When Honey Got Married

by Kimberly Lang

  She’d told Griff not to follow, and he’d listened. He knew what she wanted, knew what she needed, and had put aside any kind of want of his own and let her go.

  Isn’t that how P.S. had been born? P.S. Pip Squeak…you can do this, you can make it. After a childhood spent being dragged around following someone else’s dreams, hadn’t she just wanted to be heard?

  So why did the fact that he was letting her go, again, just as she’d asked, make her feel so damn rotten?

  Chapter Seven

  Griff had every intention of giving Pippa exactly what she wanted. Even while the thought of not seeing her again twisted his insides to the point of pain, who was he to stop her?

  The answer came back loud and clear. He was the man who knew how not stopping her felt, and never wanted to feel that way again. And if that meant he was in for a fight, if he had to chase her down to the ends of the earth, so be it. Not like he’d ever taken the easy path before.

  Lungs burning from the near-sprint up the driveway, he found her as he rounded the front gate. Sitting on the hood of her ancient red Firebird, all tucked up beneath her long black dress, hands on her knees, knees drawn to her chin, high heels dangling from her fingers, eyes glazed as she looked dead ahead, toward the way out of town.

  His heart beat so hard at the sight of her, he could feel it all the way to his toes. Yet he shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants, thumbs hooked on the outside, and with a relaxedness he certainly didn’t feel, he ambled her way.

  As he neared, her gaze cut to him. Her dark hair flickered across her face in the light evening breeze. She looked so small up on her big car he thought again of the skinny girl with the wild hair and bright eyes, running across the park, and he could practically smell hot dogs.

  “Here you are,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.

  “Here I still am. Though I’m not quite sure why.”

  “You’re not?” he asked, taking a step closer.

  She breathed deep, her eyes darkening.

  The connection he felt to this woman was so strong, he could only hope her hold on it wasn’t as tenuous as she seemed to think. Because now he’d had her, now he’d held her and made love to her, and heard from her own lips how she’d felt about him once, he couldn’t see himself letting her walk away again.

  Then he realized she was shaking. Trembling from head to toe.

  “Jesus, Pip,” he said, forgoing any effort at cool. He was at her side in three long strides, whipping his jacket from his back and wrapping her in it.

  He climbed up onto the hood, the metal creaking beneath his much greater weight, and snuggled up next to her, the dust on the hood making him wonder if his suit pants would ever be the same.

  He looked down the road toward LA, his own home in Boston a long way behind him. And knowing it was now or never, he took a deep breath and said, “You asked why I was here.”

  She sat up a little straighter as she said, “It was your brother’s wedding.” And when her lips kicked into a self-deprecating smile it was all he could do not to kiss that mouth.

  “True. But you were right about Brent. He never understood my need to go out on my own. Saw it as a denunciation of everything he holds dear. So needless to say we’ve had our issues the past few years. And yet the second I heard you were coming, not even a natural disaster could have kept me away.”

  She breathed deep, breathed out harder again, and rested her cheek on her knee to watch him. He took that as a sign to go on.

  He said, “I’d spent my entire life knowing what my future would be, but unlike Brent it was never a comfort. It was a shackle around my neck I honestly felt I could do nothing about. Then you headed off into your future with nothing to guide you but your heart, and that was it for me. It took a few months, but I did up business plans, hired offices, minimal staff, nabbed a couple of grants, and had my first client on the go before I showed my folks what I wanted to do. They were shocked, but once they saw what I was achieving, that I was serious and enthusiastic, I think they were mostly relieved.

  “I’ve always wanted to thank you for that.”

  “So stop messing around, and thank me already.”

  He glanced down at Pippa to find she now had tears in the corners of her eyes. She sniffed them back. Still a little skinny, still a little wild, still a whole lot the most plucky woman he’d ever known.

  He reached up, sank a hand into her hair, and leaned down to kiss her. She took that kiss as if she’d been waiting for it her whole life. So tough, so soft. So the woman for him.

  His hand in the back of her hair, he rested his forehead against hers. Stop messing around.

  “You’re it, Pippa,” he said, lifting his head to look into her eyes. “You’re the one. I should have fought for you then. And I’m sure as hell going to fight for you now.”

  She slipped her fingers into his hair and shook her head. “You did more than anyone ever did for me. You listened. You heard. I needed to go, and you let me. The fact that you didn’t want to makes you even more remarkable.”

  “I warn you now, I’m not doing that again. Ever.”

  A sly smile lifted her soft lips. “You really are a smooth operator, Griff Delacroix. No wonder all the girls in town were so madly in love with you.”

  “All the girls can go right ahead and love somebody else. There’s only ever been one girl for me.”

  Her chest lifted, and she held her breath. And he held his right along with her. Until she said, “I thought I’d come back to make amends. But the truth is I’ve loved this town from the minute I arrived, and I’ve wanted you from the moment I first heard your name. Considering that hasn’t changed in a decade, I can’t see it changing anytime soon.”

  Then, with a small shrug that was about the sweetest move he’d ever seen her make, Pippa said, “Have blog, will travel.”

  Griff lay a hand against her cheek. “And I can build houses anywhere.”

  Then he leaned down and touched his mouth to hers. And the metal of the old hood began to crumple beneath him.

  The man-hours he’d poured into the car once upon a time had Griff sliding more carefully from the hood, taking Pippa around the waist and carrying her with him. “Something I’ve wondered for a very long time,” he said, lowering her slowly down the front of his body.

  “And what’s that?”

  “How far the seats of that fire hazard of a car of yours fold back.”

  “This car is not a fire hazard. It’s a wonder. Beloved. I am never going to part with this car. And they go all the way.”

  “Ouch, that answer was a little quick for my liking.”

  She grinned, unfettered, free, and finally his. “I slept in there once or twice. Okay, more than that after I first left town. There’s more room than you think.”

  Griff glanced down the road. The stars were out in force that night, but it was all quiet bar the soft rustle of leaves in the light breeze and the distant strains of music.

  As if she’d read his mind, Pippa said, “Everyone who lives within ten miles of here is inside Belles Fleurs right now.” The latch of the front door clicked open. Her eyebrow slid north. “What’s wrong? Worried we’ll get caught? A Delacroix arrested for public indecency? What would the town think?”

  His eyes found hers, her pupils inky discs in the near-darkness. And when he pulled her to him, her breath shot from her lungs in a satisfying sigh. “I’ve never much been one for caring about doing what people think.”

  “Yeah,” she said grabbing him by the lapels and dragging his face to her neck, and tumbling into the open car door, “don’t I know it.”

  …

  An hour later, as Pippa and Griff stood leaning against the Firebird, both wrapped in Griff’s jacket, warm, snug, sated, kissing softly, gently, like they had forever ahead of them, a white stretch limo shot out of the front gate.

  A goodly hunk of wedding dress sticking through the door told them it was the bride and groom. Pippa moved, as if s
he might catch Honey’s eye, but it was too late. The car was nothing but taillights. Then the whistle of a rocket hissed into the air and fireworks exploded over the house, and she and Griff both looked to the sky.

  Griff said, “Fireworks? Who the hell are these people?”

  “Want to go see?”

  Griff wrapped his arms tighter about her. “Not so much.” His hands slid slowly up her back as he said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Shouldn’t you say good-bye?”

  “I’ve said good-bye to everyone I plan on saying good-bye to tonight.”

  He pushed her hair from her face, his long fingers gentle. The fireworks lighting up the sky behind him had nothing on the desire that lit his eyes. And something else. Something sweet and rich and deep and new and ancient. And true.

  “So where to now?” Pippa asked.

  “The Firebird was an experience, but I suggest a hotel.”

  “Well, it just so turns out that I have a room. But it’s not fancy. It’s at the HoJo’s on I-10.”

  Griff looked down at her with one raised eyebrow. “Does it have room service?”

  “Barely.”

  “Does it have a do not disturb sign?”

  “That it does.”

  “Then what the hell are we doing standing around here yapping?”

  As she got behind the wheel of her Firebird, Griff more than filling the passenger side of the car, Pippa couldn’t hope to contain her grin. For she no longer felt a fraud. Not one little bit. She felt free, truly free, for the first time in her life. Free to live, free to love, free to make mistakes, and free to learn from them. Because she knew she’d been heard, but she’d also finally learned how to hear.

  With a last look at Griff, Pippa gunned the engine, did a U-turn, and headed toward Bellefleur, leaving her past behind. Like the dust kicked up by the Firebird’s tires it floated away on the sultry Louisiana breeze.

  About the Author

  Australian writer Ally Blake is a redhead, a footy fan, a devotee of the language of Aaron Sorkin; she is addicted to stationery and M&Ms, weak in the face of Italians and firefighters, married to a spectacular and ever-patient man, mum to three beings of pure delight, and a firm believer in love, luck, and fairies.

  She is also a best-selling author with more than twenty-five fun, flirty romance novels under her belt with over three million copies of her books sold worldwide.

  For Ally’s take on life, writing, and other fancy stuff, head to www.allyblake.com.

  Honey Lived Happily Ever After

  Ally Blake

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Ally Blake. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Edited by Shannon Godwin

  Cover design by Danielle Barclay

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-62266-092-6

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition May 2013

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Clint Black, Cole Porter, The Graduate, Harry Winston, Technicolor.

  To our incandescently hapless Honey and the whimsical (and imaginary!) town of Bellefleur. ‘Twas a trip and a pleasure.

  Honey Moreau was married.

  Honey Delacroix, she reminded herself as she stared blindly at the privacy screen at the front of the stretch limo and for a moment felt like she was smack-bang in the middle of the final shot of The Graduate. Only she’d actually married the groom.

  Married. She’d married Brent Delacroix! She waited for her heart to give an ecstatic little kick against her ribs at the thought. Then she waited some more. But nothing happened. No kick, no vibration, not even a hint of a whisper of a murmur.

  She was married, though. At least she was pretty sure it was over and done with. She remembered standing behind the big doors leading out to the lawn of the glorious Belles Fleurs plantation. She remembered hearing the music swell, feeling her daddy’s hand locked tight over hers. Remembered the light press of her mother’s hand in the small of her back as the doors swung open. Remembered the swell of liquid panic rise in her throat and then…

  Nothing.

  She looked down at her hands, cupped neat and still in her lap. No wringing, or chipping at her perfect nails. No tapping her feet, which were placed neatly on the floor of the luxury car that hummed and rocked beneath her, her knees locked together and tilting slightly to one side. She was far too well-bred for all that. So well-bred, in fact, that a diamond-encrusted band encircled her ring finger. Harry Winston. Platinum. Custom-made.

  She let her fingers twirl the ring in place, quietly surprised to find the metal warm when she felt no warmth. No warmth at all.

  And yet her entire life—cotillion, French lessons, cheerleading captain, prom queen, Junior League, political science degree—had been in preparation for this day. Meaning, now that she’d made it, she ought to be feeling happy. Satisfied at the very least.

  She’d take relieved at this point.

  Because the truth was, at the close of the most expensive, most exquisite, most exorbitant wedding ever seen in the fair city of Bellefleur, while back at the glorious Belles Fleurs plantation her wedding guests looked to the sky, to fireworks currently soaring from a river barge from the river beyond, all Honey Moreau felt was numb.

  Delacroix, she reminded herself.

  At that, though a few beats after her brain told them to, her eyes slid to her husband—her husband—in the distant hope he might appear as shell-shocked as she felt. But it was hard to tell when all she could see of him was from the neck down. He had his head out the window like a hound dog, his mind still in party mode as he watched the fireworks erupting behind them.

  While her head spun in so many directions, she was worried it might twirl right off.

  She. Was. Married.

  Which—despite the blood, sweat, and tears that had gone into breeding her to be just that—was a miracle in and of itself.

  Consider.

  She’d earned Brent on the rebound. From Pippa. Her best friend. Who’d fled town leaving him in need of…comfort, which she’d all too willingly supplied. Not the best start to any relationship, surely.

  And probably part of the reason they’d broken up more times than she could count. Though her mother assured her none of that mattered, so long as they got back together more times than they split. Score one to Honey!

  Score two, he had proposed a year ago. After nine years together. Count ’em: nine. Even while there was no doubt she’d have said yes. At any point. It was her duty to marry well. To marry wealth. To marry with political allegiance. Brent ticked all those boxes with a big gold pen.

  The fact that she’d been in love with Brent Delacroix, since the moment she’d first seen him, was mere happy coincidence.

  Or perhaps that was the biggest reason of all that she’d spent the last year driving herself plum crazy. Had he proposed because he couldn’t live without her? Or did he realize he couldn’t live without what she brought to the table?

  And just to keep things real interesting, then there was the proposal itself. They’d been taking one of their regular “breathers” when Brent had gone to a conference in Dallas with his assistant, Eve, a Bellefleur High alumna, a girl whom Honey had always found sweet, despite the rumors she was some kind of man-eater.

  Brent had come home from that trip changed. Gruff. Serious. Determined. He’d put dow
n his foot that day, demanded that she marry him. She’d liked that. The putting down of the foot. And the proposal. She’d been so happy she’d blubbered all over his beautiful woolen suit.

  It had taken about half an hour before she’d begun to wonder. Why then? Why the sudden determination after years of dillydallying? Had she pushed him into it? Or had she in fact pushed him into Eve? What if their entire relationship had been based on his knee-jerk reactions to the moments he’d slipped from the pedestal he’d built for himself? Was she, the well-bred judge’s daughter, his way of dragging himself to the straight and narrow?

  The fingers gripping her ring slipped and she scratched her palm. She brought the spot to her mouth, careful not to muss her lipstick as she pressed the tender site to her mouth. At least, she tried, but the hand shook. It shook so hard she shoved it back into her lap, driving it into a mound of Parisian white tulle that cost more than the average small car.

  She scrunched her eyes tight. Not wanting to see the dress. Or the inside of the extravagant car. Or the reflection of the fireworks bouncing off the windows. At what point had she let her wedding become a snowball rolling down a cliff followed by an avalanche?

  No. It was worse. She was that snowball. And for twelve months she’d been waiting for the avalanche to rain down on top of her. Not waiting, pushing, forcing it. Because the expectation that it would happen, just had to happen, that even one of the wobbly pieces of their foundation would come unstuck, had been hell on earth.

  She put her hands out to brace herself as they turned the corner that would take them to Baton Rouge, and the gargantuan honeymoon suite at the Villemont—thank goodness for Grace Henson, the backup wedding planner, on that score, as Honey’s original planner had tried to steal her original booking out from under her after eloping with someone else’s groom!

  Then Brent pulled his head in. Sitting on the other end of the seat with a whump, and pressing the button to close the window. The sound of the car’s tires swishing against the road dissipated, leaving them in near silence bar the soft strains of Cole Porter humming through the speakers.