The Queen of Pine Haven

The crystal wind chime shattered.

Vicky Marlowe watched, transfixed, as her mama's last good yard decoration cascaded down in a waterfall of dollar store glass, missing her carefully maintained acrylic nails by mere inches. Her blue eyes widened—not in fear, never fear—but in a most unseemly, electrified excitement.

Sweet baby Jesus, she thought, pressing a trembling hand to the rhinestones on her "Live, Laugh, Love" tank top, he planned this.

James. That devil in Carhartt clothing. That Adonis with motor oil under his fingernails.

"Vicky!" Henley came charging out of the double-wide with all the grace of a stampeding elk. "You okay, girl? Should I call Dale?"

Vicky’s lips curled into a smile so wicked it would’ve made the pastor blush. "No, Hen. And you keep your mouth shut about this. You hear me? Not a word."

How could she explain it anyway? That her neighbor's brooding mechanic had somehow known exactly where she'd be standing at four o’clock sharp? That the wind chime’s fall had miraculously cleared her path to the tool shed, where even now he was waiting, his muscled form likely aglow in the golden shafts of the setting sun, like some pagan god of NASCAR?

Her husband’s voice bellowed from the trailer. "Victoria Lynn! The HOA president’s gonna be here any minute!"

The HOA president can kiss my authentically tanned behind, she thought, her manicured fingers clutching the well-worn copy of Rich Dad, Poor Dad she’d been pretending to read. Let all of Pine Haven Trailer Park burn.

With the practiced grace of a seasoned Denny’s waitress, she glided toward the shed, her Target sundress whispering secrets across the gravel path. The sticky humidity hit her like a microwave door swinging open, mingling with the perfume of marijuana wafting from Lot 23B—nature’s aphrodisiac.

"You could’ve killed me," she breathed when she saw him, towering amid Dale’s prized power tools.

James turned, his green eyes smoldering like a grease fire. "I’d sooner sell my F-150, darlin’," he said, his voice rough as gravel, sweet as Mountain Dew. "But I had to see you. Alone."

"The wind chime—"

"Was a calculated risk." He stepped closer, close enough for her to catch the intoxicating scent of WD-40 and unfiltered masculinity. "Like this."

Without warning, he swept the self-help book from her hands, letting it tumble to the oil-stained floor with a thud. Vicky gasped—at his audacity, his magnificence, the sheer unholy nerve of him.

"That book cost me a whole shift's worth of tips," she whispered, even as her traitorous body leaned toward him like a sunflower chasing light.

"Then let me earn it back," he growled, his calloused hands cradling her face with a gentleness that almost unraveled her. "With something worth more than money."

Outside, a bolt of lightning slashed through the Oregon sky, the storm roaring approval. Thunder rolled across the valley like a souped-up diesel engine.

"The HOA president," she protested weakly, her fingers curling into his oil-streaked Metallica T-shirt.

"Will wait." His gaze burned into hers. "The world will wait. Time itself will wait, Mrs. Marlowe."

"Just Vicky," she murmured, her voice cracking under the weight of want. "When we're alone, you call me Vicky."

He grinned—a wolf’s grin, a rebel’s grin, a grin promising pleasures no respectable trailer park queen should dare to know. "Vicky," he breathed, low and dangerous, "my desert rose, my forbidden flower."

Another flash of lightning illuminated the tool shed like a Walmart parking lot on Black Friday. Somewhere in the distance, voices called her name—her husband, Henley, maybe even the HOA president himself.

"They’ll ruin you," James warned, his lips grazing her skin. "If they find us, they’ll kick you off the Pine Haven Social Committee."

Vicky threw back her head and laughed—a sound of pure, wild abandon that would scandalize every lady at the Sunday potluck. "My darling, savage mechanic," she purred, her fingers tracing the hard line of his jaw, "don’t you know? The prettiest flowers grow right through the concrete."

As if in agreement, the storm reached its crescendo, rain hammering the shed like nature’s applause. Something ancient and wild stirred in her salon-perfect highlights—something far beyond her title as Pine Haven’s three-time "Most Spirited Resident."

"The social committee," she declared, her voice dripping with rebellion, "could use a little shaking up."

And with that, as thunder rattled the very bones of her double-wide, Vicky Marlowe made her choice. Let the wind chime be the first casualty of her fall from grace. Let scandal roll through Pine Haven Trailer Park like a tornado in a beer can.

Because some things, she thought as James's lips finally claimed hers with fierce possession, are worth losing your ‘Best Kept Yard’ title for.