Page 17 of Stick Break (Boston Bucks #8)

Charley

W hat the ever loving…

I blink up at Rip, who suddenly looks like he swallowed a bug and isn’t sure if he’s going to hurl or swallow it.

Before I can ask what that was all about, he shifts, trying to block my view, but that’s when I see her.

A woman in her seventies, marching toward us at record speed.

Her eyes are locking on mine, and I search Rip’s face for help.

If a look could say, please play along, that’s what Rip is giving me.

“You must be the fiancée,” the woman says, her eyes narrowing, a deep assessment.

I set my guitar down and stand so fast my chair nearly falls backward. “Ah, yes.” I stand. “And you must be…” I let my sentence hang like an unfinished song lyric.

“This is Mrs. Callahan,” Rip pipes in, his voice about three octaves higher than usual. “She’s in the cottage next to us. I told you about her. Remember?”

He told me about her quickly and vaguely, but I nod like we discuss Mrs. Callahan over breakfast every day.

He looks almost relieved at my enthusiasm. “She knows Paisley and Gunther well. They told her I’d be staying at the cottage this month. They must have forgotten to tell her you’d be stopping by for the week.”

Okay that was a whole lot of information in one breath. I run my fingers through my hair, and work to play it cool. “Oh, I’m sorry they didn’t let you know I’d be here. Paisley and I go way back,” I explain.

Fine lines around blue eyes crinkle as she steps closer, like she’s running facial recognition software on my cheekbones. “You look familiar.”

Rip coughs. “Oh, that’s probably because she’s been here with Paisley before. Nothing scandalous.” His laugh is forced, and my gaze flies to his.

What the hell? Wait, does he know who I really am? Is he trying to cover for me? He scrubs a hand down his face. No. He’s just babbling. But something is definitely going on with him.

“Yes, that must be it,” Mrs. Callahan says. “Rip here says you play guitar.”

“I do.” When exactly did the two talk about my musical resume?

“My great granddaughter is coming for a visit.” Warmth crosses her face as she beams. It’s easy to tell she loves her family, which brings hurt to my soul. I love mine too. I just don’t love the way they don’t believe me, or believe in me. “She’s seven, and has been asking for lessons.”

“Oh, that’s great. I bet she’ll love playing.” Wait, is she asking me to give lessons? I’m not sure but I quickly add, “I’m not certified to teach.”

She waves her hand. “Being able to play is all the certification one needs. She’s here for the next month.”

Jeez, pushy much.

“I’m only here until the end of next week,” I say, trying to sound casual and not like I’m already planning a fake relocation to Fiji.

“We’re planning to lay low for the week,” Rip jumps in with that same too-smooth, too-practiced tone. “We just want quiet time and privacy.”

She leans in, as if we’re co-conspirators and whispers, “Lots of people who vacation here are trying to lay low. Did you know Mr. Ford once stayed in that cottage?” She points down the beach.

I’m not sure which Ford she’s referring too, but I do get the sense that she’s telling us our identities and privacy will be protected her, and that gives me a measure of comfort. Although, if she knew I was Indie Rhodes, involved in the scandal, she’d be shooing me away from the beachside resort.

But seriously, maybe it would be nice to get out and socialize. Not that I’m not enjoying being locked up in the cabin with Rip. That’s been an unexpected highlight of this escape.

When she doesn’t look like she’s about to give up, Rip says, “But we’ve got a wedding to plan.”

I whip my head toward him so fast I nearly sprain something. I’m sorry, what now?

Wedding. He just said wedding .

The lie rolls off his tongue like he’s been rehearsing in the mirror all morning. Honestly, maybe he has.

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear all about it,” Mrs. Callahan beams, already ten steps ahead of this whole charade.

“Ah… sure,” I manage, which is the universal code for I have no idea what’s happening but I guess I live here now.

“Community dinner tonight,” she declares. Rip and I both open our mouths, probably to scream, but she steamrolls right past it. “It’s potluck. Bring a casserole and your guitar. Be there at five.” And just like that, she power-walks away like she didn’t just hijack our entire evening.

I stare at Rip, who’s staring back at me with the same expression I imagine people wear after being abducted by aliens.

“What just happened?” I ask.

He blinks, then shakes his head. “I’m not sure. Did we just get drafted into a community casserole cult?”

“Why exactly are we pretending to be engaged?” I ask, arms crossed.

He groans and sets a plastic bag on the table like it personally betrayed him. From the brown paper bag, he pulls out not one, but twoboxes of condoms.

His cheeks flame red, and it’s so cute I briefly forget how fake-engaged I am. “And…?”

“She caught me buying them,” he mutters, like it’s a confession to a priest. “I panicked, okay? She made this disapproving face, and started going on about her great granddaughter visiting, and how this is a ‘respectable community’ and I swear to God, Charley—she said sexcapades . A little old lady with a blue hair threw the word sexcapades . At me. Like a weapon.”

“And?”

He shudders dramatically. “I blacked out. Words just started falling out of my mouth. It was either that or die in the pharmacy aisle. She even said something about me sullying up the place.”

“Am I sully?”

Doesn’t want to sully up the place, you know.

“I’m sully?” I bite back a laugh even though Rip looks mortified.

“I…think so.”

I laugh hard. Big Bearhere has been bluffing his way through the most awkward ambush in romantic comedy history, and now he’s all flustered and red-faced and weirdly adorable.

I step up, rub his back in sympathy. “Aww, Rip.”

“It’s not funny,” he grumbles, but the way he’s hiding behind his hands suggests he knowsit is.

“Oh, it’s hilarious,” I say, rising up on my toes to kiss him.

He blinks, startled. “What was that for?”

“In case she’s watching us from her window,” I whisper with a wink. “Just doing my part for the neighborhood surveillance committee.”

He groans. “Now she’s going to expect wedding updates. Like cake flavors. And venues. And color schemes.”

“You seem to know a lot about weddings.”

“I officiate them, remember?”

“Right.”

“God, what have I done?” He buries his face in his hands, and I swear I see a glimpse of the kind of troublemaker he must’ve been as a kid—charmingly reckless, always caught, never punished.

I gently tug his hands away. “It’s going to be okay,” I say, maybe trying to convince myself too. “We’ll go to dinner, bring a dish. I’ll sing a few songs, we’ll clap politely at old people’s potato salad, and we’ll come home. How bad can it be?”

Rip gives me a look like why would you even say that out loud .

As long as no one recognizes me, it should be okay. And while her granddaughter is into music, I can’t imagine she’d know who I was either. She’s seven. So unless she’s super into scandalous reality TV at bedtime, we’re golden.”

His shoulders slump and he gives a resigned sigh. “Okay, I guess you’re right.” I run my hands up his back and his muscles ripple. “Oh, and just so you know,” He adds. “I may have also told her we’d be…uh quiet. You know. When we have sex.”

I gasp, equal parts amused and horrified. “You did not.”

His sheepish little smile screams, I absolutely did. “Not in those words,” he admits, “But…yeah, kinda.” I shake my head slowly, like he’s just doomed both of us. “Rip. Rip. Rip. That’s unfortunate.”

He lifts a brow. “Why’s that.”

“Because now you’re going to miss out on me screaming your name.” I give him my most innocent smile. He does not take it well.

He growls, a deep, low, dangerous kind of growl that sends heat skittering through me. “You’ve got to be kidding me?”

“You did this,” I remind him sweetly, turning to sit, but he catches me and pulls me back into his arms. I bump into his body and—oh, hello there. “You’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”

“I want you screaming my name, babe,” he says his voice gone gravelly.”

I shift slightly against him and feel the way his body responds. My pulse spikes with excitement.

But then…

I turn. “Did someone just clear their throat?”

Rip freezes as he looks past me. “Mrs. Callahan,” he whispers.

We both stare at her cottage, the curtain shifting ever so slightly. He shakes his head. “So much for bending you over that table and taking you right here.”

A shiver races through me as my mind conjures up the image of him doing just that. “Rip,” I push out, suddenly breathless.

Heat blisters in his eyes. “Oh, you like the idea of that, do you?”

“Yeah. I kind of do.” But then suddenly, as if having second thoughts, he straightens, his face somber. “What?”

He gives a hard shake of his head, looking like he’d just been hit with a hockey stick and it sobered him, quickly. “It’s not going to work,” he grumbles.

My heart studders, confused. “What’s not going to work?” Is he done with me? Has this charade gone too far? Yeah, it probably has, now that his neighbor is involved.

“I want you, Char,” he begins then lowers his voice even more to whisper, “I want nothing more than to take you inside and put my mouth all over you.” My pulse jumps with excitement, but when he grimaces, and gestures with a nod toward the cottage next to us, unease makes its way through my body.

“The problem is, she’s going to know what we’re doing.

And if I know she knows…ugh, I’m going to have performance anxiety.

” His shoulders sag. “Cock blocked by Mrs. Callahan.”