Twisted Up (Taking Chances #1) - Erin Nicholas Page 0,1

a great first impression on the Bronsons. It was, after all, where their kids would go to school, where they would go to church, where they would shop and socialize. So the town had been busy with everything from installing new awnings on the businesses on Main, to putting together welcome baskets, to getting playdates arranged for the kids while their parents were in meetings.

“It’s fine,” Avery assured Stacey. “It will come together.”

It always came together. That was one thing she really loved about Chance.

“Okay, I’ll head into the kitchen and make sure things are on track.”

Avery went back to the centerpieces and had just placed the last one in the middle of the last table and was straightening the streamers when Stacey again came rushing up.

“Avery!”

She looked up and frowned at Stacey’s wide eyes and breathlessness. “Everything okay?”

Was there a shortage of salad dressing? Were the potatoes undercooked?

“Jake’s here.”

Jake.

She sighed.

God, for five minutes she’d forgotten about him.

Or had stopped wondering where he was and what he was doing, anyway. Now he was front and center in her consciousness again. Dammit. It was her fault this was big news. But she’d wanted to be warned, not reminded every ten seconds. “The girls told me.”

“No. I mean, he’s here.”

Avery straightened quickly. “Here?”

“Here.”

Avery felt her heart begin pounding, and she suddenly felt a little breathless herself. She pressed her hand to her chest. Oh, crap. She wasn’t ready after all. “Like here at the school?”

She pivoted quickly to look around, but she forgot she was holding the streamer. It moved with her, sliding over the tablecloth . . . and tipping over the mason jar and candle in the process. Avery reached to right the jar, but not before the flame touched the tablecloth.

Suddenly the entire middle of the table was on fire.

“Avery!” Stacey exclaimed.

“Dammit!” Avery whipped the cloth to the floor and reached for the water bottle she’d set on the edge of the next table. It was empty. “Dammit!”

She was the fire chief. She could not be responsible for burning down the school. Avery pivoted to run for the kitchen and the fire extinguisher they kept inside the door.

But she ran right into a solid chest.

Even in that split second and before her mind really engaged, her body recognized it was pressed up against Jake Mitchell. Awareness flooded her system, and she felt like she’d just downed five cups of espresso—jumpy, with more energy than her body could contain.

He was here, all right.

She quickly stepped back and opened her mouth, with no idea what to say.

Jake said nothing, either. But he raised the extinguisher he’d been holding at his side.

She couldn’t deal with two disasters at once, so she grabbed the extinguisher, pointed it at the tablecloth, and sprayed. A moment later, the fire was out.

She stood staring at the white cloth with the huge black hole in it, the confetti scattered everywhere, the white foam . . . and knew she’d still rather be looking at that, and worrying about clearing the smoke smell from the room before the party started, than turning around and looking at Jake.

But she was going to have to turn around. She knew that he’d stand there—likely smirking—until she did.

“It’s not every day that you get to hand an extinguisher to the fire chief to put out a fire that she started.”

Of course he’d bring that up. Jake Mitchell was good-looking, charming, sexy, funny, and certainly not a gentleman in any way.

She pasted on a smile and turned. “Hi, Jake.”

God, he looked good. He’d dressed up for the reunion. He wore black pants and a deep-blue dress shirt, a few shades darker than the royal blue of their school colors. His tie was a mix of geometric shapes in black, gray, and blue. The blue brought out the deep-sapphire color of his eyes—it sounded cheesy even in her mind.

Avery struggled to maintain her composure. She hadn’t seen him in two months. Two months and six days.

She was also ticked she knew that.

For nine years they’d had a no-contact-no-conversation rule. It had been a good rule. During those nine years, she hadn’t run into doors because she’d been distracted by looking around for him, she hadn’t dreamed about him at night, and she definitely hadn’t lit anything on fire.

Nine good years.

Then a year ago—on June 14, to be exact—Chance, Nebraska, had been hit by an EF4-level tornado.

And Avery had been hit by the realization that for nine years, she’d been lying to herself about not