Fool me twice, p.1
Fool Me Twice, page 1
For Gracelynn and Elle
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Acknowledgments
A Note on the Author
By the Same Author
Chapter One
“I love it when you act like guys are aliens,” my best friend, Bailey, says, smirking as she tosses me a fluffy white towel.
I don’t quite catch it before the burgundy SR monogram nails me in the eye and the towel smothers my face. I yank it off my head, no doubt ruining my quasi-punk-rock ponytail in the process. Or maybe messing it up enhances the effect. I’m not really sure because I’m still experimenting with my new look. “I don’t act like they’re aliens,” I say, efficiently folding the towel and tucking it under the gleaming curve of the mahogany front desk. The subtle scent of lavender settles in my nose. I haven’t yet figured out if the towels are washed in scented soap or if a magical fairy sprinkles lavender on them so each and every guest at Serenity Ranch will feel pampered.
Kidding. I don’t think that way. But some of the guests seem to.
“Even if they’re not from another planet, they’re still impossible to predict.” I tuck a few loose strands of electric-blue hair behind my ear. “I totally thought Landon would’ve said something by now.”
“He’s a dude, which makes him insanely easy to predict. He’s moved on, Mack, and you should too.” She shoves another towel onto the shelf under the desk, which looks like it’s about to vomit them all back up. I don’t know why they make us hide them anyway. This is a freakin’ spa. Towels are a given.
I reach down for the last one in the basket. “Fine, maybe he’s not an alien, but if I meant nothing, he’d treat me like everyone else, not give me the silent treatment. I bet he has ulterior motives for acting like this.”
“Right. I’m sure it’s step two in an elaborate fourteen-step process to woo you back.”
I snort, then choke, my face heating as I end up in a raging coughing fit. Bailey curtsies, a move that somehow works in conjunction with her outfit. She’s … vanilla, yet entirely perfect, in a khaki skirt that reaches the exact length required by Serenity Ranch and Spa, no more, no less, and a polo shirt with just enough preppie effect that she wouldn’t be kicked off the resident golf course, either. Toss in a newsboy cap and some tasseled saddle shoes, she could totally be mistaken for one of them.
Meanwhile, I’m allowed to help in the spa, but technically I’m a lowly stable girl, hidden in the back aisles so as not to offend our wealthy clientele with the red and blue streaks in my hair. I don’t know if the bright colors are expected to give them seizures, but I’m supposed to wear a hat if I’m going to be around the guests.
The thing is, the general manager—Mr. Ramsey—told us to be prepared to dress “patriotically” for the ranch’s annual Fourth of July extravaganza. It’s the biggest weekend of the summer, but apparently I took it one step too far. Whatever. He proclaimed his patriotic expectations with a game-show-host sweep of his arms, all enthusiastic like. What was I supposed to do but take him totally seriously?
I should have gotten Employee of the Year, not exile. Until electric blue and fire-engine red wash out, I get to help Bailey in the morning, before the spa opens, then disappear to the sawdust and muck, and if I’m lucky, an afternoon of horseback riding. Wearing a helmet, of course, so as not to offend the delicate sensibilities of the upper class.
“I just wish I knew what he was thinking,” I say, picking at a piece of glitter embedded in my nail polish so that I don’t have to meet her eyes. “Is blue and red glitter polish too much, you think? I’m all about subtlety.”
She ignores my sarcasm. “Why does he have to be thinking anything? The boy doesn’t have two brain cells to rub together. He probably killed them all by getting kicked in the head by his gigantic horse.”
It’s weird, but I almost have the urge to defend him.
Almost.
She leans her hip against the counter, leveling an intense stare at me so that I have to look up as she says, “He wouldn’t have dumped you if he had a triple-digit IQ.”
Annnd, that’s why Bailey is my best friend. “Thanks,” I say, swinging open the nearby door and drop-kicking the laundry basket inside. “It’s just that we’ve been here a week. How long is he going to ignore me?”
“You hardly talked all year at school. Why break the streak?”
I frown. “I don’t know. I mean since this is where …”
My voice trails off. I don’t have to complete the sentence. Bailey was here last year when Landon Falls and I had a whirlwind summer romance. She was there when I came home from our last date at two a.m. and told her I was in love with him. But unlike Grease, we returned to school and he totally did not break into a chorus about our summer loving in front of all his friends. Instead, he swept me under the rug and got back together with his ex-girlfriend.
The lame part is, this summer is practically a repeat. They broke up again a month ago, so now we’re both single … and both here for another nine weeks. I keep thinking he’s going to be trying for a romance redux. So far, nada.
“Like I said. Two brain cells. He probably forgot all about it.” Her nose scrunches up as the words leave her mouth, and she realizes that wasn’t exactly a comforting statement. I don’t want to be forgotten and discarded.
I sigh. “Yeah, well, I guess I should go back to the barn with the other peasants.”
Her grimace melts into a toothy grin. “Ah, yes, and tell me, just how are the accommodations in steerage?”
“The best I’ve ever seen,” I say, playing along with her Titanic shtick. “Hardly any rats.”
Bailey chuckles under her breath as she fishes a name tag out of the top drawer of the reception desk, pinning the shiny gold square to her polo. “What time will you be done?”
“Hmm, four or five? Depends on how many lessons we have today. I haven’t seen this week’s schedule yet.”
“Awesome. I was thinking we could go into town. I’m totally out of toothpaste.”
“You mean, I’m totally out of toothpaste,” I correct, knowing Bailey never packs any toiletries because she prefers to use her suitcase space for cosmetics instead. It’s a small price to pay for bunking with my best friend all summer with no parental supervision. “And that sounds good. I want some new sunglasses.”
“You have sunglasses on top of your head.”
“Yeah, ugly ones,” I say, in my best duh voice. By now Bailey should know that a girl like me can never have too many accessories.
“Okay then. Strip mall it is!” she says, throwing her hands wide, fake enthusiasm dripping from her pores.
Right. Strip mall. The only downside to being this far removed from the real world. Even Target is a grueling trek worthy of its own major motion picture: Mall Quest, a two-hour epic! Many will try; few will survive!
I turn the key still sitting in the front door, toss it to Bailey, and then flip over the fancy little OPEN sign. “Have fun. Don’t let the snobs bite.”
“Don’t let the horses condescend!”
I grin as I step into the sunshine.
Another summer at Serenity Ranch. The name is a misnomer at best. Maybe half the property is actually the ranch; the rest is a five-star spa and golf course. Even the “bunkhouses” scream luxury, with slate tile entries, twenty-foot ceilings, enormous antler chandeliers (totally fake, but one must maintain just the right mix of rustic and luxury), whirlpool tubs, and satellite television. The log bed frames look like authentic hand-sawed lumber assembled by an Amish guy, but they cost two thousand dollars and were imported from New York or something. New England. New Mexico? I can’t remember. Last week a spoiled trust-fund brat broke one and pitched a fit when the front desk charged his credit card. I could hear him screaming from the barns.
I walk the dirt path toward the back stables, avoiding the concrete favored by our millionaire—and occasional billionaire—guests, since I’m not wearing the required hat to hide my hair. Beyond the barns are rolling, more-brown-than-green hills that hug the curve of the Columbia River.
People think Washington State is all greenery and never-ending rain. They envision the Emerald City, the Puget Sound, ferry boats, fresh salmon, and evergreen mountains … and maybe a few sparkly vampires playing baseball amid the lush forests. Most people have no idea that you only have to head eastbound on I-90 for about ninety minutes before you’re over Snoqualmie Pass and the green mountaintops give way to rolling hills, and eventually even the sparse pines are replaced by crunchy tumble-weeds and dry rocks. If we didn’t irrigate the fields, lawns, and golf courses, we’d have no grass at
Which isn’t hard to believe, given the intensity of the heat beaming down at me at nine a.m. I round the final corner where the path is flanked on both sides by workers’ cabins, and a familiar figure approaches.
“Hey, Mr. Ramsey,” I call out, giving him a wave as I walk a little taller. There’s something about the way he moves, the way he talks, that commands respect. His years of military service and ever-present buzz cut don’t hurt.
“Mackenzie,” he says, pausing under the shade of an old oak tree. “How are things going?”
“Good. Just got done helping Bailey in the spa,” I say, jabbing a thumb back in the direction of the Empire of Towels. “Stall cleaning is up next.”
“And how are the two new lesson horses working out?”
I nod my head. “They’re calm as can be. I put two kids on them yesterday and they were perfect.”
“Great. I trust that this summer will go as smoothly as last year?”
Sir, yes sir. “Absolutely.”
“Excellent. Let me know if there is anything that should be addressed. I’ve got to get to the clubhouse.”
And with that he’s gone, and I can continue on my way to cottage 19, feeling like I just passed inspection. The tiny, rustic cabins at this end of the compound are part of the original ranch, back when this place was a little more authentic and catered to average people who wanted a genuine ranching experience. Now, they house the dozens of employees who don’t live locally, and the guests stay in the new buildings.
I shove open the door and am greeted by our usual explosion of clothes, books, and DVDs. Rom coms for Bailey, and two dozen horror movies for me, which have spilled all over the floor. I haven’t really had much time to watch any of them yet, mostly because Bailey hates scary movies, plus there are better things to do.
Last year, I spent all summer hung up on Landon. This summer, I’m determined to play the field, just like Bailey. A summer of boys and late-night swimming. A summer of shopping and music and riding horses.
Picking my way around the debris strewn about by Hurricane Bailey, I grab a Diet Coke from our mini-fridge and glance in the mirror.
I teased my hair when I got out of the shower, so my ponytail is a little higher than normal, and being clobbered with a towel this morning sort of helped the effect, as some strands now frame my face. I don’t know if the average guy would find my style attractive, but I stand out, and I’d rather be unique than blend in with the masses.
I shrug at myself and head back out the door, following the path over a small knoll and then down, toward the back roll-up door to the stables, to where my duties—and Landon—await.
Chapter Two
“I pledge allegiance, to the flag …”
I stiffen, my grip on the pitchfork, tightening so hard the wood bites into the still-developing calluses on my palms. The voice behind me is the very one I’ve waited to hear for the last week. … But he’s mocking me.
I slice a glare in Landon’s direction. He’s standing in the entry to the empty stall, his lanky, all-too-muscular body a silhouette against the fluorescent fixture hanging behind him. The dust kicked up by my work swirls in the light hugging his body.
I wish I could make out his expression, to figure out if it’s the same sneer he gave me that first day back at school last fall. When he broke my heart.
I smirk, saying, “Ha, ha, ha. You must think you’re super clever.”
“Actually, I do.” He puts a hand to his heart. “You really wound my ego.”
I roll my eyes. “ ‘No tears, please. It’s a waste of good suffering.’”
He drops his hand back to his side. “Are you quoting Hellraiser?”
I blink. “Um, no?” I turn back to the pitchfork, hoping he buys it, and toss another scoop into the overflowing wheelbarrow. I should have emptied it already, but this is the last stall.
“Since when do you like classic horror movies?” His voice has that old familiar drawl to it, that same twang I loved when he whispered to me, his breath hot on my ear. His family is from Texas. They moved to Washington State six years ago, but he’s never let go of the accent.
“Since when do you care what I like?” I scoop at a pile of manure near his toes, daring him to stand still as it slides dangerously close to his battered Justin cowboy boots. He doesn’t move. “I mean, I was just getting used to the silent treatment.”
“Meh, I got bored,” he says.
Bored. I scowl. “I’m sure there’s a real flag somewhere in desperate need of your allegiance.”
I scoop up another forkful of soiled bedding. Maybe he thought he’d get away with just waltzing up, that I’d somehow forget what he did, like I’d fall at his feet at the first sign of his interest.
When I look up at him again, he hasn’t budged, he’s just chewing on his lip. He licks his lip, and for a second I forget I’m staring, thinking about how it felt when we’d kissed, when he’d traced his tongue across my lips. When he grins, I realize he’s caught me.
Ugh. I should not be thinking of how good he is at kissing. Actually, scratch that. I should be thinking of how good he is at kissing other girls. That made it pretty easy to stay angry. Like he did in the halls the first day of school last fall. I wore this adorable Zac Brown Band T-shirt because he said they were his favorite band, and I was practically bursting with excitement to see him after a few days apart … and then I saw him, but it didn’t go the way I’d pictured.
He was leaning in to kiss her, while I stood there dumbfounded. He knew exactly what he was doing because midway through their steamy makeout session, he saw me staring, a strange gleam in his eyes as he watched the way I unraveled. It was like he enjoyed watching me shatter, just like little boys love burning ants with magnifying glasses.
And it sucks to be the ant. I am so over being the ant.
“Nah, you’re a little more … lively.”
I snort, shaking my head. Lively. Yeah, I could show him lively.
“What?” he asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway. The effort makes his muscles bulge. He probably practices the move in his mirror in the hopes of using it to ensnare his next summer fling.
I toss the pitchfork onto the heaping wheelbarrow. “Just leave me alone, okay?” I grab the cart’s handle and yank.
But he doesn’t move, and I back right up into him, our bodies colliding. Instead of stepping aside, he grabs my elbows to keep me from knocking him completely over, and then actually removes me from the stall and slides me into the aisle, like I’m a kitten that’s run into his path.
Then he turns and easily pulls the overladen cart over the bump, onto the smooth cement of the aisle. The stall door screeches as he rolls it shut.
“I still have to put pellets in there,” I start.
“I’ll get it.”
I stare at him, unwilling to believe he’d volunteer to take on even a tiny portion of my workload without wanting something in return. “Well, you just go zero to sixty in about five seconds, don’t you?”
He flashes me a wolfish smile, the one that makes him seem half-dangerous, half-sexy. But now I know what really lurks beneath all those muscles and cowboy swagger, and his smile is no longer so attractive.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, tipping the rim of his cowboy hat back far enough that I can see into his intense brown eyes. He’s … irritated.
Good.
I narrow my own eyes and match his look. “The silent treatment, to mockery, to doing me favors,” I say, ticking them off on my fingers. “Before you turned on the roller coaster, you could have at least warned me to keep my hands and feet in the car at all times.”
He huffs. “Can’t a guy do a girl a favor?”
“No.” I laugh, and not in a pretty way. “Not you, anyway.”
Dang. I had wanted to be aloof. Unaffected. I’m screwing it up.
He shrugs, totally unbothered by my visceral response. “Fine then. Do it yourself,” he says. But he doesn’t move out of my way or open the stall door either. Instead, his eyes sweep over my now-dirty polo shirt, down my legs, and then back up again before he smirks. “What’s with the getup?”
I grit my teeth and check out my outfit. I’m in my Serenity Ranch polo, as required, along with my jean shorts, but I have lime-green leggings underneath, and my cowboy boots don’t match any of my clothes—they’re powder blue. It’s like my outfit is a mullet—business on the top, party on the bottom.
