by Liz Talley
She closed her mouth for a few seconds. “What do you want? I’ve already dealt with worms, sexually harassing chickens, and—”
“I’m not talking anything kinky.”
She laughed. “What’s the bet?”
“If I make all three shots and win, you have to give me one more day.”
“For what?”
“Not saying. Just one more day before we get back to business.”
Frances cocked her head. “That’s it?”
“Well, maybe a good-night kiss.”
“You’re pressing your luck,” she said, but her lips twitched. “What do I get if I win?”
“A stacked-stone wall,” Clem said.
Frances smiled. “Perfect. It’s a deal.”
She lost the bet.
Frances watched as Clem made impossible shot after impossible shot.
When he had sunk the eight ball, he blew on his cue stick. “And that’s how it’s done.”
“You ass. You cheated.”
“I did not,” he said, pressing a hand against his polo shirt and blinking in shocked fashion. The teasing grin he wore told her all she needed to know.
“Tell the truth. You’re a ringer.”
“No, I’m a hustler. You should never make bets when you don’t know the other person’s skill level.” He came toward her, his shoulders broad, and she really loved that about him. He was all man, buff and tough and pure-ass country. She had no clue why he turned her on so much. She’d always liked put-together guys, guys who wore business suits and carried leather attaché cases. Men like Michael.
She made a grumpy face. “I trusted you.”
“Aw, baby, you can still trust me. At least when it comes to the things that matter,” Clem said, tugging on a piece of hair that had escaped its clip.
Her heart went a little trippedy trip over the brush of his fingers against her neck. “What would the important things be?”
“Getting Sal’s place ready. Coming in on budget. Taking care of you,” he said. His brown eyes looked deeper and gone was the grin. He meant those words. Take care of you.
When was the last time a man had wanted to take care of her?
Michael had never been one to coddle her in any way. He didn’t believe in romance. Her birthday and Valentine’s Day had always been unimaginative and done because it was expected. That’s how Michael had rolled. Minimal input, minimal interference, minimal commitment. When she’d had the flu, he’d stayed away.
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”
“Everyone needs someone to take care of them, baby.”
“Don’t call me baby,” she said, turning and setting her cue stick on the rack next to his. She needed to get her bullshit barrier up fast because she liked the thought of him calling her baby and taking care of her a little too much.
“Whatever you want, sugar,” he said with laughter in his voice.
“You’re infuriating,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes. “So are we going to line dance or what?”
“Let’s go.” He took her elbow. His grip was firm and seemed to make a statement. People looked at them, noted his possessiveness. For some reason, she didn’t pull away. She didn’t know why, especially when she’d put her tough-chick barrier in place. Maybe it was where she was—so unsettled. She felt vulnerable to life … to Clem’s honeyed words.
The dance floor was crowded, but people made room for Clem. Of course, he was like a dump truck—big and intimidating. Everyone smiled at him. Some women a little too much. She tried not to bristle, because what in the hell did she care that women smiled at Clem Aiken? He was nothing to—
“Like this,” he said, in her ear, his hand clasping her hip.
She jumped. “Oh, sorry. I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Don’t worry. I got ya.” He took her in his arms as the music changed into something sweeter.
“This isn’t line dancing,” she complained as he started moving.
“It’s better. It’s two-steppin.’” Clem moved her backward, invading her space. “It’s not hard. A little shuffle-slide twice with your right foot, then a long step with your left. One, two, one. One, two, one. That’s a girl.”
Frances bit her lip and concentrated on moving her body the way he’d demonstrated. “I’m not a girl.”
“You sure ain’t.” She could hear the smile in his voice. He pulled her closer. “Relax. Just listen to the music and let your body do what it’s meant to do.”
Frances did as instructed. She stopped thinking about the steps and enjoyed the music, the man, and the motion of her body in tune with his.
“You’re a natural, Frances.” Clem took off his hat and set it on her head. Of course it was too big and nearly covered her eyes. So he tipped it back. “I’ll make a country girl out of you yet.”
“Stop talking sweet to me,” she said, the butterflies in her tummy going wild. The slide of his thighs against the bare flesh of hers was doing unintended work. She felt flushed, hot and gooey. Like she could make a really bad decision that night. Really bad. Like drop her panties, ride a cowboy—or someone who’d milked a cow—bad.
What would it hurt?
You don’t live here.
Everyone already thinks you’re doing it with him.
Clem started singing in her ear, his low baritone competing to finish the job his denim-clad thighs had started.
“I’m ready to go,” she said, stopping.
He pulled her away from getting trampled. “What’s wrong? You were doing good.”
“I’m hot.” She fanned her face. For you. I’m hot for you, and if I don’t stop dancing with you, listening to you croon about love and done-me-wrongs, feeling your body move against mine, I’m going to mount you in the middle of the honky-tonk. That’s how hot I am.
“All right, baby, let’s get you some fresh air,” Clem said. He pushed past a few tables, winking at some of the women who smiled too big at him.
Frances wanted to rip their hair out by the dyed roots. Then stomp on them. Maybe even kick them in the ribs. Vicious, horrible things. She’d never felt that way before. Never.
She pushed through the door and sucked in a deep breath, pulling Clem’s cowboy hat from her head and handing it back to him.
He touched her lower back. “You okay?”
“Fine. I got a little overheated.” She took a few more steps into the graveled lot illuminated by the neon glow of beer signs. Stars winked overhead, and the strong smell of diesel assaulted her. “Can we go somewhere else? Somewhere not so … so …”
“Busy?”
“Yeah.” She didn’t care if he thought that meant what he thought it meant. She needed reprieve. She needed his thighs away from hers so she could find the sanity that had fled her.
Ten minutes later Clem turned off the county highway onto a long pitted dirt road. Beautiful hardwoods mixed with pines arched overhead and moonlight filtered in. The headlights caught and held a small fox before it leapt into the brush and disappeared. Frances glanced over at Clem. He gave her a soft smile.
“This is my favorite place.”
“You brought me to your favorite place?” She shifted her gaze back to the road ahead as it opened up to a lake. She liked that he thought enough of her to bring her here. But maybe he brought lots of girls here. Maybe she wasn’t as special as she liked to think. “It’s truly beautiful. Is the land yours?”
“No. A friend’s. He built a place out here but doesn’t live there. There’s a gorgeous lake stocked with bigmouth bass. I come out here sometimes.”
“I know what for.”
“Nah. I’ve actually never brought anyone out here with me. I come here when I need … something more than what I have. If that makes any sense.”
Satisfaction settled in her gut. She was the first to come here with him. “I have a place I like to go too. My grandmother Sophia’s garden. So peaceful, and she makes good tea. And she never talks unless you need her to. I can always
figure things out there.”
“Wish my family was like that.” Clem put the truck in park. “Want to take a walk?”
“Are there snakes?”
“Probably, but I won’t let them get you,” he said, opening the truck door and sliding down to the hard-packed earth.
She believed him, so she opened her door and jumped down. He was there to catch her.
“Steady now,” he said, placing a hand on her back.
“That’s how I feel around you.”
“Steady?” He sounded confused.
“Sort of. I feel relaxed. Not exactly relaxed. I feel … I don’t know how I feel. Not myself.”
He looked down at her. His eyes were as soft as the night. “I don’t want you to not feel yourself, Frannie. I like who you are. You remind me of my sister.”
“You have a sister?”
Clem shut the truck door before tugging her toward the pier that stretched onto the water. The little waves tossed the moonlight about. “Her name’s Sela. She’s an interior designer in Charleston. That’s where I’m from.”
Charleston. It was a city she’d romanticized about for years. Mossy trees bowing, century-old houses with window boxes and men wearing bow ties. She couldn’t imagine Clem in that genteel city. He was too big, too brash … too country. “It’s a lovely city I hear.”
“Oh, it is. I miss it sometimes.”
In his voice she heard so much more. A yearning. A sadness. A resignation. What had happened in Charleston?
She didn’t say anything more, merely followed him onto the dock, stepping gingerly around a spiderweb. The pungent lake issued a gentle lapping against the barks of frogs and other creepy-crawly things she didn’t want to know about. “It’s pretty out here.”
“Isn’t it?” Clem lowered himself onto the edge and let his feet dangle. He pulled her down beside him. “How’d you like shooting pool and two-steppin’?”
“Both were equally frustrating.”
“Because I won both times?”
“You don’t win at dancing,” she said.
“Holding you in my arms is winning, baby.”
She didn’t make a fuss at the endearment because how could a girl fuss about a man saying something like that? “You want to collect your prize now?”
She was afraid he would say yes. And if he did, she might just get naked with him on the pier, and she wasn’t fond of splinters in her ass. But she was also afraid he’d say no and she wouldn’t get to kiss him again. Or ride him. Or make him scream like a little girl.
Okay, she wasn’t that skilled in bed.
But bringing a man like Clem to his knees would be rewarding. Maybe in more than one way.
“Right now I want to sit beside you and breathe,” he said, looking out over the water.
As much as she wanted to make out with him, she liked that he was content with her. She studied his profile, surprised to find he seemed such a different man at the moment. Here sat a different Clem. No aw-shucks. No devilish grin. No push or pull. This Clem was quiet and reflective. She soaked in the fact that he was multifaceted. That there was a side of him that was deep well water, hiding the currents.
But did she want a reflective Clem tonight?
Not really. She wanted that confident braggart of a man wooing her, saying inappropriate things to her, stealing kisses. Distracting her from her own life.
She slid her hand onto his thigh. “How about we not breathe?”
“Yeah?”
Frances pulled his head down, brushing her lips against him. “I lied a few minutes ago. You make me feel more like myself than I’ve ever felt. And it scares me to death, but I can’t seem to stop myself from wanting you.”
“Frannie …”
“Shh,” she whispered against his lips.
Then, for the first time, she kissed him.
Clem moved his lips against Frances’s, savoring the taste of sweet wine and all that was Frances. She was an oxymoron—everything a woman should be. Soft, warm, and willing. Edgy, assessing, and stubborn. She was sugar, spice, and sometimes not nice, but so damn right in his arms.
“I like how you take my breath away,” he said against her lips.
“Yeah?”
“I’m starting to appreciate city girls. Y’all don’t pussyfoot around, do you?”
Frances smiled against his lips, one hand tangling in the hair that had grown too long at his neck. The scrape of her nails against his flesh sent chill bumps down his spine. “Well, we don’t cotton to pussyfootin.’”
“Exactly.”
He scooted back from the edge, dragging her across his lap. “You look incredible in this dress. But you know that, don’t you?”
Frances’s face glowed in the moonlight. Chunks of inky hair had fallen from the clip and swung to frame her face. It struck him at that moment he could actually fall in love with her. Maybe it was more than at that moment. Maybe it was a truth. Perhaps that’s where he was—on the precipice of falling for Frances, a woman highly wrong for him in almost every way.
“I wore it for you,” she whispered.
“Because you knew it would drive me crazy. I nearly punched ol’ Lon just for looking at you. You almost got to experience a bona fide bar fight.”
Frances stroked his cheek. “God, why do I like you so much?”
“’Cause you have a secret fetish for country boys.”
“I’ve been found out,” she said, pulling his head down.
He kissed her hard, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her against him. She opened her mouth and he took advantage, delving into the heat of her. He curled his hand around her ass, stroking her, enjoying the suppleness of her beneath the hem that had hiked up.
She grabbed his free hand and placed it on her breast. “Touch me, Clem. I need to … I need … you.”
Her breast filled his hand and desire slammed into him like a linebacker on a blitz. He slid her off his lap and rolled her over onto the pier, cradling her back with his arm. He didn’t stop kissing her as his free hand found the side zipper of the dress.
One quick motion downward and she was half-bared to him. Frances was so exquisite she nearly took his breath away.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, ripping his lips from her, watching his fingers make their way to the peak of her breast. He’d seen many women, but at that moment, none were so absolutely perfect for him. She glowed alabaster in the moonlight, a goddess awakened.
Eyes dilated, lips ravished, breathing erratic.
Exactly what a man wanted to see at such a moment.
But … Frances had said she didn’t want to go there. Her earlier protests made him hesitate. He knew he could have her right there on the pier. The dilated pupils, panting breaths, and two glasses of wine told him as much. He wanted her. Oh, how he wanted her. But if they made love, it should be something she decided without being drunk on moonlight and half-rate cabernet.
Clem brushed the top of her breast with his lips and sat up. “You don’t want this.”
“Wait, huh?” She lifted onto an elbow.
He ran a hand over his face. “You said you didn’t want this. That what we’re doing is business, not pleasure. Flirting and kissing is one thing. This is a whole ’nother thing, baby. I can’t do this if it’s not what you want.”
Frances pulled her dress together and sat up. For a few seconds she was silent. “It’s not that I don’t want you. I do. You know that. I’m just not into casual sex. I’ve never been one to indulge in sex for sex’s sake. It’s not who I am.”
“I wouldn’t call this casual. There’s nothing casual about the way I feel for you.”
“Clem, I can’t get attached to you. We live a thousand miles apart … on a lot of levels.”
He didn’t respond because her words were true.
“As crazy as it sounds, I not only want to sleep with you, but I want to be with you. And that can’t happen. It’s not like I can throw away everything I thought I was for a
… well, whatever this is. An infatuation? An escape? A what-if?”
“What do you mean?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Nothing. My life’s messed up right now.”
“We’re all messed up a little.”
Frances tugged up the zipper. “True, but for the past few months, I’ve felt lost. Everything I planned, all I thought I would be by now, it’s just … not where I am.”
“Because of him?”
“Michael?” Frances asked and Clem nodded. “No. Maybe. But in hindsight, he wasn’t right for me. I had this plan and Michael fit it. Thing is, I wasn’t in love with him. And maybe I’m not even in love with my plan. I’m not good at letting things go, I guess.”
Clem understood. A person planned his or her life, envisioned exactly who’d they be. Then one day he woke up and wondered what happened. Sometimes he stared at his bedroom ceiling listening to the mockingbirds fight outside his window and wondered why he was in Morning Glory and not in Charleston. How had his stubbornness kept him from his family? Why had he allowed his desire to claim his own life keep him from a place he still longed to be a part of? He always shrugged it off, telling himself that his mother was in remission, that they didn’t miss him, that his life was great. But regret could always find you.
Frances slipped her heels off and set them beside her, dangling her feet over the water. “My father doesn’t want me to run the new deli. He doesn’t trust me. All those classes, all that research, and he won’t even listen to my ideas for the place. It’s because I’m a woman.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
She shot a look at him. “Do you? My dad’s a traditional man, almost archaic. He believes a man should be the head of the household. A man should make the living.”
“Truly?”
“No. I don’t know. I just don’t understand why he won’t listen to my suggestions. He shakes his bulldog head and walks away. He wants it to be a deli, like those in the bodegas. He won’t even consider my ideas.”
Clem pondered her words. “Why won’t he listen?”
“Because he doesn’t respect me.”
Clem arched an eyebrow. He couldn’t see anyone not respecting Frances. So much there to respect. Sure, she was stubborn, but she was intelligent, passionate, and willing to listen to reason. Instead of digging in her heels on the décor for Sal’s New York Pizzeria, she’d let him show her a world she didn’t understand.
