Love Me Crazy (3 page)

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 stomach 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.

Quinn sets the tray down, then tucks his hands in his pockets and hugs his arms to his side, hiding the ink. “Stopped by to pick up the truck, but figured, what the hell, I’m here, might as well stay the night.”

“You figured what?” Mrs. Covington
tsk
s at his bluntness and tightens her lips into a prune.

Quinn’s gaze flits to Ellie, then stops on me. “I’m staying.” He shrugs, dark eyes penetrating me as a teasing smile plays across his lips. “Things just got interesting.”

My
brain processes the words after his gaze drops away and the trance I’m under fades. He’s staying? My temperature spikes and suddenly I’m sweating in an over air-conditioned room in wet clothes. How is that possible? I fluff my shirt and the dampness makes everything worse.

“Staying? Wonderful,” Mrs. Covington says flatly. “But no need to bother yourself with wedding details. I’m sure you have plenty of ties to mend.” Mrs. Covington waves him off and drops her attention to the colorful glass disks in the hatbox. “Annabeth would love to see you again. I met her just this morning for coffee. She’s Eleanor’s maid of honor and home for the summer.” She peers up from the color samples for a split second. “You two could pick up where things left off.”

“Not likely,” he says as he moves closer.

“That’s a shame.” She taps the table. “But you never know.”

“Let’s look at the color choices for the champagne flutes,” Ellie butts in. She dumps the box over and glass tinkles across the table.

Quinn joins us at the table. My personal space begins to shrink, claimed by something impossible. The only other time I’ve felt like this was when I met the last guy I thought I’d ever date. My ex-fiancé, Preston, had the same collective presence, the kind that demands attention but had my approval before we’d even talked. He was the guy at the bar who would take no for an answer
only
after an exhausting game of stupid one-liners and romantic overkill. A skillful brush of a finger here, a questionable administered pat there. My heart triple dares me to even think the off-limits Quinn Covington–who isn’t as “out of the country” as his mom suggested– would be any different.

“Too dark.” Mrs. Covington tosses one of the colored disks into the box, startling me.

I
focus on the other colors, counting them in pairs, then by threes, wishing this was over, that I could escape Quinn and his uncanny similarities to the guy I was to marry.

“This one,” Mrs. Covington chirps as she holds up a matte navy blue disk.

“It’s so muted,” Ellie frowns. “I don’t—”

“It’s perfect.” Mrs. Covington dusts her hands like she’s done her good deed for the day.

“May I make a suggestion?” I ask, wanting to appease the bride. It’s her wedding after all.

Mrs. Covington’s eyes shrink. I take it this is when I should be a fly on the wall like she’d instructed, but staying quiet reminds me of a time when I believed saying nothing was best. And now my parents and I don’t speak. I refuse to let that mousy, sad part of me surface again.

“A suggestion?” Mrs. Covington grows taller, straightening her spine like someone just poled her up the ass. “Enlighten me, Casey.”

Too intimidated to correct my name, I hold up the piece she’d selected. “Um, this would be great as a stand-alone, but with all the other blues being integrated, this one looks kind of on the muddy side. Maybe something more vibrant so the goblets at least match Ellie’s eyes.”

“Kind of?” Boss Lady snaps. Her voice crescendos into an earsplitting glass-cracking pitch. “Be sure,” she corrects. “There is no ‘kind of’ in this business. We’re here to know. Know factually or don’t speak.”