Borrowing Bentley (Wishing Well Texas Book 9) Read online

Neither Bentley nor I moved.

  “Do you two need a written invitation?” she asked, not looking up from her computer.

  “Ladies first.” Bentley stretched out his arm as if he were some sort of gentleman, but I knew better.

  He had everyone in Wishing Well, maybe even in Clover County, fooled, but I knew the truth. He was known as the “good Calhoun boy,” but I was convinced that had more to do with his older brother Brady being a cocky bully who thought he could get away with anything because their daddy was a senator. Dennis the Menace would’ve been the “good one” compared to Brady.

  Even Granny Turner had been fooled by Bentley. She used to say that if she were fifty years younger, she’d have scooped Bentley Calhoun right up. Whenever she made comments like that, I would throw up in my mouth a little.

  Mrs. Dumas didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Mayor Rogers is running late, so I am going to bring you up to speed. I’m sure you both are aware of the situation. Mayor Bradley and Ms. Novak have allegedly been engaging in some very serious crimes. Including, but not limited to, embezzling city funds.”

  “They did?!” Bentley chuckled as if it was the first time he’d heard the news. “Wow! I didn’t know ol’ Bradley had it in him. I didn’t think he had the balls. Where is he? Locked up in county?”

  “We believe he and Ms. Novak are in Bali, which as you know, has no extradition treaty with the US.”

  I knew that. I doubted Bentley did.

  “Damn.” Bentley leaned back in his chair.

  “Language, Mr. Calhoun.” Mrs. Dumas pushed her glasses up on her nose. “The reason that you’ve both been called to meet with me today is that you’ve been hand-selected to be on a very small task force which will investigate the mismanagement of funds and submit a balanced budget before the next fiscal year. Actually,” she checked her computer screen, “you will need to submit it before next quarter. Which, as I’m sure you know, is in six weeks.”

  Again, I knew that. I doubted Bentley did.

  “How small is this task force?” Bentley asked.

  For once, he asked a good question.

  “Very small. Just the two of you. The chief has offered to let us borrow you, Bentley, as a liaison.”

  No. There was no way that this was happening. I couldn’t work with Bentley, but I also couldn’t turn this down.

  Promotions like this didn’t happen every day in small towns. People kept jobs until they retired. If I messed this up, there was a very good chance that another shot at a position like this wouldn’t open for years, maybe even a decade.

  But how could I possibly do my job while working side by side with Bentley Calhoun? I could barely stand to be in his presence for more than sixty seconds.

  I lifted my hand, “I’m sorry but—”

  “You don’t have to raise your hand, Ms. Turner. This isn’t primary school, dear.” Mrs. Dumas glared at me over her wire-rimmed glasses.

  It sure felt like primary school.

  “Sorry,” I apologized again. I had a tendency to do that when I was flustered, and right now I was all sorts of flustered.

  “Why Bentley?!” The question came out sounding like a petulant child and I knew that I was crashing and burning in this meeting. Sitting up straighter, I did my best to compose myself. “What qualifies Bentley to be a—”

  What word had she used?

  “Liaison,” Bentley offered smugly.

  “Yes. Liaison,” I repeated as I forcibly relaxed my jaw so I wasn’t speaking through clenched teeth.

  Mrs. Dumas glanced down at the paperwork that she had in front of her. “Let’s see, he’s worked for emergency services since he was fifteen—”

  “Fifteen?” I blurted out.

  I hadn’t meant to interrupt, but who works for emergency services at fifteen?

  “I did the Jr. Firefighter program in the summer before sophomore, junior, and senior year.” Bentley’s cat-that-ate-the-canary smile was as smug as his explanation.

  Mrs. Dumas continued, “Yes, and then there’s his degree in forensic accounting.”

  Forensic accounting?

  My head spun to look at Bentley. “You have a degree in forensic accounting? I thought you majored in criminal justice.”

  “Double major. I’m not just a pretty face.” He winked, for the second time that day.

  This time, when he did that, my stomach got a funny feeling. It had to be nausea. That was the only funny feeling I’d allow my body to have in response to Bentley Calhoun.

  Chapter 4

  Bentley

  “Sometimes it’s best to keep your mouth shut, that way ya don’t accidently eat the flies that are circlin’ all the bullshit.”

  ~ Granny Turner

  “There’s my dream team.” Orville Rogers’ voice bellowed through the hall as we stepped out of Mrs. Dumas’ office, after an hour-long meeting that could’ve easily been cut in half. There was so much red tape in politics. So much wasted time.

  Maisy had taken up a substantial amount of that time going over my qualifications and raising concerns about my dedication to the project.

  Mrs. Dumas didn’t seem to be bothered, and answered all of her concerns and questions. I doubted she’d put her mind at ease, but in the end, it managed to shut her up. Finally, reluctantly, she’d agreed to consider it. She asked for a day to look over the scope of work before she committed.

  I’d agreed on the spot, under the condition that as soon as I was cleared for active duty I was outta there faster than the Road Runner. As irritated as Maisy clearly was about our mission, should she choose to accept it, I was actually looking forward to it.

  The reason I’d been drawn to forensic accounting in the first place was that there was always a right and wrong answer. Living my life in the gray area left a lot of room for interpretation as to what was right and wrong. Sometimes interpretation wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  Numbers didn’t lie, and I understood them. I wasn’t quite at Will Hunting level of math genius. I doubted I could do Skylar’s organic chemistry paper in under an hour. Or even a day. So, while I may not’ve been living out a real-life Good Will Hunting story, I was good with numbers and they made sense to me. Which was a lot more than I could say about people most of the time. Plus, I loved detective work. So, the thought of both working with numbers and investigating a crime was a win-win for me.

  Plus, I’d get to spend my days coming up with new and inventive ways to get that wrinkle to appear between Maisy’s brows, the one that came out when she was frustrated or mad.

  “You two have quite the task in front of you.” Orville was in full mayor-mode, shaking both of our hands and looking into our eyes with mock sincerity. “But I have every confidence that you kids will rise to the challenge. Hell, why wouldn’t I? I handpicked both of you.”

  “Hmm, mmm.” Mrs. Dumas cleared her throat.

  I had a feeling she’d had more to do with the handpicking, but for as long as I’d been alive, Orville’d had no problem taking credit for other people’s work. It’s what had made him such a successful politician. “Come on kids. The press is waiting.”

  “The press?” Maisy repeated. “But I haven’t even decided if—”

  “We need to make a statement.” Orville continued as if he hadn’t heard her at all.

  “We?” Maisy glanced my direction. I gave her a look that communicated I was as in the dark as she was when it came to what the hell he was talking about.

  Like ducklings, we followed the man with the apparent plan, who also seemed to have zero desire to clue us in on it. Beside me, I could hear Maisy’s heels clicking on the tiled hallway. I knew she must be in full panic mode right about now.

  Maisy Turner was always prepared with a capital P. She was the exact opposite of fly by the seat of her pants. She was a stitch your first initial and last name in every single one of your pants and then color coordinate them kinda gal.

  “Game faces, people,” Orville instructed us, walking
with purpose.

  At the edge of my peripheral vision, I could see Maisy’s left eye twitch and I knew what was going to come next. Hives, then hyperventilation. Those were her body’s very specific responses to feeling like things were out of her control.

  The first time I’d seen it was in seventh grade, when Mrs. Hinkley’d given us a pop quiz in history class. Maisy damn near hyperventilated because she’d missed a couple of weeks of school thanks to getting her tonsils removed.

  Her neck had been covered in bright red blotches until I’d launched a spit-wad at her, and it landed right beside her hand. I’d done it to get her attention so I could tell her to chill the fuck out, a suggestion I mouthed at her when she turned around and shot daggers at me.

  To this day, I didn’t know if it was my colorful instruction or the spit wad, but something worked. She’d stopped worrying about the test in front of her and focused all of her energy at being disgusted and angry with me. She’d ended up getting an A.

  Then, right before high school graduation, she’d started hyperventilating before she gave her valedictorian speech. I’d remembered that pissing her off had worked before, so I wrote a special note on the program, folded it into a paper airplane, and launched it. It’d landed perfectly in her lap. When she’d picked it up, she wiped her nose and tilted her head to the person next to her.

  I’d written that she had a booger in her nose. When the student beside her shook her head, Maisy’d turned to me, and…let’s just say, if looks could kill, I’d be six feet under.

  But she’d given an incredible speech. It was still talked about, even ten years later.

  See? The end justifies the means.

  With each step we took, I could hear Maisy’s breaths growing shallower, and without looking, I knew that her neck was most likely covered in bright pink patches. As we approached the door of the community room—where I was sure “the press” would consist of Jed Lyons from the Gazette and Lionel Nixon, who ran the town blog—I knew that she was on the verge of full-blown hyperventilation.

  Jed and Lionel were not exactly Pulitzer prize-winning journalists. They weren’t going to be asking any hard-hitting questions. She had absolutely nothing to be scared or worried about, but that was Maisy. Making mountains out of molehills was sort of her thing.

  Her breaths were so shallow I worried that she might pass out. So I decided to take matters into my own hands. Or hand, singular.

  Just as Orville opened the door I reached down and swiped the dryer sheet that I’d noticed was clinging to her skirt when she’d walked into Dumas’ office. The moment my palm made contact with her heart-shaped, firm, rounded cheek, Maisy’s head spun around, exorcist-style.

  I lifted my hand and opened my clutched fingers to reveal the crumpled up dryer sheet. “You’re welcome,” I whispered as I held the door open and she walked past me.

  Did I linger a second longer than I needed to? Maybe apply a little more pressure than necessary to remove the offending clinger? Maybe. But had I saved her from the embarrassment of walking into a “press” conference while hyperventilating—not to mention, with a dryer sheet attached to her magnificent derriere? Yep.

  Her spine was straight as an arrow and her shoulders were squared like she was ready for a brawl. It was clear from her body language that she wanted to give me a piece of her mind, even though I’d done her a favor. She might be madder than a wet hen, but she wasn’t nervous anymore.

  And I knew one thing for certain, Maisy didn’t get hives when she was angry. Otherwise, she’d have had a constant outbreak anytime I was around.

  “Thank you all for coming here today.” Orville began as he stood in front of the podium.

  I was right, Jed and Lionel were the only “press” in the room, and if I wasn’t mistaken, Jed had been diggin’ for gold before we walked in. But to hear the acting mayor, you’d have thought he was speaking to the international press after the Super Bowl.

  “I know there is a lot of speculation about things right now.”

  As Orville went on to talk about how surprised he was when he got the call from Judge Patterson asking him step back into his old role, I tuned out what he was saying and into how my palm was still tingling from the brief contact I’d made with Maisy’s backside. You’d have thought that I’d touched an electric fence from the zings and zaps that were still shooting through me.

  I’d always assumed that my attraction to her wasn’t a “real” thing, in the sense that I figured if anything actually happened between us it would be anything but fireworks. Although, the one kiss we’d shared told a different story.

  To this day, I still wasn’t sure what had come over me. It had been a normal day, nothing special. I’d seen her walking down the hall and she tripped when we were walking by one another. I caught her, and when I stood her back up, she was against the row of lockers. I hadn’t expected to be overwhelmed with the desire to kiss her when I looked in her eyes, but that was exactly what had happened.

  So, I’d done it. I’d kissed her. And she’d kissed me back. And the kiss was…hell, I didn’t even know how to describe it.

  It had damn near knocked me on my ass. I’d almost told her I loved her right then and there. I’d dated my ex since we were freshman, but we’d taken a break senior year. During our time off, I’d played my fair share of tonsil hockey with the female students at Wishing Well High, and even one faculty member.

  But I’d never felt anything close to the power, the intensity, the connection I felt in my kiss with Maisy. I hadn’t known how to deal with the feelings it had stirred up. And the look in her eyes when the bell rang, interrupting us, told me that she was embarrassed. Mortified, really. She’d looked around like she wanted to disappear.

  So I’d done what any mature seventeen-year-old who’d just gotten a kick to his ego would do. I pretended that I’d thought I was kissing Madison and not her.

  And she’d gone along with it. She hadn’t corrected me. If anything, she’d looked relieved.

  The next day, she’d arrived at school with her hair chopped off. Then when it grew back out, she’d died it black, pink, orange, all sorts of different colors in what I could only assume was an attempt to let people know she wasn’t Madison or Melody. She’d dressed different, and for four years people’d assumed that she was having an identity crisis. As for me, I’d always wondered if that kiss was what had spurred her to take such drastic measures.

  To this day, it made me insecure thinking that it had been so horrible, on her side, that she’d had to butcher her beautiful, long blonde hair to ensure that a case of mistaken identity would never happen again.

  I was so lost in thought that I barely registered that the conference ended. I probably wouldn’t have if I hadn’t felt Maisy’s elbow in the side of my rib.

  “Can I see you in my office?” Maisy’s eyes were shooting daggers again, but the smile on her face looked as friendly as a preacher’s wife teaching Sunday school.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I tilted my ball cap toward her. She always fumed when I did anything close to gentlemanly and directed it at her.

  The polite gesture had the desired effect. Her eyes flared with anger.

  I knew this wasn’t the time or place to tease Maisy, but when had that ever stopped me before? That brown-eyed beauty had caused me so much grief I’d named my first two gray hairs after her. One was May and the other was See.

  I followed her to her office and did my best not to watch her hips sway with each step she took. It didn’t help that the pencil skirt she was wearing hugged her baby-bearing hips. That was the term her Granny Turner used to describe her granddaughter’s figure, not me. She’d always tell me that Maisy and I would make pretty babies and point out reasons she’d be a good mama. Her “baby bearing hips” were highlighted on several occasions.

  The other one she brought up a lot was Maisy’s ability to juggle a lot of balls. The girl could multi-task like no other, it was true. Still, as a teen it had always struck m
e as funny to hear Granny Turner say balls.

  When we entered Maisy’s office, she motioned for me to take one of the two seats facing her desk before she sat down. Seeing her sitting all prim and proper and powerful behind her mahogany desk was causing more than one fantasy I’d had—starring her, of course—to come to life in my mind, in vivid detail. Hot teacher. Hot librarian. Hot boss. Hot lawyer. You name the porn trope and I’d played it out twelve different ways—the one common denominator being her in the lead.

  This was going to be harder—pun intended—than I’d thought it would be.

  Yes, it was going to be a very long six weeks. I saw balls in my future, all right, and all of them were blue.

  Chapter 5

  Maisy

  “You catch more flies with honey, but I’ve always found a fly swatter to be therapeutic.”

  ~ Granny Turner

  Stay calm.

  Stay professional.

  Do not, under any circumstances, let him see how much this arrangement is affecting you.

  I sat behind my desk and did my best to gather my thoughts so I could communicate them effectively.

  The situation we were in was far from ideal, but since our roles had just been announced to the public, I didn’t see a way out of this.

  Since that was the case, I needed to clear the air with Bentley and set professional boundaries. We were two grown adults, and this wasn’t personal. It was our jobs. Well, mine anyway.

  During our meeting with Mrs. Dumas, Bentley had made it clear that he would only accept this position under one condition—that as soon as he got cleared to return to active duty, he wouldn’t be sticking around.

  Now, I just had to pray that he got the “all clear” tomorrow. Or better yet, today.

  “So, I know that we have a history—”

  “What are you talking about?” He feigned innocence.

  As much as I wanted to respond to him, I didn’t, because that’s what he wanted. If we were going to work together, I couldn’t let him get to me.

  I kept pushing forward. “But I hope that we can put that behind us and move forward in a productive—”