Tools of Engagement

  Dedication

  To those who overanalyze

  Contents

  Cover

  Title 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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Tessa Bailey

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Wes Daniels cracked an eyelid.

  The streetlamp outside the house let in just enough light for him to make out the silhouette of his five-year-old niece sitting on the end of his bed, wearing his cowboy hat. If these freaky wake-up calls weren’t a regular occurrence, it would have scared the living shit out of him. The first time, he’d almost started shouting for the ghost child to go toward the light. His niece was an early riser, however, and this routine had been well established over the last month.

  Didn’t mean he had to accept it.

  “Nope. Still dark.” Wes pulled the comforter up over his head. “You have to stay in bed until the clock says six, two dots, double zero, kid. We talked about this.”

  “But I don’t want to go to school today.”

  “School isn’t for . . .” He lifted his head and checked the clock. “Lord. School isn’t until nine A.M. That’s four hours from now. You could fit one and a half major league baseball games into that.”

  She was silent a moment. “I don’t have any friends at school.”

  “Sure you do.” When she didn’t respond, Wes sighed, reaching over and turning on the lamp, finding a super-serious child peeking at him from beneath the brim of his tan felt hat. How on God’s green earth am I responsible for a five-year-old? He asked himself that question several times a day, but the absurdity of the arrangement struck harder in the morning time. Wes cleared the sleep from his voice. “What about the girl with the Minnie backpack? You two seemed pretty chummy when I dropped you off yesterday.”

  “She’s best friends with Hallie.”

  “That means she can’t be your friend, too?”

  Laura shrugged and pursed her lips, a clear indication she was about to change tactics. “My stomach is going to hurt in four hours.”

  Time to face facts. He wasn’t getting that extra hour of sleep. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up in the actual daylight. If only my friends could see me now. In the not-so-distant past, Wes would have slept straight through a hangover and woken up just in time to hit the San Antonio bars all over again with whatever cash he’d managed to scrape together rodeo riding. Even now—he was just shy of his twenty-fourth birthday—this was prime oats-sewing time.

  But everything had changed with one phone call. He’d been yanked from a party lifestyle free of responsibilities in Texas and dropped onto a foreign planet, also known as Port Jefferson, Long Island. To raise a child.

  Good thing it was temporary.

  And hell, what wasn’t?

  Wes swallowed the hard object in his throat and rolled into a sitting position at the edge of the bed, reaching for his discarded shirt on the floor and tugging it on over his head. “Come on, kid. Let’s go see what infomercials are on. Maybe we’ll get lucky with some cooking demonstrations.”

  Laura brightened. “Maybe Instant Pot.”

  He ruffled her hair and helped her off the bed. “Here’s hoping.”

  No sooner had Wes gotten Laura settled on the couch with a blanket did she request apple juice. While retrieving it from the kitchen, he leaned down and scanned the various schedules taped to his refrigerator. There were goddamn four of them. Four schedules. To say it was a rough transition, going from no schedules to four, would be putting it lightly.

  Schedule one: kindergarten. Every day was a something day. Bring a silly poem to share with the class. Wear yellow. Dress like a superhero. For the love of God, wasn’t homework enough? Wes wasn’t even sure what PTA stood for, but when he found out, he was going to show up at a meeting and solve the mystery of who was behind these crazy-ass something days. He or she probably had fangs and a maniacal laugh.

  He sighed and rested his head on the fridge a moment before focusing on schedule two, aka the Almighty Food Rotation. There was a local group of women called the Just Us League and they’d taken it upon themselves to bring him and Laura labeled containers of food when they found out about his situation. At first, he’d been pleased as hell to inform them he didn’t need charity, but he had just enough humility to admit they’d be eating pizza every night without the meals.

  Not to mention, the Just Us League organizer was Bethany Castle, and Wes didn’t turn down chances to be in her vicinity. No, sir. Only an idiot would. He might have taken a few hits to the noggin after being tossed off the backs of some angry bulls, but Wes wasn’t a fool. He knew a ten when he saw one.

  Bethany was a fifteen.

  Which brought him to the third schedule: childcare. It was written in Bethany’s handwriting, and he ran his finger over the neat, feminine letters now, smiling over her color-coded system of deciding which Just Us League member would babysit Laura until he got home from work each day. She was never on the schedule herself, of course. Kids weren’t exactly her area of expertise.

  Join the club, gorgeous.

  What were her areas of expertise?

  Turning him on and driving him nuts. And she excelled at them.

  Good thing he was an expert at driving her nuts right back. Which brought Wes to his fourth and final schedule. Work.

  Starting Monday morning, he’d have the opportunity to get under Bethany’s skin on an extended basis. When Wes landed in Port Jefferson last month, he’d had just enough construction experience on his résumé to land a gig with the local house-flipping gods, Brick & Morty. Their next project happened to be located right across the street from Bethany’s house. Yes, sir. Come Monday morning, he would be driving Bethany nuttier than ever.

  Bring it on.

  “Uncle Wes!” Laura shouted over an infomercial about revolutionary mops. “Apple juice!”

  “Damn, kid. What did your last maid die from?” he drawled, prying open the fridge and taking out the yellow-and-gold container. “Do you want Cheerios?” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t wait for me to sit down to ask. Tell me now.”

  “’Kay. Cheerios.”

  A smile played around his mouth as he took down a bowl, dumping in a handful of dry cereal. He might be a far cry from the ideal father figure, but he had this kid’s quirks down to a science. They would need to begin figuring out her outfit by seven o’clock or she would panic and melt down. He frowned, trying to remember if he threw her favorite pink jean shorts into the washer.

  “Apple juice!” his niece shrieked from the living room.

  “Coming,” he droned, walking to the couch and handing her the cup before wedging the small bowl of Cheerios between her knees. “Don’t spill. This isn’t my couch.”

  Laura sent him an uneasy glance and Wes cursed inwa
rdly. Why had he gone and said that? She didn’t need the reminder her parents had split and left her in the care of a clueless bachelor. Wasn’t Wes being here in their place reminder enough? After the failure of his sister’s relationship, she’d called him claiming to need a breather from her responsibilities, including motherhood. With no childcare experience to speak of, he’d gotten on a plane in San Antonio and flew to New York, only to realize this shit was complicated. Raising a child was a damn sight more than providing food and shelter; it also involved a fair amount of mind reading, multitasking, and patience—all on a very small quantity of sleep.

  Good thing Wes was only there to fill in the gap until his sister decided to be a mother again and came home. Just until I get my act together, she’d said, but a month had come and gone without so much as a text. Still, Laura didn’t need him reminding her their arrangement was temporary.

  Wes sat down beside Laura and tucked her into his side. He waited a few minutes but she didn’t eat a single Cheerio, making his stomach sink. His dumb comment was just another prime example of his inability to do this. To be here, attempting to be a child’s caregiver. Knowing what would distract her and get her spirits back up, he snuck a Cheerio and popped it into his mouth.

  “Hey,” she complained.

  “Couch snacks are fair game. You want food all to yourself, you sit at the table. Everyone knows that.”

  “No.”

  He shrugged. “Better eat them fast, before I snag some more.”

  Laura turned her body to shield the bowl of dry cereal and shoveled a fistful into her mouth. Better. She was still mid-chew when her spine snapped straight and she pointed at the television. “Oooh. Instant Pot.”

  Wes cozied deeper into the couch cushions. “Now we’re talking, kid.” He waited until she was distracted by the infomercial to work his mind voodoo. “You know, I’m no expert on making friends. But if I was hanging out in the classroom, pasting macaroni onto construction paper and stuff, just minding my own business . . . and one of the other kids did a perfect Scooby-Doo impression, I would want her at my craft table. Hundred percent.”

  She sucked in a breath. “I do a good Scooby-Doo impression.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” He snapped his fingers. “You do. How’s that go again?”

  “Scooby-Dooby-Dooooo,” she howled, eyes crossing a little. “That one?”

  Was he biased or should there be a talent scout knocking on their door? “That’s quality work, Laura. It’s like I’m in the room with Scooby.”

  She beamed. “Now you do it.”

  He did it terribly on purpose. “I can’t compete. You’re the master.”

  “Thanks.” His niece crawled up under his arm and laid her head on his chest. “We don’t glue macaroni to paper at school anymore. We have iPads now.”

  Instead of addressing her implication that he was out of touch, Wes looked down at the top of Laura’s head, frozen. This was new. She’d never cuddled up to him before.

  Unsure exactly how to proceed, he relaxed his arm around her shoulders, settled them in as a unit, and went back to watching the television. If there was a weird flip in the middle of his chest, he ignored it. Probably just fatigue or something.

  Bethany walked through her living room, toothbrush stuck in her mouth. Using one hand to scrub her pearly whites, she ran the admiring, opposite hand over the jeweled throw pillows that decorated her couch. She wiggled her toes in her thick white carpet and sighed happily, moving the brush to her back teeth and cleaning them with a vigorous circling of bristles.

  Tonight’s Just Us League meeting was set to begin in an hour. Their official positivity whiteboard was arranged at the perfect angle in the living room, and the blinds were drawn to an optimal position, allowing in the right amount of Saturday evening light, made hazy by late-fall weather. Champagne flutes were arranged on the kitchen island, waiting to be filled with bubbly. She’d lit a candy-apple candle upon returning from her hair appointment, and the interior of her home called to mind a small-town harvest festival.

  “God, I’m good,” she said, the words garbled by her toothbrush. A dribble of white foam cascaded down her chin and she swiped it away. “Ew, Beth.”

  She jogged up the stairs to her en suite bathroom, the glowing flicker of her favorite vanilla candles swaying against the white tile, before she spit into the sink and wiped her mouth. She turned her good side to the mirror and smiled, giving her blond hair a gentle tousle.

  “Welcome, everyone. What smell? Oh, the candle? I picked it up at an outdoor bazaar in the Hamptons while shopping for artwork to stage our latest flip.” She leaned close to the mirror and ran her tongue along her top row of teeth. “Glamorous? Me? No. You’re so sweet.”

  She pushed away from her marble vanity, turning on her big toe and entering the bedroom. Two outfits were laid out on the bed. A cream-colored cashmere sweater that left one shoulder bare, paired with black leather leggings. And a red turtleneck dress. Since she usually wore the former with boots and wouldn’t be leaving the house, she went with option one and slipped on a pair of gold ballet flats to complement the ensemble.

  “You’ll do,” she whispered, looking over her reflection with a critical eye. “You’ve worn this before, though.”

  Bethany scratched at the side of her neck on her way into the walk-in closet. Her pulse started to hammer beneath her fingertips and she forced herself to stop scratching before she left red marks. She didn’t have time for an outfit change now. Georgie and Rosie would be arriving any minute to help set up for the meeting—

  The front door opened and closed downstairs, the voices of her younger sister and their best friend drifting up the stairs.

  She took a centering deep breath. “Be there in just a minute!” she called cheerfully, yanking hangers off the racks and running a mental checklist of the outfits she’d worn since the inception of their women-powered support group. If the members knew she was agonizing over her outfit, they would laugh at her. Tell her she was being silly. Heck, some of them wore variations of the same ensemble to every meeting, didn’t they?

  They weren’t Bethany Castle, though.

  No. They were a hell of a lot more authentic.

  Realizing she was scratching at her neck again, Bethany forced herself to stop, finding a silk emerald-green tunic at the back of her closet with the tags still hanging from the wrist. She snapped them off and pulled the garment over her head, speed-walking toward the stairs. Before descending, she tucked her hair artfully behind one ear and fanned the irritated skin at her neck. Then, fingertips casually trailing down the banister, she greeted Georgie and Rosie with a smile. “You ladies look like I need a cocktail.”

  Georgie laughed from her perch on the kitchen stool. “On it,” she said, popping the cork from a chilling bottle of champagne Bethany had arranged in a silver bucket beside the flutes.

  “I’m on food,” Rosie called, sticking a tray of something delicious looking into the oven. “Beth, we need to have a serious talk about Georgie.”

  “I’m right here,” Georgie protested. “You can’t miss me.”

  “Let me guess.” Bethany accepted a glass of champagne and took a small sip. “This is bachelorette party related.”

  Rosie nodded. “She won’t commit to a plan. She’s noncommittal.”

  Georgie threw up her hands, splashing champagne onto the island. “I don’t want one. The wedding is the party. I don’t need a pre-party party.”

  Bethany stuck out her bottom lip. “Pre-parties serve a purpose. It will save you from drinking too much and stumbling through the cha-cha slide on your wedding day. You’ll have gotten it out of your system.” She grabbed a folded kitchen towel and wiped up the fizzy splotch of alcohol. “Besides, I’ve already planned it. There’s a binder with colored tabs and everything.”

  Rosie snorted into the back of her wrist. “Knew it.”

  “What?” Georgie sputtered, before falling silent for a moment. “Details, please.” She
shifted on her stool. “You know . . . so I can say no. Firmly.”

  Bethany smiled into a sip of champagne. “You won’t say no.”

  Her certainty wasn’t unfounded. As a professional house stager for her family’s company, Brick & Morty, planning, executing, and beautifying was Bethany’s purpose on this earth. When presented with a blank canvas, she took light, shadow, spacing, practicality, and wow factor into account—and she turned an empty shell into a home. No stitch out of place or book spine askew. Perfection. Something inside her never stopped yearning for that tip-top mountain peak. That awed reaction she received at the end of her stages. That rush of accomplishment.

  At some point that quest for perfection had bled into every other aspect of her life and continued to bleed, and bleed, but that was a positive thing. Right?

  When she realized her hand was curled too tightly around the champagne flute, she set it down with a flourish and smiled. “We’re starting with brunch at the Four Seasons, moving on to an afternoon of pampering—you’ll be getting married hairless and shiny, you’re welcome—and we’ll round the night out with a harmless orgy. What’s not to love?”

  “Stop. Oh God.” Georgie coughed, eyes tearing. “Champagne. Burning the insides of my nose. So painful.”

  “Tell her the real plan, you evil woman,” Rosie scolded, biting back a smile.

  Bethany rolled her eyes. “Fine. We’re ending the night with a combined bachelor-bachelorette dinner at Buena Onda. Mom and Dad will be there, too. I knew that’s what you’d want. Travis and Georgie forever. Yada yada. You make me sick.”

  Georgie jumped off her stool and threw her arms around Bethany’s middle. “I love it. I can commit to this.” She squealed and attempted to crush Bethany’s ribs. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

  Bethany kissed her cheek and waved her off. “You’re welcome.”

  The doorbell rang. Bethany picked up her champagne flute again, holding it with a loose wrist, and put on a bright hostess smile on her way to the door. Details mattered. Every detail mattered. When she opened the door with a flick of her wrist, leaned a hand high on the doorframe, and tossed her hair, taking a dramatic sip of champagne, the women on her porch saw exactly what she wanted them to see. A woman who had it all together.