Save the Date

by Jenny B. Jones

  “I don’t like to leave anyone unsatisfied.” His hand slid back up her arm.

  Unexpected, unwanted desire unfurled in her stomach. She had to get a grip. This was a game she wasn’t prepared to play. She met those bedroom eyes and dropped her voice to a sultry whisper. “Alex?”

  He said nothing. Just moved his face closer to hers. “Yes?”

  Her lips hovered under his. “I’m not staying with Clare Deveraux.”

  He lifted his head and exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “You, Lucy Wiltshire, know how to ruin a perfectly good time.”

  “Oh.” She blinked twice. “Is that what we were having?”

  “Your only other option is to stay at my house.” His eyebrows lifted in a challenge. “With me.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Lucy walked down a second-story hall lined with oil paintings of generations of Deveraues. Just beyond a sixth bedroom, she found the image of her father as a young twentysomething. The age he would’ve been when he’d lured her mother into passion and ruin, only to discard her like a worn-out tennis racket.

  “You look like him.” Clare stepped out from the doorway behind Lucy, her eyes on the picture.

  “Actually I favor my mother.” A woman she didn’t even know anymore.

  Clare fingered the brooch at her neck. “Apparently you have Anna’s kind heart. And that’s a blessing.” She wiggled her fingers. “Now come, come.”

  Lucy’s bedroom could’ve been taken from the pages of Traditional Home. She was surrounded by chic, sophisticated white everywhere she looked. A four-poster bed sat as one focal point, covered in a white matelasse quilt and an abundance of fluffy pillows that made a girl just want to run and jump into them. Opposite the bed, a white fireplace stood, framed by a collection of antique mirrors over the mantel.

  “It’s . . . nice,” Lucy said in the stilted silence.

  “I know you don’t want to be here. But I think it’s a blessing.”

  “Clare, I don’t know what to make of all this yet. My mother lied to me”—Lucy sighed—“about my father . . . about who I thought I was. And the funny thing is, I’ve never missed her more. I just want the chance to talk to her—to ask her why she would accept money from you. Why she would allow herself to be bought off. She could’ve told me the truth.”

  Clare sat down in the matching chair beside her. “Initially, I’m sure your mother was scared to tell anyone. The agreement she signed was silence in exchange for cash.”

  “But I was her daughter. I deserved to know. And after a certain point, she had nothing to lose. She would’ve known you wouldn’t have caused a scandal.”

  “Yes, I realize that.” Clare ran her finger over the piping on the arm of the chair. “I think your mother wanted something better for you. My son floated from one scandal to another. Anna probably wanted you to think your father was a hero. A good man. There was little reason to want you connected to my family. No doubt she wanted to cut all ties with the Deverauxes.”

  “How could you just throw money at her like she was nothing? My mother was a hard-working, godly woman.” Lucy watched the sun set in the evening sky. It was only six thirty, but she was exhausted and spent.

  “It was a long time ago. I was different then—we all were. I had a family and a name to protect. I wasn’t married to just any man—I was married to the governor.” Clare stood up and went to an armoire. “You don’t have to forgive me tonight. You don’t even have to like me. But please at least pray about it.”

  Lucy had tried. But the words hadn’t come. All she had been able to utter to the Holy Father was a profound Are you kidding me?

  “Alex had a bag sent over while we were at the pharmacy.” Clare opened the curving door of the cabinet. “He packed some things he thought you might need. I’ll just leave you alone to get settled. And Lucy?” Clare stopped in the doorway, a queen of her manor.

  “Yes?”

  “No matter what you decide in terms of forgiving me, we shall begin your lessons tomorrow night. I hope you’re mature enough to put aside your feelings for me in order to help Alex.”

  Lucy said nothing as Clare let herself out.

  Reaching into the armoire, she pulled out a small suitcase and flung it on the bed. There was no telling what had been packed. Probably whatever his assistant could grab.

  She unzipped the top and found a pair of jeans, her favorite red flats, and a white blouse. She pulled out her Wookiee sleep shirt and a note fluttered onto the quilt.

  Lucy,

  Searched for ten minutes for something lacy and hot. This is what I found. Ever heard of a place called Victoria’s Secret? They sell nightwear. From this decade.

  Sorry about your day—except when you kissed me. Twice.

  I was embarrassed at your blatant displays of affection, but as I am a man for the people, I will do my duty.

  Sleep well. Call you Wednesday morning.

  Signed,

  Your Han Solo

  That man. He wasn’t turning out to be what she had expected. What she had counted on him to be. And that thought made her head hurt even worse. She wondered again when he would wise up and trade her in for an upgrade—someone of his class and breeding.

  Underneath the jeans she saw a Bible Alex must’ve found on her bookshelf. She ran her finger over her name on the peeling burgundy cover. He couldn’t have known this wasn’t the Bible she used now, but the one her mother had given her for her sixteenth birthday.

  Flipping through the wispy pages, she paused as a highlighted passage caught her attention.

  I WILL PRAISE YOU,

  BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN REMARKABLY AND WONDERFULLY MADE.

  Words Lucy had clung to as a teenager when everything in her said she wasn’t good enough. And now? Her father was Steven Deveraux. She was sleeping in the former first lady’s home. And her future fiancé was a legendary football hero.

  Just like that sixteen-year-old girl, Lucy still felt the need to read the passage again. To whisper the words out loud.

  And pray this time it would actually sink in.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  He was a Greek Adonis in a waffle house.

  “You gonna eat that?”

  Alex reached across the table at the IHOP and plucked a piece of bacon from her plate.

  He looked like he had walked right off a Ralph Lauren runway. Natural chestnut highlights shone in his dark hair, complementing his tan. His gray suit might have made him look sophisticated and serious, but it couldn’t hide the athlete beneath it. While she, on the other hand, had slept a combined total of fifteen minutes. Between the nightmares about close-ups and long-angle lenses, thoughts of her family, and rolling on her sore hand, she was worn out. Lucy’s eyes were so puffy she hadn’t even bothered putting on makeup, and her hair was nothing more than a limp ponytail with stray curls staging spiral revolts. And he had the nerve to show up this morning at Clare’s, whisk her off to breakfast, and look like Mr. GQ.

  She sipped her tea and winced.

  “Bitter?” Alex asked.

  “It seems I am.” She spooned in some sugar. “Did you put your bumper sticker on my car?”

  He just smiled. “Probably raised the resale value.”

  “My car is a classic.”

  “Your car wants you to put it out of its misery.” He chewed his piece of bacon. “Let it die with dignity.”

  “Yeah, remind me to pick myself up a Bentley next time we’re out.”

  Alex gave her a heated wink and went back to his Rooty Tooty Fresh ’N Fruity. “Your grandma seemed happy this morning.”

  “Was that her happy face? It’s hard to tell.” The IHOP was full of people who chatted over steaming plates of short stacks and bottomless mugs of Folgers. With her resident assistants at the helm, Lucy had taken the day off so she could touch base with Marinell’s school and talk to her insurance company about her shambles of an apartment.

  “Are you still refusing to discuss your father with Clare?” he ask
ed.

  “I’m barely hanging on with her psycho tutorials. Listening to her justify her late son would just push me right over the edge to full-blown crazy.”

  “Funny,” he said. “I had assumed you were already there.”

  She blew on her Earl Grey and studied the room over the rim of her cup. “Don’t look now, but there are two guys sitting a couple booths over—I said don’t look. I’m pretty sure they followed us here. They keep . . . watching us.”

  Alex frowned as he shot off a text. “That’s Lou and Squid.”

  “Members of your boy band?”

  “Nope. New friends of yours.”

  She glanced at the guys again. Large, hulking brutes. Pretending to eat breakfast. Faces only a mother on intravenous drugs could love. “Let me guess, my new bodyguards.”

  “Correct.”

  Lucy let her chin plunk into her hand. “Somebody following my every move. There are no words to thank you.”

  He pulled the rubber band from the newspaper and whistled low. “I’ll be darned.” He showed her the front page.

  She choked on her tea. “That’s us.” Someone had caught a shot of Alex carrying Lucy out of her apartment. Her head rested on his chest, and he held her close, his face tight with concern. “You’re a hero.”

  He pulled the paper back and scanned the article. “Looks that way.”

  “I guess that will be a boon for the campaign.”

  “I didn’t want this hitting the media.” His eyes were sharp on hers. “You were injured. Do you really think that’s something I want to share with the world?”

  “Oh, that’s right. You don’t do public pain.” Sleep deprivation always made her cranky, and today was no exception. “Who are you texting there? Your girlfriend?” He had yet to tell her about his phone call at the hospital. But what right did she have to pry? She was just a prop.

  “Why would I need a girlfriend when I have you?” He reached out a finger and flicked a crumb from her lip.

  “Alex?” She tried to avoid staring at her two-member mafia across the way, but it was no use. “I’m sorry I pushed you about your brother yesterday.” She had spent some of her time awake last night praying for Alex. And for Will.

  “Uh-huh.” He flipped to the sports section.

  “But you know . . .” She was good at getting people to open up. It was her gift. One that worked all the time on her girls. “If you ever want to talk to me about it, you could.”

  He studied an article on the World Cup. “No thanks.”

  “What was he like?”

  No response. And that was all she was going to take.

  She grabbed his hand and pulled the offensive paper down. “I spent the night with Clare ‘the Dragon’ Deveraux—for you.” Now she had his full attention. “Start talking.”

  The amber flecks in his eyes glimmered fire. But just for a moment. One single millisecond, she saw it. That flash of pain. She knew the look. And its disguises.

  He sighed over his coffee. “What do you want to know?”

  She could hear the countdown clock ticking and knew he wouldn’t indulge her for long. “Were you close?” Lucy hadn’t exactly studied their family dynamics when they’d been in school.

  “Yes.” He took a sip and stretched his arm across the back of the booth. “We were very close as kids.” He would’ve stopped there, but Lucy nodded and nudged him on. “But always very different. During eighth grade, he went on his first mission trip, and I went to football camp. Neither one of us came back the same.” His fingers tightened on the mug. “It was like we spoke two different languages after that. He became the do-gooder who always made Mom and Dad proud, and I . . . just played sports.”

  “You did more than play sports. ESPN covered your University of Texas signing. You got drafted to the pros when you were, like, twelve.” She knew exactly what year he’d been in college, but she wasn’t going to let him know that. “Your life matters, Alex.”

  “This conversation is starting to get dull.”

  “I think we should pray for your brother.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Or we could do it now.” She lowered her head, keeping her eyes open until he did the same. He was not any too quick about it. “Lord, we ask that you be with Will Sinclair. That you would shelter him under your wing. Surround him with a hedge of holy protection. Open doors only you can open to get him safely back home.”

  Alex’s hands slid across the table and clasped her hands.

  She gave them a squeeze. He squeezed right back.

  “Jesus, I pray for peace and comfort for his family.” Her cheeks burned with her boldness, but she plunged on. “And I ask for you to wrap your love around Alex. Speak to his hurting heart.”

  At her amen, Alex kept his hands on hers. “Thank you.” His voice was husky, rough.

  “That’s what fake fiancées are for.”

  Alex checked his phone and frowned. “We should go. I have back-to-back meetings today, plus a lunch at a senior center.”

  “Don’t come back with any girlfriends.”

  He threw some cash on the table as he stood. “Only ones with teeth.” His fingers meshed with hers as they walked to his Mercedes. “I really wish you would stay at Clare’s a few more days.”

  “No way.” It was bad enough she was going to have to visit for lessons.

  As they pulled away, Lucy watched the rearview mirror. The bodyguards followed. “Lou and Squid aren’t very subtle.”

  “They’re not supposed to be.”

  Twenty minutes later she walked behind him as he carried her bag up the sidewalk to her apartment. It was such a minor thing—seeing him with her suitcase. Yet strangely intimate. Like they were a real couple.

  Her heart sank as he opened her door and Lucy caught a glimpse at what was once her living room.

  “Don’t look.” Alex made a little twirly motion with his finger. “Seriously, you don’t want to see this.”

  But it was too late. She had just walked into a war zone.

  Gaping holes covered her walls. Like someone had come through with a sledgehammer. Or a B-52.

  “Lucy, it probably looks worse than it is.” He picked up a picture frame, then shoved it behind his back at her approach.

  “That idiot landlord started the repair work himself.” She wanted to strangle someone. Anyone would do. “Just like when he tried to fix the roof, and half of it came off in the next rainstorm.” Mr. Jenkins hadn’t even bothered to take down her pictures. They lay in pieces on the floor, randomly scattered and broken as if the building had been shaken by an earthquake.

  “This can be fixed,” Alex said as if he were talking her off a ledge. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Let me see what you have behind your back.”

  “You can check out my rearview later.”

  “You’re stalling, Sinclair.”

  “Luce, just out of curiosity, how much is that signed photo of Leonard Nimoy worth?”

  “My mom gave it to me.” Her throat tightened. “It’s priceless.”

  His eyes briefly went to the ceiling, as if appealing to the heavens. “Take it from me, lives are what matter. Not material things.”

  The tears were back once more, and Lucy couldn’t blink them away. Nor could she stand there and argue with a grieving man. “I loved Leonard,” she whispered, turning away so he didn’t have to witness yet another meltdown.

  Lucy felt Alex behind her, his warmth pressing into her back. When his arms slipped around her, she could only lean into him. “We’ll fix it.” He pressed his lips to her temple.

  “Rich people.” She gave an indelicate sniff. “You guys just snap your fingers and spew fairy dust.”

  “Exactly what I used to get you to go out with me.” His hold tightened. “Don’t worry about this.”

  “This stuff is important to me—my books, my pictures . . . my Leonard.” Tired of it all, her head lowered, giving her a bird’s-eye view of a small pile shoved under
the couch. The corner of a black antique frame stuck out just enough to reveal a familiar picture. She pushed away from Alex and crouched on the floor.

  The black-and-white photo had been stepped on. Dripped on. And torn in two. It was Lucy’s favorite—her mother enjoying a summer day on the boardwalk at Folly Beach. Her hair blowing in the breeze like a cover model, her smile wide in a moment of laughter, and her eyes staring into the distance as if she were waiting for something magical to wash up on shore. Lucy hadn’t been born; her mother hadn’t yet known Clare Deveraux’s cold shoulder or Steven’s cruel manipulation.

  “She kept so much from me,” Lucy said. “How many times did I walk by my own father in town, and she never said a word? She was my only family . . . and I didn’t really even know her.”

  “Don’t do this to yourself. She loved you and tried to do her best.” Alex took the two pieces from her hands. “She’s beautiful.” His eyes lifted to hers. “She looks like you.”

  His kindness was about to break her. “I think I want to be alone.”

  He took her hand and pressed a kiss right on her white bandage. “I’m not leaving you here. You can stay at Clare’s.”

  “No.” Not there. Again.

  He ran his hand up and down her arms. “I can’t even put in a security system until they get this mess straightened out. I want you somewhere I know it’s safe. You heard Clare say she has a security team in her carriage house.”

  “She probably keeps her cauldron out there too.” Lucy thought of the sad balance in her checkbook and knew she couldn’t do more than one a night at a hotel. “She’s weird, Alex.”

  “See, you do have something in common.” He smiled and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Can we just not argue about this? There’s no way I’m leaving you alone, but if I don’t get to these meetings, my campaign team is going to fire me.”

  He was so close she could smell his shampoo. See his eyes burn into hers. When he looked at her like that, she might promise him anything.