by Lia Riley
He dragged his lids open, no small effort when each must weigh a few hundred pounds.
“Hey, you.” Archer bent down, trying and failing to execute his trademark permagrin. “Good to see those bright eyes. You’ve been scaring us all shitless.”
Wilder cracked his mouth open but no sounds emerged except for a groggy jumble of consonants, like his tongue had transformed into a cotton ball. Christ. What happened? His hands were wrapped in thick gauze, the fingertips an angry red. Last he remembered, the fire somehow left him alive. Then there was a helicopter, right? Clearly the cavalry had come.
But everything since was a black hole.
The mattress creaked as he shifted, trying to shield his eyes from the fluorescent light. Why did his body feel off? Something wasn’t right. He contracted his abdominal muscles, raised himself to half-sitting before Sawyer braced his back. “Hey, come on now, go easy.”
Wilder gaped at the lump under the sheet, the stump that ended where his left calf and foot used to be. “Where the hell is my leg?” Talk about five words he never expected to say.
Sawyer spoke slowly, getting down to business. “After the accident, you lost circulation for too long, and with the fire, the helicopter had a hard time Life Flighting you to the hospital. Coupled with a shattered leg, the lack of blood flow meant that necrosis set in and the tissue damage was irreversible.”
Wilder couldn’t focus on the words. They made too much sense and this situation had taken a wrong turn to the land of fucking insane. His windpipe went on lockdown. He pushed to the edge of the bed, toppling an IV tower.
“Let’s call the doctor in,” Archer said, glancing to the door.
“Wilder. Listen to me. You can’t stand up,” Sawyer ordered. “Take it easy, we’re going to sort this out. You’ll get a prosthetic soon and with some work and time, you’ll be able to resume most activities no problem. It’s amazing you’ve survived given what—”
“Stop. Stop talking.” Wilder buried his face in his hands. He could kiss his career goodbye. Jumping was out of the question. His only way to cope had gone up in flames.
“This has to be a helluva shock.” Archer rapped his knuckles on the side of the bed. “But don’t forget one thing—we’re family. No matter what happens, Sawyer and I have got your back. Always have, always will. We’re not giving up.”
“Look at me.” Wilder signaled to the empty space in disgust. “I’m half a fucking man.”
“I don’t make a habit of judging a book by its cover and neither should you,” Sawyer said quietly. “We’re here to help—”
“Help. You want to help?” Wilder growled, fighting for equilibrium but losing the battle to vertigo. He might be the oldest brother, but right now he felt ancient.
Sawyer’s chiseled features froze a moment before he gave a small smile. “Anything. Say the word and it’s as good as done.”
Wilder used the last of his reserve strength to lift his head, struggling to bring their faces into focus and level a hard stare. He’d reached the end of his rope and was in a free fall to hell.
“Get me a gun or get out.”
Chapter Two
Four Months Later . . .
THE LES MIZ soundtrack tested the limits of the bookstore’s rinky-dink boom box. No customers were around so Quinn Higsby joined in, belting out along with Fantine and her broken dreams. Big, fat snowflakes spiraled past the plate glass window, ferried along by the strengthening wind as a looming cloud wall replaced the normally heart-stopping view of rugged Eastern Sierras’s peaks. Right at the crescendo, the phone’s shrill ring cut in, ruining the moment. She turned down the volume, cleared her throat, and answered, “Good afternoon, A Novel Experience, the place where you can read yourself interesting.”
“Hey, honey, it’s me. Listen, I’m not going to be able to get into the store in time for close. The Weather Channel is saying tonight’s storm will be a doozy.” Quinn’s boss, Natalie, was visiting her new boyfriend up in South Lake Tahoe.
“That’s okay, the store’s been deserted all afternoon. Book club got canceled. You just worry about keeping snug and warm.”
“Oh, I don’t think that will be any problem.” Natalie let out a mischievous giggle. She was fifty years young and had found real happiness with a blackjack dealer and Johnny Depp look-alike ten years her junior.
“You’re so bad.” Quinn glanced down at her solitaire game on the counter, grinning from ear to ear. Her former job had made it hard to believe any decent people remained in the state. This assistant bookseller position might pay peanuts and lack glamor, but she was happier than she’d ever been in Hollywood.
“Bad is the new good—you’ve got my permission to stick that on one of your t-shirts.”
In addition to her faith in humanity, Quinn had also left behind high fashion in Los Angeles in favor of vintage denim and funny slogan shirts. Today’s choice was a grey hoodie that read, “I love to party, and by party I mean read books.”
Which was the actual truth, no shame. She had a thing for older men—much older men to be exact. Mr. Darcy, Mr. Knightley, and Captain Wentworth were all excellent boyfriend material, and the magic of literature meant it didn’t matter if they clocked in at well over one hundred years old. Those guys still had it going on.
“Quinn, are you listening to a word I’m saying?”
She snapped to ramrod straight posture. “Of course.”
“You’ve drifted off with the fairies again, haven’t you?” Natalie said fondly. “I said that you should leave early too, beat the storm. Oh, and shoot, there’s that package to mail, I meant to—”
“Stop. Breathe. Think about your blood pressure. I’ll handle it no problem.” After all, handling was what Quinn did best, at least until that unfortunate night in Beverly Hills a few months ago when her career as a celebrity handler came to a fast and furious end—fired for having a pretty face and a lecherous client. She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder, smoothing the ends. “Now listen, I want you to get back and enjoy, er, whatever dirty deeds you are enjoying.”
“I love you, peaches.” Natalie planted a loud, affectionate smooch on her receiver.
“You must be getting treated right in that love nest.” Quinn chuckled. “Remember how just last week you called me a pinecone after I advised that one customer where to find a title online rather than offering to order it into the shop. Which, for the record, was totally boneheaded of me.”
“Pshaw. That was my hot flash talking. You know how I adore you.”
“Yeah, I do actually.” And Quinn did. Natalie didn’t have children of her own so she mothered everyone. Unlike Quinn’s own mom who was far more interested in a quixotic quest for the Fountain of Youth with her endless mud baths, antioxidant facials, and plastic surgery appointments down in Palm Springs. “Hey, real quick, before you get your jiggy back on, want to hear this week’s mystery order?”
“Always.”
“Let me see.” Quinn peered into the cardboard box beside her feet. “We have The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, The Sound and the Fury, Frankenstein, and Fun with Whittling.”
“Fun with Whittling?” Natalie hooted. “Oh, jeez. Eclectic as always.”
“Next week might be Duct Tape Art or Tapophilia 101.”
“Tapo-what?”
“You know, gravestone rubbings—with charcoal and butcher paper?” Quinn shook her head—useless information took up way too much grey matter real estate. “Anyway, we should try and predict the order.”
“Ha, we’ll lose.”
“No doubt.” The snow fell in earnest now, making it hard to see across Brightwater’s Main Street. She had to leave soon to hit the post office before checking in on Dad. “Hey, I should get moving. Have yourself a great night.”
“Of course, I’ll be in
when we open again, day after tomorrow. Black Friday means green for us. And thank you, sweetie. I won’t do anything that you wouldn’t do.”
Quinn laughed. Mostly because she didn’t do anything. Hadn’t in well over a year. She hung up the phone and grabbed a marker and packing tape. Sealing the package shut, she printed across the top in big black letters:
W. Kane
405 Castle Falls Lane
Brightwater, California 96104
“W. Kane.” She tapped the initials. The mysterious W. Kane started emailing orders right after she moved to town and landed this job. A Novel Experience didn’t have a digital store; instead this person just sent requests and monthly checks. Each week was the same, a curtly worded request for four or five wildly different titles to be posted to the Castle Falls address. Last week was Virginia Woolf, Shakespeare, Dr. Seuss, and Nora Roberts. Odd combo and strange in the day and age of online shopping but, hey—no complaints if someone wanted to buy local.
Quinn shrugged into her white puffy coat, the marshmallow-looking one that seemed like overkill when she purchased it during a SoCal summer sale but now appeared totally sensible. Brightwater’s autumn had been mild but as soon as mid-November struck it was as if the weather gods were issued a green light to let the elements rip. Temperatures plummeted and everyone in the checkout line at the Save-U-More suddenly discussed nothing but snowfall predictions and when the ski hills would open.
Quinn struggled with walking in a straight line while chewing gum, so the idea of careening down a steep slope on a pair of glorified sticks held little appeal. Plus, as much as she was happy to leave her sunny beach life behind, she and winter weren’t going to be besties.
Grabbing the store keys, she hefted the book box under her arm and flicked off the light. The shop had been quiet today, most of autumn actually, except for the Chicklits, the book club that met Wednesday mornings. But Natalie reassured her that things would pick up once the snow bunnies flocked to the mountains. Summer was also apparently boom time with all the newcomers flooding in to build their second, third, or even fourth vacation homes.
“Enjoy the quiet, it won’t last,” Natalie often said from her ancient red velvet chair that was perpetually stationed by the window, nose buried in a book. Sometimes Quinn wondered if Natalie had used her parents’ inheritance to start a bookshop in order to justify reading all day. But then it did seem like a perfectly reasonable way to spend both money and time.
She stepped outside, lungs constricting from the sharp cold. Holy heck, if it wasn’t even December yet, what would official winter-winter feel like?
Scary thought.
Fumbling with the big brass door key, she finally got it locked and, turning, collided with a body, a big, hard masculine body. The type that could play NFL football and was topped by the sort of face often seen on a Disney hero, unquestionably handsome but almost cartoonish with an oversized jaw and deep canyon chin cleft. Thick blond hair protruded from underneath his navy blue “Brightwater Volunteer Firefighter” ball cap.
“Garret, what a . . . surprise.”
“A good one, I hope?” Garret King’s toothy grin matched the snow. No. Scratch that, those stark white incisors outshined the swirling flakes. Some women no doubt swooned for his type, but that muscleman build, stylishly disheveled hair, and sexy-and-I-know-it attitude left her decidedly unintoxicated.
“Cold day.” She checked her coat’s zipper and steered the subject straight to Boring Town. Garret was the exact type of person she’d hoped to leave behind in Hollywood. Figured that she’d flee across half the state to a small mountain town only to collide with someone whose ego rivaled any multimillion-dollar overentitled action star’s.
“We’re going to The Dirty Shame,” he said, blocking her path.
“We?”
“You. Me. A few IPAs.” Sunglasses were required to withstand those luminescent chompers.
She tried not to let her annoyance show. “Sounds like a blast, but I’m pretty busy.”
“Busy?” His smile dimmed to a lower watt. “With what?” As if how could anything be more important than fawning over him?
Good grief, she’d rather watch paint dry in one hundred percent relative humidity.
“I have to run to the post office to send off this package to a customer and then duck around to check on my dad.”
“Oh yeah, how is Crazy ol’ Higsby these days?” Lenny, Garret’s friend, sprouted like a surprise mushroom behind his best buddy’s elbow. His snub nose was a mottled red and dripped before he could wipe it on his fleece sleeve. “Did you know the last time I saw him out and about was at the Save-U-More? He growled at someone in the meat department. Growled! As if the butcher would give him a bone or something.”
Even Garret looked shocked.
“What the heck is wrong with you?” Quinn snapped, any patience evaporating in a flash. “My father is a sick man. That’s not justifiable cause for mocking him.”
“Of course not.” Garret sent Lenny reeling with a sharp elbow jab. “Hey, don’t be an asshole, dude,” he ordered.
“Yeah, well, have a good evening, fellas.” When would icicles be hanging from the rafters? She’d love to clock the pair of them over their thick insensitive heads.
“Wait, hold up, I’ll walk with you,” Garret said, brushing past Lenny. “Keep you safe.”
She fought a hard eye roll while regarding the empty sidewalk. “Oh, spare me,” she muttered.
“What was that?” Garret leaned in. “You want my phone number? No need to mumble. You only have to ask.”
“Thanks but that won’t be necessary.” She sidestepped him and dodged Lenny, increasing her pace. Throughout the autumn, she had put out every polite “no way in hell” signal that she could think of. Did she emit some sort of jerk-magnet pheromone? Douche Bag No. 5?
Because if she was a superhero, her power would be attracting assholes.
“What about tonight?” Garret asked, hot on her heels. “Need help keeping extra warm?”
“I’ll be reading.” Was there enough snow on the ground to make a snowball? Throw it in his face?
He frowned. “A book?”
“Yep, one with an actual cover and pages. Taking a break from my e-reader for the week.” She tapped her glasses. “Eye strain, the struggle is real.”
“Wouldn’t you rather—”
“Oh look, here we are!” Quinn chirped, booking it toward the historic post office. She tightened her grip on the box in her arms. Garret did a double-take at the address and frowned.
“W. Kane, huh? You friends with that guy?”
Guy? Her heart rate increased. So W. was a guy—at least now she knew that much.
And he was a man of few words. Case in point, his email from this morning. She had asked for a clarification. “We have the original publication of Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury but also this reprint edition with a new cover—I don’t know, maybe trying to appeal to a younger audience—and I wasn’t sure if you wanted the classic or the reprint. Or maybe you want both? I know I love owning my favorites in all their iterations. Anyway, thank you for your order. I’ll process it after you get back to me about the Faulkner.”
His reply? “Classic edition.”
That terseness could mean shy or asshole.
She’d seen a few cute and friendly-seeming guys around town, but they were all taken. Sawyer and Archer Kane, for example. Nice guys with sweet girlfriends, the postcard-perfect pictures of love and contentment. For some people fairy tales existed. Not her. But hey, life wasn’t one big lemon either. Not all happy endings had to come between the sheets. She had hers every night between the pages of a good book.
Wait a small-town second. Sawyer Kane? Archer Kane?
W. Kane must be a relation. Hopefully an introverted, eccentric bookworm
cousin—someone a little on the short side, wiry, adorned with Pendleton sweaters, dreamy eyes, and black Converse. An artist, musician, or writer? Better yet, all three—her exactly perfect type.
Nah, probably the drunk uncle who shows up at family picnics and never quits yammering about politics.
Safer to trade real life for a fictional lord. At least they inherently understood the importance of devilish charm. Garret seemed to have grasped only the concepts of sleaze and ball, breeding them together into a hybrid baby of teeth-clenching annoyance.
“We’re not friends,” she said, adjusting the box’s weight. “He orders special delivery books from the shop. Do you know him?”
“Yeah and word to the wise, stay far away from him.” His face lost its fleeting, troubled expression and dialed up the charm. “Anyway, I don’t want to waste any more time discussing W. Kane.” Even now Garret braced his big hand on the metal railing, blocking her path, unwilling or unable to take a hint. “I’m more interested in our plans—”
“Yeah, about that. I really have to run.” She ducked under his arm, not exactly easy with her height, but she hadn’t won limbo contest after limbo contest during that long ago spring break Caribbean cruise for nothing. He could stoop low, but she could go lower.
“Quinn—”
“Bye now.” She straightened and spun on her boot heel, the black knee-high ones with the big silver buckles that were quite badass if she said so herself.
The post office was quiet. Wanda Higsby, who was either her great aunt or third cousin once removed, gave a chipper wave from behind the counter. It was strange to be a Higsby in Brightwater. Her family had migrated west on the first wagon train and been settlers in this valley for as long as the Kanes or Carsons, but Quinn’s dad had moved to L.A. in his twenties to make it as an electrician with a film studio. He didn’t like big city living, but stayed long enough to land the part of Jacqueline Forest’s second husband and father of her first and only child. The marriage was short-lived, so much so that Quinn couldn’t remember a time when her parents were actually together.
