The Opposite of Wild (3 page)

“Four hundred bucks a week!” Trav exclaimed. “Are you shitting me?”

“No, I am not shitting you. Look, Gran’s living alone in that big old house, and summer’s a busy time for all of us.”

“I’ll chip in,” Shane said. He took a bite of burger. “Perfectly medium-well, not bad for an assembly-line patty. If you really want a good burger, you’ve got to grind your own meat.”

Ryan gave Shane a one-finger salute and turned to Trav. “Come on, Mr. Landscape Architect to the Rich, are you gonna cough up the dough or what?”

“All right,” Trav said. “But if she still needs help by the end of the summer, maybe we should get someone full time.”

“Now that’s the most sense you’ve made all night,” Ryan said.

“I have my moments,” Trav said, fluttering his eyelashes.

They finished eating. Trav offered to scrape down the grill to avoid kitchen duty, so Shane helped Ryan bring everything inside. Ryan was just putting the ketchup, mustard, and relish back in the fridge when Shane said quietly, “I saw Dad.”

Ryan froze. They hadn’t seen their father since he’d left them shortly after their mother died. Shane had only been thirteen. That was seventeen long fucking years ago.

“He stopped by the shop, so I had coffee with him.”

Ryan slammed the fridge door, turned, and met his brother’s eyes. Shane’s reflected only calm. “What did he want?”

Shane shrugged. “He just wanted to reconnect. He’s been sober three years.”

“Well, good for him.”

“He asked about you. And Trav. Wanted to know if it was okay to call you.”

“Fuck him.”

Shane put his hands up. “All right, just thought I’d ask.”

Ryan shook his head. “You’re too damn nice.”

~ ~ ~

“I’m too darn nice,” Liz muttered as she yanked open the door to her best friend Rachel’s book store.
I must be crazy nice to work for that insensitive, horribly…
hot, so hot
, no,
arrogant
man.
She gave a quick hello to the cashier and zoomed down the aisles in search of her friend, still buzzing with adrenaline from her phone call with Ryan.

She found her on a ladder, shelving some books on the top shelf. “Rachel! I need to talk to you!”

Rachel dropped the stack of
Diary of a Wimpy Kid
books she was holding. Liz jumped out of the way just in time.

Rachel’s brown braid whipped around when she turned. “You scared me!”

Liz grimaced. She should be more careful about sneaking up on Rachel. Her friend was still spooked from a stalker ex-boyfriend six months ago.

“Sorry!” Liz bent and gathered all the spilled books, handing them to Rachel to reshelve.

Her friend stepped down the ladder and stood in front of her wearing a red “Readers Rock” T-shirt of her own design. Rachel Miller was a proud bookworm and the successful owner of Book It. “What’s the emergency?”

She looked around. A few people were browsing the shelves. She couldn’t chance the gossip. “It’s private,” she whispered.

Rachel grabbed her hand and pulled her into the back office, shutting the door. Liz moved a box of books off a chair and sat down at Rachel’s desk, numbly taking the cup of coffee and biscotti Rachel offered from the top of the short bookcase that served as an employee kitchen.

“I took a job working for Ryan O’Hare,” Liz blurted. “I’m spending time with his grandmother for the summer.”

“You’re shaking.” Rachel took the coffee and biscotti back from her and set it down. She sat on the edge of the desk next to Liz. “I thought you were taking the summer off, except for a little tutoring and some online classes.”

“And I’m still going to do all that, but I need the money. For Daisy. I can’t tell you why yet.”

“I won’t tell anyone.” Rachel’s chocolate brown eyes gleamed behind her glasses in anticipation of another Daisy story. They’d been sharing them ever since Rachel moved to town in sixth grade. “What did she do this time?”

Liz kept her mouth shut for a good three seconds. “You’ll see soon enough. She’s staying with me.”

“Omigod, she’s pregnant, isn’t she?”

“I really can’t say,” she said, nodding at the same time.

Rachel whistled under her breath. “Wow. So what are you going to do about Ryan?”

“I hope I never see him. I can ask him to mail my checks, right?”

“You’ve been avoiding him ever since The Incident.”

“It wasn’t an
incident
. It was The Humiliation.” Liz gestured wildly. “I’ve had a lot of incidents since then, and believe me this still ranks as The Humiliation.”

“Worse than The Ordeal?” Rachel asked, referring to the wretched time when Liz had to cancel all her wedding plans two weeks before the blessed event as everyone knew Craig had run off and married someone else.

“No, not worse than that,” Liz admitted.

“It’s been, what?” Rachel asked in a gentle tone. “Sixteen, seventeen years? Can we downgrade it to an incident?”

Liz dropped her head in her hands. “I wish I could.”

Rachel rubbed her back. “I’m sure it will be fine. The Humiliation lives large in your memory, but he’s probably forgotten all about it.”

Liz looked up. “Well, I never will.”

“Let it go, Liz. Really. You’ve come a long way. You’re not the same girl you once were.”

She perked up a bit. Rachel was right. She wasn’t that overweight, awkward, shy girl anymore. She was trim, confident, and in control. She had a job to do. And Ryan O’Hare wouldn’t keep her from it.

Chapter Three

“Knock, knock,” Liz called through the open screen door of Mrs. O’Hare’s house at ten o’clock Monday morning. Mrs. O’Hare lived in a beautiful Victorian home, white with black shutters and a wraparound porch. She could tell her three grandsons helped out around here. The home and yard were beautifully maintained. She loved the pink roses blooming above cheerful blue geraniums, all neatly arranged in landscaping beds in front of the porch. The home was across the street from Trav’s landscape company in the historic former blacksmith place, and a few blocks away from Ryan’s house, which she steadfastly avoided driving or walking past. Shane lived in the apartment over Shane’s Scoops just a short walk away on Main Street.

Mrs. O’Hare appeared at the door, wearing a white T-shirt embroidered with colorful flowers, blue leggings, and sneakers. Short white tufts of hair from her pixie haircut stuck out of a dark blue visor perched on her head.

“Hello, Liz. What brings you by today?”

“Hi, Mrs. O’Hare. May I come in?”

“Sure, come on in.”

Liz followed her in past the gleaming hardwood floors of the front entryway into a formal living room. A fireplace that looked original to the home with a white, carved mantel and brick surround was the focal point of a seating area with matching red velvet chairs, a loveseat in shades of gold with cheerful daisies, and an antique cherrywood coffee table. A large plum-colored hand-knit blanket was thrown over the loveseat. Very cozy.

“Can I get you some tea?” Mrs. O’Hare asked. “I’ve already started a kettle.”

“That would be lovely,” Liz answered, following her into a small, cluttered, but homey kitchen. The windows were open, letting in a nice cross breeze. The air smelled fresh with just the hint of roses. She watched the older woman getting out the tea bags. “How are you feeling since the accident?” she asked.

“Oh, fine, just fine,” Mrs. O’Hare said. “Best thing that ever happened to me.” She paused to smile at Liz. “Cream or sugar?”

“Neither, I like mine plain.” Her brows furrowed in confusion. “How was the accident the best thing to ever happen to you?”

“Just what I said,” Mrs. O’Hare replied. She set the cups and saucers on a tray and rummaged around in her cabinet. “Ah, cookies. Too bad I don’t have scones, but these will have to do.”

Liz pulled her cell out of her purse and scanned the Milano cookie bag with MyFoodBuddy. One hundred eighty calories per serving, one serving was three cookies.
I’ll only have one cookie.
She entered her planned portion on the screen.

Mrs. O’Hare raised an eyebrow. “What’d you just do?”

Liz tucked her cell away. “Nothing. Just a calorie tracker.”

“You don’t need that. You’re just right.” She shook the cookie bag a little. Five cookies spilled out.

Hope Mrs. O’Hare is feeling hungry
. “I don’t understand. About the accident?”

Mrs. O’Hare reached in the bag, pulled out a ruffled paper cup, and gave the bag another shake. Five more cookies.

Liz lifted a hand to stop the cookie flow and, unable to find a polite way of grabbing the bag from her host, dropped it by her side.

“Yes, well, it gave me a new lease on life,” Mrs. O’Hare said, oblivious to Liz’s distress as she arranged the cookies in a circle.

Liz tore her eyes away from the cookies and tried again. “How so?”

The older woman glanced at her and pulled out another ruffled paper cup. “Actually, it was more like a fresh perspective.”

Shake
. Five more cookies piled into the center of the cookie circle. She peeked in the bag to make sure it was empty and tossed it in the trash.

Liz’s eyes widened in dismay as she stared at the pile of cookies on the plate. That was an awful lot of cookies, and if she just had one, that left fourteen cookies for Mrs. O’Hare, which couldn’t be good for an elderly woman’s blood sugar.

“Liz, I’m seventy-two years old, and someone upstairs”—she pointed to the ceiling—“thinks I’m not done on this great green Earth. I’m grabbing life by the balls and living it!”

Liz’s mouth dropped open in shock. The teakettle whistled, and Mrs. O’Hare set about pouring tea. Did Mrs. O’Hare just say “grabbing life by the balls?”

She worked for a casual tone. “Do you have any plans?”

“I stole Ryan’s Harley and went for a ride. How’s that for a plan?” Mrs. O’Hare laughed and slapped her knee. “Felt the wind in my hair, girlie. That was a good time.” She frowned. “But now that Ryan heard about it, I suppose that bike will be locked up tighter than his detective files. Boy needs to lighten up.” She picked up the tray and carried it to the living room.

Liz settled into a plush velvet chair and took a tiny bite of Milano cookie, determined to pace herself in light of the tempting cookie display, when Mrs. O’Hare continued, “Ryan thinks he can outsmart me with his fancy locks and security systems. I’ll just buy my own Harley. In pink!”

The cookie lodged in Liz’s throat at her sudden gasp, which she covered quickly with a violent coughing fit. “Oh, well,” she finally managed. “I suppose you could.”
Thank goodness I didn’t start with the hot tea. I probably would’ve spewed it all over this beautiful antique chair.
“It sounds a little dangerous?” she ventured.

“Well, look what happened in my Toyota! The thing spun around on the highway like a top.”

“Yes, but you
survived
,” Liz pointed out reasonably. Clearly the poor woman was still in shock. Maybe she could be reasoned back into a more sedate lifestyle.

Mrs. O’Hare’s blue eyes lit up, and she pointed her knobby finger at Liz. “Exactly! I survived. And for what? To rattle around in this house, knitting and watching TV until I die? No. I’m making plans. Big plans.”

Liz felt the first lick of panic. This job might prove more difficult than she’d originally thought. Her memories of Mrs. O’Hare were of a sweet woman running herd over three rambunctious teen boys, demanding respect and attention in her gentle but firm voice.

Liz set her teacup down. “Mrs. O’Hare, Ryan’s worried about you. He asked me to stop in every day to check in, help you out with whatever you need…what are you doing?”

Mrs. O’Hare had grabbed her cell phone off the end table and punched a few buttons. She held up a finger for Liz to hold on. “Ryan,” she said in a voice of steel, “I do
not
need a babysitter. Whatever you told Liz you’d do for her, you can cancel because I’m sending her home. And, by the way, I’m buying my own hog.”

Ryan never told her about the job!
She could hear Ryan protesting loudly in the background before Mrs. O’Hare clicked the phone off with a dramatic punch of the button, her mouth in a grim line of determination.

Liz shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “What did he say?” Her voice came out shaky.

“He said he’s coming over.”

Liz’s stomach dropped, and she broke out in a sweat.

“You don’t have to stay,” Mrs. O’Hare said. “This could get loud.”

Liz briefly considered bolting, but she needed this job. And maybe Ryan would convince his grandmother that Liz was absolutely necessary. Maybe Rachel was right and he’d forgotten all about The Humiliation. He’d sounded casual and businesslike on the phone when they’d spoken a couple of days ago. Nothing to indicate he was remembering any hideous event from the past.

“I’ll stay and finish my tea, thank you,” Liz said as if she were about to enjoy her last drink on earth before her execution.

“Suit yourself. So tell me, how’s your love life?”

Liz grabbed a cookie, took a large bite, and pointed to her mouth while she chewed.
Lots of chewing needed here. Can’t possibly talk about nonexistent love life.

Mrs. O’Hare leaned back in her seat. “You might like my youngest, Shane. Nice boy. Sweet.”

Liz swallowed and took a sip of tea. “Shane was always nice to me in school. But I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”

Undeterred, Mrs. O’Hare launched into a long, detailed history of Shane’s career, starting with his interest in helping her in the kitchen as a teenager and all the wonderful breads and desserts he’d prepared, through his time at the Culinary Institute of America, to his focus on gourmet ice cream, concluding with his recent addition of a coffee bar to Shane’s Scoops.

Liz nodded politely and
mmm-hmmed
at what she hoped were all the appropriate places. She prayed Mrs. O’Hare wouldn’t actually follow through with any awkward matchmaking.

Mrs. O’Hare sipped her tea and eyed Liz over the rim of her cup. “I have three grandsons in their thirties and zero great-grandbabies.”