Sweet Troublemaker

by Jean Oram

  But that look. She wouldn’t be falling for him, or for anyone else, for some time. She was like a horse that needed to learn to trust man again. She might seem fine, and would allow herself be led out onto the trails, but then when you were least expecting it something would trigger her fears and she would buck you off, tearing into the hills like something was after her. He could practically feel the kicked-up dust gritting between his teeth as he picked himself up off the trail.

  He shook his head and nudged his hat farther back.

  A woman like that was trouble.

  “We’ll just catch up, shake hands and part ways,” he told Ralph, not entirely feeling the resolve of his words. Maybe because she was the first woman to capture his heart, Polly was someone he’d never quite stopped thinking about over the years, and the idea that someone had broken her heart and her trust left him wanting to protect her, fix her. Love her.

  Nick started his truck, tossing the map onto the floor of the cab. As they rolled down the gentle slope that led away from the resort’s main building, he leaned an arm out the window, taking in the scenery.

  Palm trees. Ocean. Blue sky. Pretty, but not quite his town of Sweetheart Creek back in Hill Country, Texas, with its rolling hills, lakes and trees.

  “I bet she’s still way up there in Canada, too.” No doubt happy there, as well.

  Although alone.

  Nick turned to his dog. “Why isn’t Polly with someone who’ll treat her like a princess?”

  She still had that patient, smart-girl vibe where he could tell a million things were going on inside her head. She’d helped him with Dwayne the Pain back when he was a teen. She’d listened to him complain about his stepdad, then paused thoughtfully before informing him that Dwayne saw him as a threat. Not a physical one, but someone who could steal his new wife’s attention at the drop of a hat. As Polly had pointed out, you were a lot more likely to fall out of love with your spouse than with your own kid.

  Nick had laughed at the idea. The big, burly auctioneer and king of the town? The guy who wasn’t afraid to yell at Nick over stupid stuff? He was hardly someone who would be insecure over a sixteen-year-old who had yet to finish filling out.

  But he’d trusted Polly’s words, and instead of fighting Dwayne, had focused on gaining more of his mother’s attention. He’d made her laugh, smile, and dance in the kitchen just about every night. Dwayne had practically lost his mind, upping his antagonistic game. So Nick simply got himself into trouble. More attention from Mom. It had worked beautifully right up until his eighteenth birthday, when Dwayne had given him his packing orders.

  He’d roamed around for years, not settling anywhere other than his mother’s couch after Dwayne left. Eventually Roy had taken him in and become the father figure he’d always needed.

  Nick kind of owed Polly, didn’t he? Maybe he could match her up with some guy with a Rolex.

  He glanced at his dog, who was watching him intently. “You should have seen her legs.” Finding her a man would be easy. “The trick will be finding her a good one.”

  Ralph had begun panting louder at the word legs, which happened to be his favorite thing. Human legs. Particularly those of strangers.

  Nick scolded, “Stay away from her legs.”

  He turned right onto a narrow road that took him away from the beach and toward the cottage driveways. Sand seemed to be everywhere, palm trees stretching for the sun, gulls circling and playing on the tangy ocean breeze cooling the truck’s cab. The twenty-hour drive to South Carolina hadn’t given him a single idea on what to do with his life now that he was off the ranch.

  He found he missed it. The routine, the certainty, the constant fresh air and the physicality of it all. He scrubbed a hand over his face, realizing he hadn’t shaved since Texas. This morning he’d simply woken up and begun driving again.

  “You should have told me to use a razor before presenting myself in public,” he grumbled to the dog. He probably still had horse manure from the stables stuck to the bottoms of his boots. He flipped down his visor and winced at his reflection. “I look like a bum.”

  How had Polly, that golden-brown young girl with the sun-streaked strands of hair framing her face, become this beautiful woman with a glint of sadness in her eyes? She should own the world.

  He rubbed the dog’s ears reflexively, wondering what kind of man she was looking for. It would probably be a fairly confining lifestyle. Suits. Ties. High-powered business meetings and a few degrees hanging on the office walls. Something new sitting in the driveway. A home.

  A home would be kind of nice. And a woman there waiting for him as she finished up her own day doing whatever she loved.

  Maybe that was what was missing from his life.

  A home and a woman.

  That’s what Polly needed, too. A home and someone to come home to. He nodded to himself, filled with resolve. He’d find her someone suitable. She was like his mom after her breakup with Dwayne the Pain—lost. Polly needed a warm body to prop her up, make her smile, forget herself as well as her worries. He knew how to do that with a few good questions and a patient ear. He’d get her laughing, full of joy.

  And he’d dare her. He’d get her to widen her blue eyes like when he’d dared her to pick Miss Lucille’s prize flowers and leave them in a jar on her step. Man, how did that feel like only yesterday?

  The two of them had definitely earned the label of Troublemaker together that summer. He’d always believe she was about to back out of his dares and pranks, and that he’d have to pull them off alone, but then she’d sprint into them like she was born to raise trouble.

  He smiled at the memory. Yeah, he’d get her back where she needed to be. He just had to find a way to convince her that she should spend her week hanging out with him instead of someone else.

  Polly’s large cottage had a crushed-seashell driveway and two palm trees reaching toward each other over the front porch, like Michelangelo’s figures on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Inside, the fully-furnished abode was cozy and comfortable, with an overstuffed couch, modern kitchen, and a spacious bedroom toward the back. Hardwood floors and a great air conditioner kept the place cool throughout.

  Laid out on the counter were coupons for some of the local restaurants, including Sweet Caroline’s, a café she remembered from her youth. They’d spent some time hanging out with the owner’s son, Dallas Harper, integrating themselves into the world of Indigo Bay for a few weeks each summer.

  Polly idly flipped through the resort’s brochure, which boasted numerous cottages, a little motel, conference and wedding spaces, pool, indoor and outdoor restaurant, as well as two bars, a spa and a workout room. Would she be doing the exercises her trainer had printed off for her? She’d brought her gear in case she felt the need to kill herself in an attempt to achieve her old trophy wife body size.

  She snorted at the thought and put her bottle of wine in the empty fridge. She supposed that if nothing else, exercise would be a good way to burn off the frustration and endless thoughts that spun through her mind whenever she thought about her future.

  It was here in Indigo Bay that she had decided she would do whatever it took to not be poor ever again, and it felt fitting that she’d returned, looking for a second chance to get it right.

  She closed the fridge and checked a few of the kitchen cupboards. Maybe after her drink with Nick she could sit with her toes in the water.

  Noting the time, she grabbed her suitcase and chucked it up onto the bed. She had fifteen minutes until she was due to meet Nick. If she changed out of her baggy, off-the-shoulder knit top and shorts would it look as if she was trying too hard? But to show up like this said she didn’t care at all.

  Nick had been wearing boots and jeans. Surely in this muggy heat, he would be swapping the outfit for something cooler.

  Hands on her hips, and feeling a tingle of anticipation as if she was preparing for a first date, she surveyed her wardrobe options.

  Why did she even
care? Nick was the guy who had caused her to jump off boulders into the frothing ocean, pick Miss Lucille’s prize flowers, and generally live up to their dually earned troublemaker reputation. But fun things, too, like seeing if she could eat an entire ice cream cone while hanging upside down on the monkey bars.

  She couldn’t. The ice cream had fallen off the cone into the sand below, sending Melanie and Penn into hysterics. She wondered what had happened to them and whether they’d ever gotten married like they’d teased her and Nick about doing. So misguided—she and Nick would never get it together for something like that, even though he’d been good at getting her to live life more fully. He liked to challenge her, but if she didn’t jump into dares, he’d coax her only a time or two, then go off without her, leaving her back in the land of nonadventure.

  Keep up or get left behind. That was hardly what she was looking for in a husband.

  Why was she thinking about him like that, anyway? And there was truly no reason to put this much thought into her outfit, either. He obviously wasn’t a man who would pause long enough to care about what she wore. In fact, he probably wouldn’t even notice.

  Her phone dinged with a text message from Daphne, asking if she’d met any men yet.

  Polly rolled her eyes, feeling her cheeks heat involuntarily.

  Ridiculous.

  It was just Nick—a man who obviously would have better things to do this week than hang out with a divorcée trying to sort out her life. And she was no longer a fifteen-year-old with a crush. She could quit blushing already.

  “I found trouble,” she told her phone, dictating the message to Daphne.

  A message came back immediately. The promising kind of trouble?

  Growing up in Muskoka, Canada’s answer to the Hamptons, both women understood summer flames. They burned quick and bright, then died just as quickly when summer ended and everyone went back to their normal lives.

  As teens, there had been what they called a good kind of trouble, which Daphne had gotten herself into with her first love, her first child’s father. And then there was the bad kind of trouble that ended in heartbreak and drama. Unfortunately, Daphne’s good trouble had turned into bad. She had gotten her daughter, Tigger, out of the deal, however, and despite the heartache and sacrifices, in Polly’s mind it hadn’t been a bad trade.

  “I’m not sure yet,” Polly said to her phone, after thinking about Daphne’s question for a moment. “Probably the bad kind. He was my first kiss.” Nothing good ever came from revisiting an old relationship, especially not a fairy-tale teenage one. They were perfect in one’s memory and could be tarnished in seconds with one quick reality check.

  Daphne’s reply was instant. Nick!

  She’d told her about him? When? And why?

  Daphne added, You never did shut up about Mr. First Love and how dreamy he was.

  “I barely even mentioned him,” Polly replied, her cheeks still hot.

  Is he still gorgeous and fun? Good kisser?

  Polly couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face. He was probably even better, having the benefit of age and experience. He could probably alter the pace and pressure in ways that made a woman’s knees grow weak, by barely taking the kiss past chaste. She’d bet a lot of money on him being incredible.

  She shook off her thoughts and dictated into her phone, “It was all just infatuation. Nobody is perfect and our quick drink tonight will help illustrate that.”

  A drink! He’s not married? Hello-o-o…

  He was single. Like her.

  She hated herself for it, but began mentally asking all the questions she despised seeing go through the minds of others when they found out she was single. Why wasn’t he in a relationship? Did he have issues? Had he messed up somewhere along the line?

  “He’s bunking with his cousins in a cottage. They’re not here yet. He has a dog.”

  Why was she telling Daphne that?

  Because that old flicker of infatuation had come back to life after a two-minute conversation.

  She sighed. She didn’t believe in love being possible for her any longer, so why was she allowing herself to play with the idea of him as someone romantically viable?

  So? Daphne pressed.

  Did he have potential? Had he grown bald? Did he laugh too loudly at his own jokes?

  Those were the questions her friend was really asking.

  “Still totally hot,” she dictated reluctantly. “Cowboy.” She stopped for a second, thinking about how Nick had made her feel in those brief moments at the check-in counter. She’d felt like she was the center of everything important. As though nothing could pull his attention away. Nobody—even Chuck—had ever made her feel like that.

  Nick probably had a woman in every town.

  She deleted the message before sending it and sat on the bed’s patchwork quilt. Through the large window she had a beautiful view of the distant ocean’s rolling waves and people walking the beach.

  She was here to fix her life, she reminded herself. Not to relive an old crush or get caught up in the past.

  Anyway, she knew what love felt like, having been married to Chuck for ten years. It ebbed and flowed and was never explosive. The time she’d spent with Nick as a teen had felt a whole lot different, because it hadn’t been love. It had been a temporary infatuation, and the only reason her lips tingled now thinking about Nick’s kisses was because he’d had the upper hand—the advantage of being the first. Someone new and exciting, as well as incredibly intoxicating. He’d been part of a youthful summer of fun that wasn’t in the same category as marriage.

  One was freedom mixed with the heady experience of becoming a woman, of exploration and discovery, whimsy and spontaneity. The other…not. Marriage was grown-up and serious.

  Are you smiling right now? Daphne asked.

  Polly’s spine straightened and she realized that she was in fact smiling.

  “He’s hot and I’m meeting him for a drink. Yes, I’m smiling, but I’m not bringing him home, and I’m not having a fling. I’m being polite.”

  Her friend sent about ten different-colored hearts in reply, as well as a set of kissy lips.

  Polly laughed. “He’s fun, Daphne. Trouble. But fun.” No second-chance-romance stuff happening here.

  Make sure that drink lasts all week. You deserve a little “polite” trouble and fun with a hot cowboy.

  Polly laughed automatically before her imagination caught up with her. A week with Nick? What would that be like? Would he help her blast away that brick wall that seemed to be stuck like a stubborn elephant between who she was now and the woman she wanted to be—her true self?

  She considered the idea, but was already shaking her head.

  He wasn’t going to help her find herself, and pulling pranks and riding bikes around town like they had as kids was just too…in the past. She hadn’t come here to get lost in a fantasy or to hide from reality. She’d come here to face it.

  A drink with Nick would be quick, and quite likely fun, but nothing beyond that. She was not going to be lured into any playful distractions that wouldn’t solve a thing.

  It would just be a drink. Nothing more.

  Chapter 3

  Nick wiped away the condensation that had formed on his brown beer bottle in the muggy summer heat. Above him, the Tiki Hut’s freshly thatched roof provided much-needed shade. He checked his watch. Polly was officially five minutes late.

  Had she grown up to become one of those so-called fashionably late women who would leave him waiting every time they met up?

  Assuming they met up again—which was becoming less and less likely the longer she kept him waiting. He was patient, but he wasn’t going to be a doormat to a diva who engaged in petty power struggles, even if that diva happened to be his old friend Polly.

  Six minutes late.

  Nick spun on his stool to check over his shoulder. No Polly moving across the sand, her lovely rounded hips swaying with a rhythm he wanted to learn.
He dragged a hand over his shaved chin and turned back to his beer, classic rock droning out of the speakers above him.

  She’d probably come to her senses and realized that reminiscing about the good old days was never worth the time. He pushed back from the bar, not quite standing. Spending his extra days before the wedding moving from ranch to ranch until he found a job would have served him better than sitting here.

  Or better yet, he should have gone back to Roy, hat in hand, and apologized for taking his uncle’s generosity for granted for so many years. He should have helped relieve Roy’s burdens rather than added to them with his cavalier attitude. Nick wasn’t the worst employee, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever given the impression that if it came to thick and thin he’d be there, ensuring everything went the way Roy needed it to. Heck, he’d been so self-absorbed he hadn’t even noticed that his uncle and Maria were on the rocks until they’d separated eight months ago. He hadn’t noticed that Roy was serious about Sophia until he’d been handed the wedding invitation last month.

  Roy had been correct when he’d told Nick he needed to look outside himself.

  A cool hand rested on his shoulder and warm lips brushed his cheek before he had time to react. Shivers rained down his spine like the small waterfall outside Sweetheart Creek as Polly took the stool beside him.

  She’d changed into a pale pink tank top and a flirty little skirt that showed off her toned legs. She was wearing flip-flops, and her nails were painted the same shade as her shirt. Was that why she was late—nail polish? Didn’t she know he was the kind of man who wanted the woman and not the polish?

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, huffing lightly, as if she’d been power walking. “I got turned around and went clear to the wrong end of the resort before I realized my mistake. Did you know they still have bonfire pits on the beach?”

  “I should have known you were lost,” Nick said with a chuckle, his mind still stuck on her coordinating top and polish. “You were never good with directions.”