by Pippa Grant
Jessie studies me with sharp blue eyes. She’s never been one to tolerate bullshit, and I can tell she thinks I’m bullshitting her now.
“What’re you getting at, Chief?” I ask.
“Factory’s losing money. Worth more if it burns down than if she sells.”
My fingers curl into fists, and water drips from the sponge in my hand. “Cassie and Savannah wouldn’t burn down their own factory.”
“Not gonna argue that. They’re the last people I’d suspect.” She rocks back on her heels. “Under normal circumstances, that is. But nothing about the last few months has been normal for Savannah Sunderwell. I’m reminded of that every time I pass my neighbor’s sheep pen.”
I shake my head. “She wouldn’t burn down her own factory. Neither would Cassie.”
“There anything you wouldn’t do for your brothers, O’Dell?”
I think about Jace, about impending fatherhood, about him being saddled with Ginger for the rest of his life.
About what I wouldn’t do for Blake. Or Clint.
It’s a fuzzy, fuzzy line. But there is a line. “One or two things,” I grit out.
“I like the Sunderwell girls. And I agree. I don’t think they’d do it. But who else would?”
“There are people protesting that factory every day of the week, and even more mad at Savannah for accusing Steve of fornicating with a sheep. Better question might be who wouldn’t?”
“Sheriff’s on it,” she tells me. “But if you hear anything, you let me know.”
Our radios squawk to life. “Possible HAZMAT situation at Gordon’s Taxidermy Shop. Station Two, respond.”
We all leap for our turnout gear.
“Ten bucks says it’s a live squirrel high on weed, because what other HAZMAT is he gonna have?” Jojo says as we load up. He grins. “And another ten that you and Cassie are outed as official by this time tomorrow.”
“Save the gossip for the locker rooms,” Jessie orders. She flips on the lights and sirens, Hank cranks the engine, and we’re off.
Just a routine call on a routine day.
But after hearing that the fire at Sunshine was suspicious, and possibly arson, nothing feels routine.
This is going to be the longest shift of my life.
Seventeen
Cassie
* * *
Everything is crazy.
I can’t believe this is my life.
Down is up and up is down and somehow I’ve gone from being girl voted most likely to spend a Friday night binge-playing Doctor Mario by myself to an arson suspect with the fate of a faltering sex toy company resting on my shoulders, more life drama than Kim Kardashian post sex tape, and a sort-of-maybe boyfriend who texts me on his breaks at work to let me know he’s thinking of me and that I should keep my “adorable chin up.”
My adorable chin.
Ryan thinks my chin is adorable.
“Bigger things to worry about,” I grumble at my reflection in Savannah’s private office bathroom. But no matter how serious I try to keep my reflection, I can’t keep the smile from my lips.
And then another text pops up on my phone and my grin goes into super stretchy mode.
Ryan: Any plans for tomorrow? Jace is bringing back karaoke night at the Wild Hog. I thought you might like to go, drink a few beers, forget about sex toys for a while?
Cassie: Sounds amazing. I’ll need a break from crisis mode by then. The news trucks are still outside and half my staff didn’t come into work today.
Ryan: Why?
Cassie: I don’t know. Ruthie May thinks maybe they’re afraid of getting caught walking into a sex toy factory on TV. Most of their families know what they do for a living, but I guess some of them are keeping the Sunshine portion of their lives a secret from their friends and neighbors. I’m helping Neil out in the lab today to pick up the slack. We’ll see how much I remember from high school chemistry. Hopefully I won’t blow myself up along with the self-lubricating butt plug prototypes.
Ryan: Be careful. No blowing yourself up allowed. At least not until I get to hear you sing “I Touch Myself” at karaoke.
Cassie: LOL. On a cold day in hell, O’Dell. I have a go-to list of karaoke songs and that one is NOT on it.
Ryan: Can’t wait to hear your go-to list. Gotta run. Break’s over. Hang in there.
Cassie: Will do.
I slip my phone back into the pocket of my borrowed lab coat and practically float out of the bathroom and down the hall toward the lab, not even the smell of the pineapple lube prototype Olivia’s mixing in a room the employees affectionately call “The Sex Kitchen” able to dampen my mood. Pineapple makes my tongue break out in hives and usually the scent alone is enough to make my lips itch.
But not today. Today I am bulletproof.
I know it’s just a stupid crush, but it’s a mutual crush. Ryan is into me and I’m into him and I’ve all but decided to go for it—to screw my courage to the sticking point and pounce on Ryan like he’s a two-pound bar of chocolate at the end of a thirty-day sugar detox.
Maybe tomorrow night.
Which means I’m potentially within a day of losing my V card, a state of affairs so exciting and panic-inducing I don’t notice Ruthie May waiting for me by the entrance to the lab until she seemingly materializes out of the shadows to scare me half to death.
“Oh my God!” I press a hand to my chest, where my heart is doing its best impression of a Donkey Kong hammer. “You scared me. Sorry. I was distracted.”
“Understandable,” Ruthie May says, her expression uncharacteristically serious. “You’ve got a lot on your plate these days, and I’m afraid nothin’ I’ve got to say is going to help you any.”
Stifling a groan, I ask, “Is this about the sales projections I asked for?”
Ruthie nods, her lips pruning into an unhappy pink starburst at the bottom of her lightly wrinkled face.
“Lay it on me,” I say, pinwheeling one hand. “Don’t sugarcoat it. I have to know how deep the doo-doo is before I can figure a way out of it.”
“Well, it could be worse,” Ruthie May says, before proceeding to give me the bad news. “Sales are down ten percent from this time last year, a dozen vendors have declined to renew their contracts, and apparently there was a glitch in the online ordering system that kept new customers from making profiles or being able to complete the check-out process for nearly a month. We’ve caught it now, but the damage has been done. I’m projecting a major cash flow problem if we can’t turn things around and get more green flowing in. And I mean yesterday.”
I shake my head. “But how did this happen? I thought Savannah said there was still so much room for expansion in the organic sensual product market.”
“There is, but without more effective advertising we won’t be the company helping people expand their sensual horizons,” Ruthie May says. “Savannah’s been running late night infomercial ads, but that’s not where our customers are these days.”
“Of course not,” I say, crossing my arms at my chest. “They’re online. The internet was built on porn.”
Ruthie pulls a face. “We do service some of the same customers, I suppose. I’ve been telling Savannah to up the online advertising budget for years, but you know how much she hates InstaChat and the search engine stuff.”
I bob my head back and forth, taking the measure of that information. “Well, I hate them too. Their advertising costs are through the roof these days and the return on investment can be hard to measure. But there are other places to advertise. Even other mediums.”
“Like what?” Ruthie asks, hugging her folder to her chest, curiosity sparking in her eyes.
“Like store apps for your smartphone,” I say, genuine excitement flickering to life inside me as a spark of potential genius pops into my head, along with the realization that though I miss San Francisco, I haven’t been daydreaming about the next edition of my company’s Vikings in… game series. It’s like I’ve needed something else to spark my creative juices. �
��Or…” I bite my lip, not wanting to jinx the idea by throwing it out into the world without figuring out how to pitch it properly.
Ruthie May laughs. “Oh, girl, I don’t know what’s going through your head, but I like it. It looks like a good time.”
“I think it will be.” I grin. “Let me do a little research and I’ll get back to you. Thanks for the update.” I wander into the lab, my wheels turning as I consider how best to turn buying sex toys into a game people don’t ever want to stop playing.
I’m not a hundred percent sure how best to approach this, but I know one thing for sure—dildo football has to be a part of it.
If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, and sell them the best dang organic lube available on the market while you’re at it.
Eighteen
Ryan
* * *
By the time I finally get to the Wild Hog Tuesday night, I’m itchy and desperate to see Cassie.
I should’ve been here half an hour ago, but George burrowed into an open peanut butter jar he found in the trash behind Maud and Gerald’s bakery, and I had to give him a bath to get the peanut butter off his fur before he tried to lick himself clean, which would’ve resulted in peanut butter hairballs all over my carpet.
And then I had to give myself a bath to recover from giving George a bath, because I refuse to see Cassie smelling like wet peanut butter trash panda.
It’s been over forty-eight hours since I’ve seen her in person—not that I’m counting—and I need to know that she’s okay. Need it badly.
I finally hustle into the bar a quarter after six. But even my eagerness to see Cassie, takes a backseat to abject horror when I realize what I’m seeing. And hearing.
Ruthie May is on the makeshift stage in the corner, wailing away.
To…“I Touch Myself.”
She’s also…touching herself. With one hand resting low on her belly, below the waistband of her linen granny pants, but not so low that the sheriff will have to intervene for public indecency.
But low enough to imply what she’s headed home to do.
I want to be happy for her, but I’m leaning toward joining Emma June in hiding out in a booth with a napkin over my head until it’s over. Not that the napkin is helping much with Tucker sitting next to Emma, holding up his fist, pointer and pinky extended, headbanging to the music. “You go, Ruthie May!” he hollers.
I hope Ruthie May has lots of sex.
I hope my parents do too.
I also hope to never bear witness to their sexy time private lives. Knowing it happens and seeing the gyrating on stage are two different things. Forever and ever amen.
Someone bumps into me from behind, and I realize I’ve stopped dead in front of the door.
“Sorry,” I start, then have to school my expression so I don’t curl my lip.
“O’Dell,” Steve says. Savannah’s ex is in a cowboy hat, a white button-down shirt, blue jeans, and—are those Italian loafers?
They are.
The dude’s wearing pretentious business shoes with his bar-hopping Wranglers.
Is it any wonder he gives me bad vibes?
But I nod back, because it’s polite. “Bennington.”
Behind us, Ruthie May croons about what she thinks about when she does things I don’t want to think about, and Steve’s entire face wrinkles in disgust. “This town’s going to hell,” he mutters.
“She’s just having fun, man,” I say.
He snorts and his dark brown eyes skim me up and down. I’ve heard women swoon over those eyes and the rest of the man packaged up along with them, but Steve’s gaze makes my skin crawl. “Didn’t know you were one of the freaks, O’Dell. Figured you had more sense than that.”
I start to crack that men with glass sheep should know better than to throw stones, but I refuse to sink to this douchebag’s level.
So I shrug, forcing a tight smile. “Just believe in live and let live.”
Steve’s bottom lip pushes out as he nods. “I get it. I like to do good when I can too.”
I do not roll my eyes.
But it’s hard.
Really hard.
“I’ll give you a heads-up,” he says, dropping his voice as he adds, “don’t get in too deep with my ex’s sister, okay? The Sunderwell girls are a good time until you put a ring on that crazy. Then it’s just nuts and cocoa puffs all the way down the line. Way more trouble than any pussy is worth, you feel me?”
My jaw clenches so tight something clicks near my ear as my hands curl into fists at my sides. But this snot weasel is as shitty at reading nonverbal cues as he is at keeping his marriage vows.
“Just come and go, if you get me.” He winks. “Come. And go.”
My fist is about to come and go—into his smarmy gut and back out again—when someone calls his name from the bar.
“Lance! What’s up, brother? Later, O’Dell.” Steve brushes past me, knocking my arm with his shoulder as he bolts for more socially elite company.
“Hopefully much later, you fucking asshole,” I mutter.
I’m considering texting Cassie and suggesting a change of venue—neither of us are Steve fans, after all—when a commotion at the back room catches my attention. I turn, and instantly the asshole is forgotten, and my heart feels ten years younger. I couldn’t hold back my smile if I tried.
There she is.
My Cassie.
She’s at the Ms. Pac-Man arcade game in back, spinning in a circle to take a round of high-fives from a motley mix of townspeople. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes alight with joy, her hair in twin braids that are as sexy as they are innocent, and I can’t wait to be close to her.
As close as I can get.
I’m across the bar, heading into the crowd around her before I realize I’ve moved.
“Ryan! Hey! Everything turn out okay with George?” she asks when I reach her side.
I don’t answer.
Instead, I bend and capture her lips with mine, circling my arms about her waist and pulling her in for a long, lingering kiss that stirs something deep in my chest even as it sends my cock into celebration mode.
Her hands drift up to clutch at my shoulders while she kisses me back, her tongue gliding against mine, her sweet nose brushing my cheek.
Forget a night out.
I’m taking her home. To my place.
I pull away from the kiss with a soft groan.
Cassie’s eyes are dark, her eyelids low. She licks her bottom lip and gives me an almost shy smile. “Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi.”
I’m grinning like an idiot, and I don’t care. Whispers of I knew it! and This is sooo going on InstaChat and Way to go, O’Dell! are filtering around us, but we both ignore them.
“That’s quite the congratulations for a high score in Ms. Pac-Man,” Cassie says with a sultry wink that puts a new kind of hum in my veins. One that says I’m a complete and total goner for this woman. “Or was that a pre-emptive I’m sorry kiss because you think you can do better?”
“Is that a challenge, Cassandra Sunderwell?”
“Maybe,” she says coyly. She swings her hips and grins. “And if you want to know if that’s a roll of quarters in my pocket or if I’m happy to see you, the answer to both questions is yes.”
I crack up, because she’s funny and perfect and how did I get to be the lucky guy she’s smiling at with stars in her eyes tonight? “Yeah, that’s a challenge,” I tell her, then I lean in so only she can hear me. “How about some stakes here? Winner gets breakfast in bed?”
“That’s hardly fair, since you don’t stand a chance.”
“You’re probably correct, but I don’t mind losing, since I’d still be getting breakfast with you.”
She giggles, and I reach into her pocket, where there is indeed a roll of quarters.
The music ends to a weak spatter of applause. “Thank you, Ruthie May,” Blake says into the microphone. “Next up is Olivia Moonbeam, singing ‘Call Me Maybe.’”<
br />
A few groans break out, but most of the crowd around Cassie and me breaks up and heads for the main dining area. Olivia might pick ridiculously perky songs, but she’s got an incredible voice.
“C’mon.” Cassie tugs me to face the machine. “Let’s see what you’ve got, O’Dell.”
“Other than a desperate desire to take you back to my place?” I ask.
She blushes, but she also smiles bigger. “We’ll get there. You have to woo me properly first.”
I like this flirty side of her. “You’re on.” I drop a quarter into the machine.
“And you’re off to a good start,” she tells me while she loops an arm around my waist and leans her head on my arm.
A camera flashes and clicks, and I suddenly realize it isn’t the first time I’ve heard that sound. There were a decent number of clicks snapping away while I was kissing Cassie hello.
I drop my hands from the game controllers and turn to her. “I’m sorry. The gossip—I didn’t think—I just wanted to kiss you. But there are probably pictures and I’m guessing they’ll be on InstaChat before we leave here tonight.”
She shrugs, surprising me. “There are far worse things than having people think I’m such a sex goddess Happy Cat’s hottest fireman can’t resist me.”
“Well, you are a sex goddess. But you’d better tell me the name of this fireman so I can kick his ass.”
She laughs, and it’s better music than anything we’re getting here tonight. “Ms. Pac-Man just got eaten by a ghost. In level one. Thus far, you are failing to impress me with your video game skills, Mr. Hot Fireman.”
I dutifully put another quarter in the machine. “I’m better at Out Run than Ms. Pac-Man,” I confess.
She glances past me at the next arcade game down with its gas pedal and steering wheel. “Oh, the car racing game?”
“Yep.” I fiddle the knob on the console, steering Ms. Pac-Man away from a killer ghost and completely missing a turn in a process. “I can outdrive you any day of the week, pigtails.”
“Is that commentary on my handling of my bicycle?” She brushes her breast against me, I get distracted, and once again, Ms. Pac-Man is toast.
