by Maria Luis
Shaelyn blanched. “What?”
He smiled slowly. “How did you propose?”
Bringing the sweet tea to her lips, Shaelyn sucked it down like she wished it were something stronger. No doubt his grandparent’s strict no-hard-liquor policy was killing her.
“It was romantic.” Her gaze settled on something beyond his left shoulder, all squinty-eyed. “Ben brought me out to dinner—my favorite seafood place—and he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him.”
A quick look at Ben Beveau showed that the man was smiling and nodding. “Shaelyn is pescetarian,” he said, as though Brady gave a damn.
He tucked his thumb into the belt loop of his jeans. Not that he wasn’t interested about her eating habits, but . . . “So, he proposed at dinner?”
“After dinner.” She cut a swift glance at him. Hastily looked away again. “It was nice.”
“Nice” was a trip to the Audubon Zoo in New Orleans’ Uptown neighborhood. “Nice” was a cold beer after a hectic day at work.
“Nice” didn’t cut it when it came to marriage proposals.
So, she wanted to pretend that Beveau had done the asking. Usually Brady would have let the matter drop. Unless he was on duty, Brady wasn’t a tenacious sort of guy. He preferred to sit back, crack open a beer, and watch football. Despite the Saints’ losses over the last few seasons—all right, except for that one miraculous season in ’10 when they’d won the Super Bowl and he’d cried tears of joy—Brady’s loyalty to the football team never wavered.
Okay, maybe he was a bit tenacious and maybe there was something about Shaelyn kissing someone else that burrowed under his skin. And so maybe there was a logical reason as to why he opened his mouth and said, “Did you foot the dinner bill, too, or did that ring on Beveau’s finger wipe you out?”
Shaelyn’s red lips parted just as Beveau groaned and stuffed his left hand into his pocket.
With a pointed look at Beveau, Brady drawled, “No need to hide it, man. I’m sure they do it differently up—where did y’all meet again?”
“New York,” Shaelyn bit out.
He didn’t have to hear the tension in her voice to know that she was furious. Her hazel eyes were verging on a mossy green, and if Brady remembered one thing about Shaelyn Lawrence, it was that when hazel morphed into green, she was seconds away from nailing him in the balls.
He stood his ground and returned her steely glare with an arch of his brow. She’d always hated when he did that—God, could you at least try not to be a jerk today? she used to demand right before he kissed her senseless.
Brady didn’t think she’d be too keen on receiving one of his kisses right now, even without considering the whole engagement factor.
“There’s no need to hide it. You’re among friends”—at this, Shaelyn snorted derisively—“but let me give you a bit of advice.” Brady pushed the bill of his hat up with his index finger and leaned in close. “Leave the ring bit out, and maybe just stick to that real nice story of a proposal at your favorite restaurant.”
Brady didn’t give either of them a chance to speak, and honestly he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what Shaelyn had to say. He’d moved on years ago.
Once more with the less-than-genuine congratulations spiel and Brady was already stepping away, seeking out his grandmother to say his good-byes.
He was suddenly filled with the need to drive away as fast as possible, to throw himself into endless work until he could push away the image of Beveau bent over Shae, his mouth on hers. Brady had never been one to keep his head on straight where Shaelyn Magnolia Lawrence was concerned. Apparently twelve years hadn’t diluted his attraction to her.
Much to his disappointment.
One thing was clear, though. He’d been an ass and he was going to have to apologize. Brady only hoped that he could keep his loose tongue in check the next time around.
In the interim, he planned to dig a little deeper into Ben Beveau’s history. That panicked look on Beveau’s face was all Brady needed to know that something wasn’t quite right. Either the man was actually embarrassed about the fact that his fiancée had done the ring-popping or he was hiding something. Fortunately, Brady’s job with the NOPD supplied the necessary resources to discover what that something might be.
Four hours later and Shaelyn was still furious. Oh, she’d put on a friendly façade after her encounter with Brady. She’d greeted family friends whom she hadn’t seen in years, held a perfectly boring conversation with Mary Taylor, and drank three flutes of champagne too many.
After talking with Brady, she’d needed something a whole lot stiffer than sweet tea. Problem was, Shaelyn wasn’t much of a champagne drinker. One minute she’d been standing next to her pretend fiancé and drowning her fury in Dom Perignon, and in the next she was tossing up three glasses of the bubbly and her breakfast into a birds-of-paradise plant.
Not her finest moment.
Not the birds-of-paradise’s either, which hadn’t looked so much like paradise right then.
It was official—Brady Taylor brought out the worst in her.
“This is all your fault,” she told her grandmother, as she lay sprawled on the couch, her exposed skin sticking to the plastic furniture cover that should have been ditched in the 1970s.
Meme Elaine didn’t need further elaboration because she picked up the remote and lowered the sounds of What Not to Wear to a low hum. “Did I force the champagne down your throat?”
“No, but you did set me up with a married man.”
“An exaggeration, cher.” Meme Elaine exchanged the black TV remote for another. Pushing one of the buttons, Shaelyn’s grandmother settled in as the brown leather La-Z Boy—also furnished with plastic coverings—reclined to horizontal. “All I’ve done is help you to show Brady that you’ve moved on.”
Shaelyn swung her legs from the couch’s armrest to the gray carpet. With a pitiful moan she clutched her head and cursed Dom Perignon. How could something so expensive make her feel like a Mack truck had hit her after an all-night boozer on Bourbon, New Orleans’ most famous party street?
Deep breaths; in through the nose and out through the mouth. No more champagne—ever. “Meme, that’s the problem. I have moved on.”
“I’m not sure that he has.”
Shaelyn’s wayward heart kicked up its pace before she kicked the unwanted emotion to the curb. “I think you were the one to have too much to drink,” she muttered.
“Do we need to revisit what happened today?”
Total humiliation. Shaelyn preferred if they never mentioned it again.
She planted her elbows on her knees and clasped her hands together. “Listen, Meme,” she began in as accommodating of a tone as she could muster given her raging headache, “I appreciate your . . . help, but today was a mess. I’m already the resident screwup. I really don’t need that sort of attention.”
Meme Elaine’s lips pursed. “You have a roof over your head, your health, a job—what more could you want?”
That was part of the problem. Shaelyn had no idea what she wanted; she only knew that she didn’t want to relive her NYC days. In the meantime, selling crotch-less panties, lacy bras, and nightgowns at her cousin’s French Quarter lingerie boutique was definitely preferable to the nature of her previous job. Just the thought of it sent a tremor of anxiety down her spine.
Shaelyn’s fingers dug into her thighs.
“You like working with Anna, don’t you?” Meme Elaine pressed curiously. “You girls haven’t spent all that much time together in years.”
Anna was Shaelyn’s older cousin through her mama’s side of the family. Growing up, their one-year age difference might as well have been twenty. Anna, with her sleek, blond hair and baby-doll blue eyes, had always been fashionable and perfect. She’d been a debutante, the teachers’ pet, and a cheerleader. Naturally.
Then she’d gotten knocked up during her freshmen year at Tulane. At the time, Shaelyn had been a senior in high school, but she
could still vividly recall her mama’s horror at the news.
“Dropped right on out,” Charlotte had said as she scrubbed the dishes in the sink. “The boyfriend dropped her first. Guess he wasn’t interested in being a daddy.”
Drying the dishes with a towel, Henry Lawrence stacked them high on the counter. “Never would have thought Anna to be the one to end up pregnant.”
Had they expected that of Shaelyn? Her and Brady were always very, very careful.
“My sister is furious. That’s what happens when you stop attending church, I said.”
Henry hadn’t said anything, but that was only because his faith came nowhere near his wife’s dedication to Scripture.
Charlotte went on robustly, ignoring her husband’s silence. “So I asked her, what will you do? Will you let Anna stay in your home? Dorothy said she has no plans of kicking out her only child. But now Anna is working down in the Quarter at some naughty boutique and, Lord, I never once thought I would see that girl selling unmentionables to the general public.”
What would her mama do, Shaelyn wondered now, if Charlotte knew that her only child was working for Anna and selling unmentionables to the general public right along with her? Anna now owned La Parisienne, and her son, Julian, was thirteen years old.
Shaelyn was utterly grateful for Anna offering her a position, and she and Anna got along surprisingly well. It was just that . . .
Shaelyn felt her throat tightening up, just as it always did when she thought about the looming responsibilities lying ahead of her. Inheriting the family home was more than she needed, and certainly more than she’d ever wanted. And it certainly required more monetary funds than her position at La Parisienne earned her every two weeks.
Closing her eyes, Shaelyn rubbed her temples. She’d figure it out. Meme Elaine’s only wish was for the house to continue through the generations. Shaelyn was it. She just had to remind herself that this unexpected inheritance did not mean New Orleans had to be it for her—she didn’t have to stay forever.
“It’ll be fine,” she heard herself say out loud, as though her hands weren’t clammy from the stress and her toes weren’t curling into the rug in a futile effort to ground herself.
“‘Course it will be fine.” Meme Elaine cracked a smile, then reached forward to grab the TV remote from the table. After a moment, she clucked her tongue. “Would you look at that?” she demanded. “What sane women wears spandex at her age?”
Shaelyn figured it was best not to point out that her grandmother had no room to talk when it came to questionable wardrobes.
“Oh!” her grandmother exclaimed, pointing the TV remote at Shaelyn. “I meant to tell you earlier, but a woman called for you yesterday while you were at work.”
“Here?” Shaelyn couldn’t think of anyone to whom she might have given the landline number. “Did she leave a name?”
Meme Elaine’s attention remained focused on the show’s hosts throwing hangers of Spandex into a large, metal trash bin. “A Carla-something. Carla Winter? Carla Ritter?”
No. Shaelyn swallowed past the bundle of dread climbing her throat. Had she given Carla her new phone number? She was positive that she hadn’t. Carla Ritter was nice . . . for a ballsy woman who ran the sort of business establishment that she did. But Shaelyn had left New York City for New Orleans, and her two weeks’ notice had been closer to four. No way did she owe Carla anything.
“You know her, cher?” Meme Elaine asked. “She seemed real nice, had a sweet Southern accent.”
“No,” Shaelyn lied, “Never heard of her.”
4
Shaelyn had never been a runner. Oh, she’d tried a few times after moving to New York City. Seeing all those fit women in their yoga pants and tiny sports bras jogging in Central Park had been the inspiration she’d needed to get her butt moving. After all, her thighs and derriere were the ones jiggling and making a mortal enemy out of every pair of jeans.
As it turned out, Shaelyn hadn’t enjoyed running as much as she’d enjoyed seeing other people do so, and her outings to Central Park were thereafter limited to people watching.
But New Orleans . . . New Orleans was worse.
Halfway there, Shaelyn told herself as she spotted the stone tower of Holy Name of Jesus Church sprouting out over the treetops. Just make it to that black trash bin and then you can die.
She didn’t make it to the trash bin. She barely made it another thirty feet before she hobbled over to one of the ancient live oaks lining the paved path. Pressing her palms to the ribbed bark, she rested her forehead against the back of her hands and swallowed fistfuls of humid air into her aching lungs.
Never again.
Shaelyn crumpled to the ground, with her back against the live oak and her hands settled on her bent knees.
This was all Brady Taylor’s fault. She wished he hadn’t looked so damn good the other day, dressed in a plain gray T-shirt and Levi jeans that were faded in all the right places. The problem with Brady was the way he filled out his clothes: his broad shoulders had stretched the thin material across his back, and good Lord, but the way the cotton had barely skimmed his stomach hinted at killer abs underneath.
Shaelyn’s saving grace at the BBQ had been when Brady opened his mouth and revealed himself to be the same jerk she remembered all too well.
But still, here she was running in a futile attempt to shed the pounds she’d gained since high school. That Shaelyn cared at all about what Brady thought of her darkened her mood.
With a glance at her watch, she hauled herself up off the ground with a small moan of pain. Were her shins supposed to be stinging so badly?
She yanked on the hem of her shorts and waited for a mother pushing her baby in a stroller to pass before picking the wedgie from hell. Either her butt had grown in the last few months or the hot, humid air was making her swell.
With that spurring her on as motivation, Shaelyn ramped her fast walk up to a slow jog. She tried to think of anything else besides her burning calves and her tiny running shorts.
By the time Shaelyn made it back to her car, she was sweating from places she hadn’t known existed. The clanging bells from Holy Name of Jesus Church marked 4 p.m across the street as a car parked behind hers beeped twice. She fumbled with her car keys, which she’d clipped to the belt loop of her shorts for safekeeping.
“Need help with those?”
Shaelyn jerked at the familiar masculine voice and nearly pantsed herself. Picking a wedgie in public, while sometimes necessary, was embarrassing, but losing her shorts in front of Brady Taylor, strangers, and the all-seeing eyes of her parish church might actually spell the end of her.
Then again, problem solved. Meme Elaine would have to find someone else to inherit their ancestral home, of course, but Shaelyn could work some serious magic from Upstairs.
“Nope, I’ve got it,” she bit out. She didn’t look at him. One glance and there was a decent chance of her good sense going MIA.
“You sure?” Black Nike tennis shoes entered her peripheral vision. “Looks like you might need a hand.”
His toned calves were dusted with short, black hairs. It was a sign of weakness, she knew, but Shaelyn couldn’t stop the upward progression of her gaze. Settled low on his hips were maroon basketball shorts with cracked-gold lettering running up the side. The first and second O’s were missing, so that instead of Loyola, it read “L Y LA.” She wondered why he wasn’t wearing his alma mater, Tulane University, and then reminded herself that she didn’t care. Her gaze traveled up to a faded-blue NOPD T-shirt that—
Shaelyn inhaled sharply as she realized just how awful she must look. Boob sweat was the least of her worries when her underwear had officially integrated itself between her butt cheeks. She reached up to smooth her short, curly hair, which she’d tamed with a headband straight out of the ’90s. Her bedroom was proving to be a treasure trove of forgotten goodies.
“You’ve got something . . . ” Brady reached out a hand toward her butt.
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“Hey!” She swatted at his long-tapered fingers. He wasn’t wearing his hat today, and she finally had her first glimpse of his blue-on-blue eyes. She’d once compared them to the crystal blue waters of Destin (where their families once vacationed together in Florida every summer), and she was annoyed to find that time had not dampened their appeal. Straightening her spine, she snapped, “Hands off.”
Holding both hands up, he dipped his chin. “You might wanna check out your behind then.” Those blue eyes crinkled as he grinned, with small laugh lines fanning out from the corners.
Shaelyn twisted at the waist. Three leaves were stuck to her butt, suctioned to the fabric of her shorts as though hanging on for dear life. Sweat, apparently, was the proper glue foliage needed for attachment.
She was never working out again.
“You got it?” Brady asked, humor lacing his husky drawl. “I’m good with my hands, if you need help.”
An image of Brady’s large hands cupping her butt snapped her into action. She swiped at the offending leaves, sending them fluttering to the ground. “I’m good. Thanks.”
His sweeping glance, one that traveled from her tennis shoes all the way up to her face, left her wondering if he liked what he saw or if he was glad he’d dumped her years ago. Finally, he murmured, “I can see that.”
The key ring came loose from her belt loop with an extra hard tug of desperation, and she started for her car. “Right. Well, nice to see you.”
Brady effectively ruined her escape by leaning against her car door with his arms crossed over his hard chest. Hadn’t she suffered enough today without having to deal with him, too? Boob sweat, wedgies, and leaves suctioned to her ass were all a woman could take, thank you very much.
She gestured at him. “Do you mind?”
