Shock and bemusement flashed across his face. He didn’t say a word, just stared at them.
She stared back. He wasn’t Byron. He was naked Byron. Or...almost-naked Byron. How could she not have known all this was under those suits and ties? His skin was the color of golden piecrust hot and fresh from the oven. There wasn’t an ounce of body fat on him. The bastard. Everything was ripply and muscly, sprinkled with a fine dusting of dark hair that looked so soft that Roxie had the dubious urge to run her fingertips through it. He would have been bare if not for the black briefs hugging his... Roxie’s cheeks heated quickly when words like cruller, bear claw, sweet roll rushed through her mind. Damn it, Liv!
Flustered, she balled her hands into fists, physically forcing her gaze anywhere but on his...accoutrements. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Me?” he asked. Before he could go further, he looked beyond her and Briar into the bedroom and paled considerably. “Ma?”
Vera’s voice cracked like thunder. “Byron Atticus Strong!”
As if realizing he was bare as a bumpkin, he reached down to cover himself. Roxie’s face flamed hotter at the move and she covered her mouth. “What is this, a town meeting?” he asked.
“Why the Dickens aren’t you next door?” Vera said sharply.
“Next door?” Roxie asked. The truth hit her flat in the face. “You’re the tenant?” Of course he was the tenant.
“I used to be,” Byron answered. “Now I live here.”
Briar’s mouth formed into an intrigued O. She then cleared her throat and gestured toward the bedroom door. “Harmony and I will just tiptoe downstairs and wait.” She cast her eyes in Byron’s direction, fighting a grin. “Hi, Byron.”
He pressed his lips together. “Briar.”
Roxie waited until Briar was gone before lifting her shoulders. “What do you mean you live here now?”
Byron glanced around her to his mother. “By any chance, have you spoken with Pop about the house lately?”
“No,” Vera said. “Why?”
Byron cursed under his breath. His gaze veered back to Roxie. “If you’re interested in leasing the Victorian, you’re going to be disappointed.”
“Why?” Roxie asked, fearing she knew the answer already.
“Because it’s mine,” Byron finished. “Sorry, duchess.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THE SOUND OF hushed arguing echoed into the dining room from the kitchen. Byron fought the urge to scrub his temples, where his irritation was starting to collect. Whatever satisfaction and tranquility he’d found under the rain showerhead in the master bath had vanished under storm clouds of hassle.
Byron pushed aside the spray of flowers in a beveled vase at the center of the table so that he could see Roxie sitting opposite him. She looked near perfection again in a navy blue dress belted in white sateen. Her hair was drawn back from her face at the nape. A string of pearls rested against her neck. Despite her polish, she couldn’t hide the strain he saw around the lines of her mouth.
The voices in the kitchen rose several notches, his mother’s whisper rising to a shriek as his father’s exasperation rose to a muffled shout. Byron rolled his eyes toward them. “Sorry about this.”
Roxie jerked a shoulder, glancing past him at the archway through which his parents had disappeared. “Mistakes happen.”
“Yeah. They do.” When her gaze settled on him again, that unblinking stare of hers fixating on his face, Byron pushed up the sleeves of the denim button-up he’d donned quickly when he realized he had unwanted company. He and Roxie hadn’t exactly parted under normal terms Tuesday morning. The whole thing had ridden on the back bumper of his mind—the kiss, the awkward lull that followed and the entire sleepless night he’d spent on her floor.
The wine hadn’t been enough to forget her sleepy eyes, the lure behind them that had hooked him like a fish. He wished he didn’t remember what it was like to kiss her. Every time he’d thought about it over the last two days, he’d felt that hook dig in a little further.
He stanched the flow of his thoughts, skimming the edge of his index finger under his nose. “Since the two of them aren’t getting anywhere, maybe you and I could straighten this out.”
Roxie’s shoulders squared against the back of the chair. “Okay.”
“My mother probably told you that this is my great-aunt and great-uncle’s place. Since starting the accounting firm took a chunk out of my savings, I moved into the loft above the garage to build my savings back. On Monday, Athena gave my father the go-ahead to offer it to me outright.”
Roxie’s brows gathered. “But your mother thought the house was still available.”
Byron wondered whether to tell her that the deal with Athena and his father wasn’t concrete. Instead he said, “I figured word got around to my mother, seeing as she and Pop are still married and all.” He stopped to let the spirited debate in the next room speak for itself.
Roxie fiddled with one of the pearl and diamond drops at her ears. “So I guess since you’re practically moved in and the house is in your family, I don’t stand much of a chance.”
“Sorry,” he said again and meant it when he saw the crestfallen look on her face. Guilt flared in the pit of his stomach and spread outward. He smoothed his hands over his knees when the urge to reach out to her nearly broke loose. He scanned her long lids as her gaze fell to the folder on the table in front of her.
The folder. Byron frowned at it and the family logo printed on the front. Inside would no doubt be the lease agreement. His brows came together. His agreement with his father was only verbal.
Suddenly, the heated debate between his parents began to add up. If Roxie had signed, then it was Byron’s goose that was likely cooked. He cleared his throat. “Is that the, ah...” When her head lifted, he opened his hand to indicate the folder.
She glanced at it again. “The lease?” He made an affirmative sound in his throat and she nodded. “Of course it is.”
“So you’ve already signed,” Byron surmised, noting the pen clasped tight in her fingers.
Her hand spread across the top of the folder, as if she were prepared to guard its contents. “Why?” Her eyes rounded on his. “Didn’t you sign one?”
Byron opened his mouth to respond. The sound of feet tapping against hardwood stopped him. His parents filed into the room, his mother straight-backed, tight-lipped. His father looked appropriately cowed, his shoulders slumped, hands buried deep in his pockets.
Vera stopped at the head of the table. When Constantine edged up beside her, she arched a brow at him. He lifted his hands in silent acquiescence and moved back behind her shoulder. It was like watching a skinny pine cower behind a brazen tulip. Vera turned back to Roxie and Byron and shook her head. “First of all, I’d like to apologize for the mix-up. It’s an unprecedented predicament that could easily have been avoided.”
Constantine coughed discreetly into his hand. Vera’s lips folded in on themselves briefly before she gathered herself and continued. “It’s difficult to settle on a fair arrangement for everyone. Monday, Byron, you entered into a verbal agreement for the house with your father, and minutes ago, Roxie, you asked to sign before we were interrupted.”
“Whoa, whoa,” Byron said, holding up a hand. “She didn’t sign?”
“Verbal agreement?” Roxie asked. “Then that means...”
“Legally, the house is still available,” Vera announced.
Byron and Roxie looked at each other. In the space of the moment, one weighed the other. Byron’s heart pounded when he saw the light of challenge flare into Roxie’s eyes. His ambition, his desire for the house, the history he shared with it crescendoed. If he hadn’t already, he would have rolled up his sleeves.
This was where six years of law school came in handy. “Ah, no, it isn
’t,” he said.
“Excuse me?” Vera said.
“A verbal contract is binding in the state of Alabama,” Byron pointed out. “So, technically, the house is mine. Plus...” He fished in the pocket of his slacks and tossed the key chain his father had given him onto the table between them. “Pop gave me this with Athena’s blessing.”
Vera lifted one discerning brow. “Your point being?”
“Evidence,” Byron indicated.
“A verbal agreement with your father is hardly black-and-white.”
“Legally speaking—”
“By,” Constantine said and shook his head. “Let it go.”
“Let it go?” Byron echoed, voice rising as anger seared up the column of his neck. “Why should I?”
“Because we raised you to fight for your rights, yes,” Vera pointed out, “and we might have welcomed passionate debate at family dinners. But we also raised you to be a decent human being.”
“Oh, come on,” Byron said, exasperated. She’d said much the same thing when he was twelve and caught Priscilla and Vivienne coating his matchbox cars in purple nail polish. “We’re all adults here.”
“Yes, we are,” Vera noted. “Which is why I hope you’ll be agreeable when I ask you to stand down and let Roxie sign a lease for twelve months. When those twelve months have lapsed, you’ll be in an even better position to buy the house and we’ll let you make the first offer.”
“It’s me?” Roxie asked, her hopeful voice pealing into the tense void. She beamed at Vera and Constantine in turn. “You’re...giving the house to me?”
“If Byron agrees to our terms,” Constantine said, looking to his son with a measure of uncertainty.
Roxie looked to Byron, hesitant in her happiness.
Byron dug in his heels and clung. “I’ve wanted to live in this house since I was six.”
“And another twelve months will not kill you,” Vera added, astute. “They’ll benefit you. You’re too proud to pay anything below market value and in order to get the mortgage rate you want, the down payment will be substantial.”
“Christ. Why do I tell you things?” He scrubbed his temples.
“Do we have an agreement?” Vera asked plainly.
Byron frowned at Roxie. He didn’t like hurting women, particularly women like Roxie. He looked around at the cream-colored walls. The chair rail he’d nailed into place himself. The windows overlooking the porch. Outside, the swing was rocking gently, Briar and Harmony huddled there on the cushions, the light dying around them.
Son of a bitch. Trapped by his own budgetary constraints and the moral compass both his parents had winningly bestowed upon him, Byron gave in. But not without scruples.
He sniffed. “Twelve months,” he agreed. “I’ll give you the twelve months. But I won’t move out of the loft and I still want access to the downstairs gym. After that, the house is mine. End of story.”
Roxie’s smile turned mischievous. “Unless I outbid you.” She laughed as his face fell. “Kidding! I’m kidding!” She looked to Vera. “He gets flushed when he’s agitated.”
“He’s one-eighth Italian,” Vera said as she grinned affectionately at Byron. “Those chromosomes fought their way through.” She leaned down and laid her lips against his hurting temple. “You should say thank-you.”
“Me?” he asked. “For what? She got the house.”
Vera frowned over him just as she had whenever he complained about his sisters. “For the common sense. A year isn’t so hard considering how long you’ve waited to buy a house again. And you know rates will be down next year.”
“You’re right.” He eyed her red dress. “Thanks, Satan.”
She patted his cheek a touch too hard.
Roxie stood up from the table. “Thank you. All of you. You have no idea what this means to me.” She looked to Byron, light beaming out of her.
It was a sight. She was a sight, but Byron still had a hard time generating any enthusiasm. He watched her hug his mother then his father. When she turned to him, Byron shrugged. “Looks like we’re neighbors.” Vera dug a subtle elbow into his ribs. He cleared his throat. “Congrats.”
“I’ll get the papers ready to sign,” Constantine volunteered.
“Let me handle that,” Vera spoke up quickly. “There’s a bottle of champagne in the car.” She placed her hand on her husband’s lapel and angled her face up to his, raising a brow. “Be a good man and fetch it for us, won’t you?”
“All right.” Constantine’s mouth softened into a tender smile. “Matia mou.”
The stern set of Vera’s face crumbled. She blinked. Byron looked away when her dark eyes grew wet and she began to reach for his father’s face. He caught Roxie watching the exchange with a great deal of curiosity. Reaching back, he scrubbed his neck and cleared his throat once more. “I’ll gather up my stuff.”
“Okay,” Roxie said. She stepped aside so he could pass through the archway leading into the den. “Byron.” She waited until he glanced back. “I mean it. Thank you. Thank you so much—”
He held up a hand to stop her from going further. “It’s no big deal.” Grudgingly, he admitted, “My mother’s right. She’s always frigging right.” He stopped talking when she moved toward him. Retreating back a step, he asked, “What’re you doing?”
“Well, I was going to hug you again,” she explained. “But I see now that might be awkward.”
Byron jerked a nod. “A bit.”
“Okay,” she said, widening her eyes. “Is there anything I need to know about the house? Other than the fact that it’s stunningly beautiful.”
Stunningly beautiful. Yeah. “Mothballs,” he blurted. “The couple who lived here previously bombed the place with them when they moved in. You can still smell them here and there.”
“Mothballs, check,” she said. “Anything else?”
“The upstairs shower leaks,” he said. “Oh, and watch out for the bunnies.”
“The bunnies?” she asked, taken aback.
Did he say bunnies? “Squirrels,” he backpedaled with a quick shake of his head. “I meant squirrels. They used to nest in the walls. Not so much anymore but every now and then...”
“Squirrels,” she finished with a knowing smile on her face when he trailed off. She rubbed her lips together, as if debating what she wanted to ask next. “Um, what did your father mean back there when he said mat—matea—”
Matia mou. “I’m not sure,” he lied. “It’s Greek. Really Greek.”
“We’re ready in here, Roxie,” Vera called.
“I’ll be upstairs,” Byron announced. He scowled as he walked away and took the stairs two at a time, muttering to himself.
It was bad enough to have to take everything he’d filtered into the house over the last two days back to the loft. And coming to terms with the fact that he would have to wait an additional year to secure the Victorian as his own would take some getting used to.
Now he had to bargain with a new neighbor. And not any old neighbor...
He had work to do to get those stupid bunnies under control before he started rubbing elbows with Roxie Honeycutt on a more regular basis.
* * *
I COULD GET used to this.
Her boxes and furniture had been delivered. Her friends had brought her a large pot of winter soup to get her through until she filled the pantry. In the fridge, Vera and Constantine had left the bottle of Dom Pérignon to chill. Roxie didn’t fight the inclination to take it and a champagne flute up to the master bathroom, where she kicked off her shoes and reclined in the empty whirlpool tub. She then did something she rarely had throughout the last year.
Indulge.
She sipped and smiled, smiled and sipped. Billie Holiday’s bluesy voice poured through the small portable speaker on the c
ounter several feet away and sieved its poignant way into her soul. Roxie waggled her foot, poured herself an additional dose of Dom and laid her head back against the lip, closing her eyes.
New Year. New Roxie. She could now officially tick new living quarters off her resolution to-do list.
What next?
Her smile slowly morphed into a thoughtful frown. She’d changed geography. That was an important step. One could even say a vital one. She couldn’t start over with all those feelings of betrayal and anger, shame and despair, that had refused to be swept from the place she’d brought them into. Though Olivia had been generous to let her move into the apartment above the tavern on short notice. And being close to work and her friends had been instrumental in helping her heal to a certain degree.
As winter bore down belatedly on the Gulf Coast, however, nights grew long and the off-season quiet settled along the shore. Roxie had begun to see the puddles of tears piling up in corners, even if it had been some time since she’d stopped them from coming.
Puddles rose with the moon. On stormy nights, they’d threatened to drown her. She’d considered packing her bags and letting her flight reflex lead her away from the apartment, from Fairhope... On bad days, a transfer to the outer banks of Siberia hadn’t seemed far enough away from the old Roxie—the solemn, low-spirited version of herself she no longer recognized and had no idea how to redeem.
As it turned out, all she’d needed was a Victorian. And time. Twelve months would be a satisfactory interval to get her thoughts in order. To figure out what it was she wanted. Who this new Roxie was.
Clarity. With the house, it was slowly coming back to her. She wouldn’t leave Fairhope. She had a life here and a thriving business. Sure, people talked and she was constantly running into those who did. But she refused to be driven from the one place in the world she’d ever associated with home.
She’d contacted Richard’s mother. He was still away. On a spiritual retreat, Lucinda Levy had stated matter-of-factly. The news had puzzled Roxie. Richard had always been pointedly intellectual, glossing over the spiritual with stoic reason and logic.
Wooing the Wedding Planner Page 7
