Playing For Fun: Stewart Island Book 6

by Alvarez, Tracey

  Holly rubbed the warm skin at the base of her throat, blinked as her fingertips registered the rapid thud-thud-thud of her pulse. Then damn—Ford turned.

  He did a double take at her hovering like an idiot outside then curled his index finger. His dark-brown eyes softened to melted chocolate, his debate forgotten as one hundred percent of his intensity focused on her. Damn Scorpio, Ford’s pull was like one of the spaceship tractor-beams he loved reading about. Her boot-covered foot shifted half a step forward, as if the flick of the man’s finger tugged on an invisible string.

  Ford’s grin spread wider, and he mimed holding a bottle and drinking. Nuh-uh. She couldn’t cope with even a simple beer with him tonight. While many people thought Ford’s quietness was a result of a laid-back nature that bordered on comatose, she knew better. A Scorpio like Ford was a master at hiding his true hyper-intense nature.

  She shook her head with a smile and gestured with her thumb toward Due South’s kitchen. Ford gave her an easy shrug and spun back to the bar.

  Holly hurried down the hallway to the double swinging doors leading to the restaurant’s kitchen. Dinner rush over, she could bend Shaye’s ear while helping with clean-up, a job she’d often done when waitressing there as a teenager. Now she’d seen Ford, and, sigh, experienced the shivery sensation that meant nothing but trouble, she really needed—

  Holly blasted through the swinging doors and…damn.

  Del had Shaye trapped against one of the stainless steel counters, his hands tangled in her ponytail, tongue halfway down her throat by the look of it. Shaye’s chef cap lay crumpled on the floor, and between them and Holly lay a sauce-covered meatball. Convenient ammunition in a food fight if the stain on Del’s hip was any indication.

  “Let me guess.” Holly smirked as the twosome jumped apart. “Shaye, you choked on one of tonight’s special, and Del heroically offered to suck it out of your throat. What a guy.”

  Del recovered first and grinned, unwinding himself from Shaye’s embrace. “Nothing slips by you, does it?”

  Shaye smoothed the front of her chef’s jacket, face a shade similar to her raspberry-glazed cheesecake.

  “We…got into a bit of a discussion, and Del…” Shaye slanted a look at her fiancé and more color flushed into her cheeks.

  “Suggested something inappropriate in order to trigger a food fight, which led to inappropriate foreplay?”

  “In a nutshell,” Del said.

  Shaye nudged his ribs and gave him a little shove to the side, ducking past. “Clean up on aisle three.” Then she switched her attention to Holly, her brow crinkling. “You okay? Wanna grab us a table out front? I’ll be done in ten—Hollywood can finish up in here.”

  The way her friend said Del’s nickname clenched like a stone casing around Holly’s heart. Neither Shaye nor Del would hesitate giving up their sexy-time if they thought Holly needed her friend. But it was obvious how Shaye would rather spend her evening. And why not? Del was her Mr. Perfect, whereas she was just good ol’ Hol. The girl who’d always needed Shaye more than the other way around.

  Holly shook her head and forced her lips into a smile.

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  Because she didn’t want to be that friend. The one who made a gun gesture to the head in her friend’s “look at my engagement ring” photo.

  “I stopped in to see about some meals for Dixie. Her freezer’s running a bit low.”

  “I’ll get Del to take ‘round some in the morning.” Shaye’s eyebrow twitched up. “Sure you’re okay? We can talk if you—”

  “I’m fine, Shaye-Shaye. Go home and boink your man’s brains out.”

  The mention of boinking did the trick. Shaye’s eyes went dreamy. “He is very boinkable.”

  “Ugh. Too many gross mind pictures in my head today. I’m off home to rinse my mind out with an hour of TV zombie carnage. Reminder—girl’s breakfast at Erin’s on Saturday, seven-thirty, sharp.” Holly made the I’m watching you gesture with her middle two fingers. “Be late and I’ll spread nasty rumors about the size of your fiancé’s package.”

  “I heard that.” Del’s voice came from the kitchen’s walk-in pantry. “And they’ll all know you’re lying.”

  Holly blew Shaye a kiss and made a quick exit back the way she’d come.

  * * *

  Holly’s phone buzzed with an incoming text as she walked home. Cowardly avoiding Ford out front, she’d taken a longer detour around the rear of Due South, so he wouldn’t catch a glimpse of her hurrying past the pub’s picture windows.

  She slid her phone out of her jacket pocket and scanned the one-line message from Ford.

  Where do you go to my lovely?

  First step in the little game they played. Choose a song title to open with, no clues, one point if you could name the artist, bonus points for the year the song came out. Ford, being a musician and a trivia savant, nearly always won.

  Dude with a big-ass Tom Selleck moustache—Peter Somebody. That’s worth half a point. My turn. “Never can say goodbye.”

  She hit send, stumbling over a sidewalk crack as her song title selection sank in. Smoke curled out of chimneys, drifting into the night air with crisp, winter scents of home and cosy hours spent in front of the fire. Holly hunched her shoulders under her down-filled jacket and kept walking. Another text came in.

  Jackson 5 1971, Gloria Gaynor 1975, or The Communards 1987—too easy. Why’d u bail? Would’ve sprung for a beer.

  How could she admit that seeing him tonight would cloud her judgement about a phone call she needed to make?

  PMSing. She tapped out. In full bitch mode.

  His reply: Roger that then. Backing away slowly…see u at quiz night. Buy u beer if Madame B'ovaries win.

  Holly shoved her phone into her pocket. It’d be a red-letter day when Madame B'ovaries beat reigning champs Ford’s Thunderbirds.

  The lights were out downstairs at Dixie’s when Holly unlocked her front door and stepped inside. She kicked off her boots and left them where they landed on the hallway floor. Then she padded into her living room, stripped off her jacket and tossed it on her couch. The day’s dishes cluttered up her sink, but Holly avoided them and headed to the fridge. She poured herself half a glass of pinot, narrowed her eyes, shrugged and added another quarter. It’d been a three-quarter-pinot kind of day.

  First, a long day at her full-time job at Russell’s grocery store, dealing with dawdling customers who couldn’t choose between brands of loo papers, plus having to issue the same “yes, isn’t Stewart Island beautiful” chitchat to tourists who’d stopped in for supplies. Add to that her boss Carolyn once again starting a sugar-free diet and acting as if a giant weta had crawled up her butt. Then Holly’d busted a gut to get home for her five o’clock trim appointment—West—but he’d had some sort of Due-South-manager emergency and didn’t arrive until five-twenty, which meant her five-thirty highlights—Bree—was pissed. Then Holly’s cousin MacKenna called while Holly had scarfed down a sandwich before Dixie’s girls’ night. Things had rapidly gone pear-shaped.

  Holly transferred her wine glass to the coffee table then stretched out on her ugly but comfy floral couch. She opened her phone’s address book and stared at her cousin’s name.

  MacKenna was the closest blood relative Holly had to a sister who wasn’t her sister. Physically, they couldn’t be more different. While Holly was a little above average height at five foot seven, MacKenna was short—or stunningly petite, as Mac preferred. Holly had brown eyes and dark-brown hair, which she brightened up with a colorful stripe, because otherwise, boring. Mac had seaweed-green eyes and honey-blonde hair. Holly would’ve hated her petite, Barbie-doll cousin, except no one could possibly hate MacKenna—at least, not until they got to know her and discovered the tiny, cute blonde with dimples and a smile for everyone had the iron will of an army drill sergeant.

  They were tight. Unlike, sadly, the relationship Holly had with her actual sister, who’d been married with a baby by t
he time Holly hit her teens. Mac, who was only two years older, had taken up the slack at family reunions and Christmas holidays spent on the Island. Together, they’d plotted their future careers—MacKenna as a fashion designer, Holly as a hairstylist to the stars.

  Okay, so they’d been a little idealistic.

  While MacKenna now owned the bridal shop and wedding planning-business Next Stop, Vegas, it was hardly cutting edge fashion in Invercargill, New Zealand’s southernmost city. But Mac had been there for Holly during her years of stylist training, and it had been Mac who put in a good word with the owner of the hair salon, Halo, who’d then offered Holly an apprenticeship.

  Holly sighed and hit the “call” button.

  “Don’t say anything, just listen,” she said after her cousin answered.

  Holly closed her eyes and breathed in the Stewart Island night. Silence broken only by the faint hiss of waves breaking in the distance and the haunting cry of the little morepork owl, who’d claimed the tree outside her window as his personal stage.

  “I have Shaye to consider. And more than her, Dixie. I’ll have to find someone who can move in here and keep an eye on her.”

  Mac still didn’t speak.

  Holly licked her lips. And then there was Ford. Poker games, movie marathons, rugby analysis, rides on his trail bike, hanging out at the garage bugging him…maybe a little fan-girling on the nights he played guitar at the pub.

  That would be done. Finished.

  But the offer MacKenna had set up for Holly…the chance for her to return to what she loved full time. Making people feel good about themselves, aka styling hair. The opportunity just came with a steep price tag.

  “Tell me again,” Holly said, fingers tightening so hard on the phone she wondered if they’d bruise. “All the reasons why I should move to Invercargill with you in eight weeks’ time?”

  Chapter 2

  Ford Komeke, of the righteous Ford’s Thunderbirds and reigning quiz night king, lounged on his throne and surveyed his conquered enemies. Piper, Shaye and Holly studied him balefully from the opposite side of the pub table.

  Sore losers, as usual.

  Ford’s wingman and best mate, Ben Harland, slouched next to him, no longer bothering to hide his smirk since his new wife, Kezia, had gone to pay for another round of drinks. Girls’ shout, since they’d come in third place, beaten by Mrs. Taylor’s geriatric team, Oban’s Oracles. Shame.

  “You can wipe the grin off your face, brother dearest.” Piper absently rubbed a palm over her baby-bulge. “Or I can lean over and smack it off before Kez is any the wiser.”

  Ben elbowed Ford. “What’d I tell you about going easy on the team carrying a hormonal pregnant woman?”

  “Nobody carried Piper.” Holly gave Ben the stink-eye. “She helped us get ten out of ten in the Children’s TV and Movies section—of which you lot only scored three points.”

  “So you got lucky in one category.” Ben grinned at Piper, his younger sister. “You’re still the looo-sers.”

  Ford mentally shook his head. The two oldest Harland siblings bickered constantly, but watch stuff get real if someone else crossed the line.

  Holly leaned back in her chair, and Ford couldn’t prevent his gaze from skimming down the loose strands of her dark-brown-and-pink hair to the neckline of her top and the soft swell of her breasts. He jerked his chin, resettling his gaze on his half-empty beer.

  “Y’know, Ben,” Holly said with saccharine sweetness. “If Shaye is unable to be the second support person when your niece or nephew’s born, Piper will drag you into the delivery room to hold her hand.”

  Ben faked a yawn and set down his beer. “No probs. And Ford here can bring his guitar and play soothing music while new daddy West takes photos of Piper’s lady parts experiencing the miracle of birth.”

  The three women switched their you men are so dead glares between Ben and Ford.

  Ford held up his palms. “Dude, relatives only in the delivery room. You’re on your own.”

  A sudden flash of purple to his left caught his attention—Mrs. T. cutting a lavender-scented swath through the pub crowd toward their table. Mrs. Brailsford and Mrs. Randal, two more members of Oban’s Oracles, trailed after her like an elderly bodyguard detail. The intense expression on Mrs. T’s face didn’t sit well in his gut.

  “Heads up, bro,” Ford murmured from the side of his mouth. “Incoming drama.”

  Ben’s head swivelled. “If that woman asks me one more inappropriate question about my honeymoon, I swear—” His low-pitched voice broke off and he stood. “Mrs. Taylor, you’re looking lovely tonight.”

  Mrs. T. stopped at their table and poked Ben’s toe with her walking stick. “Taking charm lessons from our barman, I see. Good for you.”

  Shaye jumped up from her chair and grabbed a spare seat. Ben’s youngest sister demonstrated her kind heart by tactfully positioning it on the women’s side of the table, rather than next to Ford and Ben. Mrs. T’s wandering hands on unsuspecting males under the age of forty were legendary.

  “Come and have a seat.” Shaye touched the older woman’s arm and guided her to the empty chair. “Ben, get a couple more chairs.”

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Brailsford said. “We won’t disturb you young people for long. Betsy just wanted to have a chat with Ford about her idea.”

  Ford sat up straighter. Any Betsy Taylor idea with his name included spelled trouble in some form. He shot a quick glance at Ben, who met his gaze with a you poor bugger grimace. Last time Betsy had one of her ideas, he and Ben and a few other local guys ended up like suit-wearing-cattle in a bachelor auction. Not an experience he wished to repeat…although the date with Holly had been a bonus.

  “That’s right,” Mrs. T. said, now seated beside Shaye. “It’s one of my best ever.”

  Her voice rescued Ford from traversing down the awkward memory of his and Holly’s “date.”

  No one immediately made curious or approving noises—except for Mrs. T’s mini-coven standing behind her. From the corner of his eye, Ford spotted Holly shrinking into her chair as if she were trying to slither under the table.

  Interesting.

  Mrs. T’s mouth pooched into a sulky frown. Ford sighed. He’d been raised to respect kaumātua, and that respect extended to any other elderly person in his community. And the old lady was mostly a good sort, the kind liberal with her cookie stash on baking day.

  “What sort of idea?” Ford asked. “Bake sale? Fun run? Enlisting West to be a strip-o-gram at Shaye’s hen party?” The last suggestion he made with a raised voice since his mate had just arrived with a tray of drinks.

  “Dickhead,” West said and set the tray on the table.

  “Ford, you’re such a tease. No, no, nothing as salacious as Piper’s hubby getting his gear off.”

  Mrs. T. peeled her wrinkled lips apart into a smile that reminded him of Star Wars’ Emperor Palpatine. Wiser to keep that opinion firmly stowed in his head.

  “The girls and I are sympathetic to the situation you’ve found yourself in,” she continued.

  “Situation?” Piper interrupted with a sharp grin. “Have you gone and got yourself knocked up, Ford?”

  “Shut it, Pipe.”

  Piper grinned and sipped her cranberry juice.

  Ignoring the speculative and slightly pitying glances from West and Ben, Ford returned his attention to Mrs. T. “What situation would that be?”

  “With both of your best mates married off now, you must be feeling like the bridesmaid but never the bride. So the girls and I will find you a nice woman of your own.”

  Simultaneous reactions from around the table included Piper’s and Shaye’s eyes popping open and the rattle of glass as West bumped a beer bottle. Watery, gurgling sounds came from beside him, followed by a couple of sharp coughs. Ben sucking beer down the wrong pipe. And Holly? A dull flush of crimson scoured her cheekbones, and she now seemed really interested in what was under the table.

  “A woman, huh?”
Ford stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  “Not just any woman,” Mrs. T. said. “The girls and I have standards.”

  Mrs. T’s announcement didn’t hit him with the shock value she’d hoped for because she was kinda right. He had felt a bit third wheel-ish now West and Ben were married and with Del and Kip, two of his other mates, also not far from the altar. He’d started to think about a woman sharing his bed for longer than her seasonal work lasted.

  Only, any woman with the potential to hang around likely wouldn’t deal well with the real Ford Komeke. Not the guitar-playing, deep-as-a-puddle guy with the easy laugh who faced the world every day. But the guy who sometimes woke in sweat-soaked sheets at 2:00 a.m. and stumbled down the brightly lit hallway to the bathroom mirror, where a five-year-old kid with soulless eyes stared back at him. The kid he fooled himself into thinking he’d abandoned in the dingy, Christchurch flat when his Uncle Rob and Auntie Denise had taken him and his twin Harley home to Oban twenty-four years ago. His auntie and uncle who became Mum and Dad.

  But while he was a bad bet in the relationships stakes—his DNA meant he was almost guaranteed to screw things up—that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a little fun.

  “Got any one in mind?” he asked.

  Slowly, the fact he hadn’t blown off the older woman’s idea sank in, and the others shut up, exchanging rapid-fire glances around the table. Except for Holly. Her jaw muscles bunched with tension as if her molars were clenched together.

  Mrs. T. beamed across at him. “I’ve just sent a texted letter to my great-niece on my new phone. She’s a marketing exec in Dunedin. A pretty little red-head.”

  “Red-head, huh? Fierce.” Ford stretched his legs under the table, the toes of his boots touching someone else’s feet.

  Holly jumped as if he’d goosed her. She shot him a glance the definition of fierce then, as if an internal switch flicked on, realigned her expression to boredom by pretending to study the label on her beer bottle.