“The jerk told me to order anything I wanted. So, I’m using it as an opportunity to turn this sad situation into something positive.”
“That’s kind of you.”
I smile over the rim of my glass. “What do you recommend?”
“For you or the shelter?”
“Let’s start with me. I’m kind of digging the Cajun chicken pasta. Any good?”
He nods, before taking a sip of wine. “The best. For dessert, you’ll want the cranberry apple walnut crisp. It’s a nice palette cleanser.”
“Do you cook?”
“In general, or here?” He waves George over to our table and then proceeds to order a plethora of items including the pasta.
I lift a shoulder. “Both.”
“I do cook, yes, often, but not usually here unless I have a very good reason. I have a full kitchen staff and my head chef is extremely talented.”
The way the words “extremely talented” roll off his tongue sends heat rolling over my skin or perhaps it’s the just the roaring fire. “So how do you know the jerk?”
“Oh, so we’re going there?” Tyler’s looking at me, like I haven’t been looked at in a long time. He has the eyes of man who knows what he wants.
“Might as well.” My finger traces up and down the stem of the wine glass.
My new dinner companion shifts in his chair. “Well, he’s a close friend. One of my oldest friends, but I’m rethinking our friendship after hearing about what he did to you tonight.”
“What about the whole, bros before . . . chick’s thing?”
He laughs at my turn of phrase, which I appreciate. “I don’t subscribe to silly mottos like that. I believe in being a good person and doing right by your fellow human.”
“Speaking of being good and doing right, what do you recommend that we send over to the shelter?”
His thumb scratches along his jawline. “Well, I think soup and pizza would be best. I can have the kitchen staff get right to work on that if you want it delivered tonight.”
My fingers fly over my phone. “Hi, yes, The Saffron House Restaurant would like to send some pizzas and soup over to the shelter. I was wondering when the best time would be to do that?” I wait in silence a moment while the woman who answered the call checks with the shelter manager.
“Great, thank you so much for your help.” I end the call and Tyler leans forward.
“So, what’s the plan?”
“They said Sunday evening would be perfect, however that’s when I fly home.”
“Home?”
George appears at our table placing platters of seafood and burgers as well as bowls of pasta between the two of us. Tyler inspects each dish. Pleased with the presentation he gives George a nod.
“I live in Los Angeles, sometimes East Harbour, New York. I’m in town for a wedding.”
Tyler shakes his head. “Wait, are you here for Sage and Reed’s wedding?”
“Yeah, Sage Maxwell is one of my oldest . . . friends.”
The words come off my tongue and I realize just how small the world is in this moment. I pick up my wine glass examining its contents.
Tyler laughs. “I’m Reed’s best man.”
Holy fuck.
“Looks like we’ll be seeing a lot of each other this weekend, Haven.” As he says my name, the rich timbre of his southern accent winds through my body. Admittedly, I really like the way my name sounds on his lips.
Tyler’s blue eyes are fixed on me and I can’t help but enjoy him watching me. That sexy smirk of his is, well, sexy. I wonder what his lips would feel like pressed against my skin.
Stop.
For a woman who has just been dumped, I shouldn’t be having salacious thoughts about another man. Definitely not a man who’s close friends with my ex.
Am I hurt that Scott dumped me? Yes. Who enjoys being cut loose? At least he did it face-to-face. But Scott blindsided me, and that tells me a lot about him as a person. Further dissection tells me that I might have been blinded by his big dick energy the whole time.
I swallow half the glass and nod. “It seems that way, doesn’t it?”
Tyler
Fucking Scott. He called me back in March to book my place just so that he could break up with this woman?
A real dick move, Scott.
I plate a few appetizers for Haven to try. These are some of my favorite dishes that Jace, my head chef, and I created.
Her green eyes grow wide as I slide the food in front of her. “Wow, this looks incredible,” she says. “All I had on the plane was a small salad and a roast beef sandwich. I’m starving.”
Even though this isn’t my cooking, my heart swells with pride at her compliment.
It’s been a long time since I’ve shared a meal with someone. A woman. Getting close to someone means sharing.
Secrets.
Secrets, those are something I have by the bucketful. I wonder if I’ll ever find a woman who I can unpack my shit to and have her handle all of it.
“Give the baked spinach dip a try. Everything is locally sourced.”
Her eyes flick to mine as she tops the bread with the dip. “Even the bread?”
“Yep, I purchase it from an artisan bakery over on Mulberry Street in Mayfield.”
It’s about the only thing functioning in that town aside from The Penny Plate. The old movie theater makes enough money to keep the lights on. The teenagers keep the soda shop hopping, other than that Mayfield’s like a ghost town.
“Oh, are you talking about Sugar Loaf?” Her blond hair slides over her shoulder revealing the smooth expanse of her neck.
“That’s the place. How do you know about it?” I ask, before popping a piece of bread into my mouth.
Her head bobs up and down going back for more dip. “Local girl here. I grew up in Mayfield. My mother ordered a dozen chocolate pumpkin scones one year for Christmas brunch. So damn good.”
When she takes a bite, her eyes close. My eyes focus on her lips—lips I suddenly can’t tear my gaze from. Swiping the corner of her mouth, a moan of appreciation hums in her throat.
Stop staring.
“Good?”
“Words cannot accurately describe the flavors dancing on my tongue. It tastes . . . so flavorful?” She laughs, and I feel my smile growing wider.
“I’ll take it.” Her enthusiasm for the food makes me want to cook for her. And that seems weird considering I just met her tonight. On top of that she’s my friend’s ex. We sit mostly in silence enjoying the food. I didn’t realize how hungry I am, I practically inhale everything.
“So, what keeps you busy in Los Angeles?”
“I’m in public relations. I work for an entertainment firm managing the lives of the rich and famous.”
“Public relations. That’s gotta be interesting work,” I muse, digging in to polish off the last bites of my pasta.
“Yeah, as long as my clients aren’t fucking everything up by doing dumb shit on social media.”
Wiping my mouth on a linen napkin I stand. “Is that how you met Scott?” I call over my shoulder, walking toward the bar.
“Yeah, he was my client up until about,” she pauses to glance at her phone. “Almost three-ish hours ago.”
Almost three hours? Could that be right?
“Wait, so he dumped you and fired you?” I grab the bottle of Cardwell Bourbon and two rocks glasses and then walk back toward Haven.
She blows out a deep breath. “Yep. You better get a Shaman in here to get rid of the bad juju.”
I laugh setting the glasses on the table. “Do you know where I can find a Shaman in central Kentucky?”
“Not one clue.”
“Shall we top this off with some bourbon?”
Her eyes skim to the bottle of bourbon in my hand. “Haven Hill, my family named this one in my honor.”
My eyes pop wide. “The Cardwell family, huh?”
“Yep, my parents adopted me when I was two months old. Sorry if that’s an o
vershare. I think I’m still a little rattled from earlier, or maybe you just make me feel like I can tell you anything.”
“You can share anything you like,” I say with a smile. “If you want to vent or share your secrets, go for it.”
I try to wrap my mind around the fact that Haven and I have that in common—being adopted. Meeting someone else who is adopted is a rarity. And I’ve never met anyone who gives up such personal information in a short period of time. Before I can ask another question, Haven continues sharing.
“My given first name was March.”
I pour her a glass of bourbon and then one for myself. “March, I feel like there’s a story there.”
She lifts the glass to her lips. “As the story goes, my bio mom died in labor and the nurse who took care of me until my adoption went through named me March because I was born in March.” Haven laughs. “Not very original.”
I study her for a minute as my fingers tap against my glass.
Better than being named after a cigarette brand.
“It’s interesting, though.”
“At first, when I heard the story, I couldn’t believe it.” Haven takes a sip of the bourbon. “I was like that’s clever.”
I smile. “I can detect your sarcasm.”
“I know, but as it turned out, Iris Cardwell . . . my mother, she’s a huge fan of the book, Little Women. So, it seems that there was some kind of happenstance to it all. My parents ended up keeping March as my middle name. Haven March Cardwell.”
“Interesting, I like it. Do you have any siblings?”
“Two brothers—Brant, he’s older than me, and Wes is younger.”
“Ah, so you’re the middle child.” I grin.
“Yes, but I don’t have any kind of syndrome.”
“Are your brothers adopted as well?”
“No, they are both medical marvels, according to them.”
“And since you’re in Los Angeles looking after the celebrities, are they running the family empire?”
She laughs. “My father and uncle run things for now. My brothers have careers outside the family business, but I’m waiting for my father to summon one of them home to take his place.”
“Ah, I see.”
Haven eyes me over the rim of her glass. “I see on the back of the menu card that your last name is Nichols. Are you by chance related to the Nichols who own Nichols Corp?”
“I am. Michael and Enid are my parents.”
“So, you said no to running the family business too, huh?” she asks gesturing around the space.
“Quite the opposite actually,” I answer. “That’s my day job.”
Her green eyes sparkle with surprise. “How can you run a restaurant and work the family business? Seems like a lot of work.”
George appears at the table with our cranberry apple walnut crisp. Once he drops off the dessert plates, he makes himself scarce leaving the two of us alone again.
“Nah,” I reply, scooping up some cobbler for Haven. “Reed, he’s my managing partner at Nichols Corp, and I make it work.” I hand her the plate.
“Oh my god, this smells amazing.”
“One second, you need to try it with some vanilla ice cream.” I stand up and walk over to the bar where I pull a carton of ice cream from the freezer.
Once I pile the ice cream on top of our desserts, I encourage her to dig in. “Hmm,” she hums. The effect of that sound ripples through her body, which lead my eyes to roam over her lips and down her throat as she chews and swallows another bite.
My dick is half-hard at the sound of her whirrs of appreciation. And that needs to stop.
“Working so much, that doesn’t leave much time for a social life,” she points out. “How does your wife . . . girlfriend feel about that?”
Her neck flushes pink. It’s a nice subtle way of asking if I’m in a relationship.
“No social life. No wife or girlfriend,” I answer, before taking a bite.
“Well, I guess the wedding will be a social gathering.”
“For sure, probably one of the biggest events of the summer.”
Haven dabs the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Thanks for all this great food.”
“It was my pleasure. It was nice to have met you, I’m only sorry about the circumstances.”
She smiles into her glass and polishes off the remnants of her bourbon. “I should probably get going. The bride must be wondering where I am.”
I stand. “Are you staying with Sage while you’re here?”
Haven rises from her seat grasping the handle of her luggage tote that I didn’t notice until just now. “Yeah, there’s no way I’m staying at my parents’ place. Things get a little nuts over there during the summer. Well, really any time of year.”
Belcourt Estate. I’ve seen the Cardwell family home from a distance many times. Rosemary Hill, the Cardwell family distillery, is considered the crown jewel of the Kentucky Bourbon Trail. And that’s great for my business during tourist season.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you at the wedding,” I say, walking Haven to the door. “Do you have a ride?”
“Uhm, I’ll just Uber.” Her fingers fly over the screen of her phone.
“I’d give you a lift, but I rode my bike here.”
She laughs glancing back at her phone. “Your bicycle? I can’t picture it.”
“No, my motorcycle,” I correct.
Her eyes flip up to mine. “Oh, wow.” Her words are breathy.
Yeah, that’s right, gorgeous. I ride a bike. I chuckle inside. I want her to stay a little longer and that’s a bizarre feeling for me.
“Actually,” she says, straightening her shoulders. “I’ll see you at the rehearsal dinner tomorrow.”
“Right, the rehearsal dinner. Have a good night, Haven.”
A sweet smile crosses her lips. “Good night, Tyler.” And then she walks out the door heading up the street to the coffee shop, Beans & Cream. Once she’s safely inside, I lock the doors and walk back to our table where George starts clearing the dishes.
“Sir, can I get you anything else?”
“No, thank you,” I answer. “I’m good with this bottle of bourbon.”
“It was nice of you to spend time with Mister Benson’s date . . . uh, ex.”
“She’s a friend of friend, I’d have done it for anyone. Go on home. I’ll run these through the dishwasher.”
He nods and walks toward the kitchen. “Thanks, boss.”
Blowing out a deep breath, I pour another glass of bourbon.
Dating.
No dating for me. Things get tricky in a small town—so the occasional woman here on business or a bachelorette on a weekend with a bride tribe of girlfriends warms my bed. But then they leave. There’s no pillow talk, no sharing meals and they’re all looking for the same thing—just sex. A casual fling. A story they’ll share on those girls’ wine nights.
Women who don’t pry into my life, asking all the personal questions.
Tell me about your childhood. What sports did you play in high school? What were you like as a kid? Are you close with your mom and dad?
Sure, people in Smyrna Hills know that I’m adopted. Kind of hard to hide since the Nichols adopted me when I was fifteen.
My parents sent me to private school, which took some adjusting on my part since I hadn’t been in school the two years prior.
First semester caused a lot of trouble for me. I got into fights. A lot of fights. To this day, I’m surprised that I wasn’t expelled. Kids made fun of me for needing extra help. Eventually I excelled and ended up graduating with honors.
In grad school, there had been one woman I’d thought about having more with, but she ended up chasing someone else. Wanted her M-R-S degree bad.
Since then, I’ve spent my time committed to being single and focused on work. Which is the perfect out for dating—workaholic. My business comes first. I don’t need a relationship.
And I’ll keep telling myself that.
Haven
It’s nearly eleven-thirty by the time I make it to Sage’s house. My first Uber cancelled and the next one took his sweet ass time, stopping off at McDonald’s and then for gas. The nice buzz I had is gone, leaving me to relive the embarrassment from earlier in the evening.
Scott Benson fucking dumped me.
“And he dumped you in the middle of The Saffron House?” Sage asks.
She’s the only one who knew I’d been dating him. Sage is great about keeping secrets. I trust her with my life.
“Yep.” I flop onto the couch.
“What a fucking asshat. The urge to get on social media and blast his ass is strong.”
I wave her off. “No need, he’ll fuck up something eventually.”
Sage produces a bottle of wine and two glasses. “I’m hesitant giving you more wine after what happened last time.”
“I wasn’t drunk. I tripped over my own two feet.”
She laughs. “You put a hole through my wall.”
I lift the glass to my mouth. “It was either me or the towel bar.”
Sage eyes her glass as concern passes over her face. “Just stay away from my wedding dress.”
I wave my hands in front of me. “I will be on my best behavior and the best maid of honor ever. I’ll go in the hall of fame like Pippa Middleton.”
“Uhm, no, you will not upstage me on Saturday. I knew I should have made you wear an ugly dress.”
“Pippa didn’t upstage, Kate.” I toss my head back in a laugh. “No thunder will be stolen on your big day.”
She shakes her head and laughs. “You’ve always been the Monica to my Rachel.”
“Damn right. So, what do you need from me, your maid of honor extraordinaire?”
“Nothing, except general hand holding and being there for me every step of the way. Including my bridesmaid’s tea tomorrow afternoon.”
“Tea? Are you kidding me?”
She shrugs, lifting her wine glass in my direction. “Not kidding.”
“I missed your bachelorette party because of work. No, unacceptable. We’re having wine—actually let’s do a Champagne brunch.”
“See there you go, Monica. Trying to take over,” she points out.
Beautiful March Page 3
