Brett

by Leigh Duncan

  “Don’t step on them,” he warned. The creatures often showed their appreciation by impaling careless walkers with their barbed tails.

  Stephanie wavered for all of two seconds before she reached a decision. She would follow Brett anywhere.

  Anywhere except Sticks N Tips. She had seen enough of the macho jerk he became the moment he set foot in the place. As for Jake, no way would she tolerate the disrespect he had shown or the—

  She stopped herself when Brett splashed into the water.

  The day was not about Sticks N Tips or Jake.

  The day was all about them, and one look at Brett was enough to convince her that she was making the right choice. Beneath a broad-brimmed hat, his eyes shone with happiness. Fishing—wading, she corrected—was important to him. And if he loved it so much, the least she could do was give it a try. Mimicking the slow shuffle step that Brett swore encouraged rays and crabs to get out of their way, she braved the water right behind him.

  And it wasn’t bad.

  Warm water lapped gently at her thighs. A breeze cooled her skin and confined the smell of rotting grass to the shoreline they quickly left behind. In the early morning hush, quiet ruled. An occasional pelican splashed down, soaring almost immediately skyward with a fish dripping from its huge beak. Brett pointed to a spot where seagulls wheeled and dove.

  “Fish,” he whispered and they ambled in that direction while he demonstrated the basics of fly fishing. Line whipped through the air as he made several casts. He explained what to do in steps that sounded simple, but she was so entranced by tiny shrimp floating in the water that she didn’t watch carefully. When he placed the rod in her hands, line went everywhere.

  “Here, let me show you.” Brett smiled warmly. He slipped in behind her.

  The sea life lost its fascination the instant his hard muscles pressed against her back. Fishing became quite a bit more interesting with his strong arms guiding hers. The fly rod did what it needed to do and line sailed where it needed to go with his long fingers firmly covering her own.

  “Good job,” he murmured. He was showing her how to retrieve the line when something tugged on the other end with enough force to jerk the rod out of her hands. She would have lost it entirely if Brett hadn’t been holding it, as well.

  “Fish on!” he cheered.

  “Yippee!” she yelled. Exhilaration filled her and her heart leaped in her throat as Brett taught her what the sport was all about. Together, they fought the fish until it tired enough to come close. Brett snagged and lifted it, dripping and silver, from the water while Stephanie was still shouting.

  “A trout,” he pronounced. “A gator trout,” he added with a broad grin. “Big enough for a trophy.” He placed the slippery fish in her arms while he retrieved the fly from its mouth. “What do you think? Your first fish. It’s a beauty!”

  Gray and speckled, the trout thrashed weakly and she felt tears begin to well.

  “What do we do now?” she asked. “Do we…eat it?”

  “Most people would. But this is the granddaddy of all trout. He’s made lots of babies and he’ll make many more if we let him go. What do you think?”

  Stephanie thought she was in love.

  Since that was an admission she was not prepared to make, she merely nodded as together they lowered the heaving fish into the water. With their hands on its tail, they gently scooted it back and forth until, as Brett said, “he told them he was ready.” Letting go, they watched the monster trout streak through the water and disappear.

  “You’re awfully good at this,” she said some time later.

  By unspoken agreement, they shuffle-walked toward the shore hand in hand.

  “It’s a lot of fun, isn’t it?”

  “Terrific,” she answered honestly. “I could do this every day.”

  “I used to.” Brett squinted into the distance. “Tom and I did a lot of fishing when we were growing up. But I haven’t been out here in months.”

  “Oh?” she asked. She waved a hand from turquoise sky to crystal water. “What keeps you from it?”

  Brett’s face turned teasingly devilish. “You. I seem to be spending all my free time with you these days.”

  That wasn’t true but, suspecting a kiss hung in the balance, she kept her thoughts to herself. He spent most of his off-duty hours at Sticks N Tips. She was certain of that. If he cut the bar scene out of his life, there would be plenty of time for more important things. Things like seeing her. And fishing.

  And kissing, she added a few seconds later when Brett pulled her into his arms.

  He was mighty good at that, too.

  Furious or in love—either way, sleep was impossible, Stephanie discovered as she turned her sheets into a twisted mess for the second night straight. She spent most of her sleepless hours mentally playing a game of poker. Instead of aces and jokers, she dealt the pros and cons of falling in love. A husband and family did not figure into her immediate future, but Brett’s kisses turned her brain to mush. He was an arrogant, disillusioned cop and, except for Tom and Mary, he had some of the worst friends known to mankind. He was also kind, sweet, funny, good with kids and fish, and she wanted him. She played that against her obligation to Space Tech and lost every hand. There was only one way to win—she had to go all in and hope the world was bluffing when it said you couldn’t have it all.

  Chapter Nine

  After a week of shift work that failed to mesh with Stephanie’s dawn-to-midnight schedule, Brett was more convinced than ever that he couldn’t have it all. But what was life if not compromise? In his job he did it every day. He clocked a speeder at eighty but issued the ticket for sixty-five because of a—previously—clean driving record. He let a shoplifter walk away when she gave up the goods. He drove a drunk home before the man got behind the wheel. His relationship with Stephanie was no different. Which explained why, on a Sunday afternoon, he dodged teens on Rollerblades and little old ladies in orthopedic shoes at a craft fair when he really wanted to spend the day in bed with the woman who revved his engine.

  Brett tucked Stephanie’s latest purchase under his arm and, careful to keep his focus above her shoulders or risk embarrassing himself, followed her mop of curly hair into the next booth.

  “Ooh. Homemade soap,” she purred. She lifted a bar and sniffed. “Yum.”

  The image of Stephanie lathered in soap bubbles so engrossed Brett he nearly plowed her over when she came to an abrupt stop.

  “Isn’t that Mary and the girls? Looks like trouble.”

  That was putting it mildly. On the opposite side of the street, a small crowd had gathered around a bench where Mary sat with one leg outstretched, a bag of ice pressed to her ankle. A pair of old ladies cooed at the twins, which partially explained their tears.

  “Mary!” Stephanie called.

  Brett hustled as his date cut a swath through the crowded street.

  Mary looked up with a grimace. “Twisted my stupid ankle,” she managed through clenched teeth. “Tom went for the car, but I don’t know how he’ll get it here.”

  All the tree-lined streets of Cocoa Village had been barricaded for the area’s largest craft fair. White display tents stood wall-to-wall along the sidewalks. Eager shoppers ducked in and out of booths and thronged the town’s unique stores.

  “I’ll take care of that,” Brett offered. He whipped out his badge. “Where were you parked?” When Mary pointed, he set off to clear a path. He was signaling people out of the way and Tom’s van to the curb by the time he realized he’d left Stephanie alone to deal with two wailing toddlers and an injured woman. He hoped she didn’t hate him for it and shot a worried look her way.

  One glimpse of the twins happily slurping from juice boxes and waving flags from a nearby craft stand, and Brett breathed relief. The girls were so intent on babbling about Mary’s anka-boo-boo, they didn’t even ask him for a present. But once Tom had helped his wife into the van and started moving Brenda from stroller to car seat, loud protests rent t
he air.

  “No, Daddy! Cowns. You proms.”

  “They mean you promised to let them see the clowns,” Stephanie interpreted while Brett tried not to gawk. “Why not let us do that while you take Mary to the hospital and get that foot X-rayed.”

  There really was no other choice.

  As their official “Unca,” Brett expected to handle the bulk of the twins’ care, but Stephanie took the job to heart.

  “I think I saw a place where we can get our faces painted and see some ponies,” she enthused. “What do you say, Brenda? Barbara? Should we go?”

  “Go, Miss Steppy. Pons, Miss Steppy.” The twins were all for it.

  Brett tagged along as Stephanie led the way to an area of the craft fair he had never visited. Beneath shade trees that had stood far longer than Cocoa had been a village, they indulged the girls with wands and tiaras from the fairy booth. The girls giggled happily while they rode ponies, shared towering cones of cotton candy, had their faces painted by a clown wearing fire-engine-red hair and a goofy grin.

  Brett was so impressed by Stephanie’s softer side he thought another outing might be fun. They were helping the girls dangle magnets into a wading pool to fish for prizes when he suggested taking the twins on a real fishing trip. The look Stephanie shot him reminded him of an expression he had seen on his mom’s face more than once, but he didn’t have time to decipher it because Barbara decided two minutes of “fishing” was enough, dropped her plastic rod and trotted for the ponies while Brenda opted for the clowns. Brett corralled one twin, Stephanie the other, and they spent the rest of the day riding kiddie rides, feasting on hot dogs and choosing T-shirts embroidered with the girls’ names.

  By the time Tom called to say Mary’s ankle was only sprained and her mom was on her way to help out, the twins dozed in their stroller, the crafters were disassembling their booths, and Brett knew he was in love. The thought scared the bejesus out of him.

  Ever since the hurricane—before, if he were honest—he’d been thinking in terms of home and family. He wanted the whole package—someone to build a life with. Since Stephanie had her eyes on power and the penthouse suite, he had told himself from the get-go she was not that girl. But after seeing her with Brenda and Barbara, he knew the heart of a potential mom beat beneath the navy pinstripe she donned for work.

  He had resigned himself to letting her go once her year-long stint was over. Now, things had changed. Love changed things. He needed a new plan.

  Since she didn’t know the area, he determined to show her all the things he loved about the place he called home. He worked harder to prove Paul Mason’s guilt so she would know the value of having a cop in her back pocket. But when she remained on her chosen career path, Brett realized he needed a back-up plan.

  He blew the dust off his master’s thesis, knowing the degree would take him where he needed to go. A security firm provided one. Accepting the firm’s offer would make his career portable enough that he could move along with the woman of his dreams. It was a compromise, but life was full of them.

  Stephanie’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the forty suits who sat, wall-to-wall, in the president’s conference room.

  They had gathered to hear George Watson, Space Tech’s CEO, make a live address from Ohio and, despite John Sanders’s assurances she had nothing to worry about, her stomach churned. She straightened the lapel of her navy pinstripe, slipped into her reserved front row seat and crossed legs that were, thank goodness, not shaking. The oversize monitor on the wall filled with static.

  Once the opening remarks were dispensed with, the company leader singled her out.

  “I expect you to terminate Paul Mason’s employment as of 4:00 p.m. today. Make certain he is escorted off the premises. Are we clear on everything else?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her mouth felt so dry she could plant cactus in it but, with everyone staring at her, she had to look strong.

  She swallowed her anxiety and began the expected summary.

  “Reimbursement for the…” Admitting she knew the numbers by heart would only emphasize them. She glanced at her notes. “For the fourteen thousand, six hundred and fifty-three dollars he stole, plus four days paid vacation, will be recouped from the remainder of his retirement fund. If he refuses, Space Tech will press charges.”

  Not an option, according to the CEO. “It is your job to convince Mason to reimburse the company he defrauded. It’s in his best interest.”

  Stephanie stifled a frown. The corporate office was counting on her to make the soon-to-be-ex security guard leave quietly to avoid bad publicity. That wouldn’t sit well with Brett. He was convinced Paul Mason’s sorry butt belonged in jail, but the decision had never been hers to make.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  George continued. Since an exhaustive audit had failed to uncover another single instance where an employee had abused the hurricane fund and the restructuring of the Florida office was ahead of schedule, she would stay on as head of HR. There was more good news—bonuses for her entire department, and extra time off as a reward for their part in the investigation—but Stephanie was too busy trying to corral a face-splitting grin to hear much of it.

  She was staying put.

  Staying put as in, “not recalled to the home office.” As in “keeping her job.” As in, given “time to build a life with the man she loved.”

  Her fingers drummed one thigh until the speech-making finally ground to a stop and the appropriate closing remarks were made. A month earlier, she would have turned cartwheels at the congratulatory handshakes offered by her peers. Today, she cut the compliments short. Citing a need to resolve things with Paul Mason, she bolted for the door at her first opportunity. But it wasn’t the guard she was anxious to deal with. Her fingers fumbled for her cell phone while her stilettos threatened to dance their way down the hall.

  “Brett, I just got out of the meeting,” she said at the beep. “Everything went great! Better than great. I’ll give you the details when I see you.” She dropped all pretense to ask, “Are you looking forward to tonight? I am.” A nice, relaxing evening with Brett was just what she needed after all the stress Paul Mason had brought into her life.

  Okay, so nice and relaxing were not on the agenda.

  She and Brett had had a month of nice and relaxing. Thanks to a high school buddy, Brett had taken her on a private tour of the Kennedy Space Center. They had watched stars from the planetarium at the local college. They had dined from Micco to Titusville and fished the St. Johns River from one end of the county to the other.

  Finally, after a month of going everywhere else, the man she loved had invited her to his place. Her gait tightened at the thought of “pasta and whatever” with Brett. Her broad-shouldered Adonis had insisted he did not cook Italian, which was okay with her. She wasn’t hungry. At least, not for food.

  Tonight was all about the whatever. She’d given her heart to the tall, sexy cop that first day on the river. Tonight, she intended to give him the rest.

  A thrill passed through her and she paused, her hand on her office doorknob. One last hurdle remained between where she stood and the evening she and Brett had planned. Only one, but it was a doozy. She had to fire Paul Mason.

  The necessary paperwork sat on her desk. Her own office had been cleared, her staff sent on various assignments. Last, but not least, three burly guards on loan from another division waited just out of sight in case things turned ugly. She squelched the wave of bitterness that rose whenever she considered the man who had duped her, took a deep breath and punched numbers into her phone.

  Her voice dropped to the tone her staff had learned to respect.

  “Send Paul Mason to my office immediately.”

  She could handle Paul Mason, she told herself. She could handle a dozen Paul Masons. It was the Brett Lincolns of the world who got to her.

  The latest from the Red Hot Chili Peppers blasted out of all nine Bose speakers as Brett pulled the A
valanche into a parking spot in front of Pat’s Place. Whistling the rest of the song, he checked his image in the rearview mirror, smoothing his plaid shirt to hide his off-duty weapon. Satisfied, he hustled toward the door. He had just enough time to grab a couple of dogs before stopping at his favorite butcher shop. Then it was home to mow the lawn, take a quick shower and change, toss a salad and fire up the grill. Stephanie was due at eight, and he wanted everything to be perfect because…tonight was the night.

  He had known she was “the one” their first date, at The Yellow Dog. She was everything he wanted—smart, funny, caring, and she packed more downright sexiness into her five-foot-two-inch frame than any woman he had ever known. Even though they hadn’t made it as far as the bedroom, he was sure. Sure they would be good together. Pretty sure he loved her—oh, yeah. And tonight, unless he had totally misread the signals, they would take their relationship to the next level.

  So they had only dated for a month. So what? And so the guys on the force thought she was cut from the same cloth as his previous girlfriends. Again, so what? Tom and Mary argued the other side and their vote counted for something, didn’t it? He jingled his pocket change in time with the music.

  “Hey, Raj. How’re you doin’?”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Brett scanned the store when his usual greeting failed to earn the owner’s trademark white-toothed grin. Aisles of snacks and essentials were practically empty—just him, Raj and one other customer. The normal mid-afternoon lull. He shrugged aside a flash of concern.

  “Kids okay?”

  It seemed as if Raj or his wife was behind the counter of the convenience mart 24/7, yet they still managed to produce a new baby every year or two. He and Stephanie hadn’t talked about children. If they made that long walk down the aisle, how many would they have? His steps slowed as he considered how much fun making them would be.

  “Very good, sir.”