Big Secret in Little Comfort - Paperback

Prologue

Bela

In the movie Casablanca, Rick (Humphrey Bogart) sends Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman) the love of his life away for the cause of the greater good. I’ve never liked that movie for that very reason. The ending is just heartbreaking. The one time I watched it, I bawled at the end and shook my fist at the universe demanding to know, Why? Why does love have to hurt so much? And why can’t I have the happily-ever-after I’ve always dreamt about?

I never imagined that I would be living out the real-life version of that awful scene in Casablanca. When I face him, will I be noble like Rick and do the right thing, or will I cave under the pressure? Can I sacrifice what I want more than anything for what’s best for him? I’ve never considered myself to be a selfish person, but the pain in my heart is so large and terrible that I can’t think of anything else right now but myself and how much this hurts.

When I approach the building where the fight will take place, I discover that the line of people waiting to get in is so long that it could wrap around the building several times.
“It’s her! The other woman,” a teenage girl exclaims as she points at me. The girl beside her whips out her phone and snaps a photo.

My features harden to what I hope is my best Go Jump Off a Cliff expression. I’m not some monkey on display at the zoo, but I might as well be. Gah! I’m so done with being known as “the other woman.” Scores of eyes ping me all at once. Out of my peripheral vision, I see several phones going up to either snap pictures or take a video. Ignoring them all, I keep my face positioned forward and march with a jaunty, determined step up to the door and show my badge, which is hanging by a lanyard around my neck, to the security guard. He nods and waves me past.

The inside of the center is eerily quiet compared to the loudness outside. My heels echo off the polished stone floor as I walk down the long hall to get to the preparation room where he’s awaiting the event. I pause when I reach the door and take in a ragged breath. I hold it for several beats and exhale slowly, hoping it will help slow the feverish pounding of my heart.

It doesn’t.

I knock once and then turn the metal handle to open the door. He’s sitting in a folding chair that’s positioned in the center of an otherwise empty classroom. I’m glad I’m catching him alone, so I don’t have to deal with anyone else.
When he sees me, a large smile fills his handsome face.

“Hey, you.”

“Hey,” I croak. Then I see what he’s wearing—or rather, not wearing.

“Come ‘ere,” he murmurs, the deep masculinity of his voice resonating through me with an aching hum.

I push out a clipped chuckle as I cross the room to reach him. “The Superman boxer shorts again?”

A boyish grin streaks over his rugged features. “I figure I’d go out of this thing the same way I came in.”

“You’re not even wearing shoes or a shirt?” Any other time, I would’ve gushed a little over how his hair curls against the nape of his tanned neck or how his chiseled muscles roll so smoothly beneath his skin. Or how he has a six-pack that could make GI Joe envious. I could spend an entire day listing all of his amazing qualities—both inside and out. However, right now, his perfection only adds to my misery, reminding me of everything that I’ll lose.

“Nope. I’m doing this MMA style.” He holds up a taped fist.
I thought he’d be nervous before the fight, but instead, he’s energized. There’s enough vitality and feverish energy running through him right now to light up my world for an entire lifetime and then some.

Oh, my aching heart!

I don’t know if I can do this. It’s all I can do not to burst into tears. He stands and pulls me into his arms. If only I could stay here, wrapped in him.

Seeing my distress, he frowns. “Hey,” he begins tenderly.

“I’ve got this. You don’t need to worry.”

His beautiful eyes are filled with such depth and feeling that I can’t stop a tear from escaping and dribbling down my cheek.

Quickly, I swipe it away as I nod, pressing my lips together. I know he’ll be okay … because of what I’m about to do. At least I have that positive thought to hold onto right now. I’ve got to keep him safe. That’s all that matters.

I was so worried that when push came to shove, I wouldn’t be able to do it. I grunt inwardly. Who knew? Now that the critical moment is upon me, I guess I’m more noble than I realized—because I’m doing this for the greater good.

I clear the frog in my throat, but when I speak, the words still come out raspy. “There’s something I need to tell you …”

Afterwards, I rush out of the room. At least Bogart was granted the bitter luxury of having the song “As Time Goes By” playing in the background to solidify his loss. All I’m met with is a deafening silence.

Tears streaming down my cheeks, I pull out my phone and send the text.

It’s done.

With those two simple words, I save the man I love.

And seal my own fate.

Bela

Most of the time, I love what I do. There’s something so rewarding about making good food and watching people enjoy it in the company of loved ones and friends. Mind you, running two restaurants is not for the faint-hearted, especially when they’re located thirty minutes apart.

I thought I had a pretty good handle on things and was ticked when Dad questioned why the profits were low. I spend my life running a mile a minute and hadn’t noticed. Let me rephrase that. I knew that profits were slightly lower than normal. However, I just assumed it was because of the natural fluctuation of things. Running your own business is hard. Especially two restaurants that have so many moving parts.

When I finally cleared my schedule, rolled up my sleeves, and did a deep dive, I was shocked by what I discovered. Sheridan Nichols has been doing the bookkeeping for the restaurants for years. She was hired by Dad when he ran things. Sheridan was a huge help to me when I first started managing the restaurants. I’ve considered her a dear friend, which is what makes what I’m about to do so gut-wrenching.

Sheridan has been stealing from us. It started shortly after I took over. She probably figured that she could get away with it under my watch. And she was right. I don’t know how long it would’ve taken me to realize she was in on the take … or if I ever would have put two and two together. I’ve been putting my efforts into advertising and revamping the menu. All the while, someone I trusted was stealing from me. Sheridan set up several fake vendor accounts and has been funneling small amounts of money to them each month. The amounts were such that any one of them on its own wouldn’t have raised a red flag. However, the combination amounted to a little more than eighteen hundred dollars a month.

The whole thing makes me sick to my stomach. Sheridan’s husband, Eric, has Parkinson’s Disease. We offer our employees health insurance. However, Sheridan has been complaining about the insurance not covering all of the costs. I suspect she’s been using the stolen funds for that. Or it could’ve gone to her kitchen remodel that she did several months back.

Dad is livid. He wants to prosecute her to the fullest extent of the law. I’ve scheduled a meeting with Sheridan, who’s due to arrive in my office in the next five minutes. I spent a week compiling evidence. I plan to confront her to get her reaction. After that, I’ll turn over what I have to the police and leave it in their hands.

This experience goes to show that you really don’t truly know someone … even when you think you do.

I sit back in my seat and massage my throbbing temples. This is not the first time I’ve had to fire an employee. However, it’s the first time that I’ve had to terminate someone in an upper-level position. Someone whom I deemed to be my friend.

To avoid a scene, I planned the meeting after the restaurant closed. Sheridan’s probably wondering why I wanted to meet with her so late. I wonder if she suspects that I know.

My phone buzzes. When I see who it is, I groan. It’s Boyd sending me another text. Good grief, the guy can’t take a hint. I’ve been ignoring his calls and texts all week. People often say that things come in groups. Well, that’s certainly the case here. Boyd and I have been dating for over six months. He was always complaining that I wasn’t taking our relationship seriously—that I spent too much time working. He claims that’s why he slipped up and kissed Renee Keith.
Boyd runs a dojo. Renee joined one of his classes and was always hanging around. Of course she was! No doubt she was trying to get Boyd back. Blast Nellie Kinsey and her stupid blog. Boyd’s betrayal is bad enough. I didn’t need word of it to get blasted around town. Renee’s probably the one who fed Nellie the information. I’m almost sure of it. She would do anything to get Boyd back. Well, she can have him!

To add insult to injury, Nellie called me old. Gah! Since when is thirty-one old?

I hate Nellie’s hateful blog and all the trouble it causes in Comfort. Other people claim to detest it too, but yet they’re secretly devouring every word. Okay, I might’ve been guilty of looking at the blog a time or two, never imagining that my personal business would become a hot topic. I’m so tired of the sympathetic looks I keep getting at the grocery store and everywhere else around town. It happens at the restaurant too. Everyone pities me.

I’ve always taken great pride in my work, but Nellie turned my devotion to the restaurant into something deficient. Like I wasn’t enough, so Boyd was forced to turn to Renee.
Boyd insists that the kiss meant nothing and claims that Renee caught him at a weak moment.

I told him in no uncertain terms—after I slapped him upside the head—that there’s no excuse for his behavior. I followed this up with, You and Renee deserve each other.

My initial reaction to the news was scalding anger. After that wore off, I was surprised to feel a measure of relief that the relationship was over. The truth of the matter is that I was growing bored with my relationship with Boyd. The only reason why I stuck it out for so long is because Dad has been hounding me about finding someone and settling down. In his mind, an Italian woman’s primary responsibility is to find a husband and push out a brood of babies.
I counter by reminding him that I’m only half Italian. My mom was born in Comfort and was about as Southern as a woman could get.

Dad has gone so far as to threaten to remove me from my management position and send me back to his hometown of Lucca, Italy, where I’ll surely “find a suitable man.” I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of the situation.

Dad’s a full-blooded Italian in every sense of the word. He’s bold and loud and loves to get knee-deep in his kids’ business. I thought that when Dad became the mayor of Comfort that he would be too busy to worry about me. Nope. He still finds the time. When he found out that I dumped Boyd, he told me to put on my apron and get back into the “kitchen” before I get too old to find someone. “No one likes a lump of moldy cheese,” Dad said.

For Dad’s information (this goes for Nellie Kinsey too), I’m neither old nor moldy. And I certainly don’t consider myself lumpy … whatever that means. Because of Dad’s volatile personality, there are no in-betweens with him. One minute, you feel this gush of love, and the next, you wanna rip his hair out. Dad and I have our fair share of yelling matches. We go toe-to-toe over the restaurant, my floundering love life, and just about everything else on the planet. Don’t even get us talking about politics! My older brother Hayden tells me that I need to go easier on Dad. He keeps reminding me that Dad means well.

My mom died of cancer when I was seventeen. She fought it three times but ultimately succumbed to the illness. Since then, Dad has tried to take on both roles of parenting. While I didn’t always appreciate his efforts when I was a teenager, I can now recognize how tough it must’ve been for him to swallow his own grief and focus on his six kids.

I chuckle humorlessly. The problem with Dad is that when he threw all of his energy into us kids, he didn’t know how to turn it off. He has this annoying tendency of turning us into his projects. Me being thirty-one and unmarried qualifies as a top-priority project in Dad’s eyes.

I get that Dad loves me, and I’m glad he cares. Us Morellis are a tight-knit group. And yet, we often bicker. We blame it on the Italian in us, but Mom was feisty too. I suppose we get it from both sides. The great thing about our family is that we don’t typically hold grudges against each other. We can have a knock-down-drag-out fight and then sit down for dinner together an hour later—laughing and joking about it.

At the end of the day, we try not to take one another for granted, recognizing that everything dear can be ripped away in an instant. Tragedy has struck twice in our family. My oldest brother, Luke, was killed five years ago in a road biking accident. The loss was brutal for the whole family, especially Dad. I don’t know that any of us will ever truly get over losing Mom and Luke, but all we can do is keep moving forward.

Hayden and my younger brother Rafe were Navy SEALs. I don’t think Dad got a good night’s sleep the entire time they were serving. He lived in fear of getting bad news.

Thankfully, Hayden and Rafe were protected. They’ve both left the Navy. Hayden teaches history at the high school and coaches basketball. Rafe is our adrenaline junkie. He has a YouTube Channel with one of his buddies where they perform outrageous stunts. Also, Rafe freelances for a private security group. This doesn’t sit well with Dad, but what can you do? Rafe surprised us all and got married to his best friend’s sister. Dad was hoping that having a wife would prompt him to settle down, but it hasn’t yet. Oh, well. Rafe has his own life to live … as do I.

What do I want for my life? I guess that’s the million-dollar question. I love running the restaurants and couldn’t imagine ever giving that up. Dad would blow a gasket if he heard this, but I’m not the stay-at-home type. I like working. I suppose if the right guy ever came along, then I would be open to the idea of getting married and having children. However, as Dad keeps reminding me, I’m not getting any younger, and my biological clock is ticking.

Maybe I am getting old and moldy.

My thoughts go back to the family and everything that we’ve lost. There is one bright spot amidst the sadness. Hayden married Luke’s widow. Caroline is an amazing person and friend. She and Hayden were childhood sweethearts. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead. My oldest brother was an amazing husband and father to Dakota. He did what was probably the only underhanded thing he’d ever done in his life and came between Caroline and Hayden back in the day. Hayden never truly got over it. He's been madly in love with Caroline since they were kids. It’s nice to see them so happy—proof that true love does exist.

Although I’m certainly not having much luck finding my prince charming. I’m starting to wonder if he’s actually out there. Maybe I should take a sabbatical from the restaurant and go to Italy. Nah, where would that get me? I have no intention of leaving Comfort. This is my home. The restaurants are my life. Running them is in my blood, the same as it is in Dad’s.

My phone beeps again. Another text from Boyd. This one sounds even more desperate than the others.

How many times do I have to tell you that I’m sorry? This is eating me alive. I miss you, Bela.

I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Time to move on, karate boy,” I mumble. “Chop chop.”

There was a time when I had high hopes for me and Boyd. Then, the relationship grew stale, and Boyd blew it. I need a man who lights me on fire. Dang it! I want fireworks. Is that too much to ask?

I want the type of relationship that Hayden and Caroline have … where he looks at her like she’s the sun, moon, and the stars. There’s nothing that Hayden wouldn’t do for Caroline. The two are a match made in heaven.

My stomach tightens into a hard ball as I glance at the clock on my phone. Sheridan should be here any minute. My heart hammers against my ribs as I take in a calming breath. I didn’t cause this situation. Sheridan did.

A knock sounds at the door.

“Come in,” I say, making sure to sound commanding. I learned a long time ago that the only way for employees to take me seriously was to adopt a tough persona.

A warm smile curves Sheridan’s lips. “Hello,” she begins. “You’re keeping late hours tonight.”

“I am.” I motion to one of the chairs across from my desk. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” She shuffles over and sits down. Sheridan is in her early sixties. Her dark, curly hair is threaded with silver and comes to her shoulders. She wears very little makeup and dresses sensibly. She’s quick to laugh and loves to dish out saucy banter to the cooks, servers, and busboys. Even though I know what she did, I still find it hard to believe that she would steal from us.

“How was business tonight?” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and crosses her legs.

“Busy.” I sit up taller in my seat and pick up the vanilla file folder on my desk. There’s no easy way to do this. I might as well get straight to the point. “Dad was questioning why our profits have been down.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh?”

“I did a deep dive into the books and discovered this.” I lean forward and hand her the folder.

When she opens it, her face drains.

Anger surges through me. “How could you steal from us?”

She shakes her head back and forth. “T—there must be some mistake.”

My voice cuts the tense air between us. “There’s no mistake. I’ve checked the books numerous times.”

She does a quick perusal through the pages in the folder and then snaps it shut. “H—how could you think that I would steal from you?”

I notice that her hands are shaking.

“I love you and your family,” she utters hoarsely.

A rush of emotion overtakes me and comes hurling out in a burst of outrage. “I thought you were my friend. How could you?”

Her lower lip begins to tremble. “T—this is a mistake.” She gives me a pleading look. “It’s me we’re talking about, Bela. You know I would never do anything like this. We’re practically family.”

My instinct is to go on full attack. I want to lash out at her. This attack is intensely personal. I take in a breath, fighting to keep my voice even. “There are only two people with full access to the accounts—me and you.” I look her in the eye, letting her know that I’m not to be trifled with. Yes, I have a happy disposition and am bubbly and fun. However, I can be a bulldog when the situation warrants. My words come out like heavy bricks falling on concrete. “Frankly, it’s an insult to my intelligence that you’re denying the theft.”

“That’s because I didn’t do it,” she cries. “I’m telling you there has been a mistake.”

“My mistake was trusting you,” I say as a gloomy sadness overtakes me. Nothing was as I thought. My long-standing friendship with Sheridan was a complete sham. The real kicker here is that if she’d come to me and asked for help with Eric’s medication, I would’ve found a way to help her. “Your services are no longer needed. I’m going to have to let you go.”

Her eyes fly open wide as she touches her chest. “When Marco turned over the reins to you, I helped you every step of the way.” Her voice goes shrill. “And this is how you repay me?” She chokes back a sob. “Eric is in such a terrible state, and now you’re heaping this on me?”

My jaw tightens. “You heaped this on yourself. You’ve been stealing approximately eighteen hundred dollars a month for the past year. Shame on me for not keeping a closer watch on things. I plan to go back and check the books from the previous years.”

Her face caves before it goes hard. She holds up the folder and shakes it at me. “I didn’t do this. You’re framing me. You’re just jealous because everyone at the restaurants likes me better than you. They think you’re wet behind the ears—that you don’t know your tail from a hole in the ground.”

I rock back, stunned by her vitriol. “Framing you? Seriously?” Wow, this takes the cake. I never expected Sheridan to take this stance. I guess she’s going to deny her actions until the bitter end. So be it.

Malice flashes in her eyes. “You think you’re so high and mighty. Well, I’ve got news for you, missy. Without your daddy, you’d be nothing.” She gives me a superior look. “Maybe Nellie Kinsey is right. If you spent as much time taking care of your man as you do micromanaging everyone at the restaurants, then maybe you’d have more in your life to occupy your time other than just work.”

The hateful words come at me in a ball of barbed wire that slice and dice. There’s so much I could say to Sheridan Nichols right now, but it wouldn’t be worth wasting my breath. Instead, I grip the arms of my chair. “It’s time for you to leave. That file is yours to keep. I’ve got another one for the police.”

Her face turns purple. “You won’t get away with this! I’ll sue you for slander.”

A hard amusement circles through my chest. “Good luck with that,” I clip. The next second, weariness overtakes me, cooling my bones with a curious numbness. I refuse to roll around in the mud with Sheridan. “This conversation is over. Get out of my office.”

“Gladly.” She springs up from her seat, pointing her finger. “You’ll regret the day you crossed me.”

“I already regret the day my dad hired you. And I certainly regret ever trusting you.”

Hatred burns in her eyes as she clutches the file. Then, she turns on her heel and blazes a trail out of my office, slamming the door behind her.

For several seconds, I’m frozen. Then, as the reality of what just happened sinks in, I lean forward, prop my elbows on my desk, and massage my temples. My headache has escalated to something searing—like someone is taking an ice pick to my skull. All I wanna do right now is go home and take a long, hot soak in the tub.

Without warning, hot tears pool in my eyes. It boggles my mind that Sheridan was so horrible. I can’t believe she had the audacity to quote Nellie Kinsey. Is that how everyone in this town perceives me? That I’m a pathetic workaholic? I don’t micromanage my employees, do I? I can’t believe people are turning the thing with Boyd and Renee around to make it look like my fault. He’s the two-timing louse. Not me!

I quickly swipe the tears away with the back of my hands, vowing that I won’t let Sheridan get to me. I go to grab my phone and purse and realize that my hands are now shaking. I feel like I just took a beating. Wow. That was brutal.

I’m the only one left in the restaurant, which is typical for most nights. Dad always says that the manager should be the last to leave. I guess it’s ingrained in me. Normally, I enjoy the stillness of the empty building and how pristine and perfect everything looks. Tonight, however, with my nerves so raw, my skin prickles with unease.

An unsettling thought goes through my mind. Is Sheridan lurking in some dark corner, waiting to jump me? I glance around as I suppress a shiver. I never expected her to act so ugly. I guess I thought she’d cry and plead for my forgiveness. Stupid me. I assumed that she’d melt into a puddle of tears and beg me not to fire her. Considering the evidence that I collected, I thought she’d confess. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that I was so blinded by Sheridan. What does that say about my judgment or lack thereof?

I hurry out to the car, anxious to get home. Never have I been so grateful for the extra exterior lighting that we recently installed. Also, there are security cameras in strategic locations. So if Sheridan does try anything, we’ll have the proof on video. I narrow my eyes. If it’s a fight she wants, by golly, it’s a fight she’ll get.

My next thought is … please, no! I’m so exhausted—both mentally and physically. Surely, Sheridan isn’t dumb enough to jump me in the parking lot. It was her idea to put up the cameras. Heck, she’s even the one who worked with the installer to get everything set up. We were having problems with teenagers breaking into cars in the parking lot, so we took extra measures to protect the property and our patrons.

When I see Boyd resting his back against my car with his arms folded and legs crossed, I halt in my tracks. “What’re you doing here?” Irritation simmers inside me as surely as if someone put a pot of water on the stove and turned up the heat as high as it’ll go.

“Big surprise to find you just now leaving work,” he sneers.

“The restaurants have always been your first love. If you’re not here, you’re in Mobile.”

He’s obviously been reading Nelly’s blog. Something inside me snaps. “How dare you!” I hiss.

“How dare I what? Care about you?” He gives me a puppy-dog look. “I told you I made a mistake. Give me another chance. I promise I won’t slip up again.”

I consider my alternatives. Should I give him a second chance? There are plenty of girls in Comfort who would jump at the chance to date Boyd. Dad’s voice about the moldy cheese runs through my head. Add that to Nellie’s assessment, and I can almost hear the incessant ticking of my biological clock. Boyd is certainly good-looking with his dark hair and matching eyes. What first attracted me to Boyd was his superb physical condition. He’s wearing sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt that shows off his cut biceps.

Him teaching karate excited me. Then, I came to learn that there’s really not much to him other than karate, muscle cars, and beer. Boyd is boldly confident when it comes to the opposite sex. I was impressed with how ardently he pursued me. Right now, however, his dogged persistence is grating on my last nerve. A relationship needs to be built on more than just bravado and beautiful muscles. Boyd and I ran out of interesting things to talk about a long time ago. Okay, if I’m being completely honest, we’ve never had one single in-depth conversation.

Sorry, Dad. I guess I’ll spend the rest of my life single and moldy … as I work myself into the ground and deal with cutthroat former employees. Oh, and let’s not forget the part about me micromanaging my other employees.

My shoulders sag. “It’s over, Boyd. Now get out of the way so I can go home.”

“No!”

“Get out of my way,” I seethe.

“I won’t let you do this to us. You can’t keep ignoring me. It’s not right,” he sulks.

I bark out a short cackle. “Not right?” My voice rises. “For all your talk about discipline and self-control, you’re weak.”

His face falls. “That’s not fair. I love you, Bela. And the thought of not being with you guts me like a fish. I told you the kiss meant nothing. Renee caught me at a weak moment. It’s you that I want. Can’t you see that I’ll do anything to get you back?” He pauses, his eyes pleading. “Why are you throwing everything we have away just because I made one stupid mistake?”

Okay, already. I can’t stand to see him groveling. I should’ve ended our relationship a long time ago. Time to put the kibosh on this once and for all. “I know I was bent out of shape when I first heard about you and Renee, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing.”

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “How can you say that?”

“Well, y’all have a history together.”

“That’s just it. We’re ancient history. You’re my future.” His voice breaks. “I’m pouring my heart out here. You’ve gotta give me something, babe.”

I cringe at the term of endearment. “Boyd, here’s the thing. I’m not in love with you. I never was.” A quiver of relief runs through me. There. I’ve finally said it out loud. Now, we can move on.

His jaw goes slack. “Don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

I straighten my shoulders and tighten my hand around the strap of my purse. “Unfortunately, I do. The two of us were never going to end up together.”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re just saying that to hurt me because you’re ticked. And you’re embarrassed about that stupid blog post.”

“No, I’m saying it because it’s the truth. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to let you down easily for months—almost from the time we first started going out. I just didn’t know how. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” he roars.

I shrink back. “Yeah, I’m sorry. Now, move so I can get home. I’m tired.”

Before I realize what’s happening, he lunges forward and grabs my arm.

I let out a squeal. “What’re you doing?”

Anger masks his face in a ruthlessness that scares me. I’ve seen Boyd go a little berserk when he’s in the heat of a karate match. However, he’s never been aggressive with me.

“Let me go.” As I’m trying to free my arm, he catches hold of my other arm, sending my purse falling to the ground. I wrestle with him, but I’m no match for his brute strength. In a jarring movement, he twists me around and presses my back against the car.

He gets up in my face. “You’re mine!” he growls.

It’s then that I smell alcohol on his breath. Disgust sours my stomach as I avert my face. “You’re drunk.” I’ve never much cared for Boyd’s preoccupation with beer, but he’s never struck me as a mean drunk. I guess I was wrong … about a lot of things, as it turns out.

He presses his body against mine in a power move and kisses me full on the mouth. His lips are brutal and punishing. I gag and sputter, trying to break free. Equal parts of terror and outrage fire through me. Surely he wouldn’t try to rape me. My brothers would nail his butt to the wall.

“Hey!” a man yells.

Boyd goes stone still. I take the opportunity to knee him in the crotch as hard as I can. He grunts and then swears, calling me several unsavory names. I move to punch him in the face, but he stops my fist in midair and manacles my wrist, his fingers digging into my flesh.

“Let her go,” the man orders.

Boyd releases my wrist. He steps back and turns to face the guy. “You don’t wanna tangle with me, buddy. This is between me and my lady. You need to be on your way.” A shocked cackle falls from Boyd’s lips when he gets a good look at the guy. “Did you forget something?”

It’s only then that I realize that my rescuer is wearing nothing but Superman boxer shorts. Maybe it’s the heightened situation of getting mauled by Boyd that causes a jolt of adrenaline to buzz through my veins when I take a snapshot of the guy. He’s a little over six feet tall with a lean, muscular build. His dark blond hair is messy, and even in the dim lighting, his eyes are liquid blue. The kind of pure, intoxicating blue that can pierce a person’s soul. His expression is fierce and warriorlike. Clearly, he intends to tear Boyd apart limb by limb. And all for the sake of protecting my honor.

My heart swoons.

I allow my eyes the pleasure of lingering on his flat abdomen and defined pecs. Is this man real, or did he just step out of my dreams? Maybe the day’s events have pickled my brain and I’m hallucinating. I’m probably at home, asleep in my bed and dreaming all of this. Why in the heck is he wearing nothing but boxer shorts? And where did he even come from? I put a hand to my mouth to squelch a giggle. Yep, I’ve lost it for sure. I know I’m gawking, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from his terrific physique. It dings through my brain that it’s not just his body that has me enthralled. There’s something magnetic about this guy that calls to me in a wild, visceral way. My intuition tells me that life would never be dull with this guy. He’s a ball of excitement.

I feel Boyd’s cutting eyes on me and sense that he can tell I’m into this guy. Our gazes catch, and his fury shoots out like flames from an inferno. A cruel smile tips his lips. I can almost read his mind as he turns his attention back to the guy. Boyd plans to humiliate the guy in front of me. There’s a reason why Boyd runs a dojo—he’s an expert fighter who has won a slew of awards. No one in town messes with him.

“Leave him alone, Boyd,” I order. “You’ve done enough damage for one night.” I can’t stand the thought of my hero getting stripped of his glory.

Boyd outright ignores me. His voice takes on the rant of a tiger toying with its prey before going in for the kill. “Well, well, what do we have here? Superman coming to the rescue. Only it looks like you forgot your tights and cloak.”

Something about the guy is familiar, and then it hits me. “You’re Rhett Wilder.” I hiccup out a disbelieving laugh. My youngest brother, Liam, is a huge Rhett Wilder fan and has seen scores of his movies. I’ve watched several of them also. Yes, I might’ve drooled over his muscles a little. And his chiseled face and those stunning eyes.

Boyd’s face registers shock and then he starts laughing—a wet, raucous laugh that makes me want to gag. Boyd can be so uncouth. Another reason why he didn’t do it for me.
“Well, I’ll be,” he drawls. “The great Rhett Wilder in our little town, gracing us with his presence.”

Apprehension trickles down my spine when Boyd crouches into a fighting position. “Let’s see what you got, Superman.”

“I’m not looking for a fight,” Rhett says and then goes on a full-out attack. He takes Boyd by surprise and punches him in the jaw, sending him sprawling backward.

For a second, it looks like Rhett has the upper hand. Then, Boyd sets up his position and kicks Rhett in the stomach. When he goes down, Boyd steps forward, and karate chops him in the head. Rhett stumbles to his feet and tries to go at Boyd again, but Boyd sidesteps his attempt. I can tell from Rhett’s moves that he has some fighting experience. He lands a few punches to Boyd—one that bloodies his nose. Boyd goes on the rampage. He sideswipes Rhett’s leg, sending him to the ground, where he falls hard on the asphalt.

“Stop it, Boyd!” I scream, tears springing to my eyes.

Rhett goes limp. I assume the fight is over, but Boyd isn’t finished. He picks him up by the hair of his head and punches him in the eye and then the mouth.

I rush over and try to pull Boyd off him. I’m hitting him on the back and screaming at him to stop the entire time. In trying to fend me off, he elbows me in the jaw, sending me sprawling back against the car. When he realizes what he’s done, he comes over and tries to help me up.

“Don’t you touch me,” I cry. “You knuckleheaded redneck. I hate your stinking guts.”

He steps back, crestfallen. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Bull crap.” I stagger to my feet, using the car to brace myself. “You’ve crossed the line. Get out of here. I can’t stand the sight of you.”

He glances at Rhett, who’s still on the ground. “This is your fault. If you hadn’t spouted that crap about not caring, then I wouldn’t have been forced to—”

“Attack me,?” I hurl back. “Forcibly kiss me? You’re pathetic.”

His jaw goes hard. “This is all on you.” He stalks to his Camaro, revs up the engine, and squeals away.

I rush over to Rhett and crouch down beside him. Gently, I nudge his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

When he groans, a whisper of relief runs through me. He’s still alive.

“Let me help you up.” I position his arm over my shoulder and heave him to his feet. His beautiful face is a bloody mess, and he’s cradling his stomach with his other arm. “We’ve gotta get you to the hospital. And we need to call the police.”

“No,” he protests. His head bobs. His right eye is swollen shut.

Desperation claws at me. “You’re hurt. We’ve got to get you help.”

“No,” he says again, more insistently. His breath is choppy, his chest rising and falling so fast that I fear he might hyperventilate. “The publicity—” His words get cut off in a coughing fit that heaves his shoulders up and down.

“Easy.”

He sucks in a ragged breath, trying again. “The publicity wouldn’t be good.”

“Oh.” I didn’t think about that. He’s right. He’s Rhett Wilder. Reporters would be all over this. This whole thing is surreal.

“What should we do?” His head bobbles and then falls onto his chest, making me fear that he’ll pass out. I run my brain through the alternatives. There’s only one solution. “I’ll take you to my place.”

He nods his agreement as I lead him to my car. I prop him against it. “Stay here while I get my purse.”

I go and grab it, sliding the strap over my shoulder. I hurry back and help him get situated in the passenger seat. A thin trail of blood is trickling from his bottom lip. I grab a handful of napkins from the glovebox and use them to blot away the blood. I hate seeing his eye all swollen and bruised. It’s bright red now, but it’ll be purple by morning. From what I can tell, his nose isn’t broken. He’s still beautiful, even with his pummeled face. Like his features have been carved from granite. He could be a Greek statue. My mind whirls and trips over itself. I’m tending to Rhett Wilder. This is nuts!

As carefully as I can, I pull the seatbelt across his torso and buckle it, trying not to notice how delicious tingles spritz through me when my arm brushes against his skin. Okay, I’m going fan-girl and crushing on this larger-than-life actor. But who wouldn’t be? As I move to pull away and close the door, he catches hold of my arm. His touch is light, the warmth of his hand seeping into my skin. “Thanks.” A lopsided grin tugs at his lips.

“I’m the one who should be thanking you.”
Our close proximity does strange things to my insides. How can he be so cute and devastatingly handsome at the same time—even with all of his wounds? I don’t dare breathe for fear of breaking the spell. My thigh muscles ache from holding them in such an awkward position, reminding me that I need to spend less time in the restaurant and more time in the gym.

He scopes me with his uninjured eye. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look a lot like Sophia Loren?”

That’s a compliment … I think. A smile curves my lips. “Yes, actually. My dad has said that to me before. I think it’s because I’m half Italian.”

“Even better,” he says with more gusto than I would’ve thought possible … considering his current condition.

Pleasure cascades through me, warming me through to my toes. Okay, I need to reel myself in here. He releases my arm as I duck my head out of the car and close the door. In the time it takes me to go around and slide behind the wheel, his eyes are closed.

A surge of anxiety pricks at me. Does he have a concussion?

The semi-darkness that cloaks us adds to the intimacy of the situation. I moisten my lips and touch his shoulder. It’s hard not to think about his bare chest and chiseled arms. His long legs and bare feet. The Superman boxer shorts that give him a boyish vulnerability. Everything about him is attractive. No wonder he’s a blockbuster superstar. All the producers have to do is put him on screen and give him some tough-guy script, and the women come flocking. Even his voice is tough with that gravelly edge.

Okay, I need to focus here. The guy needs help. I need to stop drooling and put my eyes back in their sockets. “I really think we need to get you some medical help. You took quite the beating.”

This rouses him back awake. “I’ve had worse.” He inclines his head to look at me, a corner of his mouth sliding up in a wry grin.

“Really?”

“Owen.”

He speaks like I should know who the guy is.

He relaxes his head back against the seatrest. “I think I’ll just get some shut-eye on the way to your house.”

A grin pulls at my lips. “Shut-eye? That’s an interesting term.”

“That’s what we call sleep in Pascagoula.”

I chuckle in amusement. “I knew what you meant. I just haven’t heard that term from anyone under the age of sixty-five.”

“What can I say? I’m an old soul.”

I’m impressed that he’s witty enough to banter right now, considering his current condition. My mind goes to the other thing he said. “You’re from Pascagoula?”

“Pascagoula, Mississippi,” he states as if trying to clue me in on where it is.

“I know where Pascagoula is,” I chuckle, “considering it’s only an hour from here.” Wow. Rhett Wilder is from Pascagoula. Who would’ve guessed?

Come to think of it, he does have a Southern accent. In his movies, he speaks with a neutral mid-west accent that we’ve come to expect from most American actors. Watching him in movies, I never would’ve guessed that he’s from the South. I guess that speaks to what a good actor he is. He’s carrying on a conversation. That’s a good sign. “I don’t think you should sleep.”

“Why not?”

“What if you have a concussion?”

“I’ll live,” he quips dryly and then slides his head around to look at me. “Hey, I need you to keep this on the down low. If word got out about what happened and that I’m here … Well, it wouldn’t be good.”

A surprised chuckle ripples through my throat. “That’s a tall order. Rhett Wilder, you’re a mighty big secret for the small town of Comfort.”

“You strike me as a resourceful person.”

“Yeah, I suppose I am.” Okay, that was definitely a compliment. It gives me another bubble of pleasure.

“I trust you.”

He speaks the words with such complete faith that it causes my heart to swoon. I decide right here and now that I’ll do all that I can to prevent Rhett from getting put in a difficult situation. The minute he took on Boyd, he earned my respect. “Your secret is safe with me.”

He relaxes. “Thanks.”

I don’t have the heart to point out that while I won’t say anything about what happened, we have no guarantees that Boyd won’t. His forced kiss, along with the fight, was caught by the security cameras … probably from several angles. And we have enough lighting so that everything should be on full display. I’m not sure what sort of charges can be filed for a man forcing a kiss, but it wouldn’t be good for Boyd’s business. Also, it probably wouldn’t be good if word got out that he was using karate as a weapon.
I probably should report the incident to the police. However, I can’t do that without involving Rhett. Also, the thought of piling on one more thing that I have to resolve right now twists my gut. First, I need to get through this thing with Sheridan.

And … I’ve got to do all I can to help the barefooted Superman.

I push the button to start the engine. I throw him a sideways glance and can’t help but grin at the boxer shorts. “Sometime you’re gonna have to tell me how you ended up in Comfort wearing only those boxer shorts.”

He grunts. “That’s a story for another day.”