A Man of Honor

by Miranda Liasson

  The sultry look that swept her up and down signaled that his idea of fun probably wasn’t related to ice cream. “Only made them appreciate the finer things more.” He full-out grinned. Then he closed his eyes, folded his arms, and rested them on the table. “For the record, you’re the one who thinks I need to have more fun, but okay. Hit me.”

  “Here comes round one.” She placed some ice cream on her spoon and held it up to his lips. To make sure he wouldn’t cheat, she covered his eyes again. “Name the flavor.”

  “Mint chocolate chip. This is too easy.”

  “How about this one?”

  “Butter pecan.”

  “And this?”

  “Strawberry. Why on earth would you mix all these flavors together in one bowl?”

  “Hey, you’re the one who likes the raspberry white chocolate mochas. Variety is the spice of life. Last one.”

  The spoon hovered over his full lips, sinful lips that she could imagine sliding over her naked skin far too easily. She took a breath and tried to compose herself, tried to stop the current between them from escalating to shock levels. She sensibly started to remove her hand from his eyes, but he seized her wrist with his hand and lowered it down slowly. Then he opened his eyes and looked straight at her with his bright, intense gaze. “Chocolate,” he said. “It’s chocolate. My favorite.”

  His grasp was strong yet gentle. There went those big hands with beautiful long fingers, touching her again, sending heat and fireworks bursting everywhere.

  No more touching. It was effing with her body and her mind. God, she’d missed this back-and-forth, this repartee that came to them so easily. She couldn’t help feeling what else would be so natural between them.

  Making love would. She felt it, down to her bones.

  His eyes were blue and troubled, like a raging ocean. She suddenly wanted to replace the ice cream with her lips. Kiss him until he forgot whatever it was that tormented him.

  A sensible voice inside her reminded her to be careful. She tugged at her hand, but he held it firmly. She opened her mouth to protest, but he stunned her by kissing the inside of her wrist. He surely must have felt her pulse skitter as he pressed his lips against the thin, sensitive skin. “I know what you’re trying to do,” he said. “Divert me from my problems. You’ve always had a thing for wounded animals, but I’m not a rescue puppy. Go find someone else, a nice guy who hasn’t had to see and do the things I have. Someone who’s a hell of a lot less trouble.”

  “Like Grandpa?” Her eyes gestured toward the iPad.

  His fine, full mouth turned up just a little. She struggled to read him, but it was impossible. At times, his eyes seemed an icy blue, like he was trying so hard to look unaffected and distant, but then the ice would thaw, and some warmth would seep through, like embers from a fire barely kept alive.

  Something was alive in there. She just knew it. But she would be a fool to try to coax it out. She was done playing the fool, no matter how hot Preston Guthrie was or how intensely her traitorous body wanted him.

  All Cat knew was she had to get away from him, because all her resolve was beginning to melt just like the ice cream on their sundae.

  Chapter Eight

  Something had changed over lunch. Cat had gotten to him, worked her sweet, stealthy way under his skin until he was burning for her. He had to try harder to distance himself. Kissing her wrist was an impulsive mistake, but it was a simple blunder, one that wouldn’t create any lasting damage as long as he didn’t repeat it. If only this damn afternoon would end.

  “Why do you hate antiques so much?” Cat asked as Preston held open the door of the first of a string of antique shops on the main drag of town.

  A large lamp in the front window caught his attention, and he couldn’t help but look. At its base was a haughty and proud rooster, its beak up in the air, wings poised to flap, as if he were about to strut around the barnyard and show everyone how amazing he was. To make matters worse, there was a chicken lamp, too, and together they were quite a pair. Cat saw Preston pause and stopped to see what he was staring at. “I just don’t like old stuff,” he said.

  That was an understatement. Everything about his growing up was old, beat-up, and out of whack, from their shabby house to their barely-running cars to the years of hand-me-down clothing he wore with embarrassment. He’d taught himself to sew just so he could repair the holes and tears.

  Cat whistled. “Those are some amazing lamps.”

  She sounded dead serious, which made him shake his head in disbelief.

  A bell tinkled as they entered the shop, which was filled with objects crammed into every available spot. Sections were split into rows of stalls for the separate antiques vendors who ran them. The smell of—how else could he describe it but of old stuff; dust, old paper, and mildewed book pages—permeated the place and made him want to sneeze.

  Cat picked up an old wide-brimmed hat with aqua sequins and feathers and put it on her head, puckering her lips and making a face. “Old stuff is fun. It’s memories of childhood. A peek into how everyday life was in the decades before we were born.”

  “You shouldn’t try that thing on,” Preston said, removing the hat from her head and putting it back on a hat stand.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “It might have lice or something,” he said.

  Cat moved on to a stall loaded with porcelain china plates imprinted with all types of dainty floral patterns. She picked up one lined with pink roses and examined it. “For the risk taker that you are, you certainly seem overprotective.”

  “Only with people I—like. Only with people I like.” Oh, hell. What was the matter with him? He’d almost slipped up big-time. This place was making his skin crawl, and he couldn’t wait to get out, if only he could marshal Cat away from exploring every dish, book, knickknack, and tchotchke she laid eyes on. He found her at the back of a stall admiring crystal stemware with a finely engraved, etched pattern.

  “You like that stuff?” he asked.

  “It’s pretty and unique. I like quirky stuff. Like, I want to have all kinds of plates one day, and mix them up as a set. I don’t like matchy-matchy stuff.” She picked up a plate rimmed with delicate painted flowers and another with a traditional blue-and-white Chinese pattern.

  “You like to mix it up, huh?” He was just the opposite. He’d take order and symmetry any day over chaos. If anyone said that was because of his childhood, they were damn right.

  She shrugged. “I suppose it’s because my grandmother has always been such a stickler about etiquette. And china patterns and silverware and glassware. Did you know she started a hope chest for me when I was six?”

  “What’s a hope chest?”

  “A place to store linens and china and serving ware—stuff you need when you get married.”

  “That sounds kind of nice to me.” That someone cared enough to help you with your future was something he’d had no experience with.

  “It wasn’t motivated by nice. It was motivated by her wanting me to follow in her footsteps. Her gifts are conditional. I don’t want her stuff or her rules.”

  Cat’s adamant tone and the edge in her voice surprised him for someone usually so calm and assuaging. Preston had had a few glimpses of Amelia Kingston from his youth, when he grew up with Derrick. From what Nick had told him, she was still a real pill, possessing impossibly high expectations and love that was given or withdrawn based on whether or not they were fulfilled.

  “It was her idea for me to interview for that job in Charlotte.”

  Preston picked up a feathered red-and-black sequined mask on a stick and held it up to his eyes. “Tell me how you really feel about that,” he said.

  She laughed, but then her smile dissolved. “I need a job, so I guess an interview is a good thing, isn’t it?” Then she moved on to the next stall, which featured delicate old glass Christmas ornaments with tiny propellers that spun in the breeze and a giant collection of ceramic roosters of all different
sizes.

  “What do you think about these for a wedding gift?” He pointed to a pair of silver candlesticks locked in a glass case. Everyone bought candlesticks for newly married couples, didn’t they? As Cat walked over, a saleswoman with gray hair and a print blouse walked over to the case, unlocked it, and set out one of the candlesticks on a blue velvet cloth.

  “These are sterling silver candlesticks, exactly like a pair made for King Louis XIV in the early 1700s,” she said.

  “They’re very fancy,” Cat said.

  “Notice the scrollwork and the animal heads etched into them,” the woman continued. “And there’s a coat of arms engraved at the base.”

  Preston turned the candlestick over to study the underside of the base. “If it were real, it would have the warden’s mark here.”

  “What’s a warden’s mark?” Cat asked.

  “It’s a stamp that indicates it contains just the right amount of silver. Silversmiths had to add a certain amount of copper, because silver is too soft to mold into anything.”

  “That’s interesting,” Cat said.

  “He’s right,” the woman said. “Silver on its own is valuable, but it needs a bit of copper to really make something of itself.”

  “How much are they?” Cat asked.

  “Three hundred,” the woman said.

  “Thanks for showing them to us.” Preston steered Cat across the aisle. “We’ll think about it.”

  “You didn’t like them?” Cat asked. “Too expensive?”

  He laughed. “They were imitations.”

  “And that’s too much money to pay for imitations?”

  “No. What I’m saying is, why buy imitations when you can get the real thing?”

  “So are you planning a Louvre break-in anytime soon? Or are you just going to buy a pair for ten grand at Christie’s?”

  He flashed a smile. “Neither. Let’s just keep searching for more ideas.”

  “How did you know that stuff, anyway?”

  He shrugged. “History’s a hobby of mine,” he said, enjoying the feel of her arm as he led her across the way.

  “Oh, look at these,” Cat said, looking at a giant ceramic rooster with a multicolored plume of tail feathers surrounded by smaller roosters in different sizes and colors. “Beautiful.”

  “I’m getting the feeling you have a thing for roosters,” he said. “Don’t tell me. Quirky.”

  “You’re getting me. You’re really getting me,” she said with a grin.

  He picked up a shiny steel sword that was around four feet long, and held it straight up in the air. Looking from the blade to her, he asked, “You love roosters?”

  “Yes! The way they strut around showing off their feathers, like they don’t have a care in the world.” She moved down the line. “Look, a husband and wife.” She picked up a pair of salt and pepper shakers, a hen and a rooster, in vibrant greens, reds, and yellows. “I love these!”

  He put down the sword and picked up the shakers from her hands. “Hey! What are you doing with my chickens?”

  “I want to get these for you.”

  “Preston, no! I’m just fooling around. I don’t even have a place to put them. I’m living in my old bedroom, remember?”

  He examined the pair. “You need these chickens.” She giggled and tried to take them from him, but he held on tight. When she laughed, her sea green eyes danced and he’d have given his entire right leg right then just to kiss her. Not to mention all the other things he wanted to do to her. “Listen. You need to put these by your bed, and when you look at them, I want you to think of having your own place again and shaking them onto your eggs every morning to remind yourself to turn things upside down a bit. What is life if you don’t rock the boat a little?”

  She stopped laughing. The tug-of-war between them had ended, and now their hands were stock-still, fingers locked together around the ceramic chickens. “Don’t let anyone break your spirit, Cat. Or tell you that you should be a certain thing or a certain way. You’ll find yourself if you listen to what’s in here, not to the voices outside your own head.” He tapped on her upper chest. Her eyes grew big and wide as they stared into his. He’d never seen such a beautiful woman, both inside and out. So beautiful, his chest ached. His heart felt like a wrung-out rag, dried out and desperate from these months of continual wanting and not having.

  “May I help you?” an older woman wearing a checkered apron said.

  “Yes,” Cat said. “We’ll take these,” she said, handing over the shakers. “And this.” She bent to pick up the sword.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” he said, but she’d already laid it out on the counter. “Are you crazy?”

  “This is a replica of Excalibur,” the woman said. “Notice the medieval designs on the blade, and the dragons and beasts on the guard and pommel.”

  Cat turned to him and said softly, so that only he could hear, “You want me to shake it up, and I want you to slay your dragons.”

  She took out her credit card, but before she could object, he reached over with his own and handed it to the saleswoman.

  “I was going to pay for that,” Cat said. “It was a gift…from me.”

  “Same here. The chickens are a gift from me.” He took the brown-paper-wrapped packages from her as they started the trek back to the car. “And it’s rude to say no to a gift.”

  Their gazes clashed for a moment as he insisted on opening the door. Finally, she relented by smiling. “Okay, fine, this time. I do love the chickens.”

  As they rode back to Buckleberry Bend, the joking from earlier had ceased, but what replaced it was a companionable silence that he didn’t mind at all. For the first time in a long time, his brain wasn’t racing and his usual restlessness was strangely subdued.

  Cat pulled into his driveway and put the car in park. He opened the door and prepared to turn his body to get his bad leg out and on the ground.

  Before he could move, she reached over and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for a fun day,” she said.

  He rarely blushed, but damn if he didn’t feel his cheeks go hot. He nodded quickly and got out of the car before she could notice.

  “Preston,” she said, calling him back. He bent over to see what she wanted. “Don’t forget your sword.”

  “Thanks, chickie,” he said with a wink, taking the package she handed him. That made her smile, and he couldn’t help smiling back.

  In the time it took for him to straighten up and wave, she was gone. He stood there, rubbing his cheek where she’d kissed it. And in that moment, he knew one thing. If it was possible to slay his dragons, he’d do it. For her.

  Preston was headed back to the house when his cell rang. His father. He didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to ruin the sense of almost complete happiness that he felt. Finally he decided to pick it up. Like a shot in the doctor’s office, it was usually best to get anything having to do with his father over with as soon as possible.

  “Hi Son,” said the familiar voice.

  “Hi, Vernon,” Preston said. He simply couldn’t muster Dad just then.

  “Hey, my disability check still hasn’t come in. Think you could spot me another hundred or so? Don’t want them to shut off my water or anything.”

  Preston knew this had to stop. That his dad needed to return to rehab, and that every time Preston caved and gave him money, Preston was giving him an excuse not to go. But frankly, Pretson was tired. He didn’t want to argue or strong arm him back to rehab or even think of his father right now. Or be reminded of his own problems which he’d somehow nearly managed to forget for a little while.

  “I’ll have my assistant pay your water bill,” Preston said.

  “And while you’re at it,” Vernon said, “could you have her put a little more into my account? Just till that check arrives.”

  Preston squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to shut out the bad feelings that were weaving their way in, disrupting his great mood.

  “Sure, Vernon. I’ll take care o
f it.” When he hung up the phone, he was shaking a little. He had to sit for a minute on his front steps.

  Vernon was a poison in his life. Preston had hoped that his father would change with the best resources but he doubted that would ever happen. His father served as a constant reminder of what could happen to someone who’d gone through hell and had become ensnared in the web of pain and addiction.

  It had taken mere days—no, minutes—for Cat to slip under his skin. Slip into his heart and wash away his resolve. Hell, had she really ever left it? He knew in his gut this wonderful, horrible happiness wasn’t real. He couldn’t allow it for her sake.

  Who was he kidding? Slaying those dragons was going to be impossible. He’d lost sight of his focus. He had to stop dreaming and fantasizing about fairy tales and work to protect her from himself.

  Chapter Nine

  “So we have a little problem,” Cat said to her sister Maddie as she stepped into Maddie’s office at their family’s shoe company the next afternoon. She’d finished up work at the grade school and had offered to pick up Preston for his PT appointment.

  Maddie looked up from the pile of multicolored square leather samples, ribbons, tape measures, and drawings in front of her on her worktable and smiled.

  She’d been doing a lot of that lately. Smiling. Cat couldn’t blame her, considering she was about to be married to the love of her life in just a few days, even if it was just a little annoying. Not that she would ever begrudge her sister her hard-won happiness. But still.

  “Come in, sit down. Want some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.” Maddie got up and cleared a bunch of drawings of shoes off a nearby chair. “What’s the problem?”

  Cat placed a long cardboard box on the worktable. “Open it.”

  Puzzled, Maddie opened the box. She pulled out something long, lacy, and delicate attached to a crown of glittering rhinestones.

  Maddie folded it back into the box and sat down. “I am not wearing Grandmeel’s veil.”

  Cat threw her hands up in defense. “I’m the messenger. But just to let you know, she’s regarding it as a gift. To refuse is to create problems.”