“Thinking about making a run for it?” A humor that had already become associated with him in her mind lilted the question. Yet, it didn’t sound rhetorical.
“I’m tempted. Does that make me weak?”
“Makes you normal. Ready?”
She followed him around the side of the barn. A half-dozen cars in various states of disrepair were lined up in two rows behind an enormous magnolia tree.
He gestured toward them. “Our car graveyard. They’re cannibalized for parts, then sent to the salvage yard. We try not to keep more than six or eight back here, otherwise it starts to look like we’re running a junkyard.”
They bypassed the graveyard to a low-slung, two-door car painted dark blue with a white pinstripe down the side. She ran her finger over the curve of the car’s roof. A vented bump in the middle of the hood and round headlights gave an impression the car was a living entity patiently waiting for Wyatt to breathe life into it.
“It’s an AMC ’71 Hornet.” He opened the passenger door and gestured her in.
The interior gave both the impression of age and modernity. For some reason, she pictured him driving a truck—maybe white, definitely big and reliable—not a fast car that held an edge of danger.
He joined her and cranked the engine, the low rumble like the car sighing in pleasure. The supple leather of the seat caressed her hand and not the other way around. It was unexpectedly sensuous.
“You restored it?” she asked, for something to fill the space.
“Yep. Dropped a rebuilt V8 engine under her hood and ripped out the interior down to the frame. He patted the dash. “She was a mess when I found her, but look at her now.”
“Gorgeous,” she said and meant it. She understood more about dresses than cars, but she could look at a dress on a hanger and see the potential it held for a client. She imagined cars were similar. “Is this your favorite car ever?”
“It’s my favorite right now.”
“You won’t keep it?”
“Nope. I’ll sell her soon and find another project car to fall in love with.” The dispassionate tone was surprising considering his prideful, doting manner with the car.
“Will it be hard to sell?”
“People are always looking for classics, and top-of-the-line Hornets like this aren’t common. I should turn a tidy profit.”
“I meant, aren’t you attached, you know, emotionally?”
He shot her a half-amused look. “I don’t get emotionally attached to my projects.”
Wyatt drove over the steel-girded bridge that separated Cottonbloom, Louisiana, from Cottonbloom, Mississippi, then pumped his brakes before the turn down River Street. “Where am I going? Your shop or your house?”
She should go into Abigail’s. The weeks leading up to the Junior League gala were busy and one of the most profitable times of the year for the shop. But her sales skills were currently in hibernation. Maggie could handle a day alone. Wyatt was right, she needed to gird herself. The confrontation was like a storm brewing on the near horizon.
“Home.” She gave Wyatt directions.
She sank lower in the seat and pressed her purse against her hollowed-out stomach. The Hornet was barreling toward her new reality. The distraction offered by Wyatt was about to end. No doubt, he was itching to leave the complication of her problems in the rearview mirror.
She switched her phone on. Calls needed to be made. Her phone vibrated and messages popped up on the screen, too fast to read. Texts and calls from Bree and Maggie. Andrew’s name listed next to a missed call less than three minutes earlier. He never called during his office hours. Bree must have raised the red flag. Would he come clean or attempt to convince her of his innocence?
Innocent until proven guilty. The old adage whirred through her head. Perhaps she hadn’t extracted a confession yet, but she’d certainly amassed enough evidence for a conviction.
Her street was lined with houses from the 1940s and ’50s, most of them squat one-story brick homes. Oak trees crossed arms over the street, sunlight sneaking through like ropes of bright light. The sidewalks had buckled in places from the roots, and kids on summer break took full advantage, jumping their bikes over the ledges. It was a happy, vibrant street, but the usual warm, fuzzy feelings didn’t materialize through the numbness.
She pointed, and he turned into her driveway. Her house would fit in the front yard of her family home, but its charm compensated for its lack of square footage. The interior had been upgraded by the previous owner, and a meticulously maintained rose garden in the back had sold her on her first viewing.
The announcement three years ago that she’d be moving out of the family home had not been met with congratulations and hugs but tears and pleas to stay on her mother’s part. Her father counterbalanced her mother’s histrionics with his usual placidness, neither supporting nor condemning her decision. Eventually, her mother’s fears of Sutton using her new house as a stepping stone out of Cottonbloom and her sphere of influence had calmed.
He pulled in behind her practical four-door sedan. It looked like the before picture from a joke car ad next to the Hornet. Even at idle, the car’s dynamic energy imparted a feeling of impatience, as if the car needed to be exercised like a thoroughbred horse.
“Cute place,” he said.
“Not as much personality as your loft, but I love it.” The next words came out with a combination of desperation and knee-jerk politeness. “Would you like to come inside for coffee?”
“Another time.”
Why did this small rejection resonate so painfully? Pity hid poorly behind the kindness in his eyes, and she dropped her gaze to the slice of sunlight marking a line between them.
Her first taste of being the object of pity and deemed pathetic. Although, she had a feeling she’d been wearing an invisible cloak of patheticness for at least as far back as the receipts went.
Wyatt shifted and drew something from a side compartment. A business card. Of course, this was all business for him. Andrew’s car was still taking up a bay in his garage.
Her words stumbled out. “The Camaro … I’m not sure—”
“Don’t worry about the car right now. We’ll figure it out.” He flipped the card over and wrote numbers on the back before holding it out between his index and middle fingers. “That’s my cell on the back. If you need anything, you call me. Okay?”
She took the card, even though she didn’t plan on making use of it. As soon as he left, the event that had brought them together in such a strangely intimate way would be hers to deal with alone. Their bond would fade like a friendship formed at summer camp.
Nevertheless, she clutched his card to her chest like a talisman, pasted on a smile, and pushed the Hornet’s door open. She hesitated on her slide out, looking over her shoulder at him.
“Thanks for everything. I know we weren’t on the best of terms as kids, and dealing with an imploding relationship wasn’t on your radar this morning, but you’ve been great. Really, really great.” The words were inadequate, but a simple thanks and a strained smile was all she had to give at the moment.
He returned her smile even as worry pulled at his brow, a smudge of grease highlighting the crinkle between his eyes. “Call me if you need me. I mean it.”
She nodded and closed the door. The Hornet didn’t back up until she had her front door unlocked and one foot inside. Once the rumble of his engine had faded, she dropped his card and her purse on a side table in the foyer, grabbed her phone, and kicked off her heels.
She padded down the hall to the kitchen. The silence pressed the walls closer and a feeling of claustrophobia jacked her heart rate higher. She cracked open the window over the sink, but immediately shut it. The riot of color and the scent from the blooming roses, which she typically enjoyed, turned her stomach, too sweet and cloying.
If she called the boutique, Maggie, quiet and intuitive, would guess something bad had happened, so she texted instead, not exactly lying when she said she w
as sick. Throwing up was a distinct possibility. Next, she texted Bree and asked if they could get together later that night. While she wanted to chicken out and text Andrew as well, she pulled on her big-girl panties—metaphorically cotton and white—and hit his number.
“Sutton. What’s going on?” His voice was brisk and lawyerly.
“I’m returning your call.” Not the answer he was after, but she didn’t plan on making this easy for him.
“Is everything okay?”
“Depends on your definition, I suppose.”
After a long silence he sighed, but she couldn’t separate impatience from dread. “And by your definition?”
“Not okay.” Her words had thickened. She would not cry, dangit.
“Are you home?”
She picked at the folds of her skirt and didn’t answer, afraid he would hear how upset she was and twist that to his advantage.
“I’ll be over as soon as I can clear my schedule.” He disconnected.
Anger flared and burned away her tears at his high-handedness. What would happen if she wasn’t here when he showed up? His imagined frustration as he beat on her front door and stamped his feet like a toddler made her feel better.
Not that he would show that kind of emotion. He rarely showed any kind of emotion around her, positive or negative. He was calm and collected and blank behind his blue eyes. Passionless.
Not like Wyatt. In their brief time together, she’d seen humor and anger and worry flicker across his face and spark behind his eyes. Who would have thought gray eyes could be so warm? She rubbed her temples to rid herself of the useless thoughts. He wasn’t her white knight or protector. He barely qualified as an acquaintance.
Events were in motion. She retreated to her bedroom and changed into black cigarette pants, a kelly-green button down shirt, and flats. The closest outfit she had to a power suit. Her face was pale and her eyes shadowed even though she hadn’t lost any sleep over the drama—yet.
Energy crackled as she paced her den. Words flitted through her head. Words she attempted to assemble into coherent accusations. Forty-five minutes later, a knock on her door made her jerk and then freeze. Before her limbs answered the command of her brain, the door squeaked open. Andrew called her name, and footsteps sounded. Not one set, but two. A distinctly feminine voice and a tap of heels echoed in her entry.
While she processed the implications, Andrew and Bree came around the corner and into the den. Andrew was good-looking, with his streaked blond hair and white smile. Maybe a little too white, but he and his father were on billboards and advertisements selling themselves as trustworthy lawyers. He worked out and manscaped regularly. After years of being friends, she’d been flattered and more than a little overwhelmed when he’d pursued her with the same single-mindedness that had brought success in the courtroom.
Why her? The question seemed to take on greater significance now.
Bree slipped in beside him, not touching him but her body language giving the impression of a united front. A united front against her. Tears clawed their up her throat, and she took a deep breath through her nose to keep them at bay.
“I wasn’t expecting you until tonight, Bree,” Sutton said.
Instead of meeting Sutton’s eyes, Bree looked to Andrew, her dark brown hair swishing around her shoulders like a curtain of silk. When they were kids, she’d had frizzy hair, braces, and terrible acne. All that had been fixed with time, expensive salon treatments, and a good orthodontist.
Now Bree was beautiful and sophisticated and gave off a powerful vibe in her power suit and power heels. But to Sutton, Bree would always be the little girl with crooked teeth and bad hair who’d kept her secrets safe. Until now.
“Mother told me the wedding invitations have arrived. We need to nail down who we want to invite. Father wants to add the governor to the list.” Andrew strolled to her couch and sat, propping his arm along the back cushion and his ankle on his knee. He was either oblivious to the mounting tension, or his attitude was a courtroom ploy to throw her off guard.
It would have worked if she hadn’t caught Bree’s eye for a split second. She acted like Sutton might pull a shotgun and take her out at any moment.
Andrew patted the seat next to him, but Sutton wasn’t sure which one of them he was calling over like a favorite dog. She planted her feet and squared her shoulders. “Let’s not throw manure around. I assume you know about the surprise I was planning regarding your precious Camaro. While I was emptying the glovebox, I found a stack of restaurant receipts.”
“Is that what this is about? You should have called and asked me about them. Those were all business meetings. Potential clients.”
“You take clients charged with federal offenses to the nicest restaurants in Jackson? Because you need their business?”
“Of course not.” His smile didn’t disappear but his demeanor changed, his tone chiding. “I’m honestly disappointed in you, Sutton.”
Even though they were close to the same age, he had a way of making her feel younger and, as a result, insecure. If she hadn’t retrieved the last piece of damning evidence from the dusty barn floor and stuck it in her purse, doubts might have swamped her righteous anger.
Instead, her anger swelled until she was royally pissed off. His nerve in the courtroom was legendary, and she was curious how far he’d go to cover up the truth. “How have I disappointed you? Do tell.”
The irony didn’t make a dent in Andrew’s sanctimonious expression. “Trust is the cornerstone for any relationship.”
“So when you were working late”—she air-quoted his often-used excuse—“you were wining and dining potential clients?”
“We might get the most press from our criminal cases, but we make the bulk of our money on estate management and wills. Not as glamorous, but definitely lucrative.” He gave her the same smile he used for billboards.
“These dinners would be tax write-offs then?”
He made a scoffing sound that was probably supposed to make her feel like an idiot. “Of course.”
“Therefore, your father and the firm’s accountant would be privy to them.”
Andrew’s smile faltered, and a sense of satisfaction surged to meet her anger. She had him trapped but wanted to keep him squirming. She pivoted to face Bree. “Sorry I made you wait around this morning for nothing.”
“I was worried about you.”
Bree was worried alright. Closer to terrified, if Sutton was reading her expression right. Unlike Andrew, Bree hadn’t fully mastered the art of lying.
“You called Andrew because you were worried about me?”
Bree answered with a shrug.
“Hang on, I have something for you.” Sutton slipped into the dim hallway and took a deep breath. The climax of the confrontation was upon her, and her muscles ached from the tension hammering at her body. She grabbed her purse and stared at the white card on the table with Wyatt’s number scribbled on the back. On impulse, she slipped the card into her pocket.
When she stepped back into the den, Andrew was up and whispering to Bree, his expression stony. A smile came to his face as if Sutton’s steps into the den pulled marionette’s strings. Was his every move orchestrated to manipulate?
“Let’s see … I know they’re in here somewhere.” She forced a singsong note into her voice. First, she pulled out the stack of receipts and lay them on the end table. Andrew made a move to take them, but Sutton slapped his hand away. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they make it safely into your father’s hands.”
“It’d be easier—”
“No!” It was a tone she’d never used with him. Maybe had never used in her life. She’d never needed to.
Andrew pulled his hand back as if she might strike again at any moment.
“Here it is. Yours if I’m not mistaken, Bree?” She sweetened her tone even if it wasn’t with real sugar, pulled out the lacy black thong, and displayed it for both Bree and Andrew, the heart front and center.
<
br /> Bree’s eyes widened. Her hand came up to take it before she caught herself and gnawed on her bottom lip, a habit she’d worked hard to break, as a sore would inevitably pop up. Any other time would see Sutton subtly reminding Bree of this fact, but not today. Her instinctive grab for the underwear reinforced Sutton’s position.
Andrew lost his full-bore bravado. She imagined this was how he looked during closing arguments of a case he knew he would lose. Did he ever lose? He would today.
“Why would you think those are Bree’s?” he asked.
“They’re Bree’s because I sold them to her. An expensive special order. See the cute little heart? It matches the tattoo on her hip, but I think you know that. Why wasn’t your first question where I found them?”
“I don’t know.” It was not the answer of a high-powered lawyer but a child whose lies had been exposed.
“Because you do know where I found them, right? Under the seat of your Camaro.” She tossed the scrap of lace in the air.
Bree caught it and crumpled it in her hand as if she could make it disintegrate. “It’s not what you think.” Her voice was small and tear-filled, and Sutton had to drown the spark of sympathy that automatically flared.
“Let me take a stab. I think you and Andrew have been gallivanting across two states screwing each other’s brains out for last few months. Am I wrong?” She forced a nonchalance she didn’t feel into her voice and face, even locating the gumption for a smile.
Bree put her hand on Andrew’s forearm, her red nails a pretty contrast to his dark suit. With their coloring a study in contrasts, they looked like handpicked models for the cover of a magazine. “We’re in love, Sutton.”
Chapter Four
Sutton took a step back, the words like a punch to her chest, making it hard to catch a full breath. “Are you serious?”
Andrew spun away and ran a hand through his hair, ending up at her front window and leaving Bree to do the dirty work. Sutton stared into Bree’s dark, almost black, exotic eyes.
Bree nodded and glanced over her shoulder at Andrew’s back. “I was working on the Jordan case and in and out of his office. One thing led to another. We challenge one another. We didn’t mean for it to happen.”
Leave the Night On Page 4
