Runaway Girl Page 3

  “Look,” Birdie continues. “I told Nat that pageants were stupid and shallow, but she was so determined to try one before college. That was her. She had this glittery, laminated wish list…and this pageant was at the top.” She presses her lips together. “Sometimes we felt what the other was feeling. Twinsense. It would mean something to her, even though she’s gone.”

  Naomi seems frozen in shock, but only in a way another adult would recognize. All Birdie is seeing is concern. I think. I hope.

  Why do I hope? A few minutes ago, I wanted this beauty queen out of here. I still do, don’t I? If she would stay the hell in one category, it would help me make a decision. Instead, she’s already given me adversarial, vulnerable and determined in the space of one encounter.

  I’m trained to handle surprises, but this isn’t the kind I’m used to.

  Naomi takes a notepad out of her purse and settles it in her lap, on top of those squeezed-together knees. This is not the time to imagine my dirty hands prying them apart for a marathon pussy-eating session, but I’m a thirty-two-year-old man with working parts and she’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever fucking laid eyes on. There. I admitted it. The prim and proper attitude she’s got is annoying me and turning me on at the same time. A pretty urgent combination, especially when I haven’t touched a woman in months, so excuse me if this isn’t the time and place. I bet her tight little ass would wiggle around the bed so much, I’d need to hold her still.

  Thinking about it will have to suffice, however, because I don’t have the time or stupidity to get tangled up with a woman I could be seeing on a daily basis.

  When did that become a definite possibility?

  “So let’s talk about—”

  Birdie cuts her off. “You think this is a stupid reason to enter a pageant, don’t you?”

  Naomi sucks in a breath. “No. No.” She opens her mouth, closes it. “I was thinking…I—I’ve never had any reason at all to enter them. Not that I can remember. I was just kind of put there. And even though, God, even though what happened is so terrible and I’m so sorry, I wish I could want something for an important reason like you. I’m…amazed.”

  I don’t think my sister took a single breath throughout that whole impromptu speech. I’m not sure I did, either. We don’t talk a lot about Natalie. Or my parents who couldn’t handle grief and parenting responsibilities at the same time, so they split. We don’t talk much at all. This woman has been in the house for less than five minutes and she’s already ripped off the Band-Aid.

  “Jason?” Birdie prompts me. “Can she coach me?”

  It’s obvious that this woman on my couch is qualified to show Birdie the pageant ropes. Maybe overqualified. But I can’t ignore the fact that she changed in the back seat of her car. Where did she come from? Why couldn’t she change before leaving for the meeting? This is not a woman who leaves getting dressed until the last second. There’s something not quite right about the situation. Before I make a decision, I need to know every detail of the landscape.

  It’s definitely not because I personally want to know more about her.

  “Can we have a few minutes alone, Birdie?”

  *

  Naomi loses some of her careful composure when Birdie leaves the room. Her knees have zero blood left in them, she’s pressing them together so tight, and if she clings to that notebook any tighter, she’ll rip it straight down the middle. Her nerves are unsurprising—I’m an intimidating motherfucker. In my line of work, my size and general air of go fuck yourself have served me well. And I don’t turn it off for anyone. Even if her fresh, fragile appearance is making me wish I’d at least rinsed off for the interview.

  “Coffee?”

  She opens her mouth to decline. I can tell. “No, thank you—”

  Her stomach growls loud enough that I hear it clear across the room. She claps both hands over her mouth and turns the color of a pink sunset. “Oh sweet lord,” she says. Or something like it, since the words come out muffled. “I’d be grateful if you could go ahead and pretend you didn’t hear that.”

  “They heard it in St. Louis. Let’s go.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “Kitchen.”

  “No, thank you—”

  “Kitchen, beauty queen.”

  I’m inside the room for a full minute before she inches in behind me, chin up, arms folded over her middle. “I’m guessing you haven’t been out of the military long, Blackbeard. Ordering people around seems to come naturally.”

  My lips twitch at the nickname. “Bossing everyone around came naturally before the military. You like pie?”

  “Of course I do.” A line appears between her brows. “But I haven’t eaten a meal yet.”

  When I open the refrigerator, I’m grateful for the waft of cool air against my skin. It’s the next best thing to a cold shower, and after my impromptu fantasy of separating her thighs, I’m in desperate need of one. What the hell is it about this woman? I don’t know if I necessarily have a type when it comes to women, but I know this pretty princess with the Southern twang is not it. If I came across her in a bar, I would assume she’d gotten lost on the way to a church picnic and stopped to ask for directions. I would absolutely assume she was already married. Naomi is the marrying type.

  That certainty has my hand pausing before it can reach the half-eaten apple pie on the second shelf. Changing in her car, starving, looking for employment and most definitely not in South Carolina where the pageant bio said she belongs. Is she running away from a man?

  It’s a good thing my hands are out of view. She’d probably have questions about the plastic ketchup bottle I’m suddenly squeezing in my fist. I suddenly wish I’d been nicer to her.

  At least a little.

  “So, what’s the story?” I ask in a strained voice. “You’ve never eaten dessert before dinner?”

  She slides onto a stool on the other side of the island, folding her grease-covered hands neatly in front of her. “Do Funyuns count?”

  “Maybe on a technicality.”

  Her whole face brightens, and a hot shiver blows down my back. “Then, yes. I have.” She gets more comfortable in the stool. “A bite or two of pie won’t hurt.”

  I slide the pie tin and a fork across the island and lean forward on my forearms. “Have at it.”

  With a suspicious expression, she picks up the fork. “Why do I get the feeling you’re lulling me into a false sense of security? Is this your equivalent of bringing an interrogation suspect coffee and cigarettes before asking the hard questions?”

  A laugh tries to build in my belly, but I squash it. “You’re pretty perceptive.”

  Naomi rears back with a gasp. “Did you just pay me a compliment?”

  “Don’t get used to it.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of being so bold,” she whispers, finally finding a spot to dig into the pie and holding a forkful in front of her full, pink mouth. Our gazes connect over the bite and my groin tightens up. So hard I have to turn away. But in my periphery, I can see her guiding the pie home and chewing. “Oh my word,” she moans. “This is incredible. Did you make this?”

  “Bakery.”

  I can’t help it. Needing to look, I turn back to face her. Her arm has gone limp on the counter, her head tipped back as she chews. She’s damn near having an orgasm in my kitchen. And somehow she manages to look innocent and sweet as shit while doing it. Beautiful, too. “You’ve probably heard enough compliments to see you through the next decade, haven’t you?” I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until her eyes pop open and she lets the fork go on the counter with a clatter. Goddammit, I don’t like the way she puts me off-center. “It’s a good thing I only care about your ability to coach Birdie.”

  “Of course,” she says quickly, smoothing her hair. “Please. Ask the tough questions.”

  “Why were you changing in your car?”

  “Oh, that one.” She wets her lips, attention drifting to the ceiling. “I needed to get away for a while. Can we ju
st leave it at that?”

  “No.”

  She shoots a frown at me. “Maybe you should advertise for a manners coach.”

  “That’s no way to talk to your employer, beauty queen.”

  “Oooh.” She shakes her head. “You’re lucky I like your sister or I’d go hunting for gift-wrapping jobs. It might not be Christmas, but every day is somebody’s birthday. There must be a demand for skilled wrappers—”

  “Are you going somewhere with this?”

  Naomi stops mid-sentence and pinches the bridge of her nose between two dainty fingers. When she drops them, I see she’s left a grease smudge behind, and honestly, the sight of it makes me want to kick a hole in the island. “I’m sorry. I’ve had an awfully trying day.”

  Determined to ignore the way her confession—and apology—sinks into my gut, I move to the sink and wet a paper towel. She watches me warily as I cross to her and flinches as I lift the wet, wadded up square of Bounty. Fuck. Up close, she’s even more extraordinary. I had no idea women came this soft and beautiful. If someone laid a finger on this woman to send her packing, they’re going to pay. That’s a promise. “Stop fidgeting and let me clean your nose off.”

  “I can do it,” Naomi murmurs.

  She makes no move to take the paper towel from me, though, so I do it, removing the grease in two swipes and stepping back, hoping she can’t hear the rollicking thunk of my pulse. I need to distract her. “What are you doing in St. Augustine?” Before she can give me some rote line of sugar-coated bull, I shake my head. “A real answer.”

  Time seems to creep past as I wait for her answer. It’s not what I’m expecting at all.

  “I don’t want to be boring forever.” She traces the edge of the fork with a polished fingernail. “I’ve done everything according to someone else’s plans. The perfect plans. I want to make my own imperfect ones for a while. I want to surprise myself…and mostly…I want to learn to be interesting.” Pink rises in her cheeks, like she’s traveled into her own world and forgot I was standing there. “It won’t distract me from coaching your sister, Jason. You have my word. I’ll do the best I can.”

  “I believe you,” I say slowly. “What’s this going to cost me?”

  “I…well, I’m certain I have no idea. Someone else always paid my pageant coaches.” She chews on her lower lip. “Since I’m not a very experienced coach, why don’t we say…two hundred dollars an hour?”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Fine, forty. Plus the cost of wardrobe, shoes, and any other incidentals.” She holds out her hand for a shake. “I’m hired. I’ll start tomorrow.”

  The last word breaks off into a feminine chuckle.

  “What?” I ask, my throat feeling raw. This woman just played me. And I liked it.

  “I’m doing it already. Surprising myself.” She reaches down and captures my hand, shaking it firmly as she comes to her feet. “It’s a fine start, don’t you think, Blackbeard?”

  There are a million things on the tip of my tongue. Mainly I want to ask who gave her the false impression she was boring. But I’m worried where my curiosity will lead. I’m worried there won’t be an end to how much I want to know. “My sister isn’t easy.”

  “I wonder where she gets it.”

  A grunt escapes. I step closer to her, even though I shouldn’t. “Are you safe, Naomi?”

  I’m still holding her hand in the pretense of a never-ending handshake. Her pulse doesn’t skip at my question, genuine confusion marring her brow. “Of course I am.”

  Satisfied for now that she’s telling the truth, I let her go, watching as she rushes to step back and smooth herself. Hair, dress, collar. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  “Yeah.”

  The shape of her hand refuses to leave mine long after she’s sailed out the back door.

  What have I just set myself up for?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ConspiracyCrowd.org

  Username: UrdadsMyFave69

  You’re all reaching.

  Runaway Bride looked down the long barrel of monogamy…

  …and got the fuck out. Godspeed, my friend.

  Naomi

  Taken for granted.

  Now there is a phrase I’ve heard a million times throughout my life, but I never really understood the meaning of it until last night. I’ve taken so many seemingly small things for granted, only to find out they’re not small at all. Buying shampoo, for example. On a budget.

  After being hired as Birdie’s coach, I ventured into downtown St. Augustine to find lodging. What a kick in the butt that turned out to be. The amount of spending cash I had packed to bring on my honeymoon wouldn’t have gotten me through one single night in all of the establishments I tried. At the final hotel—a sprawling, Spanish-style spa—I was not so politely directed to a different part of town.

  A little red in the face, I kept my head up and drove…and drove…and drove until I found a place that I could afford. They were even kind enough to put the price right outside on the marquee. Very convenient.

  So, fine. The carpeting was scratchy, everything smelled like cigarettes, and the shampoo and conditioner bottles on the sink were empty. At least I went into the office and rented the room myself. Hauled my own suitcase and wedding dress up the stairs. Ventured out and found my own dinner. Three things in one night I’ve never done before. Four if I include landing a job.

  Speaking of my job…

  “Jogging?” Birdie’s feet skid on the hardwood as I usher her toward the door front. “No one said anything about that.”

  “The fitness category is a polite way of saying the judges are inspecting your butt. Exercise is part of the gig.” My explanation only makes Birdie cringe harder. “It’s not fair. I know. There are expectations for a woman’s body to be perfect and no one should have to live up to them. Who even sets them?”

  Birdie eyes me hopefully. “So that’s a rain check on the jog?”

  “No dice. The pageant world is unforgiving. When this is all over, you never have to jog again and you’ll be perfect, sweetheart. But if pageant-ready is the goal, we have to suffer some.” I turn in a circle, searching for a Nike swoosh among the pile of mostly male footwear. “Where are your running shoes?”

  “In a Foot Locker. Waiting to be purchased.”

  “Oh dear. That is an obstacle.”

  “I have some Converse that might work in a pinch.” Birdie growls her way down the hallway toward her bedroom and comes back a moment later with unlaced black and white sneakers. “Hang on, I have to check my blood sugar before we go.” She jingles the bracelet around her wrist. “Diabetic in the house.”

  I try not to show a reaction. “I didn’t know.”

  “It’s not usually the first thing I tell people.”

  Standing in limbo between the kitchen and living room, I watch as Birdie hops up onto the kitchen counter and pulls two small, black devices out of the cabinet. She pops the top off one and inserts a blue plastic piece, presumably with a needle at the end. In the second device, she shoves in a white test strip, and after pricking her finger, she presses the tip of her digit there, waiting as the meter beeps.

  “One twenty-nine. Good to go,” Birdie calls, breaking everything down as fast as she set it up. “Hope that didn’t weird you out.”

  “It didn’t. I’ve just never seen it done before.”

  “Congratulations.” Birdie slides off the counter. “Your diabetes cherry has officially been popped.”

  I let out a choked sound. “I think I’ll focus our training on the interview round.”

  Laughing, Birdie drops down to tie her shoes. “That’s probably not a bad idea.” She shoots me a look through a dangling hunk of blue and black hair. “How are you so straight and narrow, but you still managed to outmatch my brother?”

  Having Jason brought up for the first time since I arrived gives me the urge to search over my shoulders, positive I’ll find him lurking in a corner scowling at me. His p
resence is everywhere in the house. A giant rain slicker hangs on the coatrack, military commendations sit perched on the mantle, cigar smoke and cinnamon linger in the air. “I’m not sure I did outmatch him.”

  “No? He walked around looking like he’d woken up on Mars last night.”

  “Oh.” Surprise kicks me in the stomach. Surprise…and pleasure. Yes, I did hold my own just a little, didn’t I? “Well, next time we’ll aim for Mercury. It’s closer to the sun.”

  Birdie sails past me toward the door with a snicker. “Let’s get this over with.”

  We start with a light run when we reach the sidewalk, leaving the nook of Charlotte Place and hitting a left on Marine Street, where we jog along the Matanzas River. Ships bob in the rich blue water, some of them ferrying tourists between the Bridge of Lions in the distance and farther south. Palm trees and ornate lampposts seem to be positioned a uniform distance apart, completely at odds with the kitschy restaurants across the road, beckoning to passersby with bright colorful signs, drink specials, haphazard strings of lights and backyard dining.

  Running beside Birdie without talking gives me a chance to study her closer. Now that we’re out in the sunlight and the wind is blowing the hair back from her face, I can see just how unique she is, which I already discovered last night. I’ve never been in the company of someone with such a fighter’s spirit. It’s there in the stubborn set of her chin and sharpness of her gaze. She sees a lot. Every word directed at her is weighed and dissected, given a worth.

  She reminds me a little of the Addison I saw climbing the steps of the church. Ready to take on anything. Anyone. Yes, I don’t know the real Birdie, yet, but she strikes me as someone who’s been through more than most adults and is stuck in the body of an eighteen-year-old.

  “Are you trying to decide if I’m pretty enough to compete?”

  “I most certainly am not.” I discreetly dab at the sweat on my forehead. “Incidentally, I think you’re beautiful. I’d trip a nun on Sunday for those cheekbones.”