Chapter 2

He hated snakes. They were right up there with Ebola and hair plugs on his list of things to avoid. He started hopping around on one foot. He had no idea why, but his fight-or-flight response had kicked in and he couldn’t control it even if he had wanted to.

“Oh my God, you’re hilarious. Do you really think hopping around on one foot will repel snakes? It looks like you’re trying to play hopscotch with your eyes closed.” She doubled over laughing. “I’m sorry. Just give me a minute. Stupid Apple Watch doesn’t have a camera.”

“I’m glad my terror amuses you.” He stopped hopping and stood very still. Wasn’t a snake’s vision based on movement?

Susie was still doubled over. He’d never met anyone quite like her. She was quirky and funny and he was enjoying the hell out of her company. The spark he’d felt when they’d shaken hands had totally taken him by surprise.

A full minute later, she wiped her eyes and was finally able to stand. “I think you’re safe. Only the nonvenomous snakes are out this time of day. Rattlers are crepuscular. They won’t be up for a few more hours.”

“Really?” Once he had accidentally watched five minutes of a snake documentary on National Geographic, before he’d realized it was about snakes and changed the channel. He couldn’t recall the documentary saying anything about snake curfews.

“Sure. All of the venomous snakes have a strict 2:00 a.m. curfew. The snake police have a zero-tolerance policy. No joke, they are super serious about that curfew. The punishment is being sent to the Snake Farm on IH-35 outside of New Braunfels.” She leaned into him and lowered her voice. “Actually, it’s less of a farm and more of an internment camp, but don’t say it too loud. It always riles the snakes up and then you’ll really need to be worried.”

She was close enough for him to smell her hair. Even sweaty, she smelled like oranges and vanilla.

“You are by far the most interesting person I’ve met in a very long time.” He couldn’t help but smile at her. Her smile was infectious, along with her bizarre sense of humor. It didn’t hurt that she was gorgeous. He’d always been a sucker for black hair and dark-green eyes.

And she’d treated him like a regular person, which almost never happened.

“You don’t get out much, do you?” She looked up at him from under her lashes. “I’m actually pretty normal.”

“I don’t think anyone would say you’re normal.” He clamped a hand over his mouth. “That didn’t come out right. I meant to say that you’re not average. Crap. I’m just making it worse. I’m going to shut up now.” He’d never had a problem talking to women. Most people thought he was charming and articulate.

“Kudos to you for admitting defeat. Most men would have kept on going until either I was confused or they were confused.” She thought about it for a second. “Thank you. I like being not average.”

Awkward silence descended, and he tried to figure out how to get his foot out of his mouth.

“So, what should I call you?” She watched him as they walked.

“My name’s Dane. You can call me Dane.” He thought they’d already covered this.

She shook her head. “No, not your name. What’s your title? Are you like an ‘international film star’ or a ‘Hollywood icon’?”

“I don’t think I’m either. I guess you could say I’m an ‘Academy Award nominee.’” He’d lost to Leonardo DiCaprio in The Revenant. There were no hard feelings. Leo’s performance had been much better than his. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, if I ever make it onto Jeopardy and they have your name as a category, I need to be ready.” She made it sound like the most logical thing in the world.

“Have you been auditioning for Jeopardy?” He wasn’t sure he was famous enough to rate an entire category on Jeopardy. But it was flattering she would think that.

“No. But if I do, I’m ahead of the game.” She waggled her eyebrows.

Yep, she was definitely the most interesting person he’d met in a very long time.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the shadow of a copse of live oak trees. A little zip of excitement skittered up his arm.

“Here’s the thing,” she whispered. “Old Mr. Milton might be extra cranky today. I may or may not have accidentally on purpose used a potato cannon to knock out this nine-million-watt light that shines into my bedroom. That light created a crazy amount of light pollution and it probably sucked a lot of energy too. He only installed it to be an ass. It’s like a mile away from his house. I did the world a favor.” She sounded awfully defensive. “Plus, having that much accuracy with a potato cannon took a lot of skill.”

“Why do I get the feeling the million-watt light was retaliation for something?” He’d never hung out with anyone who was this much fun. He couldn’t wait to see what would come out of her mouth next.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She wouldn’t make eye contact. “The steam whistle I installed on the edge of my property that goes off at exactly three fifteen in the morning is an engineering marvel and is for experimental purposes.”

“What are you studying with this experiment?” He knew bullshit when he heard it. He’d grown up in Hollywood, so he had a highly evolved bullshit meter.

“The effects of loud noises on cranky neighbors who accuse me of stealing two of their chickens.” She threw her hands up. “I can’t help it if Rhett and Scarlett wandered over to my yard and decided to stay. I have a pretty impressive henhouse. They’re more comfortable at my house.”

“Why do I feel like there’s more to this story?” He could listen to her all day—or all night.

“Okay, so, I might have implied that Estelle and Luigi—terrible names for chickens, by the way—had ended up extra crispy. And I might have left a plate of fried chicken on his front porch.” She threw up an index finger. “That was only because he chopped down my favorite live oak tree.” She seemed to truly feel she was justified.

“Was it on your property?” If it was her tree, she had a valid case. She should sue.

“Well, that’s a matter of opinion. It was on the other side of my fence, but my property extends ten feet beyond the fence. We’ve both had it surveyed … at the same time. The surveyors got into a fistfight over who was right. It was pretty funny.”

“You have a very complicated relationship with your neighbor.” That was putting it mildly.

“Did I also mention that he’s my great uncle?” She hunched her shoulders. “Family holidays are interesting.”

“Wait, the two of you celebrate holidays together?” Every time she opened her mouth something unpredictable fell out.

“Of course. We’re family. Five years ago, we even called a truce. We’ve agreed to no longer poison each other’s food. Honestly, it was hard to keep track of what was poisoned and what wasn’t. I couldn’t eat my own cooking.” Clearly, she thought this was normal family behavior.

Then again, what did he know about normal families? His mother was Kitty McCoy, the legendary B movie queen. Even now, she was famous for the drug-fueled parties, the revolving door of rehab stays, and the fact that she was too busy partying to make more than six actual movies. Two, if he factored out the four that were sent straight to video.

He guessed that every family had its issues. “I’m not sure how to respond to that. I’ve never intentionally poisoned anyone.”

“You’re young. There’s still time.” She waved it off like it was nothing. “The secret to really good Ex-Lax brownies is adding extra cocoa powder. It takes that chemical taste away.”

“Good to know.” He was never eating anything she cooked unless he saw her taste it first.

“I know you’re out there.” The voice was that of an old man who sounded like he might have been a two-pack-a-day smoker back in the day. It seemed that Old Mr. Milton had found them. “I can hear you.”

Susie motioned for Dane to be perfectly still.

“No use in pretending that you’re not there. I can see you.” Mr. Milton dry racked a shotgun.

Susie mouthed, No, he can’t.

“Yes, I can. You’ve got some dude with you. He’s got on a very shiny belt buckle. Son, you do any rodeoing? That buckle’s huge.” He racked the shotgun again.

Dane looked down. It wasn’t that big. “No, sir. I’m an actor. My name is Dane Bennett.”

“What’s that you say? An actor? Why in the hell would I let my great-niece date an actor. You need to get a real job. You hear me?” He racked the shotgun again. “Never mind, I’m just gonna go ahead and kill you. I got rights. It’s called the Castle Doctrine.”

“You can’t shoot him. He’s standing next to me. If you kill me, I’m not bringing you any of my Mom’s famous orange rolls. I have a batch rising on my counter right now.” She was deadly serious.

There were several flaws in her logic, but Dane didn’t feel like it was in his best interest to point them out.

“Are they them rolls with the flecks of orange peel?” There was silence while it seemed he was making some sort of decision. “Okay, you move away. I’m still going to shoot him.”

“You can’t shoot him.” She shook her head. “We both know I broke into your house last week and stole all of your shotgun shells. Just like I know you broke into my house on Friday and stole all of my lighters.”

“Them candles is a fire hazard. I was doing you a favor.” He dry racked the shotgun again.

“You know it’s bad for the gun to dry rack it. Unlike in Hollywood,” she smiled at Dane, “we practice good gun maintenance and safety here.”

“I know, but I like the way it sounds.” Mr. Milton stepped out of the shadow of an oak tree. He looked a lot like Jed Clampett from the old Beverly Hillbillies TV show. “So, is the offer of cinnamon rolls still on the table?”

“I don’t know. Are you going to stop trying to kill us?”

“I wasn’t gonna kill you. I just wanted to put the fear of Jesus in you.” The old man picked at a hangnail. “Everybody knows you’ve been trying to kill me for years.”

“I gave up because you just won’t die. You’re like two thousand years old.” She snapped her fingers and nodded. “I just figured it out. You’re afraid to die because we both know you’re going straight to hell.”

“That’s not funny.” He pointed a gnarled old index finger. “You’re just mad because you don’t get my land until I’m dead.”

“I gave up on having that land years ago. You’re never going to die, because evil can’t die.” She turned to Dane. “Let’s go. My house is over there.” She pointed to a tiny speck of light on the horizon. She turned back to Mr. Milton. “The orange cinnamon rolls will be done in an hour. You better bring Aunt Nona’s sausage casserole if you want some.”

“Done.” He yawned. “I best get home. That casserole takes forty-five minutes to bake.”

“See you in an hour.” She yawned.

Dane followed her. “You certainly have an interesting relationship with your great-uncle.”

“That’s because he’s nuts.” She grinned.

“I heard that,” the old man yelled.

“I don’t care,” Susie called back. “Sorry about him.”

“Heard that too.”

“Still don’t care.” Her foot twisted. “Ouch.”

“What happened?” Dane caught her before she hit the ground. The second he touched her, he felt that same little zing. He glanced at her face. All he saw was pain.

“I’ve been rehabbing it. I broke my foot a few months ago.” She tried to put pressure on it but immediately switched to the other leg. “Ow.”

He shouldered her weight.

“Ask her how she broke it,” the old man yelled from far away.

“Mind your business, old man.” She gritted her teeth against the pain.

“How’d you break it?” Dane braced himself for some gunfighting between her and her uncle.

“Cozumel Ironman.” She was grinding her teeth together.

She was a triathlete. She didn’t look like a triathlete. She looked like a Disney princess—Snow White, complete with a pouty, heart-shaped mouth. “That’s not what I expected.”

“What were you expecting?” She took hold of his arm and hobbled toward the lighted house on the horizon.

“I don’t know. Maybe you and your uncle were tossing explosives at each other.” They had a very unique relationship.

“That’s a good one. I hadn’t thought of that.” It sounded like she was filing that away to use later.

“Your foot’s starting to swell.” He had the insane urge to whisk her up in his arms Rhett Butler style and carry her back to the house.

“This sucks. How am I going to fire all of the potato cannons if I’m on crutches?” She made it sound like a real dilemma.

“I’m preparing to be shocked by this answer, but how many potato cannons do you have?” Even though she had a penchant for weapons, he couldn’t help but smile. She was more fun than he’d had in a very long time.

“Forty-seven.” She bit her bottom lip in what looked like pain. “I’m pretty sure I broke it again. I guess when Dr. Nixon told me to ease back into workouts, he probably meant I shouldn’t run twelve miles.”

“Christ, you ran twelve miles this morning?” He tried not to make it sound like the dumbest thing he’d ever heard, but it was hard.

“No, I ran eight miles. I was on my last four when I found you.” Her face screwed up and he could see the pain.

“Why do you have forty-something potato cannons?” He couldn’t wait to find out, and distracting her might lessen her pain.

“I teach eighth-grade science. This afternoon, all of my students are coming over for Potato Cannon Wars. Since the school won’t let me do it on their property, I do it here. It’s kind of a rite of passage. We have a big barbecue, and all of the families of my students are invited. Everyone brings a side dish and blankets to sit on under the trees, and we fire off the cannons. We make a day of it. Uncle Milton dresses up as a clown and frightens small children with horrible balloon animals. No matter what he tries to make it always comes out looking like a giant penis. That sounds creepy, I know, but he means well.” She tried to put pressure on her injured foot and collapsed against him. “I refuse to cancel.”

He’d never been to a potato cannon picnic. It sounded like a lot of fun.

“Who said anything about canceling?” He was trying to figure out how to score an invite. “So, you’re the cool teacher?”

“Not really.” She thought about it. “I guess. Although, I’m hard on my students and I expect a lot from them, but they’ve never let me down.”

“I wish I’d had a teacher like you. I would have enjoyed making a potato cannon.” He couldn’t think of a better way to spend a Sunday.

“I bet you went to a snooty private school.” She thought about it for a minute. “Not that I have anything against private schools. Just snootiness.”

“I wish. I didn’t go to school. I had tutors.” He’d always been jealous of kids who got to go to regular school. He’d started working in commercials at the age of six months, so regular school would have taken too much time away from his career. Since his mother was too busy partying, someone had to make the money.

Susie stopped and looked him directly in the eye. “I’m sorry. That sounds lonely. I’m sure you’re probably busy this afternoon, but if you’re not, I’d love to have you as an honorary potato cannon judge.”

“Now that’s the best invitation I’ve had in a very long time.” He should be running lines, but what the hell, how many times was a man asked to be a potato cannon judge? In his life, that was rarer than an Emmy nomination.

“Great. I promise it will be very interesting.” She smiled.

He wanted to lean down and kiss her … just a taste. But he couldn’t. He liked her too much to complicate her life. Fame was a burden and not something he would wish on his worst enemy.

“Can I ask you for another favor?” He hated to do it, especially since she had hurt herself saving him.

“Sure.” She bit her lip against the pain.

“I like that you treat me just like a normal person. People usually only see the fame. If it’s okay with you, today, I’m just a normal guy. Usually, when I meet people who aren’t in the business, it’s uncomfortable.” He wasn’t explaining this the right way. “I mean … well …”

She nodded like she knew exactly what he meant. “Say no more. I know exactly what you mean. I’m somewhat of a legend in eight-grade science circles. They call me Potato Cannon Susie. In some of the remoter parts of Borneo, I can barely walk down the dirt road without being mobbed by fans.”

“Ha ha. But I’m serious. Most of the time, when people meet me, they get weird. They either stare openmouthed or pitch me the best movie idea in the entire world.” Fame might seem trivial to her, but he’d spent his whole life trying to fit in.

“I get what you’re saying.” She thought about it for a couple of beats. “What’s your middle name?”

He was getting used to her subject hopping. “Stewart. Why?”

She held out her hand. “Nice to see you again, cousin Stewart. So good of you to agree to judge Potato Cannon Wars.” She winked.

He shook her hand, and that little zip zinged up his arm and made his heart go all pitter-pat. “It’s nice to be here.”

And it was. He had a feeling that it was nice to be wherever she was.