by Erika Kelly
Shit. He’d fix it. He’d bet his Burton custom snowboard that she’d spent the entire day and well into the night assessing the damage, writing up a list of supplies. She’d know by now exactly what she needed to repair the dresses.
“Come on, Knox. Answer the door.” He needed to tell her about the conversation he’d had.
Right then, one of the surfers leapt to her feet on her board. The bright red bikini stood out against tan skin. Knox. He knew the way she surfed. He knew everything about her.
At least he once had. Seven years was a long time.
Folding his arms across his chest he watched her board flip back and forth. She rode with the same fearless energy she’d always had. She was so fucking hot.
Old feelings stirred, and he shut them down. Don’t go there, man.
She rode the wave to shore and then jumped off. Gathering her long hair, she squeezed it, wiped the ocean water out of her eyes, and then reached down to pick up her surfboard. Carrying it under one arm, she sashayed up the beach, features tight in concentration.
Watching her from afar…it was all so familiar. The terrible ache of wanting someone he couldn’t have, the tightening of his skin as she approached, the compulsion to do something—anything—to make life better for her.
He couldn’t think of a time she wasn’t alone and fighting.
He caught the moment she noticed him. Her easy gait stiffened, but she ignored him and went straight for the outdoor shower just steps from the house. Leaning her board against the wooden frame, she turned on the faucet and stepped under the spray. When she tipped her head back, all that dark hair fell in a glossy sheet down her back. He’d always loved her body, lean, toned, with that sexy round ass and perfect, lush breasts.
Desire struck up a low hum at the base of his spine. Jesus, not now.
Weirdly, she’d never known it, that she was smoking hot. Because of the way she’d been bullied, she’d believed she was lowbrow. But he’d seen the way their classmates looked at her. She’d been cool and aloof, mature well beyond her years. They’d made fun of her because they’d envied her.
After a quick rinse, she patted the wall for her towel.
She wouldn’t find it. Her eyelids flew open to find him holding it out to her. She snatched it. “Come on, Gray, I’m not in the mood.” She slid her feet into the sparkly black flip flops she kept inside the shower stall.
He noted the slight tremble in her hands. She was panicking. “Is it worse than you thought?”
She nodded, turning away from him to let her hair fall forward over one shoulder. She patted it with the towel, then sent the terry cloth sailing over the wall to dry in the sun. Grabbing her board, she climbed the porch steps.
He followed, too aware of all that bare skin, the tiny freckle on the inside of her thigh that he’d always wanted to kiss. “How bad?”
“There isn’t a single chance in hell I can have twenty-five dresses ready by Monday. It’s over.” She crouched, peeling back the ratty welcome mat to retrieve a key. Unlocking the door, she stepped inside, blocking him from following. “Thank you for calling that contractor and getting the tarp on the front of the house, but I swear to you, Gray, there’s nothing more you can do. Please, just go.”
“Not until we talk.”
“I can’t talk. If I talk, I’ll fall apart. Look, bad timing, bad situation, whatever, I just don’t have it in me to catch up with you or hang out with you or anything but try and fix my life.”
“Fashion Institute of Technology, critic award winner for the Future of Fashion, job at the House of Bellerose Atelier in Paris, and now preparing for your first show in fashion week.” He gave her a look that said, See? “Thanks to social media, we’re all caught up. Now, we can get to the reason I’m here.” He stepped forward and, where he expected her to back away—being six-four had its advantages—she blocked him. “Look, I did this. I’m going to help fix it. Please let me in so I can tell you about an interesting conversation I had last night.”
Whatever he’d said hit like a slap to her face, because it reddened. “You didn’t drive over my dresses, Amelia did, and as much as you want to help me, this time you just can’t.”
“Why don’t you give me a chance?”
Casting her gaze to the ceiling, she drew in a deep breath. “Look, I know you feel responsible for what happened but, unfortunately, in this situation you don’t know my business, so you’re just going to have to believe me when I say there’s nothing you can do to help. If you really want to make it up to me, please give me a chance to regroup. If I think of anything I need, I’ll get in touch with you, okay?”
Nope, not okay. “I can’t fix your dresses, and I can’t get you in the fashion show, I get it.” He stepped into her kitchen, with its faded yellow Linoleum floor and bullet-shaped refrigerator. “But how about a swerve?”
Something shifted behind her eyes. He caught a whiff of hope. “Swerve how?”
“I happen to know two brides with unlimited budgets who’d like you to make their wedding gowns.”
Hope crashed and burned on the landscape of her expression. “That’s not what I do. Look, thank you for trying. Really. But I’m making a name for myself in couture, and my only hope at this point is to get another job with a designer. Start all over again.”
“When you say start over…?”
“I was about to debut my own designs. If I go back to work for someone, I’ll be creating collections for them. It’ll take years to build back up to having my own show.”
“Is there any chance making couture dresses for my future sisters-in-law would fast-track it?”
She eyed him warily. “A wedding gown is special, Gray. They shouldn’t have to wear something of mine because you feel sorry for me.”
“Feel…what? No. This has nothing to do with me. I told them about the accident, and they looked you up online. They want your dresses.”
“Okay, okay.” With a palm to her forehead, she turned away from him. “It’s hard for me to think right now. I still haven’t processed all that I’ve lost.” She shot him an apologetic look. “I’m grateful for the offer. I really am, but…I’m just having a hard time wrapping my head around everything.” She paced across the small kitchen and stared out the window, though he doubted she saw the beach. “My only thought is how I can resurrect the show, my career. I keep racking my brain, trying to think—what if I talk to some of my design school friends? We could all put some dresses together for a show. I’ve got at least ten that are okay. We could create a group collection. Or…what if Luc could get me into someone else’s show—like a little side thing?” She drew in a breath, lowering her gaze to her feet. “I mean, even as I say it out loud, I know how ridiculous I’m being.”
“Your backer, is that Luc?”
She nodded, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen her look so defeated.
“Is he going to help you?”
“No. There’s nothing he can do.” She turned away from the window and gave him a brief but sweet smile. “I’m on my own.”
Jesus. As a kid that smile made his knees wobble, turned his bones to jelly. Why is it happening now? “Okay, so let me ask you this. What was your end-goal with this fashion show? You get great reviews, buyers go nuts over your dresses, and then what?”
“Brass ring? Jack Abrams Couture offers me a contract, and I get to design my own line of wedding gowns.”
“Can you get his attention by making dresses for high profile bides?”
After she gave it some thought, the pain and confusion cleared. “I mean, yes, I definitely can.” A moment longer, and she seemed a little surprised. “All I really need is the right kind of visibility.”
Now we’re talking. “Don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, but there’s this meme going around.”
“Fin’s thing?”
“Yeah, that one. It’s brought a lot of attention on us. Making dresses for the bride of The World’s Worst Boyfriend would kick up all th
e noise again, only this time it’ll shine it on you. Maybe you could launch your business that way.”
With a thoughtful look, she nodded. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it does make sense.”
“So, maybe there’s an opportunity here.”
“Maybe.” And there it was, that smile that lit a fuse from the back of his neck all the way down to the soles of his feet.
“I’m thinking, with the attention we’re still getting from the meme, it might drive some more custom orders your way.” He saw the alarm in her expression. “You’d only make them for high profile brides, and only until you got that contract you want.”
She turned away from him, gathering her wet hair and twisting it into a bun, before letting it drop down her back. “My renter’s insurance doesn’t cover the loss of my dresses. They said I would’ve needed to take out a commercial policy for that. And there’s no way Luc’s going to pay for new materials.” She let out a defeated breath. “Which means there’s no way to fix my dresses in time for April’s show. And I really don’t want to go back to designing for someone else, so…I think you’re right. This might be the only direction to take right now that makes sense with my long-term plans.” She smoothed her hands down her stomach. “Look at me. Standing in my kitchen with Gray Bowie.”
With that invitation, he took in the gentle slope of her shoulders, the sexy curve of her waist and flare of her hips. He’d seen countless women over his lifetime, but no one stirred his blood like this one.
After a moment, she rubbed her forehead with her fingertips and turned to him. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s do this.”
He was happy beyond reason that he could help her. And—not a small part of it—get to know her again.
I’m a sucker for this woman.
“Great,” he said. “Then pack up. We’ll head out in the morning. Don’t worry about the dresses. Amelia will get them shipped home.”
“Home?”
“Calamity. Isn’t that where you’d make the dresses?”
“Okay, that’s not happening. The only way I’m going back is if you cart my dead, bleached bones there in a wheel barrow.”
“Thanks for the ride.” Knox hauled her tote off the floorboard and opened the truck’s door. Her fight or flight instinct had been raging since he’d picked her up at her house in Maui that morning. It had lasted across the Pacific Ocean and reduced her to a bundle of throbbing nerves on the drive from the local airport.
It had less to do with coming back here than with sitting in such close quarters with Gray Bowie. She supposed everybody had a unique scent, but Gray’s did something to her on a cellular level. It triggered that same sense of exhilaration she’d get from reaching the summit on a hike, when she’d gulp in all the fresh, cold air and take in the panorama of jagged gray peaks capped with glistening snow and endless Wyoming blue sky.
He was every good memory she had of home.
Brushing up against his tanned forearm, thick with muscles and covered in black ink, and listening to his deep rumble of a voice drove her back to the days when she was the girl in the trailer, and he was the boy whose presence chased the shadows and scary noises away.
Just as she got out of the truck, the engine cut off. She shot him a look of warning. “What’re you doing?”
Gray got out and shoved his keys in the pocket of his jeans. “Going in with you.”
A car whizzed by, and every muscle in Knox’s body tightened. Her soul turned into a pill bug, curling into its protective shell, even while her middle finger shot up. But, of course, it was just someone traveling on the highway, heading into Grand Teton National Park.
No one had his head out the window, hands cupping his mouth as he barked like a dog at her.
So this is how it’s going to be, huh? The minute she hits Calamity, she reverts to the same pissed-off girl who’d flipped the bird to her tormentors. Seven years might’ve gone by, but her body obviously didn’t understand the passage of time.
She soothed herself with the certain belief that everyone had grown up. Most had probably even moved away. “No need. I’ll just settle in and catch up with you later.”
The late afternoon sun glinted off the trailer. As a little girl, she’d loved the safety and comfort of her cozy home. Loved the wide-open meadow surrounding it, the scent of sun-warmed sage drifting in through open windows. The tall grasses shushing in the breeze had soothed her, and the sight of a bear or moose wandering across the land had thrilled her.
“Place’s been empty a while. I’ll just check it out.” The soles of his boots crunched on the dry grass.
“Even squatters don’t want to live there.” She’d meant it as a joke, but she heard the bitterness in her tone. Her perspective had changed in fifth grade, when Sean Devane had pierced her bubble with his comment. You don’t even have skirting around it. How poor are you?
The jab had stayed with her forever. Which was strange since, at the time, she hadn’t even known what skirting was. It was more his genuine shock—like, she was that poor?
Was anyone that poor?
Of course, now, looking back, she totally sided with her mom. Who the hell cared about skirting?
Gray watched her carefully. “You don’t need to stay here, you know.”
The concern in his tone did two things to her. One, it made her sink down into it, as comforting as lolling around on a hammock on a warm summer day. Gray had always been her soft place to fall. But, at the same time, it made her bristle. Because the days of being his pity project were over. “My only income this past year came from bartending at The Rusty Scupper, so I don’t have a lot saved, and I don’t want to spend my insurance money on a hotel when I can just stay here.”
“Don’t forget about the deposits from Callie and Delilah.”
“That money will go for very expensive fabric and crystals and seed pearls. Not for living expenses.” And, honestly, she didn’t have the energy to keep explaining things to him. She just felt so…depleted. “Thank you for setting this up for me, but…don’t you have a surfing competition to get to?”
“I do.” He said it with that lazy grin that made all the girls swoon. “But I’m good on time.”
Right. The Bowie private jet meant he could head for California whenever he wanted.
“And I’m not leaving until I introduce you to the brides, and we get things set up.”
“Okay.” His time management wasn’t her concern. “How about I settle in, then come meet you at the ranch?”
He glanced around the property. “How’re you going to get there?”
The weight of disappointment squeezed out a big exhalation. “Excellent point.” Her mom was on the road for the next couple months. So, no wheels. “If you give me two minutes, I’ll drop off my bag and get this place aired out. I want to do a quick inventory, see what supplies I’ll need.” She started for the trailer. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
With a curt nod, he pulled out his phone and leaned against the truck. He swiped the screen, reading intently.
Another truck roared past. This time she ignored it. See that? Progress. Until Sean’s comment when she was nine, she’d never noticed that she lived in a trailer on Highway 191. Growing up on the other side of the national park boundary, just twenty minutes outside the town center of Calamity, she’d thought she’d lived in heaven.
She and her mom had spent most of their time outdoors, so someone pointing out that she didn’t live in a mansion like the billionaires or a ranch-style house in a neighborhood like the business owners or even a huge apartment complex like the seasonal workers, flipped on a light she could never shut off.
She dragged her suitcase across the knee-high prairie grass, dread building like soot on her lungs, making it harder to breathe with each step. She did not want to go in there. Her mom, a seasonal worker herself, spent April through August working on a dude ranch and November through March on ski patrol at the Jackson Hole Resort. In what her mom called the freedom mo
nths—September and October—she hit the art festival trail around the country selling her giant found art sculptures. Which meant she was rarely home.
It would’ve been more pleasant to go inside if her mom had been around, but…buckle up, babe. We’re going in.
With both hands, she dragged the suitcase up the metal stairs. A cool mountain breeze brought in the scents of pine and sage, rustling up memories from her childhood. Good ones. Running through the woods, jumping into the lake. Her, Robert and Gray, wild and free.
She glanced back at the man who’d been there for her—when her boyfriend had not— expecting to see him buried in his text messages. Instead he watched her, one foot braced against the tire, knee bent, face turned toward her. Everything in her just sort of crashed because, even when she didn’t want him to, he was still there for her. Still caring. With a grateful smile, she held up a finger. One minute.
Inserting the key into the rusty lock, she turned it and pushed the door open. Gah. The closed windows had trapped the summer heat, but it still smelled like cinnamon from the scented pine cones her mom kept in a basket by the electric fireplace. Before hitting the road in her camper, her mom had obviously cleaned, so Knox didn’t see a single crumb or mug on the kitchen counters. So, that’s nice.
Leaving the door open, she stepped into the living area and set her suitcase down. With her mom’s lifestyle, Knox had spent a lot of time alone in here. After school in the winter, she’d boil water in a saucer and make a packet of hot chocolate, and then sit with her legs crossed under the coffee table while she did her homework with the television on. Mostly, her mind would wander, and she’d wind up spending more hours on her sketchbook than her school work.
Through the open door of her bedroom, she caught sight of the white quilt she’d made from scraps of fabric. Lace, tulle, organza, everything bridal she could get her hands on from the fabric shops in Jackson County.
She’d taken such care with the delicate material and had been distraught when Robert’s belt buckle had torn it. The sharpness of that memory delivered a stab of anxiety.
