Holiday Risk Read online

  "She's cute, but rambunctious and crazy,” the stranger says. Now that my leg is no longer in danger of being flayed, I have a second to appraise the puppy-holding man. And appraise him, I do.

  He’s hot, and I blush as soon as my brain takes in the bulging muscles from the arm wrapped around his dog, working to keep her still. A pair of black, tight-fitted jeans with a black Polo tucked in make him look like he's about to go spy on someone through their windows. But it highlights some very nice assets—his bulging biceps. Forcing myself to make eye contact rather than envisioning what he looks like under that shirt, I’m thankfully not drooling when his deep brown eyes make contact. He flicks a hand through his hair, the motion startling me out of my daydream of us walking the Pelican Bay pier together, one of my arms wrapped around a striking bicep.

  "She's a puppy. That's what they do." A breeze tickles my leg, and I peek down to see a large opening in my brand new Christmas-tree print leggings. My face pinches. They’re a seasonal special. I’ll never find this pair again. Ugh.

  "She ripped your…pants?" He asks and states at the same time, like he’s not sure what I'm wearing. "Can I buy you a new pair?"

  It's doubtful. I can’t imagine this big guy sitting on Facebook watching a live video in anticipation of scoring a piece of clothing. It would take hours.

  "No, it's okay." Have I said “okay” five hundred times in this conversation? I think so. Get a handle on yourself, Joslin. He may be hot, but his dog ruined a fresh pair of holiday leggings.

  While a piece of my legging blows in the breeze, his clothes aren’t disheveled in the least. Except for his lack of a warm winter coat, he’s the image of put together. My large black Columbia coat hides the upper half of my body, except for the hat and mittens I shoved in my pockets when I entered the store. Because I’m sane and wear a jacket in the winter.

  "She's only a few months old, and all my attempts to train her have been ineffective. It's another six weeks before they start the next puppy training class, and I'm pretty sure she's going to chew me out of a house before then." He puts Frankie back on the ground but keeps a firm grip on her leash.

  She makes a mad dash for me again, pulling on her tether, but I step back before she makes contact.

  "I lost a dining room chair, my coat, and a brand new pair of L.L. Bean boots. They were limited edition. Back-ordered for over six months before they came. She ate the box and the shoes." His voice starts to sound a little panicky as he speaks faster and faster, but I understand. We Mainers take our L.L. Bean seriously.

  “Have you given her chewy toys?” Such a stupid, stupid question, but once my brain registered his hotness level—a solid ten—and I remembered my legs are unshaven under this now ripped pair of leggings, I lost my ability to form smart sentences. The universe is so unfair.

  "Of course. She eats them all. The bright pink fuzzy duck,” he points to a pink duck toy hanging from a hook. “It made it almost forty-eight hours before I found the head on my pillow and the guts strewn across the living room."

  "You need to pick one of the flat designs that don't have stuffing." Not turning fully around, I step back and pull off one of the flat ducks from behind me. I toss it to him across the space and he catches it one-handed. His arm stretches in front of him, but I lose sight of the duck and focus my attention on how the muscle.

  "This could work." He examines the duck while I stare at him and hope I don’t get caught. I can’t help myself. Who knows when I’ll see such a fine specimen again?

  I step to the side this time and grab a red, rounded triangle that catches my attention. “You definitely need one of these. Put some treats in the bottom, and she’ll spend all day working to get them out.”

  I walk the toy to him and put it in his waiting hands. "How do you know so much?" he asks giving me a quizzical look.

  I shrug. "I like dogs."

  "Sit." He tugs on Frankie's leash, but the dog doesn't move.

  He transfers the two toys to his other hand with the leash and stretches across the distance for a handshake. "I'm Spencer."

  For what is sure to be a stupid-ass reason, my cheeks turn all pink again. It’s like my body knows I’m going to touch a hot guy and immediately works to guarantee I make a fool of myself. “Joslin. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Well, Joslin, do you think you can help me find treats to put in this red contraption?”

  I release his hand even though I don’t want to. "Sure, they’re probably in the next row."

  Spencer turns his back to me and starts to walk around the aisle. I follow behind, quickly snatching up the first toy I see for small dogs. I'm sure my sister’s Yorkie will love it. “You can do little treats, peanut butter, or doggie cheese spray.”

  “Cheese spray?” He laughs but doesn't stop walking. "Well, she wouldn't be a Jamison if she didn't love cheese spray."

  It doesn’t take long for Spencer to find a bottle of cheese spray. It’s designed to look like the human variety, which is unsettling for a number of reasons. I’ve never been a connoisseur of canned cheese, and now I’m sure I won’t start anytime soon.

  With his hands full of the leash and toys, I’m relegated to carrying the cheese spray and a few other small, rounded treats Spencer grabs. As appreciation for my help, he offers to pick up my purchase, as well, and after a little back-and-forth at the register, I finally give in. I remember the gift I bought for my sister’s yorkie. The two squeaky tennis balls aren’t going to be enough. I’ll have to make a return trip—sans hot guy distractions and holy pants.

  Spencer stops outside my car, the plastic bag hanging from his hands while Frankie does everything possible to jump all over me. We stand in the parking lot, and while he must be freezing without a coat, he doesn’t show any distress.

  The time ticks on, the silence becoming more fitting of an awkward first date rather than some stranger you helped pick out toys at the pet store.

  “Um…” I fumble for the door handle, ready to get in my car and leave.

  “Would you like to go on a date with me?” he blurts out into thin air.

  “What?” I turn back from the car even though I’m ready to flee.

  “Dinner, maybe a movie.”

  “When?”

  He smiles. “Tonight?”

  “Um… I hadn’t planned on going anywhere.” Oh my God, Joslin, could you give a dumber response?

  “That’s okay. I’ll bring something over. We can watch a movie.”

  “A movie? You mean like Netflix and chill?” His eyes widen, and he takes an actual step back. Oh God. “I mean… Not that we…would chill. In that way. But just like… On the couch. Chill.”

  He laughs, which might make the situation worse. “Relax, I understood what you meant. I would love to watch a movie and just regular chill with you.”

  “Well, I’m not sure.” What am I doing? What is wrong with me?

  It’s not that I don’t want to have a hot guy in my living room, but I watch way too much Investigative Discovery Channel at night. Hot guys are killers, too. It’s always the ones the neighbors don’t expect.

  Spencer fiddles with his bags, giving himself a free hand, and pulls the cell phone out of his back pocket. It takes me a few seconds, but I finally catch up and realize this is the point we exchange numbers and information.

  “How about you give me a phone number, and if you make up your mind in the next few hours, let me know?”

  I hesitate for a moment longer before giving him my number. “I’ll let you know when I decide.”

  Spencer leads Frankie to a big black truck in the second lane of the parking lot. I practically throw myself into my car, buckling my seat belt, but then wait another five seconds before I hit my head lightly on the steering wheel.

  “Stupid.”

  “Stupid.”

  “Stupid.”

  I chant while waiting until his black truck leaves.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I'm a moron. There's something wrong
with me. In my brain. For real.

  Sitting in my house with my cell phone in hand, I'm cute and witty and fun. Put me in live-action situations where the cute guy is standing across from me, and I make a reference to Netflix and chill. I'm aware of this fault in my DNA, but for some reason, the general population has allowed me to continue talking to people.

  That's why, five minutes after returning home from the pet store, I did something stupid.

  I texted Spencer.

  Because I'm a moron.

  I asked him over for a movie and dinner…tonight.

  At my place.

  In the back of my brain, I thought he’d be busy, and we’d plan something for next week. It would give me time to prep, pick out an outfit, work on some lines, and generally try to become less of a moron.

  But no. Spencer, who does not know I'm a moron, said he'd be right over.

  Did you catch that? He said he'd be right over.

  BE RIGHT OVER!

  As in, there will be a hot guy in my house momentarily. And I offered to Netflix and chill with him.

  I don’t even know what that means.

  Have I agreed to have sex with him? I mean, he's hot, but I've never been one to put out on the first date. I rub circles over my right temple, but it does little to relieve the forming headache. The bed shakes as I flounce on it in despair. The ill thought-out act puts me directly in the path of a full-length mirror, and I don’t possess the hips and waistline to look at myself in a sitting position this closely. Ugh.

  A few minutes of solid pacing take place in front of the mirror with my hand on my chin, contemplating if I should change my clothes. It’s winter in Maine, so the sweater is nothing but practical, but maybe so many layers is a bad decision for a date. Especially a first date.

  Before I have a chance to make a decision, there's a knock on the front door. And then a dog bark. Looks like the jeans and oversized sweater will have to do.

  Spencer stands on my little stoop holding a large red-and-white pizza box, Buddies written on the top, the local biker bar who also specializes in the best pizza in the county. When you live in a tiny town, every restaurant plays double duty in something. He's still coatless, his sleeves pulled tight around thick muscles.

  "Hey," I drag the word out like a freshman who gets her first chance to talk to a senior in high school.

  The black ball of fluff I met earlier today, Frankie, jumps and pulls on her leash, trying her hardest to get in my house.

  "Hey," he actually sounds a little nervous, too, which makes me feel better. "I hope we’re not too early. There was traffic coming into town, and I didn't want to be late."

  "Really?" The city population is less than one-thousand residents. I don’t think we've ever had a traffic problem.

  He laughs. "No.”

  Frankie gives one big tug on the leash, catching Spencer off guard. His body lurches forward, and he drops the leash in order to hold on to the pizza.

  "Shit." I grab the box from him just as Frankie hits me in the kneecap before running into the living room.

  "I'm so sorry." He looks to the sky and runs two fingers through his hair. "All I ever do is apologize for the dog. I hope it's okay I brought her. I was scared of what she’d eat if I left her alone too long. And she seemed to make you like me the first time.”

  Frankie jumps over the back of my couch, her big body making the legs clack on the hardwood floors when she makes contact with the cushions. With her nose, she nuzzles both ends until all the throw pillows are on the floor and then she stops directly in the middle and lays down, perfectly at peace.

  "It wasn’t my best idea," Spencer mumbles.

  I laugh while walking the pizza to the breakfast bar separating my kitchen from the living room. "No. She’s okay Spencer." Frankie’s just a little hyper.

  I flip open the top of the pizza and get a whiff of pepperoni and cheese, the toppings we agreed upon through text earlier tonight. "She's a puppy. Puppies chew." It's also the reason I don’t have a puppy.

  I grab a few plates from the cupboard and slide them on the counter, and for good measure, two forks, as well. Frankie, content with her spot on the couch, doesn't move, even with the tempting smells of meat a few feet from her.

  "That's a good sign—she's not begging for food." I don’t really know if that’s true or not, but Spencer seems a little overwhelmed and it might be helpful.

  He looks back at Frankie and shakes his head. "She ate two bags of trash before we came."

  "Oh." Not so helpful then.

  "She must have a grudge against bags because one of them was empty—in the cupboard under the sink." He keeps staring at Frankie, his head jerking back and forth like we should all be a little wary when she's so quiet and not moving.

  I lightly push the plate into his arm to draw his attention back to me. "I'm sure it's a phase."

  Probably.

  Maybe.

  Spencer puts three pieces on his plate and then randomly, his head jerks up, his eyes wide in excitement. "I brought a movie."

  He’d asked what I liked through text, and I told him anything. It seemed like the right answer to give to a guy you're hoping is not a serial killer and you've invited into your house. At this point, I can only cross my fingers he hasn’t picked some Rob Zombie movie like House of 1000 Corpses or something. Me hiding in my closet underneath a pile of blankets is probably not the chill part of tonight’s plan.

  This is why I should not be allowed to text guys. I’m too reckless. I agree to stupid things.

  "What did you decide on?" I ask hesitantly. Please no horror movies. Oh God, what if it's Cujo?

  "I called my sister in Texas, and she suggested this." He pulls out a DVD case from behind his back.

  I use a few seconds to puzzle it out because I’m pretty sure DVD cases are too big for a man’s back pocket. Unless he’s hiding a massive fanny pack back there, that case has been down his pants.

  A place I hope to one day become acquainted with. I'm way too wrapped up in thoughts of where this case has touched to give it my attention, but I sneak a peek at the cover. Looks harmless enough.

  A simple white background with a cute couple on the front, a big, fluffy Labrador retriever right smack dab in the middle. What could go wrong?

  “So what is it you do, Joslin?” Spencer asks, now starting the required small talk portion of our evening.

  “I’m a pediatric nurse. And you? What brought you to Pelican Bay?” I can’t imagine there’s a huge need for hot guys in the city. There aren’t many jobs, and I would definitely remember if Spencer had gone to school with us or been here for any length of time. I’m a member of the Pelican Bay phone tree. A guy this hot would definitely warrant a phone call.

  “Just finished my time in the military and took a job with Ridge Jefferson’s firm. Do you know him?”

  “Ridge? Who doesn’t?” I respond, leaning across the breakfast bar and taking a bite.

  Spencer inclines back like I’ve shocked him. “Oh.”

  “Oh?” I question…and then his response hits me. I chew faster and swallow hard. “Not oh. Just oh. The Jefferson brothers are kind of legends around here. The whole family, really. They own the hardware store, too. You can’t live in Pelican Bay and not know a Jefferson.” I hurry to explain.

  **

  An hour and thirty minutes later, Frankie, sensing my distress, nuzzles closer. Her head rubs against my arm until I lay it over her neck and scratch under her chin.

  "Can I get you a Kleenex?" Spencer asks from the other side the couch.

  Like a woman who knows another has been wronged, Frankie stretches out, kicking him in the leg with her back paws. Spencer and I sit at opposite sides of the couch—as much distance between us as possible—while the dog lays spread out in the middle. It would be a funny scene if we were in high school and not two adults on an awkward first date. Tonight isn't comical so much as wretched.

  "No. I'll be okay." I swipe at the few remaining te
ars before they have a chance to make it far down my cheeks.

  Spencer stands up from the couch, and Frankie lifts her head to look at him but promptly lays back down in my lap again. "My sister said it was a great movie about a dog."

  His sister is the devil. That was not a great movie about a dog. It was a super sad, unruly, horrible movie about a dog. "The dog dies at the end."

  He shakes his head. "I know."

  "New rule: don't watch movies with pictures of dogs on the covers."

  Spencer chuckles, but it's forced. "This whole night was a fail. My dog laid on you during the whole movie. I didn't realize the dog dies at the end. It came highly recommended. I swear."

  Yeah, by the devil. "Well it's a memorable first date." My face crinkles up for just a brief moment. What if he doesn't consider it a date?

  Spencer walks to my front door, and I stand as Frankie follows him, allowing me to get off the couch. “Do I get a second chance?"

  Is he asking me out again? Spencer opens the front door but halts on the other side of the porch, one step down so our heads line up. Frankie weaves her way out, stopping over the threshold so she’s half in and half out. I lean up against the doorframe with a smile. "Sure."

  The air draws silent between us until Frankie gets excited and bumps into the back of my leg with her massive body. I gasp and fall into Spencer. He wraps his arms around my waist to catch me as his lips connect against mine. What starts out as a clumsy tumble turns into a first kiss as he slowly opens his mouth, taking my lips with his.

  One of his hands cups my cheek when my legs steady, and Spencer deepens the kiss. I grab onto his shirt and fist the material—not because I'm scared of falling. My stomach tightens as his tongue slips past and runs across the edge of my teeth. Frankie bumps into his leg and then takes off for the big black truck in my driveway.