Best Laid Wedding Plans

by Lynnette Austin

  But she hadn’t. And her stately, badly-in-need-of-renovation family home needed money. Lots of money, if she hoped to make the changes she planned.

  First on her list of must-dos? Prove to Richard he should loan her those necessary funds. Her mama and daddy and their mamas and daddies had all done business with Coastal Plains—and so would she.

  If Coastal would have her. That ugly finger of doubt poked at her. Left her mouth dry. If not, she’d drive to Savannah and grovel at one of the banks there.

  Actually, she’d prefer that. She didn’t particularly like Richard, but her father wanted to keep the money in town, wanted to stay with Coastal Plains. That deeply entrenched Southern loyalty, even when it wasn’t deserved.

  She toyed with the pearls at her neck, the ones Grandma Olivia, her mama’s mama, had given her when she turned sixteen. She missed her grandmother and could use her sage advice.

  But she was gone, so everything rested on her own slightly unsteady shoulders. She took a long, cool drink of tea.

  Wallet, who’d earned the nickname because his seldom opened, came into the diner and headed for his table, the one on the far right.

  Dee-Ann shook her head. “Luanna, get Wallet’s water and lemon ready.”

  Her friend delivered both to him. “Gonna have anything to eat today, Wallet?”

  “Nope. Wife’ll have lunch ready when I get home.”

  Jenni Beth watched as he squeezed the lemon, then added five heaping spoons of sugar. His no-cost version of lemonade. The man was notoriously tight with his money, not because he had to be but because he chose to be.

  The door opened behind her but she ignored it, her mind a jumbled mess.

  Seconds later, Cole Bryson slid into the seat across from her, and she groaned. A strand of dark hair curled over his forehead. Sinfully handsome, the man had dimples deep enough to hide in.

  He made her mouth water, her temperature spike. She fought the urge to down her iced tea in a single gulp.

  A week ago they’d danced under the stars. A bad thing. It had stirred up feelings she’d worked long and hard to tamp down. Cole did things to her… It would be so easy to fall under his spell again, but she wouldn’t let that happen. He was dangerous to her. To her plans.

  He didn’t belong here in Misty Bottoms.

  “Whoa, sugar. What’s goin’ on? You look real good, like a model for Forbes magazine.”

  “Oh, for—” She rolled her eyes. “You’d look a whole lot better gone, Cole.”

  “Your mama taught you better manners than that. You’re supposed to say, ‘Why don’t you join me, Cole?’”

  “Seems to me you already did.”

  “You ran away from me awfully fast at the weddin’ last week, Beaumont.”

  “I was working, Cole. Unlike you, I had things to do. Responsibilities.”

  “Guess so.” He shrugged lazily. “You all settled in?”

  “More or less.”

  His gaze traveled over her, and she hated the quick prayer of thanks rattling around in her head that she’d fussed over her makeup this morning. Had worn her favorite red suit.

  “Why are y’all dressed up, Jenni Beth?”

  “Cole, don’t do this.” She heard, and hated, the pleading note in her voice.

  “We need to talk, sugar. Clear the air between us.”

  “I don’t want to.” Didn’t dare was more like it.

  He studied her for a minute, then said, “Okay. So, again, why are y’all dressed up?”

  “That would come under the heading of none of your business.”

  Everything was still too up in the air. Her plans might come to nothing. Pride? That figured in, too, though she didn’t like to admit it.

  Tipping her head, she studied him. Worn denims and a crisp, button-down white shirt, the cuffs rolled to show off those deeply tanned arms. The man looked good enough to eat. Of course she’d cut out her tongue before she so much as hinted at that. That darned pride again.

  “Why are you here, Cole? It’s a workday. Shouldn’t you be in Savannah?”

  “Had a couple sales to hit in the area. Thought I’d stop by, see my folks.”

  “That’s nice.” For a split second, she envied him. Envied that his family was still intact, still living in the present. Looking forward to the future rather than mourning what could never be again.

  “Don’t suppose you’d talk your daddy into sellin’ Magnolia House to me before it falls in around your ears?”

  Her mouth dropped open, and she felt her temper flare. “So not going to happen.”

  “You know, sugar, I could make us all a fortune from that place.”

  “No. You tear down the houses you buy. Sell them off piece by piece.” She lowered her voice. “You’re not getting so much as a nail out of Magnolia House to sell to some yuppie who wants an”—she waggled her fingers to indicate quotation marks—“‘authentic piece of history’ in his upscale renovated city loft.”

  “You done?”

  “Yes, I am.” Hot color warmed her cheeks as she grabbed her purse and dug through it for money to pay her bill.

  Cole reached across the table and snatched it from her. “Hold on. No need to get your panties in a twist.”

  “My panties are none of your business.” She all but hissed the words.

  “They could be.”

  Her heart squeezed. There it was again, rearing its ugly head. That silly crush she’d developed when Cole and her brother had run around together. She’d been so sure Cole was the love of her life.

  And later…

  Stuff happened and the crush ended.

  “In case you’ve forgotten, you and I, Cole? We’re history. Your decision.”

  Casually, he stretched his legs out in front of him. “Actually, I beg to disagree. I don’t think we are. We’ve reached the end of our prologue, and now it’s time you and I start Chapter One. But that’s not what I came to discuss.”

  She stared at him, openmouthed. How could he say something so preposterous, and then just…just table it? Stick it in his back pocket for later? No. She jerked herself back. A head game. Cole Bryson was toying with her.

  “Go away, Cole. Please. I have business to attend to, and I need a clear head. My meeting this morning is very, very important.”

  “I want your house, Jenni Beth.”

  “And people in hell want ice water.”

  “I want your house.”

  “You can’t have it,” she snapped. “I intend to turn it into a wedding venue. Magnolia Brides.” The second the words left her mouth, she wished them back. She hadn’t meant to share her dreams—not with anyone outside the family, and certainly not with him. Not yet.

  Cole’s eyes widened, disbelief flickering across his face. “I don’t think I heard you right. I could swear you said you want to start a wedding business. Here.” He tapped a finger on the tabletop.

  “Yes.”

  “Do your parents know?”

  “Of course they do.”

  “Is that why you came back?”

  “Partly.”

  He leaned closer, so close the heat of his body nearly singed her. “Have you taken leave of your senses? Do you read the newspaper?” He pointed to the one by her elbow. “Watch anything besides E! Tonight on TV?”

  “Careful, Cole.”

  He laughed derisively and shook his head. “Careful? I was beginnin’ to think you didn’t know that word even existed.”

  He reached across the table and grabbed her iced tea.

  “Hey, that’s mine.”

  “Share and share alike.” One sip and his nose wrinkled. “Sweet?”

  She shrugged, then called out, “Luanna, will you bring this Neanderthal his own tea? Unsweetened. He’s a disgrace to the South.”

  “Sure will.�
��

  “Save the steps, darlin’. I’m good.” He took another drink of hers.

  She plucked the glass out of his hand.

  “Tell me you’re not really serious about this.”

  “Serious as a postal strike on income tax day.” She rapped the toe of her favorite black stilettos against the table leg hard enough to rattle the ice in her glass.

  He leaned down and looked under the table.

  She choked and her fingers involuntarily tugged at the hem of her very short skirt.

  He clucked his tongue. “Don’t worry, darlin’. I’m not lookin’ up that pretty little skirt. I just wanted to know if you had your runnin’ shoes on today. ’Cause you’ll need them if you’re gonna chase this dream.”

  “You’re so juvenile, Cole.”

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “Ain’t it great?” He pointed at her shoes. “By the way, I like those. Hot!”

  Before she could react, he grabbed her heel and lifted a foot, flicking a finger along the bow at her ankle.

  She jerked it away and tucked her feet beneath her chair, ignoring the tingle from his nonchalant touch.

  “What are you really doing here, Cole?”

  “Here? As in what am I doing in Misty Bottoms? Or as in why am I sharing your table at Dee-Ann’s?”

  “Take your pick.” Ice crystals dripped from the voice she hardly recognized as her own. She’d let him get under her skin, and shame on her for that. Even worse? He’d put a voice to her own self-doubts.

  “I’m actually in town nearly every week. The salvaging business has me on the road a lot, scouting out leads on materials. When I’m up this way, I like to stop by and say hey to my folks. Since you haven’t been here much, you wouldn’t know that, though.”

  She blinked back the hot sting of guilty tears. She hadn’t visited her parents every week, hadn’t even made it back some months.

  At the same time her mind rebelled. Once a week? A tiny bubble of panic formed. She’d see him once a week?

  No.

  He’d slide into town, visit his folks at the farm, and slip out again without anyone the wiser. He was good at that.

  Dee-Ann, coffeepot in one hand, iced tea for Cole in the other, stopped at their table. “Everything okay here?”

  “Everything’s good.” Cole sipped his drink. “Thanks. Not a place in Savannah makes smoother tea.”

  “Got a notion that tongue of yours is smoother still,” Dee-Ann said dryly. “Luanna, your order’s up.”

  As Dee-Ann walked away, Jenni Beth felt Cole’s eyes on her. Knew he was assessing her. He dragged out the good-old-boy demeanor when he found it useful, but beneath that? A mind as sharp as any she’d ever known and a memory like a steel trap.

  She struggled for composure.

  “Sorry about the teasing,” Cole said. “You do that well, you know.”

  “What?”

  “I made you mad and, for a few seconds there, you let it out, but then slicker than silk, you slipped right back into the role of prim and proper Southern lady, pearls and all.” He brushed a fingertip over the ones at her neck.

  She drew back, felt the blush warm her cheeks as that remembered touch stoked a fire deep inside.

  “That’s not who you are,” he drawled.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You never have been,” he continued. “Oh, you can pile on the trappings. Put you on a public stage, and you could fool anyone. But underneath?” His eyes held memories. “You’re one hot woman, Jenni Beth, with a temper to match.”

  She sputtered. Wanted to deny the temper, hated to deny the hot woman part. Ego again.

  Calmly, he took another drink, met her eyes over the rim of the glass. “But back to what we were discussin’.”

  Her head swam. At this point, she wasn’t sure she even knew what that was. He’d made so many U-turns in their conversation, she hadn’t a clue where they were headed.

  “In case you haven’t heard, Beaumont, this isn’t exactly the best time to start a new business. The country, hell, the whole world, is workin’ to dig itself out of a recession. Oh, the economy’s bouncin’ back in some places, more so up north and in the big cities. But small towns… It’ll be a long time comin’, if the recovery comes at all.”

  He swung an arm to indicate the scene outside the window. “When you walk down Main Street in those killer shoes, have you noticed how many buildings sit empty? How many businesses have been forced to close their doors?”

  “Yes, I have. I’ve also noticed a couple new ones.”

  He nodded. “And they’re strugglin’. There are no jobs around here. No money in Misty Bottoms.”

  “Exactly,” she said.

  “Now you’re startin’ to worry me, sugar, because you’re not makin’ a lick of sense.”

  Stubbornly, she planted a hand on her hip. “I most certainly am.”

  “Did you hear what I said? No money, no jobs.”

  “Which are both excellent reasons to open Magnolia Brides.”

  A frown creased his brow.

  “If Misty Bottoms has any chance,” she continued, “something has to change.”

  “And you intend to make that happen with this harebrained scheme of yours.”

  “I intend to help, yes. With my well-thought-out plan. Regardless of the economy, mamas and daddies still spend big money for their little girls’ dream weddings, and I intend to be the one to provide that perfect setting. I’ll make it the most special day anyone could imagine. And that, Cole Bryson, translates into jobs. Magnolia Brides will need pastries, music, linen, laundry. We’ll need a florist and wait staff. A photographer. A caterer.”

  “And money, Jenni Beth. Lots of it.”

  Heat rushed to her face. “I’ll find it.”

  “That’s why you’re all dressed up. What this morning’s appointment is about, isn’t it?”

  Too perceptive by far. She stared him down. “I’m not stupid, Cole. I know I need financial backing along with a whole heck of a lot of hard work—”

  “Whoa.” He scooted back. “You’re actually prepared to roll up those sleeves and get to it? Willin’ to risk breaking a nail? Work up a sweat?”

  Her eyes shuttered to slits. Determined to keep a check on her temper, she bit back the words that wanted to tumble out.

  Pasting on a molasses-sweet smile, she said, “I am. You run along now.” She made shushing sounds and swept a hand at him. “Go back to Savannah and play with all those goodies you’ve confiscated.”

  “Bought.”

  “Stole.”

  His jaw tightened.

  She’d hit a nerve. Good. Because the man had trounced on just about every last one of hers.

  * * *

  Cole realized he’d been hard on Jenni Beth. But, damn, it was for her own good. Wes would haunt him forever if he didn’t step in and try to save her from herself. The woman might have graduated at the top of her class with a business degree and organized a bunch of weddings in Savannah, but if she thought she could make a go of some fancy-schmantzy wedding venue here in this town, she wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

  It had been unfair, though, to imply she didn’t work hard. That she was afraid to get dirty. She’d worked her pretty little butt off at Chateau Rouge.

  He’d attended a couple of the upscale shindigs they’d hosted, and her second degree in event planning showed. She’d always looked like a million bucks. Confident and in control. More than once, he’d had to rein himself in when guys made moves on her—all of which she declined graciously. The lady could handle herself; she ran a tight ship, and everything went off without a hitch.

  Which simply strengthened his resolve to talk her out of this asinine idea. Whatever money she’d sink into the venture had come hard-earned, and he hated to see her throw it away. Pouring money into Magnolia Ho
use? Too late for that—as a wedding venue, anyway. Her mother and father hadn’t lifted a finger or spent a penny on maintenance since they’d inherited the majestic old plantation house from Jenni Beth’s grandfather.

  And this last year or so? Forget it. They certainly had.

  His mind circled back to Jenni Beth. If she went into this and failed, it would kill her. He couldn’t let that happen.

  Problem was, once Jenni Beth Beaumont set her mind to something, a locomotive couldn’t turn her around. The minute she opened that pretty little mouth, her soft, slow drawl shouted she’d been born south of the Mason-Dixon Line. But all that sugary softness was misleading. She could be stubborn as a weed in his mama’s flower bed.

  Maybe the bank would deny the loan. No doubt she’d be devastated initially, but it would be for the best in the long run. The Beaumonts, just like Misty Bottoms, couldn’t continue as they were. Jenni Beth was right on that account.

  If the bank turned her down, he’d make her folks another offer on the place.

  He had a plan or two for Magnolia House himself. And, maybe, if he got really lucky, a few plans for Jenni Beth.

  Chapter 3

  Jenni Beth crossed her legs at the ankles, uncrossed them, and crossed them again. Jeez Louise, this waiting would be the death of her.

  More than a few of Misty Bottoms’ citizenry had sweated it out in this less-than-comfortable visitor’s chair. But her? She’d never actually been in the bank president’s office before. Any business done at Coastal Plains Savings and Trust had been done by her parents or grandparents.

  As the scent of coffee drifted in from the nearby break room, she smoothed a hand over her skirt and picked off a barely-there speck of lint, a leftover from her napkin at Dee-Ann’s.

  A phone rang unanswered in the next-door office.

  She hated waiting. Hated wasting time. She’d no more than sat down and begun to explain her plan when Richard had been called out to deal with some problem, giving her plenty of time to check out the room. The place was a shrine—to Richard L. Thorndike. Plaques, awards, and pictures of him glad-handing covered the walls, the desk, the étagère shelves.