Sweet Talk Me

by Kieran Kramer

She took a swift glance at him and could instantly tell what was on his. The guy was the poster boy for Insatiable Hot Male. A flush spread through her entire body. Big Bad Wolf, she reminded herself. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

  She cleared her throat. “Well, apart from their big intellects, Gage and Weezie have only one thing in common: They both tend to be clueless about social cues other people are giving them, right? And they don’t know how to put out the right communications signals themselves. He’s like a monk who’s taken a vow of silence. She’s a Mack truck.”

  “Bingo.”

  True ripped open a box of penne pasta and poured it into the water. “They know the meaning of the words finesse and tact. But they have a hard time implementing them.”

  “Exactly.” Harrison watched her stir. “And the irony is that neither one appreciates their connection. Gage could be a great big brother to Weezie. And he could use a little sister to jolt him out of his tendency to stay on one track.”

  Gosh, it felt good to talk to someone else about this! The water came to a boil again, and True set the timer on the stove. “If I were diagnosed with Asperger’s, I think I’d want to meet other people with similar issues. Share strategies for coping with it. Stuff like that.”

  Harrison was so close. So she retreated to the fridge. “Want some wine? It being Italian night and all.” She didn’t want him to get any romantic implications from the offer. “I’ve already got a bottle of white open.”

  “Sure.” He slung himself into a chair at the kitchen table.

  She pulled two stemless wineglasses from the cupboard and poured them both a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. “We can open a Shiraz with dinner.”

  When she handed him his, he wrapped his tanned fingers around the globe and took a sip. “Mmmm. Good.”

  Her toes curled at his intimate tone. “One of Daddy’s from his wine cellar.” She sat across the table from him and vowed to keep her distance.

  “Mr. Maybank always had good taste.”

  “He did, actually.” True paused, sad that Harrison wouldn’t be able to tell her father that for himself. And then she thought of Daddy and how happy he’d be knowing she was marrying Dubose.

  “Back to Weezie and Gage not sharing coping strategies…” Harrison swirled the wine around his glass. “Maybe it’s only the people who don’t show Asperger’s traits who want to ‘fix’ it because it doesn’t fit standard norms of behavior. Gage and Weezie seem pretty darned happy.”

  “Except when they come up against those norms,” True reminded him. “Gage, a college graduate with a fabulous job, in an ancient trailer and with all his old stuff … that just doesn’t compute among the upwardly mobile. And Weezie genuinely wants to understand people, but she annoys or embarrasses them—or even insults them—when they don’t respond the way she wants them to.”

  “It would be damned freeing not to care.” Harrison drained his glass and stood. “To say what you wanted, when you wanted to—without worry about the consequences.” He went to the back door, flicked the white eyelet curtain aside, and trapped it with his right hand. His profile was unyielding—taut, almost cold—as he gazed out the window.

  “But I thought you could do anything you wanted.” True sensed some tension in his back, in the way the muscles of his raised upper right arm bunched and strained against his shirt. “You’re rich. You’ve got influence.”

  “Hah.” He turned back around, and the delicate curtain fell behind him, accentuating how ridiculously manly he was. “Every move I make I have to consider the consequences to a whole lot of folks. Not just my business contacts and the people I work with on a daily basis on the road, but my fans. All those young guys out there who look up to me. The women who want me to represent the perfect man. The down-and-outers who want me to bolster their spirits, and the songwriter musicians who expect me to uphold country traditions yet also leave my unique mark on the genre.”

  “Dang,” said True.

  He poured himself another glass of wine. “You?” He held up the bottle.

  “No, thanks.” Just this one glass was loosening her up enough that she was starting to get a little hot and bothered. Which was awful of her, she knew. She was spoken for. And the man she was going to marry was exactly the type of man she needed: someone secure, predictable. Someone who knew what it was like to have the weight of a whole family lineage on your back.

  She set her glass down and went to stir the pasta. “Almost done.” The cheerful Girl Scout cooking a simple pasta supper, that was who she was—a woman who had values and was a proper southern lady.

  Harrison was a leaner. Now he’d braced himself against the doorjamb leading to the hallway, his wineglass in his hand. “You don’t have to worry about me, True.”

  A shock went through her body, and she stirred the pot slower. “Oh?” she said over her shoulder.

  “I know you’re getting married. I didn’t come here to cause any problems. And I really appreciate your hospitality. To be able to have Gage feel comfortable means the world to me.”

  Inside, she felt a combination of so many things … guilt, fear, understanding, and what she dreaded most—attraction. She put the spoon down and turned to face him. “You’re welcome, and I’m glad to do it. You sure did spring it on me, though, at the Starfish.”

  “Yeah.” He pulled at his collar, and she could read embarrassment in the movement. “Sometimes I’m a little impulsive. Some might say hotheaded.”

  She gave a short laugh. “You? Hotheaded?”

  “What about you? We both know what you’re made of, Miss Moonlight Dancer.” His eyes told the story. That night on the Isle of Palms. Her wildness. Her demands.

  “You’re pushing your luck,” she said.

  And he really was.

  “Uh-oh.” He was as scared of her as he was of a kitten. “The prickly Maybank side of you is showing.”

  “No, it is not.”

  He laughed.

  “Stop laughing.” But she was smiling, too.

  “I’ll go check on the others,” he said. “Let ’em know dinner will be ready shortly. And True?”

  “Yes?”

  “I brought Gage’s paddleboards over. He’s got two. His old neighbor left hers behind when she moved to a landlocked city in New Mexico. Maybe we can try them later, huh?”

  “In your wildest dreams. I’m too busy to have fun.”

  “Fun’s exactly what you were made for, woman.” He turned around and got himself out of sight—fast.

  She couldn’t help it. She was grinning broadly, and she felt happy, for some reason, happy in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.

  She was mistress here at Maybank Hall, and she had guests to whom she was serving a fine if unsophisticated meal. Her business was thriving, if not very profitable, and she was getting married in a few weeks.

  She’d come through it. The hard times. And she’d survived.

  So had Weezie.

  She closed her eyes and counted her blessings.

  Harrison was one. But he was very, very bad.

  Oh, Lord. What had she done letting him stay here?

  She closed her eyes, took a sip of wine, and tried not to feel so damned good.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  As comfortable as Honey’s old feather-tick mattress was, Harrison knew he was going to sleep like hell on his first-ever overnight stay at Maybank Hall.

  The problem was that when True was stirring the penne for dinner, he’d caught a glimpse of her bra strap. He hadn’t been able to forget it all night long, throughout the meal (which was delicious) and afterward when they’d all taken a walk with the dogs and then come home to watch an episode of a reality show singing competition.

  That bra strap had been lacy and French looking. True might buy her flatware at Target, but she didn’t skimp on her lingerie. He couldn’t help imagining her slipping off that dadgum bra along with the rest of her clothes before donning a nightie to get ready for bed. In fact, he paused the daydream at th
e naked part. Maybe she slept in the buff.

  He knew the real True. And she knew he knew. It was enough to drive a man crazy to have to pretend that he didn’t, especially when he was told to use her private bathroom and stumbled upon a mysterious package in the drawer she told him to put his razor. The label said NIPPLE PETALS, and they looked like flower-shaped Band-Aids.

  What the hell?

  But they were kinda cute. He wouldn’t mind seeing them on her.

  They were still on his mind when True decreed it was bedtime and went into mistress-of-the-house mode. She first settled Skeeter and Boo, who were desperate to stay with the Labs in the kitchen. Gage spent five minutes trying to convince her they really needed to be in his room on the old rag rug.

  “They’re fine,” True told him firmly. “They’re on vacation. When you’re on vacation, you change things up, right?”

  She had this way of instilling confidence in people while at the same time getting them to shut the hell up. It was quite a gift. Gage succumbed to her charm after a puny fight.

  Everyone who wanted water by their bed got some. Then True laid out her schedule for the next day. She planned to be gone all morning, at least until she tied up some loose ends for the wedding. Weezie was in charge of the U-pick customers.

  “Gage, what are your plans?” True asked nicely.

  “Constructing a crossword, mainly. But I’m also running in the morning.”

  “Good,” she said. “Can Weezie call you on your cell if she needs help?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you, Harrison?”

  She was such a little general.

  “I’ll be over at Sand Dollar Heaven meeting the crew.”

  “I really wish you hadn’t done this,” Gage told him.

  Chill, Harrison told him with his expression.

  “I was perfectly all right—”

  “Gage,” True said, interrupting him equably, “a successful man like you shouldn’t live in a trailer that’s ready to be condemned. That goes beyond stubbornness. That’s outright lack of common sense. Do you want to be known as that weird dude who can’t see the forest for the trees? Would that make your mother proud?”

  Gage just stood there for a minute. “No,” he said.

  “Then stop complaining that your brother is kicking you right out of the rut you were in. Maybe show a little appreciation.”

  Whoa. Harrison was a little scared. And flattered. And turned on. He sensed that Gage was rattled. His brother didn’t say a word, but he was clearly pondering.

  “She’s always like this,” Weezie said helpfully—or not—to Gage, and slid down the hallway in her socks to her room.

  True went over to Gage and took his hand. Harrison knew his brother was uncomfortable with that, but to his credit he didn’t flinch.

  “I’m only talking harshly to you because I care,” she said. “If I’d known you were living the way you were, I would have come over long ago to coax you out, too.” She smiled at Gage, and then the next second she was back at her bedroom door, all tension forgotten. “Good night, everyone!”

  “G’night!” Weezie called from her room.

  Harrison wanted to scoop True up and kiss her all over her face. And her body. But that wasn’t allowed. So he said his manly good nights, and then everyone shut their doors. Skeeter barked a couple of times, and one of True’s dogs answered. But other than that, the house was quiet.

  Here he was, near midnight back in Biscuit Creek, among ghosts and very real people who still meant something to him, even though he hadn’t been here in ten years. The wind blew low over the fields from the marsh and creek beyond. The windows rattled softly, and the house beams creaked.

  There was no place like home. He still couldn’t believe he was back. Sometime after two, Honey’s feather-tick mattress finally lulled him to sleep.

  The next morning, Gage had to get up at six forty-five and follow his damned schedule to the letter, so Harrison gave up on trying to get more shut-eye and threw off the covers. After a short perusal of Honey’s hats on a shelf, accompanied by much yawning, he decided that the purple one with the polka-dotted band and the enormous flower was his favorite.

  In the shower, he noticed that he was actually excited to wake up and start the day—for the first time in ages. He needed to get over to Sand Dollar Heaven. That was going to be fun. But the best thing was that he’d get to see True at breakfast.

  He’d better hurry.

  In the kitchen, True was stirring another pot while she read a book propped up on the counter on a funny portable shelf. She looked up, and his heart quickened its pace. She was damned beautiful, even in her straitlaced clothes. Today she wore a dress that looked like a pipe sleeve and totally disguised her figure. It went straight down and had a large blue, black, red, and white geometric pattern.

  “I’ve seen that before,” he said, “in Austin Powers or something.”

  She smiled. “It was one of Honey’s favorites. Luckily, this style’s back in now. I hope you like oatmeal.”

  “Love it.” Hated it.

  “If you’re lying, you’ll change your mind when you try it the way I make it.” Her eyes twinkled. She saw right through him.

  “You run the roost around here, don’t you? And you’re mighty proud of it, too.”

  “I do, and I am.” Except when she was around Dr. Penn Waring, according to Carmela. “Why don’t you get yourself some coffee? Weezie’s out back, feeding the chickens. And Gage is out on his run.”

  Harrison gladly obeyed and poured himself a cup of the steaming black brew.

  “Let’s go together,” he said while he watched her ladle out two bowls of oatmeal.

  “Where?”

  “On our errands.”

  “I don’t think so.” She opened a jar of dark chocolate peanut butter—cool; was it like a Reese’s?—and scooped a spoonful into each bowl. “I have a lot to do. I’ll be in Charleston. You’re going to the construction site.”

  “I won’t be long. Maybe an hour, tops. And then I’ll check back late this afternoon. I can drive you around. A bride-to-be needs to be pampered.” Why he was torturing himself by bringing that up, he didn’t know.

  “I thought you were here on the down-low.” She picked up her own mug from the counter and took a healthy swallow. Nothing like a girl who could drink scalding coffee without flinching. Then she reached into the fridge and pulled out some fresh raspberries. She rinsed them under the sink in a little mesh colander, shook it, and then slung the berries into the oatmeal like an old pro.

  “Sit,” she said, “and stir it up.”

  Damned if he didn’t sit at her command and pick up his spoon. “Real men don’t like raspberries.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Just don’t tell GQ I ate some.” He stirred. “I’ll wait in the car, and if you’re very long, I’ll wear my big sunglasses and Indiana Jones hat and venture forth. I’ve got to stop somewhere anyway.”

  He took a tentative bite.

  She looked very concerned as he swallowed. “Are you a big sugar person?”

  “No. I’m a rough, tough man who refuses to succumb to the siren call of sweet.” Unless it was her lips, of course. Or apple pie. He was a sucker for that, too.

  Her face lit up. “Then you like the oatmeal?”

  “Yeah. I do.” And he really did.

  “I was going to say we could add some brown sugar to yours if you want…”

  “Nope. It’s perfect just like this.” Like this moment. He wasn’t used to shooting the breeze and having a happy little breakfast with a friend he’d never been able to forget. Especially a sexy friend he’d like to kiss.

  They ate for a minute in silence, but he could tell how much she was enjoying her breakfast. She made a little moany sound at one point and then caught herself.

  “I love raspberries,” she explained.

  Lord, if she was that passionate about breakfast …

  “I always keep a
n overnight bag in the car,” he said, “so I’m good for today. But I’ll need to pick up a couple weeks’ worth of shower things and clothes.”

  “What about borrowing Gage’s clothes?”

  “Have you seen Gage lately? He wears a white buttondown and Levi’s every day. We’ll look like the Hardy boys without a mystery to solve. As for the toiletries, I need my super-fancy ones. I’m a spoiled country music star, so I’m heading to Ben Silver. They’ll have what I need. And I can count on their discretion.”

  “You are spoiled. You can get your clothes there, too. Be the Charleston man-about-town.”

  “Local boy makes good, and local boy is gonna live it up.” He scraped the bottom of his bowl with his spoon. “Although I still have a thing for Goodwill. That place got me through high school.”

  True put her chin in her hand. “You have come a long way.”

  “So have you.”

  They looked at each other a beat too long.

  “Yes, well—” She stood up and made a fuss over gathering the dishes.

  “You need some help? You don’t want to mess up that dress.”

  She went to the sink and dropped everything into already sudsy water. “I usually wear an apron.” She turned around. “But no way was I going to wear one around you.”

  “Why?” He approached her, and she leaned back on the sink. He’d love to wrap his arms around her and kiss her. “Do you think I’d tease you? Modern woman wearing her grandmother’s apron, and all that kind of thing?”

  She grinned. “I like Honey’s aprons. And I wear them a lot. They’re functional, you know?” She turned back to the sink and started wiping down a bowl. “But I also love them because she wore them first. I have so many good memories of her cooking in them, and—well, I know you’re in the big leagues now. I saw those girls with you in Atlanta. They wouldn’t be caught dead in an apron. It’s too homey. Too small-town.”

  He watched her hands in the water, mesmerized by their grace. “I wouldn’t have laughed.” Her back looked so delicate. “Did you ever get to Chapel Hill?” He didn’t want to hurt her by asking. But he wanted to know.

  “Yes.” She lifted a sudsy spoon out of the water and rinsed it under the tap. “I was there three semesters. And then I had to come home.”