by Beth Andrews
THE THIRD STREET DINER was packed with a boisterous lunch crowd, but J.C. spotted Liz seated in a small, two-person booth in the back. Hard to miss her, what with that halo highlighting her perfectly straight hair.
Okay, the halo was just the sun shining through a skylight. Still.
J.C. patted her hair. Yes, it was as big and frizzy as she feared. She made her way through the restaurant. She smiled and said hello to a few people but she didn’t stop. She had to get her sister back.
“Hi,” J.C. said when she got to the booth.
Even though she was sitting—and J.C. was a good three inches taller than her—Liz managed look down her nose at J.C. “You’re late.”
She checked her watch, then shrugged out of her coat. Bit her tongue instead of pointing out that anything under five minutes shouldn’t be considered late. “Sorry. My last customer had a couple savings bonds and…”
And her sister didn’t give a rat’s behind about her job.
J.C. hung her coat on the metal pole next to the bench seat before sitting down. “I’m glad you came.”
Liz folded her hands on the table. “I’m only here because Mom asked me to hear you out.”
“Oh. Right. Well…” So she’d had to get her mother to talk to Liz for her. She didn’t have a choice. Liz had ignored all of her attempts to explain. J.C. couldn’t remember a time when they’d gone five days without speaking.
Couldn’t remember there ever being a time when Liz was so angry with her that she didn’t want to talk to her.
Their waiter, a short, stocky college kid, took their orders. Once they were alone again, J.C. cracked her thumb knuckle. “So…how are you?” she asked awkwardly.
“Fine.”
J.C. drummed her fingers on the table. This was going to be harder than she’d thought. While she had plenty of experience apologizing for her blunders, she didn’t know how to be the one who smoothed things over. She’d always relied on Liz for that.
The waiter delivered their drinks and J.C. unwrapped a straw and stuck it in her ginger ale. Took a sip to calm her churning stomach. She’d had her first prenatal visit yesterday and Dr. Owens had assured her the morning sickness would end soon, it being the second trimester.
And then, after receiving that hopeful news, J.C. had been informed by the doctor’s office manager that her medical insurance would barely cover sixty percent of the expenses she’d incur during this pregnancy. No wonder she still felt sick.
“How’s Carter?” J.C. asked. She’d been worried about the two of them ever since that awful Thanksgiving scene. When she’d left their house, she’d overheard them arguing in the hallway about Liz’s reaction to the news of J.C.’s pregnancy. And who the father was. “Is…are you two okay?”
Liz, her mouth set in a thin line, squeezed a lemon slice into her water. “Of course,” she said, but wouldn’t meet J.C.’s eyes.
J.C. leaned across the table and covered Liz’s hand with her own. “Lizzie, I…God…I’m so sorry.”
Liz eased her hand away. “I knew you had a crush on him when you were a kid.” She shook her head. “What did you do? Wait all these years for your opportunity? For us to break up?”
“It wasn’t like that. And it’s not as if he ever would’ve looked at me twice—at any other woman—if you two were still together.” She lined the salt and pepper shakers up with the front corners of the napkin dispenser. “It just sort of…happened.”
Liz pursed her mouth. “How exactly does that work? You and my ex-fiancé were both naked and one of you tripped and fell on the other?”
“It was a mistake.” She took another drink but it did little to ease the dryness of her throat. “One I’d give anything to go back and undo. It was wrong. I was wrong. I…I convinced myself it wouldn’t matter to you because you’d broken up with him. That you didn’t want him anymore.”
“I don’t.” Her cheeks colored. “That’s not what this is about.”
“No. Of course not.” Liz couldn’t still want Brady. Not when she had Carter. Could she? “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You never mean to do the things you do. You don’t think about the consequences of your actions. You just charge forward, not caring about anything except what you want. Then, when it blows up in your face, you expect someone else to pick up the pieces.”
Stunned, J.C. sat back. That wasn’t fair. She could fix her own messes. She just never had to before.
That part about her only thinking about what she wanted? Total crap. Of course she’d thought of Liz, of her reaction, that night she’d slept with Brady. Had thought of her sister but hadn’t let anything stop her, she realized, her queasiness now having nothing to do with being pregnant. She’d betrayed Liz because Brady had wanted her.
Because she’d wanted him.
“I thought I could do this, but I can’t,” Liz said, sliding out of the booth as she dug into her purse. She tossed some cash onto the table but J.C. got out and stopped her.
“What about lunch?” she asked. What about their relationship?
“I’m not hungry.”
“I’m sorry,” J.C. rushed to say, her throat so tight it came out as a croak. “Please…can you forgive me?”
Liz slowly looked at her. “Not today,” she whispered.
Their waiter passed Liz as she walked out. “Everything all right here?” he asked, setting their food on the table.
Sitting back down, J.C. gave him a pathetic excuse for a smile. “Fine. Thanks.”
He took the hint and didn’t press. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
This was bad. Real bad. Liz hadn’t forgiven her. What if she never did? J.C. studied her cheese and mushroom quesadilla and then shoved it aside. Liz just needed more time. To…work through her hurt and anger. She’d forgive J.C.
Because J.C. couldn’t get through this without her.
CHAPTER SIX
J.C. LEANED AGAINST the steering wheel and stared up at the white Colonial house that had been in the Sheppard family for five generations. It was lovely with tall, narrow windows, black shutters and wide porches on both the ground and second floors. The front door was a deep, inky shade of blue and had leaded glass windows on both sides, another one shaped like a fan on top. Listed on the Historical Register as one of the oldest structures in the county, there was nothing even remotely intimidating about it.
Right. That was why she’d been sitting there for twenty minutes.
She unbuckled her seat belt. After the week she’d had, failure was not an option.
Too bad. Failure was the one thing she excelled at.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she stepped out into the bright midday sun before she could change her mind. She tucked a small, white bakery box under her arm and crossed the cement drive. Once on the porch, she lifted her hand to knock only to lower it again.
Why did last-ditch efforts have to be so difficult?
Shutting her eyes, she rapped on the door. Maybe no one was home. Maybe they were all out in the vineyards doing…whatever people who had vineyards did. Pruning. Or…or fertiliz—
Someone tapped her on the shoulder.
“God!” J.C. whirled around, her heart racing.
A sleek, long-legged brunette in tight jeans and T-shirt proclaiming Conserve Water, Drink Wine smiled. “Not even close. But it’s better than a lot of other things I’ve been called. I’m Connie.”
Still trying to catch her breath, J.C. shook the woman’s hand. “J.C. Montgomery.”
Connie tipped her head to the side, the sunlight picking up reddish highlights in her short, choppy dark hair. “Montgomery, huh? Liz’s sister?”
If she had a dollar for every time someone asked her that, she wouldn’t have to look for ways to supplement her income. “Yes.”
“I was a few years ahead of Liz in school. Plus, she used to come out here before…”
Before she broke Brady’s heart.
Connie tucked her fingers into her jeans p
ockets. “So, is it J-A-Y-C-E-E or just the letters?”
“Uh…the letters.”
“Well, J.C. just the letters, is there something I can do for you?”
She glanced at the door. “I’m looking for Aidan Sheppard.”
“I need to see him, too. So what do you say we go in and track him down?”
Connie let herself in and J.C. followed her into a two-story foyer with elegant wainscoting, rose-colored walls and a wooden staircase leading to the second floor.
“Shouldn’t we wait for someone to let us in?” she whispered.
Humor lit Connie’s blue eyes. “I run the vineyards for the Sheppards. They’re used to me coming and going.”
Oh. Well. That made sense, then. At least J.C. wasn’t letting herself into another house belonging to the Sheppards. The one time she’d done that, things hadn’t worked out so well for her.
Connie pulled out a cell phone and pressed a number. “Aidan’s office is upstairs. I’ll call him.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “He gets grumpy when people barge in on him.”
J.C. smiled weakly. Of course he did. “Yes. That’s so rude.”
Maybe she shouldn’t have come without an appointment.
“He’s not answering, which means he’s probably on the office line. Let me text him that we’re here—” she flipped her phone the other way, her fingers flying over the keys almost as quickly as the words coming out of her mouth “—and he can come down when he’s finished.”
Then, sticking the phone back into her pocket, she walked around a corner. J.C. switched the box to her other hand. Should she follow? Sit on the cute wooden bench against the wall and wait for Aidan to come downstairs? Take her impetuous self and this whole crazy idea and get out there?
Connie poked her head back around the corner. “You coming?”
She sighed. “Right behind you.”
They went into a family room so big, J.C. could’ve fit her apartment in it. And still have space left over. A stone fireplace took up most of the wall to the left while sliding glass doors led to a bricked veranda at the back of the house. The room opened up into a large kitchen with ceramic tiles on the floor, oak cabinets and stainless-steel appliances—including a double wall oven and a six-burner range top like the ones J.C.’s mother had been bugging her father to get for their own kitchen. Passing a small breakfast nook with three sides of floor-to-ceiling windows, J.C. crossed to the granite-topped island in the middle of the room. After setting the box down, she lovingly ran her hands over the cool surface.
“You want me to give you two a few minutes alone?”
J.C. returned Connie’s grin. And how sad was it that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled? “Do you have any idea how many truffles I could shape on this much counter space?”
Connie tapped a forefinger to her lips. “Quite a few?”
“Eight…maybe even ten dozen. And I wouldn’t even have to set cookie sheets of them on the coffee table or washer and dryer. I can’t even reach the edge,” she said, stretching her arms across the width of the counter.
“It truly is an amazing structure.” Connie carried a large, frosted glass jar with a silver lid over to the island. “Which is why Diane likes it so much. She doesn’t make truffles, but she’s big on baking.”
J.C. blanched. She’d been so worried about meeting with Aidan she hadn’t even considered running into Brady’s mom. “She’s not…she’s not here, is she?”
Connie shook her head. “She and Al are spending the weekend up in D.C.”
Al being Al Wallace, Mrs. Sheppard’s boyfriend—if you could call a sixty-something retired senator someone’s boyfriend—and God bless him for taking Mrs. Sheppard away for the weekend. J.C. would gladly avoid Brady’s mom for…oh…forever would work.
Not that she was afraid of her or anything. Ha.
Diane Sheppard had a reputation for getting what she wanted and had no qualms about stomping on anyone who got in her way.
What if she wanted to be a part of the baby’s life? What if…what if she wanted to have a say in any decision she made regarding the baby?
J.C. rubbed her temples. Mrs. Sheppard might not even know about the baby. And if she did, well, this was J.C.’s body. Her baby. And ultimately her decision whether she kept the baby or not.
“Here,” Connie said, holding out a thick, pumpkin-shaped sugar cookie with orange frosting. “You look like you could use a sugar rush.”
J.C. reached for the cookie only to remember how, when she’d stood on the stupid scale at Dr. Owens’s Monday, the nurse had moved the little metal slide up. Then she’d moved it some more. And yet some more.
“I’m good, thanks,” she managed to say, lowering her hand. She may be eating for two, but that didn’t mean she had to eat everything. Besides, being this virtuous was almost as good as a giant sugar cookie.
And the day she believed that was the day she hoped she stopped breathing.
Connie shrugged, then polished off the cookie before reaching for another one.
J.C. hiked herself up onto one of the two high-backed, black stools. “Even though we just met, I already hate you. But it’s nothing personal.”
Connie’s laugh was deep and husky—and the perfect fit for someone so sexy.
“I’m guessing you’re one of those women who can eat anything she wants without gaining weight,” J.C. continued. Connie grinned and went for a third cookie. “See? I have to hate you. It’s the principle of the thing.”
“A girl’s gotta have her principles.” Connie put the lid back on the cookie jar when the sliding glass door opened.
Brady stepped inside and stopped abruptly when he saw J.C. “Everything okay?”
She twisted her fingers together in her lap. Crap. She’d gone seven days without any more fun-filled run-ins with him. And she’d like to keep that streak alive for the next eighteen years or so.
“Everything’s fine,” she said.
His hair was mussed, the black T-shirt he wore underneath an open gray and black checked flannel shirt was wrinkled and the stubble from the last time she’d seen him had grown into a full-fledged, if scruffy, beard.
Not even glancing at Connie—who watched them intently—he crossed to the end of the island. Close enough that J.C. could smell the fresh air on his skin.
He studied her as if he were a scientist and she were some perplexing, never-before-discovered insect. “Why is your hair like that?”
“You are such a moron,” Connie murmured.
J.C. couldn’t agree more. She lifted a hand to her hair. “I straightened it.”
“I called you a few times,” he said, obviously not having anything else to say about her hair. Like how nice it looked.
Not that she cared. She certainly hadn’t spent a solid hour and a half ironing her hair into submission for him. “I got the messages.”
All seven of them. He’d called once a day since leaving her apartment Thanksgiving and each time he said the same thing. “It’s Brady. Call me.”
“You two together?” Connie asked.
J.C. snorted. “No.”
“Beat it, Connie,” Brady said.
“But I don’t want to leave. Not when this is so fascinating.”
Brady glared at her. “Goodbye.”
She held her hands up in surrender. “I can take a hint.” She gave J.C.’s arm a quick, reassuring squeeze as she walked past. “I’ll go up and see what’s taking Aidan so long.”
He frowned. “Aidan? So you’re not here because you’ve changed your mind?”
Please. Even if she wanted his money, she couldn’t accept it now.
“I’m not here to see you,” she said, glad to hear a touch of ice in her voice. “I’m here on business.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Business?” She nodded. “With the Diamond Dust?” Another nod, this one jerky. “Is that why you’re dressed like that?”
“What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?”
> She forced herself to remain still and not fidget or tug at her clothes while he slowly inspected her from the tips of her pointy-toed shoes, up the black, wide-legged pants and over her small baby bump currently covered by a loose white button-down shirt. When she thought he was done and she could breathe again, his gaze lingered at the black lace peeking out of the top of her shirt.
Her breasts had already gone up a cup size and since she liked being able to breathe, she’d left the top three buttons undone and worn a silk camisole underneath. Now, as her skin warmed under his scrutiny, she wished she had on a sweater. Preferably with a high neckline.
He jerked his eyes up, his jaw tight. “You don’t look like yourself.”
That’d been the point. The hair, the clothes, they were supposed to show Aidan she was a businesswoman. Professional. Capable. Confident.
Someone he would want to do business with.
“YOU’RE NOT HERE to see me?” Brady asked, trying to wrap his head around what she was saying. Why was she dressed like some sort of naughty librarian? With her hair straightened, there was a noticeable resemblance between her and Liz. A resemblance that was eclipsed by the way J.C. filled out that damn shirt.
“I’m really not here to see you. I was hoping to talk to Aidan.”
“About doing business with the Diamond Dust?”
“Yes,” she muttered.
What sort of business could J.C. have with his family’s winery?
“Why don’t I wait in the foyer for Aidan?” she asked. “I’m sure you have…things…to do.”
He shrugged and went to the refrigerator. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed J.C. pick up the white box from the island.
“Do you have an appointment?” he asked.
“An appointment?”
Brady took a container of some sort of leftover pasta out before closing the fridge door. “An appointment with Aidan.”
She didn’t. For one thing, if she had an appointment, Aidan wouldn’t have told her to come to the main house. His brother used their father’s home office upstairs, but he held all meetings down the road at the converted farmhouse where the Diamond Dust’s main offices were located.
