by Liz Talley
Because Shelby was single and had spectacular breasts. Oh, he’d not forgotten their perfect plumpness topped with dusky pink nipples he’d seen only through the black lace bra. His mouth watered, so he picked up his beer, chastising himself for remembering how much he’d liked her rack.
Or maybe it felt like a date because whether he liked it or not, he was single...but without spectacular breasts, thank God. Having breasts might have made dating more challenging. Not that he was ready for dating.
Or maybe it felt like a date because he was nervous? For some reason, so much was at stake. He wanted to handle Shelby, the baby and becoming a father in the right way. But what was the right way? Up until now the only thing he’d managed to do was keep Shelby from flying back to Seattle. He hadn’t thought much beyond that, and now she was here in his kitchen, living here, showering down the hall. He swallowed at the thought of Shelby naked, water sluicing down her curves. He’d never seen her naked, but he could imagine.
Don’t, Beauchamp. Leave it alone.
“The Candy Cane Festival starts tomorrow. Would you like to go? We could hear some music and, uh, eat?”
“Are you asking me out?”
Heat rose to his face. “No. I thought you might want to see more of the town. My parents sort of expect me to go. My cousin Richard’s the mayor and the Beauchamp family always sponsors the lighting of the town tree.”
“Sure. I’ve never been to a Christmas tree lighting.”
He didn’t respond, just finished off his steak, pulling the filet she’d delivered onto his plate into position. “We’re not dating.”
“I know. It’s just some people might see us as more than what we are if we go out together.”
“I don’t care anymore.” And he didn’t. People had been bugging him to move on—go to football games, poker night, singles bingo at the church. Last year he hadn’t gone to the festival. Hell, he hadn’t acknowledged beyond a few presents for his niece and nephews that the holidays had even come. No tree, no colorful lights, no silly blow-up snowman in the yard. But this year he felt like acknowledging the season he’d always loved. He’d deal with Carla later. “Fact is, we’ll always have something between us...and in almost seven months that something will be fairly evident.”
Shelby poked at the salad. “They’ll know that in two months unless I’m one of those women who doesn’t look pregnant, just fat. We’ll have to break the news to our families at some point. Or we could let everyone keep speculating.”
Something sank in his stomach at the thought of sharing just how badly he’d screwed up on the anniversary of Rebecca’s death. He knew out in the real world people had children out of wedlock all the time, but his family had always lived by the good book, expecting John and his siblings to follow the same. His father and mother weren’t judgmental, but he suspected deep down they’d be disappointed in his lack of control, even as they understood what had propelled him to act so rashly. “Speaking of parents, how did yours react to you staying here in Magnolia Bend?”
Shelby glanced up, her eyes shuttering. “I sent my mother’s assistant a memo instructing her to send my things. She hasn’t called so I’m assuming she has little to say about it.”
Wow. He must have made a face because she followed that with “My family’s different than yours. We’re not big on communication.”
His family overcommunicated. If one stood up too fast, he might break the nose of a family member who had it in his business. “Would you like more salad? Dessert? I have ice cream.”
Her laugh was dry as sand. “Families are tough, aren’t they?”
He deadpanned, “Tough? Naw.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell my parents about the baby...maybe when Junior is six or seven years old. I can attach the picture with the memo.”
He said nothing because since Rebecca had died, he hadn’t been good at handling his own family much less someone else’s. Even so, he felt bad for the pretty woman shuffling salad around her plate, sorry that she had no one to depend on. His parents might be disappointed in him, but they would stand beside him, giving him whatever support he needed. He started to tell her this, but could see she didn’t want sympathy.
Shelby sat silently for the rest of dinner, lost in thought. He allowed her to keep to herself, busying himself with picking up the plates and feeding Bart, who’d patiently waited on the kitchen rug, occasionally thumping his tail when someone cast an eye upon him.
“I’ll grab your luggage,” he said finally, after waiting several seconds for her to snap out of the reverie she’d fallen into.
She blinked. “Are you sure you want me to stay? Once I unpack my toiletry bag, it’s done.”
He studied her, taking in her bright blue eyes shining with doubt. “I want you here.”
Something in her face relaxed, and he swore she looked relieved. “Then go grab my bag.”
CHAPTER TEN
SHELBY SANK ONTO the bed with the faded pink quilt and eyelet-edged pillows.
“So this is it,” she whispered, glancing around at the simple bedroom with its white furniture, muted blue braided rug and the sturdy rocker nestled in the corner. The large windows flanked a window seat and seemed to be the highlight of the room.
John came in rolling her suitcase and carrying a small Louis Vuitton bag. “Is this okay?”
“Fine, thank you,” Shelby said, sounding more like she spoke to a bellman than the man she’d be living with for the next...she didn’t even know how long she would stay. And when it came down to it, she still didn’t know why she’d agreed to stay. The closest she came to any good reason was the look in John’s eyes when he’d asked her. Something about the desire for something more had pulled at her, making her think staying in Louisiana was the right decision.
John waited for her to say something more. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Uh, you never told me what Jamison said today. I mean, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Of course not. Dr. French said everything looks good. No more spotting, the heartbeat is strong. I’m suffering from a little morning sickness, but he said that’s a good sign. In a week I’ll be officially into my second trimester and less likely to miscarry.”
“I have a lot to learn.”
“We both do,” she said, taking the smaller bag and setting it on the window seat. “The room’s nice.”
“This was Rebecca’s room growing up. We turned it into a guest bedroom. Mine’s down the hall, uh, if you need anything,” he said, shifting in his boots, darting a glance at her before clearing his throat. “You have your own bathroom right through there.”
She turned toward where he gestured, noting the door leading into a dim room. “Perfect.”
So uncomfortable. So much left unsaid. So much unknown.
“And there’s a TV in the den with satellite TV, room in the fridge for things you like. Make yourself at home.”
“I need to pay you something for letting me stay here. Put something toward utilities.”
“No, you’re a guest.”
“Am I? Maybe in your mind, but in mine, I need to feel like I’m pulling my weight.”
He studied her for a moment. “Fine. You can split utilities with me, but I’m not accepting rent. That feels silly.”
“I can look for a place in town.”
“Even sillier. You’d be alone.”
“Maybe I want to be alone.”
He didn’t say anything else and instead averted his eyes from hers. For a few seconds he didn’t speak. “Do you want me to look for a place for you?”
“Not really,” she said, sinking back down on the bed, not understanding why she prodded him, why she’d suggested moving out when she’d just gotten there, when she knew he wanted her there. Of course, she didn’t know why she did anything anymore.
&nbs
p; John stood silent in the spare room, the room where his wife had no doubt played Barbie dolls or the Dating Game, looking as lost as she felt. After a moment, he straightened and with an enigmatic glance said, “Got to get to bed. Morning comes early.”
“I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. You’ve stepped outside your comfort zone to give me a place to stay, to help me when I feel sort of...lost.”
He opened his mouth to say something, but instead snapped it closed, nodded and backed toward the door. “Good night, Shelby.”
“Good night, John,” she said.
Bart appeared outside the door and followed his master down the hallway, leaving Shelby to her own mixed-up thoughts.
Shelby shut the door, and turning, she sank against it, fighting against asking John to come back so she wouldn’t be alone, so she wouldn’t be so conflicted about the decision she’d made to chuck her pseudo life in Seattle and stay in Magnolia Bend.
The knock at the door made her jump.
She opened it and stepped back to find John looking determined.
“Did you—” she asked, closing her mouth as he stepped toward her. His arms came around her, hauling her up against the hardness of his chest, as his mouth descended upon hers.
The kiss was everything John was—hard and punishing, then soft and hungry, but way too short.
He released her, stepping back, looking a bit shocked at his actions. “We’re not dating.”
Shelby swallowed. “Okay.”
He pulled the door closed, the clip of his boots mimicking her racing heart.
“But I don’t think we’re just roommates,” she said, lifting a hand to her lips.
* * *
CARLA LEAFED THROUGH the old photo albums. They sat next to her chair for easy access. She loved running a hand over the old photos of her and Hal’s dating days. She’d been a little thing with a trim waist, bobby pin curls and pencil skirts. Then she graduated to bell bottoms and fringed vests while Hal showed off his mutton chops. And then the ’80s with the shoulder pads and big earrings. And Rebecca.
Rebecca had been a gift from God.
She and Hal had struggled so long to have a child, losing one pregnancy after another, even burying a son who’d nearly made it full term.
They’d given up, resigned to a life with nothing to dote on but the teacup poodles Carla loved so much.
Then one day, she’d felt a flutter in her stomach. Carla had been forty years old and assumed it was something she ate not agreeing with her, and so she ignored the successive gurgles in her stomach, frowning at her favorite jeans when they didn’t button. Finally, fearing the worst of news, she’d gone to the doctor. A tumor had to be growing. Or maybe she suffered some other horrible malady. She prepared herself for bad news, but after the doctor completed the exam and called for an ultrasound of her stomach, she’d lost it. Crying and shaking at the lot she’d drawn in life, she’d lain there while the technician glided the transducer over her swollen stomach. How would she tell Hal she was likely dying?
When the doctor came in and asked her if she wanted to know the baby’s sex, she nearly fell off the table.
“Baby?” she shouted. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
The doctor had looked confused. “You know you’re pregnant, don’t you? Jesus, Carla, you’re five months along.”
After crying for thirty minutes, Carla had laughed all the way home, windows down, wind catching hair she had to color with Miss Clairol every four weeks.
Rebecca had been a beautiful, wonderful gift.
Carla turned through the pages of hundreds of baby shots—first time eating carrots, first time in the pool, first recital—until she came to Rebecca and John’s senior prom picture.
So young and already so in love.
Rebecca grinning up at John as she stuck him with the boutonniere pin. The next page showed them at college, backpacks slung as they stood in front of Rebecca’s dorm at LSU. A few more pages and it was their wedding. John in his tux, Rebecca with Carla adjusting the veil, cake being crammed in mouths, limo pulling away.
Carla slammed the book closed, the sadness inside her replaced with something ugly. She knew this, but didn’t stop herself from setting her course against this new relationship John pursued.
He can’t do this, my sweet Rebecca. He can’t write you off like you never existed, can’t replace you with that woman. She’s not going to live in the place you loved so much, claiming your life. It’s not fair. Not fair.
Carla set the photo album carefully aside, causing Dim Sum, her apricot poodle, to lift his head and blink hazy eyes at Carla.
“Go back to sleep, Dim,” Carla cooed before reaching for the address book she kept on the table between her chair and the huge beat-up recliner Hal had always kicked his feet up in. Though she had complained about it for years, she hadn’t been able to dump the recliner. The man had loved the plush leather chair with its vibrating massage feature. To some degree, it felt as if he were still with her.
Running her finger down the column in her address book, she found the name she sought: Remy T. Broussard, attorney-at-law. Lifting the phone, she dialed the number of the man who had handled the Stanton trust. She’d never intended to wrench the farm and house from John. After all, he’d loved Rebecca and his grief had been palpable. And though she’d spent some time blaming him for Rebecca’s death—him and that damn hunting and all those damn guns—she knew he’d suffered the loss of her daughter. Leaving him at Breezy Hill had been easier than facing the truth—that everything had changed when Rebecca died.
But she hadn’t examined the results of the promise she’d made to John in the darkness of his grief. She hadn’t foreseen the eradication of the Stantons from the land that had been theirs for nearly two centuries. John had stayed, working the land, existing as a shell of a man, throwing every waking hour into growing and harvesting the cane. For a while, it had been enough, but she owed him nothing more. Happiness couldn’t be gifted to him so he could live out the dream he’d built with her daughter with another woman.
So John would have to choose—Breezy Hill or blondie.
That was Carla’s ultimatum, unfair or deranged as it may seem.
After leaving a message for Remy to call her back, Carla hung up, settled into her chair and turned on her story, happy with the thought she still had power over something in her life. She didn’t wish John ill, but she wasn’t watching him get everything he wanted.
* * *
JOHN SPENT THE morning trying to forget the dumb-ass thing he’d done.
He kissed Shelby.
Last night something inside him snapped and he found himself reaching for her, hauling her against his body and kissing the daylights out of her...for no apparent reason other than he’d lost his mind.
He’d been going back to tell her about the shower—the cold and hot water lines connected backward—so she wouldn’t get the shock of her life when she slipped into the shower. His mind had jumped to the fantasy of a voluptuous Shelby naked beneath the spray, water flowing down her sleek back, over her fine full ass.
When she’d opened the door, she’d had the look on her face—half little girl lost, half desirable woman. Before he knew it, she was in his arms. He’d surprised her, but she hadn’t resisted. Instead she’d melted into him as if she’d been waiting for him to toss his resolve away.
She’d tasted like sadness and hope, bubble gum and something spicy and wonderful. Warm and tempting, Shelby’s curves had softened against him, and desire flared inside him. All his good intentions of being a friend dissolved like a fart in the wind. All he’d wanted was to sink inside her, inhale her sultry scent and forget about how damn hard it was to live in the world in which he existed.
When he stepped away, her blue eyes had reflected raw desire. He’d been so
tempted to step back inside and kiss her again, but good sense overrode the horniness rearing inside him.
Like a moron he’d stuttered, “We’re not dating,” and shuffled away.
But he’d lied.
Well, not lied. Because he and Shelby weren’t dating...but they were something.
Homer rocked alongside John’s tractor in the mule, his expression grim and his presence jarring John from contemplating what he had or didn’t have with the pretty blonde he’d not seen since the night before. “Soldier harvester’s down again. Gonna have to go over to Smiley’s and see if I can’t find a few parts that might hold her this season.”
Damn it. He wanted to get the northwest field harvested to the ground and he’d need the soldier harvester. “Go see what you can find. I’ll shift Red and the boys over to the south field. He’s finished planting the new field with the LCP 85 sugarcane. Southeast field is cut to stubble and off to the mill.”
Homer nodded and rolled away, leaving John to climb into the combine and tackle the field full of cane grown from first stubble. If he worked long enough today, they could get another two loads to the sugar mill. Thing was, he didn’t want to work, which shocked the hell out of him. Work had been the only thing to keep him going this past year. He’d eaten, breathed and slept sugarcane, diversifying his crops, working a small plot of a test variety he’d played around with, even putting in some soybeans in the fields he’d burned off and plowed. Farming had been his life.
But tonight he would take Shelby to the Candy Cane Festival in Magnolia Bend.
People would stare. But that would be better than enduring their sympathetic glances. Having Shelby beside him would feel different. Occasionally she’d brush her arm against his, and the scent of her sultry perfume would tickle his senses. Those pretty lips would curve into a smile, tempting him.
He shouldn’t be eager to be with Shelby tonight. Too soon to step off that ledge. After all, she’d shown up not even a full week ago with news that would have most men running.
