The Next Little Thing (Jackson Falls #4)

The Next

Little Thing

A Jackson
Falls “Mini”

25,000-word Novella

(Book 3.5)

Laurie
Breton

c. 2013 by
Laurie Breton

All Rights
Reserved.

 
Books in the
Jackson Falls Series

COMING
HOME
(Book 1)

SLEEPING
WITH THE ENEMY
(Book 2)

DAYS
LIKE THIS
(Book 3)

THE NEXT
LITTLE THING
(Book 3.5)

And coming
in late 2013:

REDEMPTION
ROAD
(Book 4)

 Casey

May, 1992

Portland
International Jetport

Portland,
Maine

Rob's plane was late.

Hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, Casey Fiore MacKenzie
slumped on her tailbone in a rock-hard chair in the airport waiting area and
balefully contemplated her swollen ankles. She'd reluctantly given up her
little black high heel boots a couple of months ago in favor of running shoes
with good arch support. This far along in the pregnancy, her center of gravity
had shifted, and the last thing she needed was to fall on her rump and go into
labor early.

But she was ready for it to be over. The swollen ankles, the
aching back, the gargantuan appetite, the bipolar mood swings. The beach-ball
belly that other people—strangers, for the love of God!—thought it perfectly
acceptable to pat, rub, fondle, as though she were some exotic animal on
display at the zoo.

While she watched, the aforementioned belly bulged with an arm, a
leg, possibly a foot. Baby MacKenzie had been unusually active all morning.
Maybe she knew her daddy was on his way home. More likely, she simply took
great pleasure in tormenting her mother.

This would be Rob's last trip before the baby came. Over the past
few months, he'd spent a lot of time on the West Coast, networking, schmoozing,
calling in markers as they worked to build this new venture of theirs, Two
Dreamers Records, one brick at a time.

He hated the schmoozing, so contrary to his nature. There were few
men more straightforward or disingenuous than her husband. Maybe it was that
very disingenuousness that made people listen when he spoke. He might not like
schmoozing, but if the situation warranted, Rob MacKenzie could, to use a
well-worn cliché, sell a refrigerator to an Eskimo.

But there'd be no more traveling for a while. When she'd given
birth to Katie a dozen years ago, Danny had been in London, leaving her to face
childbirth alone in Los Angeles. Husband Number Two had no intention of leaving
her high and dry like that. Nothing would keep Rob MacKenzie from experiencing
the birth of their child. Four weeks away from her due date, and with her
history of early delivery, Rob would be staying put for the foreseeable future.

Over the public address system, a mellifluous female voice
announced the arrival of his flight. Clutching the cracked and ancient leather
bomber jacket her husband would part with only when they pried it from his
cold, dead fingers, Casey struggled to sit upright, planting both feet firmly
on the floor and inching her backbone upward until gravity allowed her to hoist
herself aloft. Although it was early May, the raw wind that had sent her
scurrying back indoors for her wool dress coat felt more like mid-March. Winter
was reluctant to release its hold on Northern New England, and Rob had left for
sunny L.A. without a coat, because it just wasn't in her free-spirited husband's
makeup to think about things like that.

The first passengers began trickling in. Rob strode into view,
lanky legs rapidly covering ground. Dressed in jeans and a blue Oxford shirt
with the cuffs rolled up, he carried a single backpack that bounced in time
with his distinctive, loose-jointed stride. It struck her, that inexplicable
Thing that happened inside her every time he walked into a room. Beginning in
the vicinity of her heart, it spread like warm honey to her pelvis, her
breasts, and then to her extremities. Eight months pregnant, she still wanted
to lap him up like a cat with a bowl of cream. For her entire adult life, she'd
thought she understood all the facets of love between a man and a woman. After
all, she'd spent thirteen years as Danny Fiore's wife, and they'd loved each
other with an unhealthy obsession. But what she felt for Rob—this thing that
kept growing, day after day, month after month—made her feelings for Danny seem
like a dress rehearsal.

They made eye contact, and he headed in her direction. Five days
he'd been gone, five days that felt like years. She hated it when he was away,
missed the back-and-forth banter between two like-minded individuals, hated
sleeping alone, missed the comfort of that long, lean body next to hers at
night. She tolerated it because she was a practical woman and not a whiner, and
because his trips were a necessity. But that didn't mean she had to like them.

He reached her, said, "Hey," and leaned in to give her a
kiss. His mouth was soft against hers, his breath warm on her face. Clutching
fistfuls of his shirt, she kissed him back, inhaling his scent, his very
essence. They ended the kiss too soon, both of them hyper-aware of the fact
that in spite of their attempt to live a quiet rural existence far from the
madding crowd of Los Angeles, they still possessed an occasionally disarming
celebrity status. Hers by virtue of having spent a baker's dozen years married
to one of the biggest rock stars in the known universe. His by virtue of having
been Danny's bandmate and lead guitarist. Both of them by virtue of all those
hit records they'd co-written and co-produced for her late husband.

People knew who they were. And although the Portland International
Jetport wasn't exactly rife with paparazzi, they still tried to maintain
discretion in public. Neither of them wanted to become a lurid headline on the
front page of the
National Enquirer
.

He lovingly fingered the leather jacket she held and said,
"What a woman. You brought me my coat."

"It's cold out there, Flash. I don't want you freezing to
death. Somebody has to take care of you. God knows you're not capable of doing
it for yourself."

He gave her that grin, the one that always turned her inside out.
"Have I ever mentioned what a great little wife you are? I think I'll keep
you."

She raised a single eyebrow. "Great little wife? Keep that
up, MacKenzie, and you'll be sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable
future."

"Hah. Like that'll ever happen." He took the jacket from
her, shrugged it on, and looped an arm through hers. "Let's get out of
here, babe. I can't wait to show you what Poppa's been up to."

Inside the parking garage, he unlocked the Explorer and helped her
into the passenger seat. While she busied herself adjusting the seat belt
around her swollen belly, he walked around the car and opened the driver's
door, plunked his backpack on the seat, unzipped it and took out a cassette
tape. "What's that?" she said.

"Ear candy." He tossed the backpack on the floor behind
his seat, climbed in, and closed his door. Sliding the tape into the deck, he
said, "Prepare yourself. This is so hot it's orgasmic."

"Hey!  Watch the adult language around Junior."

He patted her belly and said, "Junior's bound to hear a lot
more adult language from his dad before he reaches the age of eighteen."

"I hope you realize that she's going to be raised in a
ladylike manner, just like her mom was."

"My wife, the prude," he said with affection. "I
can't wait to see how red your face turns the first time he asks Mom what
orgasmic means."

"Not a problem. I'll just tell her to go ask Dad because he's
so much better at explaining that kind of thing."

Rob snorted softly and said, "Shut up and listen. This will
blow you away." He popped the tape all the way in and turned up the
volume. "This is raw," he warned. "Just a homemade tape. No
studio. No finesse."

Blues bubbled out of the speakers, hot and steamy and raw, sung by
a male voice so sweet, so ragged, it sliced her insides wide open and left them
a bloody mess. She closed her eyes to focus on the music. "Oh, my,"
she said.

"Isn't that the most beautiful thing you ever heard?"

Eyes still closed, she said, "It is."

"Better even than sex."

She opened her eyes and just looked at him. "You know,"
he said, "this is almost—not quite, but almost—as good as sex."

"Nice save."

"I thought so."

"He's amazing. Who is he?"

"His name," Rob said, popping the tape out of the deck,
"is Raymond J. Walker. And he's all ours, babydoll. All ours. Let me
introduce you to the first artist to sign with the brand-new Two Dreamers
label."

"Hot damn, Flash!  You pulled it off!  Where'd you find
him?"

"Playing at a little club on the Strip. I went there for
dinner, and there he was, up on stage, providing the dinner music. I almost
blew a gasket when I found out he hadn't yet signed with anyone."

"Why hasn't he been picked up by some big label?"

"Beats me. Maybe because they're nothing but corporate
idiots? Their loss, our gain. So I set up a meeting with him, and I wined and
dined him. You'd be so impressed. I actually wore a dress shirt and a
tie."

"No way, José. You lie, my friend. You don't even own a
tie."

He smirked. "For your information, Miss Muffet, I bought it
for the occasion. And I gave him the hard sell. I told him why signing with us
would be the right thing to do. I emphasized the hands-on nurturing he'll never
get from a big label. I pointed out that with us, it's not about the money,
it's about the music. I also made sure he understood that although we may be a
small, start-up venture, we're not greenhorns. We've both been in the business
long enough to know what we're doing."

"You invoked Danny's name."

"I invoked Danny's name because it gets results. It opens
doors. It makes people sit up and pay attention."

"That wasn't meant as a criticism."

"I wasn't sure how you'd take it."

"Are you kidding? I have absolute faith in you. You're doing
what you have to do to get our label off the ground. Danny would approve,
wholeheartedly."

He took her hand in his, brought it to his mouth, and kissed her
fingers. Said, "This guy writes most of his own material, but I have a few
ideas that I want to work on with him. I'm still blown away. I just can't
believe somebody like that hasn't been signed. I mean, yeah, of course I
remember what we went through all those years ago, and how long it took to get
noticed, but it just seems so crazy that somebody with that kind of talent
could be out there pounding the pavements, looking for a rec—” He stopped
abruptly, mid-word.

"What?" she said.

"I'm rambling. I don't mean to ramble. I'm sorry."

"But you ramble so eloquently. And it means you're enthused.
I like it when you're enthused."

"It means," he said, using a single finger to tuck a
strand of hair behind her ear, "that I'm all about me, and not even
thinking about you. This is where I'm supposed to say, ‘And how was your week,
dear?'"

She patted his cheek. Said, "Funny boy. Lonely. My week was
lonely."

 "Poor wifey. Maybe we can fix that."

This time, in the privacy of their own car, they shared a real
kiss, one that lasted long enough to leave her breathless and fidgety. She
cupped his cheek, ran fingers through his hair, opened her eyes and looked into
his. "Better?" he said softly.

"Immeasurably."

"We aim to please." He studied her face. Said, "You
look tired."

"You're supposed to tell me I look beautiful, MacKenzie. Try
to follow the script."

"You look beautiful." He kissed the tip of her nose.
"And tired."

"I have swollen ankles and aching feet. I feel like I'm
carrying a ten-pound bowling ball duct-taped to my ribcage. Other than that,
I'm just fine."

"Well, you know what they say about duct tape." He
waggled his eyebrows. "It's good for any number of uses."

"Why do I feel as though you're imagining something hideously
salacious when you say that?"

"You know me too well. Listen, babe, it'll only be a few more
weeks. And I'm staying put, so you'll have somebody around to take care of your
every need. If you want to spend the next three weeks sleeping, you can."

"Oh, don't I wish."

He started the car, and they left the garage, picking up the
Turnpike headed north. "Have you talked to Doucette?" he asked.

Thom Doucette, their contractor, had been promising from day one
that the new house would be finished long before the baby arrived. There had,
of course, been the inevitable delays:  wrong paint colors, back-ordered
Italian tiles, an unexpected section of ledge they'd had to blast in order to
make way for the foundation that was twice the size of the house that had
originally stood on the property. Now, they were cutting it close. The baby was
due in four weeks, and they still needed time to move, time to get settled,
before the arrival of the newest family member. She and Rob's teenage daughter,
Paige, had packed everything that was non-essential. Now they were living out
of cardboard boxes. She was ready for that to be over, too.

"That's my welcome-home gift to you," she said.
"We're meeting him at 10:30 to do a walk-through. Then he's handing the
keys over to us."

"Hallelujah!  About time. Did you go over there while I was
gone?"

"I haven't been inside since the last time we were there
together. Paige and I did drive over on Wednesday evening and we sat in the
car, just looking at the place. The exterior painting is finished. It looks
beautiful. We absolutely chose the right color scheme. Now that they're done
moving ladders around, the landscaper can come in and do his thing."