Stacking the Deck (A Betting on Romance Novel Book 2)

by Cheri Allan

  Wishing she were more the type that could get away with metallic blue, she set her paper cup down on a window sill. Bailey was right. It was stupid to come.

  She was just about to walk down the hall in search of a restroom when Valerie and her gang stepped out of the kitchen. They flipped their hair at the boys who were lingering around the cupcakes. “Hey, guys.”

  Chip Otterman, Dan O’Connell and a few other popular guys stood around, periodically dipping their fingers into the cupcake frosting and licking it off. Dan winked at Valerie. “Hey, gorgeous.”

  Valerie preened and flicked her hair again, her giant silver hoop earrings glinting as she did so. “You’re not going to stand here all night and eat cupcakes, are you?” she teased.

  He eyed her as only a horny teenaged boy can, a mixture of hope and confidence warring on his features. “Got any better ideas?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’ve always got ideas,” Valerie cooed. My God, she was good. Beth watched as Valerie pulled an empty wine bottle she must have retrieved from the recycle bin from behind her back. “How about we all have a little fun? Who’s up for Seven Minutes of Heaven?”

  Dan frowned. Chip looked hopefully at Jenny. The other boys chuckled nervously.

  “Oh, come on,” Valerie urged. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  Chip nudged Dan. “Why not?”

  “Shut up. You just want to kiss my girlfriend.”

  “Worried?” Valerie asked, sauntering toward the door. You could tell she already knew she’d won. “Afraid he’s a better kisser than you?”

  “Heck, no,” Dan said, grabbing Valerie’s waist. He licked her ear. Beth could see his tongue snake out. “I’ll make sure you only reach heaven with me, baby,” he said.

  Gag!

  Beth did her best to blend in with the upholstery, horrified at the turn of events. This was so not where she belonged. A make-out game? Ack! No amount of reading Trish’s Cosmos on the sly could make her good at that.

  She could hear voices outside the front door. Great. More people to ignore her.

  She took a step back into the curtains, waiting for everyone to leave so she could go find a restroom. Hide. But, just as they were about to disappear into the kitchen, Valerie turned and looked Beth straight in the eye.

  “Coming?” she said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ____________________

  CARTER KNOCKED LIGHTLY before entering his grandmother’s living room. It was one of three small rooms on the ground floor in Ma and Pop’s house Grams had been given to use after her knee replacements. He scootched by the TV and Grams’ recliner and pulled a slip of paper from the pocket of his sweats.

  “Here’s your ticket and receipt. The lottery commission thanks you again for your donation.”

  Grams snatched the scratch tickets out of his hand. “We’ll see who’s laughing when I hit the jackpot. Ooh! Shh! They’re starting again!”

  She set the lottery tickets on a side table by her chair and waved impatiently for him to sit.

  “Sorry I missed dinner. I—”

  “Never mind that.” Grams waved away his apology. “Leftovers are in the fridge if you want to take them home. Okay. You’ve already missed the recap of last week’s episode, so I’ll bring you up to speed. They’ve done the little vignette on each of the three finalists. Now he’s gone into seclusion to decide which two he wants to take on the final adventure.” She leaned forward in her recliner to see around him as he toed off his sneakers.

  Carter plopped onto the loveseat. “As if he can actually find ‘true love’ after ten episodes. This show is completely rigged.”

  “Is not,” Grams retorted, riveted to the screen. “I read about him in People. He’s a lonely widower and would love to find love again, but it hasn’t happened. Let’s face it, he’s thirty-five now. Time’s a tickin’. As he pointed out in the article, this show isn’t any different than having a friend set you up on a blind date.”

  “Except my friends don’t follow me around with a camera crew.”

  “Pfft. Marcia says the couples forget the cameras are even there.”

  ‘Marcia’ was the host of the popular reality show and the supposed “matchmaking guru” who used her own proprietary romantic screening process (probably a Magic-8 ball) to “handpick” candidates to date the lead. Unlike other dating shows, Marcia believed real-life challenges were what made or broke relationships, so dates were less about wine and cheese picnics and more about changing a tire in the rain, hosting a birthday party for a pack of preschoolers or getting lost (i.e. dropped) in the woods and having to find your way back to civilization with only a roll of aluminum foil, a rope, a chocolate bar and a towel between you. (That was a fun episode.)

  “Go ahead and poke fun. I love this show. It’s the classic tale of finding true love.”

  “As observed by twenty million Americans in their living rooms.” Carter helped himself to popcorn and settled in for the season finale. They had the same conversation every Monday night. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Grams lit up when she talked about true love. Who was he to deprive her of that?

  He just needed to keep creepy old men from capitalizing on her naiveté.

  “Don’t make that face, young man. It’s not becoming. True love is true love regardless of whether it’s on national TV. And if you keep this up, I may write Marcia and sign you up to be the next bachelor. Hmm. Or maybe Ian…” She tapped her lips thoughtfully with her index finger.

  “Oh, no!” She sat up straight. “Did you see his eyes in that shot? I don’t think he’s going to pick her! Can you believe it? Tsk. That’ll be a mistake.”

  “You think that’s a mistake? What about last week when he ditched the masseuse? That was a mistake. And, no, you may not sign me up for this show.”

  Grams slid him a derisive look. “The one with the purple hair streak? She was trampy. And don’t push me. I have e-mail, and I know how to use it.”

  “Trampy in a good way. Remember the slumber party episode? Maybe you should sign me up. That pillow fight looked entertaining…”

  Grams snorted indelicately and reclaimed the popcorn bowl. “Fine. Ian would make a better bachelor anyway. He’s got that whole successful, lonely bachelor persona. It would serve you right if he got his own slumber party episode.”

  Carter flattened his hand to his chest. “So now I’m not good enough for the show? I’m crushed.” He grinned and tossed a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

  Grams ignored him. They sat through a couple ofcommercials in silence. “So, have you submitted your bid for the fountain job?”

  Carter chewed a little more slowly. “They haven’t released the work specs yet.”

  “Well don’t forget to follow through. I hear they not only want to replace the fountain but add a garden trellis and a little stone half-wall for seating. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”

  He swallowed. “It sounds like you told the committee that’s what they should have.”

  Grams pursed her lips. “It was only a suggestion. Anyway, make sure you bid. A job like that would get you noticed... get you started on the right foot for when you take over the business.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Nothing’s been decided yet.”

  “What’s to decide? Your uncle spends more time at the chiropractor now than I do. He’s up in bed right now, stiff as a board. It’s time for him to retire. Time for you to take over.”

  “He can work in the office. I’ll take the heavy work. Nothing needs to change.”

  Grams rolled her eyes. “He hates paperwork as much as you do and you know it. You need to step up to the plate and take on responsibility for—”

  Carter swiped a piece of popcorn off his lap. “Maybe I’m not ready to be responsible.”

  Grams followed the bit of popcorn with her eyes and raised an eyebrow. “You never will be if you don’t try.”

  “Trying isn’t always the problem.”

  Grams huffed.
“Well, I’m not going to talk about it if you’re going to give me attitude.”

  Carter heaved a sigh and bent over to pick up the popcorn. Grams meant well, but she could be a royal pain in the backside sometimes. “I’m not giving you attitude, Grams, just facts. The fact is I do the best I can, but it’s not always good enough. I’d love to do the fountain job, but it’s right in the damn center of town, and you and I both know that if something goes wrong people will notice. I’m better off sticking to less high profile jobs.”

  “So you’re not even going to bid?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Fine. We’ll talk about it later.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  Sappy mood music bellowed from the TV, signaling the return of the show and saving Carter from further discussion. They watched in silence for a few minutes.

  “Did you stop by the Beacon’s today?” Grams whispered, as if Carter cared a hoot whether he missed anything. It wasn’t as if he disliked the show, he actually found it pretty entertaining. Just unrealistic.

  “Yup.”

  “And?”

  “They want a patio.”

  “Don’t be obtuse. Did you see Claire’s grandniece? Elizabeth Beacon?”

  “Yup.” He pulled the bowl of popcorn back toward him as the show broke for yet more commercials.

  “I hear she’s done very well for herself—though not married. Be sure to say hello from me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Carter,” Grams said in frustration.

  “What?”

  “Are you even listening?”

  “Maybe.”

  She harrumphed and nearly fell out of her recliner to poke him with a bony index finger. “Why are you being difficult?”

  He laughed at her look of consternation and helped her back up before she fell to the floor. “Grams, why are you trying to set me up again? This is the third time in a month.”

  “Who’s setting you up?” she evaded, pretending an intense interest in acid reflux medication.

  “Grams, come on. I don’t have any problems meeting women. I’m doing just fine in that— Ho! You’ve got to be kidding!” Carter gestured abruptly toward the TV where they were showing a preview of the dramatic moments to come. “He’s going to get rid of the professional chef? What’s with this guy?”

  Grams waved dismissively at the TV. “You’re not meeting the right kind of women, Carter. I think I can help.”

  “How do you know they’re not the right kind?”

  “For one thing, you almost never bring them around to meet the rest of the family.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to scare them off.”

  “Stop it. Tell me what you thought of Elizabeth.”

  Carter winced as the professional chef criticized the bachelor for being inept, unimaginative and prematurely deflating her soufflé, as it were. Ouch. “She was… fine.”

  “Fine as in a fine wine?” Grams prompted.

  “Fine as in neutral-fine. As in either hamburgers or hotdogs for dinner are fine.” He tossed another piece of popcorn into his mouth.

  Grams pursed her lips. “Now you’re toying with me. When are you going to stop playing the field and settle down?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I like the game too much.”

  He watched as the camera zoomed in on the chef, her mascara streaking down her cheeks as she sobbed out her disappointment on national TV. Never leave them angry, he cautioned the bachelor silently.

  “Don’t be afraid of love, Carter. It can’t hurt you.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ll bet my mom would have something to say about that.” At Grams’ soft but unmistakable intake of breath he turned—and instantly regretted the flip comment. “Grams. I’m sorry. I—”

  “No. You’re right.” Grams let out a long sigh and turned down the TV. “You’re right.” She shook her head, emotion clouding her eyes. Carter gave himself a mental kick. This was their night for enjoying the ridiculousness of reality TV, not a time to bring up an old family tragedy.

  Grams’ slim, arthritic fingers toyed with the tassels on the afghan she had draped over her lap. “You’re right, of course. I’m sure your mother wasn’t thinking of the danger to herself when she went back for your father. But I don’t blame her. I’ve never blamed her. How could she have lived with herself if she hadn’t tried?”

  Carter swallowed, a piece of popcorn lodging uncomfortably in his throat. They rarely spoke of the fire that had killed his parents. He’d been all of six when it happened. Ancient history. But, as much as his aunt and uncle had stepped in and become the parents he’d lost, he sometimes wondered about an emotion that would consume so much of your good sense you’d risk your own life for it. “She wasn’t thinking about me or Grace or Ian either, was she?”

  “Maybe. Maybe,” Grams nodded, the grief etched into her features. “But I hope someday, for your sake, you’ll understand just what kind of love they had.” She sighed deeply. “Now that… that was true love.”

  “Like this show?” he said, trying desperately to lighten the moment.

  Grams laughed and took back the popcorn bowl, wiping away a tear as she turned the volume on the TV up again. “No, this isn’t true love. It’s just silly drivel. But I still enjoy it.” She patted his hand and settled back in her recliner, a slight smile determinedly erasing the sadness from her features.

  Carter stared at the TV screen. He didn’t like the idea of loving so deeply nothing else mattered. Unlike his grandmother, he didn’t watch this show hoping the couples would find true love so much as come to their senses.

  “So,” Grams interrupted, “do you think those are real or implants on the travel agent? I’ve been trying to figure it out for three weeks now.”

  Carter shook himself out of his daydream and grabbed another handful of popcorn, grateful he wasn’t in danger of falling in love. “Those? Definitely implants...”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ____________________

  “HOLY CRAP. This place is a mess!” Trish exclaimed the next day with what appeared to be no small amount of wicked glee. She’d dropped by with baby Clara before her meeting with the school psychologist and, despite Liz’s attempts to keep her at the front door, had insisted on putting her expressed breast milk in the fridge personally.

  “If you think it’s bad now, you should have seen it before we cleaned.” Liz stumbled a bit as Trish handed her Clara in her bucket seat. Jeez. Were all babies this heavy?

  Trish swung toward her like a lock-on, gossip-seeking missile. “We?”

  “Eddie and I,” Liz said, carefully setting the baby down. “So, anything special I should know before you head out?”

  Trish looked vaguely disappointed at the change of subject, but a quick check of her watch had her looking harried again. She swung an enormous diaper bag to the floor. “Okay. Quick run-down. She just pooped, but that doesn’t mean anything. Extra diapers, onesies and fresh outfits are in the big compartment. She’s got a little diaper rash going, so use the ointment that’s in the side pocket, but don’t let her get her fingers in it, because she’ll eat it. I’d take off my necklace if I were you, because she’s starting to get grabby, and you’ll probably want to keep your hair in that ponytail.

  “I fed her twenty minutes ago, so if you’re lucky, she’ll sleep till I get back. But, she’s growing again, so if she’s cranky, she probably wants to eat. Just bring the bottle to room/body temperature. If she’s still cranky, it’s probably teething. The Orajel is with the diaper cream, but you can let her suck on something cold, too. Back-up formula is in this compartment over here if she drinks all the milk,” Trish indicated vaguely to the far side of the diaper bag, “but I should definitely be back before you’ll need either. Any questions?”

  Liz blinked at her sister and mentally reviewed the rudiments of infant CPR she’d Googled that morning. Okay. Now to ask a pertinent question to make it clear to Trish she had everything under control. “Do you have e
mergency numbers for me, just in case?”

  Trish waved a dismissive hand. “In case of what? She’s a baby. What kind of emergencies can she have?”

  “Won’t she be upset when she wakes and you’re not here? I haven’t seen her much, and I’ve read that babies this age—”

  “If you have milk, she won’t care if you’re Freddy Krueger.” Trish planted a quick kiss on her daughter’s hair. “I have my cell phone. I’ll be back in a couple hours.” And, then she left Liz. Alone. With the baby.

  Liz stared at her niece, her fluffy blonde hair glowing in a beam of sunlight.

  Hmm. Would it be too hot in the sun? Liz eased the bucket seat a few inches to the left, her gut clenching as the baby stirred then settled. Liz let out a long, slow breath and marveled at the scary, sweet scent of infant that wafted through the air.

  Okay. Now what? Should she continue to clean? Probably not. The noise could disturb the baby. She could put a primer coat on the front door! Hmm. But then she wouldn’t hear if the baby woke up. Liz slumped into a kitchen chair. How in the world did mothers ever get anything done?

  After removing her necklace and snugging her ponytail, she decided she should use this forced quietude to formulate a revised list of all the things that needed tending. Yes, then she could rank them according to urgency and whether they were weather dependent. But typing might disturb the baby. She’d better do it longhand.

  A half an hour later, and six months worth of tasks enumerated on a legal sized yellow pad, Liz jumped at the sound of the doorbell. She rushed through the house before whomever it was struck again. She swung the door wide.

  The moderately friendly greeting she was about to deliver died on her tongue. “What are you doing here?”