PAR FOR CINDERELLA

by MCCARTY, PETIE

  He wasn’t sure all the tasks she assigned actually needed doing, what with the devious smirk on her face. Filling the cooler with Cokes and water bottles for sale—okay, he’d buy that—but aligning them in similar rows? Wiping down every single seat, even though they all looked perfectly clean, and then wiping the gunwale for crying out loud? She claimed guests rested their arms on the gunwale, and she didn’t want them to come away dirty. Worst of all, she had him line up the different brands of snack bags in rows. What was it with the rows? Who cares?

  At least their guests were amiable and very appreciative of his efforts, commenting on the cleanliness of the boat. Casey sure hadn’t thanked him or noticed how skillfully he’d cast off and maneuvered the tour boat out of the marina. A couple female vacationers in their mid-twenties were especially appreciative of his efforts. Just to assure himself he was still in control, he’d even bantered with them a bit, to be sure this crazy trip to Cypress Key hadn’t caused him to lose his edge altogether.

  That earned him a trip from Casey up to the front of the boat, followed by a hiss in his ear. “No fraternizing with the guests, Mr. Crosse.”

  The Mr. Crosse made him so mad, it took all the fun out of flirting, so he just gave himself up to his newfound duties. He forced himself to relax and enjoy a beautiful, albeit slow, ride on the glassy Gulf, the sunshine glinting off the water, the tiny island of roosting white pelicans, and the sound of Casey’s sultry voice. But only because he enjoyed the fact-filled narrative.

  The tour boat docked at the actual Cypress Key—safely and comfortably with no rocking or bumping, thanks to him—for a self-guided walking tour of the remnants of the original seventeenth-century settlement. According to Casey, original foundations could be seen as well as the settlement’s graveyard. The small island key had supported a small but thriving population until typhoid fever decimated the entire group of residents.

  Aidan would have liked to see the island, but Nefertiti informed him he had to stay on board should any guests return for a soft drink or a snack. She then pulled out a satchel from under the bow and did tour company paperwork until their guests returned.

  And ignored him completely.

  He disliked the ignoring even more than the bossing, so he flirted with the two appreciative vacationers on the return trip just for spite. And as payback, Casey had him stand at the exit gangway at the end of the tour and hold the tips jar, feeling mortified when guests stuffed ones or a rare five-dollar bill in it and patted his arm or his hand. One fiftyish woman patted his butt, and he swore he heard Casey snort from her seat at the front of the boat.

  To even things out, he allowed the two flirters to kiss his cheek on their way down the gangway, and he smirked at Casey after each girl tucked a ten in the jar.

  He busied himself putting the boat back the way they’d found it that morning: checking the gas gauge, returning the drinks and snacks to their respective waterproof compartments in the boat. Aidan emptied the cooler’s ice over the side and returned the container to the large storage compartment at the stern. All without any comment from Casey.

  At last finished with his menial tasks, Aidan waited for her at the gangway, so she could lock the gate in the boat railing for departure. When she reached his side, he handed her the stupid tip jar, gritting his teeth again at the memory of the retirement-aged fellow who’d said, “You like doing this for a living?”

  Aidan made a mental note to double all his tips in the future wherever they may be.

  Casey pushed the jar back at him. “No, these are yours. You earned them, tour captain.”

  Which would have been nice if she hadn’t smirked.

  Smirked! Talk about adding insult to injury.

  He hated when she smirked at him. No, that wasn’t true. She made him want to kiss every smirk right off her beautiful face. Just because he could.

  “Put it on my bail tab,” he snapped and stepped onto the gangway.

  “Suit yourself,” she said cheerfully, then pocketed the cash from the jar and locked the gate. Ten steps down the dock, she stopped. “I forgot my satchel. Would you get it for me?”

  He checked for a smirk—didn’t see one—and trudged back to the boat, then vaulted over the rail. When he returned the satchel to her, their hands brushed and her gaze shot to his face.

  There had been a definite spark at their touch. He damn sure felt the sizzle. He stared into her eyes, wide green-emerald pools of innocence now. No devilment, not a smirk in sight.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her gaze still riveted to his.

  Like being tugged with unseen hands, he eased toward the emerald eyes holding the lure or promise of something he suddenly needed. Desperately. Unlike the wild, needy connection on the runabout, this kiss started as a light brush of lips. He tested the waters. Tasted the promise of pleasure before settling more firmly to tease her lips apart with the tip of his tongue. Her eyes aroused him; her scent aroused him; and God knew her sweet taste aroused him.

  He shouldn’t kiss her again. He knew it. That way lay disaster.

  His control slipped.

  And then he was slipping.

  As Casey shoved him back.

  Into the marina.

  ~ ~ ~

  Casey stifled the faint stab of regret as the dark marina water closed over a stunned Aidan Crosse.

  How dare he try to kiss her again after she specifically demanded on the runabout that he not do so? How dare he? That’s what hunks do. They kiss you senseless whenever they want to, and then they dump you. PJ had in high school. Her uncle’s one-time golf pro Barry had too. Well, not this time.

  “What the hell was that for?” Aidan bellowed as his head cleared the water’s surface, his expression thunderous. He spit a mouthful of marina water in her direction.

  No regrets for her. Aidan had asked for his dunking, and paybacks felt great.

  “Between kissing me and those flirty girls, I thought you needed to cool off before we headed out to the golf course.”

  His watery glare told her what he thought of his dunking.

  Casey held her breath, halfway expecting him to charge up onto the dock and pitch her in. She’d cry, “Concussion!” if she had to.

  Once again, Aidan did the unexpected. He threw his head back and laughed.

  He wasn’t mad? What the—

  He slogged through the water to the boat ramp and waited for her at the end of the dock. “You’re right. A good dunking will help get those girls off my mind.”

  “Those girls! What about me?” she demanded before she thought better of it.

  Had he really only kissed her to shut her up? She approached him warily, but he slipped into step next to her. His deck shoes squished loudly with every step. At the Jeep, he grabbed the duffel he’d stowed when they returned from the yacht and pulled out clean clothes.

  “I can change in the Jeep on the way to the golf course,” he announced cheerfully.

  Slack-jawed, Casey stared at him. “I don’t think so. The marina public restroom is just over there.”

  She pointed to a tiny block building at the far end of the parking lot with one male and one female restroom. The city cleaned them a few times a week, but not someplace she’d relish changing clothes. She hid a grin when Aidan missed a step.

  “I’ll wait for you here.”

  “Fine,” he said, not nearly as cheerful as a moment earlier.

  Casey was onto his antics. No way could a hunk like Aidan Crosse admit she had bested him. Well, they would just see how he did under her supervision at the golf course.

  ~ ~ ~

  Rethinking his stupid pay-for-bail plan for the thousandth time, Aidan finished cleaning out his fifth golf cart when a young guy of high-school age appeared in the cart barn doorway. Tall and lean, the dark-haired boy had
the looks of a cross-country runner.

  Upon their arrival at the golf course, the Queen—as Aidan now called Casey since Nefertiti was too good for her—had ordered him to the cart barn to clean out and charge all the returned golf carts. No way would he let on that he was pissed off. That is exactly what the little hellion wanted.

  No, what she wanted was control.

  All because he’d lost his head—again—and stolen another kiss. Casey’s fault there too. She had stared up at him with those come-to-papa green eyes and those we-could-do-naughty-things lips. Okay, that was a little much. Casey never gave off that particular vibe. That’s where his mind went when given more than thirty seconds to stare at her oh-so-kissable lips.

  So, the little brat had booted him into the drink. His second trip into that marina in two days. It had taken everything he had to laugh off her stunt when he wanted to charge up on the dock and turn her over his knee. But she did have a concussion, so he had taken the high road and banked his anger. Here in the cart barn, he didn’t have to. He hurled every beer can he pulled from the carts into the metal trash can, savoring the tinny wham! when they struck the interior.

  He ought to march into that pro shop and kiss her again, just for spite. That would show her.

  No. No more kisses for Casey Stuart. This was it. He was done with her.

  The only good thing about his current situation was that Rhett and Garrett and Ian would never see him bossed around like a common laborer. Although after the last day and a half, Aidan decided there was nothing common about being a laborer. This was damn hard work. He had always wondered if he could get along in the world without all of his money. Could he be happy poor? He told himself he could. Living it was another matter.

  “Can I help you?” he asked the high school boy a little too curtly. But what the heck, he was mad.

  “No, can I help you?” the boy asked and glanced at the target trash can.

  “Help me what?”

  The boy frowned. “Um, this is where I work.”

  “You must be Rory. Casey mentioned you worked here.”

  The boy’s eyes grew wide. “Does she think I’m late?”

  “I don’t know. Are you?” Aidan countered.

  “Yeah. I was just hoping she and Frank wouldn’t notice.”

  “Not a smart gamble.”

  “I know.” Rory sighed and pulled a returned cart up to the hose bib and began cleaning out the trash and abandoned and broken tees. “I got held up at my parents’ restaurant. I do their books.”

  “You’re a little young to be managing books for a business,” Aidan commented, going back to the cart he had been wiping down.

  “I have a way with numbers. Sort of comes easy to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can add long lists of numbers in my head and multiply or divide really big numbers too.”

  “Why do you look embarrassed when you say that?”

  Rory shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess because the kids at school have always made fun of me because I can.”

  “So what? That’s a pretty cool talent.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. What’s 587 times 642?” Aidan tested.

  In the span of three heartbeats, the boy replied, “376,854.”

  Aidan gaped at him. He was working with the Rain Man. “Holy cow, kid! That’s amazing.”

  A slow smile crept onto the boy’s face.

  Aidan pointed a finger at him. “And don’t ever let anybody tell you different.”

  Rory nodded. “Okay.”

  “So why aren’t you working at your parents’ restaurant instead of here?”

  “Because my parents don’t pay me. I’ve got to earn some money you know.”

  “Right.”

  The two worked side-by-side for the next half-hour, cleaning and wiping down carts while Rory chattered on about his family’s restaurant in Cypress Key and the town in general.

  Aidan liked the kid and paid close attention to his running commentary. Having grown up here, Rory was a wellspring of information and seemed to have his finger on the pulse of Cypress Key. His parents owned Jameson’s, the only Italian restaurant in a town loaded with seafood spots.

  “Jameson is Irish,” Aidan pointed out.

  Rory grinned. “My mom’s Italian and makes the best lasagna and manicotti on earth. People will kill for her tiramisu.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.”

  Aidan had hoped Frank would make an appearance and rescue him from this mind-numbing cart business. No such luck and no sign of Frank.

  “Where is Frank?” he asked Rory.

  The kid gave another of his infernal shrugs and plugged a hanging charger cable into the cart battery. “Probably out mowing.”

  “Doesn’t he have someone to help him?” No way could you run a golf course and do the mowing too.

  “Sure, Hot Rod—that’s his nickname—does most of the mowing, but Frank likes to do the greens himself. Makes Hot Rod mad that Frank doesn’t trust him to do the greens.”

  “Greens are tough. Mowing them is more of a science. Too close and you can ruin them.”

  Rory’s eyes widened. “You know about golf courses?”

  “I play a lot,” Aidan told him. He needed to be careful. “Um, whenever I can and have the money.”

  The boy pulled another returned cart forward and started to clean out trash. “So, why do you work here? You’re kind of old to be cleaning carts.”

  Out of the mouth of babes.

  Aidan hadn’t imagined he could be any more embarrassed about cleaning golf carts, but the boy had accomplished that without trying. A new low for him. Dissed by a high school boy.

  He measured his words carefully, having no idea who the boy would tell. “I am a little old for this, but I’m paying back a debt I owe Frank.”

  “You owe Frank money? Most folks in town owe Archer Bartow.”

  Well, isn’t that interesting? Aidan made a mental note to prod the boy more about that later.

  “I sort of had an altercation and sort of got arrested. Frank bailed me out, and I owe him for now.”

  Rory’s eyes went saucer-wide. “You’re the guy who kicked PJ Bartow into the marina?”

  “How do you know about that?” Aidan growled.

  The kid shrugged. “The whole town knows, or at least all the folks who come into our restaurant.”

  “Great,” Aidan said disgustedly.

  “Don’t feel bad. Most folks are just mad they missed seeing you kick PJ Bartow off the dock. He had it coming.”

  “Is that so?”

  Rory held out a hand. “I, for one, want to shake your hand for what you did.”

  “Getting arrested is not something to congratulate someone for,” Aidan said but shook the boy’s hand.

  “I’m not shaking for that, though the arrest was a bullshit call.”

  “Hey! Watch your language.”

  This kid was making him feel older by the minute. Lecturing Rory about taunting and bad language was parent stuff, not Aidan’s business.

  Rory ignored him anyway and rolled his eyes. “Well, it is. My dad even said so, and I’m real glad you did it.”

  “I’ve been hearing that a lot,” Aidan muttered.

  “I hate the Bartows, all of them,” Rory said indignantly.

  “Why is that?”

  The boy looked like he was about to start another tirade, then held back. “I’ve got my reasons.”

  “I see.”

  The phone on the wall next to Aidan rang, and Rory hollered, “Grab it,” since he had jumped in another cart.

  Aidan picked up the receiver. “Cart barn,” he answered for lack of anything be
tter.

  “Aidan?” Casey’s voice sounded sugary sweet.

  Not good.

  “Yes?”

  “I need you up here at the pro shop. Ernest Delby would like a caddy.”

  “I don’t—” He was going to say, “know how,” but the little brat had already hung up.

  Aidan’s college golf coach had made his players caddy for their teammates who made the cut in the college tournaments. Said he wanted the boys to learn how it felt to caddy, so they would know how to treat a caddy. Since Aidan always made the cut, he’d never learned that lesson.

  He hung up the phone hard enough to make Rory wince.

  “What’s up?” the boy asked warily.

  “That was Casey. She wants me at the pro shop. Says I have to caddy for an Ernest Delby.”

  “Huh.” Rory stared blankly. “I didn’t know we had any caddies.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Casey felt pretty pleased with herself through the afternoon. Her headache subsided, and she waded through a mountain of bills and paperwork. Plus, she had successfully established a proper working relationship with Aidan Crosse. To top it off, sweet seventy-year-old Ernest Delby finally got the caddy he had been requesting for years.

  The small wiry man had never looked so pleased. His tall, muscular caddy had never looked so . . . What? She couldn’t really say.

  She had seen Aidan charge up the steps to the verandah. Storming in the door, he had taken one look at Ernest and stopped in his tracks. She had expected an explosion over her high-handed way of ordering him to the pro shop to caddy for Mr. Delby. Instead, Aidan just stared—a blank stare—first at Mr. Delby, then at her. Oh, she could see the wheels turning, too, in that alpha-male, nosey mind of his.

  But he said nothing.

  Nothing.

  Delby waved him over, and Aidan followed the septuagenarian out the door.