by Beth Ciotta
“You introduced me to that brand the last time I was in your shop,” Wanda said while snapping her gum. “Felt like I was walking on clouds, but Boone would have a cow if I paid that kind of money for one pair of shoes.”
“Yes, but they’d last longer than the bargain canvas sneakers you’re wearing, plus they’d offer proper arch support. Given your occupation, don’t your feet deserve better?”
“Stop trying to sell my wife fancy shoes!” Boone shouted over the music while sliding a beer down to Ashe.
“They’re not fancy!” Kylie shouted back. “They’re practical!”
“I’m thinking it’s a birthday crisis,” Faye said to Wanda. “Did you wig out when you turned thirty-two?”
“No.” Gaze fixed on the far wall, she shifted and tapped the empty tray against her thigh in time with the music. She blew a pink bubble and when the bubble burst, spoke her mind. “Although I did go through a funk when I turned thirty-nine. All I could think was, I’m one year from forty. Then of course, I panicked when I turned the big five-oh. Who doesn’t?”
“You’re a size seven, right?” Kylie asked, bulldozing over their talk of a birthday crisis. This wasn’t about age, although it was about another passing year.
“Yes, but—”
“Take them.” Desperate to take action, any action to shake up her life, she shoved her right shoe in Wanda’s free hand, toed off the left and handed that over, as well. “They’re yours.”
“They look brand-new.” The redheaded, gum-cracking woman flipped them over, inspected the soles and heels. “No scuffs, no wear.”
“I’ve worn them three times max.”
“Are you sure you want to give them up?”
“Trust me. I’ve got loads of sensible shoes.”
“Shoes, schmooze!” someone complained. “What’s a guy gotta do to get some chicken wings around here?”
They turned their attention to the grumpy complainant, Max Grogan, the town’s retired fire chief, seventy-two and prickly as a porcupine. Armed with two bottles of beer each, he and his cronies—Jay Jarvis (of J.J.’s Pharmacy and Sundry), Ray Keystone (Keystone Barbershop) and Dick Wilson (the town mayor)—were engrossed in their biweekly game of cards.
“Keep your pants on, Max!” Wanda shouted.
“An image I can do without.” Faye shuddered. “Max’s dingy.”
“You can tell you’ve got a five-year-old at home,” Wanda said with a grin. “Dingy. That’s cute, hon. Thanks for the shoes, Kylie, and Happy Birthday,” she added before leaving.
“I wish.” Kylie downed Ashe’s alcoholic gift in two swallows, then slid aside the empty glass with a snort. “Didn’t taste stronger than the first two.”
“Probably because your taste buds are numb.” Faye pursed her cherry-red lips. “Good thing I’m driving.”
“Wash those hands before you handle my wings!” Max yelled when Wanda disappeared into the kitchen.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing dingy’s Max,” Kylie said, tripping over her words. She pinched the end of her tongue. Also numb. Dang. “I mean Max’s dingy.”
Her friend groaned, then leaned forward. “You have got to be kidding. I know you’ve been sexually deprived since the asshole split town, but you cannot be that desperate for a thrill.”
“Actually, I am.” Although, it was spurred by lack of zest, not sex. She’d felt melancholy and hollow since Spenser’s phone call this morning. She wasn’t a stranger to disappointment, and usually she sucked it up and moved on, doing what she had to do, doing what was best for all involved even if it didn’t feel best for her. But today she hadn’t been able to wrangle the disappointment, and as the day crawled by, depression had given way to desperation and uncharacteristic behavior. She mentally kissed her nurturing, passive self goodbye. Time to take action. Time to shake up the life she was stuck with.
“At least it would cause a sensation,” Kylie said, shocked at the vehemence in her tone. “Can you imagine the headlines?” She mimicked a newspaper barker, shouting her concocted news just as the song ended and the noise level dipped. “Max Grogan drops his pants in protest of tardy service!”
“I ain’t flashing my willy just because you’re bored, Kylie McGraw.” Max grunted as he dealt a new hand. “Kids.”
“Kids who don’t know when they’ve had enough,” said the mayor. “Even worse.”
“Maybe you should switch to soda,” called Mr. Keystone.
“Maybe you should mind your own beeswax,” said Kylie.
J.J. tsked. “She’s usually so nice.”
“Yeah, but tonight she’s fun.” Ashe approached Kylie with another cosmo and a smarmy grin. “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.”
Kylie dropped her head in her hands with a groan.
“Go away,” Faye said. “And take that evil drink with you.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to please the birthday girl. She said she wants a sensation.”
Kylie banged her fists to the table and frowned up at the man. “I’m talking about something extraordinary, you thick-skulled bozo. People expect you to seduce me and they expect me to fall under your spell. Boone knows Max and gang will show up twice a week to play pinochle and they know they’ll get two-fer beers, kick-butt chicken wings and a comfortable room temperature of sixty-eight. Faye expects me to drink beer because I always drink beer. I expect Faye to whine about her summer guests because she always whines about her summer guests. The majority of Eden will watch Into the Wild Saturday night and gossip about Spenser’s adventures most of Sunday. The Bixley will never expand to a multiplex theater and storefronts on Main Street will always look as they did in 1955, because progress moves at a snail’s pace in Eden! Nothing out of the ordinary ever happens!” Kylie vented, voice slurred and shrill. “You can set your watch by this town. We are boring people!”
“Ooo-kay.” Ashe backed away with the drink, his free hand raised in surrender.
But Kylie wasn’t done. “I bet I know what you’ve been talking about,” she said to Max and friends. “Omertà. That’s all you ever talk about because you’re obsessed. Never mind the mob series is off the air and you’re just now catching up compliments of DVD. That’s typical. Out of step with fashion and the arts. Yup. That’s us! Behind the times. Boring and passé.”
“I came in here for cards and beer,” shouted Max. “Not to be insulted!”
“That does it,” Boone called from behind the bar. “You’re cut off, Kylie.”
She jabbed a finger in his direction. “I knew you’d say that.”
“Predictable,” Faye grumbled.
“Exactly.”
“But wise.” Looking harried, the normally unflappable woman rooted in her oversize purse and pulled out her Orchard House souvenir key chain, available at the front desk for the bargain price of $3.99. “I’m taking you home,” Faye snapped. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
Fueled by years of frustration and three cosmopolitans, Kylie pushed out of the booth, her compact body trembling with Godzilla-like rage. “Well, get used to it. All of you! Because starting tomorrow there’s a new Kylie McGraw in town. I’m going to shake up paradise. Just you wait and see!” She made it halfway across the hardwood floor before her nylon footies slid out from under her and Kylie tumbled butt over heels.
J.J. whistled low. “Wasn’t much of a wait.”
Dazed, she squinted at the sea of faces spinning above her. “Stand still, you guys.”
“We aren’t moving.” Faye stooped and inspected Kylie’s noggin. “How hard did you hit your head? Are you seeing double?”
“Of course she’s seeing double,” Boone said. “She’s shit-faced.”
Swearing, Faye tried to pull her friend to her feet, but Kylie’s arms and legs went all noodly. “I could use some help getting her in my van,” she said to the men.
Ashe, the smug, blurry dog, rubbed his paws together and smiled. “I’ll do it.”
“Touch her, Davis, and I’ll kick
your ass.”
It was a voice she hadn’t heard in a long time, but one she’d know anywhere and in any state of mind.
Ashe knew it, too. “Just trying to help.”
Knowing the dog’s true intention, the circle of faces that had been staring at Kylie snorted, then turned their attention to the don’t-challenge-me stranger. Only he wasn’t a stranger. He was one of Eden’s own. Or at least he used to be.
Jack Reynolds. Kylie’s first major crush. Although crush was putting it mildly. Best high school bud of her infuriating brother, this man had made tofu of her teen hormones and ruined her for other men well into her twenties. He’d also broken her heart. Three times, to be exact. Not that he knew it, but that wasn’t the point.
She adjusted her crooked glasses and blinked up at the obsession of her youth. Dark cropped hair. River-blue eyes. A buff body and a warrior’s heart. Hands on denim-clad hips, the most handsome man in the universe ever towered above her. Then again, she was flat out on the floor. She hadn’t seen him in years, and usually her stomach fluttered when she did. Either she was completely over him or the mass quantities of vodka had paralyzed her vital organs along with her limbs. “Heard you were back in town.”
“No secrets in Eden.”
No kidding. That’s why Kylie generally guarded her words. Jack’s sister, on the other hand, vented to anyone who would listen. Jessica Lynn shared Jack’s good looks, but none of his good sense. A self-centered former beauty queen, it was always: Enough about you, let’s talk about me. Hence, most everyone knew about the feud between the estranged siblings, plus some of the particulars. Kylie noted the particular of most interest to her. “So, did you accept the job as Eden’s chief of police?”
“I did.”
She quirked a hopeful grin. “You been in here long, Chief Reynolds?”
“Long enough.”
“Going to arrest me for drunk and disorderly behavior?”
“No.”
“Shoot,” she complained as he hauled her off the floor. That would have brought Spenser running.
Dizzy, she rested her head against Jack’s shoulder, her face nuzzled against his neck.
God, he smelled good.
He tightened his hold and suddenly she was hyperaware of where she was.
In Jack Reynolds’s arms!
That’s when she felt it. Her traitorous stomach fluttered. Or maybe she’d overindulged in pepperoni pizza and cosmopolitans. Yeah, that was it. Crushing on Jack was hazardous to her heart. Better to battle an upset stomach than a doomed attraction. At least she could cure the former with Alka-Seltzer.
CHAPTER TWO
JACK REYNOLDS HAD BEEN in town for four days. Settling into his new home. Meeting with the mayor. Being courted by the town council and snubbed by his sister. Mostly he’d been reacclimating. Even though he’d grown up in Eden, he’d spent a lifetime in New York City, working for the NYPD. Big difference between the Big Apple and Eden. His friend’s little sister didn’t know how good she had it. Unless that was the alcohol talking. Either way, she’d just provided Eden with a week’s worth of gossip.
Jack had never seen the squeaky-clean McGraw sauced. Then again, he’d been avoiding Eden for years. Ever since he’d clocked his sister’s husband on their wedding day. He’d refused to tell Jessie why—effectively severing their dysfunctional relationship. Instead of going to hell, as she’d demanded, he’d returned to NYC. Over the next ten years, he made homicide detective, got married, got divorced, and tempted the devil as he took accelerated risks on the streets.
His wake-up call had come last month in the form of a young woman. A victim of a mob hit. He’d seen a lot of death. He knew how to manage his emotions. How to temper the revulsion and outrage. But how the fuck did you manage numb? Maybe he’d gone to hell after all. Jack Reynolds. Zombie cop. He’d sworn long ago that if he ever stopped feeling, he’d get out.
Easier said than done.
He’d resorted to drowning his misery and indecision in whiskey.
His sister’s crisis had kicked his drunken ass into action. When he’d learned through the grapevine that Jessie’s bastard husband had deserted her and her daughter, he’d sworn off the hard stuff and given his notice. Time to look after his own. The job opening for chief of police had been coincidental. Or maybe it was fate. In the end it had been too convenient to pass up.
Jack made eye contact with every man and woman in Boone’s as he carried Kylie out of the bar. These people, this town, would be his salvation. At least that was the plan. Reconnect with your roots, reconnect with your soul.
As for Kylie…he couldn’t get over how much she’d changed. He’d seen her briefly at her dad’s funeral eleven years ago, but they’d both been preoccupied. Mostly, he remembered her as the gawky, skinny kid who’d shadowed her big brother. Spenser used to run her off with a smile and teasing words. Spense loved his sister, but he was a daredevil and she was an angel. Spunky, but sweet. Kitten, he called her.
Jack tempered a smile, flashing on the episode that made it impossible for him to think of her as Kitten. An episode he’d sworn to a then fourteen-year-old Kylie he would never reveal to her brother. A promise he’d kept.
He glanced down at the woman in his arms, recognizing the big chocolate eyes and thick wild hair and little else. He was keenly aware of her compact curves and her quirky, pretty features. No wonder Ashe was sniffing. Kylie was an interesting package.
She pushed at his shoulder. “I can walk.”
“Whatever you say, Tiger.” He set her on her stocking feet but kept his arm around her waist in case she faltered. She did.
“I don’t get it,” she lamented as he escorted her outside and onto the sidewalk. “I can usually hold my liquor.”
“You usually drink beer,” Faye said.
“I wouldn’t reference the usual just now,” Jack told Kylie’s eccentric friend, though the harm was already done. He shook his head as the youngest McGraw launched into another gripe about routine.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” Faye told Jack. “Except the obvious, of course.” The bleached-blonde unlocked the passenger side of a cherry-red minivan.
He’d never imagined the girl who dressed like a retro pop star would drive a minivan. He’d never imagined her as a mother, either, but the toys and books scattered in the backseat along with the Spider-Man sun shield confirmed what he’d heard. Faye Tyler, formally Powell, was married with children. Children she’d named after nineties musical icons.
Jack helped Kylie, who continued to vent, into the van while Faye answered her ringing cell. “What do you mean Sting threw up? Does he have a fever? He what? Where were you when… Yes, I know you can’t stomach vomit, Stan. For crying out loud. Okay. Yes. Yes. Be right there.” She tossed her phone in her purse, looked at her friend, then Jack. “There’s a bit of a crisis at home.”
“Is Sting okay?” Kylie asked, struggling to fasten her seat belt.
“He got into the freezer—don’t ask how—and ate an entire tub of double-fudge ice cream. He’ll be fine, which is more than I can say for my husband when I get hold of him.”
Jack remembered Stan Tyler. A short but solid man, former captain of the high school wrestling team. He didn’t figure Faye could take him, but it would be fun to watch her try, especially since he knew Stan would cut off his hand before raising it to a lady. “You live in the converted carriage house next to the B and B, right?”
“Right,” she said. “And Kylie lives in the opposite direction in the boonies. Do you think—”
“Sure.” He unbuckled the seat belt Kylie had just managed to fasten. “Come on, Tiger.”
“Stop calling me that.” She batted away his hands and glared at him through her oval, plastic-rimmed glasses. No-nonsense glasses, black, like her no-nonsense clothes—cropped, wide-legged pants and a loose-fitting blouse. He thought about the no-nonsense shoes she’d given away and decided she must’ve gone out on the town straight from work. “And
I don’t need a ride home. From you, I mean. Max lives out my way.”
“Max plays cards from six until eight,” Faye said as she scurried to the driver’s side. “He’s got another forty-five minutes to go. He’s not going to break away early for anything other than a four-alarm fire.”
“I’ll wait.” Shoeless, Kylie strode unsteadily toward Boone’s Bar and Grill.
“Stop where you are. Hello? Splinters! Broken glass!” Faye snapped, clearly in mother mode. “Jack?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He stepped in and hauled Kylie over his shoulder. “Drive safe, Faye. Best to Stan.”
She saluted and pulled away from the curb.
Kylie kicked like a swimmer on speed. “Put me down, darn you!”
He pressed the lock release on his key fob as he reached his Chrysler Aspen. The new SUV would serve as his personal and professional wheels. Though he didn’t have a weak stomach like Stan, he hoped Kylie didn’t hurl on his new leather seats.
“I’m serious, Jack. Don’t make me hurt you.”
He quirked an amused brow. “You wouldn’t assault an officer of the law, would you, Miss McGraw?”
“Would you throw me in jail?”
“No.”
“Dang. What’s a girl gotta do to get tossed in the clink?” she asked as he poured her into the passenger seat.
“Why are you determined to spend the night in jail?”
“Because it would set this birthday apart from all the others.”
“I can think of more pleasurable distinctions,” he said while buckling her in.
She nabbed his shirt collar and got in his face. Her hair tumbled free of the ponytail, overwhelming her delicate face and ramping her sexuality ten points. “You offering up a distinctive pleasure, Jack?”
Kylie, flirting? The kid who got tongue-tied when Spense teased her about boys?
Only she isn’t a kid anymore.
Jack held her sultry gaze, breathed in her flowery scent and cursed an unexpected boner.
“Touch her,” he could hear Spenser saying, “and I’ll kick your ass.”
He wouldn’t blame his friend for trying. He’d threatened to do the same to Ashe Davis, a serial womanizer. This was Kylie, for Christ’s sake. Sweet. Naive. Drunk.
