If he lifted the console and pulled her a little closer, she might nap even better—
Nick tore his eyes back to the road and started counting yellow lines. No. That’s not how things were going to go this time. They couldn’t. Sitting next to Chelsea was just as easy as it was twelve years ago. As it was twenty years ago—their conversation, too. Once again, they’d drifted to off-limits topics. He’d shared his closely guarded alias no one but his father knew about, for goodness’ sake. Yet he knew she’d take his secret identity to the grave if he asked her to.
Still, she’d come back into his life only a few days ago. He knew next to nothing about her on paper, except that she’d kind of cornered the market on paper since he’d last seen her. Then there was the whole matter that, modern technology aside, if history repeated itself like it always did, he would go back to Oklahoma City and she would stay in Greencliff.
The summer always ended when it came to Chelsea, so he had absolutely no business imagining her snuggled up next to him.
Chapter 3
POP! HISS!
“OH MY GOSH!”
Smack.
“Scotty, what on earth?”
She blinked a few times, her consciousness fully returning as the shoulder of the road slowly came into focus. “I’m sorry.” So they weren’t actually in danger. Her knee ached where she’d slammed it against the console, but there were more important, more urgent things at hand.
Like the smoke coming from the hood of the truck.
Nick clutched his chest. “You scared the living daylights out of me.”
“It’s not everyday someone wakes up in a moving vehicle to a large crashing sound!”
He let out a heavy sigh and pulled on a baseball cap. “Just stay in the car. It does this sometimes.”
Scotty. She watched as Nick waited for a break in the traffic and then circled around to the back of the truck.
He’d called her Scotty.
A toolbox of sorts was tucked under his arm when he reappeared. She stuck her head out her open window. “Need any help?”
“Nope. I’ve got it.” The scowl etched between his lips and his chiseled jawline didn’t look promising. He ducked under the hood, and the truck shook a little with his tinkering.
Do not get out of the truck. She eyed the silver handle tucked under her coiled fingers and released it, pulling her phone from her bag to distract her. If he said he had it covered, he had it covered.
Apparently everybody at the office had work covered too. A new text from Hope told her the missing stickers that were supposed to go out to their monthly box subscribers two days ago had been dispatched directly from the vendor to each customer, thanks to some gentle coercion. Chelsea pitied whatever rep had been on the receiving end of Hope’s “gentle coercion.”
New email from Rhonda. Updated itinerary. In bold, red lettering under Monday morning were the names William Giertz and Carter & Fritz. Her sales director had moved the meeting with one of the nation’s leading retailers, the cog missing in the next step of their business plan—or at least the step that would get it back on track. But she’d have to relinquish her designs to the box store chain’s formatting team, and that part of the plan sat with Chelsea about as well as a boat of chili cheese fries.
A huge clanging echoed from the front of the hood, and she bent in half to shield her view, focusing on Rhonda’s notes for the meeting instead.
With this deal, we could launch a storefront in New York or Chicago within two years. Chelsea sucked in a breath. She was pretty sure that, if using exclamation points wasn’t against Rhonda’s protocol, the dream trajectory would surely warrant them. But even Dallas was too crowded for Chelsea’s tastes. What would a life without dirt roads or skies full of stars or little gas stations with self-service ice cream machines do to her? Sure, she could probably afford to put multiple ice cream machines in her apartment if she let Rhonda have her way, but at the cost of her very soul?
That kind of expansion would mean doubling, maybe tripling her staff immediately, outsourcing a lot more, growing out of the charming renovated bungalow they used for office space. Not to mention relocation, or at the very least, all the frequent flyer miles.
Did Nick have any brown paper bags in this truck? Hyperventilation, at this point, was a viable possibility.
No. She couldn’t think about that right now. Now was about keeping their doors open and being able to repay her team for sticking with her even after her decision to mix business with pleasure had almost cost them everything. Ensuring she could actually pay herself each month wouldn’t hurt, either.
“How you doing, Nick?” she called out the window to him.
“Arghhh!”
Chelsea opened her door. Forget ego and chivalry and modesty. When curiosity and stubbornness combined, all bets were off.
One glance made the prognosis as clear as a mountain spring, thanks to the months she and Brandon had spent trying to bond with their mother’s third boyfriend on his engine reconstruction project du jour. But Nick was tinkering with everything but the water pump.
Chelsea bit her lip. He’ll figure it out. He doesn’t need m—
“It’s the water pump.” She stuffed a few knuckles in her mouth to prevent further outburst. Pointing to the incriminating warped metal with her other hand.
“No.” Some of Nick’s hope visibly deflated. “That always looks like that. Hubert passed his inspections with flying colors before we left.”
“Hubert? The truck has a name?”
“Darn straight it does.” He jutted his chin. “My dad saved every penny for these trucks, so you’d better believe they’re part of the family.”
Chelsea had always liked Nick’s dad from what she’d heard of him but, in that moment, she’d never wanted to meet him more.
“Anyway.” Nick wrapped a towel around his hand and reached into the hood. “The thermostat just needs a little love sometimes when it turns summer again, I promise.”
She nodded but felt her forehead crinkle against the suggestions that almost itched to escape. It was bad enough she’d gotten out of the truck. In fact, minding her own business was a smart plan. “I’ll just get back in the truck now.”
He growled and leaned into the hood, wincing, no doubt, at the heat radiating from the engine.
No sooner had her door closed than Nick’s was opening.
“It’s the water pump.”
Chelsea bit down on her cheeks so hard that it could have drawn blood and shrugged.
“I’ll call someone.”
Nick reached his company’s roadside assistance, who promised their closest representative would be there in forty-five minutes to an hour. But the only shop listed nearby rang continually for the twenty minutes that they tried. The next closest one, thirty miles away, at least had an answering machine.
“What kind of auto shop is closed at four on a Saturday?”
“The kind in a small town?”
Nick let his head fall against his seat. “Not what I want to hear right now.”
“I have something worse that you really don’t want to hear right now.” The kind of thing that would make him wish he’d never offered to haul her across the country in the first place. Chelsea shifted against the upholstery, and Nick’s wild eyes told her she shouldn’t dare speak them aloud.
“Can’t you just pop a squat behind one of those trees or something if I promise not to look?”
Her laugh was strained. “Tempting, but no.”
He rubbed his forehead, and his expression softened. “Okay, it’s going to get dark soon. Let’s walk.” He pulled his keys from the ignition and grabbed his wallet and phone from the console. “We’re bound to find a bathroom sooner than we would waiting for someone to pick us up.”
Chelsea nodded and gingerly reached for her bag. “Sounds good.”
“Maybe we’ll even run into someone with a spare water pump.” Nick gave a little laugh as they crossed to the other side of the ro
ad. “It is a small town.”
“Don’t hate, Nick Pearson.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “But it’s entirely possible.”
“Let’s go this way. I see light.”
They walked in the direction of the dim glow cast just above the tree line, silent as the sun sank past the hills. Chelsea’s hair soon clung to her neck in the thick heat, her bag indenting her shoulder. The discomfort of all that Dr. Pepper unmentionable.
After about two miles, they approached the source of the light, only to find that it led not to a town or any sort of civilization, but onto an unpaved road that wound directly into the woods—maybe to a campsite? The only indication was a worn, makeshift wooden sign with an arrow and the words Glandorf Lodge carved into it.
“It looks like it’s this way.” Nick’s monotone didn’t sound any more confident than Chelsea felt. “After you.”
Chelsea slapped at a bug that landed close to her mouth. “Always the gentleman—wait. Do you hear that?”
An eerie woodwind instrument echoed through the woods, followed by the sound of a piano that wasn’t quite in tune. The notes were quick and lilting, as if they intended to be cheerful enough, but each was drawn out and just plain creepy.
Chelsea stopped, pulling at Nick’s shirt as a wooden structure came into sight at the end of the road. “Is that it?”
“Mmhmm.” There was no denying it. A few cars were parked haphazardly around the lodge, but not a soul was in sight.
Seconds later, Chelsea’s bladder urged her forward, and she reached for the strong hand that had pulled her soaking wet onto the dock so many times. “C’mon.”
“Let’s pray there’s running water in here or else you’re probably out of luck, Scotty.” Broad shoulders rose and fell as Nick wrapped his thick knuckles around the wooden door handle. There, staring at them when the door opened, was a room full of Redcoats—white wigs, ruffled dresses, and curious eyes.
Chelsea swallowed hard and held up an awkward palm. “Hi. Could I maybe use y’all’s restroom?”
“Did we just step into a different millennium?” Chelsea’s brown eyes bugged out, her whisper only loud enough for Nick’s ears.
He chuckled and turned to face the Redcoats, militiamen, and their corseted maidens inside the door. “We, uh, broke down back there on 44.”
“Welcome.” The music stopped, and the crowd parted to reveal a thin, graying woman with kind eyes. “Of course you can use our facilities,” she told Chelsea, directing her to a slatted wooden door in the back. “I’m Shirley Green.”
Nick shook her extended hand. “Nick Pearson and that”—he pointed to Chelsea, who was walk-jogging in the direction of the door—“is Chelsea Scott.”
“These are the bright minds of the Central Missouri Homeschool Co-op. They’re usually dressed like normal teenagers, but you just happened to meet us on the day of our annual Revolutionary War Dance.”
A small blond girl dressed like an eighteenth century nurse stepped toward them. “D’you say your truck broke down? My dad’s a mechanic, and I’d be happy to give him a call at home for y’all, if you want.”
Seriously? Nick almost choked. “Well, yeah, that would be great. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” She pulled a phone from the pocket of her apron and pressed a few buttons.
He followed her and Shirley to the side of the dance floor next to a table that held half-empty appetizer plates. As Nick worked out the details of the towing and diagnostics with Kenny the mechanic, a musket replica abandoned in a folding chair caught his eye. When he’d agreed to meet Kenny at his shop in thirty minutes, Nick went to investigate.
“Wow.” He motioned toward the musket, and Shirley nodded her approval to pick it up. “Brown Bess, right?”
“That’s right,” she said. “Some of our boys created replicas.”
The materials were lighter, more porous, but had a striking resemblance to the real British land pattern muskets. “They did a really good job on them.”
“Are you a history buff yourself?”
Nick grinned. “I wasn’t captain of the Westmoore High quiz bowl for nothing.”
Shirley clasped her hands. “Oh, you should join us if the truck’s going to be a while.” She bent and started digging through a trunk. “There are also some British sea service pistols and Charleville muskets floating around here.”
“Oh, that’s all right.” Nick searched for an excuse. “Really, we wouldn’t want to—”
Shirley held up a ruffled, pink-gray gown as the door opened, and he looked from the dress to Chelsea. From Chelsea to the dress. With the hint of a smile on her face, she looked so relieved. So unsuspecting.
“You know what?” He stifled a laugh. “On second thought, I think we can stay for a while.” Chelsea in that dress would make the blown water pump worth its weight in gunpowder and chests of Boston Harbor tea.
She reached them, her smile shifting to confusion at Nick’s face and disappearing completely when she saw the dress. “What’s this?”
“How we’re going to pass the next thirty minutes.”
Shirley handed him a white, curly wig.
“Nick.”
“C’mon, Scotty.” He pulled the wig on.
“Absolutely not.”
Two minutes later, the smell of mothballs and baby powder assaulted him from the top of his head, and he could barely move his arms in a blue militia jacket. Yet somehow he suspected Chelsea had it worse based on the thumps coming from behind the wall.
“Were you able to reach my dad?”
Nick turned to face the helpful colonial nurse, who was now bookended by friends with grins full of braces. “Yes. Thank you so much.” He gave her the phone and pulled on the hem of his jacket. “You guys are seriously awesome.”
And to top it all off, they’d let him keep his own pants.
“Would you like us to teach you the Cornwallis Country Dance until your lady comes back?”
Her friend on the left snickered. “Or perhaps the Congress Minuet? That will really impress her.”
The sound of wood cracking on wood saved him from answering.
Wow. Nick swallowed hard as Chelsea appeared in the doorway, her yoga tights and tunic replaced with the ruffled gown, which pulled in tightly at the waist, accentuating every curve. Its champagne color set off her milky skin and coppery hair. Her eyes met his, utterly unimpressed, and he smiled. Suddenly that Congress Minuet didn’t sound so bad.
“Well, look at you.” Nick nudged a petal-pink ruffle on her shoulder. “Scotty in a dress.”
“A tiny dress.” She pulled at it, lips parting at the popping noise that resulted. “I definitely don’t have the body of a fifteen-year-old girl.”
For the love of all that is good in this world, thank you, Jesus.
The scratchy track changed, maybe as old as the Revolutionary War itself. “So I take it you don’t want any shepherd’s pie? Apple tansy?”
Chelsea shook her head and laughed. “You would know what an apple tansy is, Mr. Quiz Bowl. And no, thank you.”
“In that case, want to dance?” He held his hand out to her, and she looked at it for a second that stretched like four hundred before sliding her hand into his. He found the curve of her waist and eased her toward him.
“Did you, um, know the girls altered all of these costumes?” Chelsea’s voice wavered on a shaky breath.
“I had no idea.”
“I mean, it’s kind of impressive, but can I make a confession?”
Nick raised a shoulder. “Sure.”
“My dresses for the convention are going to beat us to Chicago. Rhonda—my sales director—fitted me and had them shipped to a dry cleaner near the hotel because she didn’t trust me to pack them. And she’s not that far off. There’s maybe one dress in my entire closet, but I, uh, haven’t worn it in a while.”
She was rambling. Nervous. Tugging and adjusting and squirming in the dress every few seconds. It was ador
able.
“But you’ve seen it. It was the dress I wore to Kent’s graduation party—and I need to stop talking now.”
“It’s okay.” He leaned in and whispered into her ear. “Just focus on the steps, all right? Pretty sure we’ll each get fifty lashes if we don’t figure out how to do it right.”
That earned another laugh from Chelsea, genuine and contagious. Her hair brushed against his jaw as she nodded, and he felt her relax beneath him.
“I remember that dress,” he said.
“You do?”
“It was white with little red flowers on it, and you had your hair back in a red thing.” He’d been so carried away when he saw her in it that he’d almost dropped his lasagna on the lawn. If he’d been anyone else that summer, he wouldn’t have recognized Chelsea with no baseball cap, a little makeup, her hair lighter and free from its usual ponytail. But when she found him at that graduation party, Nick could never unknow those dark eyes with their single ray of gold.
Chelsea brushed a strand of hair behind her ear now, gaze glued to the floor before her hand returned to its place on his shoulder. Nick whispered his fingers along the curve of her jaw, gently nudging her chin upward. Their eyes met in fire, one full second that at once seared his insides as he felt her arms pull him closer.
She had no idea how fierce and beautiful she was, did she? In ways that had nothing to do with makeup or dresses.
“Hey, I think we should go check on the truck.” Chelsea backed into a pre-pubescent pair that was dancing at arm’s length. “To make sure my stuff is still in the back.”
“Okay. Sure.” But she was already booking it across the room. Nick released all the air from his lungs as Chelsea pulled the door handle but met resistance, fidgeting, pacing, bending to pick up her own clothes as if the colonial dress were on the verge of melting into her skin.
He’d seen that look before. After he told her he loved her.
Nick changed into his own clothes with automatic movements, his mind back at their dock.
Love at First Laugh: Eight Romantic Novellas Filled with Love, Laughter, and Happily Ever After Page 61
