by T. K. Leigh
He holds up his hands. “My mother’s words. Not mine.”
“Jesus. Sounds like she’s a real—”
“Bitch?” Wes interjects.
“I would have said pill, but I suppose your word is accurate, too.”
“Trust me. It is.”
I nod, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets to stop myself from reaching out and holding his hand, an urge that increases with each step we take. Touching him just feels natural, this act of keeping my distance forced and constrained.
“I thought you had a decent relationship with her. At least compared to Julia.”
After some thought, he replies, “I do. Or I did.”
I lick my lips, stopping to check out a few galvanized buckets I can clean up, re-distress, and use as decorative pieces throughout Gampy and Meemaw’s house to keep up with the historic farmhouse style.
“What happened?” I press, making a note of the stall number on my phone before continuing along the row once more.
“Remember the night of the fair?”
“Not sure that’s one I’ll forget for a long time, if ever. At least I won’t soon forget what happened after the fair.”
“Yeah. I suppose not.” An adorable blush covers his cheeks as he recalls that kiss.
I wonder if he’s craved another one as much as I have. At first, I questioned whether I did the right thing by keeping him solidly in friend territory. But several other people in the sexual assault support group I’ve been attending have agreed with my decision, saying it’s better I wait until I’m ready to date. That I shouldn’t rush into anything until I’m in the right mental state to deal with the emotional rollercoaster of a relationship.
“Do you remember me mentioning my ex-fiancée, Brooklyn?”
“I do.” I pull my lip between my teeth, recalling his passionate plea as if it were just yesterday. That this thing is bigger than us. That I’m worth any risk to his heart. “You really do have a thing for girls named after cities, don’t you?” I nudge him with my shoulder, hoping to break through the mounting tension.
“I guess you can say that.” He smiles sheepishly, his chin dipping slightly. “Brooklyn was the first real person I’d dated.”
“So… What? Before that, you made up girlfriends or something?”
A laugh vibrates from his throat as he shakes his head. “Do I really look so horrible that I need to make up a girlfriend?”
“No.” My cheeks warm from the heat in his gaze as I try to fight against my grin, albeit unsuccessfully. Wes is the first person in years who’s made me smile like this. Who’s vanquished the guilt and remorse weighing me down.
“When I say real, I mean she was the first woman I’d met who wasn’t trying to be someone she wasn’t. You’ve heard Julia talk about what life as a Bradford was like for her.”
I nod. “A little.”
“It’s all a show. People will kiss your ass one second, then turn around and stab you in the back the next.”
“How did you meet her? I’m assuming it wasn’t at some posh society event.”
“No, it wasn’t.” His eyes shine with a nostalgic gleam. “One day, I had a meeting with a client in the North End of Boston. I was running early, so I ducked into a local Mom and Pop café to grab a coffee. And that’s where I first saw her. She was so unassuming. So demure. So gracious. One of those women who’s stunning, but they don’t see it.” He flashes me a smile. “Kind of like you.”
I hold his gaze for a moment, a charge buzzing between us. Butterflies flap their relentless wings in my stomach, as they’re prone to do whenever I’m around him. But before either of us does anything we’ll regret, I quickly avert my eyes.
“So what happened?” I walk toward a booth and examine a pile of wood pieces, even though I have more than enough spare wood from all the renovations than I know what to do with.
“She didn’t love me. Not like she needed to in order to be happy.”
“And how does your mother fit into all this?”
He rolls his eyes. “She saw our engagement as her opportunity to plan the social event of the year. Didn’t care about me finding someone I loved and wanted to spend the rest of my life with. She just wanted her name to be front and center in the society column.”
“Is that really a thing?”
“Down here it is. We both had a lot of pressure on us, Brooklyn more so than me. I suppose I’m partly to blame for that. She’d hoped for a long engagement, but instead of listening to her, I tried to keep the peace between my mother and Brooklyn. So we’d set a date for only a few months after we’d gotten engaged, thanks to my mother’s insistence. She took complete control, even going so far as to pre-approve dresses for Brooklyn to try on at the local bridal shop, instead of giving her free rein to choose whatever style she wanted. I was so busy with work that I didn’t even realize everything that had been going on.”
He turns his urgent eyes on mine. “I’m not blaming what happened on my mother. Even if she hadn’t meddled, things would have eventually ended. I played a huge part in our ultimate demise. I was always working. Never made Brooklyn a priority, although I kept promising I would. I never carried through on that promise, though, so I can’t blame her for walking away. I told her I loved her all the time, yet I failed to actually show her I did, not like she needed. I was so used to people equating love with material things, I didn’t realize all she wanted was my presence. But after my mother called her a slut and a whore in front of all her uppity friends in an effort to save face—”
“She didn’t,” I gasp, covering my mouth. This woman sounds like an absolute nightmare. No wonder Julia steers clear of her. I’d do the same if she were my mother.
“She did. I’ve always been very non-confrontational. Not a pushover,” he clarifies. “If I see something wrong, I won’t roll over and take it, so to speak. It’s probably from having to play the mediator between my mother and Julia for years. I just want everyone to get along. But when I heard my mother call the woman I loved such horrible names, I lost it. Chewed her out for all her friends to witness. Once I got Brooklyn out of there, of course. And the worst part?”
“There’s something even worse than her calling the woman you were going to marry a whore?”
“Well, worse for her.” He smirks, a devilish glint in his eyes. “She’d invited a photographer from the society column. Let’s just say he captured a rather unflattering picture of my mother as I gave her a piece of my mind. She’d made the front page of the society magazine after all.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Wow.”
“I didn’t plan it that way. I’m not that vindictive. But I like to think karma finally paid her a visit.”
“I’d say.”
I don’t know why this story touches me like it does. Everyone has a monster-in-law story. I can only imagine that Mrs. Bradford has very high standards for her son, her baby boy, ones no woman will ever live up to, at least in her eyes. But the knowledge that Wes has no problem standing up for people he cares about, even to the woman who gave him life, endears another part of my heart to him.
“So that’s the short of it. I still talk to her. We’re not at each other’s throats like Julia and her tend to be. But I no longer try to keep the peace. No longer bite my tongue when she’s acting unreasonable.” He laughs under his breath. “Like the last time I saw her earlier in the summer. I was at a golf tournament the company put on, and she was trying to get me to ask out one of her friend’s daughters because, and I quote, ‘she has good breeding’.”
“Breeding?” I snort a laugh. “What was she? A fucking horse?”
“To some of these people, that’s what picking a wife is. Marry a respectable woman who will bring some sort of clout to the family, regardless of how incompatible you are, then find…satisfaction elsewhere.”
“You mean cheat?”
He places his finger over his mouth. “You didn’t hear it from me.”
“Of course not.” I h
eave a sigh, no longer paying attention to any of the wares being sold, too consumed by Wes and learning more about his world. “I take it that’s not what you want.”
“What?”
“Good breeding.” I wave my hand. “For lack of a better word.”
“Certainly not.”
“Then tell me what you do want, Weston Bradford,” I say coyly.
He stops walking, and I do the same, facing him as he smiles at me. “Love. Nothing more. Nothing less.” His answer hangs in the air for several seconds.
Then he steps toward me. My mouth grows dry as I inhale his earthy aroma that still has a hint of sawdust, despite the fact we haven’t worked on the house today.
“How about you, Londyn? What’s your holy grail?”
“Holy grail?”
“Yeah. You know. The one thing in life you’ll always pursue.”
I focus my gaze past him, considering his question. A dozen possible answers float in my mind. Happiness. Security. Acceptance. Control. But one seems to overpower all the others.
“Love.” I meet his eyes. “Nothing more. Nothing less.”
He nods, a subtle smile pulling on his full lips. “Nothing less.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Weston
“How do you possibly see all that potential when you pass an old, beat-up dresser?” I remark after listening to Londyn talk about what she plans to do with some of her purchases.
We’d spent the entire morning scouring the flea market for the best finds. I couldn’t help but feel like I was seeing a different part of Londyn as I watched her methodically do one pass of the vendors, making notes, only buying something on that first pass if it was something she’d been looking for. Otherwise, she just made a note to return later to buy, often haggling about the price. And this woman could certainly haggle. I have half a mind to hire her to negotiate contracts for me. She’d probably be more effective than the entirety of our current legal department.
In the end, we walked away with a bunch of galvanized buckets, some wooden tool carriers she claimed would make great planters, and a dresser, which she almost didn’t get, but I insisted would fit in the back of the Range Rover.
Since neither of us wanted the day to end, we dropped everything off in Londyn’s overstuffed garage, then headed to an art museum. Now we’re relaxing over sushi.
“Easy.” She shrugs, sipping on her sake. “I see potential in everything.”
I smile, holding back my remark that I wish she’d see potential in herself. She needs to figure that out on her own. Just like she needs to finally realize what I’ve tried to show her these past few months as we’ve not only worked on Gampy and Meemaw’s house, but also got together for dinner at mine. Or went to an outdoor concert at the park near her house. Or strolled through the Castleberry Hill Art District. That she is ready to be vulnerable with someone again.
“That’s incredible. And you do all that stuff right in your garage? You don’t have another workspace?”
She picks up a piece of yellowtail with her chopsticks and places it into her mouth. After swallowing, she dabs her lips. “Nope. Just the garage. Although I will admit that I have moved some pieces into the spare room in my house.”
“Some of that stuff is kind of big.” I shove a piece of the spicy tuna roll into my mouth. “How do you ship it?”
“I use a crate and freight company. They come and pack everything up, then ship it. But if the purchaser is within a few hours from Atlanta and it fits into my SUV, I’ll deliver it.”
“By yourself?” I cock a brow. “That doesn’t sound safe.”
“I told you. I know self-defense.” She smiles, but I don’t waver from my hard stare.
I’d give Julia the same stare if I found out she was taking orders online and hand delivering her stuff. It makes me even more uneasy with Londyn.
“But, if it makes you feel better, I also carry a gun.” She pats her purse.
My eyes widen. “Right now?” I hadn’t expected to learn she was packing. Hell, I don’t know many women who know how to shoot at all, let alone own a gun.
“I have a concealed carry permit. My neighbor, Hazel, encouraged me to get a gun after I told her about my past.”
“Hazel was your self-defense instructor, correct?”
She nods. “Yeah. Said it gave her peace of mind after what she went through.”
“And what’s that?”
“Her ex beat her and her sons. When they tried to leave, he shot their two sons and her before shooting himself. She survived. Her boys didn’t.”
“Wow. Sorry to hear that.”
“Carrying a gun won’t bring her boys back, but it gives her peace of mind, even though she knows how to defend herself. Like me. I know how to defend myself now, but at least I have a backup if need be.”
“Well then…” I lean back in my chair. “We’ll have to go to the range sometime.”
She tilts her head as a small smile crawls across her perfect lips. “You shoot?”
“I do. Gampy taught me.”
“Then it’s a date.” She inhales sharply as her words play back for her. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean.” I bring my small sake cup to my mouth and sip the warm liquid. “Not a real date.”
“Right.” She swallows hard. “Not a real date.” She pauses, staring into the distance.
I can almost see the wheels spinning in her head. I study her, urging her to admit she wouldn’t mind going on an official date. But she doesn’t, turning her bright eyes back to mine, the moment of hesitation passing.
“I hope you’re prepared to be emasculated, though.”
“Why’s that?”
She leans toward me, her powdery scent mixing with the smell of ginger that permeates this place. “Because I will shoot you under the table.”
“Bring it on, Bennett.” I waggle my brows.
“You got it, Bradford.”
We continue to enjoy our meal as she tells me how her up-cycling business took off almost overnight. How within a few months, she had saved enough to get her master’s degree, so she decided to study interior design instead of art history. I tell her about the charity branch of the architectural firm I founded several years ago that helps people who’ve been displaced from their homes due to natural disaster or circumstance rebuild. She even offers to volunteer her own time in the future. Then our conversation veers toward a discussion about whether we’ll be able to finish Gampy and Meemaw’s house before Thanksgiving so we can celebrate there.
As we leave the restaurant, I’m so wrapped up in listening to her talk about all the food her mother made every year for Thanksgiving, I barely register someone calling my name. It isn’t until Londyn stops talking and nudges me that I look up.
“Wes?” a tall, slender brunette asks, eyes narrowed as she approaches.
It takes me a minute to place her, but once I do, a warmth fills me as memories rush back.
“Sophia? Oh, my god.” As if no time has passed since we’ve seen each other, I wrap her in my arms, kissing her cheek. “It’s so good to see you.”
“You, too. I wasn’t certain it was you, but I took a risk.”
I drop my hold on her, feeling like I’m staring at a living, breathing memory of my summer days with Gampy and Meemaw. She was as much a part of their family as Julia and me. That was the type of people my grandparents were. If you touched their lives in some way, you’d always be family.
“I’m glad you did,” I offer. “Truly.”
“I didn’t mean to pull you away from your…” She glances at Londyn. “Wife?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Londyn is…”
I hesitate, unsure of what to say. Unsure what Londyn is to me. Unsure what Londyn wants me to be to her. Unsure what I can say so she doesn’t read too much into it. The last thing I want is to say something wrong and scare her off. So I go with the truth.
“She’s my interior designer,” I say. “I bought Meema
w and Gampy’s old place on the auction block a few months ago, and we’re restoring it.”
Sophia places her hand over her heart, her eyes gleaming. “That’s wonderful.”
I turn to Londyn, her expression unreadable. “Sophia was one of the babies Meemaw cuddled at the hospital,” I explain. “She stayed in touch with a lot of the families, and they became part of the family, too. Sophia and I practically grew up together. For years, I thought she was actually my sister.” I laugh at how naïve I was back then. We were around the same age and always together. What else was a four-year-old supposed to think?
“Nice to meet you.” With a smile that seems unusually forced, Londyn extends her hand toward Sophia, and they shake.
“You, too.”
“So, what are you up to these days?” I ask, trying to make polite conversation.
“I’m a lawyer, actually.”
I laugh heartily. “Gampy said you’d make a damn good attorney, what with the way you always tried to negotiate for one more cookie after dinner.”
She grins. “Well, I’d like to say my negotiation skills have improved slightly. But it was actually your grandfather who inspired me to take this path. And to do some pro bono work with the Innocence Foundation, like your gampy.”
I exhale a small breath, amazed at how much my grandparents influenced this young woman’s life. “He’d be very proud.”
“Just like he was of you,” she reminds me, then tears her gaze from mine, looking at Londyn. “Well…,” she continues, her voice brightening, “I’ll let you get on with your evening. It was lovely to meet you, Londyn.”
“You, too.” Her voice doesn’t sound like the one I’ve grown accustomed to. It’s more contrived and strained.
“And it was really good to see you again, Wes.” Sophia’s words force my attention away from Londyn. When she raises herself onto her toes, I kiss her cheek. “Maybe we can get together again sometime?” she suggests. “Meet up for a coffee or a drink to catch up and reminisce about Meemaw and Gampy.”
“I’d like that.”
“Great.” She reaches into her purse and grabs a business card and pen, scribbling on the back. “Call me. That’s my cell.”
