Marriage, Maverick Style!

“Because I asked to meet you.” That deep, velvety voice rubbed along her nerve endings like an actual caress. Her stomach hollowed out as she stared into his eyes. The warning bells in her head started ringing again, loud and clear.

She ignored them. They were getting no power over her. It was a beautiful day, and she meant to have fun. She looked straight at Carson again, took the full force of those dark eyes head-on. “So, Carson. What kind of business is it that brings you to Rust Creek Falls?”

Ryan volunteered, “He’s here to try and make a deal with Homer Gilmore.”

She kept looking at Carson. He stared right back at her. “What could Homer possibly have that you would want?”

“I want to talk to him about that famous moonshine of his.”

“You want to buy some moonshine?”

“I want to buy the formula.”

“Had any luck with that?”

“Not a lot. I’ve been here two weeks trying to set up a meeting with the man. It’s not happening—though Homer has called me four times.” Carson’s brow furrowed. “At least, I think it was him. But then, I understand he’s homeless. Does he even have a phone? And how did he get my cell number, anyway? Maybe someone’s just pranking me.” He sent Ryan a suspicious glance.

Ryan put up both hands. “Don’t give me that look. If you’ve been pranked, it wasn’t me.”

Kayla suggested, “Homer always knows more than you’d think. He’s a very bright man, and he has a big heart. He’s just a little bit odd.”

Tessa asked Carson, “So what did Homer—if it even was Homer—say when he called you?”

He gazed at her so steadily. A ripple of pleasure spread through her at the obvious admiration in his eyes. “Homer told me that he knew I was looking for him and he was ‘working’ on it.”

“Working on what?”

Carson lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine. He said he might be willing to talk business with me. Soon.”

Trey prompted, “And?”

“And that’s it.”

“He called you four times and that’s all he said?” Kristen asked.

“Pretty much. It was discouraging. You’d think a homeless person would be eager to meet with someone who only wants to make him rich. Not Homer Gilmore, apparently.”

“You’re serious?” Tessa didn’t really get it. “You want to buy Homer’s moonshine formula and that’s going to make him rich?”

“That’s right.” Carson reached out and took her hand. His touch sent warmth cascading through her. He pulled her closer—and she let him. “Come on. Let’s get a drink.” He wrapped her fingers around his arm. She felt the pricey fabric of his sport coat, the rock-hard muscles beneath, and she didn’t know whether she was scared to death or exhilarated. Carson Drake was even more gorgeous and magnetic close up than from a distance. And he smelled amazing. He probably had his aftershave made specifically for him—bespoke, no doubt, from that famous perfumer in London, at a cost of thousands for a formula all his own.

And it was worth every penny, too.

He gave her a smile.

Pow! A lightning strike of wonderfulness, a hot blast of pure pleasure. It felt so good, to have this particular man looking at her as though there was no one else in the world—too good, and she knew it.

She’d been here before and she should get away. Fast.

But she did nothing of the sort. Instead, she said, “I’ll have a drink with you—but only if you tell me more about how you’re going to buy Homer’s moonshine formula and then make him rich.”

“Done.”

They waved at the others and he led her to the row of coolers, where he grabbed a Budweiser and she took a ginger ale. Arm in arm, they wandered beneath the trees looking for a place to sit—and stopping to visit with just about everyone they passed. Two weeks he’d said he’d been in town. He certainly hadn’t wasted any time getting to know people.

Eventually, they found a rough wooden bench at the foot of a giant fir tree. They sat down together, and Carson told her about his clubs and restaurants in Southern California and about Drake Distilleries.

“I know your products,” she said. “High-end Scotch, rye and whiskey. Vodka and gin, too. And are you telling me you’re hoping to bottle and sell Homer’s moonshine in liquor stores all over the country?”

“All over the world, as a matter of fact.”

“Wow.”

“My family has been making good liquor for nearly a hundred years. When the story of the magic moonshine popped up on the wire services and the web, I read all about it. That was when it happened. I got the shiver.”

“Which shiver is that?”

“The one I get when I have a great idea—like packaging Homer’s moonshine for international distribution under the Drake label.”

“Sounds a little crazy to me.”

“Sometimes the best ideas are kind of crazy. I called Ryan. He gave me more details. Homer’s famous formula is supposed to be delicious. I want to find out if it’s as good as everyone seems to think—and if it is, I want it.”

“Be careful,” she warned. “Last Fourth of July, people drank Homer’s moonshine and then did things they didn’t even remember the next morning.”

“I take my business seriously,” he replied, his eyes level on hers. “And there are a lot of laws governing the bottling and distribution of alcoholic spirits. If I ever get my hands on Homer’s formula, there will be extensive testing and trials before the finished product ever reaches the marketplace.”

She tipped her head down and found herself staring at his boots. They were cowboy boots. Designer cowboy boots. The kind that cost as much as a used car. She sighed at the sight and lifted her gaze to him again. “It is kind of magical, what happened last year. I wasn’t here, but everyone said people had the best time of their lives. There was a lot of hooking up.”

“Thus, the Baby Bonanza.”

“Exactly. People behaved way out of character, lost all control. Homer put the moonshine in the wedding punch, which was only supposed to have a small amount of sparkling wine in it. Nobody knew what they were drinking.”

“I heard about that, too. The old fool is lucky nobody sued his ass.”

“At first no one knew how the punch got spiked. For a while, there was talk about tracking down the culprit and putting him in jail. It was months before Homer confessed that he was the one.”

“Was he ever arrested or even sued?”

“Nope. By then, folks were past wanting him to pay for what he’d done. It was getting to be something of a town legend, one of those stories people tell their kids, who turn around and tell their kids. It was as if Homer’s moonshine allowed people to be...swept away, to do the things they would ordinarily only dream of doing. I mean, this little town is not the kind of place where people go to a wedding reception in the park and then wake up the next morning with a stranger, minus their clothes.”

He leaned closer, so his forehead almost touched the brim of her hat, bringing the heat of his big body and the wonderful, subtle scent of his skin. “The whole aphrodisiac angle could be interesting—for marketing, I mean.”

“Marketing.” She put some effort into sounding less breathless and more sarcastic. “Because sex sells, right?”

“You said it—I didn’t.” His mouth was only inches from hers.

She thought about kissing him, and wanted that. Too much. To get a little distance, she brought up her hands and pushed lightly at his chest. “You’re in my space.”

One corner of that sinful mouth kicked up. “I think I like it in your space.”

She kept her hands on that broad, hard chest, felt the strong, even beating of his heart—and slowly shook her head.

He took the hint, leaning back against the bench again and sipping his beer. “Ryan tells me you’re from Bozeman.”

“Born, bred and raised.”

“You have a job there in Bozeman, Tessa?”

“I’m a graphic designer. I freelance with a small Bozeman firm—and I mean very small, so small the owner closes it down every summer.”

“And that gives you a chance to have a nice, long visit in beautiful Rust Creek Falls every year?”

“Exactly. I also take work on my own. I have a website, StricklandGraphix.com—that’s an x instead of a cs, in case you’d like to pay me a whole bunch of money to design your next marketing campaign.”

“Are you good?”

“Now, how do you think I’m going to answer that?”

“Tell me you’re terrific. I like a woman with confidence.”

She took off her hat and dropped it on the bench between them. “Glad to hear it. Because when it comes to design, I know my stuff.” Even if I was blackballed from the industry and am highly unlikely to work in a major design firm or ad agency ever again.

“Where did you study?”

“The School of Visual Arts.”

“In New York?”

She poked him with her elbow. “Your look of complete surprise is not the least flattering.”

“That’s a great school.” He said it with real admiration.

She shouldn’t bask in his approval. But she did. “One of the best. I worked in New York for a while after I graduated.”

“What brought you home to Bozeman?”

“Now, that’s a long story. One you don’t need to hear right this minute.”

“But I would love to hear it.” He was leaning close again, his arm along the back of the bench behind her, all manly and much too exciting. “You should tell me. Now.” How did he do that? Have her longing to open her mouth and blather out every stupid mistake she’d ever made?

Uh-uh. Not happening. “But I’m not telling you now—so let it go.”

“Maybe you’ll tell me someday?” He sounded almost wistful, and that made her like him more, made her think that he was more than just some cocky rich guy, that there was at least a little vulnerability under the swagger.

“I guess anything’s possible,” she answered, keeping it vague, longing to move on from the uncomfortable subject.

Again, he retreated to his side of the bench. She drank a sip of ginger ale. Finally, he said, “You looked amazing in that stork costume.”

“Oh, please.”

“You did. You looked dorky and sweet and intriguing and original.”

“Dorky, huh?”

“Yeah. Dorky. And perfect. Almost as perfect as you look right now. I couldn’t wait to meet you. And now I never want to leave your side.”

“I’ll bet.”

He put up a hand as though swearing an oath. “Honest truth.”

She let out a big, fake sigh. “Not so perfect with babies, unfortunately. Poor little Gil—that’s Kayla and my cousin Trey’s baby, the one I was holding during the parade.”

“I remember.”

“Did you hear him wailing?”

“I did. Yes.”

“He’s probably scarred for life after having me hold him for the whole parade.”

“I’m not much of a baby person, either,” Carson confessed with very little regret.

She teased, “So you’re saying that we have something in common?”

“I’ll bet we have a lot in common.” He sounded way too sincere for her peace of mind. She tried to think of something light and easy to say in response, but she had nothing. He picked up her hat, tipped it back and forth so the rhinestone accents glittered in the sunlight, and then set it back down between them. “Any particular reason you rode the Gazette’s float?”

“Two reasons. One, I need work and I’m trying to get in good with the paper’s editor and publisher. I love Rust Creek Falls and I’m considering moving here permanently—if I can pull enough business together from my website and locally to make ends meet, that is.”

“And the second reason?”

She leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “The stork costume fit me.”

He chuckled at that. Then he asked about her family. “Ryan told me that you’re staying at your grandmother’s boardinghouse.”

She explained that she had two sisters, one of whom still lived in Bozeman, as did their mom and dad. “My other sister, Claire, her husband, Levi, and Bekka, their little girl, live here at the boardinghouse. Levi manages a furniture store in Kalispell and Claire is the boardinghouse cook.”

Carson listened to her ramble on. He really seemed to want to know everything about her. She found his interest flattering.

Maybe too flattering. Was she playing with fire?

Of course not. She’d met an interesting, attentive man, and she was enjoying his company.

Nothing wrong with that.

Eventually, they got up and each took a beer from the coolers. They visited with friends and family until the barbecue came off the smokers; then they sat together at a picnic table with Ryan and Kristen, Trey and Kayla. Tessa’s sister Claire and her husband, Levi, joined them, too.

Tessa was having a fabulous time.

Her original fears about Carson seemed so silly now. He liked her. She liked him.

It was a beautiful day, and she was spending it with a handsome, hunky guy. It would go nowhere, and she was happy with that. Before very long he would return to his glamorous life in LA. She would stay right here in Rust Creek Falls, enjoying her summer break and trying to figure out what to do with the rest of her life.

Later, as twilight fell, she and Carson got a blanket from his car. They spread the blanket on the grass, got comfortable and talked some more.

She confessed that she was kind of at a crossroads, trying to decide where to take her graphic design career. There was her nice, safe job in Bozeman and the growing business she was building through her website. “I kind of want to try leaving the Bozeman job and focusing on freelancing independently, but it’s tricky.”

He stuck his long legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. “I thought you said you wanted to move here, to Rust Creek Falls.”

“I do, but that doesn’t really fit with my ambitions for work. I’m slowly accepting that eventually I need to choose between trying again for a more ambitious career and a move here.”

“Go big,” he suggested.

“And what, exactly, does that mean?”

He shrugged. “You need to be where the action is. Why don’t you move to LA?”

She set her hat on the blanket between them and stretched out on her back. Folding her hands on her stomach, she stared up at the darkening sky. “You weren’t listening to me.”

He leaned over her and touched her chin with a light brush of his finger, causing a bunch of small, winged creatures to take flight in her belly. “I would be there. To help you get settled.”

She tried to keep it light. “Oh, I just bet you would.”

“Can you dial back the sarcasm?” He held her eyes.

“Carson, you hardly know me.”

“And that’s my point. I want to know you better.”

There was a moment—a long, sweet one—when he gazed down at her and she looked up at him. The world seemed wide-open at that moment, bright and so beautiful, bursting with hope and limitless possibility.

He whispered, “It’s just a thought.”

“Don’t tempt me.” She meant it to sound teasing. Flirtatious. But somehow, it came out too soft. Too full of yearning.

But then the band started playing over by the portable dance floor beneath the warm glow of the party lights strung between the trees.

“Come on.” He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s dance.”

And they did dance. For over an hour, they never left the floor. He was more than a foot taller than her, but when he wrapped his big arms around her, it felt only...right. He knew the two-step and how to line dance.

When she told him she hadn’t expected an LA boy to know the cowboy dances, he laughed. “You oughta see my disco moves.”

“Okay, Carson. Now you’re starting to freak me out.”

Eventually, they got bottles of water from the coolers and returned to the blanket. Theirs was a great spot, out of the way of the action, shadowed and private, with only the thick swirl of the stars and the waning moon overhead for light.

They whispered together like a couple of bad children plotting insurrections against unwary adults. He told her that he’d been married to his high school sweetheart, Marianne. “Marianne wanted to start a family right away.”

“And you didn’t want kids, right?”

“Right. I realized I’d married too young. We divorced. She remarried a couple of years later. Her husband Greg’s a great guy. They have four kids.”

She stretched out on her back again and stared up at the stars. “So you’re saying she’s happy?”

“Very. I don’t see much of her anymore, but it’s good between us, you know? We’re past all the ugly stuff. She ended up finding just what she wanted.”

“And what about you?”

“I’m happy, too. I like my life. It’s all worked out fine.” He leaned over her, bending closer.

It just seemed so natural, so absolutely right, to offer her mouth to him, to welcome his kiss.

His lips settled over hers, light as a breath. They were every bit as soft and supple as they looked. She sighed in welcome as little prickles of pleasure danced through her, and she was glad, so glad, that she’d denied her silly fears and come to the park, after all. That she’d met this charming man and was sharing a great evening with him.

When he pulled back, his eyes were darker than ever. “What is it about you, Tessa? I can’t take my eyes off you. I feel like I’ve known you forever. And how come you taste so good?”

She laughed. “Oh, you silver-tongued devil, you.” She was trying to decide whether or not to kiss him again when a raspy throat-clearing sound came from a clump of bushes about ten feet away.

Tessa sat up. “What was that?”

Carson challenged, “Who’s there?”

Branches rustled—and an old man emerged from right out of the center of a big bush. He wore baggy black jeans, a frayed rope for a belt, battered lace-up work boots and the dingy top half of a union suit as a shirt. Bristly gray whiskers peppered his wattled cheeks. What was left of his hair stood up at all angles.

Tessa recognized him instantly. “Homer Gilmore, were you eavesdropping on us?”

Chapter Three

Homer Gilmore blinked as though waking himself from a sound sleep—and then he grinned wide, showing crooked, yellowed teeth. “Well, if it ain’t little Tessa Strickland. Stayin’ at your grandma’s place for the summer?”

“Yes, I am. And you didn’t answer my question.”

Homer scratched his stubbly cheek. “Me? Eavesdropping?” He put on a hurt expression. “Tessa, you know me better than that.”

Beside her, Carson rose smoothly to his feet and held down a hand for her. She took it, and he pulled her up to stand beside him.

Homer came toward them.

Carson seemed bemused. “Homer Gilmore. Face-to-face at last.”

Homer recognized him. “Carson Drake.” He accepted Carson’s offered hand and gave it a quick pump before letting go. “Told you I’d be in touch.”

“So then, that really was you on the phone?”

“’Course it was.” Homer had a mason jar of clear liquid in his left hand. “Here.” He shoved it toward Carson.

Carson eyed the jar doubtfully. “What’s this?”

“This is what you came here to get.” Homer grabbed Carson’s hand and slapped the jar into it.

“No kidding.” Carson held the jar up toward the party lights in the distance. “Homer Gilmore’s magic moonshine?”

“The one and only.” Homer spoke proudly, puffing out his scrawny chest. “Truth is, I like your style, kid. And here’s what I want you to do. Try a taste or two. See what you think. Then we can talk.”

“I’m sorry.” Carson actually did sound regretful. “It doesn’t work that way.” He tried to hand the jar back.

Homer refused to take it. “I say how it works. Taste it.”

“Look, we need a meeting. A real meeting. Yes, there should be sampling, but formal sampling, in a professional setting. And chemical analysis, of course—but all that comes later. First, how about we meet for dinner and we can discuss—”

“Hold on.” Homer put up a hand. “We’ll get to the talk and the dang analysis. But first, you try it. This deal goes nowhere until you do.”

“Homer, you’re not listening to me. I can’t just—”

“Nope. Stop. You heard what I said. Have yourself a taste. After that, we’ll talk.”

“When, exactly, will we talk?”

“Don’t get pushy, kid. I’ll be in touch.”

Carson opened his mouth to say something else—but then shut it without saying anything. Tessa got that. What was the point? Homer wasn’t listening. With a wink and a nod in her direction, the old man turned and walked away. Tessa and Carson stared after him as he vanished into the darkness of the trees.

Baffled, Carson stared down at the jar in his hand. “I don’t believe this.”

Tessa dropped to the blanket again. “It’s Homer. What can you expect?”

“You think he might be crazy?”

“Of course not. He’s a little peculiar, that’s all. Being an oddball doesn’t make you crazy. Kayla had it right. He really does have a good heart.”

“If you say so.” But he seemed far from convinced. She patted the space beside her. He folded his tall frame down next to her. “So...” He set the jar on the blanket next to her hat. For several seconds, they stared at it together. Over near the dance floor, the band launched into the next number.

Tessa laughed when she recognized the song. “That’s ‘Alcohol’ by Brad Paisley. Perfect, huh?”

Carson slanted her a look full of mischief and delicious badness. “Want to try it?”

She did want to try it. She was really, really curious—just to know how it might taste, to maybe get a sense of whether or not any of the outrageous rumors about it might be true.

“Tessa?” he prompted when she failed to answer him.

She tried to remind herself of all the reasons that taking a chance on Homer’s moonshine was not a good idea. “It could be dangerous...”

“You really think it’s all that bad?”

“I didn’t say bad. But you’ve heard the stories.”

He flapped his arms. “Bok-bok-bok.”

She laughed and gave his shoulder a playful shove. “Don’t make chicken sounds at me. I’m being responsible.”

He leaned a little closer. “And what fun is that?”

Oh, she did like him. She liked him a lot—liked him more and more the longer she was with him. He was not only hot. He was fun and smart and perceptive.

And a very good kisser.

Did he see in her eyes that she was thinking about kissing him? Seemed like he must have, because he leaned even closer and brushed a second kiss against her mouth.

So good.

His lips settled more firmly on hers. She sighed in pure delight and had to resist the sharp desire to slide a hand up around his neck and pull him closer still.

She was probably in big trouble.

But the more she got to know him, the less she feared her attraction to him and the more it just felt right to be sitting beside him under the stars with the band playing country favorites. The night had a glow about it, even here in the shadows on their private little square of blanket. She was having so much fun with him, loving every minute of this night. She never wanted it to end. She wanted to sit here and enjoy the man beside her and maybe, a little later, to get up and dance some more. And after that, to steal another kiss.

And another after that.

He reached for the mason jar and unscrewed the lid.

She leaned close and whispered, “You shouldn’t have done that. It’s all over now. Our lives will never be the same.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “The temptation is just too great. I can’t resist.” He sniffed at the open jar. “Smells like a peach.” He tipped his head to the side, his expression suddenly far away. “I’ve always loved peaches.”

“Peaches? No, really?”

“Really.” He offered her the jar.

She took it and sniffed the contents for herself. “Hmm. Smells like summer.”

“What’d I tell you?”

“But not peaches. Blackberries. Just a hint.” She really wanted to taste it now. “I adore blackberries. They’re my favorite fruit.”

He wrapped his big hand over hers, and they held the jar together. He sniffed again, then insisted, “Admit it. It smells like peaches.”