Flirting With Disaster

by Ruthie Knox

  “I want it to be a really nice office.”

  “I’ve got some extra ssaved up for swanky leather furniture for the waiting room.”

  “Thank you.” She kissed his cheek and made a face. “Yuck. No offense, but you’re kind of gross.”

  “Yeah, I need to shower. When’s everybody getting here?”

  “Little more than half an hour.”

  He smeared his sweaty, grimy arm all over hers. “You’re not so clean yourself. Want to shower with me?”

  Katie laughed and squirmed away from him, wiping her arm on her shirt. “Not a chance. Caleb’s here, and Ellen’s supposed to be back from the grocery store with Henry any second. I’ll bathe alone, thank you. I don’t want a three-year-old to find us getting it on in the bathroom.”

  “I didn’t say anything about g-getting it on.”

  “I know your ways, Owens. Now hurry it up. I’m going to get the steaks marinating while you make yourself decent.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  A reverberating smack pulled his attention away from the sight of her swaying backside as she walked toward the house. Caleb sat in the driver’s seat of Sean’s SUV three feet away, his arm out the window and his palm against the door where he’d hit it to get Sean’s attention. “Quit smiling at my sister like an idiot and tell me where you want the truck.”

  “I n-need you to turn around and come in the other way,” he said. “I’ll roll the hitch over, and you can b-back onto it.”

  It took them twenty minutes to get the truck latched shut, the hitch attached, and the SUV backed onto the trailer. By the time Sean made it out of the shower, dressed, and stepped into the backyard, the lawn was full of people.

  Katie’s older sister, Amber, was playing grab-ass with her husband, Tony. Their three sons sat around a picnic table with plates of food, the eldest wearing earbuds and ignoring the gathering, the youngest chattering with his grandmother. Ellen and her son, Henry, chased Tony and Amber’s dog around, trying to reclaim the Frisbee clamped in its mouth.

  Katie’s dad and Caleb stood over by the grill, which still smelled like lighter fluid from when Katie lit it over an hour ago. Judah stood talking to Jamie and Carly, while a serious Ben guided Carly’s toddler around the yard, her hand clutching on his finger, her footsteps wobbly.

  Sean kept looking until he found Katie bent over the flower bed where he had spread his mother’s ashes in the spring. She was calling something to Judah and absentmindedly pulling a weed. She wore a yellow dress that made her look as if she’d been formed from shafts of sunlight.

  Sean paused on the top step, reluctant to step out into the middle of this boisterous, affectionate collection of family and friends.

  Katie called it “only-child syndrome.” You didn’t get enough unconditional love as a kid, so you don’t feel like you deserve it. But it wasn’t that he didn’t deserve all of this. It was more that he didn’t know yet what he was supposed to give back in order to repay all he’d taken.

  He’d left behind a life that now seemed cold and empty, and he’d replaced it with this one—a backyard full of people holding beers and paper plates, talking, laughing. All of them here to celebrate the move, even though the move meant he was taking Katie away.

  Katie caught sight of him. “About time you showed up,” she called. “Everybody’s been asking after you.”

  He stepped down and crossed the yard to her. “Sorry. Trailer took longer than I expected, and I loaded our bags in the t-truck after I showered.”

  “We’re ready to go, then?”

  “After the party’s over and cleaned up.”

  “Ellen said they’ll clean up. We’re not supposed to worry about anything.”

  Sean nodded. Ellen and Caleb were going to keep the keys to the house. They’d make sure everything stayed in good shape until he and Katie moved back into the place a few years down the road.

  The idea of keeping the house had unsettled him at first. He’d planned to build her something new, something bigger and flashier and free of memories, but then they’d spent hours removing wallpaper, tearing up carpet, repainting. Sean and Caleb had refinished the wood floors in the spring and replaced the kitchen linoleum with tile.

  It was a different place now, harboring memories of his mother but not overflowing with them. It was his and Katie’s house, the present they’d made together and the future they planned.

  And he was a different man.

  He caught her waist and pulled her closer. When her hands came up to his chest, the sun winked off the diamond on her finger, a satisfying reminder that Katie didn’t get her way on everything. Most of the time, he got what he wanted, too. The wedding would be next summer, here in Camelot, and for the honeymoon they were going to go back to Paris.

  Turned out Katie had a thing for chocolate croissants.

  “Are you worrying, ssweetheart?” he asked.

  “No, I’m excited.” She wound her arms around his neck. “I haven’t had an adventure in a while.”

  “No grizzlies this time. Not much of an adventure for a woman with your p-pedigree.”

  “I’m sure you’ll keep me on my toes.” She pulled his head down for a kiss, and he let the smell and taste of her wrap around him. Fresh, lemony perfume, sun-warmed skin, cherry lip balm. His Katie.

  “I promise to bring you b-back in one piece.”

  “I promise to make you. Are you worrying?”

  He wasn’t. It had taken him a few weeks to figure out just what he was doing, because the feeling was new and unfamiliar.

  He thought he might be anticipating.

  Sean kept catching himself looking forward to things. The challenges of starting up the new office and establishing the social media monitoring service he’d dreamed up last winter. The petty arguments he and Katie would probably have as they figured out how to make the condo into a home, the disagreements and compromises and make-up sex.

  The moment when she spotted the framed Star Wars poster he’d already hung up in their bedroom.

  This was the life he wanted, the life they’d made together. It was better than he’d dared hope.

  “No, I’m not wuh-worrying. I’ve got my d-dream girl with me.”

  “Lucky girl,” Katie said.

  “No,” he corrected. “Lucky me.”

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve had a soft spot for stuttering heroes ever since I read Stephen King’s It as a kid—and I read it over and over and over again. So I’d like to dedicate this book to King, with thanks for all the hours of entertainment and inspiration, and an extra-big helping of gratitude for that wonderful, grieving Stuttering Bill.

  Like just about everything Sean says, Flirting with Disaster didn’t come out smooth and perfect on the first go-round. There was a baby in the first draft, for one thing. (No, it wasn’t Sean and Katie’s.) Also, someone got shot. Bonus points for guessing who! The story changed a great deal between the first and last versions, and I owe a debt of gratitude to everyone who read it for me and gave me feedback that helped me improve it. Faye Robertson and Gina L. Maxwell were early cheerleaders. Their enthusiasm for the very idea of a stuttering hacker hero built my confidence.

  My agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, and my editors at Random House, Sue Grimshaw and Angela Polidoro, made excellent revision suggestions, as did many of my writing friends and critique partners. Amber Lin and Serena Bell both managed to be really excited about the book when I most wanted to drown it in the bathtub. Courtney Milan, Del Dryden, Meg Maguire, Carrie Herring, Charlotte Stein, and Anna Cowan all offered supportive comments and general buoying. There are really no words to express how necessary all of this help is to a writer, so I’ll just have to say “Thank you, you wonderful, wonderful women, you.”

  Any remaining mistakes or horrid errors—intentional or not—are, of course, my own.

  Photo: Mark Anderson, STUN Photography

  RUTHIE KNOX graduated from Grinnell College as an English and history double major and w
ent on to earn a Ph.D. in modern British history that she’s put to remarkably little use. She debuted as a romance novelist with Ride with Me—probably the only existing cross-country bicycling love story yet to be penned—and followed it up with About Last Night, which features a sizzling British banker hero with the unlikely name of Neville. Flirting with Disaster is the third book in her Camelot series, which kicks off with How to Misbehave, followed by Along Came Trouble. Ruthie moonlights as a mother, Tweets incessantly, and bakes a mean focaccia.

  THE EDITOR’S CORNER

  Welcome to Loveswept!

  Whether you’re on the beach, in the park, or sitting poolside, there’s nothing like spending a warm summer day reading a good book – especially one that has romance, sizzling passion, and deeply felt emotion. Luckily, we have just the thing to make your summer even more sweltering – in the very best way.

  Samantha Kane’s captivating regency romance, TEMPTING THE DEVIL, is an erotic tale of secrets and temptation, and after reading it, you’ll be reaching for that fan for a whole ’nother reason! And we’re also incredibly excited about Mary Ann Rivers’s sexy debut contemporary romance novella, THE STORY GUY, where Wednesdays turn into a day of temptation and pleasure for a mild-mannered librarian who responds to the most intriguing personal ad.

  We also have some classics that you won’t want to miss:

  Sandra Chastain’s exceptional stories, SILVER BRACELETS and DANNY’S GIRL, Ruth Owen’s riveting AND BABIES MAKE FOUR, Jean Stone’s moving SINS OF INNOCENCE, Iris Johansen’s thrilling TIL THE END OF TIME, and Katie Rose’s irresistible A HINT OF MISCHIEF.

  If you love romance … then you’re ready to be Loveswept!

  Gina Wachtel

  Associate Publisher

  P.S. Watch for these terrific Loveswept titles coming soon: August heats up with three e-originals: Stacey Kennedy’s intoxicating CLAIMED, Elisabeth Barrett’s blazing SLOW SUMMER BURN, and Toni Aleo’s red-hot BLUE LINES, as well as Sandra Chastain’s stirring SURRENDER THE SHADOW, Katie Rose’s unforgettable COURTING TROUBLE, Adrienne Staff’s alluring CRESCENDO, Iris Johansen’s tantalizing YORK, THE RENEGADE and Ruth Owen’s ultra-sexy BODY HEAT. September arrives with more timeless stories for you – Three enticing stories from Sandra Chastain, THE JUDGE AND THE GYPSY, FIREBRAND, and THE LAST DANCE, beloved author Iris Johansen’s THE DELANEY’S OF KILLAROO, Fran Baker’s enchanting SEEING STARS, as well as two original stories: Lauren Layne’s seductive AFTER THE KISS, and Mira Lyn Kelly’s sexy and sweet TRUTH OR DARE. Don’t miss any of these extraordinary reads. I promise that you’ll fall in love and treasure these stories for years to come.…

  Read on for excerpts from more Loveswept titles …

  Read on for an excerpt from Ruthie Knox’s

  How to Misbehave

  Chapter One

  Friday, July 16, 1999

  When the tornado siren began to scream, Amber was alone in the building with him.

  Him.

  The foreman. The guy with the deep tan and the hard hat and the oh-my-lord arms.

  Everybody had a different name for him. One of the lifeguards called him “the Italian Stallion.” A patron had referred to him as “Mr. Yummy.” Rosalie, the weekday receptionist, said his name was actually Patrick Mazzara, and he was trouble.

  Amber just thought of him as “him.”

  She thought of him a great deal more than was good for her.

  Gusts of wind flung the sound of the siren at the building, drowning out whatever noises he might have been making behind the thick plastic curtain that separated the construction zone from the rest of the center. But he was definitely over there.

  Knowing when he left was part of her job. As program director, Amber opened Camelot Community Center at seven in the morning and locked up at five. Sometimes, like today, she had to wait around for him after everyone else had gone home. She would sit behind the counter of the tall, curved reception desk and imagine herself pushing aside the plastic curtain to ask when he might be finished cleaning up. It’s twenty after. I need to head home.

  She never actually did it, though. She’d never been brave enough to initiate the conversation, and there was nothing so pressing on her agenda that she couldn’t wait for him.

  Except, right now, the siren seemed kind of pressing. Herding all the people in the center down to the basement in the event of an emergency was another one of Amber’s responsibilities, which meant she should probably get off her tush and round the man up.

  But then she’d be alone with him in the basement.

  The notion simultaneously thrilled and frightened her. On the one hand, it felt a little bit like Providence tapping her on the shoulder. Is this what you wanted? Here you go! Carpe diem!

  On the other hand, she was female and alone. She didn’t go into dark basements with strange men, and especially not with large strange men who’d been described to her as “trouble.” Because what if? What if seven hundred different horrible things happened?

  Smart girls didn’t ignore the what-ifs.

  They didn’t ignore tornado sirens, either.

  She might have sat there forever, immobilized by indecision, if the phone hadn’t rung at the exact same moment his shape materialized as a red-and-blue blob behind the plastic sheeting.

  “Camelot Community Center. This is Amber. Can I help you?”

  “Why are you still by the phone? Don’t you hear the siren?”

  Her mother. Perfect.

  “Yeah, I hear it.”

  He shoved the curtain aside and walked across the lobby, past the desk toward the front doors. Surely he wasn’t—

  “—have to go to the basement,” her mother continued. “It’s not safe near all that glass. Really, you should be—”

  He was. The man pushed open one of the entry doors, and Amber shot out of her chair.

  “Hey!” She dropped the phone and scooted quickly around the desk. “You can’t go out there. The siren.”

  When he frowned, he looked even more intimidating than usual. “I’m only checking it out.”

  He had the door propped open with his right arm and leg. Not leaving.

  “Right. Sorry.” All the blood in her body attempted to relocate to her cheeks. “I’m, uh, supposed to take you down to the basement. Hold on a second, and I’ll get off the phone.”

  She crossed back to the desk in a rush and leaned way over to retrieve the phone from the far side. “Mom, I have to go. Be safe. I’ll call you when it’s over.”

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “The guy from the construction company.”

  She didn’t know if he was technically the foreman or the owner or what. He seemed to boss a lot of people around, particularly another man who looked like a shorter, angrier, tattooed version of him, but he also did plenty of work.

  She’d mentally designated him the foreman on the basis of the fact that he seemed to come and go as he pleased. He did half days sometimes and skipped other days altogether, which made her think he was off running the show at another site.

  “You mean that man who keeps you late? You can’t go down to the basement with him.”

  “Of course I can. I have to.”

  “He’s a stranger.”

  “Yes, but there’s a tornado.”

  The storm noise died down as the door eased shut behind him.

  His boots squeaked over the polished linoleum of the entryway, and then metal clicked on plastic as something hit the desk beside her.

  She looked sideways. His belt buckle. Holy Toledo.

  “I know there’s a tornado,” her mother was saying. “That’s why I called. But you can’t go running down into the basement with a man. It’s unsafe.”

  “I think this is one of those situations where you have to pick your poison, Mom.”

  “Ask him his name, at least, so if something happens I can report him to the authorities.”

  “His name is Patrick Mazzara.” Her face got even hotter. Why not just
wear a sign that read, I Know Your Name Because I Have a Huge, Inappropriate Crush on You? “I have to go.”

  He shifted beside her. The buckle scraped over Formica.

  “Mazzara? Is he the one who—”

  “Bye, Mom.”

  Amber hung up the phone and closed her eyes. Inhale, exhale, inhale, gosh darn it, she hoped he hadn’t heard that.

  But she wasn’t any good at lying, even to herself. She worked the phone all the time, and she knew perfectly well that the volume stayed cranked up loud enough that it was possible to hear both sides of any conversation from several feet away. Rosalie was a little hearing impaired.

  He wasn’t several feet away. He was breathing. Right next to her.

  He cleared his throat.

  She turned.

  “Basement?”

  She beamed as if she were offering him a cocktail. Because she was excellent with men. So very excellent and savvy. Not at all a flushing, bumbling Bible college graduate who’d lost the faith and misplaced her virginity but somehow accidentally managed to hang on to her air of dewy inexperience.

  It was her face—her giant eyes and big round cheeks. She looked like Bambi. The kind of men who were attracted to her wanted her to be as sweet and innocent as her face.

  “I’m not Patrick.”

  Amber blinked. I’m not Patrick was the last thing she’d expected him to say. Though to be fair, she was hard-pressed to come up with a list of things he might reasonably have said.

  I adore you, Amber.

  I want to marry you.

  Or maybe, I want to take you out to my truck and teach you what sex is supposed to feel like.

  She wasn’t innocent enough to think it would be romantic if he said any of those things. Not at all. It would be creepy. And probably also terrifying.

  “Patrick’s my brother,” he added. “My name’s Tony.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”