Three Reckless Words: Chapter 4

I should have fucking known this would happen.

First Dexter, with Haute and Junie and that whole fake fiancée mess. Then Patton and Salem with his surprise son and an unthinkable betrayal that brought them together.

Two marriages.

Two ridiculous, dangerous situations that could’ve torpedoed the company and a whole lot more.

Now, it’s my turn at the drama wheel.

All over a damn woman.

Thankfully, I’m immune to falling in love.

Been there, done that. Mistakes made and lessons learned.

That’s what happens every time, though, whether we like it or not. Maybe it’s some weird curse on the men in the Rory family.

After witnessing my brothers’ chaos, I always figured trouble might find me again someday.

Still, I never expected it to come from a woman this young and troubled.

Not from this annoyingly strange, beautiful, wounded, bee-obsessed weirdo who’s currently wiping her face and trying to gather her thoughts. At least she’s using tissues now instead of my sleeve.

I can’t decide if she’s an easy paycheck or somebody who’ll lose it and light this place on fire. Total wild card.

She brushes her mass of coppery, curly hair back from her face, sniffling loud enough to wake the dead.

Yeah, I think the ugly tears are behind her now.

“S-sorry about that.” She hiccups and threads her fingers through her hair. It looks silky, even tangled up, and for a second I wonder what it would feel like in my hands.

Then I wrench my thoughts back to the present.

We’ve established she’s pure chaos.

There’s no predicting what she’ll do next.

If I was all cold logic, I’d take her to a psych place and get her some help right now.

Still, I can’t help feeling bad for her. I also hate that I wonder if she’s truly crazy.

There’s a big black trash bag near the front door. I’m almost positive it contains her wedding dress. Who just tosses a dress like that?

And the ice-cold message my assistant passed on to me from her father definitely confirms something’s up, even if she doesn’t want to tell me the details. Fine, I won’t press her, but I need a hint, goddammit.

Her father could be worried, knowing she’s prone to a mental crisis.

On the other hand, what if he’s the one causing her grief?

A controlling, crazy tyrant dad who wants her back so he can lock her up and keep abusing her.

I know what a fucked up place this world can be.

Still, I need something.

Reassurance this won’t blow up in my face if I help her with an extended stay against my better judgment. It shocks me that I want to help her.

Probably because she’s so broken, so desperate, so unpredictable.

People with stable minds don’t break down and swing at strangers over fucking bees.

Then again, it wasn’t really about the bees, was it?

It’s whatever’s haunting her—whatever trauma chased her here.

No matter what I do, I’m not throwing her back to the wolves and having that on my conscience.

So I nudge the tissue box closer, just in case she needs more, and rest my forearm on the breakfast bar.

“I meant to thank you for putting up with my son and his friends. You handled the shit they pulled with pure class. Also, I’m sure he’ll be grateful you’ve given him the only sugar he’s getting for the next month in non-fruit form.”

“Grounded, then?” She smiles.

“You bet. Their dumbass stunt could’ve gotten him put under house arrest for real, not just cooped up without horror movies or games.”

She gives me a lopsided smile.

“Yeah, I told them. I think I channeled my inner mom to be honest. I’ve never been the lecturing type before, but it just came out. I felt a little crappy about it. That’s why I gave them the cake.”

“You shouldn’t feel bad.”

“I called Briana ‘princess’ and told her to sit the hell down.” Her eyes turn glassy at the memory. I notice they’re a sea-glass green, shiny and bright with just enough woe glittering to draw a man to his doom.

The redness around her eyes really brings out their color, I’m sorry to say.

“You handled it better than me. If I’d found them shooting off rockets on my lawn.” The way my fist tightens says everything.

She shrugs. “I was mad at first. Then I realized they were just kids and we all do stupid stuff when we’re young. Especially when we’re talking boys trying to impress girls.”

I snort, drumming my fingers on the table because she’s right.

Dex and I pulled some crazy shit back in the day. Patton had to work to keep up when he got older. It used to drive Mom insane.

But we’re not here to talk about my past or even Colt.

I just wanted to get her mind unpanicked, make her feel comfortable enough to talk about whatever it is that made her melt down.

“I guess you’ve got questions,” she says in a quiet, hurt voice that’s somehow worse than the tears.

“You know I do.”

“Right. Yeah. Because of the crying and bee freakout…” She levels a cool stare on me. “Bees are important, though. You shouldn’t kill them.”

“Noted,” I clip.

“But fine—fine—so maybe there’s something else going on with me.”

I don’t mean to look at the garbage bag again, but I can’t help it.

Winnie notices and her shoulders sag.

“It was supposed to be my honeymoon,” she whispers. I keep silent, just watching her as she lets the words sink in. The hurt lining her eyes and mouth make her look older, though she can’t be more than mid-twenties.

“Here?” I ask when she doesn’t add anything.

“Oh, no. Not here. Although this place would make an amazing honeymoon suite if you wanted to market it as one. We were actually going to Italy. Florence, then on to Venice and Rome.”

“Romantic choice.”

“Yes, well…” She sighs again. “Long story short, the whole thing collapsed at the last minute. I was having doubts and decided I couldn’t do it, so I left.” Her words hang in the air for a second like she wishes she could snatch them back. “And I don’t think my family will ever forgive me. I basically stranded him at the altar, or close enough.”

Fuck, that’s harsh.

I tap a finger against the coffee table as I think. The dress in that bag suggests she was wearing it when she arrived, which underscores how ‘last minute’ she means.

And she was the one who left him.

Maybe she’s still in love with her fiancé or there’s some other scandal there, but that’s not my problem.

Mine is the fire-breathing father who called, demanding his daughter’s whereabouts. I wonder how he thought to call us if this wasn’t a honeymoon destination.

Did he hit up every decent rental option in the state?

Winnie laces her fingers together and leans back in her seat, facing me with surprising directness, considering how she just cried all over my suit jacket.

“I’m hiding out, in case it wasn’t obvious,” she says, her voice clear.

“I gathered that,” I say dryly.

“Oh, right.”

“And your dad wants to know where you are.”

She winces. “Can we just leave him out of this for a bit? I want to talk about me. Or at least, the option of me staying longer.”

Whatever.

I told her I could be convinced, but she’s going to have to sell it—and hard. Make me believe I’m not fucking up royally by letting an unstable, heartbroken stranger crash in our star property.

My brothers can confirm I’m not the softhearted one.

I don’t hand out favors left and right.

If you want a softie, try Patton.

Or even Dexter now that he’s married. Juniper turned him into one more of those marshmallows she puts in her Rocky Road cupcakes.

Me, I’ve never had much reason to let emotions threaten my business.

Even if seeing her cry like this with all her unfiltered hurt gives me the weirdest ache in my chest, along with this annoying urge to help her feel better.

But I already opened my mouth.

I told her we might work something out, and I meant it.

“Convince me,” I say point-blank. “Why should I let you stay?”

“Because I’d pay you?” She raises her brows.

“A reason that makes it worth the potential shit your father will fling my way when I’m covering for you, I mean.”

“You’re worried about that?” She waves a dismissive hand. “All you have to do is use that voice. You know, the dad voice you’ve used before. Just tell him you can’t give away client details, and voilà, case closed. He’s a legal wonk, he’ll totally understand.”

Like hell.

In my experience, people as persistent as her old man rarely fuck off just because you tell them to.

There’s something about the way she props her chin up on her hands as she looks at me, waiting for me to agree. It makes me curious what she’ll say next.

“Okay, let’s table that for now,” I say carefully. “Tell me, why do you want to stay here?”

Her lips curl into a smile that dimples one cheek, an uneven look matching the chaotic hair and teasing light in her eyes. “Do you always play grand inquisitor with all your guests?”

“Only the ones who spell trouble.”

“You’re afraid of me? Seriously?” She huffs loudly. “What? Are you afraid I might cry you to death?” Her expression tightens a fraction and she adds, “I really am sorry about that, by the way.”

“Don’t apologize. There’s no need.”

“That’s up for debate, but fine. The fact is, I can definitely afford to go somewhere else if I wanted, but… I don’t. It’s comfy here. It’s away from the city, it’s pretty, and did I mention the bees?”

God help me, I almost smile.

Almost.

“Another two weeks here and I’ll have my life figured out,” she finishes. “I just need time. I swear, I won’t break anything.”

I can’t fucking help it, I raise an eyebrow.

She takes her lip and bites down, hard enough to turn the skin white.

“Fine,” she says. “I might not have everything figured out, but it’ll be a start. We can work from there.”

We? She says it so confidently, like in two weeks we’ll be best friends, hashing out how she’ll reclaim her life or some such shit.

Like she expects me to be involved.

I lean back in my seat next to her, grateful that she’s stopped doing that lip biting thing. The woman is too cute for her own good.

“Also,” she says in a wheedling voice, like she’s revealing the hidden Ace up her sleeve, “if you give me some peace and quiet, I’ve got connections that could boost your company’s profile.”

Bold claim.

Strangely, she says it with confidence, which is unusual for bullshit artists unless they’re really good at bluffing. For all I know, she might be.

I know next to nothing about this woman except for the fact that she came spinning in here in a wedding dress and she’s obsessed with bees.

Still, it’s an interesting claim. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t pique my interest.

“What connections?”

“I was a senate staffer for a while.” Her tone says she isn’t proud of it. “I left on good terms, mostly. I got to know the whole beltway crowd in DC while I was there, and those people are always traveling.”

“Senate staffer?” I blink in disbelief.

Her? Miss Bee Crazy worked for a US Senator?

“Don’t ask and I’ll tell you no lies.” She holds up a single finger. It’s perfectly manicured, though she’s gnawed at the skin around it. “Just trust me. These people, they would die for glamping places like this when they hit the road, even for work. I have no doubt they’d take my recommendation seriously.”

Damn her.

It’s like she’s tapped into what we’re really looking for. Higher Ends wants to expand beyond our Midwestern foothold, recent trouble with doing that in Minnesota aside. We’re always looking for places with affluent clientele and reasonable investment opportunities.

If she’s telling the truth, she has the demographic part down.

It’s like this aura around her.

Her special kind of crazy must be contagious.

Nothing to do with the fact that she might have a good reason for her madness and she just needs a break.

I don’t do breaks.

I don’t do soft.

I just do business.

“Okay,” I growl, pushing up from my seat. “You can stay for another two weeks at the agreed rate. I’ll inform my staff not to accept any calls from your father and your details will remain private, per company policy. Unless—” I hold up a finger. “Unless you give me a good reason to change my mind. Don’t do it.”

“Your policy is mine!” she says cheerfully.

I don’t smile, though the corner of my mouth twitches.

“Don’t push your luck, Winnie.”

She sobers up immediately, lifting her hair off the nape of her neck. I spy a constellation of small freckles there and look away.

“I’m only gonna push one time for this, but… can I get a closer look at the bees?” she asks.

“Are you allergic?”

“Would I ask to look at bees if I were, silly?” She sounds offended.

I snort. “Woman, I think I’ve got to check, seeing as they’re my bees on my land and the last thing I need right now is a lawsuit after you wind up getting stung thirty times. For now, leave the boxes alone.”

“Fine, Mr. Buzzkill.” She slides off her seat and twists around to face me just as I’m preparing to leave, elbows propped on the counter, watching me with hooded eyes. “For the record, I’m not allergic, and yes I know what I’m doing with bees. If I get stung, I won’t sue you.”

I almost crack a smile again. What the hell has she done to me?

“I’ll need that in writing.”

“…was that a joke?”

“Do I look like a comedian?” Fucking never. Except when chaotic redheads push back when I least expect it, maybe. “You can do whatever else you’d like while you’re here. Whatever floats your boat, if you waive all liability and you keep a safe distance.”

It’s obscene how much her face lights up at the thought. Her eyes turn from emerald to peridot, dancing at the thought of her damn bees.

I’ll never understand it.

“Thank you! Thank you so much,” she gushes as I head for the door. “Sorry for sucking up so much of your time. I know you’ve got a kid and probably a wife at home to get back to and oh, it’s the weekend, too…” Her voice trails off.

I give her the coldest smile.

Let’s not make this personal, even if it already is. Better to keep her at a distance.

“Colt keeps me busy,” I say.

Then I walk out and leave her in peace, hoping like hell I don’t regret this.

I don’t have a spare minute until evening, when I can finally sit down in the living room with my laptop and a glass of cold brew.

I have Winnie’s full name from her booking details, so I punch it into Google.

The first result is a brief tabloid article trumpeting the “Emberly-Corban Power Wedding Meltdown!”

Brutally interesting.

I scan the piece for info, and fuck, there it is.

When she mentioned powerful connections, she neglected to tell me her father oversees justice in the whole goddamned state.

I thought I recognized his name, and now I know why.

The man who called the office hounding us for his daughter’s whereabouts is none other than Carroll Jackson Emberly III, the Attorney General of Missouri.

My eyes scan the article, quickly reading.

The engagement was announced late last year by Missouri Attorney General Carroll Emberly and Senator Klein Corban, the father of the groom.

A DC senator.

Bingo again.

When she said she’d spent some time as a staffer, I didn’t know she was working for her own future father-in-law.

Technically, father-in-nothing now.

The more I read, the more this feels like some bizarre medieval arranged marriage. Aside from her name, there’s no mention of Winnie until the end.

Some photographer took a grainy image of her hunched behind the wheel of her car, wedding dress on and angry determination in her eyes.

It doesn’t take long to find that picture everywhere on social media.

I’m amazed there’s no attempt to squelch it to save the family some embarrassment. I’m no stranger to rich political types with their heads lodged up their asses. The only thing they hate more than losing money is having their drama splashed out in public.

The article was posted half an hour ago. No doubt Mr. Attorney General will try to have it pulled, but it may be too late, judging by the views and shares stacking up.

The spectacle draws laughs and predictably shitty comments from locals like a lightning rod.

Damn.

Out of morbid interest, I look for Winnie herself on social media. Her accounts are private, but her profile picture shows a laughing redhead holding flowers.

I don’t bother blowing up the image to see, but I can almost guarantee there’s a small fluffy bee on one of them.

I snort loudly.

She may be bonkers, but she’s still a smoke show, and I’m not normally blue balling over textbook crazy redhead types.

There’s something different about her face here. Not just a filter or the fact a professional clearly took the photo.

There’s something real and gentle and beguiling about her, like this photo captured a rare moment where she really was happy. She’s not faking a smile because she’s trying to persuade some stuffy jerkoff to let her rent his star property a little while longer.

My lip curls as I sip my beer.

Do not feel guilty, you asshole.

You have every right to be careful.

Before I get to wonder what a real genuine Winnie smile looks in person too long, Colt comes in. I shut the laptop before he sees I’m gawking at the girl he almost lit on fire.

“Hey, Dad.” His voice only drags a little. He’s covered in dust and cobwebs from cleaning the garage.

“Hey, kiddo. Don’t sit down yet,” I say as he heads over to slump down beside me. “Go shower first. Did you get it all done?”

“Yep, I even cleaned the ATVs. Wiped the old dirt off them and everything.”

Ah, hell.

I may breathe fire that would make a dragon jealous, but it’s impossible to stay mad at him for long.

Even when he did something as remarkably stupid as dicking around with fireworks on a million-dollar rental property. Maybe he’s only doing his chores to get back on my good side, but at least he’s doing them, and without complaining, too.

“All right.” I nod. “You’re telling me you’re done for the evening?”

A quick smile crosses his face, and for a second, he looks like a younger face I used to see in the mirror.

“Better be. I’m beat.”

“Homework done?” It’s not exactly homework, but it’s the summer math stuff he signed up for to prep for organic chemistry this fall.

So far, the accelerated summer class looks like another breeze for my mad scientist son.

If only his common sense was as sharp as the rest of his brains.

“Yeah, it was easy. I thought Calc was gonna be harder.” He hesitates as I shake my head.

“Boy, don’t brag, or I’m putting you to work in accounting next year.”

He chuckles like he always does at my deadpan delivery, slowly tugging at the sleeve of his shirt to pull up a cobweb stuck there.

“Since I’m done with everything, can I go to Uncle Pat’s tonight? He said it’d be cool to have a sitter for Arlo.”

My eyes narrow like a hawk.

“Did you miss the part where you’re grounded? Until further notice?” I fold my arms. “You’re barely through day one.”

“Yeah, but that was for fun stuff, I thought? This is Uncle Pat and Arlo. Aunt Lemmy’s cool with it too, obviously.”

There’s no way I’ll refuse him and he knows it, especially knowing how good he is with little Arlo. I still can’t believe my idiot younger brother skipped the whole infant part and wound up with an instant first grader.

I don’t want Colt thinking this shit will be easy, though.

“And Uncle Pat asked you today?”

“Yeah.” Colt holds up his phone to show me the text. “See, Dad?”

Fucking Patton, bypassing me like the insubordinate prick he is. I know Colt loves being treated like an adult, but last night proved he’s far from it.

“I see.” I lean back in my chair and watch him. “Go shower and I’ll think about it. No promises.”

It’s the best I can do.

He speedwalks away, almost at a skip, and I sink back down on the sofa.

No one ever tells you how difficult being a single dad is when it comes to handing out discipline.

Or, hell, being any kind of dad, I guess.

The surprise family aged Pat about ten years, almost overnight.

It also made him talk relentlessly about Arlo. Some days I’m not sure he remembers what making money is.

He flips back and forth from moaning over how worried he is every time the kid gets a cold to singing Salem’s praises. He’s so in love with his wife it makes my stomach churn.

Only Dex triggers a worse gag reflex with Junie.

Of course, Patton’s only getting started with fatherhood. He’s in the easy stage.

Later on, you have to balance your son becoming a man and navigating the world with making choices you wouldn’t agree with. That makes dealing with an unexpected stomach bug he passes on to you or a nine o’clock rush to the drugstore for supplies to finish some project he just remembered easy as pie.

How to be a parent, how to be approachable, that’s what they never tell you. I’m still wrestling with how to be a human shepherd.

How do I make sure Colt turns into the best young man he can possibly be?

I spend more time on that than anything.

And I know it’s me, myself, and I making the decisions.

Just because that’s normal doesn’t mean it’s fucking easy. Sometimes when I’m idling after a few drinks, I wonder what it would’ve been like with a woman in the mix, a proper mother to share the responsibility.

Then I remember Rina cut herself out of our lives.

I remember why I was happy as hell to say good riddance.

Snarling, I drag a hand over my face, stretching my skin.

I love who Colton is now.

I love the bright, innocent kid who still grins at me after he’s solved some math problem that looks like Coptic Greek.

Yet I also get this dread, this evil sense he’s slipping away, off to the no man’s land of adolescence where wolves prowl, waiting to chew up the smartest, kindest kids.

He’s making decisions like sneaking away to fucking Solitude to play with literal fire, instead of helping his buddy Evans with chemistry like he was supposed to.

What do I do with that when there’s no playbook?

I have to write new rules on the fly.

“Dad? Can I go now?” Colt swings in front of me, freshly showered and changed into a pair of jeans and a Breaking Bad shirt that sticks to his wet body. His hair sticks up in spikes.

“On one condition.” I hold up a finger. “You promise to check in, and you do it religiously. If you step one foot outside Uncle Pat’s place, or I find out you had Evans or whoever over, you’ll be grounded until you’re old enough to drive. I’m not playing, you hear?”

“Okay, okay! Jeez.” He rolls his eyes, but I’m still waiting. “Yes, Dad. Got it. Read you loud and clear.”

“Good. C’mon then, little man.” I haul myself up off the sofa, but as I’m about to leave to drive him over, I check my phone and see I’ve missed a call.

From Rina.

Fucking Rina.

My ex-wife. Colt’s joke of a mother. A ghost I’ve barely thought about in years.

She usually never gets in touch outside Christmas except during her vacations, one of the few times her guilt starts eating her bad enough to give a shit about Colt.

“Hey, Dad?” Colt hovers by the door, looking like he’s going to fall through it as he glances back at me. “You coming or…?”

“On my way.” I swipe the missed call notification away and follow him to the garage.

I do my best to banish Rina from my mind, but she keeps creeping back in.

What the hell could she want?

I can deal with her later.

This week seems determined to massacre my hopes for peace and quiet.

Between my ex-wife and Winnie, the drama wheel feels like a steamroller, ready to grind me under.