lucy.

  I don’t realize how much I’m smiling until I turn.

  Yeah. There’s no question these pictures are better memories than that towering portrait with its thick gold frame.

  I step back, staring at the wall, the table below it holding the vase and its roses.

  There, too, she’s made a subtle change.

  The vase has been moved just slightly, making room for an old oil lamp and two horseshoes. Both linked together, lying between the lamp and the vase.

  Impressive.

  With barely a few tweaks, she’s altered the entire feel of that wall.

  The in-your-face memorial is more subdued now, as if it’s a natural part of my house, rather than a bitter piece of the past I’d agreed to on Tobin’s whim.

  Slowly, I make my way into the living room. Again, no jaw-dropping changes, just little things.

  Old odds and ends. Antiques. Natural art.

  A few empty metal containers and crocks, probably waiting for the flowers we talked about.

  Each bit of décor more fitting than the last.

  Right down to the three blue canning jars on the coffee table. They’re inside a flat wooden tray with stones and miniature candles. Her insight about bringing in nature to make the house feel less sterile was dead-on.

  There’s another old board attached to the wall. This one is wider and has silvery wire around it, and then more pictures.

  This time, they’re all me.

  I recognize several of my boy wonder superhero flicks, the angsty high school quarterback I’d played half a lifetime ago, a few scenes from more recent Western flops.

  Here come those memories again.

  And they come with a smile I just can’t shake.

  There’s also a handsome saddle blanket draped on the back of the sofa. It’s old, subtly frayed, but freshly washed, and it adds a perfectly rustic touch to the room. So does the scarred wooden bowl with a small antler lying inside it on an end table.

  I feel like I’m teleported back to the Westerns without the stress or the market indigestion at the end.

  Just the good times.

  When I had this place built, I wanted balance. Country and classy paired up in equal measure.

  A whole team of architects and interior designers from California might’ve started it, but Grace Sellers gave it a soul.

  She’s turned old junk into unique, heartfelt warmth.

  She’s given me a home—at least a few room’s worth—and suddenly it’s not just her dilemma that makes me want to keep her around.

  Goddamn, this woman could be lethal to bachelorhood.

  If only claiming her wouldn’t be the biggest dick move on the planet.

  I make my way into the kitchen and have to stop, taking a look at another board lined with pictures.

  For this one, she used copper wiring. It has pictures of me I barely remember from my military days.

  An infectious grin eats at my face as an old Polaroid catches my eye, my younger self standing outside Kandahar with Faulk and a few other guys. We’d finished up a dangerous recon that day and pitched our camp in this dangerous stretch of mountains.

  “She made that one to hang in your office, but you were in there,” Tobin says, sneaky as ever.

  I whip around, flashing him a dirty look.

  “Dick move, buddy. That bell’s coming one day, I swear.” I shake my head, turning back to the pictures.

  “She wanted to surprise you. I dug out the old albums and supplied her with photos that seemed suitable. The final product has a certain aesthetic, doesn’t it?” he muses softly.

  “Sure. Did I ever tell you about the time in that picture? We reconned this insurgent compound tucked away in the mountains. Faulk, he found this old tank on the way back half buried in mud. Must’ve been left over from the Russians, but the important thing is what we found inside.”

  Tobin looks at me slowly, raising an eyebrow. “Please tell me it’s not X-rated.”

  “Nah, you wish. It was this ancient bottle of vodka in perfect condition, probably twenty or thirty years old. Knowing the Soviet shit was little better than moonshine sometimes, we drew straws on who’d be the first to try it.” I stab a thumb at my chest. “Lucky me. I lived to tell the tale, obviously, but I was so plastered off my ass an hour later the guys couldn’t stop roaring.”

  “Charming.” He’s completely iced over with sarcasm. “However, if you’re satisfied with Miss Sellers’ work, I suppose—”

  “Satisfied? Everything I’ve seen is the shit, Tobin.” I clap him loudly on the shoulder. “Thanks for getting her that stuff.”

  He gives me a slight smile. I know Tobin, and as much as he appreciates etiquette that’d drive a royal crazy, he hates when people slobber all over him with praise, too.

  Still, I’m grateful he was a part of this, even if Grace was the miracle worker.

  I follow him into the dining room where dinner waits, noticing other new additions on the walls, floor, and counters.

  “See?” I tell Tobin as I sit down at the table. “Perfection. Nothing overdone. It’s all little things that seem to flow together. This place already feels brighter.”

  His lips pu
ll into a thin line as he serves us both these sinful steaks with asparagus in some citrus glaze, a chickpea mash with roasted garlic on the side.

  “I have to agree,” Tobin says. “She’s off to a running start. I helped her place an order online for some pillows, rugs, candles, and other miscellaneous items. The flowers should arrive next week. We also have another box of artifacts in the laundry room waiting to be cleaned. I’ll take care of it tonight.”

  When this project started and he showed a twitch of enthusiasm, I was surprised.

  Now I’m amazed at how enthralled he is.

  “Grace has a rare creative hand,” Tobin tells me between perfectly paced bites of food. “You should’ve seen her. She’d simply pick up an item, look at it, and then tell me what we could do and where we could find it a home. I was skeptical at first, but I tell you, Ridge...her vision is remarkable. She just crafts a scene in her head, sketches a few scenes, and then brings it to life.”

  “I can tell,” I say. “The place looks great.”

  We spend—well, actually Tobin spends—most of the meal discussing other ideas he and Grace schemed up. I listen, but I don’t hear everything because my mind is mainly on Grace herself.

  She’s damn good at what she does.

  No denying it.

  She’ll be able to do whatever she wants with home décor, once this crap is behind her.

  Hell, all I’d have to do is make a couple phone calls, and she’d be slammed with so many orders for those old boards with personalized photos that she’d need to hire a whole team.

  I smile between bites of steak. It’s rare when something bridges my old life with the new so cleanly.

  Her work does that without any bitterness, regret, or flash of the hell that drove me out here.

  If I can look at her stuff for the rest of my life this easily, then maybe I can learn to let the fuck go, too.

  After supper, I open the back door to walk over to the cabin and thank her in person, but I see her walking up the pathway from the barn first.

  “Grace!” I yell from a few paces away.

  She turns and spots me as I jog down the steps.

  “I just brought the horses and Cornelius in for the night. They’re fed and watered,” she says, giving a saucy flip of her gold locks that says accomplished.

  Shit, I’d half-forgotten the animals with everything else going on today.

  Some rancher I’ll make.

  “Thanks, lady. You’re a lifesaver. I just wanted to drop by and say thanks for the Midas touch. You turned junk into gold.”

  Her eyes ignite, twinkling pearl-blue stars as she laughs.

  “Better not use the j-word around Tobin.”

  “Already screwed that up a few times. I’m a better looker than I am a talker when it comes to furnishings, I guess.” I cock my head, mesmerized by her pretty face.

  I can’t pull my eyes off her. She’s more than just this sweet wisp of a woman.

  She’s adorable, natural, curves in all the right places and a heart that never quits. The urge to kiss her, lay down the law on that strawberry-shaped mouth, hits me like a raging bull.

  Hell.

  It’s not just her junk-fixing skills I’m thinking about. The thought of doing more than just kissing hits my junk hard.

  It’s been awhile, yeah, but I’m not so blue in the balls I’ve turned into an antique myself just yet.

  “Um, thanks again. I’m really glad you like it.” She breaks eye contact, glancing at the cabin. “I...I have to get inside, Ridge. Dad’s in the bath, and I told him not to get out until I was inside, in case he’s unstable.”

  I don’t want her to go. “He felt good enough to take a bath?”

  “Yep, he insisted.” Her chest plumps and then shallows again with obvious relief.

  Holy melons. The things I’d love to do to those lush, palm-sized, maddeningly perky—

  “Hold up. I’ll come with, see if he needs any help.” It just flies out of me.

  I had to say something so I could get my fool brain unglued from her chest.

  She grasps my arm. “No. He wouldn’t want that.”

  She’s right. Seeing an old man in the buff isn’t my idea of fun, either, but I’m not ready to let her go.

  “Grace...”

  “Night, Ridge,” she says, releasing my arm and quick-stepping her way back to the guesthouse. “Let’s talk more tomorrow about the designs.”

  Damn it. It’s like she can sense the heat ray shooting out of my pants.

  The fact that I can’t remember the last time a girl walked away when I was this riled just makes me want her ass under me even more.

  But I can’t chase after her. Not tonight. Not ever.

  Fuck, chase her? What am I even thinking?

  I’ve never chased down a woman in my life, and I sure as hell don’t plan to start with a girl who needs more complications in her life like a hole through the head.

  Sighing, I spin around and walk back to the house where I spend one of the most miserable nights of my life with balls bluer than Huckleberry Hound.

  I’d kill to be an animated dog and not have to put up with a hard-on that’s got a mind of its own, throbbing under the sheets, waking me several times with these fevered sex dreams involving a deserted island, me, and a blonde mermaid who used to farm sea-pumpkins.

  Her name? Gracelyn.

  Fuck originality, right?

  She’s a hot current in my brain when I wake up the next morning in a sweat—to the sound of my cellphone. One look at the number has me scowling.

  Letting the call go to voicemail, which I won’t listen to, I shower, get dressed, and go downstairs where Tobin already has fresh coffee waiting in a Chemex.

  He’s watching me oddly.

  “What?” I ask, taking a slurp of coffee. “Is my fly unzipped or something?”

  “Miss Silk called me this morning.”

  “Welcome to the club. Bebe called me, too,” I grumble. “Must be pure desperation if she’s blowing up both our phones.”

  “And?” He reaches for the Chemex, refilling his own cup.

  “And you already know the rest. I didn’t answer. I don’t care what she has to say or how bad she begs. They’ll have to drag me back to L.A. in a body bag if they want me in a studio again.”

  Expressionless as ever, Tobin looks at me. “Don’t you worry it will cause issues?”

  “It?” My stomach sinks. Fuck. “What the hell has Bebe done now?”

  “Miss Silk hasn’t done anything this time, Ridge.” Tobin picks his phone up off the counter, makes a couple swipes on the screen, and passes it to me. “It seems, well...you did.”

  “What? I didn’t even—” I stop, coffee in midair, reading the words on his screen.

  A Scandalicious Mag Exclusive! The elusive, reclusive, once famous Dane Barnet has been reported living on a secluded ranch near Dallas, a tiny North Dakota oil boomtown. The tragically fallen star and brain behind several recent what-were-they-thinking Westerns is living, intimately, with a pumpkin farmer from Wisconsin half his age!

  What the shit!

  I start scrolling past the endless popup ads and pictures of me, stopping when pictures of Grace pop up. Pictures of us from the day we went into town.

  Except they don’t look right.

  “These are fucking photoshopped,” I snarl. “Grace looks like she’s about eighteen in these pics.”

  Grace! Who’s got every reason in the world to keep an even lower profile than I do. Unless...

  Tobin gives me this pained look I haven’t seen since the night I walked out on him and took payback into my own hands, not long after Mom’s funeral.

  “Ridge...I suggest you have an urgent talk with Miss Sellers. If it’s as it seems, then—”

  I’m on my feet before he can even finish his sentence.

  Son of a bitch.

  Unless I’ve had my head so far up my ass I’ve gone blind.

  The moment I yank open the back door
, I hear an engine running.

  Jogging around the corner of the house, I see exactly what I expect—an old Ford backing up to the horse trailer parked next to the barn.

  11

  No Lucky Break (Grace)

  I see Ridge coming for the truck and have to breathe through the anger that’s been boiling me alive for the past two hours.

  God.

  I was hoping to have the horses loaded and out of here before he woke up, but I couldn’t push Dad that hard. Sure, he sprang up the second I mentioned the possibility of leaving, but he’s been dragging ever since.

  He was doing so well last night, and now he’s in the barn, gasping for air just from walking that far. I didn’t tell him why we have to leave so suddenly or why I’ve had an abrupt change of heart.

  He doesn’t need the extra stress, and frankly, he never asked.

  “Did your job so now you’re leaving?” Ridge says, jerking open my door.

  I ignore him, keep backing up, using my rearview mirror, forcing him to walk or get smacked by the open door...

  ...until I hear the clink of the ball hitting the hitch on the horse trailer.

  That’s my cue to throw the truck in park, turn it off, and glare.

  I can’t believe I thought I could trust him.

  That he was truly out to help us, with nothing in this superhero act for him.

  For all I know, he threw those cameras up for show.

  Just so he could wait for the perfect second to run outside and make a big stupid show for the paparazzi.

  “How much are they paying you?” he asks, his voice this animal growl.

  I’ve heard it before—the morning he chased those men off me in the alley.

  Only, now the same dark storm in his voice is aimed at me.

  “Paying me? You’re serious?” I shove at his chest, barely pushing him out of the way as I barrel out of the truck so I can attach the trailer.

  He rocks back as I slip past. I’m ready to bite him when he grabs me, but by some miracle, he keeps his paws to himself.