Once inside the gorgeously decorated home, which always struck him as “cozy museum,” he headed to the dining room, where he found Larilla seated at the head of the table, a young woman to her left. The platinum blonde looked like an extra from that movie Working Girl with Melanie Griffith and Harrison Ford—lots of skin, makeup and hair. They’d clearly just finished dinner, since there were serving dishes and plates on the table.
As he entered the room, the blonde let out an impressive wolf whistle and checked him out from head to toe and back up again.
Larilla jotted something down in the electronic tablet she carried everywhere.
“That’s probably the kind of thing I shouldn’t do anymore,” the blonde said to Larilla. “It’s not ladylike or whatever, right?”
“My dear,” Larilla began in that slight drawl of hers, “men have been catcalling women since the dawn of time. When I was in my late forties, a man walked past me on Main Street and said, ‘Hey, hot stuff.’ Boy, did he end up regretting that.”
The young woman’s eyes widened—in a gleeful way. “Whatja do?”
Larilla took a sip of her tea. “I bored him for a good fifteen minutes in the middle of the sidewalk on why it was inappropriate to comment on my appearance—anyone’s appearance, except perhaps to note that someone looked lovely today. Boring someone to death is an effective deterrent, I’ve noticed.”
“Kinda weird for me to tell this dude he looks lovely today,” the blonde said, raking her hazel eyes over him again.
“In that case, you simply ogle on the down low and keep mum,” Larilla explained with a wink.
The blonde beamed, and Larilla patted her hand.
At least he understood why his godmother had asked for his help when she knew he was still bitter as hell about what happened the last time he had anything to do with an etiquette student. The platinum blonde would probably need three courses before she’d graduate, and by then, James would be in Europe, on a gondola in Venice. This was one student who wouldn’t get to him.
Larilla turned to him. “James, I’m pleased to introduce my newest pupil, Ginger O’Leary. Ginger, my godson, James Gallagher.”
“Man, your eyes are blue,” Ginger said to him. “Guys get the best eyelashes too, am I right? I have to buy a new tube of mascara, like, every two weeks to keep up. Lahl!”
“Lahl?” James repeated. Was that a brand of mascara?
Ginger gaped at him as though he was nuts. “Lahl. El-oh-el. Get it?”
El-oh-el? What? Oh, he thought. LOL. “You mean the text acronym. Wait, so you were LOLing at your own joke? Larilla, write down that. Infraction of the worst degree.”
Ginger looked worried for a second, then stared at him to see if he was kidding. Which he was. He kept his poker face, and she waved her hand in the air. “Oh God, if that’s my biggest crime, I’m doing all right.”
Larilla smiled. “Well, James, thank you very much. I have what I need. And, Ginger, I’ll see you at 9:00 a.m. sharp for our first session.”
Ginger suddenly put her hands on her stomach, and her eyes widened.
Why was she doing that? He stepped a bit closer. “Are you all right? Dinner didn’t agree with you?”
“Are you kidding?” she said on a breath. “Filet mignon with roast potatoes always agrees with me. Like I ever have that.”
“Then what’s wrong?” he asked.
Ginger bit her lip and looked from him to Larilla and back to him. “I just felt that weird tightening sensation in my belly again. According to Dr. Google, it’s normal when you’re pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” He stared from Ginger to Larilla.
“Ginger is in the family way,” Larilla said. “She’s due in December.”
“If I counted right,” Ginger added. “I’ve never been great at math.”
“What did the doctor tell you?” he asked.
“What doctor? I just found out I was pregnant two days ago.”
“I’ll ask around for recommendations for an ob-gyn,” Larilla said. “You’ll need a checkup and prenatal vitamins.”
Now it was becoming even clearer why Larilla would call him to help assess. Not only was Ginger the furthest thing from his type, not that he had one, but she was pregnant.
He was leaving town to get away from “fatherhood.” The last thing he’d ever walk toward was more of that responsibility.
In fact, he felt a little better that now he could help out Larilla with this pupil. Buffalo would fly before James Gallagher fell for Ginger O’Leary.
Chapter Two
You’ve got to be kidding me, Ginger thought, eyeing the packet of homework that Madame Davenport had assigned the three new students as they were dismissed from the group class the next afternoon. Ginger had barely managed to graduate from high school—though she did always get As in history—because she hated homework. Homework had reminded her of school, which had reminded her of how she was treated there. Let’s just say her name and nasty sayings were always written on the bathroom walls, even when half of it wasn’t true. Boys had claimed she’d done all kinds of sex acts, and girls had scrawled that she had every disease there was. For the record, the only disease Ginger had ever had was the mumps in third grade.
The morning class at Madame Davenport’s School of Etiquette had been on “comportment,” which Ginger had learned was a big word for behavior. How to act. How to be. The three new students had to stand up and share why they were taking the course, and Ginger had been honest again. Her fellow students had immediately warmed to her, which was rare in her world. One, a petite redhead named Karly, told her she should have thrown the scone at her baby daddy’s nose and broken it. The other, Sandrine, a dental hygienist with great teeth, was madly in love with her boss, who had a specific type—Ginger had learned what a debutante was—and Sandrine wanted to become it.
“Comportment means that one doesn’t throw baked goods at others,” Ginger had said with her nose in the air.
They’d all burst out laughing, except Madame Davenport, who’d said, “One most certainly does not.” But Madame had a twinkle in her eye, as always.
Crazy. Sometimes women took to Ginger and sometimes they didn’t. She was glad her teacher and classmates seemed to like her because she liked them. Being liked was nice.
For homework, she had to write a one-page essay on the five no-no’s of first meetings and why “one did not discuss these five topics”: money, sex, politics, religion and appearance. Per Madame, one could pay a compliment but not be critical of how someone was dressed or their shape.
Madame Davenport wanted the students to look the part of the people they wanted to become, so a shopping trip was on the schedule. Madame had already taken Karly, whose goal for the course was to get promoted to assistant editor of the Wedlock Creek Gazette, where she was the assistant to two editors. You have to dress for the job you want, not the job you have, Karly had said she’d read in Glamour magazine, and Madame Davenport agreed. Karly had returned from their trip to a boutique wearing a pantsuit that managed to be professional looking but not stuffy.
Now it was Ginger’s turn. She wanted to look like a mother, but did she even know what mothers looked like? None of her friends back in Jackson had kids. And her hours had always meant she slept during the day and worked till the wee hours, so she wasn’t exactly running into the stroller set. Madame Davenport had told her not to worry; they would look at magazines and the clothes in the boutique and try on different looks until Ginger liked what she saw.
Madame Davenport made it all sound so easy, which was why Ginger already adored her.
She made sure she was three minutes early for the 1:00 p.m. shopping trip, but when she came downstairs from her room—which was awesome, by the way—Madame was nowhere to be seen. One o’clock came and went. No Madame Davenport. And according to their private lesson this morning, bein
g on time was paramount—a new word for Ginger.
Then suddenly the front door opened and there he was.
Serious hawtness in the flesh. James Gallagher. Whoo, someone bring me a fan. He wasn’t in a suit today, probably because it was Sunday. He wore a long-sleeved button-down shirt and dark jeans, and she could barely drag her gaze off his biceps. My oh my, was he built. Look up, Ging, she told herself, treated to those blue eyes and sooty dark lashes, strong brows to match his straight nose. And those lips. Ooh, those lips.
One doesn’t comment on appearance except to pay a compliment... “Looking fine, Gallagher,” she said, practically licking her lips.
He chuckled, surprise in his expression. Come on, the man was super hot. Surely he knew. Hot men always did. Then again, he was sort of “buttoned-up,” and those types tended not to know they were total Hemsworths.
“Did Larilla get in touch with you?” he asked. “She texted me that she wasn’t feeling well and asked if I’d accompany you on the shopping trip. Normally one of my sisters would, but they’re out of town until tonight visiting my brother at the ranch he works on.”
“You’re up on the ‘mom’ look?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I used to help out Larilla a lot,” he said. “I know all the ‘looks’—the mom, VP, meeting the wealthy parents, be taken more seriously and every other look the students are trying to achieve.”
She shrugged. “Huh. Well, in that case, hot stuff, let’s go.” He turned to open the door, letting her walk through first, naturally. “Am I supposed to take your arm? They do that in movies.”
“Moms don’t have to take arms. They have their hands full, literally and figuratively.”
She tilted her head. “Say what?”
“No need to take my arm. We’re not headed into the opera or a ball.”
“Oh.” But what if I want to? she almost said.
They headed down the sidewalk, passing big, beautiful houses like the etiquette school. Ginger could see Main Street up ahead. The Wedlock Creek Library was visible from where they were, and she could smell yummy bakery scents coming from the café she’d stopped in yesterday. She’d walked around for about an hour after being accepted into the school. She’d have explored more, but she got quickly tired of the gapes from strangers. They’re boobs, people! she wanted to shout. Big whoop! She could blend in more easily in Jackson. Here in this small town, she stood out big-time.
James walked beside her, and Ginger could also smell his yummy scent, something spicy and soapy and masculine. “So Larilla says the objective is for you to look like you could go from playground to PTA meeting. Quite a difference from this look.”
“Right?” she said, glancing down at her metallic silver leggings, belted tunic that didn’t quite cover her tush and showed off her cleavage, and strappy sandals that wrapped around her ankles. Her toenails were each painted a different color. “Although yesterday, when I was walking around town, a little girl told me she liked my toes. So maybe I get to keep my fun toenails.” She lifted her foot and gave it a wiggle. “You got kids?”
“Me?” He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I’d say anything to do with marriage and children is about ten years off in the distance when I’ve finally done everything I’ve wanted to do the past seven years.”
“What have you been doing instead?”
“Raising my orphaned quintuplet half siblings,” he said. “I took them in when they were thirteen and I was twenty-one, fresh out of college.”
She hadn’t been expecting that. Sowing the ole wild oats was what she’d thought would come tumbling out of his mouth. Not that she thought all men were hound dogs. She just personally hadn’t met one who wasn’t. Then again, her circle didn’t exactly include quality men. “Wait a minute. Did you say quintuplets? Huh. That couldn’t have been easy. They must have been walking, talking hormones.”
He laughed. “They were. I almost went bankrupt keeping them on Clearasil.”
She liked the sound of his laughter. “I guess I got lucky there. I’ve never had a zit in my life.”
“Not one?”
“Nope. I take after my mother and grandmother. Amazing skin genes. They’re both gone now. Crazy that my mom will never meet my baby. Or vice versa, you know?”
He glanced at her and nodded. “Ten years from now or so, when I finally have a child, I’ll feel that same way, I’m sure.”
“You’re really stuck on the ten years thing, aren’t you? Ever heard of an oops?”
“I’ve heard of oops,” he said. “I’ll just make sure it doesn’t happen to me.”
“Condoms break, you know,” she said, looking down.
He eyed her and nodded. “Stuff happens. It’s the one thing I know for sure.”
She lifted her chin, shaking off thoughts of Alden and condoms. “It’s weird knowing my mom isn’t on the earth anymore. I’d say the same for my dad, but I never knew him. What’s also weird? Picking out a dad for my baby without knowing what a good dad would be like. I mean, I only know from TV shows.”
“Picking out a dad?” he repeated.
“That’s part of why I’m taking your godmother’s etiquette course. To look the part so I can attract a good man to be a dad to my kid.”
He stared at her hard for a moment.
“Why are you looking at me like I grew another boob?” she asked. “I’ll be looking for a guy like you. You know—quality.”
“I could be a real jerk for all you know,” he said. “Step one to finding a good man? Fixing your good-guy radar. Trust no one on first glance. Make no assumptions.”
“That’s silly. People make assumptions about me based on how I look.”
“Touché,” he said. “But I’ll bet a lot of those assumptions are wrong.”
She tilted her head and looked at him. “They are. Like being hot and having big hair means I’m not going to be a great mom. Because I will be.”
He glanced at her again, and she wondered what was going through his mind.
“Hot mama!” a man’s voice called out as they turned onto Main Street.
Ginger glanced around for who catcalled her. Main Street was bustling with people, but there—she saw him, some jerk in a cowboy hat staring at her chest and wriggling his eyebrows at her. “Up yours!” she shouted back and flipped the guy the bird as she and James kept walking.
James shook his head. “Neanderthal. Who catcalls a woman—and when she’s with a man? I could be your husband for all he knows. So rude.”
Ginger laughed. Like, really laughed. Stopped-and-doubled-over-for-a-second laughed.
“What is so funny?” he muttered.
“That anyone would think I’m your wife. That we’re together. Come on. I’d believe you’d date a woman who’d wear these sandals maybe, but that’s about it.”
He eyed the sparkly silver leggings and the practically see-through flowy tunic in black-and-white leopard print, but didn’t agree or disagree. She wondered what his type was.
“Oh, we’re here,” he said, pointing at Best Dressed Boutique between the town florist and a hair salon. At the door, he turned to her. “Just curious. Why do you dress so...flashy?”
Flashy. She supposed that was a nice way of putting it. “I just always have since middle school. The shorter and tighter, the sparklier and shinier, the better. Plus you have to admit I have a slammin’ bod. Why not show it off while I’m young?”
Was James Gallagher blushing? He was.
“Well then, why change your style?” he asked. “What are we doing here?”
“Because if I don’t change the way I look and my big mouth and flipping the bird even when it’s deserved, that jerk Alden might come take my baby. The baby he says can’t even be his, even though he’s the only man I’ve been with in six months. And if I don’t look right, like the kind of woman a guy like you
would date, I’ll never find a good man for my baby. I’m done with jerks and three-night stands. D-O-N-E.”
She didn’t want to get all riled up before the big shopping trip, so to end the conversation she pulled open the door to the boutique and walked inside. And immediately got flashed a dirty look by a saleswoman. She also caught the brunette nudging the other saleswoman in the ribs. Beyotch!
“May I help you?” asked the brunette. Ginger studied her for a second. The saleswoman’s expression barely hid her judgy disdain. Her makeup was understated, hair pulled back in a model-like ponytail and she wore a black pantsuit with black patent heels. Ginger hated that she had to admit the beyotch looked good. Elegant. And elegant was always good.
James came in behind her and smiled at the woman. “Hi, Kristen. Nice to see you.”
The saleswoman looked from James to Ginger and understanding dawned. Ginger was clearly “one of those” from the etiquette school. No mistaking her for his woman in this boutique.
She wasn’t sure why, but her usual take-me-as-I-am-or-talk-to-the-hand went poof. She felt...exposed, maybe. And she didn’t like it.
It’s a process, she reminded herself, thinking of something Larilla Davenport had said this morning. And it’s not going to be easy.
Not much was.
* * *
James sat on the tufted velvet chaise in the changing area while Ginger was in one of the dressing rooms with two armloads of clothes the saleswomen had selected for her. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Ginger had said.
Because if I don’t change the way I look and my big mouth and flipping the bird even when it’s deserved, that jerk Alden might come take my baby. The baby he says can’t even be his, even though he’s the only man I’ve been with in six months.
She wanted to look more presentable for her baby’s sake. To keep her baby. Of all the students his godmother had had over the years, he didn’t ever remember meeting someone in Ginger’s shoes. He’d help her best he could.
To Keep Her Baby Page 2
