Beneath the Shine Read online

  I wasn’t going to leave the house, I reasoned. So what would it hurt?

  But now the sneakers looked babyish next to Taffy’s sandals. I shifted my knees away from my cousin, propped my elbows on my thighs, and held my book higher. It was a first edition copy of Steven King’s Firestarter and, after changing my shoes, my greedy fingers had snagged it from the bookshelf that lined one wall of my guestroom. The hundreds of books tucked into every nook and cranny of this place was the only good thing about being stuck at my grandmother’s house for a whole weekend. The book was thick and heavy and compelling right off the bat. But even so, in the hour since picking it up and settling down on the porch to read, I’d only been able to get to page eleven.

  Across the street, the basketball smacked against the backboard of the hoop with a bang and a rattle before sinking through the net in a satisfying swoosh. The sound acted like a magnet, pulling my eyes from my book to the shooter.

  And like it did every time I looked at Josh Kramer, my heart throbbed extra hard, blood pumping and adrenaline rushing so fast it reddened my face, made my palms sweat.

  Okay, so maybe there were two good things about being forced to spend the weekend at my grandmother’s.

  I’d just returned my attention back to King and his delicious words when Taffy plowed her sharp elbow into my ribs. “I saw that.”

  Needling me. She was always needling me. Poking, prodding. If it wasn’t physically, it was mentally. Her words were goading, her tongue sharp. Green eyes like mine that constantly probed, always searching for drama, chaos, a weakness she could throw into the spotlight.

  And she loved to embarrass me—comments about my clumsiness, my shyness, my nerdiness, the fact that I was a year younger and, therefore, a complete baby. She’d make comments about my shortcomings to anyone and everyone who would listen, more often than not eliciting laughs at my expense.

  My grandmother was her biggest fan.

  Self-confidence was a trait I sorely lacked. But when Taffy and my grandmother got together, it shriveled down to non-existent.

  I complained to my mom about it once. She’d clucked her tongue like I was being ridiculous and told me to stop being so sensitive.

  Sitting here now, with a whole weekend stretching out ahead of me, I had no desire to give Taffy any more ammunition against me than she already had.

  “Saw what?” I feigned innocence and kept my voice even, turning a page to prove that I’d most certainly been reading and not watching. Not watching the way Josh’s sweaty t-shirt would lift when he tossed a free throw, the blue band of his boxers coming into view with the movement. Nor had I been watching the way his black hair, shaved underneath, flopped to one side and rested against his cheek when he stilled to line up a shot. And I certainly hadn’t noticed the planes of his broad shoulders or the way the muscles in his legs bulged as he pushed off the ground when going in for a layup.

  Taffy’s hand reached out and snatched the book, the glossy jacket sliding easily from my sweaty grip. “You’ve been out here watching him shoot hoops for a fucking hour, you little liar.” She flung her arm in his direction, her red fingernails flashing against the book’s white cover. I made a lame attempt to snag it back, but she just held it up higher, stretching it further out of reach.

  “I’m not lying,” I hissed, stealing a glance across the street to see if her voice carried the short distance. Josh’s back was to us and he seemed—oh my goodness, thank you, thank you God—unaware of us.

  Stealthy I was not, because Taffy’s lips turned up in a smirk when she caught me looking. “You totally want him!” she squealed, taunting me. She dropped her arm, the strap of her oversized tank top sliding down her shoulder to reveal the tighter one underneath, and flung the book back at me. It smacked into my chest, the sharp edge digging into one of my boobs and making me wince. “Betsy likes Josh! Betsy likes Josh!” She began to chant it, her voice growing louder and more high-pitched with each round.

  “Stop it! Seriously, Taffy. Please…” I threw another worried peek across the street and noticed Brian Greer—a stocky guy with a wide chest more suited for football than basketball and who lived just a few houses down—heading up the driveway. He bumped fists with Josh before stealing the ball and going in for a layup. His gait was clunky and lumbering compared to Josh’s and, not able to gain the height necessary for the shot, he missed. As he dribbled the ball back down the driveway, he shot a curious glance our way. He nodded his head to Josh who, in turn, looked over at us.

  Crapola.

  Dear God, I prayed. Scratch that last prayer. I’d appreciate it if you could open up the ground and swallow me whole. Instead of Taffy. Amen and all that jazz.

  I made a move to push to my feet, my only desire to escape inside and spend the rest of the weekend surrounded by a pile of books in the dimly lit guestroom, when Taffy threw out an arm. Her bony limb slammed into my chest, forcing my butt back down on the step. Hard.

  She groaned. “Fine, fine.” Her eyes slid across the street, a place I didn’t even dare let mine follow now that I knew we were on their radar. A whooshing feeling swam through my gut when I saw the expression on her face, and the bands of nerves that always held my stomach in a vise when around my cousin tightened even more.

  Taffy had just gotten an idea. And none of her ideas ever turned out good.

  Not for me, anyway.

  I’m jacked up from all the coffee I drank at the funeral, and that along with the overhead lights in the empty parking lot of Rusty Bucket Brewery are threatening a migraine. I slide into a spot by the door and press my hand over my eyes to block out their glow.

  Roughly a minute does the trick, and the little bubbles of light flickering on the edge of my vison recede. I throw the truck into park but leave it running, then turn to the little bundle of fur curled up next to me on the bench seat. With his sharp features, pointed ears, and red and white coat, he resembles a fox—a cute, fluffy, cuddly-looking little Walt Disney fox. My eyes stray to his collar, where a round silver tag reads Gabriel. Sensing my stare, he lifts his head briefly, black eyes squinty and nose twitching. After a few seconds of this, he drops his chin and tucks his nose back under his tail. He lets out a sigh, the swell of his ribcage rising with the effort.

  I’m not sure if he’s sad, tired, or just disinterested.

  I reach my hand out and scratch behind his ears, but he doesn’t even twitch.

  “C’mon, bud,” I say, reaching for his leash. “Let’s go see if we can find you a new home.”

  I give a gentle tug, but the dog refuses to move. Just coils up further, winding his body into a tight little ball of fluff. Sighing, I slide my hands under him and pull him toward me, his body gliding easily across the cold leather seats. He grunts but doesn’t growl, and when I pull him to my chest he loosens up, his body unwinding, legs dangling against my waist. He’s only about fifteen pounds, so I carry him to the brewery before setting him down on the sidewalk just outside the door. I wind his leash in my hand—blue, to match his collar—and peer down at him. He’s looking straight ahead, through the glass doors and into what waits beyond. To him, this is just another move. Another sleight of the hand, shuffling him from one place to another.

  My chest tightens for him in a way it never did for my grandmother, despite the fact that I spent the last ten hours immersed in her death.

  For some reason, I feel the need to speak. To reassure him, like he can actually understand me. When, in reality, I probably sound like one of the adults in a Charlie Brown cartoon. “You’ll like it here,” I promise. “I know the owner, and he’s great.”

  Wah wah wa wha wa wa wahhhh.

  Gabriel’s ears flick, but he doesn’t look my way.

  I push through the door, my eyes resting on the large man behind the bar. I’m already halfway to the counter when he turns, shoving his phone into his back pocket. He smirks when he sees that it’s just me, spreading his arms wide and cocking his head. “Ah, now if it isn’t my favorit
e girl.”

  I’ve known him for almost seven years, and the man’s accent still makes me blush.

  Fortunately, the wind chill is near twenty below, and Adair mistakes the red in my cheeks for the cold and not his sexy Scottish lilt.

  I just roll my eyes. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra out there.” The crude remark slips from my lips, which feel too big for my face. My mouth works awkwardly, thanks to the frigid weather, and the words sound garbled, half-formed. The tips of my ears burn like the time I grazed one with a curling iron when I was ten and the pain was so terrible I refused to use the wicked appliance again until I was in high school and desperate for curls. Gabriel and I were in my truck for a good twenty minutes and it still wasn’t long enough for the heater to even begin to chase away the cold. Which is why I tucked the spare set of keys in my pocket, locked the doors, and left the old heap running so it would be warm by the time I left.

  “Here. Try a wee dram. It’ll warm you up.”

  I shrug out of my coat and hang it on the hook under the bar along with Gabriel’s leash, and then wrap my numb fingers around the shot of whiskey he’s pushed across the counter. Closing my eyes, I bring the glass to my lips, tilt my head back, and swallow the amber liquid. It burns all they down my throat, lighting a fire in my chest before spilling warmly through my middle. “I might need another one of these,” I say, turning the glass over and setting it down on the counter with a smack.

  “That bad, was it?” Without asking, he reaches under the counter and pulls out a brand-new jar of green olives, the cheap kind stuffed with red pimento gel and that burn your mouth when you eat even a few because they’re so salty. Plucking a cocktail napkin from the pile near his elbow, he fishes a couple out with a toothpick, deposits them onto the napkin, and slides the pile my way. He keeps these around for me, even though he’s never come right out and said it, and I’ve never asked. To know for certain might mean he cared more than a friend should, and I’m not sure how I’d feel about that.

  I grab one and pucker my lips, pressing the olive to my kiss and sucking the center, the bitterness making the back of my throat itch. I pop the rest of it into my mouth and shrug, my briny fingers already reaching for another. When I look back up, he’s waiting patiently. Like he always is. I wouldn’t be surprised if Patience was his middle name. “Let’s just say I’m happy it’s over and done with. It was godawful.”

  Adair spears a few more olives and drops them onto my napkin before twisting the cap back on and sticking the jar under the counter. He just nods, like that was the answer he was expecting. He’s not surprised; he knows how much I hated my grandmother.

  I suck out another pimento and study him. He’s wearing a charcoal fisherman sweater, the material stretched tight over his massive shoulders. The sleeves are pushed halfway up to his elbows, revealing a light smattering of strawberry blonde hair curling on his forearms. I let my gaze linger for a moment, trailing along the sprinkle of freckles dotting his fair skin to where a leather cuff watch is wrapped around his left wrist. I can just make out the time: nine o’clock. After helping my mom clean up my grandmother’s place, I came straight here.

  Rusty Bucket Brewery is situated in an old barn off Highway 75, just a few miles south of town. The building has been remodeled to fit both the bar and the brewery, conveniently keeping all aspects of the business on site. The taproom is a decent size, with seating to fit roughly fifty people comfortably, and big floor to ceiling windows have been cut into the walls to look out on a patio that can easily sit thirty more. Despite the fact that it isn’t in the downtown district, where all the most successful bars and restaurants prefer to set up business, Rusty Bucket does extremely well, their unique brews drawing crowds from all over Iowa and its surrounding states.

  I twist my head, peering over my shoulder at the empty tap room while Adair fixes me another shot. Multi-colored Christmas lights and garland are stretched over the ceiling beams and around the entrance, giving the place a warm, holiday fee. Under my barstool, Gabriel has curled up into a ball again, but his eyes are open, taking everything in. He’s such a quiet dog. In the twenty-five minutes since he was literally thrown into my custody, I haven’t heard him bark once. I turn back to the bar, wondering how to broach the subject of adoption with Adair. “Dead tonight, isn’t it?”

  “Aye.” He fixes a shot for himself, tosses it back, and grins, his teeth flashing from behind his neatly trimmed beard. “But it’s nine o’clock on a Tuesday night and there’s snow fallin’ from the sky. It’s pure Baltic.” I just look at him, which makes him laugh. “Meaning,” he says, “and I quote, ‘it’s colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra’.” He shrugs. “A night like this? It’s to be expected. I was just thinking of closing up when you walked in.”

  I toss back my second shot. Reaching for my coat, I shrug back into it and stand. I can still smell my grandmother’s house on the material—a combination of burnt toast, vanilla wafers, and lavender. I’m going to have to air it out on the back deck when I get home. “Well, you’re the owner. You can do whatever you want, right? I only stopped by for the booze. And,” I say, stretching the word out, “to see if you’d maybe like to have a dog?”

  Adair furrows his brow before puffing out a laugh. “Is that Iowa-speak for shag or something?”

  I cross my arms. “You wish.”

  His blue eyes sparkle, and he tips his head back and roars. “You, my bonnie lass, have no idea.” The heat from his gaze slides over my skin, warming me more than the two shots he gave me combined. His reddish-blonde hair is on the longer side, thick and lush and swept back from his forehead in messy waves. The six summers he’s spent under the Midwest’s blazing sun have streaked highlights into his mane, providing a stark contrast to the dark red of his beard. A dusting of freckles dots his high cheekbones, his broad forehead, and sometimes I have to curl my fingers into my palms to stop myself from brushing them over his face when he’s close by. Touching every one of those spots…

  But Adair is good at seducing, and I’m good at rebuffing, and none of our flirting ever turns into anything. In fact, it’s become a sort of game between us—he dishes out his charming innuendos and I volley them back, each of us secretly trying to outwit the other.

  Okay. So, I may have just the teensiest, tiniest crush on Adair. But it’s just friendly banter. Purely platonic, and nothing more. Besides, we’re such good friends that anything sexual between us would be weird.

  And it would be purely sexual. Because neither of us does romance.

  I ignore him, because I know he’s joking. “No. I’m talking about an actual dog. One I’m trying to find a home for,” I add. I’m only asking half-heartedly. I doubt Adair McTaggart—Scottish hunk, successful business owner, and extroverted serial dater—has the time to care for a dog. At least, one of the canine variety. His current squeeze is, to put it mildly, quite possibly the biggest bitch in the tri-state area.

  Thankfully, she won’t last. They never do.

  I wave him over, and when he rounds the bar his eyes widen as they take in the little dog curled on the floor. “Well, what do you know? I didn’t even see… him?”—he quirks a brow at me in question, and I nod— “come in with you.” He crosses his arm over his chest, cradling an elbow in his palm and reaching up to rub his beard. “What kind of dog is he?”

  Gabriel, whose leash is still tethered to the hook under the bar, finally looks up at us. “He’s a Shiba. Er, Shiba Inu, to be specific.” I spent one of my lonely high school years volunteering at an animal rescue and became pretty familiar with the different types of breeds and their mannerisms. “They can be somewhat aloof. But, to be fair, he’s had a pretty rough week. I pat my thigh. “Gabriel, come. Come here. Come meet Adair. It’s okay.”

  Adair squats down and rests his forearms on his knees. “Gabriel, huh? Hey, buddy.” He holds out a hand, his sky-blue eyes—usually sharp and filled with all sorts of mischief—soft and open. “You’re just a wee t
hing, aren’t you?”

  Gabriel sniffs the air and slowly rises to his feet. Stretching his neck, he assesses Adair’s hand before padding into his outstretched reach. “Aye, you’re a friendly guy. Am I right?”

  I snag the leash from the hook and unclip it from Gabriel’s collar. He twists his head and looks back at me, his curled tail giving a quick wag of thanks. Or, at least, that’s what I pretend he’s trying to say. My hope is that, now free, he’ll bound into Adair’s outstretched arms and the two will fall madly in love with each other.

  One good deed down. A million to go.

  But Gabriel snorts, turns, and trots in the opposite direction.

  Adair pushes his palms against his thighs as he rises. His eyes trail the dog as he saunters around the tap room, investigating all the smells soaked into the hardwood floor. “What’s his story?”

  “He is—um, was—my grandmother’s dog.”

  His eyes widen in surprise. “Your grandmother had a dog? I thought she was evil incarnate?”

  “She was. But she loved animals.” I shrug. “Weird, right? Anyway, I don’t know much about him. My Aunt Marie sort of flung him at me after the wake. Like, literally. I was reaching for the door when she dropped him into my arms. Apparently, he’d been staying with my cousin Taffy—per my grandmother’s will, of course—but she doesn’t want him. No one does, actually.” I frown. “I’d keep him myself if I wasn’t living…”

  Adair nods. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, cutting me off. “If you weren’t living with that dobber, you mean?”

  I sigh. Adair isn’t fond of my current boyfriend, to say the least. Although, to be fair, Clint isn’t as bad as Adair makes him out to be. “No. I was going to say, I’d keep him if I wasn’t living in a duplex that doesn’t allow dogs. But, speaking of Clint, he’s allergic to dogs.”

  Adair rocks back on his feet, arms across his chest. “I bet he is. Has The Clint found a job yet?”