Here Comes Trouble (13 page)

Quin had never considered himself in the least
bit artistic, other than how he managed to create a
journalistic style with his words, but looking at
Stella as she slept made him feel positively poetic.
He wasn't sure how it had happened, but they'd
both fallen asleep on the floor in front of the fire.

It was cozy and rather than fleeing, he was occupied composing a poem. If only he could find a
good word to rhyme with dawn.

Lawn.

Mowing.

Settling down. The thought yanked him out of
his romantic fog.

The fire had long since died and he couldn't
remember having slept this well in years.

Heck, most of the time, he only half slept for
fear a vicious drug lord or dictator would send
someone to silence his pen. Although his life
wasn't now at stake, certainly his lifestyle was. So
why did he feel so peaceful?

One glance at Stella told him everything he
needed to know. They'd belonged to each other
for as long as he could remember. The knowledge
gave him strength when he'd been thrown in jail
in Moscow, the time he'd been lost in a Brazilian
jungle, and when those bandits tossed him out of
the car. He could pretend otherwise, tell himself
he only wanted to get to know her better, but the
truth was, he wanted to be with her forever.

However, things weren't so easy. He had a job
to return to, a job he found fulfilling and intriguing. Sure it was lonely, but was he ready to toss
it all in to play house in Littlemouth, inspiring
though the idea might be?

The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Stella,
but wasn't that what they were heading toward?
He wanted to protect her, even if it meant protecting her from himself.

Bottom line, he was selfish and didn't deserve
a woman like Stella.

He rose quietly, not wanting to disturb her because they'd both been up late making the pies
that were due at the fairgrounds soon.

Only a jerk would leave without saying some thing, but how could he say anything until he figured it out for himself? He didn't want to consider
what would happen if his mother or one of her
pals learned where he'd been all night. Leaving
immediately would, he hoped, keep Stella's reputation intact.

He made a beeline to the kitchen.

Tramp barked a happy greeting when Quin
opened the door into the kitchen, but he quickly
hushed him. The more he thought about it, the
more it seemed that giving Stella, and himself,
time to think things through was a good idea.

He opened the outer door into the yard so
Tramp could go out. Taking a seat on the back
steps, he watched as the dog energetically circled
the yard a time or two before getting down to the
serious business of sniffing around the oak tree.

Quin wiped the sleep from his eyes, literally as
well as figuratively. How much had Stella
changed? Would she expect him to remain in Littlemouth or was it possible she'd like to come with
him? Did he want to expose her to that kind of
danger? How much could he change? Could he
become the kind of guy she deserved?

Calling Tramp back inside, Quin put all the pies
into the large box Stella had set aside for taking
them to the fair. They were heavier than he'd expected them to be, but if he walked home with them, he could get a shower and then drive the
rest of the way.

As quietly as possible, he entered the living
room. Stella's cherrywood hair had billowed out
around her, making her look as though she slept
on a cloud. She was so beautiful, intelligent-and
precious.

His chest became tight. She felt so right in his
arms.

Before his resolve to leave crumbled, he rushed
back to the kitchen and safety. He then tiptoed out
her back door with the box of pies in his arms
instead of the woman he wanted there.

When Quin neared his house, he hoped to
sneak in without anyone the wiser. No need to
create more gossip for Stella to live down. He
opened his rental car door and carefully placed the
box of pies on the back seat.

He climbed the steps to his house, then slid the
house key his mom had given him into the lock.
Strange, it didn't meet any resistance. Pushing the
door open, his gaze met a gaggle of gossips.

TROUBLE, every last one of 'em, were sitting
in the front room with expressions much like
Tramp's after he'd gotten into Stella's pies.

Quin gulped. So much for coming in secretly.
They had probably gathered to make an early start
for the fairgrounds. Interestingly, they were all dressed head to toe in identical black shirts and
slacks. "Good morning, ladies. Why all the black?
Are you going to a funeral?"

"We're dressed in costumes for the fair. How
are you this morning?"

"Just fine." If he didn't know them better, he'd
think they'd been out skulking around in the dark,
peeping in windows and hunting for gossip.

"Good morning, Quinlan," said his mother with
a wry smile on her face. "About time you showed
up.

"I couldn't sleep so I brought Stella's pies for
the fair." It was close enough to the truth, and
might protect her from wagging tongues.

"Where are they then?" asked Prissy.

"In my car."

"Then why are you here instead of the fairgrounds?" asked Cait calmly, making his answers
resemble Swiss cheese.

"I wanted to change clothes first?" Even as he
replied, he knew how weak an excuse it was, and
how one look at his face made clear that he hadn't
shaved since the previous day. His clothing was
the worse for wear-and water balloons-as well.

Prissy confirmed his fears by adding, in a worried tone, "I see. You didn't bother cleaning up
before visiting my daughter?"

"The scraggly look is in vogue." Not waiting to hear them argue the point, he exited the room, then
headed into the hall bath and out of earshot.

Meanwhile in the living room, Debby passed
around a dish of pastries and each woman took
one. "When Ian's mother called, I was a little surprised that Quin had offered to babysit. Water balloons. How humiliating for my son."

Janice couldn't keep from laughing. "Ian surpassed himself this time."

"I enjoyed watching Quin squirm, but I'm a little disappointed that Stella did the rescuing instead
of vice versa," replied Prissy. "Although, it's possible that if she'd been the one to watch Ian, there
might not have been a need for rescue. She's always been good with children."

"It probably doesn't matter who saved whom,"
added Debby.

Cait said, between bites, "I believe this is the
second time Stella rescued him. First the dumpster
and now the basement."

"I almost laughed out loud when Quin mentioned the scraggly look being in vogue," Janice
said.

Cait nodded. "And the expression on his face
was priceless when he first walked in and saw us
waiting for him."

"His ego was getting a little too healthy," said Janice. "A little role reversal won't do him any
harm."

They all nodded, then put their heads together
to discuss their further plans. As they concluded,
Prissy's brow was furrowed in thought. "Do you
think I could hint to Ian that Millicent loves water
balloons?"

Less than an hour later, Quin arrived at the fairgrounds. As he meandered around looking for the
Trouble Tarts booth, he was still surprised that
when he'd emerged from the bathroom earlier
none of the Troublemakers had remained behind
to question him further. Usually they were worse
than hounds baying at a fox when it came to gossip.

Maybe his story had held up better than he'd
thought?

At last, he discovered the Trouble Tarts booth
just past a tent with a huge sign of a crystal ball
and the word psychic written in squiggly print.
Discretely, beneath the sign was a placard stating:
"$3.00/reading, all proceeds benefit the Littlemouth Sheriff's Department Benevolence Fund."

Seemed like a good cause, he thought, making
a mental note to have his fortune told later. Somehow, he suspected it might involve travel, falling
in love with a dark-headed stranger, and coming
into a small sum of money.

His mother manned the Trouble Tarts booth,
busily slicing pies and putting each piece on a paper plate. She looked up when she heard him put
the cardboard box on the table she'd set up behind
her. "There you are."

Quin nodded, shoving his hands into his jeans
pockets.

She handed him a long apron saying, "Put this
on to protect your clothing. You'd be surprised
how messy handling pies can be."

"I'm just the delivery man. I'm not handling any
pies."

"Don't stand there and argue. We're counting
on you to help increase our revenues. Everyone in
town will want to meet Littlemouth's most famous
citizen, and they'll have to buy a slice of pie to
get at you. Irma has big plans for the money this
booth is going to raise."

Quin knew better than to argue with his mother.
If he didn't readily agree to her demands, she'd
find some way to blackmail him into it. He didn't
have the energy to defend himself today, not after
his encounter with Ian the night before. "How long
will I have to do this?"

"We're booked to work at the Ladies Auxiliary
sale for the next few hours."

"Hours? How long is this going to take?" Quin
grabbed his side and rubbed his ribs, all the while trying to keep a smile off his face and to look
pitiful.

"Stella should be here before too long. She can
help you. Besides, you'll probably sell out of pies
before lunchtime. There's only six dozen of them."

She must have caught on that he was brimming
with good health. Otherwise, she'd have him back
in bed and be feeding him more chicken soup before he could have finished a sentence.

Six dozen pies meant seventy-two pies. At six
slices per pie ...

Three hundred, four hundred? More? Quin's
mental multiplication failed him. He grimaced, figuring that however many slices that equaled, it was
more pie than he wanted to deal with. Somehow,
his mother's estimate of his pie-selling abilities
seemed optimistic, even for her. Narrowing his
eyes, he wondered what exactly she was up to.

She blew him a kiss and darted away, before he
had a chance to stop her.

By ten o'clock, he'd managed to sell three
dozen pies by telling everyone he'd personally
made the pie. Of course, he'd long since lost track
of which were the four pies he'd sliced apples for,
but it was for a good cause, the Littlemouth Library, and each slice sold would get him out of
the booth faster. Thankfully, a number of people
had bought entire pies, or he'd be at this all week.

He shuddered as The Gargoyle approached his booth with a sour-grapes expression pursing her
lips. As far as he was concerned, however, that
seemed to be her natural expression. "Enjoying the
fair, Mrs. Gordon?"

"Enjoying it as much as I could expect to." She
stood on the opposite side of the table, ogling his
pies. "I heard you made these pies personally?"

Quin shrugged. "Some of them."

Pointing to the pie he was serving slices from,
she asked, "Did you make that one?"

Expecting a quick sale, he grinned proudly.
"Sure did."

"How about the one next to it?"

"That one, too."

"How about those two in the corner?"

Quin turned to see which pies she meant before
it hit him why she was asking which of the pies
were the ones he'd made. "No, I definitely had no
hand in making those two beautiful pies."

He hoped he told the truth, but as far as he was
concerned, one pie looked very much like the next.
He had no way of knowing any longer which of
the pies had come from Stella's.

"Good," said The Gargoyle gloatingly. "I'll take
both of the pies you didn't make."

Once Mrs. Gordon had made her way from the
booth, there was a momentary lull in business.
Quin leaned against the back of the table in order to take some weight off his feet, which were throbbing from standing on them so long.

Since there wasn't a chair in the booth, he was
tempted to take a seat on the hard ground. Just as
he began sinking, a red-headed urchin approached.

"Are you playing hide and seek?" Ian asked excitedly.

"No. I'm not hiding," Quin quickly jumped to
his feet.

"What were you doing under the table, then?"

"I wasn't under it. I was stooping."

"Why were you stooping?"

The kid simply wasn't going to let this drop. "I
was, um, checking my supply of water balloons."

"Cool." Ian grinned, revealing a gap from a
missing front tooth. How could such a bratty kid
look so cute and innocent?

"Are you here for pie?"

"What kinda pie?"

"Apple. Want some?"

Ian fumbled in his pocket. "I gots thirty-nine
cents."

"Sold." Quin pulled some change from his own
pocket and added it to the kitty.

As he gave the pie to the boy, he heard a young
voice call, "Innnn."