Sweet Troublemaker Page 13

  She fanned the book’s pages, streaming past possible careers. Closing the thick book, she laid her hands on it and shut her eyes.

  What career should I have?

  Taking a deep breath, she propped the book on its spine, allowing it to fall open along with her eyes. Page one hundred twenty-three. She glanced up at the career on that page and quickly slammed the book shut.

  Rancher.

  She lowered her head to the table, undecided whether to laugh or sob.

  Rancher?

  Nick.

  She really had fallen for him, hadn’t she?

  This ache wasn’t a fool’s ache.

  Why couldn’t it be about Chuck moving on with someone new?

  Like Nick. He was probably halfway to Texas, chatting up some pretty thing while filling his gas tank.

  Despite telling herself not to, she got up and peeked past the curtain to see if Nick’s truck had pulled away from his cottage yet.

  It was gone.

  Chapter 10

  Nick heard something thumping softly against Polly’s front door from inside. He listened for a moment, shifting his paper shopping bag to his left hip. Being an oceanside town, they had switched from plastic to paper in hopes of protecting the oceanlife from additional non-compostable trash being blown into it and causing harm, and he was afraid the bag was going to tear, dumping the borrowed supplies. He’d already filled the beach chair on the porch beside him, and he carefully rapped his knuckles on the door while hugging the bag.

  As he waited for Polly to answer, he had a brief, irrational fear that she’d done what he’d planned to do and left town.

  The door swung open and a rumpled Polly answered. Her eyes were puffy and she looked so sad that, without thinking, he crushed her in his arms, the paper bag finally ripping, its contents landing at their feet.

  Polly sniffled, clinging to him for a moment before weakly pushing him away. It was then that he noticed all the spools of ribbon lying in a tangled mass at her feet. She’d sacrificed herself for that ribbon and faced judgment from him, and it was strewn about as if it held no value?

  He studied her more closely. She looked…devastated. Hopeless. Hurt. And it was because of him. He’d done this and the realization ripped him up inside.

  “Polly,” he murmured, reaching to cup her cheek. She turned her head away.

  “Why are you here?” she asked him. “I know you can find your way to Texas.”

  He looked down at the supplies lying around his feet on the wooden porch. “I thought you could probably use some help.”

  “I don’t,” she said firmly, ignoring the hot glue gun, scissors and other things he’d rounded up from Miss Lucille.

  He nodded as though agreeing with her. “You’re great at this stuff. You have the plans and lists and contacts, and you don’t give up and take the easy route. You want this for Sophia and Roy, and I admire that. I can’t even…” He couldn’t find the words to describe how her selflessness made him feel. Unworthy, but also in awe, as well as even more in love with her.

  “I have things under control,” Polly said, crossing her arms. “Miss Lucille said she would send over some ladies from the Ashland Belle Society.”

  “She did?” Nick asked in surprise. Then why had the woman been helping him by providing crafting supplies? Then again, Miss Lucille had claimed that the two of them—both troublemakers—deserved each other. Maybe she was ensuring they didn’t push themselves on anyone else in Indigo Bay, but kept their trouble confined to one couple.

  Polly began to close the door. When Nick reached out to hold it open, she said, “We proved we don’t have what it takes to make it beyond a short, summer romance.”

  He was coming to despise that phrase and all it represented to her.

  “I’m not going back to Texas,” he said. Not without her. Polly’s head snapped up, her eyes daring him to step over that line and say too much, to push her too far and fast. Well, he was taking it slow this time. “And since I’m around I figured I’d come by and ease your load.” He looked at her questioningly from under the brim of his hat.

  “Since you’re around?” He knew the hurt in her voice was due to how he’d tried to act cavalier, and to pass off his presence as no big deal.

  He couldn’t get it right, it seemed.

  “Since I’m around to finish this,” he said firmly, letting her know there was no doubt as to exactly why he was here, on her step. It wasn’t a casual thing. Not to him.

  She met his eyes briefly, causing his chest to expand with hope before she glanced away as though wanting to hold on to her hurt. Either that or hide it from him.

  “Is that a hot glue gun?” she asked, poking at the cord with a bare toe.

  “I borrowed it from Miss Lucille.”

  Her eyes met his again, this time in surprise. “Miss Lucille?”

  “Looks like she’s being a helpful old broad despite how we used to torture her.” He grinned wryly. “Although I do have to weed her prized flowers—under direct supervision—as well as walk Princess before I head home.”

  Polly had wrapped her crossed arms even tighter around herself despite the evening’s heat. It looked as though she was trying to hold herself together. However, there was something in the way she did it that told him she was softening, and that there might still be a chance.

  He made a quick lunge to the right, grabbing the box he had rested on the purple deckchair’s arm. “I brought pizza. I thought you might be hungry. But I also brought a salad…” he grabbed the bag that had been on the seat “…as you actually seem more like a salad person. And because I never ask you what you want to eat, I thought maybe I should, but I was afraid you wouldn’t text back. So I also got a wrap. And I bought some juice and some sweet tea from Caroline. She sent a fruit cup, too. And two cinnamon buns.” He gestured to the bag, realizing he was overcompensating and probably coming off as desperate.

  Maybe because he was.

  When he’d been driving around town, stocking up, a fear had welled up inside him. What if he’d missed his one chance to get it right with the woman who always haunted his thoughts whenever he let his mind drift?

  He’d just about gotten a speeding ticket from Officer Ben Andrews on his way back to the cottages.

  “I’m sorry. I’m self-absorbed.” Nick bowed his head. “I’ll try to change.”

  “I’m not forgiving you, but I could use that glue gun.” Polly opened her door wider, expecting him to follow her through the piles of ribbon. “And I’m also hungry.”

  “I brought wine, too. White, like you had on the beach the first night.”

  “I said I’m not forgiving you.” But while her tone was firm, the edge that had been hardening her voice earlier seemed to have softened, giving him hope that this time he might find a way to get it right.

  Polly picked up the spools of ribbon she had thrown across the cottage several hours ago. She had thrown a spool for every chastising thought she’d had about herself. The contents of one whole box were strewn about the room.

  The green velvet had been for hating how she’d allowed herself to dream the relationship was real. The wired pink gingham had been for holding back. The white satin for assuming the worst would happen if she let go. The burlap ribbon for how she hadn’t handled things better. The lace for still wanting Nick despite everything.

  And now he was here. Not halfway to Texas. He was here in real life and impossible to ignore.

  He had even brought all the things she needed. How had he known?

  Miss Lucille.

  Although not all this was due to the typically meddlesome busybody. In an act of desperation, Polly had phoned Miss Lucille to see if she could round up some volunteers to help her. She had put on her polite act, that woman she despised from her past, but had also allowed her genuine side to show, blending the take-charge-and-absolutely-no-prisoners woman with who she was inside.

  Miss Lucille had come through for her. Kindly. Gladly. The woma
n could have lorded it over her, made her work for it, but she hadn’t.

  Was that because the old matchmaker had planned on sending Nick back her way?

  Polly eyed Nick, who was rewinding a length of lace ribbon. He wasn’t asking for anything from her. Was he here only because his cousin had no doubt chastised him into staying?

  She finished picking up the ribbon and took it over to the table, grateful she didn’t have a cat to swipe at the multicolored streamers floating alongside her.

  “Like I said,” she said to Nick, who had finished with the ribbon and was now dishing out sliced fruit. She forgot what she was going to say as she took in the meal he was preparing for her. He had truly brought a selection, no longer assuming she was happy to go with the flow as long as it was his flow.

  Was it a small gesture meant to reinforce his nonverbal request for forgiveness? And if she did forgive him, would he actually change? Or would this just become their cycle? Sin, repent, repeat.

  “I am not forgiving you,” she said yet again, her voice lacking conviction.

  “I don’t expect you to.” The usual cocky side of Nick wasn’t there, and Polly took a closer look. He seemed solemn, cautious—like a dog who knew he’d misbehaved.

  She sat heavily in a kitchen chair.

  He could have sent a cousin.

  And if he’d come here just for Roy, he wouldn’t have brought such thoughtfully chosen food. He wouldn’t look as though someone had just busted his lifelong dream. And he sure as heck wouldn’t be now trying to figure out how to use the glue gun instead of chowing down. He was fumbling with a thirty-foot spool of pink-and-white gingham ribbon, trying to create a large bow with hands that were more apt at forming lassos and half hitches.

  No, Nick Wylder was here for only one reason.

  He was here for her.

  He shoved his cowboy hat higher on his head, his face a mask of concentration. Realizing that he was wearing his hat indoors, he quickly plucked it off, shooting a quick glance her way.

  Her hurt and anger softened, blunted like a piece of glass tumbled by the ocean waves. She hadn’t felt this calm or human in a very long time.

  She got up and rounded the table to where Nick was applying too much glue to a jar. She gently took the gun from his hands, showing him wordlessly how to make things right.

  Chapter 11

  On the afternoon of the wedding, Polly swept mascara onto her lashes. She and Nick had worked with the ladies from the Ashland Belle Society through most of the night, putting the final touches on the decorations. With the women bustling around them there hadn’t been a chance to talk.

  This morning, she and Nick had been up early, working with Levi and Myles as well as the resort staff to finish the last-minute setup. Things were looking pretty amazing, but their full-steam-ahead efforts had meant she hadn’t had a chance to talk to Nick.

  An hour ago, when she’d finally felt they might sneak away to discuss their relationship, he’d suddenly begun shooing her off to get ready.

  She needed to talk to Nick, before the wedding began. But he was too busy, as one of the groomsmen. Tomorrow he planned to head home after weeding Miss Lucille’s garden—something Polly imagined he’d try to accomplish before the older woman went off to church at ten.

  Polly dabbed at the dark smudges of fatigue under her eyes, covering them with concealer, and thought about all the things she wanted to say to Nick. Her heart began to thrum in anticipation and her hands began trembling.

  Reminding herself to breathe, she zipped up her powder blue dress with the lace-edged v-neckline, wishing it merely brushed her curves instead of clinging to them the way it did now. She took one last look in the mirror and then headed to the beach, where the ceremony would soon be held.

  What was she going to say to Nick? Her prepared speech about how she was going to let go didn’t feel right. It made her panic. She wanted to go slower than he wanted to. Would he accept that?

  He might. He hadn’t fully left her behind. He was still here in Indigo Bay, and that had to count for something. With hope lightening her steps, she hurried to the spot where a small crowd was already gathering, near rows of white fold-up chairs facing an archway. Behind them the blue ocean gleamed in the late-afternoon sun, pure and promising. Thick white ribbon was woven through the arch’s latticework, and the odd red rose provided a punch of color, giving the down-home country ambience a classy vibe.

  If she were to remarry, she’d want a wedding like this one.

  “This looks incredible,” Levi said, coming over to greet her. He was in Western formalwear: a new pair of dark-washed blue jeans, a tuxedo shirt with a Western flare and a bolo tie secured by a piece of aquamarine the size of a horse’s eye. He wore a white hat, white boots and a happy grin. She had a feeling his boots’ color wouldn’t last a second on a dusty Texas ranch.

  “Have you seen Nick?” she asked.

  “He’s getting ready. There’s a bit of a lineup for our cottage’s shower. Good thing we’re all cowboys and don’t take long.” He glanced around. “You haven’t seen Cole, have you?”

  “No.” She took quick stock of those in attendance, on the lookout for the second-born Wylder—the last of the boys to arrive. “Not yet.”

  Levi’s mouth turned down as he scanned the group once again. She could see his firstborn tendencies trying to rise, already working out how to fix things as he shifted into problem-solving mode. She wasn’t sure how he would conjure the brother who had yet to grant his blessing upon their father’s remarriage, but if anyone in the family could, it would likely be him.

  “I need to ask Nick something before the ceremony starts,” she said, excusing herself as she spotted another white cowboy hat—Nick’s. He was talking to the man hired to perform the ceremony, that patent Wylder frown in place as he went over details.

  “Nick?” she called abruptly, as he turned away to deal with something else, after finishing his conversation.

  He turned toward her, his expression opening then closing, as though he’d caught himself.

  “I want to go to Texas with you.”

  He blinked once, then stepped closer, his head dipping low. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “Texas.” She was shaking with nerves, and for a long moment she thought she might be losing her mind. What was she doing? She wasn’t asking for mutual ground or a compromise; she was putting herself out there—way too far out—because she feared that otherwise there wasn’t a reasonable possibility he might say yes.

  She shook off her thoughts and doubts. “I know this seems rash.” She reached out to touch his arm, her eyes on his white boots as she collected her thoughts.

  “Can this wait?” He tipped his head toward his uncle, who had just appeared under the archway along with several of his sons.

  “No,” she said, surprising herself.

  Nick’s head tipped to the side like Ralph’s did when the dog was intrigued.

  “No,” she said again. “I’ve been acting scared this week. I’ve been thinking decades into the future, instead of just living here today.”

  Nick shifted his weight and she could see he was torn. He wanted to hear her out, but it was just about time for the ceremony to start. The cellist they’d hired was already playing a lovely, slow song.

  It wasn’t the wedding march. She still had time.

  “I like you, Nick. A lot. I enjoy spending time with you, and I love how I feel free when I’m around you. I want to explore where this goes.”

  “I’m going to need more than that,” he said gently. He had angled his head and she thought for a moment that he was going to lean in and kiss her. But he was simply using his hat brim to block a gawker from getting a perfect view of their expressions.

  “I know what I want,” Nick said. “And I want more than you liking me and me making you feel good.” His jaw was flexing and she could see the restraint making his muscles taut. He gave a curt nod and turned to head toward Roy and his cousins
.

  Nick was walking away. Her moment was ending. She had to do something.

  Something. Something. Something.

  Anything.

  She hurried to the aisle they had created with the chairs and marched halfway down. She stopped and announced in a loud, clear voice, “I need to say something before the wedding starts.”

  Curious gasps filled the air as guests swiveled toward her. Someone knocked off one of the fat bows she’d placed on the backs of the chairs. Roy stepped forward on the near-white sand, his expression one of concern, his eyes scanning the dunes behind them for his bride, who was soon to appear.

  “I need to tell one of the groomsmen how I truly feel, because I got it wrong when I tried earlier.” Polly closed her eyes, summoning strength as she clenched her hands together. She opened her eyes, meeting Nick’s solid gaze. He was standing stock-still as though expecting a wild bull to charge him, but waiting for it to make its first move, so he could make his, darting out of range.

  But he was patiently waiting for her to speak. He was letting her take the lead. He wasn’t looking at anyone else or checking their reactions. He wasn’t telling her to quit making a scene or a fuss, and her heart fell a little more in love with him in that moment.

  “Nick Wylder, I love you. And it scares the—” She caught herself. There were a lot of guests who looked as though they were clean-living people and wouldn’t appreciate the word that was on the tip of her tongue. However, there were also several cowboys in the audience who would probably choose something a lot saltier that the particularly hot location she’d planned on mentioning.

  She returned her focus to her words, staring at a broken shell on the sand in front of her. “It scares me like nothing else ever has. It scares me more than it did when I told my ex-husband that our marriage was over. It scares me more than being poor. It scares me more than losing the money I invested. It scares me more than not knowing myself.” She inhaled, trying to repress the shaky feeling that kept creeping up inside her.