Nothing but Trouble by Susan May Warren Read Free Book Online Page B

  —an island getaway in the middle of Minnesota, all enclosed by enough screen to keep out the rain forest. On the lawn, past the grilling deck, was a fortress of outdoor fun   —swings, rings, two slides, a bridge, a climbing net, a sandbox, and even a netted trampoline.
    Indeed, Connie had invested that life insurance well. PJ raised her glass to her as she eased into the hammock and closed her eyes.
    “Welcome back, PJ.”
    Boone walked into her thoughts like he’d been waiting in the wings for his cue. He didn’t in the least resemble the man at the clubhouse, the one with the taunting smile and riskyprophecies. This Boone, the apparition born from the persuasions of her fickle heart, she liked.
    And in her daydreams, at least, he couldn’t betray her.
    He leaned against the doorframe, thumbs hanging on his belt loops, wearing his cutoff Kellogg High School Mavericks sweatshirt, his biceps thick after a summer caddying at the club. “I thought you’d never get back.”
    She looked up at him, smiled. “Really? You missed me?”
    Swaggering toward her, he held her gaze with way too much sweet mischief in his eyes. “Of course. We have some unfinished business.” He knelt beside her, running his hand through her hair. “You changed it. But it’s cute.”
    Then, before she could respond, he leaned close and   —
    No. Her eyes opened, and she held the sweating glass to her forehead.
    Less than a week ago, she’d been hoping to be Mrs. Matthew Buchanan.
    PJ got up, the tile cold and bracing on her bare feet. If she was honest, she would have to agree that even Matthew couldn’t stir her like Boone had.
    “It’ll be different this time, Peej. I promise.”
    She walked to the screen and stared up at the sky, now streaked with the straining of twilight. “I do want it to be different, Lord. Except   —”
    Glass breaking in the kitchen spun her. She put down her lemonade, imagining Davy on the counter, pulling antique crystal from the shelves. “Davy, if you just ask, I’ll get you a   —”
    Boris crouched in the kitchen, sweeping up glass, wearing a pair of skintight workout pants that stopped PJ short and forced her to avert her eyes. “Uh   —”
    He looked up and said something in Russian.
    I broke the towel?
    A close enough translation.
    “Da,” PJ said, trying to come up with the words for Please stay out of the kitchen.
    Especially when she spied his after-wedding snack. She peered closer, just to confirm   —yes, a plate of raw bacon.
    Boris finished sweeping the glass, dumping the shards of Connie’s precious, probably antique, crystal into the garbage can beneath the sink. Which suggested that he might have practiced this a few times.
    PJ pressed her hand to her stomach as Boris took out another glass and poured himself lemonade. Then he sat down at the table with his bacon.
    She couldn’t help it   —she watched with a sort of morbid stare-at-the-accident fascination as he slobbered the bacon down.
    “No! I want my mommy!”
    Mommy. Oh yeah, that was her cue. PJ raced up the stairs.
    Vera sat on the bedroom floor, sumo wrestling Davy into his jammies. Was it past seven thirty already?
    “Let Grandma draw,” Vera said, to PJ’s closest guess.
    Grandma Vera looked like she might be able to take on a Siberian tiger and win, with her wide workman’s hands and a grim set to her mouth that screamed nyet to quitting.
    PJ approached with caution.
    Davy launched himself into her arms.
    “Shh.” She smoothed his hair. Perhaps she could figure out this auntie thing. The future strobed in her mind   —playing baseball on the beach, swinging on his swing set, licking the beaters from the chocolate chip cookie dough . . .
    Davy looked up, met her eyes. She saw in his the burble in time, the hiccup between rescue and realization. Then, This is not my mother.
    “Davy . . .”
    His face crumpled even as his little body stiffened.
    “Davy   —it’s okay.”
    Too late. Davy’s