Caught Up in the Touch: Sweet Home Alabama

by Trentham, Laura

  He had stepped smack-dab in the middle of a serious pile of shit. Unless Lilliana assumed Jessica already knew his name and hadn’t said anything. Doubtful. If he had introduced himself on their first meeting, it would have unfolded differently. Why hadn’t he?

  Her legs. It had something to do with the gorgeous distraction of her legs. My God, he’d ripped off five times as many duct tape strips as he’d needed so he could stare at her legs from under the car. The angle had given him an extra couple of inches up her skirt. So not only was he an asshole for not telling her who he was, he was depraved.

  No, she possessed more than a pair of stellar legs. Under the Natasha-like fierceness, he’d sensed softness, vulnerability, and an attractive streak of humor. Confronted with a woman in need, his Southern-gentleman soul flared to life. Of course, the fact she was beautiful hadn’t escaped his notice either.

  He paced up and down the inside of the bar a few times, wiping up spills and condensation, a smile plastered to his face as he nodded like a bobblehead at customers. He glanced at the clock again. Five ’till. She would be walking through the door any minute. How should he play this? Casual charm was his strength, but he’d demolished that bridge with no way back over the gator-infested water.

  The door swung open, and Jessica Montgomery strode through. The insubordinate waves in her hair from earlier had been flattened into submission. A crisp white button-down was tucked into an apple-red pencil skirt, the color emphasizing her fair skin and the glinting highlights in her hair.

  Yep, she was pissed. Her glare swept over the room like a warrior-queen seeking a human sacrifice. Several men turned to examine her but quickly went back to whatever they’d been doing. Her gaze bounced over him and moved on. Jesus, did she not recognize him after a hot shower and shave? He rubbed at his chin. Should he make the first move?

  He shuffled to the end of the bar, drawing her attention. Her mouth dropped slightly, and she shifted on her sky-high red heels. The damn things had to be a form of torture, but holy-hell they made her legs look spectacular. He forced his eyes away from the hypnotizing lengths.

  She approached stiffly. No swishy swing in her hips to distract him this time. He pulled at the collar of his green-checked button-down, surprised at the guilt trying to claw out of his throat as a groveling apology.

  She stopped several feet away from him, cocking a pointy-toed foot out and placing a hand on the dip of her waist. The exaggerated, womanly curve from breast to hip dried his mouth. Expertly applied makeup almost masked her sprinkle of freckles. Thin black pencil outlined her eyes, the sexy, smoky smudges gone. Harsh crimson painted her lips, thinner looking than the natural soft pink fullness from the afternoon.

  “Mr. Wilde, you might have saved me the trouble and introduced yourself this afternoon. Is there somewhere private we can discuss the offer I’m here to make?” Ice crystallized in her voice, and her gaze froze his apology somewhere in his throat. The flashes of vulnerability and humor from the afternoon had been buried under an avalanche.

  He opened his mouth but only an unintelligible grunt emerged.

  “Very eloquent. I assume you keep an office in the back. This way, I presume?” She led the way, but he beat her to the swinging door.

  “Allow me, ma’am.” He held the door open, and she brushed by him. Anger boiled through the ice, animating her face. The woman looked like she wanted to punch his two front teeth out.

  She kept an inch of space between them, but the air carried her scent. Fresh and citrusy and delicious. He followed her into the bustling kitchen. Laughter overlay the clang of metal and thunk of dishes.

  “How about a quick tour?” He gestured toward the prep area.

  Her eyes narrowed and darted over his face. She harrumphed and looked around. “I’ll admit I’m curious.”

  Two of the Falcon football players stopped their work at the stove to give him a wink and a thumbs-up behind her back. He sent them a brisk shake of his head and mouthed, “Extra laps.”

  Her head whipped around, and he forced a smile. Usually never at a loss for words, he stumbled a bit before finding his groove describing the inner workings of Adaline’s, herding her toward the dessert station. She examined the trays. “Not a huge selection.”

  “No, but what we have is outstanding. We use seasonal fruit in the cobbler. It’s my grandmother’s recipe. Today’s blackberry. My favorite. Here—” He grabbed a clean spoon and scooped up a bite, raising it to her mouth. She startled and bumped his arm. The dark sugared mash fell off the spoon and down the front of her pristine shirt, leaving a berry-colored skid mark straight down the curve of her right breast.

  “Damn . . . I mean, dangit, I’m sorry.” He grabbed a damp rag on the counter and wiped over her breast, smearing the stain and dampening her shirt. Her breast was full and soft and peaked under his attention. His mind fired off a cease and desist order which his hand ignored.

  She plucked the rag from him and pushed his hand away. “Alrighty there, Mountain Man, lay off. Nothing but some bleach is going help at this point.”

  He expected disdain and fury. Instead, humor lilted her voice, and a small smile tipped up one corner of her mouth, softening her face as she smoothed down the stained shirt. Heat whooshed through his body. The combination of attraction and embarrassment flashed him back to his adolescence, and he shifted on his feet, feeling suddenly gangly and uncomfortable in his own skin.

  “Maybe we should . . .” He gestured toward the steel door that led to the back hallway and his office.

  “Maybe we should.” One of her eyebrows lifted into her bangs. He swallowed hard, and followed her to the door.

  Before the door swung shut behind him, an irony-filled baritone cut through the noise, “Smooth move, Coach.”

  She stopped and shot an incinerating look over her shoulder. Her silky hair swung up on her cheek and back down. He winced. The disadvantage to staffing his restaurant with his football players. All the horny, little turds would get extra reps in the weight room.

  “Sorry about that. Teenagers. I need to clear something up.” He lunged for the conversational opening the kids gave him.

  Under the dim, buzzing fluorescent light, she leaned against the gray cement-block wall, her hands tucked in the small of her back. She kept her face tilted down, but lifted her eyes, the fringe of her bangs making her appear flirtatious, no doubt unintentionally. “Give it a shot, Mountain Man.”

  The repeat of the nickname she’d used in the kitchen penetrated his befuddlement. He settled a hand a few inches from her head. “Mountain Man?”

  She popped her head up, her words tangling on their quick escape. “ Did I . . . I mean, you”—she pointed close to his face—“Hold up, you’re the one who never supplied a name, so I gave you one. You were looking pretty rough this afternoon. The beard, the clothes, the smell.”

  His growing smile withered. “Smell? I didn’t smell. I’ll have you know I took a bath in the river before coming out of the bottoms.”

  “The bottom? The bottom of what? A cesspool?” Jessica made an exasperated sound and rolled her eyes. Big, beautiful, dark green eyes. He leaned a little closer.

  “That hurts, darlin’. And, might I point out, you didn’t offer a name either. I only found out who you were when you introduced yourself to Lilliana.”

  “No, I . . . but you knew I came to Falcon with the sole intent of speaking with you, and you didn’t fess up.” Interesting that her Southern accent became thicker the more exasperated she became. It was cute.

  “That’s true. I thought you might be a food groupie.”

  “A what?”

  “Ever since the Southern Living article was published, I’ve had ladies stop in looking for a job with extra benefits, if you catch my meaning. I honestly didn’t want to pussyfoot around a bunch of hurt feelings once I rejected you.”

  “You thought I wanted to . . . heaven help me,” she muttered. “Can we discuss the particulars of the job I’m offering? That’s
all I’m here for, I assure you. My benefit package at Montgomery Industries is adequate.”

  The devil grabbed hold of his tongue. “Adequate, Jessie? That’s awful sad. I can assure you, my benefits are more than adequate.”

  She shoved his shoulder back and tutted. “Go take a cold shower, Mountain Man. And, you may call me Jessica or Ms. Montgomery.”

  “Right this way, Ms. Montgomery.” He stepped back and gestured her down the hall with a small bow. She could pretend frigid disdain, but her fair skin betrayed her. Color had rushed up her neck and stained her cheeks, her freckles popping.

  To say his office was utilitarian was a complement. The scuffed metal desk had been inherited from the previous owner when Adaline’s had been The Tavern, a smoky, watering hole for the county. A small mirror hung on a wall next to a cheap, plastic clock.

  He’d never felt self-conscious about his lack of style until she swept around the room, fingering the curled edges of a decade-old U2 poster taped to otherwise stark white walls. The woman reeked upper-crust grace and money.

  He plopped on the duck-tape patched seat of his office chair, and she sat on the edge of the cheap folding metal chair he kept for the occasional visitor. Most of his business occurred on the floor of the restaurant.

  He shoved the last three issues of Sports Illustrated into a drawer. Next, he straightened a stack of invoices that had piled up since he’d been gone, mainly for something to do with his hands.

  “My father came to see you.” Her voice lilted somewhere between a statement and a question.

  “He offered me a job managing a restaurant in Atlanta.”

  “For a considerable salary, if I’m not mistaken. Surely more than you’re making here.” Her gaze travelled the room, and her eyebrows rose even though her head didn’t move from its quizzical tilt.

  A deep breath unlocked his jaw. While he might not be able to keep up with the Montgomerys of Richmond, he did just fine. “I own my house, enjoy my job, don’t answer to anyone. I have more than enough of what I need. I have no desire to call a cold-hearted bastard like your father my boss.”

  His words were calculated to get a reaction. She surprised him by not jumping to her father’s defense. She hummed and looked to the U2 poster again. “I can understand that, but my father lives in Richmond. You’ll have relative autonomy. If your menus prove as popular there as they are here, you could end up creating dishes for our restaurants all over the Southeast. Wouldn’t you enjoy that?”

  Of course, he would. It was his favorite part of the job, the experimentation, seeing the pleasure and wonder on his patron’s faces. “Neither you nor your father have eaten at Adaline’s, have you?”

  “No, but we’ve read the glowing reviews.” Her smile was like opening a packet of saccharine.

  He stood up. “Come on, then.”

  Her demeanor shifted to suspicion, and she pulled her bag an inch closer. “Are you escorting me off the premises?”

  “No. I’m going to force you to choose something off ‘the most eclectic menu in Alabama.’ I think that’s what Southern Living said anyway.”

  “I’m surprised you aren’t using your intense brown eyes and chiseled jaw as a selling point.” The amused arch of her brows sweetened her tart tone.

  Another wave of heat burned up the back of his neck. Her teasing was somehow worse than the ribbing he’d taken from the entire football team. He wished for his beard back to hide his no-doubt flushed face.

  “Why, Logan Wilde, are you embarrassed?” This time her smile was pure wildflower honey. A different kind of warmth settled low in his belly, and he found himself smiling back. If her plan was to bewitch him . . . Well, damn it all to hell, it was working.

  “Intensely. That article was the first national exposure for Adaline’s, but I can’t bring myself to frame it. Don’t want people to think I did something extra to get the good review.”

  “You didn’t turn on your Mountain Man charm? Not even a little bit?”

  He wanted to run his fingers through her hair to discover if it was as silky as it looked. Maybe fist his hand in the strands and kiss her until the garish red lipstick was gone. The combination of sweet and sassy was turning him on something fierce.

  He cleared his throat and gestured her through the office door and back into the dim hallway. “I treated the woman with the same respect I afford the elderly ladies who come in for lunch after church.”

  She tutted. “My guess is the poor woman didn’t stand a chance then.”

  What did she mean by that? Before he could find out, she asked, “Does this dinner meeting mean you’ll consider my offer?”

  The click of her heels echoed along the concrete. He should say no and opened his mouth to do just that. Yet, the word he’d tossed easily at her father didn’t come. “Consider it a maybe.”

  4

  Logan Wilde hadn’t said “no.” Jessica schooled her face into a polite mask even though she was fist pumping on the inside. A “maybe” was more than she’d hoped for tonight. A “maybe” meant her high-heel was in the door.

  He led her back down the barren, dingy concrete hallway and back through the kitchen. This time none of the boys made a peep. She stared at the back of his head, his dark brown hair brushing the preppy checked button-down.

  Somewhere between the shock at recognizing the clean-cut handsome man in khakis as Logan Wilde and the embarrassment at accidently calling him Mountain Man, her anger had dried up like a puddle in the Mojave.

  The floor of Adaline’s was packed. Conversation and laughter sounded over a quiet soundtrack of music. He dropped a word in one of the server’s ears, and they didn’t have long to wait for an out-of-the-way table in the corner. After pulling out a chair and scooting her under the hand-hewn oak table, he took the seat across from her and signaled a waiter. A brawny handsome boy with short, dark hair strode over with order pad in hand.

  “I think a sampling of some of most popular dishes would be best. And, sweet tea to drink? Or would you prefer something stronger?” he asked her.

  “Whatever you’re having is fine.” She folded her arms and leaned forward on her elbows.

  Logan ordered portions of several dishes and sweet tea for them both. Once the young waiter left, he settled back with a tight smile and tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. The entire day took on a farcical quality. Unexpected laughter bubbled up and out of her throat.

  “What’s so funny?” His smile grew to include his eyes.

  She flung her hands wide before resuming her position. “Everything. This entire trip has not gone to plan, which should freak me out, because I’m a planner to the nth degree, but it’s had its share of amusements too. This afternoon . . .” She shook her head.

  Her plan to use their prenegotiation acquaintance to her advantage was backfiring. Instead of walking the knife-edge of give-and-take negotiations, she did the worst possible thing she could do. She relaxed.

  “Be honest. You thought I was a homegrown hick.”

  Instead of sharing her erotic-cowboy fantasy or her random suspicions about his real name, she said, “I’ll admit I’ve never met a restaurateur who looked like he’d dragged himself in from weeks in the wilderness.”

  His head fell back with his laughter, his muscled neck taut. “Actually, it wasn’t quite two weeks.”

  “Wait. You’d seriously been living in the woods?”

  “Yep. Communing with nature, hunting pigs, the usual.”

  She huffed a disbelieving laugh, but his sheepish grin verified the admission as the truth. Their teas and a sampling of food arrived.

  “Excellent. Thanks, Scott.” Logan chucked his chin toward the server who backed away with a mock salute. “It’s time to find out if you want to retract your offer.”

  He scooped up something resembling macaroni and cheese with extras on a spoon while she shook out her silverware and placed a pristine white napkin on her lap. Might as well try to save her skirt since her shirt was ruine
d. His spoon headed toward her mouth. She grabbed his wrist.

  “Whoa there, Mountain Man. What are you doing?”

  “Feeding you. Now open up before we have another accident.”

  She opened to offer another protest, but the spoon slipped between her lips. Rich flavors exploded. She hummed and her eyes closed, her hand still around his wrist. Taste-testing new recipes had been part of her regular job when she’d worked a six-month stint in Montgomery Industries’ experimental kitchens, but never had something tasted so comforting. It reminded her of her ma-maw and autumn.

  Finally, she opened her eyes. “Did I taste bacon? And maybe basil?”

  “You did. It’s our most popular dish. Next, I think . . .” He worked his way around the dishes, feeding her bite by bite, his satisfaction in her pleasure reflected in his crooked smile. Each dish was a unique spin on a classic. A slight protest clamored in the back of her mind. This didn’t feel at all like a business negotiation. It felt more like . . . a date.

  Unacceptable. She picked up her own spoon and went for more of the fancy mac and cheese, keeping her gaze down. With Logan describing the food, they polished off every bite on the table. The waistband of her skirt cut into her waist, and she shimmed to relieve the pressure.

  He sat back, linked his hands over his stomach, and stretched his legs out to the side of the table. How tall was he? A couple of inches taller than her in her heels, which put him over six feet. Her gaze drifted up his legs to his hands, cleaned of the black grease from the afternoon, but still ruddy and strong. A workingman’s hands.

  “What’d you think? Good enough for Montgomery Industries?”

  It would behoove her to play coy, but food-induced endorphins were still running through her bloodstream. “You would be a star. Everything was incredible. Where did you learn to cook?”