One Hot Summer (16 page)

“Suits, not boots,” she whispered on a groan. What a narrow-minded snob she'd been.

She walked the boots to Micah's bedroom and lined them up in front of the closet next to a half-dozen other pairs. Like the rest of his house, his bedroom was tidy and awash in blues and reds, from the paint on the walls to the plaid bed linens. Patriotic, masculine—perfectly Micah.

She tugged the sheets flat, then flipped the quilt into place on the bed.

“Ho-ly shit,” she said, drawing out the words in slo-mo before descending into laughter. Only the underside of the quilt was done in plaid. Spanning the entire top was a massive red fabric map of Texas.

She smoothed her hand over the gold felt star that had been sewn over Dulcet's approximate location. “Oh, Micah. You proud, proud redneck.” The teasing on this—it was going to be merciless. She couldn't wait.

Whistling and light of step, not only with the giddiness over the Texas quilt but also her top-rate Big O, she finished dressing. On the table nearest to the door sat the paper bag they'd tripped over on their way into the house. She grabbed it, curious. Before she had the bag open, she smelled cinnamon and sugar.

“Score,” she said with a laugh. Inside she found two fat cinnamon rolls, their tops thick with glossy white icing. Forget about a post-sex burger; she'd take a cinnamon roll after a roll in Micah's bed any day of the week. What a wild and wonderful night all the way around. She wasn't even going to try to guess why he'd had sweets sitting in an unmarked bag by his front door.

A cinnamon roll in hand, she strode down the quiet street, feeling satisfied and full of joy. No one bothered her on her walk and the only sign of life she saw was a flock of homing pigeons roosting on her car roof.

 

Chapter Eight

The photographer was thirty minutes late to the chapel, and Remedy couldn't get him on the phone. Her Big O afterglow had given way to sleep-deprived nerves that weren't coping well with the task of wrangling seven bridesmaids and seven groomsmen, along with the bride's and groom's families and stepfamilies—all of whom had arrived at the chapel waiting for pre-wedding photographs at varying levels of intoxication. She was jumpy enough as it was anticipating a showdown with Emily and Alex over her hookup with Micah. There was no way Carina hadn't told Emily that she'd seen them at Hog Heaven. Remedy had girlfriends; she knew how the gossip superhighway worked.

Well, Emily and Alex were just going to have to deal, because Remedy had no plans to take sides in the ongoing war between the resort and the fire department. Actually, now that she was considering it, being caught in the middle made a kind of poetic sense, as it seemed to be her lot in life to forever be a floater between worlds.

Remedy's ringtone sounded. “Finally,” she muttered, slipping out of the chapel for privacy so the families didn't have to hear her bitch out the photographer for his tardiness.

When she saw the readout of who was calling, frustration flooded through her all over again. Not the photographer, but her mother. She really had to stop texting her mom in the morning before work, because nine times out of ten her mom returned her call at the worst possible moment. It was uncanny.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Got your text. What's new?”

Deep breath, nice and calm. No need to take her frustration about the photographer out on anyone else. “Missing you, as always.”

“I'm missing you, too, sweetie. So much. But I bet that's not why you called this morning. There's something else going on with you. Something personal.”

Though her mom had been pulling semi-clairvoyant stuff like that all Remedy's life, Virginia retained the ability to amaze her. Her mom's sensitive intuition probably had a lot to do with why she was such a flawless actress. What would it be like to be so innately talented? A shimmer of envy made itself known until Remedy beat it back, as she always did.

Yes, she had called her mom to fill her in on the latest developments of her personal life. Not her first choice, but there was no one else to talk to about Micah. Any of the fledgling friendships she was forming in Texas were with her coworkers, and if she'd told her friends in Los Angeles they would've been horrified that she'd gone and done exactly what they'd warned her against.
Maybe they're not such great friends, after all.

After a scan of her surroundings to make sure she couldn't be overheard, she sat at the bench on the edge of the chapel's hill. “I kissed someone last night.”

She'd done a lot more than that, but, hello, boundaries.

Mom gasped. “Remy, you've only been in Texas for a month. How is that possible?”

Remedy started to answer, but her mom cut her off. “Wait! That was a horrible question. Of course the gentlemen in Texas are falling all over themselves to get your attention. You're irresistible.”

“Thanks, Mom. This man is pretty irresistible, too.” Her cheeks heated. God, had she really said something so corny? Even if it was true.

“Tell me everything,” Mom said, sounding like an overeager celebrity news journalist. Remedy opened her mouth to answer, but her mom cut her off again. “No, wait! Let me pop a bottle of champagne. This calls for a celebration. Helen! We need champagne, please. And make it snappy.”

Remedy drew a long, silent breath. Helen was there.
Okay. Fine.

Helen West had been Remedy's mom's hairstylist forever, on set and off, and the two had become the best of friends. Remedy had distinct childhood memories of playing with Helen's daughter, Cambelle, who was Remedy's age, and of their challenging each other to hoist her mom's Oscar trophies over their heads. Cambelle and Remedy had managed to stay semi-close acquaintances over the years, even after Cambelle had decided she wanted to break into show business herself when they were in high school.

Helen transformed herself into the quintessential stage mom, and not long after Remedy's parents' divorce, when Remedy's mom had been lost and drifting, she'd followed Helen's lead by attempting to convince Remedy to take up acting, too. When it became clear that no amount of cajoling or impassioned monologues on the subject would sway Remedy, her mom abandoned the cause and threw her support and influence behind Cambelle's nonstarter of a showbiz career, much to Remedy's relief at the time. Since then, Cambelle had landed unmemorable roles in several dour indie movies but was still looking for her big break, much to Helen's and Remedy's mom's frustration.

Judging by the sounds of glee over the phone, Helen was as happy with the news of Remedy's love life as her mom was. Which meant it was only a matter of time before Cambelle—the author of the battle cry
suits, not boots—
heard the latest about Remedy's love life. So much for keeping her friends at home in the dark.

Cringing through a smile, Remedy looked heavenward, waiting patiently as Mom narrated Helen's pouring of the champagne. “There. I've got my champagne. Tell me everything about this boy you kissed.”

“Not a boy. A man, Mom.” A fine, strapping man with a slow Texas drawl and a way with his tongue.

Mom turned predictably giddy at that correction. “Oh my, that sounds juicy. Tell me more about this
man
you kissed.”

Remedy didn't know where to start, which didn't matter, because Mom wasn't ready to cede the floor yet. “Wait! I have one more question first. He doesn't chew tobacco, does he?”

“Mom, please.”

“You're in Texas. It's an honest question.”

“Not all men in Texas chew tobacco.” Good thing, too, because that would've been a deal breaker.

“Does he own a gun?” Helen called in the background.

“Tell Helen yes, he owns a gun. Probably a lot of guns.” And he'd looked damn fine with one strapped to his hip that first day, if Remedy was being honest with herself.

Mom gasped. “Is he a Republican?”

Probably. No, definitely. “I have no idea.”

“What did she say?” Helen asked.

“She doesn't know.” Mom tsked, unappeased. “You're going to need to ask him that before you kiss him again. Or, for God's sake, before you even
think
of sleeping with him. I can't have my baby falling in love with a conservative.”

“Mom. Come on. Would you stop lobbing Texas stereotypes at me? You grew up in Oklahoma, for crying out loud.”

“Which is how I know what the men out there are like.”

“You're being ridiculous and prejudiced.”

“No, I'm being a mom. My heart would break if you gave me a brood of gun-toting, tobacco-chewing Republican grandbabies.”

The description conjured the image of a roomful of toddlers holding toy guns and dressed in Ronald Reagan onesies.
Speaking of ridiculous
. “Like Grandpa Hartley was?”

The line was silent, then, “My dad was an exception to the rule, may he rest in peace. Was this man at least a gentleman to you?”

As if being a Republican gun owner made him some kind of barbarian by default. Except for Grandpa Hartley, of course. “He was a perfect gentleman.” And by
perfect gentlemen
she meant the kind of man who fingered her to a near climax in his truck before hauling her over his shoulder to his bedroom and screwing her to a soul-altering orgasm. “Do you want to hear the story or do you and Helen have more questions?”

“I'm shutting up now. Continue.”

Remedy rolled her shoulders. “Thank you. He's a firefighter. Actually, he's the Ravel County fire chief.”

“He's a firefighter,” Mom whispered, presumably to Helen, before humming her approval. “You get your taste in men from me, you know. Rugged. The most interesting man in the world types. I bet your man looks like Tom Selleck.”

There was nothing to do but chuckle at her mom. As her father was fond of reminding Remedy, Mom was a wild child at heart and she always would be. But unlike her dad, who saw that quality as a personality defect, Remedy embraced her mom's eternal youthfulness.

“He looks absolutely nothing like Tom Selleck.”
Thank goodness.

“No firefighter mustache?”

“No, but he rocks a wicked five o'clock shadow.”

Her mom sighed at that, weary. “These days, they all do, my dear. It's the new ‘in' look. Lumberjack Chic. Beard abrasion is the worst. Did I ever tell you about rash on my lips inflicted on me by Robert De Niro? He and I were in that political thriller a few years ago, and he was quite the kisser, but—”

“Mom, can you never,
ever
again tell me about beard rashes you've gotten? Please?”

“Fine. Back to your firefighter. How did this night of kissing come about?”

How indeed.
But that was a story for another time. “I have to get back to work. Big wedding tonight. But you and I will talk more tomorrow, okay?”

“At least tell me his name.”

“Micah.” As though summoned by the sound of his name, Micah's truck came into view on the resort's main entrance road. A thrill shot through Remedy and she couldn't stop a goofy smile from spreading on her lips.

“When are you going to see Micah the fire chief again?” Mom asked.

“At work? In about two minutes. Outside of work, I don't know. It's complicated.”

Micah's words echoed in her mind.
Like all worthwhile things in life, it's complicated.

Mom gave a dreamy sigh. “Complicated can be so much fun. All right, all right. I'll let you go. Good luck tonight. You just keep putting on world-class weddings and you'll be back to work in Los Angeles in no time.”

That was the plan. “Gotta go, Mom. I love you.”

Remedy turned to scan the resort for another sign of Micah's truck but jumped at the sight of Alex and Emily, grinning like fools.

“Congratulations,” Emily said. “You and Micah, hmm?”

Congratulations?
So much for the third degree she'd been expecting. “Micah and I were just grabbing dinner together last night. As friends.”

“And kissing. As friends, right?”

Remedy cringed. “You weren't supposed to hear that.”

Looking annoyed, Alex folded his arms over his chest. “I was afraid this might happen.”

“Why? Does Micah go around seducing every new resort executive with cheeseburgers? Is that his big move?”

“Micah? No way. He has a policy against any firefighters fraternizing with the resort's staff. But at last week's wedding you two couldn't tear your eyes off each other.”

“That's because we were arguing over Polynesian fire dancers. Nothing's happening with us.” That was her story and she was sticking to it.

“Are you sure?” Emily asked. “Because it would be really good for the resort if it were. Maybe you can help him take that stick out of his ass. You know, butter him up. Keep him happy.”

Again, that was not the reaction Remedy had expected. “Um…”

She chanced another look at Micah's truck and found him walking through the grass in their direction. “You guys better wipe those grins off your faces. He's almost here. Do
not
ruin this for me.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Emily said, though her Cheshire-cat grin did not inspire trust.

Alex threw his hands up. “I'm staying out it. I'll be in my office if you need me.”

He marched up the hill toward the resort's main building.

Micah was dressed in a navy blue crewneck T-shirt embroidered with the RCFD logo identical to the one he'd donned last night when the radio call came in. He'd tucked the shirt into khaki slacks, belted at the waist—and not with one of the audacious belt buckles her mom might have expected from a gun-toting Republican. New to the ensemble were dusty black boots and a black cowboy hat. His barbed-wire tattoo cuffed his upper arm. No firearm and no toothpick, but just enough bad-boy attitude to command Remedy's full attention.