Frank’s glower pinned Colt to the scuffed pine floorboards. He might be confined to a comfortable recliner, but he hadn’t lost the fight in his intense steel-gray eyes.
“So, you’re the rabble-rouser?” Frank’s thick, peppery eyebrows lowered even further.
Colt stiffened. Rabble-rouser seemed like a far cry from aimless. What exactly had Cassie told him?
“Colt Davis, sir. It’s nice to officially meet you.” Colt extended his hand, but as Frank’s menacing eyes narrowed into slits, he immediately retracted it, clearing his throat more loudly than he intended.
“I know who you are,” Frank growled. “You’re the nuisance who used to trespass on my land.”
Colt’s gaze darted to Luke and Cassie for backup. The ole curmudgeon had a pretty sharp memory for a man his age. And a sharp tongue, too.
“Why don’t I put on a pot of decaf?” Cassie cut in quickly, a tad more chipper than the situation warranted.
“Decaf is the devil’s brew,” Frank grumbled.
“Doctor’s orders,” Cassie quipped. “But if you promise to be civil, I’ll make half-caff.”
Frank mumbled again, but Cassie must have interpreted the unintelligible sound as compliance because she spun on her heel, a satisfied smile illuminating her features.
“I’ll help.” Luke shot an encouraging glance at Colt before disappearing down the hallway after his wife.
Left alone with Frank, Colt’s pulse spiked. He felt like a quarterback clutching the ball, deserted by his offensive linemen. His fight-or-flight instincts were finely honed to flight, but in this case, he stood his ground.
Frank lifted the hulking tome of War and Peace draped over the arm of the recliner and focused his attention on the yellowed pages. Without glancing up, he gestured toward the worn leather sofa. “Have a seat. Unless you’re fond of that particular spot on the floor.”
Unsettled by Frank’s unexpected attempt at humor, Colt hesitated a moment before sinking into the plump cushions. Running a hand over the soft, supple upholstery—presumably broken in by age and frequent use—he surveyed his surroundings.
The classic bones of the farmhouse had to be over a hundred years old, and the sturdy structure had maintained its rustic charm. Thick, heavy drapes were drawn back, casting late afternoon sunlight across the dark, masculine furnishings. The only items not congruent with Frank’s gruff exterior were the gobs of floral arrangements sprouting from every nook and cranny.
“Nice flowers.” Colt nodded toward a bouquet of white roses and golden-hued gardenias with a notecard peeking from the fragrant foliage imparting well wishes for a speedy recovery.
“It looks like a funeral parlor in here,” Frank grunted, wrinkling his nose in disapproval. “I’m dying, not dead.”
“You’re not dying, either,” Colt corrected emphatically.
Cassie had assured everyone at last night’s meeting that although Frank’s condition needed careful monitoring over the next several weeks, his doctor expected a full recovery if the unruly patient could give his body enough time to heal.
Frank opened his mouth—probably to argue—but snapped it shut when Cassie swept into the room carrying a wooden tray topped with stoneware mugs, a mismatched creamer and sugar bowl, and a French press containing piping-hot coffee. Luke followed with a heaping plate of raspberry mocha scones Colt recognized as one of Eliza’s many specialties at The Calendar Café.
“Glad to see you two getting along.” Cassie flashed an overly optimistic smile as she slid the tray onto the coffee table. After she handed Frank a wide-brimmed mug, she settled on the far end of the couch, nestling against Luke as he hooked one arm around her shoulders.
“So, how are you?” Luke asked Frank, attempting to fill the conspicuous silence.
“Peachy.” Frank took his first sip, the lines etched into his forehead detailing exactly what he thought of the doctor’s recommendation to drink decaf.
“Can we get you something from Jack’s for dinner tonight?” Cassie asked.
“I usually get the all-you-can-eat ribs. But since my house arrest prohibits me from going back for seconds…” Frank trailed off as a murky shadow clouded his countenance.
Colt shifted his weight, a knot of sympathy twisting in his gut. As someone who never stayed in one country for very long, let alone trapped in the same house, he bristled on Frank’s behalf.
“I guess the tri-tip special would be fine,” Frank said after a pause.
“How about something a little more heart-healthy?” Cassie pressed gently. “Like the barbecue chicken?”
Frank scowled.
“I can cook something,” Colt offered impulsively.
“You can?” Cassie tilted her head, studying him with newfound curiosity.
“Sure. I went to culinary school.”
“Only for two semesters,” Luke added.
“Have you ever poached an egg?” Colt countered in mock offense.
“You have a point,” his brother chuckled.
“I never cared for poached eggs. All that orange goo oozing everywhere.” Frank shuddered.
Colt grinned, undeterred. “I can make whatever you want.”
The old man eyed him over the rim of his mug. “How about shish kebab? Authentic, like my Armenian mother used to make.”
“Frank, I didn’t know you were Armenian,” Luke said with interest.
“On my mother’s side. My father was more of a Heinz 57.”
“What does that mean?” Cassie asked.
“A little bit of everything,” Colt told her, his lips quirked. Turning to Frank, he added, “Consider it done.” While he’d only completed two semesters, he’d continued learning on his own, favoring French and Middle Eastern cuisine. If Frank wanted authentic Armenian shish kebab, that’s exactly what he’d get.
But for all Colt’s confidence, Frank didn’t look convinced. Although, he did look resigned. And Colt wasn’t sure which emotion he found the most troubling.
“Great. This is going to work out perfectly.” Cassie smiled as she nuzzled closer to Luke.
“But I can’t make it tonight,” Colt said quickly.
“I knew it,” Frank muttered. “You don’t know how.”
“Oh, I know how.” Colt took a slow, languorous sip before lowering the mug, resting it on his knee. “But traditional shish kebab takes two or three days to marinate. It’ll be ready by the weekend.”
A brief flicker of surprise flashed across Frank’s weathered features. But only for a moment. Leveling his gaze on Colt, he added, “Don’t forget the pilaf.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Leaning forward, Colt set his mug on the coffee table and reached for the French press. Slow and steady, he poured himself another serving, steam wafting from the spout.
Frank Barrie may not want his help right now, but sooner or later, Colt would crack through his crusty shell and show him it wasn’t too late to live his life to the fullest.
The way his father would have…
If he’d had time.
Penny’s stomach fluttered as she stepped into the expansive one-room town hall. Since it doubled as an art and dance studio by day and rehearsal space for the local theater group by night, the decor was eclectic to say the least. Amateurish landscape paintings bedecked the pine slat walls beside posters announcing One Night Only, Shakespeare in the Park.
Her gaze traveled past a rolling rack of Renaissance-era costumes to a long folding table teeming with tantalizing desserts.
The flutter in her stomach transformed into a low, rumbling growl. And the plump, oversize brownies seemed to be calling her name.
“Be careful with those. They’re not what you think.”
The rich, toe-curling timbre sent goose bumps skittering across her arms. Penny hated how the all-too-familiar voice made her knees quake. She blamed the phenomena on faulty biology.
Squaring her shoulders, she whirled around to face the annoyingly affable grin of Colt Davis, which was only made more vexing by the dimple in his left cheek. It simply wasn’t fair that such appealing features belonged to such a disagreeable man-child. “What are you doing here?”
Ignoring her question, Colt filled his plate with every dessert except the brownies. “They look like regular brownies, but don’t be fooled. They’ve got some kick. Cayenne pepper would be my guess.” He pulled a face.
“You don’t like spicy food?” she asked, making a point to grab one of the offending treats.
“More like spicy food doesn’t like me.”
“Hmm… I can’t imagine why,” she smirked.
Chuckling, Colt stuffed a powdered doughnut hole in his mouth and slowly licked his fingers.
Something about the gesture grated on her nerves. Folding her arms in front of her chest, Penny persisted. “So, what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be with Frank?”
“Beverly came over to cook him dinner and watch Wheel of Fortune, so I thought I’d give them some privacy. Plus, Mayor Burns left a strangely urgent voice mail insisting I show up tonight.”
Penny frowned. Why would the mayor want Colt to attend the meeting? With all the times he’d had to clean up after Colt’s antics, she was surprised he hadn’t declared the day Colt left for college a town holiday.
Before she could press further, Mayor Burns whacked his gavel against the podium. Penny jumped in surprise, and to her annoyance, Colt laughed.
Jutting her chin in the air, she spun on her heel, making her way to the back row of folding chairs. Determined not to let him get under her skin, she stared straight ahead as he chose the chair next to her.
Through most of the mayor’s long-winded speech, Penny shifted in her seat, scooting farther away from Colt’s encroaching thigh. Was it absolutely necessary for him to sit so close?
Distracted by his obnoxiously loud chewing, she struggled to concentrate on all the talking points, eager not to miss the mysterious reason for Colt’s presence. Maybe the mayor was playing a prank, knowing how much Colt loathed meetings of any kind, but especially ones this drawn out and boring. She almost snickered at the thought.
“Hmm… Let’s see…” Burns glanced at his notes, his jet-black, overly gelled hair not moving a millimeter as he inclined his head. “Next we have Beverly’s article on the top activities in Poppy Creek for senior citizens.” Strumming his well-manicured fingernails against the wooden podium, he searched the dozen or so faces staring back at him. “Is Penny Heart here?”
“I’m here.” Penny raised her hand in the back row, suddenly self-conscious as everyone turned to stare.
“Wonderful.” Burns flashed his unnaturally white teeth. “I’ve been informed you’re taking over for Beverly, which is excellent, since I’ve decided to go in a different direction.”
“A different direction?” Penny repeated, her fists curling around the soft cotton folds of her vintage, pink-gingham sundress.
“I liked Beverly’s proposal, but I’d rather appeal to a more exciting crowd. Younger blood, if you will. The new title for your article is ‘Poppy Creek’s Top 5 Thrilling Summer Adventures.’ While I’d like the activities to be summery—think outdoorsy—they can be available year-round or a special one-day event. But the one criterion that’s nonnegotiable is each activity must be exciting! Something to give tourists a real thrill. Great idea, right?” With his smug smile on full display, he looked rather pleased with himself as he waited for her response.
But Penny had lost the ability to speak. Suddenly, all the air evaporated from her lungs. And the temperature in the room escalated by a few hundred degrees.
He must have noticed her flushed features because he asked, “That’s not a problem, is it?”
“N-no, no problem,” she stammered, her head swimming.
“Good. Because I want this article to take up a significant portion of the guidebook. Which is also why I’ve arranged for you to have some help.”
The room started to spin in slow motion as Burns shifted his gaze to the chair beside her.
No… this can’t be happening…. Penny sucked in a horrified breath.
“Me?” Colt balked, sounding equally astonished.
“You’re the resident adventure expert,” Burns told him with a devilish grin, as though he enjoyed watching Colt squirm. “There isn’t a single hair-raising activity within a hundred miles you haven’t tackled with zeal.”
“Yeah, but—”
“So, what better person for the job? Penny, of course, will write the article. And it’ll be nice to have an outsider’s perspective. But you’ll supply the knowledge and credibility the article needs. Any objections?”
Before either of them had a chance to respond, Burns slammed his gavel. “Perfect. Moving on to the next order of business….”
But Penny could no longer hear him as wailing alarms resounded inside her head. How had so many things gone so spectacularly wrong in a matter of minutes?
Thrilling, adventure, and Colt were three words she never wanted strung together in the same sentence.
At least, not where she was concerned.
How on earth could she get out of this?