Nothing But Trouble (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 2)

by Lindsey Pogue

Casey nods and Mac nearly flips. “No moving, please,” she says through gritted teeth. Her hands freeze as she waits for Casey to be still.

  I flash Casey a petrified expression and she seems to relax again.

  “Okay, there you go,” Mac finally says and offers Casey a ball of gum-wadded hair. “You can’t even tell,” she says, taking a step back to admire her handiwork. Casey takes the wad of hair for analysis and makes a disgusted face.

  “Alright then, go throw it away, please,” I say, and Casey scoots into the kitchen.

  “You’re so professional with your little kit,” I muse.

  Mac shrugs a shoulder, then wipes the scissors off on her jeans before she sheathes them back in the pouch. “I do my dad and Bobby’s hair. I figured I better have a decent set of shears.”

  “So, should I stop going to Johnny’s Barbershop downtown and use you instead?” I joke. “I’m overdue for a cut and you’re definitely more convenient.”

  Mac shrugs again, not saying no but not saying she would do it, either. I didn’t think it was a real question until I realize she’s thinking about it.

  Casey comes back and takes a final swig of her cold chocolate. “Daddy, is Mac going to cut your hair now?”

  “I don’t know, sweetie. I don’t have an appointment.” I wink at Mac and it makes me happy when she bashfully glances away.

  “But she’s right heeere,” Casey says, pointing at Mac emphatically.

  “I actually have my clippers next door,” Mac offers, all nonchalance and darting glances. It surprises me. “I cut Nick’s hair last week, but it’s up to you.” She sets her pouch down on the coffee table, oblivious to the purr of the blood in my veins at the thought of her running her fingers through my hair.

  “Do it—do it—do it!”

  “Man, you’re getting heavy,” I mutter. Casey starts to clap as I set her down. My eyes meet Mac’s. “If you don’t mind.”

  Mac shrugs again. “Sure.” She takes the empty cocoa mugs into the kitchen.

  “Help me clean all this Christmas stuff up first,” I say, handing Casey the cardboard box with a Ziploc of extra hooks and a couple broken ornaments. She jumps around, claiming she wishes she were a frog sometimes so she could jump around more easily, and then helps me sweep up the loose fir needles that fell to the laminate floor.

  Once all the decorations are put away, Mac brings over a dining room chair. “Do you have a couple towels I can use? I’ll need one for the floor—hair on your rug will be a bitch to clea—” Her hand flies to her mouth and she looks at Casey, but Case is way too busy rearranging our hard work on the popcorn garland to have heard or at least voiced any notice.

  I grin at Mac, watching the red in her cheeks deepen. “And you were doing so well.” I head into the hallway to get a couple towels.

  “Get your hair wet while you’re in there, too, please,” she says.

  I gather a couple towels from under the sink. “Catch,” I call and gently toss the towels at Casey as she turns around.

  “Oh, man!” she cries, laughing as I hear them thump to the ground.

  After that, everything is drowned out by the sound of the shower faucet. I stick my head underneath for a minute and run my fingers through my hair, rinsing out the mousse.

  By the time I’ve finished buffing my hair, Casey is busily chatting to herself in her room. I step out into the living room, acutely aware that it’s only Mac and I, serenaded by Burl Ives, singing about holly jolly Christmas and how it’s the best time of year.

  “Should I be scared?” I ask, teasing her as I study her spread. She has a towel spread out under the chair and a glass of water on the coffee table next to her clippers and scissor kit.

  “Terrified,” she purrs and twists her long dark hair back behind her shoulders, exposing the curve of her neck and part of her collarbone. She steps up behind the chair, waiting for me. My body warms, and I stand there a moment, collecting myself. She must notice her effect on me because her gaze shifts from my hair to my eyes and then to my mouth. I take a couple steps toward her, stopping only a couple inches away. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” she murmurs.

  I brush the back of my index finger against her silken cheek because I can’t help it. I know I shouldn’t, that Casey’s here and things are anything but certain between us right now, but I can’t stop myself. It’s all I can do not to lean into her and kiss her senseless.

  Her mouth opens slightly and she lets out a breath. I smell flowers and chocolate and pine needles as the air shifts between us. Although I try not to, I can’t help it; I glance down at her heaving chest, at the cleavage I’ve been trying and utterly failing not to notice since we got home and she shed her layers of clothing. She licks her lips … I lick mine.

  “Daddy!” Casey says, running into the living room. “When is mommy coming?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, briefly, and swallow down the irritation that stems from our interrupted moment. “Umm …” I squint to see the clock on the microwave in the kitchen. My brain is barely functioning. “Probably within the hour,” I say, voice hoarser than I appreciate. I clear my throat as Casey trots back into her bedroom. “I’m packing!” she announces, and I decide sitting down in the chair is the safest move right now.

  With a tight-toothed comb, Mac untangles my hair, brushing out the longer strands on top before worrying about the shorter sides. The first time she runs her fingers through my hair, her fingers are so warm against my scalp, goosebumps pop up along my arms and the back of my neck.

  “I’m assuming you just want everything trimmed back, nothing new or fancy.”

  I clear my throat, aware how obvious my reaction to her is. “Yes, trimmed—please.”

  “Alright. I’ll trim the top and fade the sides last.” Her fingers are in my hair again, slower this time, and she’s so close I think I can actually hear her swallow. It’s a relief to know I’m not the only one affected by our proximity and the intimacy of what she’s doing. All I can think about is how uncomfortable the front of my pants are right now and that maybe she’s right, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

  “Hold still,” she says, nearly a whisper. Letting out a deep breath, I close my eyes and lose myself to the feel of the comb against my scalp, the feel of her fingers and then the sound of the scissors cutting through my hair against the quiet melody playing in the background.

  There’s a tap at the door, followed by louder knocking, and I feel cool air fill the distance Mac puts between us as she steps back, almost like we were doing something wrong.

  As I stand up, Casey comes running out of her bedroom with a grin on her face and unlocks the door. In an instant, the door’s open and cold air rushes inside, killing the heat that was near sweltering only seconds ago.

  “Mommy!”

  Thirty-Eight

  Mac

  “Mommy!” Casey jumps into the open arms of a petite blonde woman. Kylie.

  “Hi, sugar,” she says, kissing Casey’s cheek. “Are you feeling better?” She scans her daughter, brushing a stray strand of rumpled hair from her face. “I missed you so much. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you were … sick.” Kylie’s round, brown eyes land on me and a small, awkward smile tugs the left corner of her mouth. “Hello,” she says, her gaze shifting from me to Colton, who’s lugging Casey’s bag out from her room. Then she looks back to me.

  I take a step forward and offer her my hand. “Hi, I’m Mac. I’m, ah, the babysitter—neighbor, whatever you want to call it.”

  Kylie’s hand is a bit cool in mine, but as her brow knits slightly and she smiles, I barely register it. “Oh?” She’s pretty, and I can imagine even more so five or six years ago when Colton was in love with her. It’s hard to stomach that he has a child with her, that he has a past I know so little about with this woman. I silently scold myself for thinking I have any sort of claim on him. The notions almost laughable.

  “Mac stayed with me while I was sick,” Casey says and she wriggles out of her
mom’s hold. Her sock-covered feet hit the wood floor with a tiny thump.

  “Did she?” Kylie mutters and looks directly at Colton. Something passes between them, though neither of their expressions give anything away.

  I’m clearly out of place here.

  “And look!” Casey runs to the decorated tree. “We went and got a tree and we made a chain with green and red and purple, because purple’s our favorite color!” She pulls off part of the chain to show her mom.

  I can’t help but smile at Casey’s beaming pride.

  Kylie smiles at me. “Well, it seems you’ve made quite the impression, Mac.”

  I nod and stand aside uneasily, wishing Colton and Kylie would move from standing smack dab in front of the door.

  “This is for your tree, Daddy,” Casey says, and tucks the garland back precariously on the needled branches.

  “Well, I hope so,” Colton grumbles. “Or what was the point of getting a tree?”

  “Alright, well,” Kylie says, letting out a deep breath. “We still have a while before we get home and I’m exhausted.” She looks up at Colton. “Walk us out?”

  “It’s okay,” I say, heading for the door. “I’m going anyway.”

  “Bye, Mac,” Casey says, jumping up and down in front of me. She spreads her arms for a hug.

  I crouch down, trying not to wonder when Colton will have her again because it’s none of my business. “Bye, Case. Thanks for letting me hang out with you.”

  “Can we paint our fingernails next time, please?”

  I glance at her parents. “You haven’t forgotten about that yet, huh?”

  “Nope, and I want purple and sparkles.”

  “Do you now?” I almost snort and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Ask your mom and we’ll see, okay? And no more biting. You can’t eat fingernail polish, it’s not good for you.”

  Just as I take a step toward the door, Colton steps in front of me. “Don’t leave,” he says quietly. “You still have more to do.” He nods to my shears on the coffee table, but it’s his voice that strikes me. It’s low but earnest. I would almost venture to say he’s damn near pleading by the asking look in his vibrant blue eyes.

  With little choice in front of our audience, I nod without saying anything and wait for the three of them to walk out the door. The second it clicks shut, I exhale and stare around the room, at the wisps of Colton’s hair sprinkled on the towel on the floor.

  The front door flies open again and Kylie smiles in at me. “It was nice to meet you, Mac. Maybe I’ll see you next time.” She pulls the door shut again, and I stand there dumbly. I think she was being genuine, which surprises me. She’s not at all the Kylie I pictured in my mind.

  Thirty-Nine

  Colton

  “Goodbye, Casey baby.” I wrap my arms around her, squeeze tight, aware of the fact that I’ll miss her before I know it, and kiss her cheek.

  “Bye, Daddy. See you next week.” I revel in Casey’s affection as she squeezes me back. With a smile lighting her face and a floppy pink beanie on her head, she climbs into the back of the Volvo.

  Even in the low temperature, I can feel Kylie’s eyes burning a hole in the back of my head; she’s been holding back a comment or two since we were inside, and I know it has everything to do with Mac.

  Ignoring her, I hand Casey her princess backpack and help her lock her belt through her seat, making sure it’s nice and secure. “Watch your fingers,” I say with a final wave. “Be good for your mom.”

  Casey promises she will, but Kylie’s already talking over her as I shut the door.

  “So, that’s her, huh?”

  Here we go with the questions and the prying … “‘That’s her’ what?” I see it in her eyes, amusement and curiosity, two things I don’t have time for right now with Mac upstairs, waiting.

  With a brittle laugh, she shakes her head. “You’ve been wound up for months, and”—her palms fly up—“I know I caused a lot of that at first with the moving and my relationship with Scott. I sort of took it for what I thought it was. But …” Her head is shaking again and I feel like I’m missing the punch line.

  “But?”

  “But you’ve been … different the last couple weeks. Now I know why.”

  Standing outside in the freezing cold while Kylie profiles me is the last thing I need right now. My expression must give my rapidly diminishing patience away.

  “Colt, look, I don’t think it’s a bad thing—”

  “Well, good, because my love life isn’t really your business.”

  She glowers at me, and I glance up at my apartment door. I have a sickening suspicion Mac is going to be gone when I get back.

  “… I think it’s good, you know, having a life.” Her features change—turn almost sympathetic—and I don’t like it. “I think it’s good,” she continues. “It’s about time you did something other than work and worry.” She rests her hand on my shoulder and pulls it away almost as quickly. “I—whatever you’ve been battling with, just know that you deserve to be happy.” Says the woman who ripped my heart out.

  Thankfully, she moves past me and walks around to the driver’s side. “Oh, and my mom said she can watch her while she’s out of school so that you can go to work.” As she should, being the reason we all moved up here.

  I nod. “Next Friday, then?” I ask, wondering if our normal schedule is back in play.

  Kylie opens the driver door and peeks inside at Casey. “One more second, sugar.” When she looks up at me again, she looks guilty. “I think so, but my schedule is kind of up in the air.”

  “Just let me know.” I wave at Casey again as Kylie climbs in, finally pulling away from the curb.

  Just as I turn around, I hear a door close upstairs.

  I jog up the steps to the second floor. As I turn the corner, I see Mac reaching for the doorknob to Nick’s place, her scissor pouch in the other hand and her camera hanging around her neck.

  “You still owe me the rest of that haircut,” I say, a little out of breath.

  Her brow furrows momentarily. “I was just—” She glances down at the street before looking at me, holding my gaze, though I feel like she’s looking through me, not at me. “Look, Casey’s gone now, and I don’t want to play games. We should probably just call it a day.”

  I hate that I’ve made her like this—timid and uncertain, when she’s always so vibrant and outspoken.

  Mac runs her fingers through her hair and glances around like she’s trying to find the right words. “I know you don’t—”

  “No,” I say without letting her finish, “you don’t know.” I don’t want to hear my own words thrown back at me. They already make me feel like a big enough ass.

  Her eyes narrow on me. “Excuse me?”

  “You don’t know what I want or how I feel. Trust me.”

  Mac looks confused, and I realize she only knows what little I’ve told her—maybe what she’s pieced together and what she thinks she sees. I’ve keep her at arm’s length and I don’t even remember why.

  “I know what I said, but”—I shake my head, desperate to articulate what not even I understand—“I was wrong. Please, don’t go yet.”

  Forty

  Mac

  His hair is damp between my fingers, a feeling more sensual than I ever would’ve imagined. The scent of his shampoo fills my nostrils; it stirs my insides, making every nerve ending acutely aware of each of his movements, his every breath.

  I was wrong.

  Those three words continue to loop through my mind. Separately they’re finite and straightforward, but together, they could mean a dozen things. He was wrong and now what? Instead of asking, I simply nodded in the moment and followed him back into his apartment. The silence between us has been deafening ever since.

  Is he thinking? Does he have something more to say? Does he know what opening my heart to him has cost me? I dip the comb in the water glass and run it through his hair again, smoothing another tress between
my fingers. It’s slick and cool, and the repetition is almost soothing to my nerves. Almost.

  Snip.

  I pull another chunk through my fingers.

  Snip. Snip.

  Snip.

  My motions are automatic and my mind is barely focused. With a deep breath, I listen to the music playing softly in the background. The beat to “Little Drummer Boy” resonates with the methodic rhythm of my heart, though pounding it may be. There are things that need to be said, but I’m not ready to bare my soul to him just yet, no matter how much he’s seemed to change his mind. I need something in return—a show of good faith.

  By the time I’m finished cutting the crown area of his hair and fading the sides, it feels like hours have passed in a rush of mere minutes. The dreaded moment of being finished arrives, along with the awkward, unspoken question: what now?

  I don’t have to see Colton’s expression to know he feels it, too. His shallow breathing and taut shoulders mirror what I’m feeling. I’ve felt this around him before, this heavy, humming air that keeps my nerves from settling completely.

  I run my fingers through his hair one last time—to get all the loose pieces out, I tell myself—and then I force myself to take a step back. “Finished,” I croak and clear my throat. I set the comb and scissors on the coffee table and brush some of the loose hair from my blouse, busying myself. Generally, I would’ve changed before cutting anyone’s hair, but my wits aren’t much about me today.

  “Thanks,” Colton says, and the chair creaks as he stands up. He turns to me, his heated gaze floating up to mine as he pulls the towel from around his neck. Little bits of hair are stuck to his white cotton shirt and the inky tendrils that unfurl from his collar.

  I swallow and glance down at the hair covering the floor. “I should get this cleaned up.” I reach for the broom leaning against the wall beside the white-lit tree, left out for the pine needles. But Colton’s hand stops me.

  “I’ll do it,” he says.

  “No, I made the mess …”

  “Mac,” he breathes, his hand tightening on mine. Wide-eyed and heart pounding, I look at him. His gaze is transfixed … he’s reading me. He wants to know my soul, and I would gladly give him everything if he would stop pulling me in then pushing me away.