Chapter 1
Chapter One
STARLING RENEE BAXTER
A woman on a mission to salvage
her dignity. Before it’s too late…
A ll the way over to the bowling alley in my rickety little car, the tequila-inspired message I left on Christian McGuire’s voicemail earlier tonight plays on repeat in my head…
Hey, I heard you were leaving town.
Should we get naked and have some fun before you do, or what? Just low-key, you and me, blowing off some steam. I don’t know.
Sounds like it could be a good time.
Let me know.
This is Starling, by the way. And I am currently wearing panties, but that’s a situation that could be changed pretty quickly if you wanted to come over.
I’m housesitting at Barrett’s for the weekend.
“Panties. Why did you have to mention your panties? What is wrong with you?” I mutter as I hunch over the wheel, squinting up at the rapidly darkening sky.
An autumn storm is rolling in, wiping away the last of the sunset light. If I’m lucky, maybe a bolt of lightning will knock out the power in the bowling alley, and I’ll be able to creep inside and steal Christian’s phone under cover of darkness. I’ll get in, get his cell submerged in a pitcher of beer before he can listen to that mortifying message, and get out before anyone knows I’m there.
But even as the fantasy plays out in my mind—complete with cat burglar type acrobatics and slinking around bowling ball stands on tiptoe—I know I’m fooling myself.
I’m not going to get lucky.
I’m reliably unlucky, especially when it comes to getting away with bad behavior.
The one time I took something without paying for it—a handful of penny candy from the old-fashioned general store when I was four—I was caught on camera. The owner made my mom pay double for the candy, then posted a shot of me mid-theft by the checkout counter with the line— Thieves Will Be Prosecuted: No Matter How Small the Theft (Or the Thief)— written above it in thick black letters.
It stayed there for years, long after I was old enough to read the warning and be deeply ashamed of my four-year-old self’s pudgy hand squirming through that jar of lemon heads.
The same thing happened the one time I faked being sick to get out of taking a test and the one time I stayed out past curfew my senior year. Both times, my mother caught me, gave me that “oh, honey, I love you, but I’m so disappointed” look, and I nearly died of shame.
My mother is a single mom who raised two daughters on her own, worked odd jobs on top of her accounting gig to help us pay for college, and never raised her voice to me or my big sister, Wren, in all twenty-three years of my life.
She’s a saint, and the last thing I want to do is disappoint her.
She would be shocked and appalled if she knew I’d just propositioned my employee . Yes, Christian is five years older than I am, way more experienced in both life and love, and no one’s idea of a vulnerable human, but he is, in fact, my subordinate. And propositioning someone I have the power to hire, or fire, isn’t cool.
It’s the opposite of cool.
I’m basically a sexual predator! Like one of those guys in an ‘80’s movie who oozes up behind a woman with a huge perm and shoulder pads—just some poor, hardworking woman, innocently going about her day, trying to get ahead at the office, while being disrespected by her boss, her male coworkers, and the chaotic fashion of her day—and fondles her backside by the copy machine.
I’m a backside fondler! Or at least backside-fondler-adjacent, and if I don’t get to Christian’s cell and intercept that message, I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again.
I’ll have to wear a bag over my head at work.
Or cut bangs and hide behind them when he stops by my desk.
And I’d look really bad with bangs. My hair has curl in it, even when it’s really long. If I cut bangs, they’d be super floofy. I’d look like a sheep in the front and a show pony in the back, and that breed of messed up mullet isn’t a good look for anyone. I’d scare the animals at the shelter, not to mention my mother, who’s been worried about my sanity for months now, ever since I adopted a wild turkey and taught him to walk on a leash. Knowing my luck, she’d try to stage a hair intervention, I’d end up with an all-over sheep-do, and spend the rest of my twenties growing out my unfortunate hair catastrophe.
I simply must lay hands upon that cell phone and destroy it, no matter the cost.
And it will cost me. I fully intend on paying Christian back for the damage, even though he hopefully won’t know I’m the one who wrecked his phone. I’ll slip a few hundred bucks into his wallet when he’s not looking or buy him a new phone as a going away present…once he actually tells me he’s going away.
As I swing into the bowling alley parking lot, seconds before a bolt of lightning splits the sky, followed by a crash of thunder loud enough to make my car door rattle, I wonder why he’s been keeping his new job a secret.
Why didn’t he tell me that he’ll be leaving Furry Friends in a month and relocating to Minneapolis? I thought we were buddies. Or at least close enough that he’d want to share his good news with me over coffee.
Sure, we got on each other’s last nerve when I first came back to town this past summer, but recently, we’ve been getting along really well. We have lunch together almost every weekday, hit happy hour at his cousin’s bar on Fridays, and just last week, he offered to teach me to ride a motorcycle.
He even invited me to join him and his friends at the bowling alley tonight!
If only I’d said yes.
If only I’d spent the night hurling balls into the gutter instead of drinking tequila shots with my friend Nora while dog sitting at Barrett’s house. If I’d remained in Christian’s presence, I never would have said the things I said in that message. Even if I’d had a beer or two, I would have kept things professional.
Partly because I am a professional.
And partly because when we’re face-to-face, Christian…scares me a little.
Not in a “he’s a bad guy” kind of way. More in a “this man is way more than I can handle, and if I ever ended up in bed with him, he would probably break my heart and my vagina” kind of way. Despite the jolt of attraction that dances through my nerve endings every time Christian McGuire slides his electric blue eyes my way, we’d be a disaster as anything more than friends.
I’m a planner, a strategizer, and Christian breezes through life by the seat of his pants. I’ve never kissed a boy I didn’t love, and Christian openly tells women he doesn’t intend to get emotionally attached.
I’m a virgin and Christian is a sex god of epic proportions who occasionally slips on a man thong and does a stripper routine for bachelorettes in need in our small, male-stripper-free town.
I tease him about the “banana hammock” pictures and video I found on social media all the time, but the truth is that I look at them far more often than I’d like to admit. And when I’m looking at them, I don’t giggle or think how ridiculous he looks whipping off a cheap cop costume to reveal his yellow speedo.
I think about his powerful legs, washboard abs, and the sexy way he moves. I think about how much I want to run my fingertips over his rounded pecs, with the dusting of golden hair on top. I think about how I’d like him to tie me to his bedpost with his fuzzy handcuffs and spank me for breaking whatever laws stripper cops are in charge of enforcing.
The truth is, I have a crush on Christian. Not an emotional crush, just an “I’d like to get him naked and see if sex is as much fun as everyone acts like it is” crush.
A sex crush.
A very intense, very steamy, very ill-advised sex crush that, until tonight, I was doing a decent job of keeping under wraps.
And I can still keep it that way. All I have to do is get to his cell before he checks his messages and Christian will never know I want him to boss me around in bed.
Pulling my jacket tighter across my chest and wishing I’d taken the time to put on something other than the t-shirt and sweatpants I threw on after my shower, I grab my keys and dash out into the pounding rain.
It’s coming down so hard that by the time I make it through the front door to the bowling alley, I’m soaked through.
I stop on the mat just inside the door, gasping for air and swiping water from my face, but I only hesitate for a moment.
The reception counter is empty and none of the people inside the alley seem to have noticed my soggy entrance. If I move fast, I can get inside without being spotted.
Bending low to hide as much of myself behind the reception area as possible, I circle around to the right, darting into the ladies’ room by the row of vintage video game machines just as a boy in a Bad Dog Bowling polo shirt slides back behind the counter.
I quickly wring my hair out in the sink and drag a paper towel across my face, but I don’t waste much time worrying about the rest of myself. Nothing I can do with paper towels is going to make me look less like a deranged, half-drowned rat who runs around town in her pajamas. My only hope of avoiding further shame is to get out of here before I’m seen by anyone I know.
Poking my head out of the bathroom, I wait until the boy at the counter is looking the opposite way before slipping around the video games and into the snack shop, where several teen couples are sharing cheese-drenched nachos and giant pretzels. They’re too busy making puppy dog eyes at each other and giggling over videos on their phones to pay attention to me, however, and I manage to weave through the tables and past the food counter without anyone glancing my way.
I’m feeling pretty good about my mission thus far when my gaze lands on my mark.
There he is, Christian McGuire, looking good enough to eat in a pair of dark wash jeans and a recreation league t-shirt that reads “Split Happens! Bowl with the Bad Dog Brawlers!”
He’s laughing with his friends as he sips a beer until—right before my eyes—he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell.
He lifts it to eye level, his brow furrowing slightly as he studies the screen.
Then, as my stomach bottoms out and my heart rides a panicked pogo stick around and around in my chest, he excuses himself to the seating area behind the lanes.
And I know why he’s moving away.
He’s moving so he can get some distance from the boisterous group and listen to that voicemail he’s clearly just noticed. My voicemail. The voicemail that will ruin my life, wreck my reputation as a boss and fully adult human, and possibly rip a hole in the fabric of space-time.
Surely, the force of my embarrassment will be strong enough to damage the integrity of reality itself! None of us will ever be the same. In the name of preserving the world as we know it, I’m practically obligated to sprint toward Christian like a mother rescuing a toddler from traffic and tackle him to the ground.
Right?
By the time the logical part of me warns that I’m only making things worse, I’m already flying through the air, on a collision course with Christian’s chest.