The Goose, the Gander, & the Three French Hens Read online

  The Goose, the Gander, and the Three French Hens

  Robin Kaye

  Independent Publisher

  Other Titles by Robin Kaye

  Hometown Girl

  Back to You: Bad Boys of Red Hook

  You’re the One: Bad Boys of Red Hook

  Hometown Girl: Bad Boys of Red Hook, a novella

  Back to You: Bad Boys of Red Hook

  You’re the One: Bad Boys of Red Hook

  Had To Be You: Bad Boys of Red Hook

  Heat of the Moment, a novella

  Home To You

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2013, Robin Kaye

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Independent Publisher

  www.robinkayewrites.com

  Amazon and the Amazon logo are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ASIN: B07ZRVNQSD

  Cover design by Catherine Guldemond

  Cover photographs: Couple@4PM Productions/Shutterstock; BaubleBorder@Dawn Poland/iStock/Getty Images; Snowflakes@By Vector-JPG/Shutterstock

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Robin Kaye

  Penalty Box Blues

  CHAPTER 1

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Trish grabbed Claire Coleman’s arm and shook it. “Incoming at three o’clock.”

  Claire thought they were at Humpin’ Hannah’s, Boise’s best bar, for a quasi business meeting about their store, the Three French Hens—the shop they’d built and named after the moniker she and her two best friends had earned in their high-school French class because they never stopped talking. The name stuck, and when they started an antique, repurposed, and painted furniture store, they thought the name was a perfect fit.

  Trish Reynolds dealt with the antiques; Claire painted, sewed, and repurposed furniture, frames, and anything else she could get her hands on and her imagination wrapped around; and Karma Kincaid—the bartender at Humpin’ Hannah’s—was the never-silent partner.

  “I thought this was a meeting, not a man hunt,” Claire said. She shouldn’t have been surprised since most outings with Trish involved big-game hunting among other things.

  “False alarm.” Trish set her margarita on the bar. “He’s all hat and no cattle, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

  Claire’s gaze traveled from Trish, who seemed to have developed a sudden fascination with urban cowboys, and found her target. She followed the man’s progress across the bar over the rim of her dirty martini. Tall—check. Dark—check. Gorgeous—not sure because he had his back to her, but the way his Wranglers hugged his tush and legs, and the fit of his shirt across his broad shoulders, told her if the front matched the back, she wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers.

  He turned and leaned his tall frame over the bar to give his order to Karma.

  Claire’s throat slammed shut and her vision wavered. The Christmas lights hanging over the bar—and woven through the spokes of the wagon-wheel chandelier draped with sexy lingerie above him—shimmered like the bad, antiquated special effects of The Twilight Zone. She shook her head and checked to make sure she and Trish were zeroed in on the same man. Sure enough, Trish’s eyes were locked and loaded on none other than Jack Bennett.

  “Jack.” Claire wasn’t sure whether she’d said his name or mouthed it; it was hard to tell over Mariah Carey’s version of “Santa Baby” blaring from the speakers. If Trish hadn’t torn her own gaze from Jack’s ass, Claire would have given herself a well-deserved pat on the back for her exemplary taste in men when she was young. She stared at her secret high-school boyfriend. His dark brown hair fell over his forehead the same way it always had, and he impatiently brushed it back. He’d filled out and packed on muscle; his shoulders looked even broader than she remembered. Jack had aged well—very well. “Believe me, Jack Bennett is more into cars than cattle, and he probably has more horsepower than you can count—he just doesn’t advertise it.”

  Trish tapped her French-manicured nails on the bar and smiled. “Do tell.”

  Claire turned in her stool, taking her attention off Jack. She should have kept her mouth shut. “Never mind. He’s not your type.” Or hers—not anymore. He’d delivered an ultimatum and, unfortunately, she didn’t think it had an expiration date.

  Trish leaned forward for a better look. “And what is my type?”

  “Anyone but him. I saw him first.”

  “Oh really? When?” Trish arched an eyebrow—a move that had taken years of practice to perfect.

  “The first day of second grade. He graduated with us. Jack Bennett, remember? Our fathers were partners.” Claire tried and failed to raise the single arch. No, her brows worked in tandem—no matter how long she spent in front of the mirror, she’d never gotten the hang of the independent eyebrow salute.

  “So, you’re staking your claim and yet you’re sitting here with me. Why? Did you two date or something?”

  “Or something.”

  “The not messin’ with another friend’s romance interest rule only stays in effect as long as that friend is actively pursuing said hot man. I’m not seeing any movement by the party of the first part.”

  Karma stopped in front of them. “Who’s the romance interest—or should I say, the party of the second part?”

  Trish blew her blue-black hair out of her eyes and adjusted her sweater over her breasts. “Guinness guy.” She scoped out the rest of the men coming in for Ladies’ Night.

  “Jack Bennett?” Karma rested a hip on the beer cooler. “He’s been away for so long, I hardly recognized him. He left right after we graduated and I haven’t seen him since.”

  Claire drained her martini and handed the glass to Karma, who poured another. It was definitely going to be a three-martini night. “He and his dad had a falling-out during his parents’ divorce. Jack and his mom moved east.”

  Karma poured olive juice into the shaker, shook it with the usual Karmic gusto, and poured the drink into a fresh glass. “Well, he’s baaack,” she sang.

  Claire side-eyed the other end of the bar. She had wondered if he’d return. After all, they were both only children. “I’m sure he’s inherited Coleman Bennett Auto Salvage. His dad died a few months ago.”

  The knowing look Karma shot her told Claire that she knew more about the history between her family and Jack’s than most would. But then, Karma’s Grandpa Joe would have known the whole story about the Coleman/Bennett feud. When Claire’s mother had become ill, Jack’s father had taken full advantage of the dire straits her family had been in and bought them out of the business. “I always thought there was something between you and Jack, but then with your families . . . I figured you both just kept it on the down low.”

  The fact that Karma knew about her and Jack wasn’t that much of a surprise. The woman knew people. Not much got past her—never had. It was the fact that Karma never even hinted at it that made it downright shocking. Claire didn’t know Karma had it in her. “We were a regular modern-day Romeo and Juliet—two young lovers stuck between feuding parents.”

  Trish grabbed Claire’s shoulder
. “You couldn’t even tell us?”

  “No. If one of you had let something slip, even innocently, it would have destroyed my dad. I couldn’t do that to him.”

  Karma leaned in. “How long were you together?”

  “Three years. Jack proposed on my eighteenth birthday. He had it all planned; we’d run away together, get married, and go to school. He had a full scholarship at Michigan State for automotive engineering.” She let out a breath. “Anyway, we were too young. It never would have lasted and it would have killed my dad. Unlike Romeo and Juliet, at least Jack and I survived.”

  Trish got in Claire’s face. “He proposed to you and we’re just hearing about this now?”

  “I couldn’t tell you.”

  Trish actually looked hurt. “You could have after it was over.”

  “Why would I do that? I love you guys, and yeah, you would have tried to help, but honestly, talking about it would have just made it worse.” She looked at Karma and cringed. “I was afraid Karma would go after him with a baseball bat or her big brothers. Karma was dangerous back then—remember what she did to Brian Wayne?”

  Karma shrugged. “He deserved a few days in the hospital.”

  “Karma, he copped a feel. That’s not a federal offense.” Claire shook her head, trying to dispel the memories. “I’m sorry if I hurt you, but it was hard enough going through it without anyone mentioning Jack’s name. I don’t think I could have handled it any other way.”

  Trish didn’t look as if she believed her, but it was the God’s honest truth. Even talking about it now was difficult. “It’s been what, seven years?”

  “About that.” Claire cleared the shadow of her past from her face and forced a smile that was probably a little wilted around the edges. “I made my decision and I can’t say I regret it, not really. Dad died, but at least we were together until the end. If I’d gone with Jack, I wouldn’t have had that time with Dad.”

  Karma shook her head. “Your dad loved you. He might have been upset, but he would have gotten over it. Do you ever wonder . . .”

  Yes, she wondered a lot. It sucked when your first love was amazing, and every other relationship, every other man, paled in comparison.

  Jack shouldn’t have been surprised to see Mary Claire—not after running into Karma Kincaid, the Three French Hens’ ringleader—but he was. In school Trish, Karma, and Mary Claire had been inseparable. It looked as if that hadn’t changed at least—they still had their heads together. It was amazing that Trish or Karma, or both of them, hadn’t caught him and Mary Claire. The only way they’d kept their relationship a secret was by spending most of their time together at his dad’s cabin above Castle Rock ski resort.

  He finished his beer and knew he had to man up and go say hello to her. He pushed his empty mug away and walked over. “Hello, Mary Claire.”

  She turned at the sound of his voice. He thought he’d been prepared for the meeting—especially since he initiated it. Thick, dark red hair spilled over her shoulders in a cascade of waves framing pale, porcelain skin, outrageously huge eyes that were bright blue with a green center. He’d never seen eyes like hers. And if the eyes weren’t enough to drop a man to his knees, her dark, long lashes fringing them would do it. She never had to wear the crap most women brushed on their lashes; hers were so thick that if she did, they’d become one solid entity. He remembered the one time she’d tried. It took her a half hour to clean it off.

  His gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips. The woman—and by God she was all woman now—had a mouth that could cut a man to ribbons or take him to heaven, depending on how she used it. He’d dreamed about that mouth for years. They’d been together when they were kids, they’d been each other’s firsts, but that part of their relationship, while amazing, was too damned short-lived and never had gotten past the point of urgent mating. Much to his regret, stolen moments didn’t encourage foreplay or experimentation. Nothing had stopped him from imagining it, though. When her eyes met his, they took his breath away so quickly his chest ached. He’d always thought that was his teenage reaction to being in close proximity to a beautiful woman. He’d been wrong—it was his reaction to being in close proximity to Mary Claire Coleman.

  “Jack, it’s good to see you. How are you?” She slipped off her stool, leaned in, and kissed his cheek.

  He breathed in her scent and pulled her in for a hug. She smelled the same but felt different. She’d put on a little weight—in all the right places—and had grown from a tall, willowy girl into a tall, curvy, well-stacked, and long-legged wet dream. When the Mary Claire he’d known and loved asked how someone was, she wasn’t being polite. Years ago, he would have told her, but now, after all this time, they were little more than strangers. “Good, how about you?”

  “I’m fine. I heard about your dad. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.” He wanted to say it wasn’t much of a loss—he hadn’t spoken to the old man in years, but then that wasn’t something you told a stranger, either.

  “You remember my friend Trish Reynolds?”

  He spared the woman a glance and nodded. “Hi, Trish. Nice to see you again.” But he hadn’t really seen her because he couldn’t take his eyes off Mary Claire, even though he tried.

  She slipped out of his arms and back onto the stool. “Are you staying in Boise long?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t finalized my plans.” He’d been surprised by the emotions coming back had stirred. He’d been away for a long time, and it wasn’t as if he’d spent his time away crying over the loss of his girlfriend and father, but his return brought everything back as if it had all happened yesterday. He didn’t know which was more difficult, dealing with the painful memories entombed in his father’s home or the happy memories of the cabin. It was as if he’d shut both out for the past seven years. He was already reeling, and he hadn’t even begun to think about what he would do with the business.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “At the cabin.”

  “Oh.”

  He was, as always, drawn in by Mary Claire’s incredible eyes. He didn’t know what that “Oh” meant. Oh, she was surprised, or Oh, that’s nice. He used to be able to read her every thought, but she’d either learned to hide her emotions, he’d lost his touch, or when it came to him, she had no emotions. That last one was an elbow to the diaphragm.

  His return to the cabin had been like being thrown headfirst into a time warp. Nothing had changed since the day he’d gotten down on one knee and proposed to Mary Claire. The ring he’d scrimped and saved for was still tucked away in the black-velvet box in the desk drawer where he tossed it after she’d walked out of his life. The only thing he’d found at the cabin was the ring, seven years of dust, and a boatload of regret. He should have never given her an ultimatum, but what choice had he had?

  “What about you? What are you doing?” She wasn’t wearing a ring, so he assumed she wasn’t married, but then with Mary Claire he wouldn’t bet on it. She’d never been like any other girl he knew. She was all woman, but she didn’t wear jewelry because she always had her hands in paint.

  “Trish, Karma, and I have a business in Hyde Park. Three French Hens is a shop. We sell antiques, hand-painted furniture, repurposed treasures, that kind of thing. Trish deals with the antiques, and I do the rest.”

  “And Karma?”

  Karma leaned toward the two of them from behind the bar, wearing a smile that screamed trouble. “I’m the not-so-silent partner,” she said, sliding another beer toward him. “Welcome home, Jack. It’s on the house.”

  “Thank you.”

  Karma waved away his thanks and leaned toward them over the bar, fully inserting herself into the conversation. “So where have you been all these years?”

  “I went to Michigan State for both my undergrad and graduate degrees. For the last few years I’ve been working in Germany.”

  “Germany?” Karma grinned at Mary Claire and Trish. “That makes the Guinness a bit of a surprise now, do
esn’t it?” Her attention returned to Jack. “What did you do? Join the army?”

  “No, I work for Porsche, in design.”

  Mary Claire touched his arm. “You did it then.” She didn’t look surprised, certainly not as surprised as he’d been when he’d received the offer. “Good for you. I always knew you’d find a way to make your dreams come true.”

  Not all of them. The professional side was going great—well, at least until his father had died and saddled him with a multimillion-dollar company and hundreds of employees. As for the personal side—not so much. “And you, Mary Claire? What about your dreams?”

  “Me? I’m living the dream. I paint, but my canvas has changed.” Her eyes met his again, and maybe it was wishful thinking, but if he didn’t know any better—and frankly, maybe he didn’t—he’d say she, too, remembered planning their future. She shrugged and rubbed her hands against her thighs, a nervous habit he remembered well. Her dream was to become a great artist and his, to design sports cars. “I’m not painting portraits or landscapes in the traditional sense, but I love creating things that make people happy.”

  Mary Claire always made everyone around her happy; that was nothing new. He just wondered if she was happy. “I’d love to see your work.”

  Karma leaned forward. “Claire’s working alone at the shop tomorrow. You should stop by.” She shot Mary Claire a look he couldn’t begin to translate. “Give him a card, Claire.” Karma’s attention returned to him. “Jack, you should bring Claire lunch. It’s so hard for her to get away on Trish’s days off, and that way you two can catch up properly.”

  Mary Claire’s face turned a candy apple red that clashed with her hair—still thick and long, and beautiful. He wondered if it felt as soft as it used to.