One Hot Summer Page 3

  “I helped them carry a watermelon.” Damn, that came out sounding stupid, but Alpha Bubba had her all kinds of flustered.

  It was impossible to see what his eyes were up to behind those dark glasses, but otherwise his expression remained that of bored amusement. “Got a name?” he drawled.

  Though her heart was racing and she’d made herself out to be an idiot, she decided to own her dorkiness outright, because who the hell was this jerk to stand there and make her feel unwelcome and off-balance?

  “Are you talking about the melon or me? Because I was thinking of calling this beauty Thelma.” She shifted the melon higher on her hip and, though Alpha Bubba was as intimidating as any A-list movie director, she strode forward, plucked the hat from his head, and dropped it onto the watermelon. “That’s better.” She mimicked his drawl. “Thelma was getting a little tuckered out in this sun.”

  His light brown hair was sweaty and unruly … and way too dangerously sexy for a man who was taking advantage of Texas’s open-carry gun law. His tongue poked against his cheek as his smirk turned into a grin. “You must think we’re pretty quaint around here, don’t you, California?”

  “How did you know that’s where I’m from?”

  He lifted his hat from the watermelon and dropped it back on his head, then pulled it low over his forehead. “’Cause that’s where the crazies are, and a city girl like you would have to be crazy to let these fools talk you into partying with them.”

  “Hey now, Micah,” Chet said, crashing through the bushes. “Nothing says we’ve got to share our beer with you if you’re gonna be a dick.”

  Micah. It fit, even though he made a better Alpha Bubba—and she’d be better off referring to him as such, lest those smirking blue eyes and killer body made her liberal, feminist heart forget her suits, not boots pledge.

  Chet dropped his hand onto Remedy’s shoulder as the rest of the guys stomped back onto the riverbank. “I was just having a little fun with my new friend. You might call it an initiation into life in Dulcet.”

  “I can see that,” Micah said dryly.

  Behind Chet, Dusty cackled, his attention on Remedy. “You should’ve seen the look on your face when we yelled, ‘Police!’ and dove for cover.” He dissolved into laughter and stumbled back to offer the gathering group of men high fives.

  All right, fine. She was the butt of their joke. All that meant was that she’d called it right that she’d be an oddity on display at their little party. Whatever. Time to ditch the watermelon, grab a beer, and make the most of her decision to go along with Chet and Dusty’s invitation. She shuffled to the nearest table and hoisted the heavy melon on top.

  Feeling eyes on her, she glanced over her shoulder. Micah, continued his lazy perusal of her. As opposed to the harmlessness of the objectifying once-overs that Chet and Dusty had given her, Micah’s almost-bored awareness of her threw her system into chaos. Must be all that alpha male testosterone oozing from his every pore. Or maybe it was that gun, the first real one she’d ever seen up close in person.

  She forced herself to walk to him again, feigning red-carpet confidence.

  At her approach, the toothpick slid across his lips, pushed along by the tongue she caught a flash of before his smirking smile returned. “What do you call the other one?”

  She didn’t follow. “Call what?”

  He nodded to her chest. “Well, you said one of them’s Thelma. Don’t tell me the other one’s Louise. That’d be downright unoriginal.”

  Remedy wasn’t a blusher. She wasn’t a prude or uptight in any way, but this man had gotten her tongue-tied and red faced for the second time in as many minutes. She didn’t like it. Not one bit. And she didn’t like him, either.

  Behind her, a crash sounded. She craned her neck in time to watch the melon roll like a bowling ball along the table, picking up speed as it rolled and knocking over ketchup and mustard bottles before taking out a trio of red plastic cups. Plastic forks, knives, and spoons exploded from the cups into the sand. Remedy, along with three men, lunged, but none of them reached the table before the watermelon reached the edge. Its grocery store sticker caught on the plastic tablecloth and pulled as it went airborne. The melon landed on the ground with a crack as it split open. The tablecloth followed, landing on top of the crushed melon and leaving the picnic table completely bare.

  Remedy closed her eyes, cringing. “Oops.”

  * * *

  Micah knew trouble when he saw it, which was how he arrived at the conclusion that the woman standing before him dumbstruck and holding a watermelon while toe deep in Frio River sand was as harmless as a cupcake. He happened to have a fondness for cupcakes and a strong aversion to trouble, so Miss California and her melon—and melons—piqued his interest right away.

  As the men gathered around her, helping to restore order to the picnic table, Chet elbowed Micah in the ribs. “She’s a new Briscoe employee.”

  Well, hell. That didn’t suit his purpose at all. And if he hadn’t been so distracted by her cupcake-like qualities, he would’ve picked up on that on his own. “You know my policy on fraternizing with Briscoe’s executives, so why’d you bring her here?”

  Chet’s eyeballs nearly fell out of his head watching her backside as she bent over the ground, picking up jagged pieces of watermelon. Micah had been doing the same out of the corner of his eye, but still, it got under his skin that Chet would be so crass.

  “How do you know she’s an executive?” Chet asked under his breath.

  Oh, please. “You think she moved all the way from California to Ravel County, Texas, to work as a maid?”

  “Okay, yeah, I see your point, but she was all alone when we found her and she’s new to town. I didn’t see the harm just this once.”

  “You didn’t see the harm because she blinded you with that California tan and those itty-bitty shorts.”

  Chet shrugged. “There is that.”

  The woman tucked her chin over her shoulder, her attention going straight to Chet and Micah. Or, rather, straight to Micah. He knew that because her eyes sparked with indignation.

  Micah moseyed forward, putting a little extra swagger into it and relishing the hint of incredulity his walk brought forth in her gaze. “I hear you’re Briscoe Ranch Resort’s newest executive. What do you do at the resort, specifically?”

  Her answer would tell him everything he needed to know about how often they were likely to come into contact with each other. Maybe she was an accountant. That wouldn’t be so bad.

  “I’m the new special events manager.”

  A snort of laughter escaped through Micah’s nose. Of all the possible jobs …

  Her eyes narrowed. “Is that funny to you?”

  This woman sure was wound tight. An afternoon of tubin’ and drinkin’ would probably do her a world of good, but she’d have to find another group of locals to enlighten her to the many glories of a Texas summer day, because if word got back to Ty Briscoe that Micah and his boys were getting overly friendly with the resort’s new top dog, Micah would lose the leverage he’d fought for years to gain.

  “Naw. Not in the least.” It was his turn to extend his hand in greeting. “I didn’t catch your name yet.”

  She wiped her palm on her shorts, then took his hand. “Remedy Lane.”

  That was one hell of a weird name, but somehow it fit her hipster princess vibe. She was monied, big-time, and trying desperately not to act like it. Her handshake was surprisingly firm, which wasn’t at all princess- or cupcake-like. “Micah Garrity, Ravel County Fire Chief. Congratulations on your new job. I’m sure you’ll make a lot of rich folks very, very happy.”

  Blinking back in surprise, she took her hand back and stuffed it in her pocket. He was surprised it fit, those shorts looked so snug. “You’re the fire chief?”

  “That I am.” Much to the bane of the Briscoe family’s existence. Speaking of which, it was high time for Remedy and Micah’s crew to part ways. He brushed past her, beelining for t
he cooler of beers. “Chet, take Ms. Lane home. Our picnic is no place for a city girl.”

  Micah didn’t need to look to know that Chet was winding up to challenge him on the directive. Since Remedy hadn’t piped in with a sharp reply, Chet had probably signaled to her to stay quiet and let him handle Micah.

  Sure enough, Chet fell in step behind him. “Come on, Chief. Just have a beer and relax. We saved you the best seat and everything. But you gotta understand, we promised her she could stay. Hell, it was my idea.”

  Micah shoved his hand to the bottom of the cooler where the coldest beers were and lifted one out, sluicing off the ice. “My decision stands.”

  With a snort and a shake of his head, Chet abandoned his cause. “Come on, Remedy. We’ll have our own party, far away from this asshole.”

  In his peripheral vision, Micah watched Remedy take stock of Chet, as though she were seeing him for the first time and she wasn’t crazy about what she saw. Maybe Chet’s begging had turned her off, or maybe she’d just had enough of their hick ways. After a moment’s pause, she peeled away from the arm Chet had roped around her shoulders and strutted toward Micah.

  Micah stiffened and barely stifled a curse. He didn’t need this in his life, some princessy resort executive mucking up his only day off that month, probably for the rest of the summer, if last weekend’s slew of Independence Day fire emergencies were any indication and the forest service’s fire season predictions rang true.

  Remedy said nary a word as she flipped over the foam lid to the cooler and extracted a beer. She cracked it open and drilled Micah with a fiery gaze, one he met and held as she walked his way. He never was one to back down from a firefight.

  “Chet,” she said, standing nose to nose with Micah, her eyes still locked on his. “I think I will go home … and get my swimsuit. Looks like this party’s just getting started, and I wouldn’t dream of missing out.”

  “So that’s how it’s gonna be, hmm?” Micah said in a low growl for her ears only.

  With a sly smile, she brought the beer to her lips. They were fine, strawberry pink lips that complemented her fine curves, her fine rack, and her particularly fine stubborn streak, which was definitely an attribute worthy of admiration. Ty Briscoe had hired her for one of the resort’s top positions, which meant she also had a brain and ambition to go along with all those other fine qualities. Too bad Micah and Ms. Remedy Lane were on opposite sides of an immovable line, one she’d discover soon enough.

  She hooked her arm around Chet’s shoulders, then held her beer up like a trophy. “As I was saying. If Alpha Bubba here has a problem with me, then he can be the one to leave.”

  Wait, what? He couldn’t have heard her right. “What’d you call me?”

  Chet snickered. His hand snaked around her back and settled at her hip as his gaze met Micah’s—a not-so-subtle staking of a claim.

  Micah spit his toothpick into the sand, no longer the slightest bit amused. “You’re gonna regret this, California.”

  “Why? You planning to cause me trouble?”

  She didn’t wait for Micah’s reply. With a flounce that belied her privileged pedigree, she put her back to Micah and headed away from the riverbank, Chet in tow like a lovesick moron. Micah found a fresh toothpick in his pocket and tucked it into the corner of his lips, his eyes tracking her movement as her last question echoed in his mind.

  “Darlin’, you have no idea,” he said under his breath.

  Sipping on his beer, he watched her calculated sashay until those too-tight jean shorts disappeared from view.

  Chapter Three

  Remedy dodged a palm tree coming at her on a forklift, her eyes on the droopy white tent being erected on the resort’s west lawn. Well, maybe erect was overstating it at the moment.

  “Get the tent some Viagra and let’s move on,” she said into her phone in the sweetest tone she could manage.

  An outsider might have watched the spectacle today and wondered why a couple would come to Central Texas to stage a tropical wedding—after all, why pay for trees to be imported when they could have just held the wedding at a beach resort?—but the answer was simple. Couples came from all over the world for the Briscoe Ranch treatment. No request was too grand, and no detail was spared for a couple’s happy day. In this case, the wheels for this wedding had been set in motion more than a year earlier by the legendary Carina Decker—the elder daughter of resort owner Ty Briscoe and the wedding planner who’d put the resort on the proverbial map for destination weddings.

  Remedy had met Carina once, briefly, when she’d popped into Alex’s office to congratulate Remedy on the job, but that was the extent of their contact. According to Litzy Evansburg, Remedy’s main assistant assigned to her by the resort, Carina had surprised a lot of people the year before when she quit her job at the resort to follow her dream of owning a custom bridal gown boutique, which now claimed a corner of prime real estate in the resort’s lobby.

  Remedy was a big believer in people following their dreams—after all, Remedy had done just that—but Remedy had sensed from the minute she’d walked into her first interview at Briscoe Ranch that Carina’s abrupt departure had left her family and the resort scrambling for footing. Hence the string of event planners who had come before Remedy and who had been unable to make the job stick. They must not have been as stubbornly determined as Remedy was. Their loss, her gain. Especially today, her first day running the show after Alex had passed the torch to her earlier that week.

  She power walked across the palm tree–lined pavilion that surrounded the tent entrance, where guests would gather both after the ceremony to sip rum drinks as they watched a troupe of Polynesian fire dancers perform and again after the four-course meal for dancing under the stars to the music of a live band. Then again, the guests might be eating their meal on the pavilion as well if the tent vendor couldn’t get the tent to rise for the occasion, so to speak.

  Hands on her hips, she stood before the tent and willed its peaks to straighten so the impatiently waiting florist vendors and cake vendor could have access to the space. “Get up there, you stupid tent poles,” she muttered.

  “Maybe the poles need more foreplay.”

  She turned to see Alex, dressed to the nines in a three-piece suit, despite temperatures pushing triple digits. Perspiration beaded along his forehead near his hairline, but he wore a smile of amusement, held a giant convenience-store soda cup in his hand, and looked utterly relaxed. Must be nice to be the boss.

  “If I thought foreplay would work, I’d be giving everyone here a show to remember,” she said, forcing a self-deprecating smile to her lips.

  “It would lighten the tension around here, that’s for sure. How are you managing?”

  It was tempting to list all the many details that had gone wrong so far that day, but she was hell-bent on maintaining an illusion of control in front of her boss and her event clients alike. As in Hollywood, in the wedding industry the rule was to never let them see you sweat. “Pretty good. With each event I’m getting better at executing Carina’s visions.”

  “She was a one of a kind.”

  Would Remedy ever step out of Carina’s shadow? “So you all keep saying.”

  He rattled the ice in his cup. “You’re in Texas now. The word is y’all.”

  “I can’t make my mouth do that. Like rolling my r’s in the word burrito. Not gonna happen.”

  While he tried and failed to roll his r’s in the word burrito, Remedy checked the time on her phone again. The tent vendor was supposed to be done almost an hour ago.

  “Relax,” Alex said. “Everything will work out.”

  “It better. At least we don’t have to deal with elephants this weekend. The only live animals we have today are the butterflies that guests will release as the bride and groom leave the chapel after the ceremony. And those are already staged in the chapel vestibule, safely tucked in their special boxes.”

  Alex took a sip of soda. “And doves. Butterflies and
doves.”

  A bubble of panic rose in Remedy’s throat as she flipped through all four banquet event orders, better known as BEOs—aka the resort’s end-all/be-all contracts signed by the bride and groom and outlining every last detail about their wedding and reception. No doves were listed. Remedy would know about it, if it was happening, if only to steel herself.

  “It won’t be on there,” Alex said. “Last-minute addition by the MOG. That’s what I braved this god-awful heat to tell you.”

  MOG was wedding planner speak for mother-of-the-groom. Next to tequila shots, the MOG was often a wedding’s biggest wild card because there was very little official business for her to do at a wedding to feel useful and even less prestige, despite that she was marrying off her precious baby boy. MOGs were notorious for pulling off attention-stealing stunts and being even more temperamental and needy than the worst Bridezillas.

  “Mixing doves and butterflies creates a predator/prey situation. Have you ever seen doves eating butterflies at a wedding? Because I’ve seen it, and it’s not pretty.”

  “The guests might be getting a lesson in Darwinism today, then, because it’s too late for us to do anything about it,” Alex said.

  “How many doves are we talking about here?” Please say two; please say two.…

  Alex’s grim smile turned Remedy’s bubble of panic into a tornado alarm. “Thirty.”

  Remedy shot out of her seat and paced the length of the room. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope.”

  “What? But you have a way with animals. You chased down a stampeding elephant last weekend!”

  “Gwyneth was special!” Remedy snapped. With a deep inhalation, she fought to rechain her crazy. Illusion of control … illusion of control, she chanted in her mind.

  With a gasp, Alex pressed a finger to his smiling lips. “Oh my God, are you afraid of doves?”

  Hell, yes, she was afraid of those beady-eyed, razor-clawed terrors. “Of course I’m not.”

  Alex broke down in a chuckle. Remedy shot him a cutting glare.

  “Relax, Remedy,” he said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”