by Liz Talley
Ellery felt the heat rise in her cheeks. This arrogant ass had just shoved her into a slot. “I’m assuming your type is someone similar to yourself? And since I’m not an asshole . . .” She shrugged one shoulder and turned away.
She crackled with outrage.
How dare he assume she was a type? He knew who she was by five minutes of her tasting wine? Ha. She didn’t think so.
What an insufferable, pompous jackass. She knew who she was. Yeah, she liked nice things, as evidenced by the Lanvin bag she’d scored at a bargain basement sale in New Orleans. And maybe she spent too much on her hair products and the lash extensions. Hey, she had stubby lashes. So she wore expensive perfume and got pedicures? That made her discerning, not a type. And who didn’t like Minnie Mouse?
A terrorist, that’s who.
But whatever.
She pushed out into the Texas heat and stomped down a winding set of steps toward the gravel parking lot where she’d left the cute white Lexus RC 350 her daddy had bought her for college graduation. And though she loved the clean, sporty lines and the shiny chrome, the sight of her car made her stutter-step and her thoughts flash back to the lean smart-ass who’d just stereotyped her. She drove a luxury car her daddy had bought to make her feel better about failing at getting the internship. She worked a job her mother had given her so she could pay her half of the rent on the town house. She’d spent forty dollars on a blowout with money she needed to pay off the loan she’d taken for the furniture she’d bought for the guest room. She was a walking stereotype of a spoiled southern debutante with no responsibilities.
And, yeah, she’d even been a stupid debutante.
At that moment she despised herself, because maybe Faux-Hawk had seen exactly who she was. And maybe she didn’t like who she was but didn’t know how to change. Because that would mean admitting that all she’d so carefully planned could be totally . . . wrong. She felt shaky and afraid to let go of the life she’d always clung to.
Ellery sucked in a huge gulp of humidity and unlocked her doors, shoving the box with the wine into the narrow back seat. Then she climbed in, cranked up the AC, and rolled back the sunroof. Better Than Ezra, a vintage Baton Rouge rock band, poured through the speakers. She shifted gears, wishing she’d never driven west toward the high sun in order to escape her life. Wishing she’d not been so . . . curious about Evan. She hadn’t even seen him, which was probably a good thing because her fascination with him was wrong. All she’d gained in the process was being insulted by a glorified salesclerk, three bottles of a good white blend she could barely afford, and guilt over not being able to run her own damned life.
As she rounded a large curve, she came upon a redheaded girl riding a bike. She wore a pink bike helmet and a wrinkled school uniform. Jogging behind her in a running tank was Evan McCallum. Even red-faced and sweaty, the man made something odd rise up within her. He raised a friendly hand as she passed them, a small twitch of his lips fading as quickly as it appeared.
Ellery glanced into her rearview mirror as he jogged around the corner, following behind his daughter. The view was pretty dang good, which made Ellery even angrier at herself. He was an older man with a kid. And she had a fiancé.
“Stop being a stalker,” she muttered, wondering if she had indeed done something totally stalkerish. Did driving all the way to Deacon Point, Texas, in order to catch a glimpse of Evan qualify as stalking?
No. That was ridiculous. She had needed to get away from her world and think, and One Tree Estates was right off the interstate. Buying good wine for her birthday was on her list anyway. Surely her mother would do something fun for her birthday—she always did. Ellery’s mouth watered when she thought of the Texas chocolate sheet cake with bright sprinkles Daphne always made. This time Ellery would bring the wine, so her trip had nothing to do with her inordinate interest in a man who was too old for her. Had nothing to do with the fact she felt ignored by the man she was supposed to love.
Supposed to?
No, did.
She loved Josh. They were going to have the perfect life together just as soon as he got through this first year of school. The first year was always the hardest, so all she had to do was hold it all together for one year. By the time May rolled around, she would have the perfect new job, and Josh would move to his second year. They’d both be closer to their ultimate goal—a successful power couple living in a gorgeous house, doing meaningful things, and being their most fabulous selves.
Looking at the clock, she mentally calculated the time it would take her to get back to Shreveport, take a shower, and make it in to work. She had to work until 8:00 that night in the miniscule couture section of Selber’s. Today they would have gotten in new shipments. She’d snagged a pair of funky velvet slippers to display with the leather designer jeans they were getting in. She wanted something edgy in the display for the boutique clothing, paired with something more conservative. Something Saint John–ish. Maybe she’d add several strands of gold from the Roberto Coin jewelry collection.
Just the thought of designing a look for the winter displays soothed her. This was where she felt in control. Creating tasteful designs and hand-selling Stella McCartney and Rag & Bone were easy for her. She could see what worked for what customer, sell the dress a woman would wear time and again, pair the best accessories, and find the perfect statement pieces. Ellery Witt had been made to create and sell clothes. J.J. Krause had missed the boat.
And as Ellery angled her college graduation present onto the interstate, she remembered the wineglasses she’d left behind the desk of the gift shop.
But she wasn’t going back.
Her phone rang. Her mother.
Ellery sighed and pressed the Bluetooth button on the steering wheel. “Hey, Mom, what do you need?”
“Hey, baby. I just put the peas on. You and Josh are coming to eat tonight, aren’t you?”
“Oh shit. I forgot to tell you. I switched shifts with Margaret. I’m working tonight,” Ellery said, changing lanes. Her mother had decreed Thursday night a sort of family night. Ellery resented that her mother had tried to revive something they’d done when they had actually been a family. They weren’t a family anymore, so why bother to pretend something that wasn’t there? Besides, she saw her mother nearly every day now that she worked as her assistant. Wasn’t like they needed any more time together.
Part of her not wanting to be with her mom all the time was because Daphne was suffocating. When Ellery was in that house, she still felt like a little girl, like her mother was still mopping up after her. Ellery hated herself for letting Daphne assume control, she hated herself for taking the job her mother had offered. She wanted to be independent, but being her mother’s assistant had been easy money and something she could use on her résumé. And it wasn’t hard to do.
The other part of her aggravation with her mother stemmed from what her father had told her last summer when they’d gone to Seaside. Something she didn’t know how to deal with, how to bring up to her mother, a woman who felt more like a stranger to her now.
Daphne sighed. “You sure y’all can’t come? I think Clay and Law may stay for dinner. Josh can meet some of the guys you grew up with.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll try to leave next Thursday free.”
“This will probably be the last dinner for a while. I just enjoy seeing you.”
“You see me almost every day.”
“But that’s different.” Her mother sounded sad. Ellery felt guilt crawl around inside her. Her mother always made her feel guilty. Like she didn’t do enough to be a good daughter. But Ellery hadn’t been the one who’d decided to change. Her mother had done that when she decided to pursue a career. That decision had toppled everything in their lives, breaking apart all Ellery had known. And now her mom was selling their house and hadn’t even asked Ellery if she minded. Well, she’d asked if she and Josh might want to buy it, but that was it. Two weeks later she had a Realtor out, and a FOR SALE sign was hanging
out front.
Everything felt . . . too much too fast.
“I bought some good wine today. I’ll bring it by before I head into work,” Ellery said, hoping her gift of wine would absolve some of the guilt for taking a shift on “family” night. Of course, her mother would probably insist on reimbursing her for the wine, which would make her feel like she couldn’t pay her way. Then again, Ellery could use the extra money. Damn it, adulting was hard.
“That would be nice. I’m happy to pay you for it.”
“Sure. Bye, Mom,” Ellery said, switching off the phone, wishing she could keep driving past Shreveport, past Louisiana, going anywhere other than where she was now.
CHAPTER FIVE
The corn bread hadn’t cooked enough in the middle. Still, it would have to do. Daphne didn’t have time to make another pan—something that bothered her. She didn’t cook as often as she once had, but she liked her final product to be perfect. Of course, the corn bread would taste fine with the purple-hull peas she’d bought at the farmers’ market. Last bushel they’d had for the season. Daphne had gotten lucky, since peas had been scarce all summer.
Daphne pushed open the screen door. Her decorator had gasped when she’d seen it. Soon the anachronism would be replaced by french doors. Even so, Daphne liked the old-fashioned screen door with its creak and ensuing thump when closed. Took her back to her grandmother’s house when there was always cold sweet tea and the sound of her granddaddy playing his guitar to an audience of field crickets.
The end of the day had brought her a cool breeze. Insolent fall was finally stepping in line. Headlights swung up the drive and Daphne checked her watch. Late, but not ridiculously so.
Bumping up her drive was the contractor’s truck. Please, Lord, let him have brought his brother. She squinted, praying to see the shape of Clay’s brother, Lawrence. Nope. Only one door opening.
Damn it.
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Clay called, climbing out of the pickup. Hooked in two of his fingers was a brown wine bag. He slammed the door. “Where’s everybody?”
“Ellery’s working tonight. Which means Josh won’t be here, either. Is Lawrence coming?” Please say he’s on his way.
“Nah. He said to thank you for the invite, though.”
Clay stomped up the back steps. He’d recently showered, because the curls that brushed his ears were damp. He wore a gray T-shirt and a pair of jeans that were worn soft on the thighs. Cowboy boots completed his look, and the scruffy beard didn’t look unkempt but instead reminded her of lazy days in rumpled sheets. That beard would provide delicious friction against—
“I brought some wine,” he said, interrupting her really, really wrong thoughts. God, Daphne, chill out and stop going there, pervert.
Her mind zoomed to that stupid book—The Mystery of Female Arousal. Tippy Lou had cleaned out her shelves, and among the books on healing minerals and transcendentalism, she’d found that gem. She’d handed it to Daphne, who had just admitted she hadn’t missed having sex for the past two years all that much. Tippy Lou had been aghast and insisted Daphne read it and give her reports on each chapter. She’d also mentioned masturbation and recommended a site for sex toys. Not wanting to listen to anything more about the importance of self-pleasure, Daphne had tucked the book into her bag and promised to read it.
Then tried to forget about it.
When Daphne had finally picked the book up off her nightstand weeks later because she’d read everything in her TBR stack, she’d learned about her own desires, what turned her on, some clitoral-wishbone thing, and all kinds of scientific mumbo jumbo on how to get turned on and climax for days. Okay, not really, but it had felt like that. As a result, the idea of fulfilling sex thrummed right in the middle of her cerebral cortex, which in turn told the hypothalamus to secrete testosterone and something . . . something about the amygdala. Whatever. All she knew was that reading that book had made her hyperaware that no one had touched her body for a long time. A very long time.
“How thoughtful of you,” she said, taking the bag and opening the screen door. “Come on in. Everything is ready.”
“Smells delicious.” Clay walked past her, taking up more space than she’d estimated. His shoulder brushed against her, and she warned herself to stop thinking about sex, that book, the way he smelled, and the fact that she could probably have her panties around her ankles in 1.4 seconds.
“I hope it’s good. I’ve been so busy, I haven’t cooked much lately. Plus, it’s been so hot.” She pulled the wine from the bag. It was a pink zinfandel and had a lizard on it. Daphne had seen that bottle at every store that sold wine . . . even the local gas station. But no matter, the man had brought wine, which was most gracious.
“I didn’t know what to get. I don’t drink the stuff usually. I’m a beer guy, but the girl behind the counter said she liked this.” Clay shrugged his shoulders and gave her a sheepish grin.
“It’s fine. Ellery dropped some wine by earlier, and it’s already chilled. So I’ll just tuck this away for later.” She shoved the bottle in the fridge, thinking Tippy Lou might like it. But wait, her friend had given up drinking. For now.
“Can I help you with anything?” Clay asked, setting his hands on his hips. The action made him look even more masculine. The loaded question didn’t help, either. She could think of a lot of things he could help her with.
“Nope, I’ve got it. I usually serve family style, but since it’s just me and you, I’ll fix the plates and bring them into the dining room.” She turned and picked up two of the stemmed glasses from the six she’d set out. “You know, on second thought, you can open the wine and pour us both a glass.”
He looked at the bottle chilling in the marble wine cooler, grabbed the opener, and stared at the bottle as if perplexed. Daphne fought the inclination to take it from him and show him how to do it because it would make her look motherly. Or bossy. Or practical. So she turned and took the plates from the cabinet. The kitchen surrounding her was familiar; the man struggling to cut the foil from the top of the bottle was not.
She scooped peas and dished out mashed potatoes, okra, and meat loaf before adding a sliver of not-so-soggy-in-the-middle-anymore corn bread onto plates. Finally, Clay handed her a glass of the crisp blend from the Texas winery Ellery had been raving about for months.
Daphne took a big slug and sighed. Good stuff.
Clay sniffed at his. “They say you’re supposed to smell it before you drink it. Saw that on TV one time. I don’t know why. I mean, unless it smells like cow patty, you’re probably going to drink it, right?”
Daphne smiled. “Oh, you know fancy people. They like the bouquet.”
“Guess you ain’t fancy people,” he teased, nodding at the fact she’d already had two big sips.
“You would be correct,” she said, handing him her glass and picking up the plates. “Follow me. I’m starving.”
Clay did as bid, trailing after her as she pushed through the swinging door (another thing that would change because, duh, open concept demanded everything be visible—even the dirty dishes) and set Clay’s plate across from her usual spot. She’d intentionally handed him her glass of wine so she could choose his place for him. Didn’t want him right next to her where she could smell him or accidentally brush his arm.
Whether anything could actually happen between her and Clay was up for debate. The man’s earlier words had felt flirty, but Daphne wasn’t sure if he was being nice or was truly attracted to her. She’d heard rumors about him from Ellery. He liked to sleep around with various women, so maybe he wasn’t so choosy. Or maybe she just wanted him to want her. Pathetic as it was.
“Wow, you set the table and everything,” Clay said, handing her the glass that was now in need of replenishing. Maybe she’d gulped it a bit too fast.
Daphne glanced at the slightly faded zinnias she’d gathered from the cutting garden beside the barn and the pressed linen tablecloth she’d tossed on the table earlier. Gleaming flatwa
re sat upon trifolded russet napkins. “I always try to make it an occasion. Probably silly, but it’s my way of holding on to a family tradition.”
“I think it’s nice,” he said, leaning around the table and pulling out her chair.
“Oh,” she said, taken aback at the gentlemanly and somewhat date-like nicety. “Thank you, Clay.”
“You’re welcome. Hey, I know how to treat a lady,” he said, giving her a grin that made her libido wriggle in delight.
Stop it.
“Um, prayer?” she inquired after picking up her fork.
He arched an eyebrow and shot her another grin. “Are we going to need it for some reason?”
More loaded words. She could be in deep trouble. Or totally imagining the innuendo. Cheerful teasing seemed to be Clay’s nature. He did this with everyone—the grocery clerk, the lady at the lumberyard, all his female clients. “Nope. Dig in, I guess.”
Clay did as suggested. “Oh man, this is even better than my nana’s meat loaf. Don’t tell her, though.”
“Now I can blackmail you. I will so tell your nana if I don’t get everything I want,” Daphne said, stabbing her empty fork toward him. See? She could tease. Then she realized what her words sounded like. “I mean on the house. What I want on the house.”
“Oh, so you set this up so you could get dirt on me? You’re a devious woman. Exactly the kind I like.” His eyes danced, and his dimples made an appearance.
Holy Hell. Dimples.
Daphne decided flirting was too dangerous, so she took another sip of wine and shuffled the peas around on her plate. “So tell me about the work you’re doing downtown. I think I heard y’all were doing loft apartments?”
He took a sip of his wine. “All we’ve done so far is gut the old Blanco Biscuit company building. We got the bid just over a month ago, but it’s a big project, so we needed some extra help. We’re hiring right now. It will be fairly modern but have some rustic elements, too. Think we’ll have five full-floor loft apartments and ten floors with duplex style. The guy who bought it is going to even hire a doorman.”
