by Lia Riley
“What brings you in today, Miss Knight?” Her bright gaze wasn’t a punch to the gut; it carved his bones with all the ruthless efficiency of a diamond cutter, remaking him into something new, strange, and multifaceted.
He nipped the inside of his lower lip. Or just made himself a stupid, poetic mess.
“Aren’t you going to offer me a seat?” Her eyebrows shot up as she pointed her chin to the two empty visitor chairs before his desk. “Here I’ve been thinking Southern gentlemen were famous for impeccable manners.”
“Yes. Of course.” He half rose, sweeping his hand in a take-a-seat gesture, knocking over his pencil holder in the process. Christ. Look up “agitation” in the dictionary and there his dumb ass would be whenever this woman was in his sphere. “What can I do to you? I mean, for you. Do for you.”
Tuesday let him marinate in his faux pas, taking her time sitting and crossing those long legs. “You listen and I’ll lead. I’m here in an official capacity.”
He blinked as he sank back down. “I see.” He didn’t. But what else was there to say?
She leaned forward. “You’ll be interested to know that Happily Ever After Land has appointed me lobbyist. I’m here to promote the park’s importance to the Everland community and put forward a case as to why we should retain our lease and remain in business for another hundred years.”
He was silent, absorbing her words, their implication.
“I’m a passionate person, Mr. Marino.” She tapped a finger to her lower lip.
He scowled at the unwanted memory of the honey-sweet taste of those lips. This was a distraction. She was a distraction, one that he could ill afford. “Look, let me be clear, Miss Knight. I have a great deal of, um, passion for the park. In fact, pirates aside, you could consider it Everland’s true treasure.”
“Indeed,” she answered drily.
A warning clanged deep in his brain. The timing of her appointment was too deliberate to be a coincidence. An ache spread beneath his shoulder blades, a tight knot of twisting muscle. The call with Humph outside her cottage; she hadn’t overheard—
“I believe it’s my turn to be clear, Mr. Marino. You cannot allow developers to build a Discount-Mart and outlet mall on the property.” Tuesday slipped from coy to businesslike brisk so fast he got whiplash. “Don’t bother denying the plan. I heard you last night. Every. Single. Word.” She opened her hand and pantomimed a mic drop.
He cursed the unsettled color burnishing his cheeks. Shit. She had him against a corner. No way out. No move. Unless…he threw her off her game.
“I’m not surprised you were nominated,” he drawled, leaning back in his leather chair and drumming his fingers on the desk. The action steadied him, a reminder that this was his office. She was on his turf. And he’d be damned if she’d put him on the back foot. “No.” He gave his chin a musing rub. “You strike me as a woman able to hold the most…interesting positions.”
She blinked, a nearly imperceptible hesitation, before her chin rose a fraction. “When I find a position worth holding, I maintain it.” Challenge radiated from her gaze. Her thoughts were almost audible. You want to play innuendo games? All right, let’s dance.
“Fine.” His nostrils flared. This could be fun. “I look forward to working with someone so…skillful.” He rocked his seat, crossing a leg over his knee.
Her fingers balled into a fist, her knuckles white, even against her pale skin. “We are a job creator for local residents, not to mention it’s a visitor draw card.”
“Wilcox starts his park staff at minimum wage,” he rebutted. “They might get a job, but it’s not going to do much to support a family. As for a draw card, I’ll give you that. It was, sixty years ago.” He held up an open hand, silencing her protest. “The Tourism Commission seemed enamored with its potential, and I suppose that I have you to thank for contributing to the good impression. If we secure nomination for the Coastal Jewels Campaign, the town gets a cross-the-board boost, and that includes the park. But if we don’t? Then what? We need economic progress, Miss Knight. Events like the Village Pillage or Harvest Festival are popular for locals, but they aren’t drawing in outsiders who spend money at restaurants or patronize Main Street.
“We won second place in America’s best small-town contest, and all it got us was a plaque on the plaza gazebo. Sure there were bragging rights. The bonus to pissing off Hogg Jaw. All good things—don’t get me wrong—but you know Snapper, Lou Ellen’s husband.”
“Of course.” She inclined her head warily. “At least, a little.”
“He’s a good guy, an honest family man. Did you know that he commutes an hour to Statesboro every day? One hour. One way. And he’s typical of many others in town. We need good jobs closer to home and to build our reputation in the tourism sector. The General and my cousin Ginger are only just hanging on. Gunner over at Mad Dawgs does a decent trade on beer and pizza, but Michelle, who works here in this office, and her husband just went off to France to visit his family for two months. She said it was to improve their twins’ language skills, but I can’t help wondering if it’s really because Chez Louis is struggling and they are seeking other opportunities. It’s hard for folks to afford fine dining here.”
He reached for his water glass and took a sip before continuing. “I intend to develop telework relationships with larger companies, but that’s further down the track, after we finish putting the final touches on the high-speed rural broadband initiative that I spearheaded my first year in office. You should have seen how we operated out here before that.” He shook his head ruefully. “Sending paper airplanes would have been faster.”
She’d remained uncharacteristically quiet. Maybe he’d put her to sleep.
“Sorry if this line of talk bores you,” he said tightly, setting his glass back down on the coaster. Never would he admit the fact that hurt him, how what he’d just shared wasn’t a matter of pride, but what mattered to him on a bone-deep level.
He shouldn’t expect the woman across the desk from him to give two shits. Jacqueline hated when he talked shop. If it wasn’t a gossipy conversation about the reality-television couple that tried to join her parents’ exclusive country club, planning their next Caribbean trip, or inquiring how their financial investments were doing that quarter, she lost interest fast.
“I’d never have believed this in a million years, but…” Tuesday’s mouth drew in at the corner. “Your job is actually…sort of…fascinating.”
He hid his shock behind a bland expression, trolling her features for signs of suppressed sarcasm.
“Knock that off,” she snapped.
“What?”
“Trying to tell if I’m messing with you.” She pushed a wave of hair behind her ear. “I say what I mean, and I mean what I say. You love being mayor.”
Love. He turned the word over in his mind, a term that didn’t rest easy in him. “This community has given me a lot, a great childhood and support during rough personal times. Guess I want to give back.”
“I think we can work together.” She inched to the edge of her seat. This time a genuine smile creased her face. “We haven’t seen eye to eye on much, but hear me out. This town means a lot to you, and Happily Ever After Land means a lot to me. The people who work there, they treat me like family. They believe in me.” Her voice softened, taking on a wistful note.
Kinship. The last thing he’d ever expected to feel toward Tuesday Knight. Just as he started getting used to his unwelcome physical attraction, this strange connection came along to kick him in the ass.
“Alone none of us can do diddly-squat,” she continued. “But if we band together we can do so much. Think about the park’s promise. ‘Happily Ever After.’ We have to believe that’s possible, right?”
He glanced at the bookshelf behind her, at the empty space where a brass-framed wedding photo used to be, one he had taken down a long time ago, when he wasn’t much more than a boy. A chill slithered up his spine. Tuesday’s impassioned word
s were persuasive, but he governed in the real world. Fairy tales were nice. But happy endings weren’t the norm in the real world.
“What you say sounds like a nice story.” His lips flattened. Her very presence in his office was a danger, lulling him. He had a job to do here, and that meant thinking with his brain, not his dick. “But as mayor, it’s my duty to deal in reality, not make-believe. I concede that might be hard for a drama queen to understand.”
He hated himself for the flash of hurt in her gaze, but he couldn’t do this. Their out-of-control physical chemistry was bad enough. Imagine actually liking Tuesday? More than liking. That would venture from dangerous territory to an outright calamity.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you have your own nickname. Prince of Everland. Ring any bells in that thick head of yours?”
The intercom buzzed, and Karen chirped, “Mayor, your next appointment is waiting!”
How did Karen always manage to sound so relentlessly chipper? She attached an exclamation mark to every sentence. Maybe it had something to do with the two dozen long-stemmed red roses delivered to her desk every Friday before noon. “My husband,” she would say with a shy laugh. “What can I say? Wally loves spoiling me!”
Once upon a time he’d had a woman he’d wanted to spoil. Except nothing was ever good enough. Jacqueline had looked like a perfectly normal Southern belle: pretty, perky, and cheerful. But inside was a gaping hole, one he’d tried and tried to fill. Their marriage had been a bitter lesson.
No matter how hard a person tried or struggled, no matter how just the cause, not every challenge could be overcome. When his wife informed him of her intent to file for divorce on Christmas morning in a sunny boat slip in Bermuda, any illusions of being a white knight shattered.
He wasn’t a hero, and here was Tuesday Knight acting like somehow all he had to do was raise a sword, lead the charge, and all wrongs would be righted. It wasn’t fair to be angry at her innocence, but when did fair ever matter?
“Mayor?” Karen’s voice came through the intercom again, this time more quizzical.
“One more moment. Thank you.” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, suddenly exhausted.
“You know I’m right,” Tuesday said mulishly. “About working together.” And the shitty truth was that she was correct.
“The situation isn’t black-and-white,” he snapped.
“It is to me. But you go on to your next meeting.” She stood and subtly wiped her palms on her skirt. Was she as nervous as he was? The memory of their kisses filled the corner of the room like a smirking elephant. “Today was about touching base,” Tuesday said. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”
“Next Tuesday.” He cracked a knuckle.
“Excuse me?” She froze midway to the door, turning with a raised brow.
“Next L&L happens in a week. On Tuesday.” He dragged his gaze to her face, debating whether or not to ask the question that had been nagging at him for a month. “Why are you named that anyway?”
An emotion skimmed her face, one he couldn’t readily decipher, like everything about this frustrating woman.
“Long story.” Her impish smile returned. “Who knows? Maybe the mystery will give you something to anticipate.” And with that she strutted out the door.
Don’t look at her ass.
Yeah. Right.
At least he managed to save his groan until after the door snicked shut. The story about her curious name ranked significantly lower on the things he anticipated about their next meeting.
Chapter Thirteen
Tuesday stumbled out of city hall, reining in her runaway breath. She reeled half a block before bracing against the weathered side of the abandoned Roxy Theater. Her trembling thighs ached as if she’d done an advanced-level spin class, probably because she’d been hard clenching them for the last fifteen minutes. The delicious sight of Beau looking all dominant behind that polished oak desk in his starched white shirt and perfectly knotted cobalt-blue tie had sizzled her senses.
Weird. She’d lived in Manhattan for how long?
Long enough.
If there was one thing that city had in spades besides rats, rude cabbies, tourists posing with grungy-looking cartoon characters in Times Square, and fabulous pizza, it was suits. Donald Draper–looking types waited at every crosswalk and she never so much as eyed one sideways. The buttoned-down and uptight look was so not her type. She’d have nothing in common with a man like that. In her world, the newspaper’s financial section existed to clean windows along with a spritz of vinegar.
Only one cure existed for a crisis of this caliber. Ice cream.
She pushed off the side of the building and turned onto Main Street. No doubt clarity waited at the bottom of a root beer float. The brass bell over the What-a-Treat Candy Boutique door chimed as she walked into the welcoming old-timey emporium, greeted by crooning forties big-band style music and mouthwatering sugary smells.
“After the usual?” the owner, Ginger Reed, called from behind the counter, where she busily arranged Jordan almonds and bright licorice allsorts on a brass cake stand display.
“With an extra scoop, pretty please, and three maraschino cherries on top.” Tuesday grinned. She hadn’t lived in Everland long, but she already had “a usual.” Normally two scoops of Ginger’s homemade vanilla bean ice cream followed by a generous pour of local sarsaparilla cured any ailment, but after that meeting three were in order.
“Am I ever glad to see a friendly face.” Ginger adjusted a bobby pin in her vintage pin-curl ringlets. Her shamrock-green dress was covered in tiny strawberries and set off her vivid emerald-green eyes. “Although at this point, even old Mean Gene would have been a sight for sore eyes.”
“Been a quiet day?” Tuesday asked, perching on a high stool.
“Slower than molasses.” Ginger slid open the ice cream display’s glass panel and dipped the metal scoop into the bucket.
What-a-Treat had a black-and-white checkered floor, copper tin ceiling tiles, and shabby chic shelves crammed with shiny glass jars full of colorful hard-boiled sweets, everything from butter mints to horehound candy sticks, jawbreakers to humbugs. There was even a corner devoted to classic lollipops in rainbow corkscrew twists or round swirls. The very air was infused with the sugary scents of childhood nostalgia.
Ginger’s impish smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Summer’s over. That means the big ‘tourist rush’ is finished, too.” She crooked her fingers in sarcastic quote marks. “This was the slowest July and August on the books.”
“Hmmm.” Tuesday tapped her lower lip. “Well, if you need the support, that means there’s no choice but for me to go ahead and order an extra-thick slice of your sea-salt caramel fudge, too.” She hated the worry lines creasing the space between her new friend’s brows.
Ginger wagged a finger, and her dark curls bounced against her round cheeks. They were around the same age and shared a love for all things made from cream and sugar, key ingredients for any firm friendship. “You don’t have to—”
“Stop. This isn’t some sympathy-order upgrade,” Tuesday said, beating her to the punch. Her bank account didn’t have many zeroes, but she was a firm believer in the power of an occasional “treat yourself” moment. “In fact, you’re the one doing me a favor. I just got out of a meeting with the mayor. Sugar therapy is much needed.”
“My cousin?” Ginger popped the lid on a glass bottle of old-fashioned sarsaparilla. “What day is it? Were you at one of Beau’s Listen and Leads? They’re getting quite popular. My guess is half of it has to do with his big baby blues. I’m jealous of how pretty they are. He seriously lucked out in the gene department.”
Tuesday ignored the question even as her brain frantically nodded in agreement. “You’re looking at the newly appointed lobbyist for Happily Ever After Land.”
“Why does an amusement park need a lobbyist?” Ginger asked curiously.
“I don’t have the strength to explain without the assistance of a thousand extr
a calories.” Tuesday giggled.
“Coming right up.” As Ginger set the mug on the counter, a drip of melted vanilla ice cream slid down the frosted glass. Behind her hung a framed photo of a kind-looking older man bouncing a much younger Ginger on his knee.
Ginger’s grandfather on her non-Marino side had opened the shop in the postwar forties and had passed away two years ago. He’d raised his granddaughter, and she wasn’t willing to close the store. Perhaps What-a-Treat struggled, but Tuesday had the sense that no matter what, Ginger would fight to preserve her beloved granddaddy’s sweet legacy.
Beau wore responsibility day in and out like an invisible mantle. So many people counted on him to make decisions that would directly impact their lives. Toots, Mean Gene, Z-Man, Gil, Letty Sue, Caroline, Mr. Wilcox, Ginger, the General and Colonel, Delfi at Sweet Brew, and Ginger here, and all the other local businesses and residents.
The only one who had ever counted on Tuesday was J. K. Growling.
“You two made quite a pair at Pepper’s house. During the charades game you were completely in sync.”
“In sync? Hardly.” Tuesday scoffed. “Trust me, Beau and I have nothing in common.” Except for a shared weakness for impromptu make-out sessions.
Ginger chewed the bottom of her lip. “He smiled at least four times that night.”
“Uh, that’s what people do when they play a game.”
“He doesn’t. Or at least hasn’t. Not easily, and not like he meant it. He was happy. I haven’t seen him that happy since…I don’t even know.”
“He lost his wife.”
“He lost Jacqueline long before she died.” Ginger’s gaze shuttered as she removed a brick of fudge, placing it on a cutting board. “Tell you the truth,” she murmured, frowning, “I’m not sure he ever had her at all.”
Tuesday tried wrapping her brain around that startling piece of information, but the idea was too big, too jagged, too oddly painful to grasp.
