Trust Me

By Maxine Davis

Grace O'Malley resigned her accounting job in North Carolina after turning in her boss for embezzlement.  She packed her tiny travel trailer to camp her way to her hometown outside Atlanta. After a few weeks, she stops on the banks of a big stream in Laurel Mountain, Georgia not knowing the land belongs to Irishman, Ethan Donovan. He starts to kick her off his property before he decides he really likes this girl.

After agreeing to temporarily help Ethan's friend, Jack, with his company's record keeping, she tells Jack about her boss.

When he goes online to see if her boss was convicted, the news bulletin says Grace is the accused embezzler.
Will Ethan trust her or will she go to prison?
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maxine Davis
• Release date: Dec 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733451017

Book preview

Chapter 1

C o-co-cold ! Grace O’Malley had barely jumped in the river before she began to shiver. She planted her feet and stood up. What happened? It’s been warm for days. The water shu-should be, too.

Grace steadied herself in the current, rubbing soap on a rag and washing in record-setting time. With a deep breath, she submerged to rinse off, breaking the surface in seconds. She splashed toward shore, spitting water and shoving her hair away from her face. Near the edge, she slipped on a rock and stumbled back into the icy water. Her arms fought the current before she got her feet under her.

Yikes! She came up sputtering and arms flailing, grabbing a low-hanging tree branch. Grace climbed from the water, thankful not to feel any pain in her slightly twisted ankle. A little huffing and puffing later, she located her pile of belongings and gave her body a swipe with the towel before jerking on her flannel shirt.

Jeez. Her teeth chattered despite standing in the warm sun. She crammed a hotel-size bar of soap and washrag in the bag and reached for her underwear. Icy droplets of water from her hair landed on her shoulders and trickled down her back, sending shivers rippling across her skin.

Where . . .?

Frantically pushing branches aside, she searched for the missing piece of silk underpants, but her chill bumps forced her to jerk on mid-thigh shorts. Shit. I didn’t even bring my long pants.

The sooner she got back and built a campfire, the sooner she’d get warm—and the sooner she’d be able to cook dinner. She closed her eyes while buttoning her shirt and savored the thought of fresh trout cooked over an open fire. Nothing better.

She pulled her stringer from the water, watching the single fish dance on the end. As she reached for her pole, the tip dipped into the water and the line began to unwind. Dropping the stringer on the grass, she grabbed the pole to reel in her unexpected catch.

Come on, fish, join me for dinner, he begged aloud. Ethan Donovan moved his fishing pole one last time as he plopped back down on the leaf-covered ground. He shrugged out of his fleece-lined jacket that had felt good before the sun came up and settled against a tree to enjoy the cool breeze. He fidgeted with his fishing rod, laid it on the ground and held it in place with his foot, taking a minute to stretch his back.

A movement in the leaves alerted him, but he quickly settled as his German shepherd returned from a romp in the woods. From habit, he lifted a hand to scratch behind Gunner’s ears when the dog brushed against his arm and then lay down beside him. He buried his hand in the sleek black and tan fur of the most loyal friend he’d ever had and took a loud, deep breath.

Gunner, instead of gallivanting in the woods, I needed you to help me out fishing. No fish, no dinner, and you know I really don’t wanna join Peter and Betsy for dinner. He drew another deep breath and released it in a huff. "We both know one of her friends will accidentally show up. They’ll expect me to be all smiles and, of course, ask her out. Don’t wanna. Ain’t gonna. He shook his head and picked up the fishing pole. You wouldn’t let me down if you had to go to dinner with ’em."

Gunner yawned and laid his head on his paws.

Reeling in the line with another empty hook was not what he called a good day fishing. Well, you can’t catch ’em all day, every day. He looked at the attentive dog. When he failed to comment, Ethan picked up his insulated coffee cup and brought it to his lips, turning it up for one last swallow. Nothing. He shook it, but there was no sloshing. Of course, it’s empty. Nothing was going according to plan. Standing, he brushed Gunner’s head. Let’s go. I know I have a can of SpaghettiOs or something back at the house.

Grace stopped reeling in her fish and listened. Someone or something was in the woods.

Damn. She put her foot on the reel as she reached in her tackle box for the small gun and quickly shoved it into her pants pocket, then reached for the rod to reel in the trout.

She unhooked the fish before looking up as six feet of gorgeous male with sun-streaked brown hair, a stubble of beard, and large hands stepped into the clearing. His tight T-shirt showed rock-hard muscles. She fought the urge to whistle. He looked like a Scottish warrior. Her heart thumped. Logically, he could also be a lunatic that lived in the trees, but, nah, she didn’t think so.

A big German shepherd pushed through the underbrush directly in front of the man

and bounded halfway to her before she and the man both spoke.

Call your dog!

Gunner, halt. The dog skidded to a stop.

She held the fish by its bottom lip in her left hand, let the pole drop from her right, and reached into her pocket to grip her gun. The man’s voice softened, but it was obvious he had the dog under control.

Gunner, down. The dog lay down as the man took a step forward. Grace stiffened, maintaining a wary focus on them both as she spoke. Please, stay back.

She watched him glancing at her hand in her pocket.

He held both hands out to his sides, the tackle box and pole dangling like ornaments from a Christmas tree limb as he spoke. No need to worry. Actually, I was fishing down the way and saw something move over here when we were going home.

She focused on his eyes as they took in every inch of her five-foot-eight frame.

He paused for a moment to stare at at her dripping wet hair. I bet that water’s, um, cold.

Shivers raced down her spine—a reaction that had nothing to do with the temperature of her former bath water.

It was probably me you heard moving around. I’ve been fishing and now I’ve leaving. Her eyes narrowed and her chin jutted out, You can, too.

He lowered his arms. But I live here.

Grace looked around. On the riverbank? I don’t think so.

Well, my place is a little ways through those trees. This is private property. To that post over there. He nodded his head to the left, indicating where the boundary marker was driven into the ground.

Her chin lowered as she drew her shoulders back. Oh. I wasn’t trying to land-grab. I just wanted trout for dinner. I guess you did, too. She nodded toward his fishing tackle. His gaze dropped to the fish on her line and the one she still held.

He cleared his throat. I decided to quit, maybe have Italian for dinner.

Quit? Right. Another man who can’t handle being bested. Well, that’s his problem, not mine, but I really should share the fish. It’s the least I can do for using his land.

She held out the stringer. Why don’t you take this fish? One is plenty for me. I only catch what I can eat. I didn’t intend to catch this one. She raised her hand still holding the surprise catch. It just sort of jumped on my line. You know how that is. You’re welcome to it.

He shook his head. Oh, no. I catch ’em all the time. You cook it and save it for a meal tomorrow.

She shrugged and added the second fish to her stringer. Fine. Anything else before I move off the property?

No. He smiled. Listen, I spoke a little quick. It’s okay that you fish here. Really. Or jump in the water. When her eyes narrowed, his smile vanished.

Really? Thanks. Grace grabbed her gear and turned, traveling a few steps before glancing back to be sure he hadn’t followed her. He stood in the same spot. She strode a few more feet before stepping behind the thick growth of trees and high weeds. Crouching low, she shamelessly spied on the duo through a two-inch gap. The man had stopped by a tree and looked back. The dog—he’d called it Gunner—lagged behind.

Gunner, come. The dog immediately turned and trotted toward him. He took two steps to meet the dog. Halt. The dog stopped. What’s in your mouth? Ethan put out his hand. Leave it, Gunner.

The dog dropped something in his hand. A couple of words that echoed across the short distance would have been more appropriate in a men’s locker room.

Gunner? Where did you find this?

She couldn’t hear when he murmured to Gunner before he ruffled the fur around the dog’s ears, but when he laughed out loud, her legs went weak. He was an Adonis in the flesh.

With a smile the size of Texas, he stuffed whatever he’d taken from the dog into his pocket.

Chapter 2

Grace watched him until he was out of sight, shaking her head from side to side and mocking him. ‘I’ve been fishing.’ Ha. Beginner. I was hardly trying and I caught two. She puffed her chest out while bringing her chin down and using a deep voice, ‘I live here.’ Well, bully for you. she muttered, checking to see that she had everything. Oh, Lord, isn’t that why Robert-the-Jerk and I broke up a month ago? Men. Jerks. All of ’em.

She sprinted back to her trailer, pausing only a moment to glance behind her and listen to be sure the gorgeous potential maniac hadn’t followed her. Breathing hard, she got out her father’s rifle, a clean pan, and a fishing knife before she headed up the river and crouched behind a rock to clean both fish before she rinsed the knife and headed back.

At camp, she soon had two gorgeous trout sizzling on the cooker outside her trailer. She patted her rumbling stomach. This will be a meal fit for a king. Or queen.

Every few minutes, she picked up binoculars and searched the woods to assure herself she was alone. The heavenly aroma rising up from the pan had her stomach growling again. She soon put one fish on a plate and one in tin foil for later before quickly cleaning the pan. Once inside the trailer, she pulled the door shut and locked it, then racked her rifle and stowed the rest of her gear.

Grace raised the small table, set her plate and glass of wine down, and plopped onto the seat. Settled, she pinched off a tiny morsel of fish and popped it in her mouth. Eyes closed, she savored not only one of the best meals known to man, but also fond memories of time spent camping and fishing with her father.

She stopped and placed a hand over her throbbing heart—the ache that comes when you still miss someone each day. With a mental shake, she uncovered the plastic container of leftover corn and peppers and dug in.

This is heaven. A soft chuckle escaped. Enjoy your Italian meal, Mr. Couldn’t-catch-a-fish.

Her thoughts slid to Robert again. Always competing—and pointing out any areas where he excelled. You