Wild Child: Happily Forever Collection, #3

By A.S. Green

Once more for old time's sake? Shouldn't be too hard.

Providing private security for a celebrity wedding is nothing new. That is...until I come face-to-face with Natalie O'Brien, the woman who chose someone else and kicked me to the curb.

Six years have done nothing to tame her. She's still a red-headed beauty with a sharp tongue and nerves of steel who could seriously knock me off my game.

When my assistant bails, Natalie jumps at the chance to get off her tiny island. Now we're stuck, criss-crossing the country in my SUV, with her tantalizing scent filling the cab and her smart mouth making me want her more than I ever have.

I survived a tour in Afghanistan, so working with Natalie should be a breeze. But after all this time apart, she makes me hope for more than I deserve.

And hope is a dangerous thing.

I'm not sure I'll be able to breathe if she walks out that door again.

Contains spicy, intimate scenes. Scroll up to grab your copy!

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.S. Green
• Release date: Sep 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223696452

Book preview

1

JACKSON SPARKE

Late August

New Porte, Minnesota

Lake Superior

---

I’ve got to be crazy, putting my life in the hands of strangers. The two cars that were ahead of me in line are now onboard the ferry. Some guy in a blue uniform shirt is curling his fingers at me. It's my turn, but I don't take my foot off the brake. Yeah, I've done my research, buddy.

The Little Bear Island ferry weighs one hundred tons, even without the dozen or so cars it can carry. The island crossing is two-point-five miles. Lake Superior is over thirteen hundred feet deep. Not to mention, thirty-nine degrees if I get down a couple hundred feet.

Don't think about the water, Jax.

Shut up, Charlie. Always with his incessant voice in my head. It’s been like this ever since Afghanistan, and I don’t need it today.

The ferry guy isn't curling his fingers at me anymore. Now he's making a full scooping motion with his arm. I take my foot off the brake and let my Escalade (not to mention a quarter million dollars worth of equipment) roll up the ramp and onto this iron death barge. It barely looks seaworthy.

Don't think about the water.

Life is just subtraction, subtraction, subtraction, asshole. I damn well better think about the water.

Christ, I should have never taken this job. If I wasn't already scheduled for a trip to the Midwest, I would have delegated it to Murray. Still should have. I wipe the sweat off my upper lip.

The guy who's directing me onto the ferry points left, and I turn my wheel, inching forward. He's packing us on here like sardines. Keep coming, keep coming, keep coming. He flexes his hands. Stop! I hit the brake hard.

He slaps his palms down on the hood of my car, then squeezes along the rail to come take my ticket. My window is already down. It’s always down. Best to be prepared for a quick escape.

First timer? he asks.

Yeah.

He nods. What brings you to the island?

I'm guessing he's been instructed to ask that question of everyone who makes the crossing today, particularly those cars that don’t have a kayak or camping gear strapped to their roof.

Wedding.

On the list? He clenches the edge of my open window frame and takes on a protective air. I almost expect him to say, You. Shall. Not. Pass.

Jackson Sparke. Sparke Investigations and Security. Some of my team should have arrived a few hours ago.

The guy narrows his eyes at me. Still going to have to see some credentials. We're expecting a lot of gate crashers.

I approve of his suspicion—a first line of defense is always appreciated—and hand him my card. Then I take off my sunglasses and toss them on the dash.

I'm supposed to meet the wedding planner at the landing, I say. Her name’s Katherine... I can’t recall her last name so I shuffle through a file folder, looking for the email I printed off.

The guy reaches through my open window to shake my hand, so apparently I’ve said enough to convince him. I’m Bennet. Katherine’s husband. You must be the professional badass I hear the bride's been going on and on about.

I grimace at his description, but he looks like he had a lot of fun repeating it.

He releases my hand, then he bends over and folds his forearms so they're resting on my window frame. He looks down the side of my Escalade, appraising it. You drive all the way here from New York? Long haul.

I get his interest. A guy like him: married, likely with kids; steady job; small town. Probably never lived anywhere else but this tiny island. He's all about setting down roots and staying put, and I'm guessing it's in his genes. Guys like him come from guys like him.

Guys like me on the other hand…

The late morning sun glints off my side mirror, and I catch sight of another crew member just as he flips the thick lines off the iron cleats, casting us from the pier. There's a sudden groaning noise as the engines throttle up. Water churns. And then, slowly, we inch away from the dock. My stomach turns.

I take a little comfort in the fact that my life insurance policy is paid up. If I go down, my business is named as the beneficiary. That'll be a nice influx of cash. Murray can collect on the personal property insurance, too. He'll probably use the money for that employee retreat he's always going on about.

Twenty minutes to cross? I ask, hoping the article I read had overexaggerated.

On the nose. He glances up at something or someone in the bridge, then he gets back to business. All right. Once we dock, everyone else will be directed to the right. Don't follow them to the main street right away. Head straight forward, up to the ticket booth. Katherine won't be there, but her assistant will. Name's Natalie. She's agreed to meet you and get you where you need to go.

I give him a chin nod and say thanks. He pushes off my door and gets back to work. His feet are steady under him as he moves through the cars to collect the rest of the tickets, even when the ferry lurches and breaks through the waves.

I distract my mind from our future sinking by flipping to the next sheet of loose paper in my folder. The security detail for tonight is for a celebrity wedding. The couple wanted to be off the grid when they got hitched, no paparazzi, no Hollywood Reporter.

I glance up and judge the distance that still extends between the ferry and the island. Looks like mission accomplished for getting off the grid. I don't know how they picked this place, but Little Bear Island has got to be the tiniest, most unremarkable place in the continental U.S. Not even Google turns up anything more than a map, a short essay on the history of the lighthouse, and a couple photos of record-breaking fish.

According to the notes I received from the party planner, she's arranged for the wedding and reception to take place at one location on the island, which helps with logistics, plus the spot is high on a hill, surrounded by trees, and can only be reached by a single dirt road. Given all the natural barriers, I only sent a team of four on ahead of me. They should have the surveillance cameras set up by now.

By the time I look up from my notes, the island has come into closer view. A half dozen seagulls are squawking and circling a fishing boat headed into the marina. Music pumps off someone's lakeside deck. There's the smell of burgers cooking on a grill.

The ferry engines shift downward, and we slow to a crawl. It occurs to me that it will be dark when I make the crossing tonight. I flick the interior cab lights to make sure they work.

My chest relaxes when the bulbs light. Come tomorrow, I'll be out of here. Fat paycheck in my pocket. Two more jobs on the road, then back to New York.

Easy.

2

NATALIE O’BRIEN

Little Bear Island

Lake Superior

---

Captain Doyle’s coffee is a tragedy of epic proportion. I can't figure out if it's his own special poison, or if it's the Styrofoam cup he serves it in. Right now he's sitting opposite me at the tiny table inside the shack that serves as the island's ferry office. He's going through yesterday's passenger receipts with his arthritic fingers and spitting tobacco into an empty cup. So gross.

I distract myself by giving Kate and Bennet’s new puppy, Delilah—another Newfoundland—a little scratch behind the ears. I take care of her twice a week so she’s used to me, and it’s nice that Doyle doesn’t mind having her in the ferry office while Bennet’s on his shift.

She adjusts in my lap, kneading my thighs with her black paws as she circles.

Who’s the good girl? Are you a good girl? I kiss the top of her head, wishing I could stay and play, but I’m here to help Kate. Her fledgling party-planning business has done great locally since she started it a year ago, but now she's gone and landed her first high-profile gig, thanks to Bennet's music contacts in Nashville. She's all calm and businesslike on the outside, but I know the girl is freaking on the inside. She doesn't think she's ready. I know that she is.

I'm serving as hostess for the reception, but I also told her I'd meet the security folks the bride has hired and show them where to go. The head of the agency is the last to arrive and supposedly crossing now.

Delilah jumps down, and I take another nose-wrinkling swig of coffee. I cross my legs and sense how my miniskirt has gotten a little tighter since last summer. It's too rock-and-roll to toss in the Goodwill bin. I figure all I need to do is give up nachos and beer for a couple weeks, and it should fit fine. I'll get right on that once summer is over.

I glance up at the clock. Nearly eleven bells. Kate's probably fit to be tied.

The bride and groom arrived late last night, and Kate was so nervous she made me come with her to the final planning meeting. Seriously, being in the presence of actual famous people is a little intimidating, and usually nothing rattles me. That’s why Kate insisted I come along.

But—good lord—when someone like me (who's barely left the island in all my twenty-four years) has to watch a man I've only seen on the big screen lay a big, fat, wet one on a woman I've only seen on an album cover…I mean, come on. I rattled like a maraca!

I haven't been kissed like that in a long, long time. Six years, to be exact. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Elise hadn’t got pregnant. If I’d stayed out on the road, would I still be getting kissed like that? The way that man made my head spin and my body practically levitate…

A lump rises in my throat and lodges there. As often as the memories come to me, you’d think I’d be better at pushing them down.

Jesus, Nat. Did you swallow a bug? Doyle sounds partly alarmed, partly disgusted.

I look up. What?

That look on your face, he says, scowling at me.

Oh. Sorry. Just remembering something. Yeah, like five solid weeks with the man who had captured my heart, the only man who would ever have my heart. (Not to mention, the man who forgot all about me as soon as I was out of sight, out of mind.) The happy-sad memories always hit me at the most inopportune times.

Doyle grunts, then goes back to his receipts.

The grinding sound of an engine causes me to turn my head toward the grimy office window. Doyle checks his watch. The ferry's on time. It's always on time. The women on Little Bear joke that a late ferry is as unsettling as a late period.

A few minutes later, the ferry makes its groaning, squealing arrival and docks. I don't get up from my chair right away. It'll take a few minutes for Bennet and the rest of the crew to tie it off and then for the wide ramp to lower for the cars to disembark.

I lean back in my chair and watch the whole routine through the window. Bennet is directing the cars off the ferry. He points them to the right, but he stops a shiny black SUV with tinted windows. Then he points to the ferry office.

I can't see the driver, but his hand sticks out of his window and gives Bennet a two-fingered salute.

Doyle stands. Here comes your last security guard.

"I don't kno-w, I say, dragging out the last word and mocking the suspicion I would have normally expected of Doyle. Could be a creepy pervert with those tinted windows."

Doyle’s eyes cut from the SUV to me. You watch too much television.

He’s not wrong. I live on Little Bear Island. Hardly the entertainment mecca of the Midwest.

And what are you talking about? he says, suddenly realizing what I’ve said. "I have tinted windows, and I'm not creepy."

I raise my eyebrows at him. Weren't you the one dressed as a clown at this year's Summer Fest? I knew Kate’s circus theme was a risk; every kid on this island is terrified of you.

Well, he says, placing his hands wide on the table and leaning toward me. If Katherine wants to get rid of any gawkin' kiddies at this fancy shin-dig she's throwin' tonight…or if she wants someone to make balloon animals for that matter…you know where to find me.

I can't tell if he's kidding. I've lived here my whole life, and I swear I will never get a steady bead on Doyle. He pushes off the table and goes to stand in the doorway.

Delilah wags her tail so hard she stumbles sideways, trips over her oversized paws, then does a nose-plant on the floor. When I laugh, she tips her head up, and I swear she looks embarrassed.

Aw, honey, I tell her, scooping her up. I glance toward the doorway and watch the SUV approach. Just keep trying, baby. Life can be good. I kiss the top of her head. If you let it.

3

JACKSON

---

Idrive off the ferry, making a slow crunching sound through the gravel landing before stopping in front of a little red shack.

An old man approaches my window. Can I help you?

I'm supposed to meet someone here, I tell him. She’s supposed to get me up to the wedding site.

The old man makes a hawking noise, then spits tobacco on the ground. He yells over his shoulder, Nat!

A female voice calls out from inside the shadowed doorway. Is it the security dude or a pervert? My head jerks toward the sound, and something niggles at my brain.

Dunno, the man says, his eyes cutting to me. Can you make a poodle outta a balloon?

I turn my attention back to him. Negative. Fuck, I miss New York.

He's security, the man yells back to the woman, who still hasn’t come outside.

Are you sure you don't want to see my credentials? I ask. He needs to get used to asking for them. At least for the next twenty-four hours.

He waves me off like he couldn't care less. Rookie send you over to us? he asks.

Excuse me? I hand him my card, and he pockets it without even looking.

Guy on the ferry. He tell you to come to the office to find your escort? The old guy narrows his eyes, and his nostrils flare, exposing some bristly gray hairs.

He must be talking about the party planner’s husband, though the guy didn’t strike me as much of a rookie. That’s right.

The old man gives me a grunt of affirmation. Rookie is good enough credentials for me. Then he looks over his shoulder toward the shack. Nat! Get your ass out here.

Just putting Delilah in her crate. Hold on to your panties, Doyle.

That voice. The niggling at my brain now feels like a kick in the gut. But why?

I flip up the sun visor as a stunning redhead emerges from the doorway. She’s dressed in a Toxic Tea concert T-shirt and tons of silver bracelets. Her black miniskirt is stretched tight across her tanned thighs. Fuck. She used to be exactly my type. Back when I had one, that is. Totally rock-and-roll. Like that ’80s redheaded chick from the White Snake video.

The old man goes inside while she crosses in front of my car. A gust of wind blows her long red curls across her face, and she quickly piles the heavy mass onto the top of her head, securing it with an elastic she pulls from her wrist.

I toss my paperwork onto the dash before she jumps in. She opens the door and hops onto the seat, giving it a little bounce and bringing with her a faintly floral scent.

Good morning. I say.

She turns toward me with a welcoming smile. Fucking great mouth. A smile like that once damn-near stopped my h— Oh, shit. Oh, fuck no. Impossible.

I knew Little Bear Island had sounded familiar. I thought maybe I’d seen it featured on a travel show or something. But no. Now I remember where I first heard the name. On the lips of Natalie-Rip-Your-Heart-Out-O’Brien. The one woman besides Gram who ever really mattered to me.

Gone is the bright blue hair and Poindexter glasses she wore back when I thought she was mine. I can tell there’s more meat on her bones, too, which (fuck me) only makes her look more amazing.

I might not have recognized her so quickly if she hadn’t smiled. Shit, that smile. She used that same fucking smile on me mere seconds before she threw me away––us away.

Well, I’ll be damned if I’m going to give her the satisfaction of seeing my pain. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…

The smile has dropped off her face by now—small mercy.

I don’t think about what that might mean because I’m too far into self-preservation mode. It might make me a coward, it might make me a huge dick, but I reach out my hand and give her the best blank look I can manage. Then I force my mouth to form the words I hope will burn her as badly as she burned me.

Jackson Sparke. Pleased to meet you.

4

NATALIE

---

Istare at him while all the blood drains from my head. Holy shit! I’ve done it. I’ve really done it. I’ve always known it was a possibility. That a person could watch so much SyFy channel that they’d develop some kind of extrasensory skills.

The only thing is, which skills? Is this like on Ghost Hunters, and I’m seeing a ghost? Or have I developed telekinesis, and I can now summon things using only the power of my mind?

He clears his throat, and his eyebrows pull together. He looks real. Not a ghost. Telekinesis, then, but instead of bending spoons I’m drawing actual human beings to me. Not five minutes ago I was remembering his kiss, and now my mind powers have brought him to my island! The one man I have never, ever gotten over, no matter how hard I've tried.

Miss?

His voice pulls me out of my head. I blink once. Did he seriously just call me ‘miss’? Wait. Did he seriously just introduce himself to me? Why is he holding his hand out like he wants me to shake it?

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. This isn’t about kinetic abilities or seeing ghosts. It’s not even about watching too much TV. My man-who-got-away is here because he’s the head of the security team.

And he doesn’t even recognize me.

Is everything all right? He sounds expectant, like he’s trying to coax me into saying something, but I’m too dumbfounded to speak.

I take in everything about him. All at once. And then piece by piece. The thick, dark-blond hair that had once brushed his shoulders but is now cut short; the new neatly trimmed beard that graces his strong jaw; the same sleepy gray eyes that turn down at the corners; those full bitable lips.

His leather jacket. Oh God. I always loved that jacket. I fell in love with him in that jacket. The years have filled it out with at least twenty more pounds of muscle. God, he must be like, what, thirty now?

This cannot be happening. He has absolutely no fucking clue who I am, and now I’ve got two fucked-up choices: either shamelessly beg him to remember me—a.k.a. some apparently forgettable chick he had a meaningless fling with six years ago—or fake my own amnesia just to save whatever morsel of pride I have left.

Is there really any choice here?

I slip my hand against his, and my heart accelerates while my eyes blink back tears. He just needs an extra second. It'll come to him. He'll remember.

Nice to meet you, I say.

A flash of emotion slices across his face, and he lets go of my hand like its burned him.

Jesus, how many times have I caught myself wondering if this gorgeous man had been a dream? Of course, he wasn't a dream. I knew that. As much as I do enjoy my rich fantasy life, no one loses her virginity to a dream. That's not a real thing, right?

Is what not a real thing? he asks.

Crap. Did I say that out loud? Heat shoots up the back of my neck.

You did.

This isn't a dream. My gaze drops to his ridiculously long legs, remembering the sight of them walking down the road with his thumb out to hitch a ride, then running up alongside Aaron’s van. Where are you guys headed?

A couple weeks later those same long legs were tangled with mine as we rode each other hard in a stranger's basement bedroom. God, he was incredible.

His forehead furrows. He’s so serious. Impatient. So. His voice is thick and gravelly. I was told you’d direct me to the event center?

How can he not remember me? Sure, I was still wearing glasses and my hair was dyed bright blue back then…annnd maybe I’ve put on twenty pounds, but they’re the good kind of pounds, and they’ve mostly landed in all the right spots.

Shouldn’t he be able to see past all the changes in me? He's as stomach-clenchingly beautiful as I remembered. I'm glad my memory hasn't exaggerated the details over time. And then I wish it had so I could be disappointed.

God, this is torture. He once called me unforgettable, but apparently I was just one of many fake-twenty-four-year-olds whose cherry he popped that summer. No one of significance.

Now here I am, six years later (this time a legit twenty-four), and I'm exactly the same person I was back then, doing exactly the same thing: helping out at the post office, going wherever I'm needed, experiencing the world one Netflix movie at a time, while he's…he's...

Is something wrong? There’s a slight curl to his lip, as if he’s judging me.

What an ass! He thinks he’s better than us small-town island folks? If this is the kind of person he turned out to be, I dodged a huge bullet. Huge!

Why would anything be wrong, Mr. Sparke? I try to be polite. Kate would want me to be polite. But my question comes out sarcastic with a dollop of the please-kill-me-nows.

I have no idea. He narrows his eyes at me. Those eyes. I know exactly what they look like at the moment when he comes. Shit. Shit, shit, shit!

I'm sorry. He slips on his mirrored sunglasses, putting a buffer between us. But I've got a lot of work to do. Maybe we could get going?

I grit my teeth. Yeah. I'm busy, too. Lots to get done.

Would you rather just tell me how to get there? I’m sure I could find my way.

No, I say, but only because I promised Kate I'd be his escort. I would never let her down. Let's get this over with.

I almost think I see him flinch, but then his face slips into a blank mask. So blank it makes me want to scream.

I don’t, of course. Instead, I dig my fingernails into my seat while he drives to the top of the small hill that leads from the ferry to the main street, I point left, then right when he's supposed to make his turns, but I don't say a word.

The road climbs and winds through the woods, following the bluff toward Paddy's bar, the church, and then the cemetery. We should stop here because, seriously, I want to die. God. My skin has never felt so shivery and exposed. And I live in freakin’ Minnesota! This is so much worse than that dream where I’ve gone to school naked.

Everything okay over there? Jax asks, completely oblivious.

Peachy.

Fantastic.

Is my life really so boring that I created a romantic-fantasy past out of nothing? What is wrong with me? Fuck. What we had... It was only five weeks out of our lives. Looking the way he does, he’s probably had plenty of girls to dull his memory of me.

Not that I’ve been celibate. Close, but not entirely.