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  Going Wild

  An Oakland Hills Novel

  Gretchen Galway

  Eton Field

  GOING WILD

  by Gretchen Galway

  When accountant Jane finds herself attracted to handsome, free-spirited Grant, will she pursue her long-term goals… or her heart?

  All work and no play…

  Jane Garcia’s life is going according to plan: she’s dumped the cheating ex, moved into a beautiful house overlooking the San Francisco Bay, and expects to move up at her accounting firm. But when financial trouble strikes, she’s forced to rent a room to Grant Whitman, a scruffy writer with a full beard who knits his own hats.

  No man is an island...

  Grant Whitman has spent countless weeks alone in the wilderness researching his best-selling books. But after he meets Jane, he knows solitude isn’t going cut it anymore. She’s smart, strong, sexy... and the chemistry between them could roast marshmallows. The problem? A guy like Grant just doesn’t fit into Jane's plans.

  Fools rush in…

  As they grow closer, Jane isn’t sure she can continue to resist Grant—or even wants to. Soon all her careful plans begin to unravel like a badly knitted hat. And then, to his surprise, so do Grant’s.

  But can their wild fling outlast the summer?

  GOING WILD

  * * *

  Copyright © 2017 by Gretchen Galway

  * * *

  Eton Field, Publisher

  www.gretchengalway.com

  * * *

  Cover design by Gretchen Galway

  Stock art images from Depositphotos

  * * *

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author.

  * * *

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-939872-17-3

  ISBN (Print): 978-1-939872-18-0

  * * *

  v.20170601

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Gretchen Galway

  1

  Jane maneuvered her minivan carefully up the narrow, private road, searching for house numbers. Markers along the wooded hills were hard to find, as if rich people in Marin County, California, didn’t want to encourage visitors.

  Understandable. Someday, after she’d amassed her own fortune, she’d mark her remote estate with just enough signage to ensure UPS drivers could deliver her Amazon packages. The rest of the world could get lost.

  She was smiling at the daydream when she spotted the number she was looking for on a black iron gate.

  “Thank God,” she said aloud. Only six minutes away from running late, she wanted to make a good impression.

  She drove up the hill past horse stables, grapevines, apple trees, tennis courts, a guest house, three fountains, an herb garden, and two pools, trying to take it all in as she maneuvered the gravel drive already lined with cars, searching the shoulder for a space large enough to park her bulky vehicle. But soon she saw that the drive was blocked, a dead end; she’d have to back up.

  Maybe it was because she was rushed, maybe it was because she was distracted by the ostentatious surroundings, but when Jane threw the van into reverse and hit the gas, she felt the sickening jerk of impact. Too late, she pressed both feet on the brake pedal, a bubbling brook of profanity pouring out of her mouth.

  Not now. Not today.

  A quick, cringing glance told her she’d backed up into a black SUV. How had she missed it?

  Muttering another soothing curse, she opened her door and braced herself for an apologetic confrontation. The guy climbing out of the SUV was tall and broad, heavily bearded, and wore stained khakis over muddy boots. He regarded her with steel-gray eyes that didn’t blink.

  She recoiled involuntarily. He looked like a macho, old-fashioned type who made insulting jokes about women drivers. As she walked over, she was suddenly conscious of her sheer summer dress and dainty kitten heels, which made her feel more vulnerable.

  “I’m very sorry,” she said quickly but firmly, turning her gaze to his SUV, then her van. She’d backed into him at an angle, denting the right side of hers and the front bumper of his. “I’ll get you my insurance information.”

  He bent over and rubbed his hand over the dent as if he could wipe it away. “Hm.”

  Her hands shook as she returned to her van for her purse. Silly to get so upset about a fender bender, but she hated making stupid mistakes. And her coworkers—or worse, boss—might’ve seen her get into a car accident at the front door like a stoned high schooler without a license.

  The man’s brow furrowed as he looked around the crowded driveway. “What’s going on?”

  “Mr. Whitman invited us up for a barbecue.”

  One eyebrow lifted. “The old guy’s throwing a party?”

  Mr. Whitman, the estate’s owner, had founded the boutique accounting firm in San Francisco where she worked. “It’s a business function.”

  “That makes more sense,” the man said. “Let me back up so you can get out.”

  “Here’s my information.” The card she held out to him had her name, insurance, license, plate, and phone number. Every year she printed out a few copies for her wallet, just in case. It was the first time she’d had to use one.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It was my fault.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” she said. “I backed right into you.”

  “I shouldn’t have been in the way.”

  Was he kidding? “Please take it.” She pushed the card at him. She would never damage somebody’s property and not pay for it.

  He rubbed his beard, which was fluffy as a poodle, and took the card. His fingernails were rimmed with dirt, his knuckles chafed and raw. “I’m not going to fix it. I don’t mind a few dents. That’s life.” He held it out without looking at it.

  “Hold on to it in case you change your mind.”

  Ignoring the card, he crossed his arms over his chest. “You work at Whitman?”

  She nodded. “Several years now.”

  His eyes drifted down her dress to her heels and back up to her face. “Do you like it?” He seemed genuinely curious.

  She was too surprised by his question to respond right away. “It’s a good job,” she said finally. Whitman had a better work atmosphere than the Big Four firms. She’d tried that right after college, before getting her CPA, and had burned out on the hundred-hour workweeks.

  “That doesn’t mean you like it.”

  Her mouth fell open, uneas
y with how quickly and obliviously he’d struck at the heart of the matter. “I love being an accountant.” She surprised herself by adding, “I don’t always like the travel and unpredictable hours.” And she was overdue for a promotion.

  He nodded. “I was never any good at math.”

  “It’s about the only thing I am good at,” she said.

  “I doubt that.”

  “You doubt I’m good at math or—”

  His smile warmed his gray eyes. “I doubt that’s all you’re good at.”

  “You say that to the woman who just backed into you.”

  “Nobody’s perfect,” he said. With a wave, he started to turn away.

  “I’m not going to let you leave unless you let me compensate you for the damage somehow,” she said. Even aside from the risk to her reputation with the Whitmans, she couldn’t bear to walk away from any accident she’d caused without making amends.

  “You’re not going to let me? What are you going to do, lie down in the dirt behind my wheels?”

  “If I have to.” She reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet. Because she liked the security cash could provide, she always took out the maximum at the ATM. She pinched a thin stack of twenties between her fingers and pulled them out. It was only a few hundred, but it would buy him a new pair of jeans. A haircut. Maybe even a manicure. Hadn’t he ever heard of gloves?

  His face was pained as he looked at the money in her hand. “Please put that away. I don’t need it.”

  She reached up and stuffed it into the chest pocket of his button-down shirt. Faded chambray, frayed at the seams with a tear at his left shoulder. She hoped he’d buy himself a replacement. “I insist.” She turned and hurried back to her van, averting her gaze from the nasty gash in her van’s side. Poor thing. She offered a silent apology to her big four-wheel baby as she climbed in and waited for the guy, who had stared after her for a moment before giving up and climbing into his SUV to get out of the way.

  When he finally rolled out of sight, she backed up, more carefully this time, around the curved, crowded drive until she had room to turn around. Belatedly she saw a bald man in a white shirt waving at her from the lawn, gesturing for her to park in the grass next to a few other cars she hadn’t seen earlier.

  Within two minutes, she was jogging up the steps to the house, hoping nobody would notice she was late or that her dress was glued to her backside from stress sweat. She paused, picked at it in an attempt at ventilation, took a deep breath, and went in.

  The property was equally stunning on the inside. Italian tile; earth-tone walls; abstract paintings in gilt frames; a cool, fragrant breeze wafting through the open floor plan; armfuls of lavender in copper pots flanking the French doors to a courtyard.

  It would be easy to write the ad copy to rent a place like this. Not so easy for her stucco box in Oakland. Nothing she could do about the tile or French doors, but she could get some lavender. It grew all around box store parking lots; how expensive could it be?

  “Did you get lost?”

  Jane spun around and smiled at Sydney, her favorite coworker. “Worse. I’ll tell you later. Has anyone noticed I’m late?”

  Sydney gave her a pitying look. “Mr. Whitman is going around with a clipboard, taking names. He was just asking if all the seniors were here.”

  Jane’s heart jumped. She scanned the several dozen bodies mingling outside in the courtyard, searching for the eightysomething founder of the firm.

  And then she remembered whom she was talking to. Jane snatched the cocktail glass out of Sydney’s fingers and drained it. Vodka. Nice and strong. She felt her shoulders loosen a little.

  “Clipboard?” Sydney shook her head. “Seriously, Jane. You believed that?”

  “He might have a clipboard,” Jane said. “He used to be quite a dictator in the old days.” She’d worked there long enough to remember seeing him at the office a few days a week. Now he came less often but still had an office and refused to retire completely.

  “These aren’t the old days,” Sydney said. “Unless you mean he’s old, because that he is. Poor dude is asleep under a tree in the garden. I wish somebody would roll him back into the house and let him rest.”

  “He’d kill us if we tried,” said a man behind Jane.

  Jane and Sydney shared a despairing look before slowly turning around. It was Troy, officially a senior manager, unofficially the boss. He was a grandson of the elderly sleeping dude, the man Jane had just called a dictator.

  This day was only getting worse.

  Jane commenced groveling. “Troy, I apologize. That was out of line. I never should have said—”

  “Me too,” Sydney said. “So, so, so sorry, Troy. Troy Whitman. Mr. Whitman.”

  “Relax,” Troy said. “It’s just me, guys. Thanks for making the trip up here. Is something wrong?”

  Jane and Sydney looked at each other. Troy was a nice guy, not even thirty yet, but everyone knew he was the heir to the throne. When his grandfather finally retired (or died, which seemed more likely), Troy would be the Whitman on the letterhead. Jane had never seen any of his brothers at the office in San Francisco.

  “Uh—” Sydney said, scowling at Jane as if it were her fault for inspiring her comments about Troy’s grandpa.

  “He can be a tyrant,” Troy said, sipping his wine. “Nobody knows it better than his family. Please chill. I’m not going to fire you for making a joke. That’s why I wanted to have everyone up here, so we can get to know each other, relax, eat, drink, have a few laughs.”

  “Team building,” Sydney said, nodding.

  Troy made a face. “I hate buzzwords, but yeah, something like that.”

  “Well, thanks,” Sydney said. “Jane took my drink, so I have to go get another one. OK?”

  “Of course, of course,” Troy said. “Please. Go.”

  Sydney walked away, glancing over her shoulder to wink at Jane behind Troy’s back.

  Jane wished her own glass wasn’t empty. Sydney had already consumed half before Jane had stolen it. But talking to Troy was good career politics.

  “So the party was your idea?” Jane asked.

  “Another reason to hate me,” Troy said with the smile of a man who knew very few people in the world were capable of hating him. He was the type of person who shot rainbows out of his ass, even early on Monday mornings.

  Well, maybe Jane was capable of hating him a little bit. The man was just too nice. And with golden-boy, killer good looks, he could’ve gotten away with murder if he’d ever wanted to hurt somebody, which of course he never would.

  Jane couldn’t relate to that. Her dark side could swallow stars.

  “Why don’t you go pay your respects to my grandfather?” Troy asked. “I get the feeling he’s woken up.”

  Jane looked through the doorway into the crowded courtyard. “How can you tell?”

  One corner of his mouth curved. “He’s like a flame surrounded by moths. See how everyone has kind of turned in that direction?”

  She did see. Once again, she looked mournfully into her empty glass. Ah well. Best to be sober for the formal greeting and then indulge afterward.

  She thanked Troy and meandered through the crowd to the center of the action. The partygoers had turned to face Mr. Whitman, but everyone except a brave few had kept a safe distance, drinks in hand, polite smiles in place. Those brave few lining up to chat with the man in the chair included Jane’s supervisor, Nicole.

  Jane wasn’t an emotionally expressive person like her sister, but it had taken years of practice to hide her dislike of Nicole’s company. After a moment of intense concentration to make sure the mask was in place, she strode through a gap in the bodies and approached.

  Nicole was reminding the man in the chair of who she was. “That’s right, Mr. Whitman. Nicole Timney. A senior manager.” She noticed Jane. “And my subordinate, Jane Garcia.”

  Subordinate. Servant. Groveling half person. With great force of will, Jane prevented her eyeb
alls from rolling upward. Although Jane did good work at the firm, she and Nicole had never gotten along. No drinks after work, no shared memes on social media, no personal chitchat.

  Jane stepped closer to Mr. Whitman’s chair with her hand outstretched. He favored a strong handshake, even among women, and she was already tensed and ready for his crushing grip.

  “Mr. Whitman, thank you for inviting—” she began.

  “Jane Garcia?” Mr. Whitman sat up taller.

  “Yes, sir. You have a lovely—”

  “What are you doing here?” His thick white eyebrows drew together over the bridge of his nose. “You’re fired!”

  2

  Jane’s smile was too carefully constructed to falter even a micromillimeter. The man had been sleeping outside in a chair and was in his late eighties; he was bound to get confused now and then. “No, Mr. Whitman, not fired. I’m here for the party.” She jutted her hand out again. “Jane Garcia.”

  “I know who the hell you are. I thought we fired you.” He looked up at Nicole, who had been frowning at Jane.

  Nicole frowned at everything. Probably frowned at teacup poodle puppies.

  “Didn’t you fire her?” Mr. Whitman demanded.

  “I beg your pardon,” Nicole said. “It was Lorraine McNeil who left. Same department.”