by Avery Flynn
“And how does my being in my comfy PJ’s at breakfast play into that?”
“Because I don’t think he was seeing them that way.”
“Trust me. We talked about my PJ’s last night. He’s definitely not into them or me. You can rest easy, Dad. No one is going to be hitting on your little girl on your watch.” She winked at him.
“Well, he is making some major changes in his life, and whether you realize it or not, he does very much see you that way. He alone is responsible for his behavior, and what you choose to wear is about you and not him, but I don’t think you’re immune to him, either. You both are playing with fire if your plan is to keep things strictly platonic.”
As if that was even an option. She was Lucy Kavanagh, controller of images and righter of publicity gone bad. However, she was not a leggy goddess with an impossibly tiny waist and shampoo-commercial hair. While she was pretty damn happy with herself for the most part, she wasn’t the kind of woman who caught Frankie Hartigan’s eye—nor did she want to be one of a numberless horde.
“Dad, I love you,” she said with a chuckle. “But I think this is a case of when you’re a sex therapist you see everything as sexual in nature.”
Her dad gave her that look, she knew the one. It meant a seriously awkward and bad dad joke was incoming.
“Sooo,” he said, drawing the one-syllable word out, “you’re saying I have a sex hammer that makes everything look like a nail.”
She squeezed her eyes closed in her best effort to block that mental image and let out a groan. Damn. She really should have seen that one coming. “Oh my God, Dad. Why do you say things like that?”
“Because no matter how old you get, making you embarrass-laugh is one of my jobs as a dad.”
“Good to know.” And weirdly enough, comforting to hear. “But for the record, you’re wrong. Frankie doesn’t see me like that.”
He put his therapist face back on, a deep V wrinkle forming between his eyes. “An interesting assumption on your part.”
A twinge of oh-shit made her lungs tight. “What does that mean?”
He tapped his fingertips against her empty cereal bowl and lifted an eyebrow. “That for as much as you like to give me a hard time for never changing things…” He paused, giving her one of those piercing looks that he normally reserved for his clients or Gussie. “You don’t seem to like to change things, either—especially not your thinking. And the result is you leading with insults and defensiveness instead of an open mind. You gotta take a risk someday, or you’ll ultimately just prove your worst assumptions right.”
That hit uncomfortably close to the dark place where she shoved her self-doubts and questions, but she just double-locked the door because her dad was wrong. She knew what she was about, that’s all. She knew who she was, what she wanted, and what she definitely didn’t need in her life. “Isn’t there a rule against analyzing your own kid?”
“Just making an observation, Muffin.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and headed for the door, followed by Gussie who’d jumped down from the bed at the first sign of her dad leaving her bedroom. “I’ll let you get ready. Remember to have fun today.”
She was going to do her best to try. All she had to do was avoid Constance Harmon as much as possible and not think too hard about what her dad said, because she was most definitely not playing with fire when it came to Frankie Hartigan. That was just crazy talk.
Her phone buzzed on the bedside table just as she started getting dressed.
Gina: Are you dead?
Lucy: Not yet.
Fallon: Is Frankie dead yet?
Lucy: No.
Tess: How’s cutie boy Gussie?
Gina: The dog? Really? That’s what you’re going with when she’s halfway across the country with a hot firefighter????
Tess: He does look so cute in pics.
Fallon: Gross. That firefighter is my brother.
Gina: We’ll let you know when it’s safe to rejoin the group text, then.
Lucy: Gussie is fine.
She shared a pic of the dog she’d taken before her ill-planned trip to Frankie’s room last night. She’d barely hit send before the hearts started exploding on her screen and the text alert notifications told her that all of her girls had hearted the photo.
She pulled on her shirt, a cute green V-neck T-shirt that was about as soft as soft got, and her skirt while the three little dots announcing someone was typing appeared and disappeared on her screen. No doubt her girls were having a side discussion about the whole reunion trip with Frankie right now. God help her if they ever got in a room with her dad. There’d be no resisting that interfering foursome. Her phone buzzed.
Gina: Any news to share or juicy gossip?
Yep. They were definitely having a sidebar conversation.
Lucy: We just got here last night. Had some car trouble.
Gina: Is that what the kids are calling it these days?
Fallon: Again. My BROTHER.
Tess: Who said it was okay for you to read again? :)
Lucy: So funny. Let’s remember who we’re talking about.
Gina: Exactly. We’re talking about you, ya badass.
Despite the fact that they were just giving her shit and looking for dirt—that most definitely was not going to appear—Lucy couldn’t help but giggle at their texting shenanigans. Delusional or not, hearing from her girls was exactly what she needed to gird up for the day ahead.
Lucy: Well this badass has to go pick up her reunion registration packet.
Tess: Go forth and be awesome!
Lucy: xoxo
Okay, so she was grinning like a fool by the time she swiped on the extra coat of red lipstick that should just be called Confidence Booster and walked out of her room. Badass, huh? Yeah, she just had to remember that she was a different woman than the one who’d left Antioch.
But she couldn’t help wondering how everyone was going to react when they saw Frankie on her arm. Probably not the way she imagined.
Chapter Nine
Wolfie, the Antioch High School mascot, looked down at Lucy with its perennially off kilter, possibly drunk, definitely homicidal toothy grin from the wall behind the bleachers in the gymnasium. Somehow it seemed appropriate that the place where she’d gotten tormented the most during her formative years was watched over by the painting of a deranged gray wolf.
“Oh my God! Muffin Kavanagh, is that you? And look at you in that skirt! I could never wear that retro style like you do.”
Anyone not well versed in passive-aggressive grenades may not have heard the pin being pulled and would have just been left wondering why their internal organs had exploded after the sugary insult. Judging by the almost flirty look on Frankie’s face as he gave Constance Harmon the slow up-and-down, he’d missed it. Not a surprise. He was a dude, after all. And if the insult wasn’t delivered via Daisy Cutter, then it didn’t register.
That was the reason for the annoyance squeezing her lungs, because it sure wasn’t the fact that Sir Flirts A Lot was giving Constance the hey-baby look. Sure, he was just pretending he was Lucy’s date, but that didn’t mean he had to do a shitty job of it. She was, after all, standing right here.
And to think her dad had stopped in her room to deliver that playing-with-fire warning.
“You are so right, it takes a woman with some luscious curves to do it justice,” Frankie said as he curled his left arm around Lucy’s waist and offered his right to shake Constance’s hand. “I’m Frankie Hartigan. You must be the Constance I’ve heard so much about.”
Her heart started hammering in her chest as she realized Frankie Hartigan had just stuck up for her. She would not swoon at his feet.
Constance blinked for a few seconds, still not sure if she’d been insulted or not—she had—and shook Frankie’s hand. “All of it good, I hope.”
“It was all something,” he said, letting go of the other woman’s hand.
It hung in the air for a second, and Lucy coul
d practically see the dots being connected in Constance’s head. Yep. She definitely realized she’d just been insulted. Twice. Lucy managed to cover her laugh with a cough but couldn’t stop herself from smiling.
Well played, Frankie Hartigan.
The other woman turned her attention back to Lucy. All of the fake warmth was gone from her bright blue eyes. Yeah, that was the Constance Lucy knew and loathed.
“We’re just here for our welcome packet,” she managed to get out as Frankie pulled her closer so she fit against his side as if she was meant to.
She knew she wasn’t, but that didn’t stop her body from semi-melting into his. She was a big woman and Frankie was a big guy, but he didn’t overshadow her size or make her feel like some stereotypical tiny little waif of a thing—really, why was that the go-to for societal expectations of what a woman should want? However, it was pretty damn hot to curl up against someone who looked like he could take all of her and enjoy every last inch of her curves.
“Of course, let me get that packet for you.” Constance flipped through several envelopes before pulling one out. “Here we are.” She handed it to Lucy. “Now, there’s everything you need in there, such as the reunion picnic time, and some things I’m sure you don’t, such as the reunion decathlon challenge.”
Lucy’s amusement died a cold, hard death. Of course Constance would think she’d want the information about the eating thing and not the fun thing.
“What’s the decathlon challenge?” Frankie asked.
Constance turned her attention back to Frankie, flipping her blond hair over her shoulder as she did so and giving him a flirty smile. Either Constance had already forgotten the digs he’d made at her expense, or she’d figured he was hot enough to get away with being an asshole. Either option was possible, but Lucy was leaning toward the second one.
“Oh, it’s a bunch of challenges like a scavenger hunt, carnival stuff, and an obstacle course, with the couple who gets the most points being declared the reunion king and queen.” She pressed the palms of her hands to the table and leaned forward, the move pressing her breasts together for their best advantage. “My husband and I won it at the five- and ten-year reunions. We’re the favorites for this year, too.”
“That sounds like fun to me,” Frankie said.
Constance lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “I’m not supposed to do this because the rules require at least one member of the team be an Antioch graduate, but I’m sure we could make an exception for you to go it alone.”
Frankie turned to Lucy and tucked a stray hair behind her ear, his touch lingering just long enough to make her breath hitch. “Do not make me do this by myself. You kick ass at this stuff.”
Before she could call him on that bullshit, Constance—eyes wide with surprise—opened her mouth. “Of course she does,” she said with fake sweetness.
Oh hell no. That wasn’t about to stand.
“Yeah,” Lucy said, thinking back to her twice-weekly dance cardio class and the tai chi that helped her focus. “I do.”
“Just imagine how surprised you’ll be when we win it,” Frankie said with a big grin.
Constance’s smile was anything but friendly. “Well then, good luck to Team Muffin Kavanagh.”
“I agree, she’s very tasty, but that doesn’t have a damn thing to do with this,” Frankie said. “You might want to warn your hubby now not to make space on the trophy case.”
Constance looked from her to Frankie and back again, obviously unable to work out why someone like him would be with someone like her. “There’s no trophy,” Lucy said.
“Good.” He dropped a quick kiss on Lucy’s temple. “Bragging rights are even better.”
And while Constance was still staring slack-jawed at them and Lucy was trying to wrap her brain around what in the hell was going on, Frankie swung Lucy around and steered her away from the registration table and toward the exit. They made it out the door and to the corner of the school parking lot before Lucy yanked Frankie to a stop.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, forcing herself to keep from yelling. “The last thing I want is to actually do this stupid decathlon.”
If there was one thing every picked-on kid ever learned in high school, it was not to wave a red flag in front of the bullies’ faces, which was exactly what he’d done. There was a difference between standing up for herself and antagonizing the woman who’d been a total bitch to her for four years straight.
“Why?” He slid on his sunglasses and grinned down at her. “It sounds fun, and it’s not like you aren’t competitive.”
“I am not.” She wasn’t. There was a difference between wanting to win everything and wanting to win when you were right.
“Really?” He chuckled. “Miss Always Has To Have The Last Word is a passive player? I’m not buying that for a minute.”
He had her there. Damn it. “Fine. I like to win.”
“So, let’s go show that bitch queen how it’s done.” Frankie took the welcome packet from her hands and pulled out a piece of paper with the words Antioch High Decathlon written across the top. “Let’s go figure out where the 1843 cornerstone is.” When she didn’t move, he turned on the charm, lowering his sunglasses so she couldn’t miss the amusement in his blue eyes. “Come on. Play with me.”
“Have you ever see me run?! It is not a pretty sight.”
His gaze zeroed in on her boobs. “Looking forward to it.”
She sighed. “I’m only doing this under protest.”
He pushed his sunglasses back up. “Whatever it takes to help you sleep at night.”
Oh, she knew what it took to really help her sleep after last night’s epic sexually frustrated tossing and turning. However, since riding Frankie wasn’t on the list of activities for the Antioch High School reunion decathlon, she was going to have to make do with her hand and her imagination. In last night’s fantasy, they’d been back at the B and B. He’d walked out in just the towel, dropped it, gotten on his knees, and feasted between her thighs. She’d come so hard all over her fingers that not making noise had not been an option.
“You look guilty,” Frankie said with a smirk, as if he knew exactly where her mind was.
Ignoring his statement and the heat it brought to her cheeks, she said, “I know where the cornerstone is.”
She took off across the street and toward downtown at a brisk pace. Sure, it was July, but a little power walking in the heat was better than that cocky look in Frankie’s eyes right now. She just had to make sure they found every item on the scavenger hunt as fast as possible so they could get back to her dad’s house and she could hide in her room.
Jeesh. What was it about going back home again that turned a person into who they were at twelve?
Lucy was not a nice person. How did she know this? Because she was enjoying herself way too much as she watched Frankie try to charm the location of the next item, a golden wolf’s tooth, out of Henrietta Campher.
For her part, Henrietta was having none of it.
Henrietta had run the Wolfsbane Antiques and Collectibles on Main Street since the La Brea Tar Pits were trapping saber-toothed tigers, and she’d heard every tall tale and sales pitch that had come with folks selling off Grandma’s spoon collection that had been used by one famous person or another. So the more times Frankie complimented the steel of the woman’s spine or the way her hair had maintained such a striking shade of red—his favorite color—the more she rolled her eyes at him from behind her thick glasses.
“Now tell me again how you got saddled with this goliath?” Henrietta asked Lucy.
The look of shocked disbelief on Frankie’s face almost made the fact that they’d been busting their asses for the past four hours on the scavenger hunt from hell worth it.
“His name is Frankie Hartigan, Mrs. Campher,” Lucy said from her spot by the stuffed squirrel dressed up to look like a pirate. “He’s a firefighter back in Waterbury.”
From her spot behind the cou
nter, Henrietta sipped from the straw stuck through the opening of her can of Diet Dr. Pepper before responding, “I’m not asking for a résumé, I want your meet-cute. Isn’t that what they call it in the movies?”
Just the idea of Henrietta sitting down and watching rom-coms on Netflix was blowing Lucy’s mind, making it difficult to remember their cover story. All she could think about was how embarrassed she’d be if she got outed for bringing a fake date to her high school reunion to Mrs. Campher of all people. It would be epically bad.
“This is a great story,” Frankie said, jumping in to fill the dead air. “My brother, who unfortunately did not see the light and join the fire department but instead became a cop, met a woman.”
“I don’t care about your brother. I care about her.” She hooked her thumb toward Lucy.
“I’m getting to that,” Frankie said.
Ignoring the man, Henrietta turned to Lucy. “Does he do everything this slow? I mean, some things are nice at a leisurely pace—walks, jazz, and making love, for instance—but storytelling ain’t one of them.”
Lucy would have answered, but there was no way she could do so without letting go of the laugh building up inside her, especially when she spotted the offended and confused expression on Frankie’s face. The poor guy had probably never been shot down so completely in his life.
“An asshole was hitting on her.” The words came out of his mouth in a rush as if he hadn’t been planning on saying them.
Henrietta’s eyes went wide with interest, and she turned her attention to Frankie. “Go on.”
“He was telling her she wasn’t the hottest thing on the planet just the way she was.”
No. No. No. This wasn’t good. This was the truth. It wasn’t the funny story about him spotting her crossing the street that they’d worked out. This was real-life humiliation used as story-time fodder.
She wanted to open her mouth and say something—anything—to shut Frankie up, but she was frozen like she was stuck in some kind of living dream where she couldn’t move. This was hell. This was like being in high school all over again before she’d gained the brass balls to take on the world with her chin high.
