Last First Kiss (Brightwater #1)

by Lia Riley

  Claire shook the flapper dress, snapping her back to the present. “And I really, really, really don’t care.”

  “Why can’t I stay home with you?” Annie wheedled. The yoga pants splayed across her bed looked so cozy and inviting. “We can go for a river walk with Atticus, then bake something for the blog and eat it out of the pan while watching a rom com on Netflix. You love When Harry Met Sally.”

  “Annie.”

  “Okay, how about this. Two words. Paul Rudd.”

  Claire stamped her foot. “Annie.”

  “Do you ever miss it?” Annie asked suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Living here at Five Diamonds? Being back in Brightwater?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?” Annie was startled by Claire’s simple admission.

  “Of course I miss it. We have fun here, you and I. Sometimes I see kids playing in the city playgrounds and I feel bad for them. We didn’t have a little scrap of play space. We free-ranged across thousands of acres. Explored whatever we felt like. Growing up here made me who I am, you too.”

  “You’re kind of right,” Annie said.

  “Kind of? I’m absolutely right. As always.”

  Annie glanced down at herself again. “I wish I hadn’t told Edie that I’d go. I feel bad flaking.”

  “You want to miss the chance for a night of fun to sit around the house, watch old movies you’ve seen five billion times, and show off online for strangers who don’t give two cents about you?”

  “Ouch. Tell me how you really feel.”

  “I’m not saying you’re not good at your job, because you are. Hey, I subscribe to the Mighty Mama feed. Your voice, your style, your photos, they’re fab, but you’re so much more than the sum total of that blog.” Claire went for the jugular like a cheetah on the savannah.

  “It’s part of me,” she retorted weakly.

  From the expression on Claire’s face, Annie was about to go down faster than a sick gazelle. “If the best part of you is a fictional supermother creation for the benefit of the Internet, then you’ve got serious life choices to make. Now quit whining and stick on this fabulous dress because I hunted to hell and back unearthing the iron. And don’t forget the headdress. I mean, talk about fate, here’s a jazz party and you have a flapper dress and twenties-era headband.”

  “I like vintage.”

  “There are no coincidences. This is fate, Lil’ Bit. Your night to shine.” She held up Annie’s bright red t-strap pumps. “And can we talk about these shoes? I covet them. The color is absolutely delicious.”

  “I don’t feel like I have any business wearing heels. I’m just a . . . ” Mommy. The beloved word suddenly felt like an excuse. Had she been hiding behind motherhood, using it as an excuse to avoid uncomfortable truths like the fact her self-esteem had fallen and couldn’t get up? “Fine, I’ll go, but what if no one talks to me? Quincy Bankcroft is huge and I’m not even a minnow, more like a tadpole.”

  “Then hang out at the dessert table. When in doubt, trust in chocolate.”

  Annie let out an exasperated sigh and tugged the dress over her head, smoothing out the lace, beading, and fringe. Claire might be a holy terror but she was also one wise woman. A night out might be the ticket to grown-up, sexy, independent woman land. She needed to find that person. She loved being a mother, but she needed to remember to leave some love for herself too, find better balance, and be the kind of person who said yes to a night out that required lipstick and blow-dried hair.

  ANNIE STARED DOWN the snarling lion’s head doorknocker of The Dales historic mansion. Laughter and jazz poured from the open windows while behind her a coyote yipped, no doubt prowling the perimeter of the manicured lawn for free-ranging peacocks. Who allowed unattended ornamental fowl to free range at dusk in the mountains? Seemed like such an obvious no-no.

  She fingered the invitation, tracing her thumb over the engraved words. Cordially invited. Costume gala. Live auction. Edie had come through on the invitation, but she was going to be busy catering in the kitchen. Annie wanted to network. After all, that was what she planned to do in San Francisco and there should be lots of media types here. But the urge to retreat, backpedal to the car, and lead-foot it home to Five Diamonds slithered through her, whispering sweet temptations. It would be so easy to scuttle away, drive home and tell Claire she had a headache.

  Okay, maybe not easy. Claire would bust four different blood vessels, but it was oh-so-tempting. After all, the comfort zone was such a cozy place. Plus, she wanted to spend time with Atticus because in a few days he’d be heading off to Disneyland with his father and Margot for a quick weekend vacation.

  No, stop with the excuses. You can do this. How bad can it be?

  Annie adjusted her rhinestone-encrusted flapper headband and gave a hard knock. Here goes nothing.

  It took less than five minutes to regret not trusting her initial instincts. She sipped champagne, nodded to the band’s beat, and pretended to ignore the three-foot space around her. Polished, well-coiffed guests laughed and mingled, everyone seeming as if they knew everyone else. Here and there were a few familiar faces but the locals present clung together on the fringes and didn’t see willing to make room for a kooky Carson.

  Inhale. Exhale. She was more than her past. She was a mother, a semi-famous Internet somebody.

  Wanda Higsby, or Kane now, she’d apparently married one of them, walked by and then slowed. “Why, Annabelle Carson, is that you? I heard you got married, where’s your husband?” Her smug smile revealed she damn well knew about the divorce.

  Inhale. Exhale. The pang in Annie’s chest intensified. What she wouldn’t give to be back at home, happily tapping on her computer.

  “Excuse me?” A friendly, deep voice spoke on her left.

  Who now? She tried not to flinch.

  “Dessert?” A waiter waved a tray of bite-sized delights under her nose. “Let’s see, we’ve got hazelnut macaroons, huckleberry tartlets with vanilla bean cream, some kind of chocolate Kahlúa cake pops, or . . . ”

  “Yes, all of those.” Wait, eating her feelings might not help Operation Mojo recovery. Ah, screw it. “What’s in the shot glasses?”

  “Tiramisu.”

  “Yum.”

  The waiter gave her an approving wink.

  “That too, please.” If she was going to be noticed tonight, let it not be for being the prodigal daughter of a strange family, but for consuming her weight in miniature sweets.

  Someone approached on her left. She caught the black and white tuxedo in her peripheral vision. Another waiter. “One more of those please,” she said, brandishing a clean-licked stick.

  “I can attend to the cake pops, Daisy, but I’d prefer to make your acquaintance.” A faint British accent clung to his words.

  This wasn’t a waiter, but a slim, ash-blond man, with a close-cropped goatee and keenly intelligent eyes peering from beneath a silk top hat.

  “Sorry, I thought you were—oh. Oh God. Quincy. You’re Quincy Bankcroft.” He was shorter than he appeared in photographs, not much taller than her.

  He spread out his arms in welcome. “And you are Daisy.”

  “No, I’m—”

  “Allow me a little F. Scott fantasy. The Great Gatsby is the book of my heart. Look at you, you’re a living, breathing incarnation of Daisy Buchanan. Great shoes, by the way.” He gave her t-straps an admiring once over.

  “Thank you. They aren’t actual period. Neither is the dress to be honest, but my bag and headpiece are.”

  “Annie Carson, is it?”

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  Quincy raised his champagne flute. “My cousin filled me in on the details of your charming blog.”

  “What?” The idea of Quincy Bankcroft having an idea Musings of a Mighty Mama existed made her want to put her head between
her legs and hyperventilate into a brown paper bag.

  “Edie insists I take a peek soon. You are putting this place on the map,” he said after a sip.

  “Jeez, I hope not. Look at the town’s reaction to the Tumbleweeds movie.”

  Quincy placed a hand over his heart. “Buck Williams’s backside deserved its own award.”

  “I’ll give you that,” she said with a shaky laugh. “But people around here wish it never happened.” Almost every local truck in the valley besides Sawyer’s sported a Love Brightwater? Then Go Home! bumper sticker.

  Quincy waved a dismissive hand. “Change happens, like it or not.”

  “Um, you know this is Brightwater, right?” She smothered most but not all of her bitterness. “No one around here ever gets over anything.”

  He inclined his head with a polite nod. “If my sources are correct, your own family is embroiled in quite the little Hatfield and McCoy drama, am I right?”

  “An old vendetta, it’s dying but not dead, I’m afraid,” she said with a sigh. “Anyway, I’m looking to move to San Francisco.”

  “Not too quickly, I hope.” He kept his curious gaze trained on her face as if considering . . . something. “You’re looking at the new owner of The Brightwater Bugle.”

  “The local paper?” Annie raised her brows, intrigued. “Isn’t that small potatoes for someone like you?” Quincy Bankcroft owned Nation Today, one of the country’s largest papers, plus one or two cable networks.

  “It was struggling financially and about to go under. Small towns like this deserve a paper, but I have ideas about ramping the online presence, increasing features, and expanding the Western lifestyle component. I’d rather hoped to pick your brain.”

  Hold the presses. He wanted her advice? How much champagne had this man consumed? “Wow, I’m flattered, but—”

  “No buts. We should spend more time together. I’m at Haute Coffee most weekday mornings. Do come see me.”

  “That would be lovely.” Sipping cappuccinos with a media tycoon who appeared to be an excellent human? If the rest of the night went bust, it was still a slam-dunk win.

  “Edie bakes chocolate chip scones that hover between miraculous and divine. These are her creations you are sampling tonight.”

  “She’s amazing,” Annie replied with sincerely. The Baker’s Dozen could use some competition, and if these desserts were any indication, Edie Banks had brought her A game to Brightwater.

  Quincy gave a private smile. “She is, and is a lovely person. I’m glad you are making friends.” He clapped his hands. “Now if you’ll please excuse me—”

  “Go! Go!” She waved a flustered hand. “I’m sorry to have monopolized so much of your time.”

  “Absolutely not,” he said firmly. “I’d rather stay and get better acquainted, but time to be a good host. I’ll find you later.”

  “I’ll see you soon.” She met a few cool, disinterested stares before examining the marble tiles. Definitely not her crowd. “Probably time I head home.”

  “But you haven’t seen the library yet.”

  “Oh, that’s okay—”

  “I’m going to insist you take a look. You do know the library’s secret?”

  “The passages?” The Dales was meant to have secret passages, but they were often dismissed as rumor.

  His whisper deepened with dramatic conspiratorial flair. “There’s a shelf behind the desk with a row of red-leather bound books. Pull the third one from the right.”

  “You’ve piqued my interest.” She licked the frosting from her fingers, heartened by the sugar buzz and excuse to escape. A quick peek at the mysterious passage and then she’d go home.

  At least her home for now.

  THE WORST PART of Sawyer’s job as Brightwater’s sheriff was putting in public appearances at Brightwater social events. The only reason he’d accepted the invitation was because he had a sneaking suspicion Annie would be here, and the sight of her purple car in the valet parking confirmed it. He glanced at the crowded dance floor, but there wasn’t a sign of her.

  Most everyone here was a newcomer, but a few locals rubbed elbows with the high flyers. Guests decked out in jazz wear swiveled their heads in his direction. Some subtle. Others? Appraising. Sawyer hadn’t played dress up, figured his uniform was good enough.

  “Liquid refreshment, sir?”

  “Arch? Who the hell let you weasel through the front gate?” His brother was almost unrecognizable out of blue jeans and square-toed boots that served as his daily dude ranch uniform. At some point his little brother would have to stop showing off for tourists and grow up. He didn’t know why Archer didn’t have a chat with Grandma, request more responsibility at Hidden Rock. The two of them had long butted heads, but it seemed a sensible, responsible course of action. Then again, those were two words no one ever applied to his brother.

  Archer shrugged. “A new friend landed the catering contract and got me on the guest list. What’s your excuse?”

  “The sheriff gets invited to everything, even fancy shindigs, it seems.” Sawyer plucked a bottle off a silver tray and took a swig, rolling his eyes toward the oil-painted cherubs frescoed on the drawing room’s ceiling. Fat babies weren’t his go-to decorating choice but the ale was perfectly chilled and dark, exactly how he liked it.

  Archer’s eyes danced. “Looking for anyone special?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Now I don’t fancy myself a private investigator, but you’re scanning the crowd like it’s your job. The way I see it, you’ve come here to either take someone down or get lucky.”

  “Just minding my own business,” Sawyer muttered to his brother’s back as he swaggered away. Outside the floor-to-ceiling bay windows, the snow-capped pinnacle—Mount Oh-Be-Joyful—turned rosy from the sunset’s lingering flush.

  Watch check. What he wouldn’t give to convince Annie to blow this Popsicle stand and head back to his cabin for a drink while watching the sunset. He stalked the room’s perimeter. Gilded framed paintings hung from crimson wallpaper while beaded lamps brightened even the darkest corner. The Dales looked the best it had in years. Decades of neglect had allowed the historic mansion to fall into disrepair. The new owner must have sunk a small fortune into returning the crumbling estate to its former glory.

  The folks shooting him curious side eyes were from the new crowd, the ones who drove the Land Rover and Mercedes Benz SUVs. Sawyer’s old ’73 Ford F-100 stood out like a sore thumb in the circular driveway. He liked it that way.

  This set acted out elaborate cowboy fantasies on their multi-million-dollar ranches on prime cattle land, hopping private jets when they got sick of playing country. Sawyer didn’t begrudge success, but Brightwater was his home, born and raised. These days, you couldn’t get a pot to piss in around the quiet, mountain-ringed valley for less than half a mil. He made a good sight less than that. The wealth these people had, it was so far out of reach he’d need a telescope to see it.

  And there, right in the thick of it—surprise, surprise—stood Ruby. Smiling, with those blood-red lips, the same shade she used to smear on his collar, his chest, his cock.

  Sawyer didn’t feel a twitch when their gazes caught. His body knew she was bad medicine. She jutted a hip, and that smoldering look could set hell ablaze.

  Did she think he’d saunter over and play nice? Apologize for leaving her half-dressed in his house last week? Or better yet, sneak her into an upstairs room and give her multiple orgasms for old time’s sake?

  Sorry, sweetheart. I’m not your plaything.

  Just because trouble came visiting didn’t mean you had to offer it a place to sit down. He looked through her before striding to the corridor. Big band music and raucous laughter retreated the farther he walked.

  Where was Annie?

  He peered through open doors. A music salon, followed by a p
ersonal home theater, and finally the library. She wasn’t anywhere to be found.

  “Moose?” Ruby’s whisper echoed up the corridor, clearly on the prowl.

  Shit. The last thing he wanted was to deal with her games. With any luck, the rumor of this old house would prove true. He stepped forward, seeking out a red-leather-bound account of the Lewis and Clark expedition. Found it. He yanked the book forward, and the wall gave a low grinding sound before the bookshelf swung open, revealing a narrow but well-lit hall.

  He rocked on his heels, deciding. Grandma had ingrained in his thick head a few steadfast rules. The first was don’t let your yearnings get ahead of your earnings. The second? Never go in if you don’t know the way out.

  “Moose?” Ruby was close, mere heels clicks away from discovering his ass.

  Sawyer plowed into the passageway.

  Rules, like hearts, were meant to be broken.

  Chapter Twelve

  “HOLY SMOKES,” ANNIE muttered. She’d pulled the book as per Quincy’s directions and the shelf swung open to reveal a secret passageway. Be still her Nancy Drew–loving heart—the rumors were true.

  She stepped inside, a floorboard depressed under her weight, and the door slammed closed. The blood pounding through her ears increased to a Niagara Falls–level roar. She pushed on the wall. No budging. Maybe if she’d paid more attention in yoga she’d remember a helpful tip or two for calm, centering breaths. She resisted full-blown Stage Five freak-out hand flailing only because the corridor was well lit. Music from the party played ahead. If she could hear the piano and horns, people would hear screams for help. Right?

  She started walking and realized her initial claustrophobic fears were overblown. A door tucked away in an alcove ahead, one with an actual knob that turned, leading back into the world. She cracked it open and peeked into the bustling kitchen. Staff in starched white chef coats scurried in every different direction under Edie’s calm supervision. The pretty redhead stood in the center looking remarkably unruffled. Relief shot through her. She wasn’t trapped, instead she could go back to embracing her inner sleuth.