The Troublemaker

by Lili Valente

  She sighs happily. “And then I’m going to make you pay my lawyer fees and counter sue you for every dime in your pathetic bank account, just to teach you a lesson about treating people with respect. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

  Jordan lunges forward, and I explode out of the Jeep, sprinting across the parking lot, fists pumping as I hit the grass on the other side and haul ass toward the deck.

  But no matter how fast I am, I won’t be fast enough.

  I’m still halfway across the lawn, and Jordan already has his arm locked around Carrie’s throat, lifting her off her feet as he drags her toward the edge of the deck.

  My breath rasps fast in my chest, seconds stretching into endless, terror-thickened minutes as what I feared gets insanely close to becoming a reality.

  I watch one of the tasting room hosts—a man in a blue button-down with a messy red bun—burst through the door in slow motion, arms outstretched and fingers spread, shouting for Jordan to “Stop! Put her down!”

  I have time to notice the way Jordan’s too-long hair blows into his eyes as he turns to glance over the side of the deck, the way Carrie’s face flushes and her lips open wide in an attempt to suck in a breath. I have time to realize how small she looks next to him, something I hadn’t noticed when she was putting that creep in his place like a fucking boss.

  And in that second, I know that I’m going to hit him. I’m going to smash my fist into his face hard enough to lift him off the ground. Let’s see how he enjoys having someone bigger and stronger take advantage of him, that psycho piece of shit.

  I vault over the deck railing, not bothering to sidestep the three feet to go through the gate, and sprint the last ten feet separating me from the struggle. It’s clear by now that Jordan isn’t going to try to toss Carrie over the edge—he’s already relaxing his hold on her neck, apparently having decided murder in front of witnesses isn’t a good idea—but that doesn’t make a difference to me.

  He put his fucking hands on her. That’s enough.

  More than enough.

  I grip him by the shoulders, ripping him away from Carrie. I’m drawing back my arm, ready to shove my fist into his gut, when familiar hands circle my bicep.

  “Don’t! He’s not worth it.” Carrie wraps herself around me, and I turn to pull her into my arms, hugging her tight, so fucking glad she’s okay.

  “You sure?” I ask, smoothing her hair from her forehead.

  “Yes,” she says, nodding firmly. “But thank you.”

  “I’m going to sue,” Jordan shouts. “That’s fucking assault.”

  “I didn’t touch you,” I say, shaking my head as I scowl at him. Seriously, is this guy for real?

  “Assault is the threat of violence.” Jordan rakes a hand through his hair as he lifts his chin. “You threatened me. Clearly.”

  I’m about to give him an earful about being a hypocrite of the lowest, sleaziest order, but the tasting room guy beats me to it.

  “And you were strangling your girlfriend,” he says, shoving open the gate leading off the deck and pointing a finger toward the parking lot. “Get out of here. Now. Before we call the police. There are cabs at the end of the drive.” He hesitates, expression softening as he shifts his attention Carrie’s way. “Unless you want us to call the police for you, ma’am. Do you want to press charges?”

  “No.” Carrie shakes her head. “I just want him to go and stay gone.”

  “You can’t do this,” Jordan seethes, but thankfully he starts moving toward to the gate. “You can’t make me go away. You’re not as smart as you think you are, Carrie. Just wait until we’re in court. My lawyer is a pit bull. He’s going to make sure I get everything I want, and then some.”

  “She’s got you on video, asshole,” I say, relishing the dumbstruck look that flashes across his face.

  “Including you rushing me from behind,” Carrie says. “The windows reflected everything, like a mirror. So unless you want me to release footage of you assaulting me to the press and the authorities, I suggest you withdraw your suit, apologize publicly for leaking the photos, and stay the hell out of my life. Moving would be nice, too. A state away. Or two. Canada would be good.”

  “Don’t put that on Canada, babe,” I say with mock disappointment. “They don’t deserve this shit stain.”

  Carrie laughs, triggering a scowl from Jordan. His lips part, but I cut him off before he can stick his foot in his mouth again.

  “You’re done.” I jerk my chin toward the parking lot. “Start walking and don’t look back.”

  He starts to speak, but again, I’m too fast for him.

  “Huh-uh.” I point to the road. “Leave. Now. Or leave with my foot in your ass, kicking you to the curb.”

  But the fool clearly doesn’t know when to shut up. He takes a breath, and I launch into motion. The speed with which he scrambles away would be funny if he hadn’t had his arm locked around Carrie’s throat two minutes ago. So instead of laughing, I chase the idiot down the driveway and into a cab. Only when he’s safely inside, flipping me the bird from behind the window, do I let myself laugh.

  And laugh and laugh, because nothing hurts a bully more than realizing he’s a fucking joke.

  By the time I make it back to the winery, Carrie is waiting for me at the end of the walk, holding a bottle of wine wrapped in purple tissue paper. “For you,” she says, holding it out to me. “A ‘thank you for helping me get my life back’ present.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t want wine,” I say.

  “What do you want?” she asks, lips curving as her palm slides up my chest.

  “Just this, Trouble.” I bend low, claiming her lips for a long, slow, relieved kiss before pulling away. “Just you.”

  Chapter 25

  Carrie

  I didn’t go to my high school prom.

  I went to a concert with my girlfriends, instead, secure in the knowledge that I wasn’t missing a damned thing. Screw high school rites of passage, and screw high school. I was already a million miles away in my mind.

  I’ve never regretted the choice, and I don’t regret it now, but I do love to dance, and for the first time I think it might be nice to sway in a man’s arms all night.

  This man’s arms in particular…

  “I wish we’d danced at Emma’s wedding,” I say, studying Rafe’s face in the warm glow of the exposed bulbs crisscrossing the air above us.

  The open area beside the horse paddocks has been transformed into an old-fashioned wooden dance floor, with the band on an elevated platform not far from the feed troughs. Tables swathed in red cloth surround the dancing zone, giving tired patrons and pups a place to relax with a drink—or a bowl of water—in between cutting a rug or playing fetch on the hillside. Closer to the main building, cooks from three local restaurants are filling the air with incredible smells, wineries are pouring wine, breweries are showcasing their beers, and Tristan is raking in the dough needed to cover the shelter’s unexpected summer costs.

  It’s been an amazing night, a complete success, and I truly can’t remember the last time I felt so light. So happy. So filled with gratitude and hope for the future.

  Rafe shakes his head. “Nah. Dancing at the wedding wouldn’t have been a good idea.”

  “Why not?” I ask, brows lifting.

  “The chemistry would have given us away.” He wraps his arm tight around me as he spins us in a circle, lifting my feet off the floor before setting me down with a skill that makes it clear this isn’t his first time making a woman swoon on the dance floor. “Our family would have taken one look at the sizzle and staged an intervention.”

  I laugh as I glance over my shoulder to where his brother is helping pull taps at the beer station. “What about Tristan? You think he’ll try to shut us down?”

  He shakes his head. “Tristan knows when to let life take its natural course. Which reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

  “What’s that?”

  “It
’s about my gear shift, actually.”

  I grin. “One of my favorite topics.”

  “Good to hear, but…” He trails off, spinning us closer to the edge of the dance floor before adding in a softer voice, “It’s about what you said at the wedding. About how humans aren’t designed to make the couple thing work long term.”

  “I remember,” I say, my smile fading.

  “So…I guess I’m wondering if you really meant that.”

  I press my lips together as I search his eyes, looking for clues as to what he’s hoping to hear. But in the end, it doesn’t matter. My truth is what matters, even if it’s scary to say out loud. “The idea of finding The One has always seemed weird to me. Allegedly there’s this person out there, this singular, phenomenal person who will be everything we’ll ever need—our best friend, our lover, our partner, our confessor, our missing piece…”

  I pull in a breath, letting it out slowly. “I don’t think any one person can or should have to be all those things. It’s too much to put on one soul. I can be a lot of things to the people I love, but not everything, not The One. I would try, but I’m afraid I would fail. And if there’s one thing I learned growing up, it’s how much it sucks to fail at love.”

  “It does suck,” Rafe says, understanding in his eyes. “But I would never expect you to be my everything, Carrie. I want your passion and your time. I want your trust and your body next to me in my bed, but…” He shrugs. “I like to figure out the answers to the big questions myself. And if something is missing in my life, it’s something I need to go looking for inside myself, not in another person.” He pulls me closer as the music shifts to a swoony ballad. “Not even the person I’m falling in love with.”

  My breath catches, and my eyes get mistier than they were before. “Yeah? You’re falling in love with me?”

  “Yeah,” he confirms, the mixture of heat and heart in his gaze making my stomach flip. “But I don’t want to share you. It makes me crazy to think of another man tuning your transmission, no matter how my gear shift is designed.”

  “I don’t need any other gear shift but yours.” I lean in, loving the way his powerful body feels pressed to mine. “It’s just that the science used to give me comfort, you know? When love kept bottoming out on me, I could blame nature instead of myself.”

  “It wasn’t you or nature,” he says with a cocky grin. “You just hadn’t met the right guy yet. You needed someone who could handle you, Trouble, keep you in line.”

  I laugh as I arch a brow. “Is that right? And you think you’re up for the job, Slick?”

  “Absolutely.” His eyes sparkle with a mixture of teasing and truth. “As long as you’ll do the same for me. Don’t put up with any of my shit, okay?”

  “I won’t,” I promise, sobering. “So does that mean the next time you run away, I get to send you a text telling you to get your cowardly ass back here and talk to me?”

  He shakes his head. “No more running. I’m done with that. The only place I’m running is up the stairs to beat you to the bedroom, so I can be on bottom.”

  “You don’t have to race me. I’ll let you be on bottom,” I say, threading my fingers into his hair. “I like you on bottom. And on top. And from behind. And in the car and up against the wall and—”

  My words end in a moan as he kisses me thoroughly, deeply, pulling away seconds before the kiss gets too hot for public consumption.

  “Save it for when we get home,” he whispers. “Or we’re leaving early.”

  “Fine by me. I’ve already had a glass of wine, petted the puppies, and filled out my raffle ticket.”

  He grins, and I’m struck again by how handsome he is. How clever and kind and an utter joy to spend time with. Not to mention a complete person who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to ask for it. And then there’s the heroic side that’s had me humming since he chased Jordan to his cab.

  He’s my knight in faded denim, and I can’t believe I ever thought casual would be easy to pull off with him. He’s already under my skin and so close to my heart I’m ready to put a key into his keeping.

  I will always keep the master key for myself—my heart is mine to lock and unlock as I see fit—but I’m ready to make space for Rafe. I’m ready to know what it feels like to be that close to someone, so close that you know what they’re going to do before they do it, what they’ll say before the words pass their lips.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he says at the same time I say, “Ready to go?”

  We both grin. And then we make a break for the parking lot, where we abandon my car and head for Rafe’s bike. Because we like the speed, the rush, and the wind in our hair, buffeting our skin as we race past the rest of the people clogging the 101 South, bound for a place where we can be alone.

  Or not so alone, I think, smiling against his back, hoping we keep riding together for a long, long time to come.

  Chapter 26

  Rafe

  Nine months later…

  If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.

  The mantra is ingrained in my DNA. Hunters don’t quit, we don’t back down, and we sure as hell don’t let failure get in our way.

  Failure is just another step on the road to eventual success. My dad worships at the church of Henry Ford, the man who tanked two auto companies before taking the world by storm with his Model T, and he made sure his sons all got the message: don’t give up. Don’t doubt yourself. And when a dream’s burning a hole inside you, don’t stop until you make your dream a reality.

  I’m not easily discouraged, and I’m prepared to attack a problem from a different angle. But there are some things you want to get right the first time.

  Things like proposing to the woman you love…

  “You’ve got this,” I mutter as I ease away from the wall at the back of the bookstore and take my place at the end of the line of people waiting to get their book signed.

  After Jordan’s public confession nine months ago—and subsequent six week stay in a prison in Centinela when the state decided to press charges—Carrie’s come back stronger than ever. Her fans have rallied around her and there are far more adults here than I thought there would be. I expected a certain number of parents along to chaperone their kids, but the crowd is eighty percent eighteen and over, which makes this more anxiety-provoking than I thought it would be. Making a spectacle in front of a couple dozen kids who probably won’t be paying attention—grown-ups are boring to children, something my nephews taught me long ago—is one thing. Ripping my heart out and offering it to Carrie in front of witnesses who might notice what I’m doing or—God forbid—Instagram it, is something else entirely.

  Not too late to abort the mission, the inner voice warns. You could head out the back way and wait for her in the parking lot like you said you would. She never has to know you were in here.

  Instead, I stay where I am, shuffling forward as the line advances.

  I worked for hours on the book clutched tight in my hand, and I’m not going to come up with a more romantic way to ask the question burning inside of me. Besides, I promised Carrie no more running, and I intend to keep that promise—today and every day that I’m lucky enough to call her mine.

  Hopefully, that will be something close to forever.

  I never imagined I’d be one of those guys desperate to get down on one knee, but Carrie’s already so much a part of me I can hardly remember what my life was like without her. She fits into my family like she was meant to be in our lives all along, and both my parents and all my brothers adore her. We live together, play together, take our two beautiful nieces to the park together, and then go home and celebrate the fact that we have no small people depending on us to feed or diaper them and are still free to do filthy things to each other all night long.

  But lately, we’ve also spent some time whispering softly in the fort of silence, wondering what it might be like to have a Hunter-Haverford of our own someday.

  Maybe a day
not too far from this day…

  She’s going to say yes.

  I know she will. She makes me feel loved every fucking day, and I know there’s nowhere else she wants to be than right here, sharing her life with me.

  So why am I suddenly sweating?

  By the time Carrie’s blond and purple curls come into view, my palms are so slick I have to keep swapping the book from hand to hand to covertly wipe them on my jeans. And by the time I’m three people away from her table, my heart is punching a hole in my chest, my throat is locked tight, and I can’t remember a single thing I planned to say.

  Shit!

  I had it all planned, the perfect words. I wrote them out ahead of time and read them over and over again, knowing I’m not the kind who can be trusted to whip up something pitch-perfect on the spur of the moment.

  Apparently, I’m also not the kind of person who can remember shit when he’s really nervous. You really do learn something new every day.

  But it’s too late to put this new intelligence to practical use. I’m here, stepping up to the table as a mother and her preteen daughter move to the side, watching my girl’s face light up when she sees me.

  As soon as my eyes meet Carrie’s, I feel like the only person in the room, because this incredible woman is smiling just for me. My heartbeat slows, my throat relaxes, and when I hand over the book, my arm only shakes the tiniest bit. “Would you sign my copy, Miss Haverford?”

  Her dimples pop. “Of course, Mr. Hunter. Though you didn’t have to buy one, you know. I would have given you a copy free of charge. It’s one of the perks of being my sexy boyfriend.”

  “I like those perks.” I fight to keep my expression neutral as she opens the book. “But I wanted to support the author.”