by Stacy Finz
Nope. His black-haired, blue-eyed, curvy-as-sin neighbor had been his emergency. She and her Tesla. “It was a busy morning.”
“Hmm,” the mayor muttered, then took another swig of his expensive water. “I wanted to talk job performance.”
“Yours or mine?” Colt asked, unable to help himself.
The mayor feigned a belly laugh. Colt knew Carter thought his comment was anything but funny.
“I want good things for this town, Colt. I want to take Glory Junction into the future ... reinvent our reputation as a small, quaint town to something more relevant. I want us to have a place at the table.”
Colt nodded, thinking to himself: What the hell does that even mean? A place at the table. What table? He supposed it was a euphemism for making Glory Junction a top tourism attraction, even though it already was. Pond wanted to pretend that commerce in the town was failing so he could take credit for turning it around.
“For far too long, Glory Junction has operated like a back-road campground when what it should be is an international destination resort. I want to make that happen.”
It had been happening long before Pond became mayor. The Four Seasons and Glory Junction’s other luxury hotels had been doing fine for years. During ski season they were booked solid. And going by Garner Adventure’s stats—and its overworked guides—summers here were quickly becoming just as popular.
“The problem, Colt,” the mayor continued, “is you’re stuck in the past.”
“How’s that?” Colt asked, trying to read what the mayor was working up to. No question Pond had an endgame. Colt just didn’t know what it was yet.
The mayor drained the rest of his water and squeezed the bottle until it made a crinkling noise. “You’re too close to the residents, which is understandable since you grew up here. But to build a brighter future we need to make the town more tourist friendly . . . more welcoming.”
Colt assumed that was code for loosening the rules for anyone with a reservation. “Why don’t you cut to the chase here, Carter? I’ve got a town to patrol.”
“Do you know how many traffic tickets you issued last year?”
Colt didn’t know the number off the top of his head, but for a town this size with as many visitors as it got, it wasn’t unprecedented. “What’s your point?” he asked, even though he knew damned well what the mayor’s point was.
“My point is a tourist charged with a hefty fine for violating the speed limit isn’t a happy tourist.”
“You do know that the city benefits financially from these fines, right?” It’s not why Colt’s officers gave tickets, but if the mayor was worried about losing revenue ...
“Not as much as the city benefits from the tax base of its businesses.”
“Are you asking me to look the other way when an out-of-towner drives sixty in a twenty-five-mile-an-hour zone or when a drunken tourist up from the city causes a fight at Old Glory?” Because it had been known to happen. “What about the locals? Is it business as usual for them? I figure since we’re not going to protect them, we may as well look the other way when they speed or steal or trespass, too. Does that work for you?”
“Cut the sarcasm, Colt. You’re on thin ice as it is. All I’m saying is we all need to do our part, be on the same page.”
Colt didn’t want any part of Pond’s page, but he held his tongue. Managing up had never been his strongpoint, but he loved this town and continuing to pop off to the mayor wouldn’t serve anyone. People here needed someone to watch their backs and that definitely wasn’t Carter. The mayor wanted to turn Glory Junction into goddamned Disneyland. Even Colt’s family, who profited from the town’s tourism trade, didn’t want to see that. And Colt’s job was to keep everyone safe, not just the people with the biggest wallets.
“We through here?” Colt started to get up.
“Yep, we sure are.”
Colt found his way out of Pond’s office, through the long corridor of city hall, to the exit, barely able to corral his temper. The mayor was actually asking him to obstruct justice so Glory Junction could have a place at the “table.” Translation: Carter Pond wanted the world to think he’d taken Glory Junction from a modest, dusty town to a thriving ski village at the safety expense of Colt’s family, friends, and neighbors—the people he’d known his whole life.
“Someone die?”
Jolted from his thoughts, Colt looked up from the sidewalk to see his brother Josh. “What are you doing here?”
“Last I looked, I lived here,” Josh said.
“I meant city hall.” Josh, like the rest of the family, worked at Garner Adventure on Main Street, a few blocks away. And his and Hannah’s Victorian was on the other side of town.
Josh pointed at a four-story office building that used to be a kitschy western motel. “My new physical therapist.”
“How’s the leg?” His brother’s limp had become less pronounced since Christmas, when he’d returned from Afghanistan.
An IED explosion had killed three and injured seven soldiers in his squad. Josh and another army ranger had managed to carry the survivors to safety. But his brother’s leg had been torn and mangled so badly that doctors had wanted to amputate. One of the surgeons had stitched together enough of Josh’s blood vessels to save the leg long enough to get him to Germany. There, they’d reconnected his bones with plates and rods and mended his wounds with muscle and skin from other parts of his body.
His little brother was a walking miracle of science, which none of them took for granted. Colt credited a lot of Josh’s recovery to Hannah. She’d kicked his ass when he’d first returned, angry at the world. They’d gotten married in June and Colt had never seen his brother happier.
“Good,” Josh answered. “The goal is to be rock climbing by next summer.” In the meantime, Josh was leading the inner-tube cave tours and had taken a few groups down the Glory River. “What’s going on in city hall?” he asked.
“I had a meeting with Pond. The guy’s a douche bag ... put me in a foul mood.”
“What happened?”
Colt did a quick scan of the street. There were big ears in Glory Junction. As if on cue, Rita Tucker, one of the town’s biggest busybodies and a member of the city council, waved from across the street. “We’ll talk later; I’ve got to get to the office.”
“You up for a beer tonight with the brothers?”
“I don’t know how late I’ll be.” Friday nights in Glory Junction could get busy and he’d been out late the night before.
“Text if you can make it. If not, no worries.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Colt bit back a yawn.
“I better get going.” Josh started to walk away, then called over his shoulder, “Hey, Colt, wash your shirt.”
At the police station, he found a spare uniform top in his coat closet, stripped the stained shirt, and shrugged into the fresh one.
Carrie Jo, his receptionist, barged in without knocking. “You want me to drop that off at the cleaners?”
Colt had been in the same graduating class with her in high school. Back then she’d been head cheerleader, homecoming queen, and whatever other crap the popular girls did. Instead of going to college, she’d married an investment banker. Last year, she’d caught him cheating on her and had left him. She had zero job skills but Colt hired her anyway. Best thing he ever did because as his gatekeeper, Carrie Jo had turned out to be adept at keeping the crazies away.
“Sure.” He sat down at his desk to check his messages. Unlike Pond’s desk, it was your standard city-issued L-shaped metal number. “While you’re there, if you wouldn’t mind picking up my clean uniforms I’d greatly appreciate it. And if you grab me one of those breakfast sandwiches at Tart Me Up I’ll love you forever. Get one for you too. You fly, I’ll buy.”
“No sandwiches for me, I’m back on Paleo.” She’d packed on fifty pounds since high school.
“Just exercise and you’ll be fine. You look great, Carrie Jo.”
“If I look so great why don’t you ever set me up with anyone?” She balled up his stained shirt and sank into his sofa, waiting for an answer.
“I would if I knew any single guys.”
“Uh . . . you have two single brothers. Both gorgeous. Both employed.”
“Uh-uh. Win nails anything in a skirt and TJ’s a workaholic. You deserve better.”
“What about you?” she challenged.
Wouldn’t Pond love that, Colt thought. Dating a subordinate. “One of us would have to quit. But yeah, I’m good with that.” He winked at her.
“You’re such a liar, but I love you anyway. I want to have a baby, Colt.”
He held up his hands. “Don’t look at me.”
“Denny wouldn’t have cheated on me if I’d still been a size four and I’d have a child by now.”
“That’s bullshit, Carrie Jo, and you know it. Denny was an insecure prick. His cheating had nothing to do with you. Why don’t you try online dating? I hear people have good luck with it.”
“Why don’t you?”
“I wasn’t the one complaining about the state of my love life.”
“You should be. Lisa was a bitch and every single woman in Glory Junction hopes you’ll finally get over her and pick one of them.”
As much as he liked to shoot the shit with Carrie Jo, that particular topic was off limits. Being the police chief required discretion where women were concerned. And now with the mayor breathing down his neck—“You’re too close to the residents ”—Colt couldn’t afford to be gossiped about.
“I need to get some work done, Carrie Jo.”
“What about your neighbor . . . Delaney Scott? She’s beautiful, talented, and rich.”
“She’s also annoying as hell.”
“Is she still blocking your access road?”
“Yep. Work, Carrie Jo, I’ve gotta work.”
“Can we make out first?”
“Bye, Carrie Jo.”
“You’re no fun.”
Nope. He sure the hell wasn’t. Who had time for fun?
Chapter Two
Delaney sat on the phone fuming. “How can that be? How can he get to keep my name? It’s mine. It’s on my birth certificate, for God’s sake.”
“The judge was firm,” her lawyer said. “Robert gets the name and the clothing company. You get the shoe and handbag business, the homes, and the warehouse.”
“I don’t care about the homes or the warehouse, I want my name back. Besides the fact that it’s the name my parents gave me, it’s my brand, Liz. It’s the name I built the lines on.”
“I know, Delaney, and if you want me to appeal the decision, I will. But I’m not going to lie to you; Robert’s got you over a barrel. Everything was in his name. The company, the licenses, the studio, and the contracts. On paper, you’re nothing more than a fashion designer who worked for Delaney Scott. You got bad legal advice.”
“I got no legal advice.” Just Robert’s. “I was a starry-eyed kid when we started Delaney Scott. I ran the creative side and Robert ran the business end. I didn’t pay attention to whose name was on what. I never thought Robert and I would break up.” Stupid me thought love was forever.
“I’m sorry, Delaney. I did everything I could do. My advice: move on, rebuild in a big way, and remember that success is the best revenge.”
After the call, Delaney went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. What she really needed was a shot or two (or three) of tequila. The last year had been like a surreal dream, watching everything in her life disintegrate. First her marriage and then her company. Maybe she hadn’t worked hard enough on the former, but the business had taken everything she had and then some. All a labor of love. From the moment she’d been accepted to Parsons School of Design, Delaney had plotted her career trajectory, never veering from her goal of being a top designer. An internship at Marc Jacobs led to a design position at Donna Karan and her future seemed to write itself.
She’d met Robert, a bright and rising content marketing manager, at Donna Karan. At their first meeting she spilled red wine on his four-thousand-dollar suit and proceeded to tell him why his campaign for Donna’s new lingerie line was all wrong. The next day he sent her a dozen red Ecuadorian roses, claiming to find pushy women hot, and she fell a little bit in love. They got married a year later and it was Robert who convinced her to leave her six-figure job at Donna Karan and go out on her own. He supported her while she worked on her designs and created her first eponymous couture line, which the trades reviewed glowingly. That’s when Robert quit his job to run the burgeoning Delaney Scott fashion company.
Two years later, they launched a ready-to-wear line, Delaney Scott Every Day. Then came the handbags and the shoes, which turned out to be a significant business on its own. And now, her only business, which came with a small team of designers and salespeople and a warehouse supervisor, who was temporarily overseeing the order shipments until Delaney could hire a fashion house manager to maintain the operation. Right now, she had to develop a new line of clothing from scratch. Unfortunately, in the last year, she hadn’t been able to focus. Her designs were flat and uninspired. Just a lot of the same old, same old.
She’d moved into the Glory Junction house full time nine months ago to take cover after the divorce and ensuing court battle and to get her joo joo back. Too many people in LA wanted to gloat over her failed marriage or use it to their advantage. The fashion industry could be very opportunistic, which was a nice way of putting it. And Glory Junction was such a pretty, happy place with its surrounding mountains, rivers, lakes, and charming downtown, a combination of the old West and an Aspen-style ski town. The area attracted some of the world’s most famous skiers, avid rock climbers, and mountain bikers. For Delaney, who wasn’t much of a sports enthusiast, the town offered unrivaled peacefulness.
Except for her immediate neighbor, who drove her nuts. Colt Garner’s family was an institution in Glory Junction. Everyone loved them. The parents had founded the family’s adventure company in the late 1970s. While Gray and Mary Garner were still a big part of the operation, for all intents and purposes their sons ran it. They were some of the nicest people—Colt being the exception—in town, so she tried to be civil to him. But the man busted on her last nerve. He treated the easement part of their driveway as if it was his alone, even though she owned it. He was rude, condescending, and sour. Oddly enough, the women around here actually swooned over him. Maybe it was the uniform, or, if she were being perfectly honest, the chiseled face, the square jawline, and the mile-wide shoulders.
Anyway, she’d taken to calling him Chief Hottie from Hell and did her best to avoid him.
Delaney sipped her tea and thought about food. Since the divorce, she’d lost six pounds and her clothes were beginning to hang off her. Maybe she’d go to the grocery store later and fill her cupboards and freezer with cookies and ice cream. When had she ever been able to do that before?
What she really needed to do was plant her ass at the drafting table and come up with a clothing design that wasn’t crap. Channel the old Delaney Scott, who had so many ideas swimming in her head she couldn’t get them on paper fast enough. And at some point—sooner rather than later—she had to hire that manager to run the handbag and shoe lines, which from now on would be her bread and butter.
It was no secret that Robert had approached some of the luminaries in the fashion world to take over as head designer of Delaney Scott. It would be interesting to see what direction the company would go in. The vindictive part of Delaney wanted to see Robert and the business bomb. The part of her that had built the company from nothing, though, didn’t want to see it damaged. It was a weird predicament having someone else control a brand with her name on it that she no longer owned.
She got up, put the cup and saucer in the dishwasher, and went upstairs to her studio, a converted bedroom with spectacular lighting and a view to die for. From the south-facing windows she could see Misty Summit, the lake, and tree-dotted hil
lsides. Unfortunately, her cork board lacked the same great wonders. Delaney examined yesterday’s sketches, hoping that they weren’t as bad as she’d thought.
Ugh. They were worse.
Dull evening gowns that looked like they walked down last year’s runway. Her designs had always been fresh and cutting edge. Now they looked like everything else. She sat at the table and began to sketch. Two hours later, her trash can was full.
Wandering back to the kitchen, she made herself a tuna sandwich and wound up dumping half of it down the garbage disposal. She returned to her studio and spent the rest of the day trying to conjure some magic. The best she came up with was an ugly tuxedo dress. The next time she looked outside it was nearly dark and Colt had parked his police cruiser in her spot.
For now, it didn’t matter with the Tesla charged. It was his sense of entitlement that irked her. She got that he was the police chief and had to respond quickly to accidents and crime scenes, but that didn’t give him the right to use her property as his personal parking lot. He had his own driveway and a garage.
And she was in a bad mood ... a really bad mood.
Slipping on a pair of tennis shoes, she dashed down the stairs and outside into the balmy August evening. There was a light on in Colt’s kitchen, so she made a beeline for the back door and banged on it. He came out shirtless in a pair of shorts, his brown hair slicked back, wet. Her eyes met him midchest and she immediately dropped them to stare at his bare feet. Crazy, but she found them incredibly sexy. Big, tan, and sprinkled with a dusting of dark hair.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, not all that friendly.
She jerked her gaze upward and cleared her throat. Right. This wasn’t a social call. “You parked your car in my spot.”
“It’s Friday night, Delaney. You know how many times I get called out on a Friday night? Look, I’ll pay to have an outlet installed at the top of your driveway if it means that much to you.”
She snorted. “I can afford my own damn outlet. That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
