Best Laid Plans

by Lauren Blakely

  Anger.

  He took my cheese.

  He took my freaking Gouda cheese.

  “You don’t deserve cheese. You don’t deserve chocolate. You don’t deserve vanilla,” I shout between sobs, then grab the bottle of wine, open it, and guzzle a needy gulp.

  A crunch of leaves sounds from the trail, and my heart speeds into overdrive.

  He’s returned. He realized his mistake. He’s going to ask me to stay with him. I fasten on a smile, swipe my cheeks, and prepare to let him grovel.

  First, he’ll apologize for taking my Gouda.

  Second, he’ll take back that stupid vanilla comment.

  Third, he’ll say he’s sorry he never piped up before about all these naughty bones that need tending to.

  Then, and only then, will I let him enjoy the picnic of me.

  I peer down the path, searching for my man.

  But he’s still gone, and I’m still alone, dumped at a picnic lunch, when I planned to ask him to move in with me. My only company is a bird, an industrious robin, scouring the trail.

  Why should he suffer because I’ve been ditched? I toss him a cracker and he pecks at it.

  “Have a snack,” I mutter.

  Another robin swoops down, joining his buddy on the dirt to enjoy the unexpected snack I’d planned to share with David.

  The bastard.

  How does he know I’m too sweet? He never asked me to be naughty. I wouldn’t mind trying. But he didn’t say a word about what he wanted. Am I supposed to be a mind reader? I don’t think so.

  “You could have asked,” I mumble.

  But I’m not in the mood to mumble. I’m in the mood to shout and stomp and throw. I don’t give a damn if this is childish. It’s cathartic, and right now I need to let go. I spin around, grab more cheese slices, and fling them in David’s direction, even though he’s probably miles away now.

  “Take that.” I catapult one through the air.

  “Here’s another.” I launch a cracker, then a slice of cheese.

  More. I need more. This feels good. This feels so damn good. I bend to grab another hunk of cheese, then spin around and slingshot my arm to send it down the trail. Like a gunslinger, I fire, sending the dairy flying.

  Only it doesn’t land on the trail.

  The Gouda lands square in the middle of a chest.

  A man’s chest.

  Oops.

  I cringe, lifting my gaze. I’m greeted by the sight of the man known as the Lucky Falls Panty-Melter. Star of the fireman calendar. Resident charmer. All-around ladies’ man. Dark-blond hair, soulful blue eyes, and a body that could advertise all the workouts in the world.

  Kill me now.

  Of all the people to run into. Of all the guys in this godforsaken town to inadvertently thwack with a piece of cheese. The bare-chested Gabe Harrison wears running shorts, sneakers, and a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his pecs.

  As well as a slice of Gouda that sticks momentarily to his chest.

  Stopping short, he surveys me and what’s left of the cheese and crackers, then his sternum, plucking the food from his skin like this happens every day and it’s no big deal. “If you’re going to turn more of the cheese and crackers into projectile missiles, allow me to help.”

  “I’m so, so sorry,” I choke out, and the dam breaks.

  The waterworks have been let loose, and anger has turned to sadness.

  Tears fall as I sink down onto the blanket, crying into my cheese and crackers. Who cares if he’s the town playboy? It’s not like I’m on anyone’s naughty or nice list right now anyway. It’s not as if I’m looking for anything but a shoulder to cry on.

  He drops down and wraps a strong arm around me. “Hey there. You want to talk about it?”

  I can’t talk because I’m too busy crying the Nile onto his broad, slicked chest, the site of the cheese bullet I lobbed at him.

  2

  Gabe

  Some women are silent criers. Some are snifflers, gently dabbing away at barely-there tears. And some are epic bawlers. Snot, soaked tissues, streams of water sluicing down their cheeks—the whole nine yards.

  Then there’s Arden East. She’s going to need a new category. Because holy shit. I’ve encountered more than my fair share of tears in my line of work, but never enough to refill a reservoir.

  She cries and cries and cries, and when she’s maybe, possibly, almost finished replenishing the Pacific Ocean, she launches another pair of geysers from her eyes.

  Judging from the picnic blanket and the food, I have a wild hunch her man disappointed her.

  Badly.

  In my field, I’ve learned plenty about how to handle this kind of sadness.

  You need to let the tears fall, plain and simple.

  After a few more minutes, she starts to quiet. “I’m so stupid,” she blurts, the first sign that she’s nearing the end of the crying jag.

  “Of course you’re not stupid. Why would you say that?”

  “I thought . . . he wanted . . . to be . . . with me.”

  David.

  She’s been dating one of the ER docs. He’s a solid doc, but that’s about all I know of David Green. Except now he’s most likely a dickhead, since he’s the one who disappointed her badly. Who makes a woman cry like this but a guy who deserves the Dickhead of the Year Award?

  “I made a picnic for him, and he dumped me.” She swipes her palms against her cheeks. “He showed up and broke up with me, and he still asked for a piece of cheese.”

  My brow knits. “Seriously?”

  “He said I was too nice. He didn’t want to be with me, but he still wanted a cracker. Apparently, my food is enough for him, but I’m not.”

  I scoff. “I’m pretty sure that goes against all the codes and bylaws in the handbook of How to Treat A Woman.”

  Arden’s chocolate-brown eyes are shot with red, but they twinkle the slightest bit. “I’m pretty sure I’d like to chuck that handbook at the back of his head. Please tell me it comes in hardcover?”

  I smile, pleased she’s retained her sense of humor in the face of the ultimate bonehead move. “It does, and also, on behalf of all men everywhere, I want to let you know that he’s officially won the Dickhead of the Year Award. The guy committee has unanimously voted for him to receive it because the kind of shit he pulled gives men a bad name.”

  She offers a contrite smile. “That’s why I was throwing the cheese. I’m sorry I hit you.”

  “I’m just glad it wasn’t the bottle of wine you were practicing your shot put skills with. Wait. I don’t want to give you any ideas.” I grab the open wine bottle and hide it behind me.

  “I promise I won’t throw the wine at you.” She cracks a grin through the tears.

  Carefully, I set the wine back on the blanket. “Or almonds. Those can pack a punch too. You might have taken an eye out.”

  “I do have good aim.” She laughs, then it morphs into a mournful sigh as she swats at the remnants of a final tear. “And I was going to ask him to move in with me.”

  I drop the attempt at humor, squeezing her shoulder. Even if the guy’s a first-class jackass, she truly liked him, and that’s nothing to joke about. “I’m sorry, Arden. You must be hurting a ton right now.”

  An errant sniffle sounds from her, and she nods. “I am. I wanted it all to go so perfectly.”

  My heart aches for her, for the effort she made, for the hope she must have had when she planned today. “It does look perfect.” I take a cursory glance at the meal.

  “He didn’t think it was perfect enough.”

  I peer behind me, impressed with the spread she packed, from the wicker basket, to the wine and the glasses, all the way to the cloth napkins. Damn, this woman is a thorough planner and some kind of sweetheart in the girlfriend department. Inside the basket, I spot a container of hummus and three kinds of olives, along with the almonds and more cheese and crackers.

  My stomach rumbles. “Any man who doesn’t realize the value
of you, almonds, and olives doesn’t deserve to have lunch, breakfast, or dinner with you. Ever.”

  “Thank you.” Her whispered voice is soft and pretty.

  Hell, even with her splotchy, tear-stained cheeks, she’s still so damn pretty.

  Fact is, I thought she was lovely to look at the night I met her a year ago, shortly after I moved to town. Pretty and witty and sharp, but very taken, so I didn’t think twice about her.

  Today, she’s still pretty, and now she’s single.

  Wait.

  Chill the hell out, Brain. It’s not cool to think a woman is pretty when she’s crying her eyes out over another man.

  I wipe those dickhead thoughts from my head. I don’t want to give David competition for the dickhead prize.

  “You really think he doesn’t deserve me?” Her tone is wobbly.

  “I know he doesn’t.” I point at the food. “Every decent man knows when a woman makes you a picnic, you damn well better eat it, and you will most certainly enjoy it.”

  A small smile seems to sneak across her face. “It was a nice picnic.” She unleashes a sob again, tripping over that adjective. “Nice. He said I was too nice. Who’s too nice? How is it possible to be too nice?”

  I set a hand on her lower back, gently rubbing. “Nice is what we should all aspire to be.”

  She breathes heavily, clenches her jaw, and nods fiercely as if she’s deciding she’s done with tears. “Exactly, and my picnic is awesome, and he doesn’t deserve it.”

  “No way. He doesn’t even deserve a cracker that fell on the ground or the cheese from my chest.”

  Her lips quirk up, and she laughs in spite of herself, it seems. “Don’t tempt me, Gabe. Now I want to serve him sweaty cheese and dirty crackers if he ever shows up for a wine and cheese night at the store,” she says, and I picture the bookshop she owns in the center of town.

  “It’ll be our little secret that you have such a naughty side.” Her eyes seem to sparkle appreciatively when I say that word—naughty.

  I gesture to the meal. “This delicious spread should not go to waste,” I say, hinting not at all subtly, since I’d like a bite of some of these goodies. “Don’t know if you’re aware, but I have had a bottomless appetite since I was born. I can pretty much always eat.”

  “And I like to reward hearty appetites.” She grabs a slice of cheese and a cracker then hands them to me. “This picnic is definitely not for any recipients of the Dickhead of the Year Award.” She gives a tough little lift of her chin.

  “That’s the spirit.”

  I smile widely at her, then pop the treat into my mouth. After I chew, I declare it the best cracker in the land.

  It’s a cracker, for fuck’s sake.

  But Arden is smiling again.

  And that’s the least I can do.

  I don’t know David from Adam. I don’t know their relationship whatsoever. But I know this: the woman made him a meal, put on a pretty dress, and placed her heart on this red-and-white checkered blanket.

  However he ended things, leaving her like this was a jackass move of the highest order. If he didn’t have the sensitivity to know that, the least I can do is show her that some men do have the common courtesy to enjoy a feast prepared by a good woman.

  Grabbing a napkin, I dab at the remnants of tears on her cheeks, and she whispers her thanks.

  We dine, and we chat, and I steer the conversation to innocuous topics. “Favorite cheese? If you had to pick one cheese for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

  She shoots me a you-can’t-be-serious look after that question. “Are you trying to be cruel and unusual?”

  I laugh, waving it off. “You’re right. Having only one kind of cheese forever and ever does sound like a fresh new hell.”

  She nudges me with her elbow. “Exactly.” She rolls her eyes. “Next thing you know, you’ll be trying to get me to choose only one wine for the rest of my days.”

  I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’ve learned my lesson. I swear.”

  “Good.” She lowers her voice. “For the record, it’d be a white.”

  “Ah, so you do have a favorite wine?”

  “Not a wine-for-the-rest-of-my-life, but I do prefer whites. You?”

  “Beer.”

  She laughs, and it’s such a better sound than the sobs.

  A little later, I’ve polished off more cheese and crackers, along with some almonds and olives, and Arden has nibbled on a few strawberries and grapes.

  “Let me walk you to your car,” I tell her, after she packs up her basket. “Little red Honda down by the trailhead?”

  “That’s mine.”

  A few minutes later, I open the driver’s side door for her and then reach around to set the basket in the back seat.

  I wag a finger at her. “Now, don’t let him get you down, you promise me?”

  She nods and smiles, but it’s an apologetic one. “I’ll do my best. And thank you, Gabe. You helped so much.”

  “I’m glad I was there. I’m glad my chest was there too, so you didn’t knock any robins down with that sniper aim of yours.”

  She laughs then winces. “I’m sorry about that. Sorry you had to see me crying too.”

  “Don’t think twice about it. Just promise me this: don’t let any jerks win your heart again.”

  She holds up a pinky. “I promise.”

  I’ve never pinky sworn before, but now seems as good a time as any. I wrap my little finger around hers. “There. It’s a deal. I’ll be looking out for you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  When she takes off, I turn around, pick up the pace, and resume my run, trying my best to think of other women. Like the cute little brunette from Whiskey Hollows I met the other night at a barbecue, or the leggy redhead from the gym who asked me to work out with her.

  Anyone.

  Anyone at all but the woman who’s had her dignity stomped on.

  The woman who is, for all intents and purposes, as unavailable as she was the day I met her.

  The woman whose heart is broken over another man.

  I shovel a hand through my hair as if I can rid myself of the inappropriate thoughts about how damn pretty she is, even with her tear-stained cheeks and sad brown eyes.

  Pretty and technically available.

  But I’d have to give myself the Jackass of the Century prize if I tried to take advantage of her right now, or anytime soon. And I’m not interested in collecting any trophies of that nature.

  I run like my pants are on fire for five miles, and that does the trick.

  For now.

  After I leave the woods, I jog past my parents’ home, dart up the stone path, and knock on the door. My dad answers quickly, clapping me on the back.

  “Can’t believe you didn’t invite me to join you on your run,” he deadpans. “I’m wounded.”

  “I’m only looking out for you. You’d get addicted if I did. You’d want to run marathons.”

  He ran plenty of marathons back in the day and kicked ass in every single one.

  I walk past the living room, stopping to give my mom a kiss on the forehead as she reads some book she surely picked up from Arden’s store.

  Fuck. I wasn’t supposed to be thinking of Arden.

  In the kitchen I grab a glass of water, down a thirsty gulp, then set it on the counter as my dad strides in. “Want something to eat?”

  “I already ate. Thanks.”

  “At Silver Phoenix Lake?”

  I laugh. “Yeah. Funny thing. I ran into a picnic.”

  He arches one eyebrow in confusion.

  I wave it off. “Long story.”

  “I have time.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  He grabs a stool and sits down, folding his hands in his lap, waiting for me to tell him the tale.

  I drag a hand through my sweaty hair. “So, Dad. There’s this girl . . .”

  3

  Arden

  One week later

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nbsp; * * *

  When someone helps you, you thank that person.

  That’s simple good manners.

  Perhaps it’s a thoughtful card. Maybe it’s a small gift. Sometimes it’s baked goods.

  By that same token, you should apologize properly when you inadvertently hit a person with a slice of cheese, even though I doubt Miss Manners has codified the protocol for that particular faux pas.

  But I figured this one out on my own, since I pride myself on please, thank you, and proper apologies, as well as delivering them in the right fashion to the right people. If this makes me too nice, so be it. I will wear the “nice girl” sticker with pride.

  Take that, David.

  “Ha! There’s nothing wrong with being nice,” I mutter as I put the finishing touches on the cookie-dough-stuffed pretzels I’ve just baked. This particular thank-you-for-the-shoulder-and-forgive-me-for-my-aim gift is taking the form of a sweet treat, since I bet they don’t sell those cards at Hallmark.

  And that’s a good thing, since these pretzels smell sinfully good. So good, in fact, I bet they taste the way naughty feels.

  Except I don’t really know what that feels like, so I shove the thought out of my mind, grabbing a Tupperware container. Baked goods are most appropriate for a man you don’t know that well. Sure, I’ve had plenty of conversations with Gabe prior to the Witness of My Tears Extravaganza. He joined the fire station a year or two ago, transferring from the city of San Francisco. Each time we’ve chatted, he’s seemed both friendly and thoughtful, easy to talk to. But beyond the interactions when he visited my store to pick up new mystery novels or crossword puzzle books, or the times I ran into him at Vanessa’s bowling alley, I don’t know him terribly well.

  Except I know he likes the ladies.

  And the ladies like him.

  If I were on the hunt for a one-night stand, or a real good time, he’d surely be the one I’d turn to. The man has charm for miles—a playboy with a heart of gold.

  But I’m not going to thank him with my body. Obviously.