Falling for Mr. Wrong

by Jenny Gardiner

  She grabbed her purse from the car and quickly whipped out a checkbook. “Maybe can I just write you a check and we can not report this to my insurance? I don’t know that I can afford another increase this year.”

  He sized up her car, which was downright riddled with pockmarks, much to her current embarrassment. It was the only time she really didn’t feel so great about all the dinks.

  “Gee, ya think?” he said.

  She rifled through her bag for a pen. “Just tell me how much to replace it and well—” she licked her finger and tried to wipe away the marks on the back of his car, but she knew damned well they weren’t tiny bumper marks but an actual dent. “Well, that too.” She pointed at it.

  “Again, I feel really badly about that. I don’t know what happened.”

  He was shaking his head, and if she wasn’t mistaken, she wondered if perhaps he was about to throw-up. He had that sort of green-around-the-gills appearance of someone so upset it was a distinct possibility. “You can’t pay me enough.”

  She stopped and looked up, pen in hand at the ready. “What do you mean I can’t pay you enough?”

  “It’s one-of-a-kind,” he said. “I made it myself.”

  Georgie blanched. What were the chances? She couldn’t just plow into a run-of-the-mill Walmart-special surfboard. No. It had to be a bespoke one. If that didn’t beat it all.

  “Well, crap,” she said. “Now I feel even worse.” Her eyes started to moisten and damn, if she didn’t hate when she cried. She tried to wipe away the nascent tears with her shoulders, as if pretending she was just itching something on her face. But the thing is, she was one of those criers. A big ugly messy one, once she got going. And sure enough it was like her eyes were leaking, the tears started coming so fast. And with that came a couple of forlorn sobs, so pitiful she was sure she sounded like a dying hyena.

  She set her checkbook onto the roof of his car then dug back into her purse in search of a tissue and pulled out one that had a clumped-up wad of chewing gum stuck to it, bunched the thing up, and blew her nose, taking care to not stick the gum to her nostrils.

  “Here I was just going to enjoy this lovely day and that sunset, and it was just so beautiful, it reminded me of peppermint and Christmas and deliciousness and now—” She looked at him and he had that look that men sometimes get when they wish they could find an off switch for a woman but know that one doesn’t exist, kind of quizzical yet annoyed, all tinged with anger. She hated that look; it reminded her of her father just before he would light off on her mother and scream and yell and pound his fists into the wall, sometimes so hard he put holes into the drywall. And that memory made her eyes water up even more, particularly because it evoked her parents broken marriage, which then stirred up memories of her own marriage, which never happened, and the next thing she knew she was leaning against the bumper of her beat-up old station wagon, bawling her eyes out and this strange man with the broken surfboard was leaning over her trying to calm her down.

  “Look, lady, don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll figure it out.”

  Between sobs she tried to speak. “But you made it. I can’t even go buy you another.”

  “It’ll be fine,” he said, awkwardly rubbing her hair as if she was an excitable pooch that needed to be calmed down. “I was going to make a new one anyway.”

  She stopped crying for a minute and gave him a hopeful smile, which contrasted mightily with her tear-stained cheeks. She suspected she looked like a kid who just shattered his mother’s family heirloom vase into a thousand pieces and the mom says not to worry, she can glue it back together. “You were?”

  He furrowed his brow as he glanced at his murdered surfboard. “Yeah, in fact that was what I was planning to start working on this week,” he said. “This one was getting old. Worn out.”

  She looked to see if maybe he’d crossed his fingers.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Um, yeah. Yeah. Of course.”

  She gave another tear-swipe with her shoulders, realizing too late that she didn’t even have fabric from her tank top to catch the tears and snot, and they both streaked across her still-tanned shoulders in a most inelegant manner. Oooh, she must’ve been a sight for sore eyes.

  “Well please, let me write a check so you can fix everything, okay?” Her fingers trembled as she scrawled out an amount on her check, not even bothering to ask his name, instead leaving it blank. “If you need anything more, my phone number’s there.” She pointed at her check.

  His eyebrows were ski-sloped toward his nose. He did not look particularly happy.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said, shoving the check into his pocket. He leaned over and looked at her face intensely, sort of making Georgie feel uncomfortable, like he thought maybe she was going to walk straight on into the ocean and keep on walking till she was completely submerged, never to be seen again. “You okay?”

  Which wasn’t such a bad idea. If she were part mermaid, this would be the time to prove it. But that wasn’t her style. She was certainly not a quitter. Besides, Georgie really hated being the center of anyone’s attention, so she shrugged it off, waving her hand dismissively. “Hey, the good news is that,” she said, nodding toward the board, “didn’t happen out there.” She pointed toward the ocean. “And it’s not covered in your blood right? Way better my little fender-bender did this than a shark bite. Amiright?” She cracked a grin as she tried to make light of the situation.

  The bummer on top of it everything else was that the yummy orzo lemon meatballs she had planned to make after she went to the grocery store were no longer going to be on the menu for dinner; she’d lost her appetite with all the drama. So much for that.

  Instead she smoothed out the pout that threatened to freeze on her face, then cupped her hand in a tiny wave as she got back into her car, pulling away ever-so-carefully so as to not create any more disasters.

  Chapter Two

  Spencer Willoughby wasn’t sure exactly what had just hit him, figuratively-speaking. He knew for sure what had quite literally hit his board and his car—a beat-up, piece of shit vehicle driven by a whacked-out woman who somehow managed to make him feel badly that she’d trashed his Petie. Petie was his term of endearment for the beloved surfboard he crafted lovingly from his own two hands, the very board he’d ridden twice daily for the past three years.

  For a second he tucked away his outrage to try to digest what had just transpired. Sheesh, that was the weirdest thing he’d experienced in a long while. Crazy lady surfboard killer cries and makes him feel bad. What the ever-loving hell?

  He kept looking at Petie, his hands caressing the smooth edges, his eyes not wanting to make contact with the harshly-fractured scene of the crime that only drove home to him the board’s premature demise.

  He felt like crying. His plans for the afternoon had been so simple: all he’d wanted to do was take in a couple of nice waves at sunset on a glorious Indian summer kind of day, have a couple of beers, and call it a night. But now, shit, now not only could he not surf today, he couldn’t surf on the very board it had taken him months to make. That sucked massively.

  The good news is he was nearly finished with one he’d started working on a while ago, although it was originally intended to be a gift for his kid brother Nate for Christmas. He knew, deep down, it would be kind of dickish of him to keep it for himself. But then again, it’s not like his brother would use it in late December. Oh, hell, who was he kidding? Even Spencer would use it in late December. That’s why God invented wetsuits, right?

  His mind kept going back to the crazy lady who was bawling in front of him just minutes ago. How weird was that? He was the one with the dead board yet there he was left comforting her as if in her hour of need. He scratched his head, wondering how that turn of events came about.

  And also he wondered why he kept thinking about those aquamarine eyes of hers, which reminded him of tropical tide pools when they filled with tears like
they had. Something about those eyes just pulled him in, despite his anger. Or maybe it was just that smoking rack she was sporting. She wasn’t a small girl by any stretch, and her luscious breasts complimented her size quite nicely, two perfectly-sized globes tucked into that hot pink tank so perfectly. Here he was so pissed at that strange woman yet all he could think about was how much he’d love to get his hands on those things.

  At least his priorities were straight. He laughed.

  Meanwhile the amount of the check she gave him was pretty insignificant. It wasn’t going to cover the cost of replacement wood, let alone the time it would take him to craft another board, and certainly not the dent in the back end of his car. Good thing he could get his neighbor Ben to bang out the dent, maybe even do a little quickie paint touch-up. The car was old and beat-up anyhow, so that wasn’t his primary concern. It was simply how the hell was he going to surf until he finished his next board? He’d gotten spoiled with his baby. Now he was going to have to go back to one of his old store-bought surfboards, which was a bummer. Ah well, he was nothing if not flexible. He was going to just have to deal with it.

  He pulled the woman’s check out of his pocket and read it, realizing he hadn’t even learned her damned name. He squinted at the small print till he saw it: Georgia Childress. Huh. She sort of looked like a Georgia. Tall and strong, built like she knew how to take care of her body. He liked a woman like that. He stared at her phone number, wondering if maybe he should write that down, just in case. It was weird, her giving him a check. Who even writes checks in this day and age? She could’ve just Venmo’d him the money.

  He pulled out his phone and snapped a quick picture of the check, phone number and all. That way if anything came up he’d know how to get hold of her. Although right now the only thing that seemed like it was coming up was becoming a bit too obvious pressing up against the crotch of his wetsuit. Seriously, just thinking about her tits had done this to him? What guy gets his board killed, his car dented, and can only think about how he might be able to get into the pants of the perpetrator? He laughed. Scratch that—plenty of men.

  He dragged his hand over the day-old (ish) beard on his chin and shook his head. He knew he had to put those thoughts out of his mind immediately. He didn’t come here to get involved with a woman, ditzy or not. He came here to get away from responsibility in all forms, and, well, crap, usually hopping on his surfboard served to clear his mind from such emotional pollutants. Looked like today he was just going to have to pretend this never happened, because that seemed the easiest way to purge the hot blond surfboard killer from his besotted mind.

  He took one more look at his broken board.

  Good luck with that, he thought, shaking his head. Why did he have the nagging feeling she was going to be harder to cleanse from his thoughts than the others were?

  Falling for Mr. Maybe

  coming January 9, 2018.

  Available now for pre-order!

  All books by Jenny Gardiner:

  Contemporary Romances Available from Jenny Gardiner

  Falling for Mr. Wrong

  Book 1: Falling for Mr. Wrong

  Book 2: Falling for Mr. Maybe

  The Royal Romeos

  Book 1: Red Hot Romeo

  Book 2: Black Sheep Romeo

  Book 3: Red Carpet Romeo

  Book 4: Blue Collar Romeo

  Book 5: Silver Spoon Romeo

  Book 6: Blue-Blooded Romeo

  Book 7: Big O Romeo

  It’s Reigning Men series:

  Book 1: Something in the Heir

  Book 2: Heir Today, Gone Tomorrow

  Book 3: Bad to the Throne

  Book 4: Love is in the Heir

  Book 5: Shame of Thrones

  Book 6: Throne for a Loop

  Book 7: It’s Getting Hot in Heir

  Book 8: A Court Gesture

  Other Contemporary Romances:

  Accidentally on Purpose

  Compromising Positions

  Single Titles:

  Slim to None

  Anywhere but Here

  Sleeping with Ward Cleaver

  Where the Heart Is

  Memoir:

  Bite Me: A Parrot, A Family and a Whole Lot of Flesh Wounds

  Essay Anthology:

  Naked Man on Main Street

  Thank you again for your ongoing support!

  Jenny Gardiner

  About the Author

  Jenny Gardiner is the author of #1 Kindle Bestseller Slim to None and the award-winning novel Sleeping with Ward Cleaver. Her latest works are the It’s Reigning Men series, the Royal Romeos series and her new Falling for Mr. Wrong series, beginning with Falling for Mr. Wrong and the upcoming Falling for Mr. Maybe. She also published the memoir Winging It: A Memoir of Caring for a Vengeful Parrot Who's Determined to Kill Me, now re-titled Bite Me: a Parrot, a Family and a Whole Lot of Flesh Wounds; the novels Anywhere but Here; Where the Heart Is; the essay collection Naked Man on Main Street, and Accidentally on Purpose and Compromising Positions (writing as Erin Delany); and is a contributor to the humorous dog anthology I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship.

  Her work has been found in Ladies Home Journal, the Washington Post, Marie-Claire.com, and on NPR’s Day to Day. She was also a columnist for Charlottesville’s Daily Progress for over a decade, and is the Volunteer Coordinator for the Virginia Film Festival.

  She has worked as a professional photographer, an orthodontic assistant (learning quite readily that she was not cut out for a career in polyester), a waitress (probably her highest-paying job), a TV reporter, a pre-obituary writer, as well as a publicist to a United States Senator (where she first learned to write fiction). She's photographed Prince Charles (and her assistant husband got him to chuckle!), Elizabeth Taylor, and the president of Uganda. She and her family and menagerie of pets now live a less exotic life in Virginia.

  Visit Jenny at her website and sign up for her newsletter, her blog, or find her on Facebook and Twitter. And every blue moon she’ll post adorable pictures of her pets on Instagram as @thejennygardiner.