Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1)

by Traci Highland

  He blushes and immediately turns to look away. This can’t be happening.

  I take his white tee and pull it on, it smells like him, earthy and clean. Forcing my eyes back to the task at hand, I pick the flannel up off the ground and tie it on the side so that the sleeves drape down my left leg. Hopefully, all the important bits are covered.

  “Are you, um” -He clears his throat- “sure you’re not hurt?”

  “I’m fine, really, Mr. Brookes. Just angry.” I stare off down the path after the quickly dissipating cloud of smoke, wipe my eyes and sigh. “And well, maybe a bit cold.”

  His face turns super wow nail polish red and his eyes drop to my lips. He gives me a smoky look that would turn most girls into babbling piles of desperate. Lesser girls.

  “It’s getting chilly.” He shrugs his shoulders and heat flashes to my cheeks. Okay, so, yeah, my boss is hot. But he’s still my boss, and I won’t stare, since he’s being kind enough to avert his eyes, I can surely do the same. Really.

  I’m not looking at the muscles near the rise of his hipbone.

  Or his pecs.

  Not looking at all.

  I say, “I think that the heathens who stole my clothes are good and gone, so I’ll just head on home. Can I get these back to you at work tomorrow?”

  That’s going to be an awkward moment at the workplace, but hey, it’s not like we have a choice.

  He looks at his feet, hands in his pockets, then back up with his hair falling over one eye. So cute. It’s not even right how cute that look is. That kind of cute should be saved for the on-TV-only kind of guys, not the kind of guy you can run into every day.

  At work.

  He says, “I’m going to walk you home.”

  “Don’t be silly, it’s not far and-“

  “It’s not safe. I mean, the area is safe but you’re not really dressed-“

  “You’re being ridiculous. It’s right up the road.”

  “Then it won’t take very long to walk you back.”

  He’s probably worried he’d get sued under some extension of an employment act or something. “Fine.” I walk, careful to hold the flannel in place at my waist just in case the knot doesn’t hold. “But it’s not like anyone else is-“

  “Miss, oh my. I saw you back there and called the police. What were you doing?” A man, a sloppy, sideways sort of man walks out of the woods with a ragged, ugly, spit-wad of a dog. “I called out and you didn’t stop. You really shouldn’t run around with no clothes. It’s not right. It’s” –his eyes fall to my breasts, which are entirely too visible through the tee, I’m sure, and my stomach turns- “well, it’s un-Godly is what it is. If you don’t mind me saying so, a night in jail might do you right.”

  He’s disgusting. His eyes glued to my chest and I cross my arms and-

  Mr. Brookes steps out in front of me, placing himself in between me and Sir Stares-A-Lot. “I think it’s time you turn around and go home. Now. My friend has been robbed and left running, naked, through the woods and the only thing you can think to do is sit here and pass judgment?”

  The man’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down like it’s a sweaty elevator. “No, that’s not what-“

  “It is. Now if you can just go on ahead and move out of the way, some of us would like to make sure she gets home safely.”

  The man stammers, “But what do I tell the-“

  “Tell them that you’re a dirty old busybody who should learn to mind his own business.” I add, peeking my head out from around Mr. Brookes’ back.

  Mr. Brookes turns to me, smiles this thousand-kilowatt smile, and offers me his arm, “Shall we?”

  I hold my head up high and take his arm, feeling a bit swoony, to be honest. “We shall.”

  We leave the blabbering old rotter behind us and we stroll off, arm in arm, mostly naked, into the woods.

  The thing about strolling arm in arm while mostly naked with your boss is that, well, parts rub and other parts get cold and well, he’s awfully good-looking, so most of the stroll home becomes a silent game of me playing my-God-I-hope-he-doesn’t-notice. As in, my God I hope he doesn’t notice the boobs flopping around all wild-like. Or, my God I hope he doesn’t notice that I keep slapping my butt to keep the mosquitos away, or that my nipples are freezing, or that the flannel is sort of coming undone, or that I’m so busy staring at him and not the trail that I have tripped three times and maybe missed the first turnoff for the trail out and now we’re taking the long way home. Or, you know, some combination thereof.

  He doesn’t seem to mind, or even notice, his eyes firmly set ahead of us, which is delightful, since I doubt he has any idea whatsoever where we’re going, but he strides along as if he’s marching us across Arabia. Brimming with confidence, or at least, a stubborn determination to look straight ahead and not, under any circumstances, at me.

  “Here,” I say as we approach the green trail. I drop his arm and re-fortify the knot at the side of the flannel. “Right through here.”

  I walk in front of him now, since this cut-through is only really wide enough for one person, and before long we find ourselves on the un-populated, two-lane road that surrounds the lake. The sun has completely dipped below the horizon and we make our way down the street through the dusk tinted blue of the early fall evening.

  He walks beside me, silently, but I feel his presence. Like this hot, delicious, mass of the unknown. It’s funny, I’ve been working for his paper for what, almost three years now and I know so very little about him. Well, other than the office rumors, of course.

  Which are plentiful. Seeing as how I work at a newspaper, we are, by default, a rather nosy bunch. Privacy is terribly over-rated and completely uninteresting. Office rumors on Hunter Brookes consist mainly of his family business (jewelry), his girlfriend (socialite bajillionaire diva), and his age (thirty, which most of the office ladies insist is too old not to be married). Seeing as how I’m twenty-seven and don’t have any intention of ever getting married, I don’t know if I quite agree with their assessment on that last one, but hey. He was around for my second interview when I came to the paper, and I remember that he was awfully nice and that we ended up blowing off a lot of interview questions and ended up talking about books that we’ve both read. After that, though, I realized that he pretty much just owned the paper and that his main business was indeed jewelry. He ended up leaving town to go open a new branch of Brookes Jewelry in Manhattan and hasn’t really been back until last week. I only knew he was back because I caught a glimpse of him chatting with the news editor out in the hall yesterday.

  “So, Mr. Brookes, um, I mean” -should I call him Mr. Brookes? Is that the right thing to do? Since my initial interview, I haven’t really seen him so I have no idea what to call him, is it like school?- “Did you grow up here in town?”

  “Call me Hunter, since we’re not” –he looks at me, blushes, and then right back at the feet in this boyish fashion that I can’t help but think is terribly cute- “not being formal.”

  Not being formal? He shakes his head like he knows it sounds weird and I hold back a giggle as I say, “OK, then, Hunter. Are you from Pendleton Falls or are you an import, like me?”

  “Yeah. Yes. I grew up here. Well, not here, here, like by the lake, but here, over there, over in Ridgewood. I grew up in Ridgewood.”

  He shakes his head and closes his eyes for a moment. I walk and don’t say anything, as he’s clearly a bit shy. Or it could be that whole, mostly-naked-with-an-employee thing.

  Ridgewood is the section of town up on ridgeline that overlooks the downtown area. It’s the high-rent district, so to speak, but in Pendleton Falls, as far as someone like me is concerned, the whole town is a high-rent district.

  “I’m down by the lake now. Bought my Dad out of his house.” His eyes drift down a bit and he squeezes them shut. “They’re nice. I mean, the house. The house is nice, not the, not you. No. You’re nice, too, it’s just. God I should stop talking.”

  Well, a
t least I’m not the only one embarrassed by this whole situation.

  We approach my house and, oh my, it’s something of a mess, isn’t it? I mean, I see it every day, but I didn’t expect that my boss would see it, ever. So now, staring at my little rental Cape with foreign eyes, the paint looks, well, worn, and wood-rot is eating up the bottom of the normally cheery shutters. The bushes are completely overgrown, with two dueling rhododendrons on either side of the front door that are particularly beastly, each one reaching up over the gutters. Our boxwood hedges are untrimmed, and the yard is filled with the yellow and white fluff of dandelions. I find them whimsical, really, still picking their tufts and making wishes, blowing them off into the wind. But to someone else the yard may seem a bit, well, unruly.

  I smack my arm to kill a mosquito and say, “Well, here we are.”

  We stop at the edge of the walk. He says, “Yup.”

  OK. He’s fun to look at and all, rocking that whole Jon-Hamm-in-Mad-Men sort of vibe, but really, he should go. “So, I’ll get these clothes back to you at work? Are you going to be in to the newsroom tomorrow or should I come down to Brookes Diamonds and bring them to you there?”

  From what the ladies at work say, he runs the paper out of his love for the town and its history. Must be nice. To own a paper for kicks.

  He lifts his arm, flashing some mighty-fine biceps? Triceps? Whatever they are, they look great as he rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I don’t think that would be the best idea.”

  “What? Oh, right, clothes, naked together, etcetera. Okay, so why don’t you come in for a minute and I’ll get them right back to you now?”

  “Great. Sorry, it’s just that people might get the wrong idea if you-“

  “I get it. Come on in and just, well, just ignore the mess.”

  I dig the key out from under the flowerpot, open the door and cringe. Gen says our taste is eclectic, but really it’s a decorating train-wreck. Nothing matches and everything is old.

  He steps in the door behind me and he’s close. So close that his delicious, cinnamony scent sends a flash of heat running straight through my center. Behave, Piper, he’s your boss. And he’s dating someone, so calm down.

  I take a deep breath and walk into the kitchen. “Want some water? Riesling?”

  “Water would be great, thanks.” He follows me back through the mishmash living room and into the small kitchen. At least the kitchen is clean. And gorgeous. It has this retro-fifties vibe with the black and white tile, big farm sink and a gas stove that’s older than my mother. I live in this room when I’m not at work.

  I pull a jar of sun-tea off the windowsill and pop it in the fridge before pouring him a cold glass of water.

  “Here, sit. I’ll be back down in a minute.” I indicate the diner-style table with the metallic edging.

  “Sure, no hurry.” His eyes drift down to his tee again and he slips getting into the chair, water sloshing in his glass as he slams it on the table to catch his balance.

  Scurrying off up the stairs to get dressed, I throw off his clothes and stretch, hands shaking as I pull a maxi dress out of the closet. I touch up my makeup and run into the hall. Wait! The clothes. I race back into my room, fold his clothes up the best I can. What’s the right way to fold the collar of a flannel? Ugh. I hate folding laundry.

  Then walk back downstairs.

  Rounding the bend into the kitchen I stop and catch my breath. His green eyes catch me off-guard and my heart leaps. Stop it, Piper. Just stop. I hold out the clothes. “Hey, thanks again.”

  He stops petting the cat, Maleficent, and takes the clothes. Pulling on his shirt, he says, “Anytime.”

  Now we suffer through the mandatory awkward silence. The cat bumps her head against his hand and he pets her, the fickle little thing.

  I look down and see his phone on the table, open to the Fantasy Football app. I ask, “Who’d you get for quarterback?”

  Foraging through the cabinets, I grab a plate of cheese and a box of crackers open the door to the back porch, indicating that he should follow.

  He looks like I slapped him, then shakes it off and follows me out to the porch. “Barrens.”

  “Isn’t he on the disabled list?”

  “He sure is. I used my first round draft choice to get him, too.” His posture relaxes, melting into the cushions of the deck chairs.

  “It’s always a mistake to pick a quarterback in the first round.” I’m laughing.

  “So it would appear.”

  We snack on the crackers and cheese, sharing draft choices, until finally he asks, “So, how did you get into fantasy football?”

  “Well, I played football, actually, when I was little.”

  He leans forward a bit, “You played?”

  “Yes, my mom has pictures and everything. I wanted to become the kicker for the Patriots.” I take a sip of my water.

  “The kicker for the Patriots? How long did you play?”

  “Oh, all through middle school. The mean girls had a field day. You can just imagine. All the other girls wanted to be a cheerleader, and there I was, eating lunch with the team. My life became a special kind of hell.”

  “So you stopped playing?”

  “Well, yeah, I mean, it got so bad that they were one step shy of leaving decapitated chickens in my locker.” I put the glass down, the taste of their taunts still sour in my mouth after all these years. “I got tired of cleaning egg up off the side of the house. Besides, I would’ve been crushed in high school. Competition was pretty fierce. Once the boobs grew in it got sort of awkward, anyway, with all that running.”

  His neck reddens and he stares at me, green eyes roaming over my face, my neck, like he’s searching for the answer to a question he won’t ask, he opens his mouth-

  I say, “How about you? You ever play football?”

  “No.” He grabs a chip and meets my eye. “It was the boobs. Kept me out of a lot of sports.”

  I laugh and look down. “I’ll bet. They didn’t stop you from drafting Barrons as a quarterback, though.”

  “Sadly not.” He stands, eyes on the dark of the yard out back as a horn beeps out front. “I should go, that’s probably my cab.”

  I stand up and walk him out to the front door.

  “Okay. I could’ve driven you home-“

  “The last thing I want to do is to put you out even further.”

  “Thanks again for, you know, the clothes.”

  “Yeah, no problem. I don’t know what my schedule is this week, actually, yet, but I’ll catch you, um, around.” He shakes his head and walks off.

  “Hey, boss,” I call at his back just as he reaches the farthest stone of the walk, “Don’t forget to try and grab Hendricks. He’s a sleeper pick that’s worth it.”

  He turns, all pretense gone, and says in a tone that makes my insides ache. “I won’t forget anything about tonight. Trust me.”

  My heart pounds and I shut the door.

  What on earth just happened?

  The ride to my parents’ house is a short one, visions of Mr. Brookes and that smile and those eyes and oh my gosh the things that he saw! What if he comes into work and can only think about my stubbly legs? I mean, it’s not like I don’t shave my legs, it’s just that I maybe don’t do it every morning and his girlfriend is so rich I bet she has legs waxed or lasered into a perfect buttery smoothness found only on the airbrushed or the newly born. My stomach clenches.

  Pulling into the empty driveway of the happy little ranch of my childhood, I get out of the car and grab the note off the front door.

  Piper, Your mother and I have a board meeting at the soup kitchen. Your surprise is on the counter and there is some leftover chicken marsala in the fridge. Call us tomorrow. –Ted

  By call us he means him. Mom and I don’t really talk. We just sort of huff out awkward fragments of conversation and hope that it passes as some kind of relationship.

  I unlock the door and the smells of orange oil and leather makes me
feel like I’m six again. Rushing into the kitchen I find a tray of Ted’s legendary dark chocolate brownies. Ted doesn’t always cook, but when he does, it is amazing. Stuffing one into my mouth and tucking the tray under my arm, I see a plain white box on the counter. Something else? Man, staying in the area after college definitely has its advantages. I doubt my sisters get spoiled like this anymore.

  Opening the box, I pull out a gorgeous purple scarf. It’s light but downy soft and I hold it up against my cheek. I twirl the scarf around my neck and press the still-warm tray of brownies up against my body.

  The taste of chocolate and its velvety undertones lingering in my mouth, I head back towards home, the silliness of the afternoon’s events fading somewhat.

  Who cares if Mr. Brookes saw me naked? It’s not like he’s ever in the office anyway. He’ll probably just pretend like it never happened and I can go back to fearing him only for his preposterous affection for name tags.

  I hope.

  ANN

  She pushes open the door to her sister’s house and shouts, “Come grab this quick before I drop it!”

  The bottle of water lying on the floor of the trunk wasn’t quite capped all the way and managed to spill onto the towel she had wrapped around the hot tray of brownies, burning her fingers. “Bring a potholder!”

  Elise shakes the house, causes her cacophonous collection of curios and trinkets to jump at each and every footfall given off by her deceptively tiny frame. “You kick in my door and start demanding things? I was taking stock of the booze.”

  Elise, armed with two neon silicone monstrosities, takes the tray from her hands and walks before her into the kitchen. “Do you need more? I can run out and grab some if you want.”

  “No, I think we’re fine. I’m so glad you’ve decided to pull that head out of your ass and join us. It’s been too long, Annie. The girls are starting to forget what your face looks like.”

  “Probably not a bad thing.” Ann pulls the sunglasses off of her head and tosses her purse onto the counter by the door. Her shoes come next, though it’s not a rule. It’s just that there is no need for shoes around Elise. No need to pretend. “I’m not even sure I remember which friend is which. I remember the one that re-wrote her will to include her cat-“