Love Me Crazy Page 2

  “Same place as always.” She twists her toes inward and drops her chin.

  I reach out but pause. If I show her how much being here is fucking killing me, I’ll never be able to leave. I swipe my hand across my chin and welcome the scratch. It does nothing for the guilt busting through me, but I’ll take anything. I rub harder and grit my teeth. “Let me see if the truck starts. How about lunch?”

  Her eyes light up, and a toothy grin spreads across her face.

  “Not here. Past the cemetery, next town over,” I say.

  She kicks the rocking chair. “I can’t. I have a wedding meeting with Mom.”

  “When?” My heart overheats as it hightails it down the drive and waits in the road for the rest of me to catch up.

  “Soon.”

  I scan the driveway. The one person I can’t see while I’m here is Mom. “Next time?”

  “Right,” she says. “Next time. But please say good-bye this time.” She wraps herself in a hug.

  “Promise.” I’ll keep it, too.

  She pushes the door open and sun-heated pine knocks me back a step. I inhale sharply, filling my lungs with memories. Ellie and I sliding down the banister, Kat cocking her hip and hitting it on the clock. Dad and Mom twirling in the parlor while we watched, hungry for our turns. One by one the memories roll in, making me super eager to get this shit over with and put a few hundred miles between me and this house.

  “Ten minutes, Ellie.” I head past her and shut my lungs to the scents of home.

  “I’ll be in the parlor,” she calls behind me. “Watch out for Davy.”

  “Davy?” I question, but I don’t have time for her answer. I don’t have time for memories, sisters, and definitely not Mom. What was I thinking coming here? Five years should have dulled the pain, lessened the guilt, but all I feel is fucking torture jumping on my chest and taunting me. This blows. I shove the swinging kitchen door open. I’ll just grab the keys and ge—

  The door rebounds and nearly slaps me in the face. I grab it before impact, eyes locked on the curvy ass in front of me. I follow the silhouette sliding on all fours across the island.

  “Want to dance?” the girl growls. She waves a meat cleaver over her head.

  If that knife slips, it will dissect her brain in two. I step forward, releasing the door silently behind me. Who’s she talking to anyway?

  A gobble erupts and a turkey flaps up to rest opposite the girl.

  Crockett is still alive? I shake my head. Kat fucking did it. She trained that damned turkey. Last time I saw Crockett, Kat had its broken wing bandaged to a stick and was trying like mad to teach it to sit.

  “Last warning.” Unlike the lazy drawls around here, the girl’s voice is perfunctory and deep. Kind of late-night sexy.

  Her rear hypnotizes me with slow rocks from side to side. Round and rain-soaked. Her shirt suctions to the indent at her waist. A badass high heel dangles from her foot and her lightly tanned arms drip water, but . . . look at that fucking hair. Good God, she’s autumn. A dark, wet auburn—

  “I’m going to fucking eat you for lunch.”

  I press my lips together and shake off my surprise at a female cussing beneath my mother’s roof. Mom. Shit. She could arrive any minute. I need to get the hell out of here.

  I move along the wall of cabinets, eyes trained on the knife waving overhead.

  The girl lets loose a string of fuck-me-shit-bird-go-to-hell’s when Crockett balks at her.

  I spot the key drawer and see no other way to get to it but through the standoff. I press my palms against my eyes. Oh, what the fuck, taking an extra minute to get rid of the bird won’t kill me.

  “You know, manners will get you further,” I say.

  Redhead jumps and her knee slips off the counter. Regaining control, she sits back on her heels, knife in front of her face but aimed at Crockett.

  “A little help?”

  I lean against the fridge. “You could be a thief.”

  “I’m not a thief.” Her voice shakes as she crawls backward off the island and plants herself against the stove.

  “But you are a stranger.”

  “So are you.”

  “You’re in my house.”

  “Then you should know who I am.”

  One of Ellie’s friends, I presume, though I don’t recall any redheads coming around in high school. She must be an out-of-town college friend, because if she was from here, she’d have field dressed that bird by now.

  She wedges into the corner cabinets and lowers the knife, her vibrant eyes visible above the hilt.

  A slow breath escapes and I pop my lips together to hide my surprise. What I’d mistaken for a soft tan isn’t a tan at all, but a mass of freckles. Forehead, cheeks, nose, eyelids, shoulders . . . like a bucket of burned-out stars tipped over and sprinkled across her skin. Beautiful. But her eyes take the fucking cake. Green. Gorgeous. Full. And surrounded by sexy black smudges like she’d just rolled out of my bed. Wait . . . fuck. I drop my stare. Keys. I’m here for keys.

  I move toward the drawer. “Yep, you’re def-definitely a stranger. And you’re threatening my sister’s turkey,” I trip over my words. Fucking moron. She’s just a girl.

  “That’s not like any turkey I’ve ever seen.” Her gaze darts across the room, scanning said turkey. “Can you, I don’t know, put him outside or something?” She pulls up onto the counter, eyes dancing crazy like jarred lightning bugs. “Please.”

  “Can’t.”

  A sexy-as-hell gasp rolls across her lips.

  Bet her gasp tastes spicy like cinnamon Red Hots. I straighten and force my eyes off her to take on Crockett. “Fan down,” I try. Who knows if Kat succeeded but if she—

  “Fan down? That’s all you’ve got?”

  “Crockett. Fan. Down,” I demand, refusing to look the idiot. Redhead had me beat when she crawled across the island, ass in the air. She can keep that title.

  Crockett submits and tucks his rear feathers into a razor sharp point. He drops to his belly and makes a clucking purring sound. Thank fuck he listened.

  The girl sags against the cabinet.

  “I’ll hand it to you, most wouldn’t have made it through the door.” I move past her legs and open a drawer while checking her out. “Especially ones waving meat cleavers and cussing like a Jersey mobster.”

  “I’m not from Jersey. I’m from Boston.” She turns toward me. “And most people aren’t attacked by a fu—” Her gaze stops on mine but seconds later, drops. Her skin turns pink, camouflaging her freckles.

  Haven’t caused that reaction in a while. I discreetly check my fly. “What were you saying?”

  “Um, ya know, fowl. Attacked by fowl.” She slides off the counter to her feet.

  “Right.” Enjoying her fluster, I check another drawer.

  I find Crockett’s feed and pour a handful on the counter. “Attaboy, Crockett,” I whisper.

  “Crockett?” the girl says.

  I give her a smile for a peace offering. “Meet Davy Crockett.”

  She snorts louder than Sunday dinner, then turns a medley of reds until her skin decides on raw pink.

  Amused by her inability to keep her reactions in check, my gaze drops to the dip in her collar where her shirt ties together and the loops tangle as if they’re trying to mask her embarrassment. Damn. Focus. Here for the keys. Here for the truck. I snap my gaze to hers and find her eyebrows raised and her lips pursed. Holy sexiness.

  “May I help you with something?” she asks, fanning the knife.

  Like jerking those ties loose? Um, yeah. “Nope. All’s good here.” My gaze skips over her lips to the huge blade. “You know, Crocket doesn’t take kindly to death threats.” I slip my hand over her wrist and steady the cleaver. Touching, flirting—bad idea. But those red lips. Those freckles on her shoulder . . . I want to nibble them until she’s squirming.

  She sucks in and holds her breath. For a brief second her chest presses against mine but disappears as she pulls in her s
tomach and flattens against the counter. At least she didn’t push me away.

  I squeeze her hand, urging her to give up the knife. Her erratic pulse dances beneath my fingertips. Adrenaline or attraction, Redhead? I pull the knife free and lean into her to set it on the counter behind her.

  “I’m Quinn,” I whisper in her ear, pausing long enough to notice her pulse jumping like a hot coal on water.

  Her lips part and a breath leaves through the oval opening.

  I step away to give myself fucking space. This would be a good time to grab the keys and leave. “And you are?” I ask instead.

  She sighs and brushes her hands down her skirt. “Oh, I’m C-Cassidy, the wedding planner, um, intern.” She stacks her spine, stiffening like a two-by-four, and presses her shoulders back forcing her tits an inch closer to me. The suddenly mechanical Cassidy tilts her chin up and levels her businesslike gaze. “Mrs. Covington sent me. I’m here to—”

  “Right, wedding plans. Surprised my mom had time to squeeze a family event into her schedule.” The reminder of where I am and who could arrive at any minute kicks my ass in gear. I pull open a drawer, knocking it off its track. I right the drawer and dig for the truck keys. “Ellie’s in the parlor.” I slam the drawer.

  “Yeah, I’m late.” She moves past me and leans over, offering me a visual of her ass as she picks her bag and a huge binder up off the floor. “Mrs. Covington will strangle me for fucking up before I’m two feet in the door.” She freezes, then stands straighter and says, “Sorry. I’m just . . . I’ve only talked to your mom on the phone and she intimidates the hell out of me. And that says a lot because no one ever—ugh, I’m rambling. Just, sorry for saying ‘fuck,’ er, I mean . . . Dammit.”

  She’d went from ass-kicker to embarrassed to swearing to apologetic in one chance meeting. And with the way she reacted to my touch, I bet I could add aroused to the list. There’s no wonder she’s sparked my curiosity. Hell, she’s claimed my full attention. She’s fucking awesome in an unconventional not-your-average-Covington kind of way. I bet my balls she’ll fight Mom for her coveted pedestal.

  “So you have experience in party planning?” I ask, ignoring her obvious jitters.

  “No. I have experience in set design, painting, color theory . . . ceramics.” Her eyes brighten, the mention of art obviously igniting her passion. She blows out a long breath. “But she has me gofering and placing orders.”

  “She likes seasoned employees and you’re a virgin. Sounds risky.”

  “I’m not a virgin,” she blurts. Her cheeks flame hot. She turns away and finger combs her wet hair.

  “Is that so?” I drag my tongue across my lip, imaging hot, feisty sex. “Are you an official hire?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Have you worked a major wedding before?” My gaze lowers to her lips. Bet they’re hot to the touch.

  She shakes her head and focuses her gaze on anything but me. I follow the ties of her shirt as they dangle over her reddening chest. Wet and perky.

  A growl builds in her throat. “Okay, okay. I’m an event virgin. I won the Senior Achievement Award and first pick for my internship. This was the only paid one and if I didn’t take—” She stares at me. Hate casts an ashy blanket over her eyes and the enthusiasm I’d seen in her minutes before evaporates.

  I look away. Similar hate stares me down every time I peer into the mirror, causing more wasn’t my intention. “You’ll be fine. Just be confident about your . . . experience. Show weakness and you’ll drown. Show resilience and you’ll bear the Covington stamp of approval.”

  “You suck at pep talks.”

  Air whistles through my teeth. Kat used those exact words before her fourth grade talent show. Funny how a complete stranger can kick me in the balls without realizing it.

  “I think I like you.”

  She runs her tongue over her teeth, eyes narrowing to daring slits.

  Come on, no reply? Really? She’s messing with me, flirting back, right? I sigh, allowing defeat for now. “Let’s get you ready for your meeting while you let it sink in that you like me too.”

  I move in front of her and adjust her crooked shirt, tucking her bra strap underneath. She bats my hands away.

  “Hold still; I’m trying to make you into a Covington minion.” I untangle the tie beneath her chin and position the ends over her exposed chest grazing my finger across a Milky Way of freckles. Her smooth skin perks into little goose bumps.

  Interest resuscitates her eyes back to life. She offers a timid smile before looking away.

  “Would kind of suck to lose your job on the first day.” I drop my hands to her waistband and straighten her skirt on her hips, looking for any excuse to keep my hands on her. “Guess the question is can you survive it?” I tap her chin with my thumb, lifting it to find her eyes.

  “Surviving is making up your mind and following through. I always survive,” she says.

  I get the feeling there’s more to what she’s saying but not wanting a rebound of hate thrown in my face, I lighten the mood. “So you’ve gone against the Mad Hatter and her fucked-up tea parties before?”

  She smiles huge and chokes on a laugh. “The Mad Hatter, yes. Tea parties? No.”

  I pull a buried feather from her hair and toss it on the counter. “Hold still.” I wipe my pinky beneath her eyes, fixing the smudges like I would if she were a projection ready to be made permanent in my dark room. “You’re a cute little mess. And soaking . . . wet.”

  Her eyes double in size.

  “Doubt it’s a deal breaker.” I shouldn’t be flirting like this. I’m leaving in a few and will never see this girl again. I squeeze her hair between my fingers.

  “After you’ve made me quite aware of how fantastic I look, you doubt it’s a deal breaker? I can’t go in there looking li—” She stares at me, then rolls her eyes. In two seconds, she has her hair twisted and pinned into a messy bun, which suits the energy in her eyes.

  “Thought you were a survivor.” I gesture toward the door.

  She yanks a gray sweater over her nearly see-through shirt. “Thought you weren’t an asshole.”

  I smile but she can’t see it. “Let’s make a deal, you survive this meeting and I promise to never be an asshole . . . without purpose.”

  “Then you’d better start practicing.”

  Maybe I will. I push the French doors open to the parlor.

  Ellie bolts off the couch. “Oh . . . geez. Sorry, thought y’all were Momma. She’s kind of . . .” Ellie shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter. I doubt she’s coming.”

  “I found your wedding planner held prisoner in the kitchen.” I gesture toward the redheaded mess of spunk. “This is—”

  “I’m Cassidy Beck.” She steps in front, blocking me, and introduces herself. She gives me a cocky little grin over her shoulder. “Thanks, I can take it from here.”

  Speechless. An anomaly. Mom will hate her. I might just love her for that reason alone. I nod, trying not to appear star struck and in awe over the girl. I’d love to see Mom’s face when Cassidy takes charge. I swallow the thought like cotton. No fucking way I’m staying that long.

  “Well, I’m going to—”

  Someone clears her throat behind me.

  Cassidy’s eyes round. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Covington. Need me to get that?”

  “Don’t ask. Know and do,” Mom’s haughty voice fires off as she punches the floor with her umbrella.

  I rub my knuckles over the sharp bristles on my chin. Two seconds too late. I offer a smile. “Please, allow me.”

  Mom holds out her jacket and umbrella. I take them and dash out of the room.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. Running my hands through my hair I pace the foyer, following the medallion in the center like it will lead me the hell out of here. I pump my fists several times and stare at the huge front doors, ready to escape.

  I glance back at the room locking three immensely different women behind its panes. Ellie hasn’t a mean bone in her body.
Can I really do this to her all over again? Walk out of here without looking back?

  Then there’s quirky, smart Cassidy, who proves to be a ball of fire. I’m almost positive she was flirting back. But I can’t stay.

  I move toward freedom, grasping the truck key in my hand. I grab the doorknob. Dammit. I look back at the French doors toward the voices. My heart clenches in my chest. What’s staying one night going to hurt? Besides, it’d be nice to no longer be the asshole brother.

  I press my palms into my eyes. This wasn’t how my day was supposed to go. Especially running into the woman with the coldest, sharpest edges I’ve ever encountered . . . my fucking mom.

  Chapter 3

  Cassidy

  Mrs. Covington unstacks then restacks the pile of linens I’d set on the table. “Soaking wet, dripping all over the floor? I hardly call this prepared.”

  I push my chin high and wait out her disapproval. Lips zipped. Fly on the wall.

  “Where are the glass samples?” She tosses back the lid of a hatbox. “Not out and ready? What have you been doing, Ms. Beck?”

  I take a breath, scared to answer, but she’s staring . . . waiting. “Well, there was a turkey and feathers and flapping and I hopped on the—”

  The door squeaks open behind my beady-eyed boss, interrupting what I think sounds like a legitimate excuse, but the more I bumble through it, the crazier it all seems. Me on the island, ready to kill the Covington’s pet turkey? Not excusable.

  Quinn walks in, whistling, drinks balanced on a tray. I exhale a controlled breath when Mrs. Covington turns to see who interrupted. I could freaking kiss him right now. I’d probably enjoy it, too. Hard bodied, crystal eyed . . . sexy enough to undress and explore the finer details he’s hiding under those clothes.

  “Eleanor didn’t mention you were in town.” Mrs. Covington’s entire demeanor shifts.

  She goes slightly soft and loses the hateful edge in her voice. Sweetening up her words with—I’m guessing—what she considers to be appropriate family interaction. She breezes across the room and gives Quinn a reserved hug then double glances at the tattoo spiraling around his bicep.