Chapter 10
“I could pretend I was a friend of yours, visiting you, who likes children.”
—Gertrude Chandler Warner, The Boxcar Children
Clint had met so many celebrities over the years that he’d long ago stopped being impressed by any of them, but Roth Hardy
was in a category all to himself. Even at night, Hardy’s star quality radiated. His etched features might have feminized another
man, but there was nothing soft about Hardy’s physique. A little less than average height—maybe five-foot-nine or so—he had
a gym body, an unlined face, and a thick head of dark hair, a strand of which flopped over his forehead.
Roth was regarded as the new generation’s Tom Cruise in both looks and skills.
He had a pilot’s license, insisted on doing as many of his own jaw-dropping stunts as the insurance company would allow, and, like Cruise, perfectly navigated the thin line between cocky and confident.
He’d created a box office bonanza with the Cole Legend franchise, playing a professional mercenary battling a coalition of rogue nations intent on world domination.
Roth gave Clint’s hand a vigorous shake and offered up his megawatt crooked smile. “It’s an honor to meet the best offensive
mind in football. I’m a huge fan.”
“Thanks. I can say the same.”
Hardy reached up to clap him on the bicep. “I mean it sincerely. You’re a joy to watch on the field. Apologies for barging
in on you so late and without an invitation.”
“No problem. Anytime.” Clint didn’t even say it ironically. The Cole Legend films were Clint’s favorite action movie franchise,
and having Roth Hardy show up was a lot cooler than some drunken rando.
“What are you doing here?” Dancy’s outrage reminded him that not everyone felt as welcoming.
She stalked forward like a ball of carving knives rolling downhill. The light from the firepit shimmered on her legs. Those
legs had been torturing him all evening because he couldn’t stop thinking about where they led. He’d figured the jolt he received
when she walked out of the caboose in Rory’s swimsuit earlier had been an aberration, but no. Hell no! The moment he’d stepped
onto the patio and seen that dress that wasn’t quite a dress, he’d been hit with another of those sexual grenades.
All evening, every time she moved, he had to watch the dress slide up her thighs until he could barely concentrate on their
conversation. She didn’t seem to notice the way her skirt played hanky-panky with her body. Or if she did, she didn’t care.
She probably figured Saint Clint was some kind of eunuch, impervious to lust, which might have been true a few days ago but
sure wasn’t true today.
She needed to cover the hell up around him.
He didn’t care what all those women said about being able to dress however they wanted in whatever tiny scraps of fabric they picked out and how it was nobody’s business but theirs.
It became his business when Dancy Flynn showed up on his patio half naked and expected him not to notice.
Hardy’s charming, crooked smile landed on his ex-wife. “You’re a hard woman to find. I’ve been worried about you.”
“You worry about yourself!”
Clint wished Dancy would at least pretend to be civil.
Watch sniffed Hardy’s shoes. “Who’s this?”
“His name is Jaws, and he bites,” Dancy snarled. Even in bare feet, she was several inches taller than her ex, and as Clint
watched she gained another inch by straightening her spine.
Hardy, however, didn’t seem intimidated. “Your agent’s been calling me. The press. Everyone’s concerned.” Hardy seemed genuinely
worried. He might not have been a good husband, but he struck Clint as a decent guy.
Dancy vehemently disagreed. “You’re intruding on a private moment.” With no warning, Dancy pressed against Clint’s side, one
arm curling around his back, the other across his waist.
She wouldn’t.
She did. Leaning against Clint’s chest, she triggered his libido all over again. He tried to extricate himself, but she pinched
him hard through his T-shirt. “Ouch!”
“Oh, baby, is your back bothering you again?” Her cooing voice oozed over him like warm lube.
“My back is fine,” he growled.
She patted his gut. “So brave.”
Hardy’s expression softened as he gazed at her. “It took a few days to track down your limo driver, but as you know, I don’t give up. You’ve had a hard time of it, and I want to make it better.” He looked at Clint. “With your permission, I need to talk with Dancy. Nothing personal.”
“Of course.”
He tried to pull away, but Dancy wasn’t having it. “Wasted trip,” she snapped. “As you can see, I’ve moved on, and I’m happier
than I’ve been in years.”
Liar, Clint thought. At the same time, his cedarwood body wash and Oribe shampoo teased his nostrils. She smelled like him, but
on her the scent was exotic. Sexy. Once again, he tried to edge away only to have those fingernails dig right through his
T-shirt into his skin.
“If you have anything more to say to me,” she went on, “call my lawyer. Got it?”
“I’m sorry.” Hardy looked so much like a chastised kid that Clint felt bad for the dude.
Dancy delivered a couple of hard pats to Clint’s gut. “I’m going to bed now, lover. Don’t stay up too late. Come on, Watch.”
In direct defiance of their agreement, she and her dog marched straight into his house.
A blade of early sunlight cut through the bedroom window of the caboose at the same time Watch whined to go out.
As Dancy shoved her feet into her slides, she prayed that she’d seen the last of Roth.
Maybe he was genuinely concerned about her, but it seemed more likely he wanted to tell the press he’d done his best to find her—that just because they were no longer married didn’t mean he’d stopped caring about her, blah-blah-blah—whatever he needed to say to burnish the hit their divorce had put on his good guy reputation.
She stomped outside. Thanks to the steps Clint had built, she no longer needed to carry Watch off the platform. Instead, she
leaned against the metal railing and waited while he did his business. She glanced toward the vodka bottle. Last night she’d
barely been able to resist opening it. Instead of getting easier to ignore, it was calling to her.
There’d be hell to pay with Clint for trespassing into his house last night, even though she couldn’t have been inside more
than thirty seconds. She’d walked straight through the place—in the back patio door and out the front door without getting
her girl cooties on anything. But Clint was a stickler for rules, and she’d broken his biggest one.
Still, what else could she have done? Roth wouldn’t believe she and Clint were a real item if she’d taken her standard route
around the side of the house to the caboose, and she needed him to believe that. She didn’t care about making Roth jealous,
but she very much did care about showing him that she had her head up and what had happened at the gala had been an aberration.
She set Watch’s food bowl on the platform, and he greedily devoured it. Clint had given her a week, and this was day four.
Last night’s dinner had been a welcome break from oatmeal, but even that was running low. Clint would freak if she scheduled
a food delivery, and she’d already tested him enough, so later today she’d bike into town for groceries.
She opened the windows and shut Watch in the bedroom while she painted the living area. By early afternoon, she was done. She rolled up the drop cloth and freed Watch from the bedroom. Before she could go for groceries, she needed to shower and wash the paint out of her hair.
“Come on, pal. Let’s get cleaned up.”
Wearing her paint-splattered “Football, Bud, and Cheese Curds” T-shirt and shorts, she made her way around the house to Clint’s
ice-cube gym. As Watch dozed on the bathroom floor, she showered, shampooed, and changed into the clean shorts and T-shirt
she’d washed in the sink last night. Watch’s toenails clicked on the gym floor as he followed her to the door. Just as she
got there, it swung open, and Roth’s barely legal, pregnant fiancée stepped inside.
Dancy froze, and so did Bisa. She reminded Dancy of a pint-sized version of Zendaya: wide eyes, square at the forehead and
cheekbones, face tapering to a perfect triangle. Even with her dark, curly hair in a messy bun, she barely cleared Dancy’s
ear, which meant Bisa could wear heels when she was out with Roth, something Dancy had been asked never to do. The fact that
Roth thought it was okay to bring Bisa along was mind-boggling.
Bisa curled her hand protectively over her rounded belly and, without saying a word, walked away.
Dancy hadn’t seen Roth’s car parked out front, but if Bisa was here, Roth was also still here. Could Clint—Mr. Leave Me Alone—have
invited them to stay in the house? She waited another minute before she peered outside. No one was in sight.
She needed to find Clint, but he was probably chumming it up with Roth.
Frustrated, she turned away only to spot a man on a stand-up paddleboard, gliding past the boathouse and heading farther out into the lake.
His height, the width of his shoulders, those narrow hips and strong legs told her it had to be Clint.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she told Watch.
He gave her his puppy eyes. “Stop looking at me like that. I can’t take you with me.” She found a plastic bowl, quickly filled
it with water, and left him in the gym.
The kayaks were stacked on the boathouse deck. She removed a paddle from the wall hooks and maneuvered one of the single kayaks
into the water, securing the line before it could float away. The kayak rocked, then steadied, as she lowered herself inside.
She retrieved the paddle from the dock, untied the line, and pushed away.
Seventeen years had passed since she’d spent her Minneapolis summers kayaking on Lake Harriet, but she quickly found her rhythm
and set off after the paddleboard. The sun rippled on the water and a gentle breeze tugged at her wet hair, but she couldn’t