by Lia Riley
Bemused blue eyes met brown. “What would you have me do? Drink those coffee milk shakes that are so popular these days?”
“Did I say seventy? Never mind. Your inner child must look like Benjamin Button. I’ll have you know, my drink of choice is a double espresso, hold the cream and sugar.”
Philip had always made the same order for her, a “double shot espresso,” explaining no one with any taste would spoil the coffee by adding milk or sugar, or God forbid, artificial flavors.
He gave her a skeptical once-over. “Really?”
“What can I say.” She met his questioning tone with an air of mock superiority. “I’m a coffee snob.” But was she really? Because before Philip imposed his drink of choice on her, there’d been Zepher, the Brooklyn DJ with a thing for chai lattes, which she drank dutifully even though cardamom hurt her stomach. And before that was Bruce, the Staten Island firefighter who considered five-dollar coffees “horseshit,” trusting only the burnt jet fuel that came served in Styrofoam from his corner deli.
No guy ever seemed to care to know what she actually wanted, content for her to play a role, be who they wanted at the time, what made them feel good.
Beau gave a disinterested one-shoulder shrug. “I mostly stick with water.”
“Yes, water is good. Love water.” Her nod was emphatic, even as internally she was reeling. She loved pleasing people, even if it meant compromising her own happiness. “Probably because I’m an Aquarius.”
He gave her a strange look because what was she even talking about? First, water was fine, but half the time she forgot to drink enough, and second, did she have to agree with every beverage choice of every guy whose tongue had ever entered her mouth?
No. Maybe it was time to quit being such a people pleaser and try just being herself…Tuesday, the one role that never felt quite right.
J. K. Growling lumbered up with a soggy, well-chewed tennis ball and dropped it at his feet, snub tail wagging.
“Feel free to ignore her; she’s such an attention seeker.” She inched toward the hall, desperate for a moment of distance, a chance to take a deep breath and regroup.
“I don’t mind.” He shoved his hands deep in his pockets. The gesture didn’t do much to hide the broad swathe to his shoulders.
“Suit yourself,” she said thickly, feeling a prickle creep up her cheekbones—a blush heating her face. “But fair warning, because once you start, she’ll never let you go.” As she walked into her bedroom she realized with a start that the same could go for her.
Chapter Seven
Tuesday’s house had the same sweetly exotic fragrance she carried in her hair—jasmine or lilies. He liked it. He liked it too much.
Beau rolled the wet ball across the cramped living room for a second time, trying to concentrate on taking shallow sips of breath. Poor dog had one of those “only a mother could love” faces.
The ball rolled into the hallway, and J. K. Growling disappeared around the corner, returning a few moments later with something white wadded in her mouth.
“What do you have there, girl?” A tissue? Tuesday wouldn’t want that getting shredded all over the floor. “Give it here.” He dropped into a crouch and froze as she deposited a flimsy lace thong into his outstretched palm.
He gaped at his hand, mortified and not a little turned on. What the…? Tuesday ran around Everland wearing these? He hardened in an instant, hit by wave after wave of sexy mental images.
“All set?” She flew back into the room in a strapless emerald sundress that offset her sun-kissed skin and platinum hair to perfection.
“Yeah. Sure. Good to go.” He bolted upright, stuffing the scrap of lace into his pocket, grinding his teeth so hard he risked cracking a molar. Shit. His pocket? But it was either that or confess and look like a pantie pervert.
No thank you.
J. K. Growling huffed a satisfied grunt and ambled away, stubby tail wagging, and leaving him in one hell of a predicament. He’d felt a certain sympathy for the dog up until that point.
That compassion ended tonight. This very moment.
“What’s wrong?” A furrow creased between Tuesday’s brows.
“Nothing.” He racked his brain, trying to remember the exact amount of last month’s power bill, the capital city of Oklahoma, anything to ward off his impending erection. “Except that we’re keeping everyone waiting.”
“That’s on me. Sorry. Oh, wait. I almost forgot the all-important napkins.” She dashed into the kitchen and returned with a paper bag. “Mission accomplished. Let’s roll.”
Outside, they walked down her driveway. “Yours?” she asked, opening the picket fence gate and making a vague gesture toward his black Ducati Scrambler.
“Yeah.” He cast her a sideways glance. Everyone in town knew his bike. It wasn’t like her to stumble over small talk.
Unless she was unsettled, too?
Which was somehow even more unsettling.
“I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle.” The statement didn’t sound like a flirtatious suggestion for an invite. Just a statement of fact.
Well, shit. He didn’t know what to think, not about any of this. The tiny panties in his pocket were fucking with his brain function.
“Want to?”
He felt her own sideways glance. Shit. Did that sound like a flirtatious suggestion?
Sort of.
Was it?
Kinda.
His upper lip twitched as frustration tugged at his belly. He didn’t know how to do this. Be witty. Banter. Life was a hell of a lot less complicated when he didn’t kiss women.
She unleashed a nervous giggle. “This is weird, huh?”
“Most definitely. Listen, here’s the situation. It’s a full house next door. We’re going to need to act natural,” he said.
She flashed a thumbs-up. “No artificial weirdness. Acting is what I do best.”
He slowed his pace, frowning at the uncharacteristic bite in her voice as a female laugh poured out Rhett’s window. “I mean it. Lou Ellen’s here.” His friend’s big sister. “That woman roots out gossip like a truffle-hunting pig.”
“What happens in Madam Magna’s tent stays in Madam Magna’s tent.” She paused, wrinkling her brow. “Well, except that I spilled the beans to J. K. Growling.”
An unhealthy level of curiosity spiked. How’d she described their kiss?
“Yoo-hoo, Mayor Butter! I declare if it isn’t the man of the hour!” Miss Ida May bustled around the side of her house brandishing a pair of pruning shears. “Are your ears burning, sugar? Did you know that I had my annual physical this morning and sang your praises to the new nurse? A pretty thing, too, fresh in from Jacksonville. She’s homesick, bless her heart, and could use a few more friendly faces in town. And your face is…” The older woman trailed off, taking in his frustrated scowl, the one he’d worn ever since slipping the world’s tiniest panties into his pocket. “Well…seeing as how you’re a real kind man and all.”
“Your garden looks stunning,” Tuesday chimed in to change the subject. “I’d love to stop by and pick your brain on landscape design.”
Beau chewed the inside of his cheek. She didn’t seem to want to hear about this nurse. Interesting.
“My, doesn’t that sound nice.” Miss Ida May gave Tuesday a noncommittal smile before turning her attention back to Beau and shaking her shears. “Her name is June.” Her wink was the definition of suggestive. “Like a June bug. Ain’t that the cutest thing?”
“Indeed.” Beau gave her a nod. “You go on and have yourself a nice evening.”
“You too, sugar.”
“’Night, Miss Ida May!” Tuesday said, and the woman looked her up and down, tutting her tongue three times before returning to her rose garden.
“What crawled up her petticoat and died?” Tuesday muttered after they had moved out of earshot. “She acted like I was a Roundup-resistant weed or something.”
Beau remained silent, not about to share the most like
ly theory. The Back Fence appeared to be breaking their long-standing embargo against meddling in his personal life. Looked like they wanted to set him up with a suitable woman and had determined that Tuesday wasn’t a candidate. Which meant the busybodies had discussed him and Tuesday. His mind seethed with the thoughts.
Goddammit. The last thing he wanted was his love life put under Everland’s microscope. He wasn’t in the mood for his love life to be henpecked over, or for these panties to be burning a hole in his pocket—the barely there whisper of lace, the string holding the two impossibly small triangles together.
Was she wearing a pair like this now?
“Who ran over your cat?” Tuesday gently elbowed him in the ribs.
Her touch, even in jest, put him on edge. “Don’t have any pets,” he shot back. “I work too late most nights to be responsible for one.”
She rolled her eyes. “Um, have you ever heard about this thing called a figure of speech? Don’t go biting my head off just because Miss Ida May got under your collar.”
“She didn’t.” He hadn’t raised his voice, so why did it feel like he was yelling? “I’m fine.”
Her eyes hardened as she flicked her hair back over her shoulder. “Suit yourself.”
He sucked in a deep breath as they walked back across the street. There were two options. This woman would either drive him crazy or give him a heart attack. He’d been raised to believe he could achieve whatever he put his mind to conquering. No challenge was too far out of reach. No obstacle insurmountable. And in many arenas of his life that had proven true. Except one.
Love.
He’d failed in his marriage. Jacqueline had left him on New Year’s Eve while they were visiting his family in Bermuda. He’d let her go that night, assuming she’d be back the next day and they’d try again, even as it was becoming obvious their relationship was ending. But she hadn’t come. Instead, she’d been sailing off with a man she’d met at the marina’s bar, showing as much disregard for the storm warnings as she had their vows.
Now if a woman ever gave him a shy smile, or brought him a peach cobbler, or let her hand linger on his arm a little too long, he couldn’t reciprocate. The wall he’d built around himself was too damn high. Instead he worked. Worked out. Sailed. Lifted. He got the occasional pitcher of beer and watched a game at Mad Dawgs. Worked more. Won an election.
He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get a second shot at forever, or if the risk would be worth the reward.
But if not, there was always his never-ending inbox.
For now it would be best to chalk the Tuesday kiss up to an uncharacteristic lapse in judgment. Except it wasn’t just a kiss. It didn’t happen in a vacuum. His nostrils flared as heat flushed through his body. His dumb ass had been the one to kiss her.
But she kissed your dumb ass back, a voice whispered.
Tuesday paused outside Rhett and Pepper’s front door and wiped one eye, glancing down. “I got an eyelash,” she said to herself, blowing it off her fingertip. “Time to make a wish.”
He let out a breath of frustration, and fine, yearning. What was it about this woman that simultaneously pulled and repelled him like a mad-spinning magnet? Made him ogle as she unselfconsciously licked hot fudge from her fingers at a church ice cream social, or ventured into a rain shower to play in ankle-deep puddles, or donned a tacky princess dress to make a bunch of foster kids smile?
The maddening truth was that he wanted her. He was drawn to whatever offbeat rhythm throbbed inside her heart, the one that made her look at the world in a way so different from himself.
But he’d never win a woman like that. How could a serious, stiff, workaholic ever make a happy-go-lucky, free-spirited drama queen happy?
He couldn’t. It would be the opposite of easy.
More laughter poured through Rhett’s cottage windows. Beau’s stomach soured with irrational jealousy at the sounds of carefree happiness, his hand frozen on the doorknob. His best friend was the local vet, and Pepper had assumed responsibility as the executive director for the soon-to-be Virginia Valentine Memorial Everland Animal Rescue Shelter. He didn’t begrudge his friend, but maybe, hell, he wanted some happy himself.
As he and Tuesday entered the house, a cheer went up.
“Hey, hey, the gang’s all here.” The General draped a burly ginger-haired arm over the back of his husband’s chair. The gold hoop winking from his ear was a perfect match for his gold incisor. “And not a second too soon. I’m hungry enough to eat the southbound side out of a northbound cow.”
Beau took in the crowded table. For better or worse, these were his people. The General and his husband, who went by the Colonel, co-owned the General’s General Store, an upmarket take on an old-fashioned small-goods store. Beside them sat Lou Ellen, Rhett’s bossy big sister, and her husband, Snapper, who hadn’t spoken in public since uttering “I do” at his wedding. Next came his bubbly second cousin Ginger, owner of What-a-Treat Candy Boutique and, since his parents moved to Bermuda, the closest thing he had left in town to family. The bookish man in the tweed jacket opposite was Cedric Swift, an Oxford history professor rumored to be writing a book about Redbeard’s missing treasure, although more than a few credible rumors circulated about how he was often spied early mornings transecting the river bottoms in the hopes of actually making the grand discovery.
“Take a seat, Princey Baby,” Lou Ellen sang. She loved to needle people, and it took concentrated effort not to give her the rise she sought. He’d endured the tongue-in-cheek nickname of Prince ever since he could remember. That’s what happens when you’re the heir to a dying dynasty and resident of the largest home in the county.
He slid into the empty chair, and Tuesday took the only other one available. A six-inch gap separated their legs under the table, a six-inch gap filled by a nearly palpable tension. Never had he been so physically aware of another presence. Something nudged his foot. The pointed toe of an utterly silly shoe.
His fork hit the corner of his plate with a loud clatter.
“Christ on a cracker!” Ginger spun her head so fast that her thick black curls bounced against her cheeks. “What’s gone and gotten you all hot and bothered?”
“Lost my grip.” On that point he told the truth. He just didn’t elaborate that what he was really losing his grasp on was his mind. At this point, all he could do was remain outwardly calm and pray to survive the next few hours in Tuesday’s proximity, not getting distracted by her mouth, or the ache he felt when staring at her lips. “Got a cold one in the fridge?” he muttered to Rhett.
Escape was the answer.
“Sure do. Anyone else?” Rhett glanced around the table.
“I’m all set, thanks.” Pepper gestured to her half-full glass of white wine.
“We’ll go another round,” the Colonel said, indicating him and his partner.
Tuesday leaned back with a grin. “Got any tequila in the house?”
“Maybe?” Pepper frowned in Rhett’s direction. “But no margarita mixer.”
“Even better,” Tuesday shot back. “I’ll take mine straight with no chaser. Hold the salt and lime.” She broke the ensuing stunned silence with a wink. “Kidding. Geez, you guys need to lighten up or I will need that shot.”
Pepper shook her head with a half-amused eye roll. “Hey, did you hear from Dad today? I got a postcard of a saguaro cactus. He’s traveling the country with his girlfriend in a refurbished Airstream,” she informed the group.
Tuesday shook her head. “I haven’t checked my mailbox since Friday.”
“They’re en route to the Grand Canyon.”
“Everything sound okay?”
“You know how Dad is with communication.” Pepper shrugged. “He didn’t say much about anything but the food. Apparently he and Susan have formed a wicked addiction to chile rellenos.”
“Mmmm. Add that to a future potluck.” Tuesday took a deep breath. “Everything tonight really does smell delicious.”
Ginger nodded in
agreement. “Great idea to build a menu around the theme of Southern comfort.”
“Mr. Smarty Pants here gets the credit for the brilliant suggestion.” Pepper beamed at Rhett. “We’ve got oven-baked ribs, creamed spinach, buttermilk mashed potatoes, roasted squash with brown sugar, and Beau’s famous flourless chocolate cake.”
Ginger heaved a happy sigh. “Mama Marino always was the best baker in town. How are your folks these days?”
“Folks, as in parents?” Tuesday showed him a sly, mischievous wink. “You mean you weren’t constructed in some uptight cyborg factory?”
The table gasped, and it took Beau a moment to realize they were frozen, waiting for his reaction. He wasn’t a guy anyone ever dared tease.
“Tuesday!” Pepper’s hand flew to the side of her neck.
But Tuesday was too busy checking out his chest to pay much heed to her sister’s startled admonishment. Her gaze traveled the span of his shoulders as she idly plucked apart one of her napkins. The shredded pile grew in front of her like a tiny snowdrift.
They locked eyes. The tiny gold flecks in her irises were like a crowd of stars, and her kissable mouth, tugging in one corner, was restless with unasked questions.
She wasn’t afraid of him.
No. That wasn’t it. No one at the table feared him, or the town at large.
But he never invited familiarity. Rhett gave him shit, but he’d been his best friend since kindergarten. No one else besides his parents ever bothered to build a bridge around his natural tendency to keep the world at arm’s length, to look deeper and see the guy who existed beneath the reserve.
“Why, his mama was born in Belle Mont Manor and raised right here in Everland.” Ginger snapped him back to reality. It surprised him a little to hear her jump to his defense. “A Southern belle debutante.”
“But one who cared more about adventure than her china pattern,” he said, clearing his throat, showing he hadn’t taken offense. Tuesday liked to poke, but he was begging to tell she didn’t mean it meanly. In fact, he sort of liked it. “My granddaddy owned a yacht and insisted his only child learn to sail. She took to the challenge like a duck to water. Got me and Rhett into the sport.”
