by Stacy Gail
All she cared about was setting things right.
Fifty-three days, she thought grimly, turning to the eyesore that was the single-wide mobile home. She only had fifty-three days of hell to endure before she could close the Chapter on this part of her life forever. She’d be able to close it even sooner, if Coe did what he was supposed to do and grab for the life that had been stolen out from under him. Once he did that, that constant ache in her chest that used to be her heart would finally ease.
Or so she hoped.
A balding middle-aged man with a profound lack of chin and a wealth of beer gut hanging over the top of his wrinkled khakis came around the corner of the home, a clipboard in his gloved hand. For a fleeting moment Miranda wondered if he was doing an inspection on the property for insurance or deposit purposes, but she didn’t really see the point.
It was a nightmare.
The pink and chartreuse paint on the home’s exterior was sun-baked and peeling. The house itself had been hoisted up on cinderblocks, and there were signs of water damage on the three wooden steps leading up to the trailer’s only door. A box-unit air conditioner poked out of a window next to the door, unnecessary in the chill November air, and she didn’t look too closely at the stains emanating from its condensation valve. One glance was enough to make her suspect the chartreuse paint and the stain running down the outside wall were one and the same.
“Miss Brookhaven?” The man sucked in his gut under the paint-stained Bitterthorn High athletic sweatshirt as he offered a hand and a smile. “I’m Kip Kippley, manager of Garden Court Mobile Park. Welcome home.”
This was about as far from the home she’d once had in Bitterthorn, but she smiled gamely and inched her chin up. “Mr. Kippley, thank you for greeting me personally. I wouldn’t have minded dropping in at the front office to pick up the keys.”
“Oh, I don’t mind, and please call me Kip. Everyone does.” At the mention of keys, he produced two keys held together on a twist of wire that may have once been a paperclip. “If you’ll just sign the lease agreement, you’ll be all set.” As she nodded her thanks and took the clipboard from him, he cleared his throat. “Your neighbor across from your front door is Esme Fenster. She watches her grandkids sometimes on the weekdays, so things have a tendency to be a little...loud. I know you said you do a lot of your work from home, so I thought it was best to warn you up front.”
Miranda kept her smile screwed in place. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. Since she was now paying for both this place and her apartment in Grapevine, it was all she could afford. “I’ve got headphones and awe-inspiring powers of concentration. When I’m working on a graphics project, the rest of the world disappears.”
“All righty, then.” The nod of his head stopped just short of a bow before he shuffled back in an awkward retreat. “It’s an honor to have a Brookhaven here in our humble little corner of Bitterthorn. I mean, your granddad was the president of Bitterthorn Bank, as was your dad before he became a big wheel in the auto industry. Huge successes, the Brookhavens, so I doubt they even knew Garden Court existed. Yet now you’re here...”
Not being a success. The message came through loud and clear. “Yes, I am, Mr. Kippley. I’m here in Garden Court. Do you have a point?”
He turned purple. “Uh, n-no. Just...if you need anything...”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine, thank you. Have a good day.” Impeccable manners had always been part and parcel of the Brookhaven image, and she’d been raised well. In less than a minute she had Kip on his way before she let herself into the tiny mobile home that had been brand new decades before she was born.
Good grief, it was a hovel.
Weak light spilled through the foggy front windows that overlooked a built-in dinette nook comprised of cracked vinyl that had never looked like leather. The carpet was the color of dirt and so old it no longer had a discernible nap. The walls were covered in wallpaper with a repetitive yellow-squash-and-gourd pattern over a white background. At the back of the trailer through an open accordion-style folding door she could see a double bed, the mattress brand new and still covered in plastic, and she breathed a sigh of relief at its pristine condition. The rest of the single-wide home was in much worse shape—even the air was stale and had a disconcerting earthy flavor—but at least she’d be able to sleep peacefully at night.
Then she loosed a laugh that hurt her throat. Sleep? That was a good one. A peaceful night’s sleep had been an impossibility since she’d learned of her father’s death. She no longer remembered what a full night’s sleep was.
It took only ten minutes to move her meager belongings into her new home, dropping boxes marked Clothes, Kitchen and Office just inside the door. The majority of her belongings remained in north Texas, as a fifty-three-day relocation didn’t require her to move everything she owned.
And it would be just fifty-three days, she thought grimly. Not a moment longer. The bare essentials were all that she needed—some clothes on her back and a pot or two to cook in. Thankfully her job was a mobile one; as a graphics designer for a small PR agency contracted by Tarrant County Parks and Recreation Department, she could do her work anywhere.
Even in a pit like this.
Bad attitude, she chided herself even as a deep sigh produced a sneeze in the stagnant, earthy-tasting air. She should be grateful she had a roof over her head, and not be the little princess Coe had often called her. Back then she’d been stupid enough to think the nickname was both cute and appropriate. Now, older and wiser, she could spot the thread of contempt woven through every part of it.
With a snarl she tore open the nearest box while her head threatened to split in two. Coe’s real feelings about who she was may have been well hidden when they were dating, but the veil had been ripped away in no uncertain terms. She had been a sheltered and cosseted Brookhaven, and he’d been the bad boy from Garden Court looking to score the ultimate social prize. It would have been cliché, except for one thing—her feelings had been real.
In the end, he’d made sure she understood that his feelings had been anything but.
It was a good thing life had a way of smacking the dreamy out of people. True, she now kept people at arm’s length, and worried over how she could make every penny she earned stretch into a dollar. But that was okay. She’d rather deal with real-world problems instead of the wealthy fantasy her father had woven around her and her sister, who still clung to that materialistic illusion. Even now, Katherine was baffled by Miranda’s decision to amputate herself from the privileged life she’d once enjoyed. But for Miranda, there hadn’t been any other choice. For seven years she’d been working to get to this day—the day when she finally took steps to make things right.
Her only regret was that she had to deal with Coe Rodas in order to do it.
Chapter Two
It was a damn good thing people couldn’t be arrested for violent thoughts, or Coe suspected he would have landed in the deepest, darkest pit the world had to offer. For years he’d had the unhealthy fantasy of shoving the entire rotten-to-the-core Brookhaven family off the nearest cliff. But now, to have Miranda appear like the haughty princess she was, not a delicate blond hair out of place and looking like she’d never done a single vile thing...it blew just about every fuse he had.
The hinges on the door to Pauline’s Praline Sweet Shoppe groaned as he ripped it open. The dark-haired girl behind the counter, Celia, looked at him with eyes like saucers and wasted no time in pointing behind her.
“Lucy’s in the back, so go right ahead and, uh...you know. See her. Talk to her. Try not to hurt anyone. Take your pick.”
“Cute.” For a second he toyed with the idea of getting control of himself. But damn it, he had every fucking right to be furious. His life had been ruined by that spoiled Brookhaven brat. She was nothing more than a blue-eyed assassin of young dreams. Miranda looked like a
perfect angel, but thanks to her he’d learned life’s toughest lesson—that the devil’s greatest trick was to wrap itself in the cloak of innocence.
“Hey, Coe.” Standing at the kitchen’s center workstation, Lucy Crabtree lifted her spatula from a bowl and frowned as chocolate streamed off of it. “I’m messing around with making a mocha ganache glaze for Sullivan’s groom’s cake, but I think I put in too much espresso. I’m on the right track, though. Wanna be my taste tester?”
“No.”
“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr. Crabbypants.” At last she gave him her full attention, only to freeze midsmile. “Take a breath. Tell me what happened.”
This was what it was to have a lifelong friend. They knew when to harass, and when to approach like the bomb squad. “Miranda.”
She hissed. “No.”
“Yup. Just saw her.”
The bowl of chocolate hit the workstation with a bang. “That bitch.”
Another reason Lucy was his best friend—when the situation called for it, she swore worse than her ex-army Ranger fiancé, Sully. “I couldn’t believe it. She just suddenly appeared out of nowhere, looking down her perfect little Brookhaven nose at me.”
“That goddamn bitch!”
“I was lying down on the mechanic’s creeper at the time, so she kind of had to look down on me. But still.” When her grip on the spatula turned into one that Jack the Ripper would have been proud of, he calmed enough to almost smile. Nothing like sharing some homicidal fury to make a person feel better. “The only thing that was good about seeing Miranda again was that she didn’t stay long.”
“What the hell is she doing back in town anyway?”
“I don’t know. I could barely hear her, with all the blood rushing to my head. Not to mention I was too busy fighting the urge to obliterate her right then and there.” At least he thought that was what had trembled through him as he stood looking down at her perfect cameo face. All he could remember for sure was an insane desire to take her by the shoulders and crush her any way he could. Blowing out a short breath, he approached the workstation to stand opposite Lucy. “For a full second I actually thought I was hallucinating. The one person I thought I’d never see again, the princess herself, Miranda Brookhaven, and suddenly there she stood—” within touching distance, “—no more than a couple feet from me. She didn’t even say she was sorry, or that she regretted the past, or...or anything. I can’t believe she dared to even look me in the fucking eye like nothing happened.”
“Sounds like typical Brookhaven behavior.” With a huff, Lucy recaptured the bowl, her eyes never leaving him as she folded the chocolate mixture with deft motions of the spatula. “How are you holding up?”
And here it was, the evil flipside to having someone who’d known him since before kindergarten. Pulling the wool over Lucy’s eyes was the definition of impossible. “What do you mean?”
“Do you want to wear this ganache?”
“Look, I’m fine, all right? In fact, I’m fucking outstanding, because I don’t give a shit about the bitch. She doesn’t affect me in the slightest. The moment I realized she put herself on her back just so she could sell me out to dear old Daddy, she’s been dead to me. You know that.”
“I thought I did. But if she really is dead to you, that should mean you have no feelings about her showing up out of the blue.”
“I don’t.”
“So why are you so upset now?”
“Hmm, let’s think. Maybe it’s because my life was ruined by her and her bastard father—who’s dead now, by the way,” he added, belatedly remembering. “May he rot in hell forever. Ooh. I get tingly all over just thinking about it.”
“Dead, huh? That might explain why she’s back in town. Tying up Daddy’s loose ends, maybe?”
“I don’t give a fuck what that little trollop is up to. She just better not cross my path again, or she’ll regret it.”
Lucy slid him a side-eye. “Did you really just use trollop in a sentence? Wow, you are upset.”
“What?”
She sighed. “You’ve always been temperamental, that’s just your nature. But when it comes to women, you generally avoid disrespecting them, thanks to how you grew up. But just the mention of Miranda turns you into a raving, using-the-word-trollop lunatic.”
“Don’t judge. I got that word from a video game, and it totally fits in this case.” A flash of shame mixed with horror gripped him before he looked away. The one thing he never allowed in his behavior was aggression when it came to women, because he sure as hell wasn’t about to follow in his old man’s footsteps. But then, he had threatened to throw Miranda, not once but twice... “If I do seem like a lunatic, that’s further proof that she’s toxic to my system. It’s like I have some weird Miranda allergy. I’m sure a medical study could put a label on it.”
“Great theory, as long as you don’t bring reality into it.” She swirled the ganache in the bowl as if testing its viscosity. “I know B.B. Brookhaven stole your valve design and patented it under his name, so I get the hostility toward the Brookhavens in general. They deserve it. But you’re not nearly as volatile when B.B.’s mentioned, despite the fact that he was the one who screwed you over.”
“It started with Miranda.” For him, that was the bottom line. “None of this shit would have happened if she hadn’t boosted my notes and prototype.”
“You and I both know how she got close enough to get her hands on them, Coe.”
“Yeah, she played me good.” He shook his head, hating how the words left a bitter taste on his tongue. “Little did I know that when I set my sights on bagging the princess of Brookhaven’s racetrack just to prove I could, she was setting her sights on one of my gadgets. My mistake.”
“And there you go again with that uncharacteristic disrespect. I love how you’re making like you were just trying to get into her pants and that was all there was to it.”
“I was just trying to get into her pants.”
“Coe, remember who you’re talking to. I remember you were so into her, you goofy-laughed like a doofus whenever you were together. It made me want to hurl.”
He reared back, horrified. “What. The. Fuck. I’ve never acted like that.”
“You did when you were with Miranda, and I think that’s why you’re reacting so badly now. You hate her, partly because you were falling for her back then.”
“What the hell have you been smoking? That’s crazy talk.” The accusation—because that’s what it felt like—hit him in a sore spot he didn’t know he had. The one thing he knew was that he’d never loved anyone, least of all Miranda Brookhaven. As he’d emerged from the hell that had been his childhood, he’d suspected he was the living exception to the rule that no man was an island. The fact was, no one ever really reached him, outside of Lucy. Unlike his peers, he’d never lost his head or heart, or anything else except his virginity.
Then came Miranda. He’d lost a fuel valve he’d made up to save money on his weekly fuel bill, and he’d lost it because he’d been horny for a girl who ultimately blindsided him.
Unforgivable, as far as he was concerned.
“Let’s get something straight. I went after Miranda because she was a challenge. She was B.B. Brookhaven’s unreachable princess that I supposedly didn’t have the right to set my sights on, so I went after her like a heat-seeking missile. But I never fell for her. Never.”
“Then why did you get her name tattooed on your arm when you were dating?”
“Because I was a dumbass poser trying to impress a Richie Rich so I could bang her brains out. And it worked.” Hell yeah, it worked. There were nights when his dreams were filled with being buried inside Miranda. Drowning in blissed-out sensation that only she was able to unleash in him...only to wake clutching at pillows, her name on his lips and a hard-on ready to explode.
He’d done everything to stop that madness, going so far as to cover up her name on his arm a week after she’d left Bitterthorn for Dallas. It hadn’t worked, though, at least where the dreams were concerned. He may have erased her from his arm, but he still dreamed about her every now and again, and it pissed him off.
“Ugh. Men.” Lucy shook her head as she groped around for something under the workstation. “Not one of you has a conscience when you’re horny.”
“I don’t deny it.”
“You also have a tendency to have a memory as selective as Sullivan’s, but at least he’s got a valid excuse for it.”
Well aware that Lucy’s fiancé—and former husband—had an IED rearrange his long-term memory, Coe scowled. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I remember a very different history than you do.” She surfaced with a plastic squeeze bottle she used for zigzagging icings onto pastries, and began pouring the chocolate into it. “Whether you want to remember it or not, Miranda was the only thing you talked about when you were going out. It got to the point where I wanted to karate chop you every time you said her name.”
“Yeah, because you never liked her.”
“Wrong. I didn’t like the idea of you two together. I mean, it’s such a ridiculous cliché—the pierced gearhead bad boy from the wrong side of the tracks, and the spoiled princess who no doubt wanted to piss off Daddy with her edgy choice in boyfriends.” Lucy wrinkled her nose as if she smelled something bad. “I thought you’d get hurt, and I was right.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Coe clamped down hard on the echo of devastation that had gutted him so long ago. The pain had come from the loss of the valve, and the self-directed fury at letting someone get close enough to make him bleed. That was all it was. Nothing else could reach him when he was permanently stuck on his internal island built for one. “The only thing that hurt was my pride. It still pisses me off that she made a fool of me.”
