Dean Robillard, star quarterback for the Chicago Stars
professional football team, reflects on his career as he
speeds down the road. He's not prepared to see a woman
stomping along in a headless beaver costume, so curiosity
makes him stop and offer assistance. The beaver, Blue
Bailey, dressed to promote a lumberyard, has just seen her
ex-boyfriend drive by in her car with his new girlfriend.
Needing a lift to her boardinghouse, Bailey accepts Dean's
offer of a ride, determined to confront her ex about the
trouble she's in because of his actions. Dean enjoys
watching the beaver take the nerd, so it's with regret that
he separates the combatants.
Blue realizes she's in major trouble. Between her
boyfriend's duplicities and her do-gooder mother wiping out
her savings account, she's jobless, homeless and moneyless,
conditions not unfamiliar to her. Refusing to be beaten,
Blue convinces Dean that she'll draw his portrait in
exchange for a ride to wherever he's headed. Needing to
take his mind off his own troubles, Dean accepts her
proposition. They head to his newly acquired home in
Tennessee, which is being remodeled.
Now the fun really begins. Unbeknownst to Dean, his
estranged mother is at the farm overseeing the remodeling.
If that's not enough, his 11-year-old stepsister has run
away from home and arrived at the farm with Dean's rock-
star dad following close behind. Whether he wants it or
not, Dean has to deal with a strained family reunion with a
feisty Blue at his side interfering and attempting to
repair family bonds he thought permanently broken.
Phillips excels in combining madcap comedy and drama. She
has the unique ability to make readers care and root for
her characters with all of their strengths and flaws. Dean
and Blue's love story will stick with readers long after
this delightful tale is over.
Chicago Stars quarterback Dean Robillard is the luckiest
man in the world: a bona-fide sports superstar and the
pride of the NFL with a profitable side career as a buff
billboard model for End Zone underwear. But life in the
glory lane has started to pale, and Dean has set off on a
cross-country trip to figure out what's gone wrong. When he
hits a lonely stretch of Colorado highway, he spies
something that will shake up his gilded life in ways he
can't imagine. A young woman . . . dressed in a beaver
suit.
Blue Bailey is on a mission to murder her ex. Or at least
inflict serious damage. As for the beaver suit she's
wearing . . . Is it her fault that life keeps throwing her
curveballs? Witness the expensive black sports car pulling
up next to her on the highway and the Greek god stepping
out of it.
Blue's career as a portrait painter is the perfect job for
someone who refuses to stay in one place for very long. She
needs a ride, and America's most famous football player has
an imposing set of wheels. Now, all she has to do is keep
him entertained, off guard, and fully clothed before he
figures out exactly how desperate she is.
But Dean isn't the brainless jock she imagines, and Blue—
despite her petite stature—is just about the toughest woman
Dean has ever met. They're soon heading for his summer home
where their already complicated lives and inconvenient
attraction to each other will become entangled with a
charismatic but aging rock star; a beautiful fifty-two-year-
old woman trying to make peace with her rock and roll past;
an eleven-year-old who desperately needs a family; and a
bitter old woman who hates them all.
As the summer progresses, the wandering portrait artist and
the charming football star play a high-stakes game,
fighting themselves and each other for a chance to have it
all.
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
It wasn’t every day a guy saw a headless beaver marching
down the side of a road, not even in Dean Robillard’s
larger than life world. "Son of a"" Dean slammed on the
brakes of his brand new Aston Martin Vanquish and pulled
over in front of her.
The beaver marched right past, her big flat tail bouncing
in the gravel, and her small, sharp nose stuck up in the
air. Way up. The beaver looked highly pissed.
She was definitely a girl beaver because her beaver head
was missing, revealing sweaty, dark hair pulled into a
scraggly ponytail. He’d been praying for a little
distraction from his own depressing company, so he threw
open the door and stepped out onto the shoulder of the
Colorado road. His newest pair of Dolce & Gabbana boots
emerged first, followed by the rest of him, all six feet
three inches of steely muscle, razor-sharp reflexes, and
unsurpassed gorgeousness"or at least that’s what his press
agent liked to say. Still, it was pretty much true,
although Dean didn’t have nearly as much personal vanity as
he let people believe. Even as a kid, he’d figured out that
looks didn’t take you far, but emphasizing the superficial
was a good way to keep people from getting any closer than
he wanted them to be.
"Uh, ma’am" You need some help?"
Her paws didn’t break rhythm. "You got a gun?"
"Not with me."
"Then I’ve got no use for you."
On she marched.
He grinned and set off after her. Between his extra long
legs and her shorter, furry ones, it took just a few steps
to catch up. "Nice day," he said. "A little warmer than I’m
used to for May, but I’m not complaining."
She hit him with a pair of grape lollipop eyes, one of the
few curvy things about her. Most of the rest of her came to
sharp angles and delicate points, from a set of fragile
bladed cheekbones, to a petite, arrow tipped nose, to a
chin keen enough to cut glass. But after that, things got
dicey. A razor-edged bow marked the center of a wide and
startlingly plump top lip. Her bottom lip was even fuller,
giving him the disconcerting feeling that she’d somehow
escaped from an X-rated nursery rhyme.
"An actor," she said with the trace of a sneer. "Just my
luck."
"What makes you think I’m an actor?"
"You’re prettier than my girl friends."
"It’s a curse."
"You’re not even embarrassed?"
"Some things you have to accept about yourself."
"Brother"" She gave a grunt of disgust.
"Name’s Heath," he said, as she picked up the pace. "Heath
Champion." "Sounds phony."
It was, but not in the way she meant.
"What do you need a gun for?" Dean asked.
"Murder an old lover."
"Is he the one who picked out your wardrobe?"
Her big ol’ paddle tail smacked him in the leg as she spun
on him. "Beat it, okay?"
"And miss all the fun?"
She gazed back at his sports car, a lethal, midnight black
Aston Martin Vanquish S with a V-12 engine. The machine had
set him back a couple of hundred thousand, but even that
hadn’t made much of a dent in his net worth. Being the
starting quarterback for the Chicago Stars was pretty much
like owning a bank.
She nearly poked out her eye as she pushed a sweaty spike
of hair away from her cheek with her paw, which didn’t seem
to be detachable. "I could use a ride," she said.
"Are you going to gnaw my upholstery?"
"Do not mess with me."
"Apologies." For the first time all day, he was glad he’d
decided to get off the interstate. He tilted his head
toward the car. "Hop in."
Even though this was her idea, she hesitated. Finally, she
shuffled after him. He should have helped her in—he did
open the door for her—but then he just stood back to watch
the fun.
Mainly it was the tail. The sucker was basically spring
loaded, and as she attempted to wedge herself into the
leather passenger seat, it kept smacking her in the head.
She got so frustrated she tried to rip it off, and when
that didn’t work, she stomped on it.
He scratched his chin. "Aren’t you being a little tough on
the ol’ beaver?"
"That’s it!" She started to take off again down the road.
He grinned and called out after her. "I apologize. Comments
like that are exactly why women have lost respect for men.
I’m ashamed of myself. Here, let me help you."
He watched her struggle between pride and necessity and
wasn’t surprised to see necessity win. When she returned to
his side, she let him help fold over her tail. As she
clutched it to her chest, he guided her inside. She had to
sit on one cheek and peer around the tail to see through
the windshield. He climbed behind the wheel. The beaver
suit emitted a musky odor that reminded him of a high
school locker room. He cracked the window a couple of
inches as he pulled back out onto the road. "So where are
we off to?"
"About a mile straight ahead. Take a right at the Eternal
Life Bible Church."
She was sweating like a linebacker underneath all that
malodorous fur, and he turned the AC to full blast. "Are
there a lot of career opportunities in beaver work?"
Her derisive look told him she knew exactly how much
entertainment he was having at her expense. "I was doing
some promotion for Ben’s Big Beaver Lumber Yard, okay?"
"When you say promotion""
"Ben’s business has been down lately"or so I’ve been told.
I just got to town nine days ago." She nodded straight
ahead. "This road leads to Rawlins Creek and Ben’s
lumberyard. That four-lane highway back there leads to Home
Depot."
"I’m starting to get the picture."
"Right. Every weekend, Ben tries to hire somebody to stand
out at the highway with a sign to draw some of the shoppers
his way. I was his latest patsy."
"Being the new kid in town."
"It’s hard to find anybody desperate enough to do this job
two weekends in a row."
"Where’s the sign? Never mind. You left it with your head."
"I could hardly walk back into town wearing a beaver head."
She pointed this out as if he were slow-witted. He
suspected she wouldn’t have been walking back into town
wearing a beaver suit, either, if she had anything on
underneath it. "I didn’t see a car parked back there," he
said. "How did you get out here in the first place?"
"The owner’s wife dropped me off after my Camaro picked
this morning to permanently give up the ghost. She was
supposed to come back an hour ago to pick me up, but she
didn’t show. I was trying to figure out what to do when I
saw a certain scumsucker whip by in a Ford Focus I helped
pay for."
"The boyfriend?"
"Ex-boyfriend."
"The one you’re getting ready to murder."
"Keep pretending that I’m kidding." She peered around her
tail. "There’s the church. Hang a right."
"If I drive you to the crime site, does that make me an
accessory?"
"Do you want to be?"
"Sure. Why not?" He turned onto a bumpy, semi-residential
street where some scrappy ranch-style homes sat on weedy
lots. Although the town of Rawlins Creek was only about
twenty miles east of Denver, it didn’t seem to be in much
danger of becoming a popular bedroom community.
"It’s that green house with the sign in the yard," she
said.
He pulled up in front of a stucco ranch where a couple of
metal deer stood guard over a row of sunflower whirligigs
and a sign reading "Rooms To Let." Except some comedian had
drawn a big letter I between the To and Let. A dirty silver
Focus sat with the motor idling in the drive. Next to it, a
leggy brunette rested her hips against the passenger door
and smoked a cigarette. As she saw Dean’s car, she
straightened.
"That must be Sally," the Beaver hissed. "Monty’s latest
loser. Me being her predecessor."
Sally was young, thin, with a big rack, and lots of make-
up, which put the sweaty-haired Beaver at a distinct
disadvantage, although showing up in a sporty Aston Martin
with him at the wheel might have evened out the playing
field. Through the windshield, Dean saw a long-haired,
artistic looking dude in small, wire-rimmed glasses emerge
from the house. This could only be Monty. He wore cargos,
along with a woven shirt that looked like it had been
handmade by a band of South American revolutionaries. He
was older than the Beaver—maybe mid-thirties—and definitely
older than Sally, who couldn’t have been more than
nineteen.
Monty came to a dead stop when he saw the Vanquish. Sally
ground out her cigarette with the toe of a bright pink
sandal and stared. Dean took his time climbing out and
making his way around the hood to open the passenger door
so the Beaver could start her killing spree. Unfortunately,
as she tried to swing her paws to the ground, her tail got
in the way. She attempted to angle it, only to have it
unfold and knock her in the chin. That pissed her off so
much that she took a swing at it, which threw her off
balance, and she landed flat on her face at his feet, that
big brown paddle waving in the breeze over her butt.
Monty stared down at her. "Blue?"
"That’s Blue?" Sally said. "Is she a clown or something?"
"Not the last time I saw her." Monty switched his attention
from the Beaver, who was trying to climb up on all fours,
to Dean. "Who are you?"
The guy had one of those fake upper crust accents that made
Dean want to spit tobacco and say "y’all." "A man of
mystery," he drawled. "Loved by some. Feared by many."
Monty looked mystified, but as the Beaver finally made it
to her feet, his expression changed to hostility. "Where is
it, Blue? What did you do with it?"
"You lying, hypocritical, poetry spouting jerk!" She
shuffled down the gravel drive, sweat glistening on her
sharp little face, murder in her eyes.
"I didn’t lie." He spoke in a condescending manner that
even got Dean’s hackles up, so he could only imagined how
the Beaver was taking it. "I’ve never lied to you," he went
on. "I explained everything in my letter."
"Which I didn’t get until I’d blown off three clients and
driven thirteen hundred miles across the country. And what
did I find when I got here? Did I find the man who’d spent
the last two months begging me to come out here and give
him another chance? Did I find the man who’d spent the last
two months begging me to leave Seattle and come out here?
Did I find the man who cried like a baby on the phone,
talked about killing himself, and said I was the best
friend he’d ever had and the only woman he’d ever trusted?
No, I did not. What I found was a letter telling me that
the man who swore I was the only thing keeping him alive
didn’t need me any longer because he’d fallen in love with
a nineteen-year-old. A letter also telling me I shouldn’t
let this kick up my abandonment issues. You didn’t even
have the guts to talk to me in person!"
Sally stepped forward, her expression earnest. "It’s
because you’re a ball buster, Blue."
"You don’t even know me!"
"Monty’s told me everything. And I’m not saying this to be
a bitch, but you could benefit from therapy. It’ll help you
stop feeling so threatened by other people’s success.
Especially Monty’s."
Blue’s cheeks grew bright red flags. "Monty makes his
living traveling to poetry slams and writing term papers
for college kids who are too lazy to write their own."
The way Sally dropped her eyes suggested this was exactly
how she’d met him. But she didn’t let herself be thrown off
course for long. "You’re right, Monty. She is toxic."
The Beaver clenched her jaw and started advancing on Monty
again. "You told her I was toxic?"
"Not toxic in general," Monty said, haughty as all
hell. "Only to my creative process." He poked his glasses
higher on the bridge of his nose. "Now tell me where the
Dylan CD is. I know you found it."
"If I’m so toxic, why haven’t you been able to write a
single poem since you left Seattle? Why did you say I was
your fricking inspiration?"
"That was before he met me," Sally interjected. "Before we
fell in love. Now I’m his inspiration."
"It was two weeks ago!"
Sally tugged on her bra strap. "The heart knows when it
meets its soul mate."
"A crap mate is more like it," the Beaver retorted.
"That’s cruel, Blue, and very hurtful," Sally said. "You
know Monty’s vulnerability is what makes him a great poet.
And that’s exactly why you’re attacking him. Because you’re
jealous of his creativity."
Sally was even getting on Dean’s nerves, so he wasn’t
surprised when Blue rounded on her. "If you say one more
word, I’m decking you. Got it? This is between Monty and
me."
Sally opened her mouth, but something in the Beav’s
expression must have given her pause because she shut it
again. Too bad. He’d have enjoyed seeing the Beav take her.
Although Sal looked like she worked out.
"I know you feel betrayed now," Monty said, "but some day
you’ll appreciate my honesty."
Dean decided the guy had graduated right at the top of
stupid class. The Beav rose up on her paw tips. "Honesty?"
"I’m not fighting with you," Monty said hastily. "You
always want to turn everything into a fight."
Sally nodded. "You do, Blue."
"You are so right!" With no more warning than that, the
Beav hurled herself through the air, and Monty went down
with a thud.
"What are you doing? Stop it! Get off me!"
He was screeching like a girl, and Sally hurried forward to
help. "Get off him!"
Dean leaned against the Vanquish to enjoy the show.
"My glasses!" Monty howled. "Watch my glasses!"
He tried to curl himself into a ball as the Beav landed a
chop to the side of his head. "I paid for those glasses!"
"Stop it! Get off him!" Sally grabbed the Beav’s tail and
yanked on it for all she was worth.
Monty was torn between protecting the family jewels and his
precious glasses. "You’ve gone completely crazy!"
"Your influence!" The Beav tried to bitch slap him, but it
didn’t go well. Too much paw.
Sally had some pretty good biceps, and she started making
headway pulling on the tail, but the Beav had game, and she
wasn’t planning to give up till she drew blood. Dean hadn’t
seen a pile up this entertaining since the final thirty
seconds of last season’s Giants’ game.
"You broke my glasses!" Monty whined, pressing his hands to
his face.
"First your glasses. Now your head!" The Beav took another
swing.
Dean winced, but Monty finally remembered that he had a Y
chromosome, and, with Sally’s help, managed to push the
Beav off and scramble to his feet. "I’m going to have you
arrested," he shrieked like a pussy. "I mean it. I’m
pressing charges."
Dean couldn’t take any more, and he ambled forward. Over
the years, he’d seen enough film of himself to know the
impression he made when he ambled—the way his long physique
displayed itself to full advantage. He also suspected the
afternoon sun might be setting off some fairly
inspirational pyrotechnics in his blond hair. Up until he
was twenty-eight, he’d sported a honkin’ pair of diamond
ear studs, but that had been youthful overkill, and now he
only wore a watch.
Even with broken glasses, Monty saw him coming and
blanched. "You’re a witness," poetry boy whimpered. "You
saw what she did."
"All I saw"" Dean drawled, ""was one more reason we’re not
inviting you to our wedding." He made his way to Blue’s
side, wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and gazed
fondly into her startled lollipop eyes. "I apologize,
sweetheart. I should have believed you when you said
William Shakespeare here didn’t deserve closure to your
relationship. But I had to go and encourage you to come
talk to the poor son of a bitch. Next time, remind me to
trust your judgment. But you have to admit that you should
have changed out of your costume first like I told you. Our
sex life isn’t anybody else’s business."
The Beav didn’t seem like the kind of woman who could
easily be caught by surprise, but it seemed like he’d done
it, and for a man who made his living with words, Monty’s
verbal well seemed to have run dry. Poor Sally could barely
manage a croak. "You’re marrying Blue?"
"I couldn’t be more surprised myself." Dean gave a modest
shrug. "Who figured she’d have me?"
And, really, what more could they say after that?
When Monty finally got his breath back, he started whining
again about Blue doing something with "it," which Dean
finally figured out was an apparently valuable bootleg CD
of the original press of Bob Dylan’s "Blood on the Tracks"
that Monty had accidentally left behind at the rooming
house.
"There are only a thousand in existence!" he cried.
"Nine hundred and ninety nine," the Beav retorted. "Your
copy went out with the trash the minute I finished reading
your letter."
Monty was pretty much a broken man after that, but Dean
couldn’t resist twisting the knife. As Poetry Man and Sally
began climbing in their car, he turned back to the Beav and
spoke just loudly enough for his words to drift in their
direction. "Come on, sweetpea. Let’s head for the city so
we can get a start on buying that two carat diamond you’ve
got your heart set on."
He swore he heard Monty whimper.
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