A Will and a Way

by Maggie Wells

  Chapter 2

  Only alcoholics drink a second glass of wine at home, Betty Jean. You don’t want people to talk, do you?

  Betty Asher eyed the bits of sediment in her glass of white wine. It was better than openly staring at the man seated at the middle of the scarred mahogany bar. Hooking the heels of her stiff new snow boots into the rungs of her stool, she geared herself up to take another sip. The pale gold liquid that claimed to be Chablis edged closer to tiki-torch fuel once it hit her palate. Just as well. Any wine strong enough to peel paint should be enough to kill the few brain cells that stored her mother’s litany of soft-spoken admonishments.

  Resentment rose from Betty’s gut and lodged like a fist in her throat. Well, she wasn’t having her second glass of wine at home.

  So there, Mother.

  The stem of the glass was smooth, sturdy, and warm from her fingers. They didn’t use Riedel in bars like the one she’d stumbled into. Hell, this one didn’t even have a name. Just a few ancient neon beer signs hung in the narrow, dusty windows. This wine glass was almost as thick as a jelly jar and bore the mark of the ghost of lipsticks past. Her dead mother and fastidious, appearance-obsessed late husband would be horrified. She rubbed her bottom lip over the stranger’s imprint. If that wasn’t out-and-out rebellion for a properly raised young lady, she didn’t know what was.

  She smirked and swirled the wine, setting the bits of flotsam spinning. Lifting it in silent toast to the not-so-dearly departed, she braved a sip then shuddered. Nope. It was just as bad on second approach.

  Grimacing, she turned her attention from the sad excuse for wine and back to searching for the name she couldn’t quite find. Sneaking another peek at the handsome stranger seated near the other end of the bar, she considered a few more candidates. The man was no Kiefer, Clooney, or Richard Gere. Ed Harris? Yummy, but no. Not Jude Law, either, but maybe Clive Owen. She squinted a little, trying to determine if the man looked the least bit British, then gave up with a sigh. At least he didn’t look anything like Brad Pitt. She’d never really understood the whole Brad Pitt thing. His lips were too pink. Something about him was…soft.

  You’ve got no business being out all alone like this, Betty Jean. It isn’t decent. Run along home like a good girl.

  Betty gave her head a shake to dislodge the memory of her mother’s voice and forced herself to sit taller. The slick fabric of her parka made it a tricky maneuver, but somehow she managed. Steeling her spine, she lifted the glass and chanced another glance as the wine touched her lips. She couldn’t help herself. The man was a dead ringer for one of Julia Roberts’ movie boyfriends. She just needed to figure out which one.

  The problem was, each time she looked at him, he stared right back at her. A rude, oddly challenging, and somewhat insolent stare. Like he knew what she looked like under her parka. And without her pearls...or pants. Even more disturbing was the fact that she found it arousing rather than off-putting.

  Everything about him was attractive. His dark hair was straight-ish but tousled. Not the styling gel type of tousling, either. The kind that only came from running one’s hands through those thick strands. Repeatedly. A liberal sprinkling of salt lightened the pepper but did nothing to detract from the overall roguishness the guy was rocking. This was a bad boy, born and bred. That ruled out Tom Hanks and pre-Divine Brown Hugh Grant.

  She averted her gaze to the row of gleaming beer taps arrayed in front of Julia’s beau and licked her lips. Kerosene with notes of dirt and a hint of…something unidentifiable. Oh, lord, what was she doing here? This sort of interaction was exactly what she’d meant to avoid when she’d chosen one of the two empty stools at the end of the bar. From here, she should only have to stare down the St. Pauli Beer girl and her amazing beer-serving abilities. She didn’t want company, no matter how handsome. All she’d wanted was a second glass of wine. A little Dutch courage before she scaled the next challenge in her new life. Relaxation in a glass.

  Men don’t like it when a lady leads them on, Betty Jean. There’s no sense in encouraging him.

  Who says I’m leading him on, Mama?

  Gritting her teeth, she tipped her head back and bolted the wine. It seared her throat and blistered her belly. By the time her eyes stopped watering, her mother’s moonlight and magnolias drawl was nothing more than a memory.

  “Did you figure it out, then?”

  A rich, deep baritone undercut the eighties rock blaring on the stereo and the cheers of the hockey fans crowded around the tables in the corner. She had no doubt the question was aimed at her, but she also had no idea how to field it. Sniffing, she feigned nonchalance as she dashed the tears from her lashes with her finger. Surely there had to be a place in the world where it was perfectly normal for middle-aged women to cry in bars for no reason.

  Clinging to the hope that she’d landed in that particular little Utopia, she darted a glance at Mr. Movie Star before returning to her intense study of what appeared to be a well-used Pabst Blue Ribbon tap handle. “Excuse me?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a slow but utterly devastating smile creep across his face. Starbursts of fine lines fanned from shining brown eyes. A pair of worn brackets swallowed the dimples she noticed earlier. The scar that sliced through his upper lip stretched thin and tight. She wanted to lick it.

  “Have you figured out which one of Julia Roberts’ boyfriends you think I am?”

  Her heart thudded against her breastbone. She wrapped her fingers around the empty wine glass and stared him dead in the face. Like any woman raised in the South, she had a healthy, if a bit grudging, respect for psychic phenomena. This man was obviously an expert mind reader. That, or he had women crawling out of the woodwork to tell him he looked exactly like—

  “Dylan McDermott!”

  He chuckled and shook his head as he slid from his stool. “Sorry, wrong answer.”

  Her cringe was instinctive. Wrong. She knew she was wrong even as the name popped out. Hell, she had the entirety of Steel Magnolias committed to memory and the man approaching her was nothing like the soft-spoken Louisiana lawyer who’d stolen Shelby Eatenton from the safety of her mama’s home.

  Tipping her chin up, she held her ground. Well, she held it as best she could. The coat was slippery against the Naugahyde cover of the bar stool, and the urge to slip off before he could reach her was strong. So very strong. But not quite powerful enough to light a fire under her. Besides, she didn’t trust her legs to hold up if she tried to bolt.

  His eyes were fixed on her as he skirted stools occupied by two men who’d spent the entire time she’d been there bickering over every topic Fox News presented for their consideration. A blush flared in her cheeks and caught like brush fire, enveloping her in the kind of bone-melting warmth she hadn’t experienced since she left the pine-scented air of southeast Mississippi.

  A rush of homesickness so cloying it made it hard to breathe pressed down on her. Life in Percy might not have been a bed of roses since Donald died, but packing up her St. Johns knits and heading for the frozen tundra wasn’t her best and most brilliant idea to date.

  She closed her eyes, giving herself a moment to gather her wits before she’d either have to face this too-compelling man, or pull on her hat and gloves and slink away into the frigid night. She’d almost opted for the latter when a scene featuring a windblown Julia cruising down the Chicago River while her best friend crooned in her ear popped into her head.

  He came to a stop right beside her. Long, work-worn fingers curled the rim of his glass. His smile was warm and teasing, but his dark eyes were cool and appraising as he gave her a frank once-over. When they met hers again, the air seeped from her lungs. He leaned in just enough to claim his territory, but not so much as to crowd her. The sleeve of his waffle-weave Henley brushed her coat with a soft shussst as he lifted the glass of pale amber liquid to his lips and took a drink, those dark eyes holding hers for a second too long.

  She ca
ught the scent of scotch, good scotch, and man. Every long-neglected hormone in her body jumped up and started dancing a jive. With jazz hands. This man with his scotch breath and faded shirt was a bad man. A deliciously bad, bad man.

  As if he lived to prove her right, he looked up at her from under a thick fringe of dark eyelashes. “Why don’t you try again?”

  “Dermot Mulroney,” she whispered.

  That lazy grin stretched out once again, but this time he chuckled. “No, I’m Will Tarrant.”

  He raised a questioning eyebrow as he took in the cold weather gear she’d piled on the stool beside her, and offered his hand. She sat frozen, her hands curled around the edge of the bar. He lifted the other in mock dismay. But she’d had people using that reach for the sky look on her since she was no bigger than a niblet. He was going to have to work on conveying disapproval with a little more oomph if he wanted to compete at her level.

  “It’s always a pleasure to meet a fellow fan,” he said, his voice filled with so much sincerity it coaxed a startled laugh from her. “Tell me, have you been studying Mr. Mulroney long?”

  At that, she returned his supercilious stare, determined to show this brazen Yankee exactly how it was done. “No. But I assume you’re very familiar with his repertoire.”

  Sober as a judge, he looked her dead in the eye. “I bless the day that great man was born.”

  Helpless to resist such unabashed shamelessness, she pried her hand from the bar and let him take it. “I’m Betty Asher.”

  “Betty?” He blinked and reared back but didn’t let go of her hand. “Are you kidding me? Your name is Betty?”

  Confused by his extraordinary reaction to what she’d always considered the most ordinary of names, she attempted to extricate her hand. “Yes, my name is Betty.”

  He grasped her fingers before she could slip away. “I’m sorry. It’s just…perfect.”

  Intense dark eyes searched hers, then roamed the rest of her face as if he were cataloging every last detail about her. She squirmed a bit, feeling guilty for probing gazes she’d sent his way earlier in the evening. Guilty, and more than a little nervous. Which was bad because when she got nervous she tended to babble, and the babbling…well, it wasn’t attractive. And she wanted Will Tarrant to find her attractive. And if there was one skill Betty Jean Stallings Asher had learned at the foot of the master, it was making herself attractive to men.

  “I’m afraid you caught me. I have indeed long been an admirer of Mr. Mulroney’s body…of work.” She spoke the last after a pause so packed with implication it made the word pregnant seem impotent. Then she punctuated it with the little eyelash flutter she’d learned in her bassinet. If this man wanted to flirt, he’d better bring his A-game. “Tell me, which parts do you find most compelling?”

  “Parts of you?”

  “I thought we were talking about Dermot Mulroney,” she taunted.

  “I’d rather talk about you, Betty Asher.”

  Something in the way he said her name made her shiver. Or maybe it was simply the fact that Mother Nature seemed to have a deep and abiding grudge against the new city she’d misguidedly decided to call home. Rolling her shoulders to chase the ripple away, she turned to gather her belongings. “I’m afraid that topic isn’t all that interesting.”

  “Oh, but you’re wrong.” He set his glass on the bar and placed a gentle hand on her arm, not restraining her, but making his reluctance to see her go breathtakingly clear. “You’re the woman I’ve been waiting for all my life.”

  Chapter 3

  For once in his life, Will wasn’t just feeding out some line trying to get a woman to bite. He should have been muttering complaints about gin joints and her walking into them, but he couldn’t. He was so damn happy to see her when she walked through the door that he’d been completely poleaxed for about five minutes. And now he was torn between joy and absolute terror. Because, holy hell, her name was Betty. If that wasn’t a sign that they were meant to be, he didn’t know what was.

  “Stay. Please.” He caught the tremor in her hand as she shook out her scarf. “I think this might turn out to be the most important night of my life.”

  “You must lead a very boring life, Mr. Tarrant.”

  “Not in the least.” He let his hand fall away. “I’ve made it my life’s work to avoid anything remotely resembling boring.”

  “Then you’d better cut a wide path around me.”

  “On the contrary. I’m fascinated.”

  He flashed the grin he used to get out of detention back in high school. She wobbled as she tugged her hat down over her head with a little more force than was strictly necessary. He took the opportunity to touch her again. Damn. Yes, she was real. And warm. All woman. A total Betty.

  “I can’t imagine what you’d find so interesting.”

  “Everything.” He must have struck the right tone because she stopped fidgeting with her hat and looked up at him, her blue eyes wide. “For example…” He swooped down to pick up the glove that had fallen to the floor unnoticed, then offered it to her with a flourish. “You do know that it’s spring, don’t you?”

  “Spring? Where?”

  A bark of bitter laughter escaped her. The harsh contrast between that laugh and the wholesome sweetness that surrounded her like a fluffy pink cloud made his heart flip. The thought that there might be a bit of an edge to this sweet Betty was almost too much for him to bear.

  Wetting his lips, he tried to swallow the knot in his throat, but his voice still came out in a rasp. “I saw it on the calendar. It was right there in black and white.”

  She shot him a murderous glare, snatched her glove from his grasp, and began to wriggle her fingers into it. “Then someone had best tell Mother Nature, because I haven’t felt my toes in more than ten days.”

  He stared straight into her eyes. “I’d be happy to feel them for you.”

  She laughed. “No. Thank you,” she added as an afterthought. The amusement in her eyes warred with the incredulity in her tone. “I appreciate the offer.”

  Will smiled back at her full stop. He’d spent years—no, decades—honing his skills. He knew when he was getting somewhere with a woman. She didn’t want to go. Not really. She just wanted to be convinced it was okay to be tempted to stay.

  “Damn.” He served up a playful leer and a side of incorrigible. “Anything else you want felt?”

  “You’re very kind, but I don’t think so.”

  He stepped closer, crowding her a little. “I’m not kind at all, and maybe you’re thinking too much.”

  But she didn’t blush and look away, his Betty. No, she stood toe-to-toe with him and stared him straight in the eye. “I’ve had two glasses of wine, and I’m not thinking clearly.”

  “Good. I love it when a beautiful woman stops thinking clearly. Improves my chances.”

  She smirked. “I doubt your chances need…enhancements.”

  He took her hand and began pulling the soft knit glove off finger-by-finger. “It’s cold out there and warm in here.” Her unresisting hand landed in his palm. It felt good. Damn good. “Stay a little while longer, Betty Asher. You’re the prettiest thing to happen to The Pump in forty years.”

  “The Pump?”

  “That’s what the locals call it.” His eyes locked on hers, he brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Tell me, Betty Asher, are you a local?”

  She blinked and jerked her hand away. “I am now.”

  With brisk, business-like precision, she removed the other glove and made a point of looking around the darkened barroom as she tucked the pair into the pocket of her ugly coat. “You’ve been hanging out in this bar for forty years? I didn’t know barflies lived so long.”

  He had to laugh. Pretty, smart, and sharp. A lethal combination indeed. “Well, you might have noticed that the whole place is pretty well-preserved.” He nodded to the neon lights and backlit signs decorating the paneled walls. “Marty keeps me un
der a highball glass during the day. Dontcha, Marty?”

  The bearded bartender didn’t even glance up from the glass he was drying. “What answer you lookin’ for here?”

  “A yes will do.”

  Marty bobbed his balding head. “Yep. Sure do.”

  “Thank you.” Will turned up the wattage on his smile and gestured to the stool she’d abandoned. “I grew up around the corner. Marty’s sister Mary Jean used to babysit me.”

  When Betty slid onto the stool, he snatched the cap from her head and tucked it into the over-sized pocket in her parka. She didn’t shy away. And he didn’t embarrass himself by crawling into her lap and curling up like a cat, even though the casual intimacy of the gesture unleashed a mushroom cloud of hope in his chest.

  Fate. Hope. Betty.

  This was too good to be true.

  She gave him a shy smile as she unwound the scarf. “I bet you needed lots of minding.”

  “Oh, I did. Poor Mary Jean retired at seventeen, never to babysit again.” He snagged the leg of the stool beside hers with his foot and dragged it a few inches closer. “Give the lady some of the wine you keep for Sister Laurent, Marty,” he called to the bartender. “And toss that boxed crap you keep trying to pass off. I’ve got socks older than that.”

  “Socks!”

  Will jumped, startled by her outburst, but she just beamed up at him.

  “That’s what the wine tasted like. Kerosene, with notes of dirt and a hint of sweat socks.” Her eyes sparkled with delight.

  He couldn’t have looked away if his corneas depended on it. “You drink kerosene often?”

  “Only when I’ve had a really trying day,” she replied primly. She smiled her thanks when Marty slid a glass of blood-red wine in front of her.