Chapter 2
Seven Trevino
A man about to yell at his daughter.
Then hug his daughter.
Then yell at his daughter again.
Then hug his daughter again.
Then tell his daughter that she’s grounded for the
next ten years, and that if she keeps
trying to Parent Trap him into
dating Binx McGuire, she can consider that
grounding effective until she’s thirty-five,
or a nuclear physicist, whichever comes first.
S he’s here. She’s probably on the dance floor.
Or by the dessert station, sneaking cake.
Or watching the band play and drumming along on whatever hard surface she’s found nearby.
Binx’s sister said that she saw her.
Thought that she saw her… She could have been wrong. Sprout could be walking down a highway in the dark right now, about to be kidnapped, and it’s all your fault , the terrified voice in my head pipes up, making me run faster. My lungs burn as I crest the hill and aim myself for the large tent beside the tasting room.
She has to be here.
She just has to be.
And when I find her, she’s so grounded, so fucking grounded. She thought our lives were boring before? She has no idea how boring I can make things for her.
Hell, I’ll move us out to my land outside of town and homeschool her in the wilderness if that’s what it takes to keep her safe. Her only friends will be the squirrels, the rabbits, and Tater Tot the groundhog, who lives in a burrow under the old shed.
I should move out there. The main lodge and new outbuildings are ready to go, but I could use the extra time to work on renovating the cabin we’ll use as our home when I’m running the retreat next summer. And without a soul around to set me up with, Sprout will have to give up on this crazy fantasy of hers, the one where I’m in love with Binx McGuire, and all I need is a push from my sweetly meddling kid to live happily ever after with the woman of my dreams. (And the stepmother of hers.)
But I’m not in love with Binx.
I’m obsessed with Binx. I think about Binx at least twenty times a day and dream about her every night. I’ve drawn fifteen different versions of her mouth in my sketch pad, call her way too often, and keeping my hands off her is basically my third full-time job.
Even tonight, with fear for my daughter burning through my blood and terror clutching at my throat, a part of me still sat up and took notice of “my bestie’s” see-through sweater and the black bra beneath.
That kind of attraction is fucked up. Dangerous. I learned that lesson the hard way. And while I can’t pretend to be the poster child for good decisions, I never make the same dumb mistake twice.
I will never lay a hand on Binx. I will never be anything but her friend, no matter how good she smells or how sexy she looks dancing by the jukebox at my mother’s bar or how many times her eyes light up when she looks at my baby girl.
I love Sprout too much to ruin that relationship for her.
I would ruin it, there’s no doubt in my mind. That’s what I do when I fall like this. I hold on too tight, cling too hard, dive too deep. I scare people away, even good people. Even the best ones, like Binx.
She’s right behind me. I can hear her footsteps hitting the ground. She’s probably as scared as I am. I feel bad about that, and about barreling up to her family’s party like a rampaging barbarian, but not bad enough to waste my breath speaking to the older woman who asks, “Can I help you?” in a passive-aggressive voice as I push past her, moving swiftly toward the dance floor.
I have one mission, one focus, one?—
“Oh, thank God,” I mutter, my shoulders sagging as my stomach turns itself inside out.
She’s there, at the far corner of the dance floor, bouncing around with several other kids to the band’s cover of Do You Believe in Magic. My daughter, my reason for living, is safe.
And now I’m going to make her wish that she was never born.
Or at least that she never thought about leaving the house without permission and will never do so again.
“Wait,” Binx pants, grabbing my elbow and holding on tight. “Don’t make a scene. You’ll embarrass her.”
“Good,” I say, glowering down into Binx’s bright blue eyes. She’s rimmed them with eyeliner and some kind of sparkly eyeshadow that makes them even more striking than usual.
She’s fucking gorgeous tonight. But then, I knew she would be. Even in sweatpants and one of my ratty old t-shirts hanging to her knees, she’s beautiful. Dress her up for a wedding reception and she’s irresistible. That’s why I didn’t come. I know better than to put myself in situations that test my resolve.
“No, not good, you don’t want to do this,” she says, tightening her grip on my arm. Even the feel of her fingers pressing against my skin through my sweatshirt is enough to make me ache to wrap her legs around my waist and take her against the nearest tent pole.
Something I’m sure her family would love .
They’re already staring and whispering. Some speculate about who the angry man in jeans and the tattered Tool sweatshirt is. Others hiss all the details of my dive-bar-owning mother, garbage father, and time spent in prison into their friends’ ears as quickly as they can vomit up the hot gossip.
It’s been over twenty years since I was that stupid, messed up kid who got into trouble with his friends and ended up paying the price—and I didn’t even live in Bad Dog at the time—but to most people in this town, I will never be anything but a piece-of-shit ex-con. They wouldn’t want their daughters sitting next to me at the diner, let alone dating me.
Binx hasn’t even told her parents that we’re friends, but I can’t blame her. Her mother has a pole stuck up her ass, and from what I’ve seen at the hardware store when I stop in for renovation supplies, her father isn’t much better.
That’s another reason I ignored her invitation. I didn’t want to get her into an uncomfortable spot with her parents.
But looks like it’s too late for that now…
Everyone is staring, and I mean everyone . I’m sure her mother and father are getting an eyeful, and that Binx is going to get an earful later.
It’s that, as much as Binx’s gentle insistence that we talk before I push through the crowd to snatch Sprout up in my arms, that convinces me to follow her out of the tent. We step into the shadows outside the brightly lit gathering, but Binx keeps going until we reach what looks like a mini carnival.
There are games set up in the grass beneath softly glowing solar lamps, a photo booth, and what looks like…
“Are those punching bags?” I ask, already headed that way.
“Yeah. They’re for my mother,” Binx says, falling in beside me. I shoot her a confused look and she adds, “Not for her to punch. For me to punch, when she drives me crazy.” She stops beside the closest bag, holding it lightly on either side. “Listen, I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be. What Sprout did was wild and dangerous and wrong, and she deserves whatever punishment you, as her father, decide is best.”
“I know,” I say, my hands curling into fists.
“But you also know that she’s had a hell of a time making friends,” she adds in a softer voice, clearly mindful of the older kids playing frisbee golf not far away. “And she’s so happy right now. She’s having a great time dancing with kids her own age for the first time ever. I don’t know about you, but I feel like there’s a way to honor that, to let her have a little win, while also holding her accountable for her actions.”
I shake my head. “She snuck out of the house at nine o’clock at night.”
“I know.”
I jab an arm toward the entrance to the vineyard. “And somehow made it five miles down the road in the less than twenty minutes that Mom was upstairs in the shower. That means she didn’t walk.”
Binx nods, her brow furrowing. “I know. And the thought of her hitchhiking her little ass up here terrifies me, too. Truly. Really, really bad things could have happened, but…they didn’t. Which means you have the chance to teach her this lesson in a kinder, gentler way than a kidnapper would have.”
I shudder and press a fist to my stomach. “Fuck, I can’t even think about that.”
Her hand comes to rest on my shoulder. “I know.”
“No, you don’t. She’s not your kid,” I say, even though I know that’s not fair.
Binx isn’t Sprout’s parent, but she loves her. She would do anything for her, a fact she proved this past winter when she moved heaven and earth to help us raise the money to pay for Sprout’s surgery.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“It’s okay,” she says, rubbing her palm in slow circles between my shoulder blades. “You’re right. I have no idea what it’s like to be a parent, but I do know what it’s like to be a kid who doesn’t fit in. As grown-ups, we know that’s not the end of the world, and that misfit kiddos will find their people eventually. But at eight or nine, when everyone else has a bestie, and you’re the girl who collects bugs and plays soccer harder than the boys and never knows when to shut her mouth…it can be rough. You start to think there’s something wrong with you, that you’ll always be the one who doesn’t fit in. And I didn’t even have the challenges Sprout has right now.”
I stretch my neck to one side, fighting to release some of the tension in my jaw.
Binx is right. My daughter was born hearing, but the accident that killed her mother when she was little left her with severe head trauma. She lost her hearing at three, at a pivotal moment, when so much of a kid’s skill with language is forming. Then, I wasted so much time grieving that we didn’t even get on the list for the children’s hospital that specializes in hearing loss surgery until she was five. She had hearing aids, but they didn’t do much. She did speak some, but heading into elementary school, she mostly used sign language to communicate.
By the time we realized how much of the surgery wouldn’t be covered by insurance, she was seven and we were scrambling to raise the money before she lost any more time. She had the procedure last March, recovering seventy percent of her hearing in her left ear and fifty percent in her right. She was finally able to hear music and her grandmother’s laugh and, for the first time in years, her own voice.
Seeing as she’s one crazy perceptive kid, she immediately realized that it didn’t sound “normal,” not like the other kids. A period of severe self-consciousness followed. That was only made worse when her best friend, Francesca, moved away, and a few of the meaner kids starting teasing her when she mispronounced words in class.
She’s been struggling at school ever since, her grades falling as she becomes more and more withdrawn. She talks nonstop at home, showcasing her crazy vocabulary and sharp mind, but she refuses to participate in class. Even assurances from her speech therapist that she’s making amazing progress haven’t made a difference. My daughter is determined not to expose her vulnerable underbelly again and regularly asks to be reunited with the sign language interpreter who used to accompany her to her classes.
But the state won’t pay for an assistant now that her hearing has been restored. After so much sacrifice and struggle to make it happen, the surgery we’d hoped would make things easier for her, actually seems to have made them harder.
Maybe hard enough that she felt she didn’t have much to lose by hitching a ride on a dark rural highway…
I run a hand down my face, fighting a sudden wave of emotion.
“Come here,” Binx says, wrapping her arms around me. I stiffen, intending to pull away, but then she curls her fingers around the back of my neck and whispers, “Take the hug, asshole, you need it,” and I exhale a rough laugh, my arms wrapping around her curvy little body.
She’s one of the most muscular women at our gym, with biceps many a teen boy would envy, but compared to me, she’s still a tiny thing. I’m enormous. Always have been. By ten, I was taller than most of my teachers. By twenty, I was the kind of big—six-six and muscled all over—that made people turn to stare when I passed them on the street. Even if I’d wanted to, there was nowhere for someone as big as I am to hide.
So, I learned to put on a brave face, to pretend I didn’t mind the stares or whispers that I looked “scary.” I faked it until I made it, and the attention no longer bothered me. I know Sprout will eventually learn to do the same—she’s a tough kid—but watching her struggle is painful.
Binx is right, I don’t want to do anything to add to her pain, no matter how badly she scared me tonight.
“How about this,” Binx murmurs, her lips brushing my jawline as she speaks, making me keenly aware of her soft mouth and how much I want to bruise it with mine. “I’ll discreetly fetch Sprout from the dance floor and bring her here for a chat. Then you two can decide what happens from there.”
“All right,” I murmur, my chest aching with longing.
I want to tighten my arms around her, to pull her so close there’s not a millimeter between us. I want to run my hands down her back to cup her round ass in my hands and tell her about the many filthy dreams I’ve had about her. I want to tell her that she’s my potty-mouthed angel, my best friend, and that I don’t want to imagine my life without her in it.
Which is even more reason to get out of here before I do something stupid with Binx that we can never come back from.
If she shifts forward even half an inch, she’s going to feel the erection growing behind the fly of my jeans and know I’m not as immune to the chemistry between us as I’ve pretended to be for the past two years.
Swallowing hard, I force my hands from around her and step back with a curt nod. “Okay. I’ll try to think of a way to get through to her without graphic descriptions of what predators do to little girls.”
Binx winces. “Yeah, don’t do that. Let her have a few more years of not knowing how awful things are. She’s having a hard enough time already.” She takes a step backwards, aiming a finger at my chest, “And call your mom while I’m gone. I’m sure Bettie’s losing her mind waiting for an update.”
I curse, my shoulders tensing again. “Fuck, you’re right. I need to tell her to call the cops, too. They were putting out an APB for any sign of Sprout.”
Binx nods, her eyes widening. “Yeah, do that. For sure.”
She turns, hurrying away while I pull my cell from my back pocket and tap Mom’s contact button. She’s so relieved that she starts hyperventilating, and I have to talk her into a chair to catch her breath.
By the time I end the call, Binx and Sprout are crossing the grass.
The second I see my daughter’s wide, worried eyes, all my angry words are out the window. I crouch down, extending my arms. She runs into them, and I hug her close, so grateful that she’s okay.
“I love you,” I tell her, still struck by the fact that I don’t have to pull back so she can read my lips or watch me sign the words.
She can hear me, even with her face buried in my neck, a fact she proves by squeezing me tighter and whispering, “I’m sorry, Daddy. I know I did a bad thing. I just wanted to go to the party so much.”
I stand, lifting her into my arms, letting her feet dangle. “I know, but you can’t ever do anything like this again, kid. You could have been hit by a car and killed on the highway or worse.” Binx widens her eyes behind Sprout, and I soften my tone as I add, “Hitchhiking is very dangerous. Not all strangers are nice. I don’t even hitchhike, and I’m the biggest man I know.”
Sprout shoots me a confused look. “I didn’t hitchhike, Daddy.”
I frown. “Then how did you get here so fast? There’s no way you walked from Grammy’s all the way up to the winery before she noticed you were gone.”
Her lips quirk up as she snorts. “No, I called a taxi. Mr. Hamish’s taxi, the one that comes to the bar when people aren’t safe to drive. I called him from Grammy’s phone while she was feeding the cats. She always takes her shower after, so I knew she wouldn’t be there when he pulled up.”
I narrow my eyes on her face. “Clever.”
She smiles.
“And bad,” I emphasize, wiping the smile away. “But not as bad as hitchhiking.”
She nods soberly, making her slightly crooked pigtails bob. She has my wavy brown hair and her mother’s green eyes. She also has my height—she’s the tallest girl in third grade—but was spared my big, beefy frame. She’s a beauty, and is going to be absolutely stunning when she grows up.
I hope I’m always there to protect her from the bad people who are drawn to beautiful girls and women, but if for some reason, I’m not, it’s comforting to know she has a good head on her shoulders.
“You realize you scared Grammy to death,” I add, making her lips turn down at the edges.
“I know,” she says, sounding ashamed. “I was going to leave her a note, but I was afraid she’d come get me before I had time to dance and get cake.”
I sigh. “Dancing and cake aren’t as important as being good to the people we love. Scaring Grammy like that wasn’t nice. When she called to tell me you were gone, she was crying so hard I could barely understand her at first.”
Sprouts eyes widen and begin to shine. “I didn’t think she’d be that scared. Sometimes I go outside to play without asking.”
“Not at nine o’clock at night,” I remind her. “And not when you’re actually planning to jump into a cab, so she can’t find you when she looks outside.”
Her bottom lip trembles. “I was pretending I was Cinderella getting in the pumpkin to go the ball. I was just playing. I didn’t mean to hurt Grammy’s feelings.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Binx says, stepping closer. “And now you’ll know never to do anything like this again.”
“Is Grammy mad?” Sprout asks, tears slipping from the edges of her eyes.
“No, she was scared. Really scared. Now, she’s really glad you’re all right.” I sigh, adding against my better judgement, “And she wants you to bring her home a piece of wedding cake.”
Sprout blinks. “We…we can stay until they cut the cake?”
“We can,” I say. “But then we’re headed straight home, and you’re grounded for a month. No garage sales on Saturday mornings with Grammy or ice cream after school and you’ll be doing chores around the new camp to make up for giving me a heart attack.”
She nods, a smile curving her lips. “I can do that. I’m a good helper, and I spent all my garage sale money anyway, so I have to save up.” She glances at Binx before turning back to me and asking shyly, “Does this mean I can go dance some more, too? Just until it’s time for cake? My new friends said they’re going to play Come On Eileen soon because they always do that at McGuire parties.”
“One of your favorites,” I say, though I can’t stomach the tune myself. I shake my head and hug her one last time before setting her back on her feet. “Okay. Go, dance. But don’t leave the tent,” I add. “I want you where I can see you.”
“My sister Wendy Ann is in the tent, too,” Binx calls after her retreating form. “She’s the one with glasses and the boring black dress. Say hi if you see her. She’s great and likes math even more than you do.”
Sprout spins, flashing us a thumbs-up and a gap-toothed grin. “Roger Dodger.”
Then she scampers away, leaving me alone with Binx, her sexy sweater, and sexier bra. And thanks to the adrenaline-fueled evening, my defenses are lower than they’ve ever been before.
I should head into the tent with Sprout. I should find a place to sit in a corner somewhere and bide my time until the cutting of the cake. Staying here with this woman who smells like wild roses and honeysuckle and looks at me like she wants to have me for dessert is a bad idea.
But when Binx asks, “Wanna climb a tree and hide from everyone while we wait?” I say, “Yes,” without missing a beat.
Because I’m a feral creature at heart, who never feels more at home than when I’m up a tree, climbing a rock face, or walking through a forest, miles from the nearest human being.
I like being alone. It’s why—as soon as my wildlife adventure tour business started making serious bank—I farmed out the task of leading the tours to my employees. I design, organize, and promote the tours, but I let the guides on payroll do the peopling. Once I have the camp running smoothly, I’ll do the same there. I’ll hire staff to run the wilderness retreat center and only go there myself on weeks when no one has rented it out.
My mother says I have a pathological aversion to humanity, always have, ever since I was a kid. But Binx isn’t one of the humans I want to escape from. She’s one of the few who make a moment shared with her better than time spent alone. Peace is good, but a connection like this is addictive.
It’s like fire, so warm and wonderful that you don’t realize the flames have jumped out of the pit and are setting your life ablaze until it’s too late.
Fire lingers in my thoughts as I give Binx a boost up to the tree’s first large limb, unable to ignore how good it feels to have my hands wrapped around her waist. I’m definitely playing with fire, crawling up into the darkness with this woman, but I can’t seem to force myself to turn around.
Sprout came by her wild streak honestly.
And the thought of spending the next half hour alone with Binx is too seductive to resist.