Don't Give Me Butterflies Read online

  HE LAZILY BRACED HIS HANDS ON THE SHELF BEHIND HER HEAD

  “You’re telling me that you’re willfully going to ignore my request?”

  “Yup.”

  “I am so glad you said that.”

  She glanced up sharply. “Why?”

  “Because it’s settled. And now we can go with your idea.” In one swift move, Jordan leaned down and brushed his lips over hers.

  Kat stood frozen in the moment, aware of nothing but the warm, soft caress of his mouth. The rasp of his flannel shirt against her bare arms. The crisp scent of pine soap and warm, male skin. His kiss was subtle, yet insistent. Coaxing. Intoxicating. Heat bloomed inside her, spiraling out in every direction like a sensual drug too powerful to resist. She slid her hands around his neck and pressed closer.

  This was madness; she knew it. But she just couldn’t bring herself to care. All rational thoughts seemed to slip away like wispy clouds on a stiff breeze, until the only things left were the hot, bright taste of him and the feel of his powerful arms around her and the thudding beat of her heart. In that moment, only one thing was achingly clear.

  Jordan Prescott knew how to kiss.

  Also by Tara Sheets

  Don’t Call Me Cupcake

  Don’t Touch My Petunia

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Don’t Give Me Butterflies

  The Holloway Girls

  TARA SHEETS

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  HE LAZILY BRACED HIS HANDS ON THE SHELF BEHIND HER HEAD

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Tara Sheets

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-4630-1

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4631-8 (eBook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4201-4631-9 (eBook)

  To Brandon:

  On this wild, beautiful roller coaster called life,

  I’m glad I chose to sit next to you.

  Chapter One

  Kat Davenport was many things, but wealthy wasn’t one of them. After plunking down her last twenty bucks at the store that morning for dog food, Cheetos, and shampoo, she vowed to take whatever job came her way, no matter what it was.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” she told her dog, Hank, as they left their motel room that afternoon. “And anything’s better than being hungry and homeless.”

  But now, as she yanked on the ridiculous yellow chicken costume and prepared to stand in the sweltering August heat at the Pine Cove Island farmer’s market, the life of a hobo wasn’t looking all that bad.

  “Your beak’s broken,” her supervisor said in a voice like fine grit sandpaper.

  Kat glanced at the woman lounging on the single foldout chair inside their booth. Smitty Bankston was on the hard side of sixty, with a sour expression that said she knew it. Deep lines etched her face, and her hair was teased and sprayed into a frothy style that had seen better days and wanted to go back.

  “Your chicken beak,” Smitty said. “It’s all crunched up.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and flicked the ashes into the grass.

  Kat blinked through the fumes. “I’ll figure something out.” If she’d learned one thing in her twenty-six years, it was how to improvise. She zipped the feathered costume up to her neck. The chicken head was a stuffed hood that snapped under her chin, but the plastic beak was crushed beyond repair.

  “Just wear it without the beak, so your face shows,” Smitty said, exhaling another plume of smoke. “That way people can hear you better when you ask for donations.”

  “Great.” Kat tucked her frizzing red hair into the chicken hood, wondering how it had all come to this. When she saw the ad for a one-day job working with the Daisy Meadows Pet Rescue, she’d jumped at the chance. Animals were her specialty. She was born with the magical ability to communicate with them, and she’d always taken jobs involving animals. But this wasn’t the cakewalk she’d expected. It was more like a pie in the face.

  “Here’s your basket,” Smitty said, handing her a pink basket with the words PLEASE PAWS FOR DONATIONS on one side, and THANK YOU FURRY MUCH on the other. “Now get out there and work the crowd.”

  Thirty-seven minutes later—because she was counting—Kat had exactly zero dollars in donations. The afternoon sun was brutal, and the costume chafed in all the worst places. She wandered past vegetable stands, candlemakers, and flower booths, trying not to make eye contact with people.

  “Big Bird!” a small child said, pointing at her.

  “No, honey.” His mother gave Kat a tight smile, then pulled him away. “That’s something else.”

  A baby in a stroller stared at Kat with wide eyes, then started to howl.

  Kat hurried past as fast as her chicken feet would allow. This gig was going on her Worst Jobs Ever list, no question. She felt like one of those costumed scam artists wandering Times Square in New York City. Only a crazy person would “paws” and donate.

  An old man with a cane hobbled over and tossed a quarter in her basket. “Shake those tail feathers, Bessie!” He wiggled his bushy eyebrows and grinned.

  Kat glanced at the single coin. How had she fallen this low? Oh, yeah. Because she was the Queen of Impulsive Decisions. Three weeks ago, she was working as a pet sitter on Hollywood Houseboat, a reality show from Southern California. Then on a crazy whim, she’d decided to stay in the Pacific Northwest for good. Pine Cove Island was far away from the drama of L.A., and therefore, blissful, but now her bank account was empty again. And there was nothing blissfu
l about that.

  She shoved a sweaty lock of hair from her face and pushed on through the crowd.

  On her second lap around the market, Kat had no further donations to show for her efforts. Fed up and needing a break from the sun, she made a beeline toward a shady spot underneath a large tree. A white farmer’s tent filled with bundles of lavender stood beside it, but no one was there.

  She plopped down on a bale of hay underneath the tree, then yanked off her chicken hood and shook out her hair.

  A sudden gust of wind kicked up, and the fresh scent of lavender soothed her heated emotions.

  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to embrace the moment. She needed to find her zen, or whatever it was called. But she also needed to find a permanent job, and a place that actually felt like home. A hollow ache settled in her chest. If a place like that even existed.

  Leaning forward, Kat dropped her face into her hands. Zen. She massaged her temples with her fingers, trying to quiet her mind, but it didn’t work. It was like asking a tornado to stop spinning. Zen harder. She tried for several more seconds, then let out a heavy sigh. It was no use. Maybe she could just hang out here in the shade for an hour or five.

  “Excuse me,” a deep voice said behind her. “I believe you’re sitting on my lunch.”

  Kat spun around, or at least she tried. The costume’s bulk made it difficult to maneuver. Her spiky tail feathers swished in an arc, sending her donation basket, a paper plate, and a sandwich flying into the grass.

  “Oh!” She scrambled for the crushed sandwich and plate, setting them back on the bale of hay. Then she glanced up to apologize, but the words died in her throat.

  The man loomed over her like a thundercloud, with broad shoulders, deeply tanned skin, and dark hair. He wore black jeans and a charcoal gray T-shirt, and he was so tall, Kat took an involuntary step back.

  “I’m sorry,” she managed. “I didn’t notice your sandwich. It’s this stupid costume. I can’t even see my feet.”

  His gaze swept slowly over her.

  She tried to appear calm and unfazed, but it wasn’t easy. He was one of those gorgeous-by-accident types of people. The kind who didn’t even have to try. Not like the carefully groomed pretty boys she’d worked with in L.A. Certainly not like her ex-boyfriend who had more clothes and hair products than she did. Nothing about this man was soft or pretty. He had sharp, masculine features, unusual amber eyes, and a thin scar across his left cheekbone. He was in need of a haircut and his face was unshaven, which—paired with the scar—made him look like some wicked character from a fairy tale.

  The Beast, Kat decided. He reminded her of the dark prince who got turned into a beast because of his wicked ways.

  His mouth curved into an almost-smile, and a fluttering sensation began in the pit of Kat’s stomach.

  Uh-oh. Butterflies. This was not a good sign. In fact, getting butterflies in her stomach was the exact opposite of a good sign. The Queen of Impulsive Decisions started to smile back, but Kat shut her down fast. She was here to start fresh. That was the plan. She was not going to get all fluttery over a hot guy. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt too many times to count.

  “Why are you dressed like a turkey?” he asked.

  Heat scorched up the back of her neck. Here she was, fantasizing about him as a dark prince being all edgy and epic, and all he saw was a stuffed turkey. So much for fairy tales.

  “I’m not—” She broke off with a sigh. Really, what did it matter? She grabbed her toppled basket off the ground and set it on the bale of hay. Unfortunately, her only donation of twenty-five cents was now lost somewhere in the grass. She searched the grass, aware that he was still watching her.

  “Did you lose something?” he asked.

  Just my dignity. She abandoned her search for the quarter. “It’s not a big deal.” With quick, frustrated movements, she began twisting her hair into a bun. If she didn’t get back out there soon, Smitty was going to smoke her on a spit.

  “You look pretty hot in that,” he said.

  She glanced sharply at him.

  His face was all polite concern, but there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. “The costume.” He gestured to the pear-shaped mess of feathers. “It’s really hot.”

  Was he teasing her? She ignored him and shook out the chicken hood, preparing to put it on. The sooner she escaped into the boiling sea of humanity, the better. It was one thing to feel ridiculous, but another thing entirely to have a man like him witness it.

  “But why a turkey?” he asked conversationally, leaning one shoulder against the tree trunk. “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s for a rescue shelter,” she said, securing her hair with an elastic band from her wrist. “They thought it would draw attention to help get donations.”

  “For turkeys.” He did not seem impressed.

  “No.” She threw him a look like he was the ridiculous one, then jammed on the feathered hood. “It’s a rescue facility for animals. Mostly cats and dogs. And I’m a chicken, if you must know.”

  “Ah.” He nodded solemnly, but she had the distinct feeling he was laughing at her. “I see that now.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out fast. “I know it’s dumb, all right? Just give me five seconds and I’ll be off to terrorize small children and leave you in peace.”

  He shrugged. “Take your time. I like chickens.” He looped his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans and glanced at the crumpled plate. “My sandwich was chicken.”

  She tried to snap the hood under her chin. The clasp wouldn’t catch. She tried again, muttering under her breath.

  He pushed off the tree and stepped closer. “Do you need some help?”

  “No,” she said quickly. If he had to help, her humiliation would be complete. Why couldn’t he just go away?

  He kept watching as she fumbled with the clasp under her chin. Spiky feathers poked her neck. Brushed against her nose. Scraped along her collarbone. She bit the insides of her cheeks, frustration mounting with every second.

  “Maybe you should consider an easier costume next time,” he said.

  She almost laughed. There wasn’t going to be a “next time.” Even if that meant she had to pack up a bindle stick and go moseying down the train tracks with her dog, Hank.

  A prickly feather jabbed her ear. She plucked the offending feather out, tossed it to the ground, and continued trying to snap the hood.

  “You could try a flamingo costume,” he said amiably.

  Another feather dug into her temple. She shoved it back. Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. Her arms itched. Everything itched.

  “Or an albatross,” he suggested. “You know, something that really says ‘cat and dog shelter.’”

  Kat slapped feathers away from her face. It was too much. She was fed up. With the job. The day. Her life.

  “Look.” She pierced him with a glare, fighting to steady her voice. “I get that this might be entertaining to you, but it’s no picnic for me. I took this gig because I needed the money. I’m supposed to be collecting donations and so far, all I’ve gathered is twenty-five cents from an old man who told me to shake my tail feathers. So just give me a break, okay? This is not my idea of a fun afternoon.”

  She turned her back on him, still grappling with the hood clasp. After several moments in which she considered ripping the hood off, dousing it with gasoline, and lighting it on fire with one of Smitty’s cigarettes, it finally snapped closed. Hallelujah! Now she could get on with her glorious day.

  “What is?” he asked.

  She spun to face him, plucking a downy feather from her mouth. “What is what?”

  He was studying her with those whiskey-colored eyes, his head cocked to one side like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. A dark lock of hair fell over his brow, and Kat was struck again by how attractive he was. Or, would be. If she were into those wild, wicked beast types. Which, she wasn’t.

  The butterflies in her stomach star
ted to say otherwise, but she drew out a mental flyswatter and shut them up, fast.

  “What is your idea of a fun afternoon?” he asked.

  Kat blinked. It had been a long time since anyone asked her opinion on something like that. There were so many ways to answer it. She’d rather be almost anywhere right now. Like the beach, or an outdoor music concert, or a sidewalk café. She’d rather be curled up with her dog watching old black-and-white movies, or browsing thrift stores for treasures nobody wanted. But none of these things would seem particularly interesting to someone who looked like he roamed the halls of enchanted castles and slayed dragons in his spare time.

  Instead she just shrugged. “I don’t know. Watching movies. Shopping.”

  His expression faded to a look of mild boredom. “Of course.”

  Kat bristled. His dismissive tone bothered her. He bothered her. She lifted her chin. “Oh, is that not exciting enough for you?”

  He lifted his hands. “Hey, whatever floats your boat. Not everyone has the same idea of fun, that’s all. You are who you are.”

  She pressed her lips together. He had no idea who she was. “Well, what’s your idea of a fun afternoon? Swimming with sharks? Jumping off cliffs in a wingsuit?”

  His lips twitched. He ran a hand through his hair and looked away.

  Kat couldn’t help noticing his muscular arms, and how broad his shoulders were in comparison to his lean hips. He was built like a professional athlete. Maybe he really did do extreme sports.

  “Nothing that complicated,” he said, turning back to her. A soft smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Sometimes I just like to hang out and enjoy lunch with friends, or . . .” His gaze flicked to her costume, then back up to her face. “A hot chick.”

  Kat rolled her eyes. She grabbed her basket and marched away, tail feathers bouncing with each step.