Love In Translation

One

F our months had passed since her hot-mic incident went viral—the start of her downward spiral—but to Rheo Whitlock, it felt like yesterday.

It was obvious her boss didn’t feel the same way.

Nicole’s on-screen gaze was unflinching. Her boss was running short on sympathy. “You do realize you’ve been on medical leave for sixteen weeks now?” Nicole demanded.

Rheo’s face flamed and she bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from apologizing. Oh, she knew exactly how long she’d been stuck in this level of hell. She vividly remembered the day Nicole and the work-appointed psychologist suggested she take some time to get, in layman’s terms, her shit together.

Admittedly, gathering said shit was taking longer than anticipated. Getting through the day was still a challenge—concentrating enough to finish any type of project was impossible, and emptiness accompanied her everywhere. Work-related burnout wasn’t fun.

“When do you think you might be ready to return to work?”

And there it was, the question Rheo had been dreading since she got the email asking her to attend an online meeting with her manager earlier this morning. Next week? Next month? Six months? Never? Rheo didn’t know, and couldn’t guess, when she’d be mentally, and emotionally, ready to go back. And the only way to test whether she could handle a high-pressure situation requiring nerves of steel was to jump back into the job. She would either do what she’d once done best—real-time, on-the-spot interpreting—or she’d freeze. If she blanked, she’d embarrass herself, Nicole, her colleagues in the Spanish section, and her employer, the United Nations Interpretation Service. Again.

Oh, and there was also the chance of her causing an international incident. Hopefully, she’d stop short of starting World War III.

After the hot-mic incident, she would always be known as the interpreter who screwed up. During one of the most important General Assembly climate change debates in decades, she’d castigated political leaders for their inaction, thinking her mic was off.

The viral video triggered her steep fall from grace. Since just the thought of interpreting for high-level politicians or trade ministers again made her heart race and her throat close, Rheo suspected she wasn’t anywhere near ready to go back. “Nicole, I’ll get back to you with a date as soon as I can.” It wasn’t the answer her boss wanted, but it was all she could give.

As soon as Nicole’s face faded from her screen, Rheo leaned back in her chair and placed her bare feet on the corner of the desk, flayed and fried. Rolling her head to release the knots in her neck, she tipped her head and inspected the ceiling. An enormous spiderweb flowed from the top of the overlarge oil seascape to the corner of the molded ceiling.

She should do some cleaning, but she didn’t have the energy.

Rheo wiggled and popped open the button of the denim shorts digging into her stomach. Maybe she should start cutting back on cheese. And wine. And chocolate. She’d picked up a few pounds and wasn’t sure she’d fit into any of the sleek suits and pencil skirts she wore for work...

If she went back to work.

She so wanted to return, but she wasn’t ready. Had she lost the skills she possessed before she, as her ex liked to say, screwed the pooch? Which she’d done extremely well, because Rheo never half-assed anything.

A planner and a perfectionist, she treated her life as a project to be micromanaged. Unlike her messy, frequently chaotic, and disorganized childhood, her adult life ran with the extreme efficiency of a Swiss clock. She had goals, objectives, deliverables, risks, and countermeasures and hit all her milestones with startling accuracy. Unfortunately, she’d also sabotaged her career with equal proficiency in the aftermath of the hot-mic incident.

In the days following that humiliation, her colleagues picked up errors in her translations, twice . Another colleague caught her sobbing in the ladies’ bathroom and gleefully told her coworkers she’d lost her edge—an accurate but, God, so humiliating observation. Then, as her faux pas hit the news and social media, garnering millions— freakin’ millions! —of views, her brain short-circuited and her words disappeared while she translated for the Spanish finance minister during a high-level trade delegation.

All her words—she was fluent in Spanish, German, Italian, and French, and could converse in Portuguese and Romanian—went poof . moment she could translate and speak what she’d heard while listening to the sentences that followed, and the next she couldn’t ask for directions in any of the many languages she could speak.

Her phone beeped with a message, and Rheo pounced on it, hoping for a distraction. She wrinkled her nose when she saw Nicole’s name on her grubby screen.

I’m being pressured by the higher-ups about finding a permanent replacement for you, Rheo. I’ve insisted on allowing you time to recover, but the max is six months. If you don’t return to work in two months, you will be replaced.

Nicole didn’t understand the concept of pussyfooting around.

Don’t make me look for a replacement, Whitlock.

Rheo flipped her phone over, then over again. This wasn’t the life she’d planned. Gilmartin, Washington—the town of outdoor adventures—wasn’t where she should be living for any length of time.

Paddy, her grandmother, didn’t know she was here, squatting in her vacation home without her permission. Neither did the rest of her family, for that matter. Her van-life-loving, adventurous parents, and her extended family all thought she was still happily ensconced at the UN. And because she was stingy with personal information, they believed she and Callum, the boyfriend none of them had met, were still together.

They had no idea the life she’d planned was a soggy mess.

Sitting here in this town she loathed, she felt six again, confused, disoriented, and alone.

Needing a distraction, Rheo moved across the room and sat on the built-in seat of the bay window, stretching her long legs. The road ended four houses down, and at the T-junction, one of the many extensive forests surrounding Gilmartin started. Through the thick tree trunks, she caught glimpses of the always impressive Columbia River glinting in the summer sun. Like so many other towns situated on the river, Gilmartin possessed old-time charm and was often described in travel brochures as quaint and quirky.

Nature lovers raved about this part of the country and gushed over the snow-capped mountains, the emerald-green lush and thick forests, fast-flowing rivers, and sparkling blue lakes. Just the kind of place that the rest of her family couldn’t get enough of. But Rheo’s heart ached for the sliver of Prospect Park she could see from her bedroom window and for her tiny windowless cubicle in the UN Plaza building.

Unless you experienced it for yourself, no one understood the adrenaline of stepping into a UN interpretation booth. The booths overlooked the impressive rotunda of the General Assembly Hall. She was always conscious of the importance of the events playing out in the impressive room and in the smaller meeting rooms scattered throughout the building. Within those walls, she and her colleagues had to quickly and accurately translate decisions, discourse and opinions.

She wanted to rewind time and return to the normality of regular paychecks, the security of her apartment, and her regular but brief interactions with her neighbors. She wanted what was comfortable, expected, everything that was predictable and planned for. She’d lived the first thirteen years of her life in turmoil and chaos. Her parents loved the unexpected and unforeseeable, but Rheo hated the shifting sand under her feet.

Or, more accurately, the rickety wheels of their always-breaking-down van.

Crap, she couldn’t get out of her head today. Think about something else, Whitlock, stop marinating in self-pity. Do something, call someone.

Despite spending her childhood summers here, she’d lost touch with the long-time residents of Gilmartin and had only made one friend since she’d arrived—Abi Curtis, the owner of the town’s deli and coffee shop. She and Abi bonded over their love of good food, excellent books, their mutual distaste for exercise, and their imperviousness to the charms of the vast natural wilderness surrounding Gilmartin.

They were poles apart—Abi was a little scatterbrained, slightly disorganized, and loud, God, so loud—but they’d instantly connected. Despite only knowing her for a few months, Rheo could call her at four in the morning and, without quibbling, knew Abi would help her bury the body. How was it that she could connect with someone who was so unlike her, but Rheo couldn’t relate to her own oh-so-different family? Strange.

Abi also possessed the uncanny ability to get Rheo out of her self-obsessed funk, so Rheo pulled up her name. Within a few seconds, Abi’s gorgeous face filled her screen. Dark-haired and even darker-eyed, Abi was tall, buxom, and full-figured...super sexy.

Rheo took in the white wraparound top showing off Abi’s canyon-like cleavage, and looked down at her own modest B-cup boobs. Sadly, there was no contest.

“You busy?” Rheo asked.

Abi turned her phone to show the mostly empty coffee shop and, beyond it, her deli. “We’re between the breakfast and lunch rush, so I can talk. What are you up to?”

Rheo shrugged. “Sitting here, looking at the view. It’s fucking gorgeous.”

Abi hooted at her deadpan expression and flat monotone. When she stopped laughing, Abi insisted Rheo admit it was a beautiful day.

Meh.

Before her tenth birthday, she’d seen the geysers at Yellowstone Park, the Antelope and Bryce Canyons in Arizona and Utah, glaciers in Alaska, and sky-high redwoods in California. She’d been forced to visit wild places, hike trails, scramble up mountains, and paddle rivers. She’d promised herself she’d never live anywhere she was out of her element again. Yet, here she was, back in Gilmartin, surrounded by crapping nature. It wasn’t part of the plan. Epic fail.

“I’ve seen too much of the great outdoors to get excited.”

Abi, because she’d landed in Gilmartin via a bad kayaker boyfriend and a broken-down truck, didn’t push the point. She leaned her hip against the counter and pushed a corkscrew curl behind her ear. “I still can’t imagine you living in a camper van, Rhee.”

“I was a kid and smaller,” Rheo pointed out. “But, admittedly, when I hit puberty, it became more of a nightmare. Thin walls.”

Abi pulled a face. “ Eeeww. Listen, I’m free tonight. Should I bring a pizza over?”

“Sounds good.”

Rheo watched as an older model SUV, one of those British ones, trundled down the road, its white body streaked with dust. It slowed as it approached the neat bungalow two doors up and then swung to park in front of Mrs. Redfern’s pale gray house. That house was much more Rheo’s own style than her grandmother’s, actually. Paddy, in a fit of pique after her divorce, painted her ex-husband’s overly large Victorian family home coral over forty years ago. Rheo had never known it to be anything but a shade of provocative pink.

“I need to talk to Paddy about painting this house a sensible color,” she told Abi. “I love her, but, God Almighty, someone should’ve banned her from choosing paint. What’s wrong with a sensible pale blue or cream?”

“Mmm, I see two problems with your statement. , your grandmother doesn’t know you are living in her house, and having that conversation would be a good way of cluing her in.”

Right. Good point.

“And even if Paddy agreed, and she never would, you’d also have to deal with the backlash from your neighbors and the town’s residents. They’d stage a riot if the Pink House wasn’t pink anymore,” Abi said, then tipped her head to the side. “You aren’t comfortable with nonconformity, are you?”

Well, no. Wasn’t that obvious?

Until she hit college, she had been an outsider looking in, wondering when she’d feel at home in her life, in her skin. This time last year, she’d finally, finally arrived at a place in her life where she could breathe without restrictions, talk without being judged, where she was completely comfortable. She’d had a normal, not too good-looking, not too assured boyfriend, a great job, and a lovely apartment in the city she adored. Predictable, sure, but that was how she’d planned it. She’d finally acquired the life she’d dreamed of: steady, stable, and conventional. Her experience-chasing family members would call it unexciting, but unlike them, she didn’t like rocking the boat.

She’d worked damn hard to find a safe harbor to moor in, sheltered from any storms, a place where she belonged.

Then life decided to be a tempestuous bitch and slapped her with a super typhoon.

Rheo watched the driver’s door to the Land Rover open and a big boot hit the road, followed by the frayed cuff of well worn jeans. Her eyes slid up long legs and over a wide chest and tanned arms, and only two words rolled off her tongue. “Oh, yum .”

“What?” Abi demanded.

Rheo turned her phone so Abi could watch the man open the back passenger door and pull a duffel and a laptop bag from behind the driver’s seat. His overlong scruffy hair, a light brown interspersed with dark blond natural highlights, blew in the wind, and he impatiently pushed it off his face. A dirty-blond week-old beard covered his jaw and cheeks. The details of his face escaped her, but it was as rugged as the mountains in the distance. But who cared about his face when it was accompanied by that incredible body?

“Oh. My. God.”

Rheo swung her phone back and grinned. “Hot, right?”

“So hot,” Abi agreed. “Turn your phone around, I don’t want to see you!”

Rheo flipped the camera again—sharing was caring—and inspected the neighborhood’s latest visitor. He was tall and built. He sported the wide shoulders of an Olympic swimmer, and the muscles of his big arms strained the bands of his plain red T-shirt. His ancient jeans, faded to a soft dusty blue, clung to long muscled thighs, and his T-shirt skimmed a broad chest and flat stomach. He wasn’t Rheo’s type; even from a distance she sensed he was wild, untamable, and unpredictable. He was trouble with a capital T. In bold.

She liked her men urbane, controlled, stable, and steady. Men like that suited her life. The hottie outside was six-feet-plus of chaos.

“Do you think he’s got those sexy hip muscles, the ones that make a V?” Abi asked, wistful.

“Yep. You do know that we are totally objectifying him, right?”

Abi made a pfttt sound, so Rheo didn’t pull her phone, now resting on her knee, or her eyes off him.

He turned his head left, then right, looking for house numbers before walking toward her house . She sat statue still, rooted to her seat, hoping he’d notice her sitting in the window and then hoping he wouldn’t. Ten yards, five, three...

“Is he heading your way?” Abi demanded.

Yep. Maybe.

He turned his head from his perusal of the street and looked left, and eyes the color of rain-soaked moss collided with hers through her open window. The smack of attraction made her sway, and air rushed from her lungs. His face was better than she expected, with a squarish jaw, strong brows, and a long nose. He was breath-stealingly good-looking.

And in that moment, the concept of instant attraction morphed from fantasy into reality.

It was shimmery...and scary.

Rheo’s stomach flipped, and baby fireworks danced on her skin. All she could do was stare at him. He stopped on the sidewalk outside her house. For the first time in her staid—some would say boring—adult life, a life she’d created and loved, Rheo suspected she’d follow a man anywhere.

Rheo sighed as reality strolled in and sat its ass down. Of course, she wouldn’t do anything of the sort. She was the least impulsive person she knew. She didn’t make rash decisions, she made pro and con lists and did feasibility studies. All her relatives, except for Paddy, flew by the seat of their pants, but Rheo always considered all the consequences and chose the option with the least risk of things going wrong.

Sure, she could be a pain in the ass, but was never caught, as her parents so often were, with her pants down.

Except, of course, when she blew her life apart and abandoned her job, apartment, and perfect life. Except for then.

Rheo pulled a face, annoyed. He was a good-looking guy: so the hell what? Too much fresh mountain air was affecting her brain. She needed the exhaust fumes of a polluted city to get her thinking straight.

But that didn’t stop her from scooting to the other side of the bay seat to continue watching his progress. His back view was as good as his front, and his ass in those soft jeans was exceptionally fine.

“What’s happening? Why am I seeing fuzz?” Abi wailed.

Rheo flipped the camera back to look at Abi. “He’s definitely coming here.”

Abi’s eyebrows shot up as the sound of the ancient doorbell drifted through the hall and into the study. “Do you know him? Why’s he there?”

“No, and I don’t know,” Rheo told her. “Not even Paddy knows I’m here—”

“Something that’s so going to blow up in your face,” Abi informed her. Her friend took every opportunity she could to persuade her to come clean with her grandmother and the rest of her family. Rheo would when she felt ready and when she found the courage she needed to confess.

Paddy’s doorbell made its about-to-die sound again and Rheo jumped. She stabbed her phone’s screen and cut Abi off—oh, she’d pay for that later!—and hauled in some much-needed air. She had a stranger standing on her step...

of the problems with being a semi-recluse for four months was that she’d grown unaccustomed to making small talk. She didn’t know what to say or how to act. Rheo had never been great at chitchat, couldn’t flirt, and was naturally shy, not helped by spending much of her childhood with only books for company.

Dear God, Whitlock! Just say hello and ask him how you can help!

Wiping her damp hands on the denim fabric covering her butt, Rheo walked into the spacious hallway. She took a deep breath—surprised that her heart could beat this fast—and pulled open the door.

“Hi? Um...can I help you?”

Those stunning eyes, flashing with intelligence, started at her bare feet and lazily climbed her body. He looked weirdly fascinated.

Rheo looked down. She’d “top dressed” to appear professional for her video call with Nicole. From the waist up she looked office-ready: a men’s-style black button-down shirt, big gold earrings, and a funky copper and gold necklace. She’d added some light eye makeup and slicked on her favorite, only-for-special-occasions lipstick, YSL’s Le Rouge, for some extra confidence. But below the waist, her style could only be described as scruffy. A ragged pair of denim shorts just covered her butt cheeks, and she’d left her flip-flops somewhere.

The corners of his lips lifted and her knees softened. She didn’t think that was physically possible. Irritatingly, her synapses weren’t firing too well either.

“Hey. I presume you’re here to give me the key to this place?”

His accent matched his iconic British SUV: rough, deep, a little cut glass, a touch of lilt, a smidgeon of a burr. American enough to suggest he’d lived in this country for a while but Scottish enough to suggest his roots were buried in Celtic soil.

What did he say?

“Why would I give you a key?” she asked, puzzled.

“Because I’ve rented this place for the next few weeks?” He shifted his duffel bag to his other hand.

Das meinst du nicht im ernst?

“Why are you speaking German?”

She waved his question away. “Seriously?” she repeated her question in English. What was happening here?

“Carrie Whitlock told me I could find a key under the foot of the porch swing, but when I noticed you in the window, I assumed she arranged for you to meet me here to hand it over.”

Puzzle pieces floated around her brain, but none of them slotted together. “How do you know Carrie?”

“We’ve been friends for years.”

Friends , huh? And a pink pig just flew past.

He was the male equivalent of her lovely cousin: another member of the tribe of golden people: at ease in their skin, innately confident, and blindingly self-assured. Bold, gorgeous, ripped.

And, like Carrie, he made Rheo feel like a hobbit.

“I’m into outdoor adventures, and I’ve wanted to visit this area for years. Carrie suggested I rent this house and explore the area until she can join me in two weeks. Her grandmother agreed. Apparently, she doesn’t like the house empty for long stretches of time.”

“Bullshit!” Rheo snapped. “The Pink House is locked up every winter.”

He shrugged. “I’m just passing on what I was told. Carrie’s grandmother is considering extending her overseas trip, and renting the house will give her additional funds.”

Hold on a minute. Carrie knew Paddy was thinking of staying longer in Australia, but Rheo didn’t? Rheo got Paddy’s news first; Paddy confided in her , not Carrie. Why was she, Paddy’s favorite grandchild, playing catch-up?

Pot, kettle, black, Whitlock. You’re keeping some pretty big secrets yourself!

“Carrie also mentioned something about the rent helping with the cost of repairs, because old houses are a bitch to maintain,” he said, still looking relaxed and unhurried. “I’m her first client, a guinea pig of sorts. If letting the place doesn’t turn out to be a problem, she might rent it again instead of selling. So the pressure is on me.”

He grinned, inviting Rheo to share the joke, but she couldn’t. “Selling?” she whispered, aghast.

His words slapped her, hot and hard. Rheo hated Gilmartin, but she loved this house, and her best memories of her childhood and Paddy, the woman who loved and understood her best, the woman she didn’t want to disappoint, rested within the walls of this building.

Rheo wanted nothing more than to call her grandmother and yell at her for considering such a drastic option and then beg her not to sell. But she couldn’t because Paddy didn’t know she was here ...

She caught the curiosity in his mossy green eyes and, beneath it, interest and a hit of heat. Or was she imagining his attraction? She probably was; goddesses like her cousin were his jam.

The Pink House’s new tenant was too much of a distraction, the reason Rheo couldn’t think clearly. And, God, she needed time to think. Just ten minutes, even five. Time to get blood back to her brain and her heart to stop its Energizer-Bunny-on-speed bouncing.

So Rheo did the only thing she could think of and slammed the heavy wooden door in his flabbergasted face.