Southern Girl Series Bundle: Bohemian Girl, Neighbor Girl, Intern Girl

by Georgia Cates

  “Sounds good to me.”

  The first song to come on is “Bed of Roses” by Bon Jovi. “Wow. Haven’t heard this one in a long time.”

  “This song is on one of my favorite playlists. I probably listened to it yesterday or the day before.”

  “Want me to skip to the next one?”

  “No. I love this song. I could listen to it every day.”

  Frankie sketches and erases. Sketches and erases. Sketches and erases. “Not my best work but I think you can see where I’m going with this. Come have a look.”

  I go to her and lean forward, one palm on the drafting table, looking over her shoulder. Fuck, she smells good.

  “I’m thinking a snowy winter scene as a background to wrap around the bottle. A chalet with a smoking chimney. Hipster man with beard, maybe some random snowflakes that have fallen on top of it. Hat. Snowboard tucked under his arm. Color scheme of cream, rich browns, light blues, deep reds. I think smoked vanilla porter should be a really clean sans serif font with a light drop shadow. All caps. That’s how I envision this label.”

  She twists on the stool and because of the way I’m standing, our faces are only inches apart. Her eyes ping-pong from my eyes to my lips and back up to my eyes. “Thoughts? Suggestions? Concerns?”

  “It’s very Iron City… but with a heavier hipster vibe.”

  “Is it too hipster for Iron City? Too fun? I wouldn’t want it to feel like the branding is off from the other labels.”

  “It’s different branding, but I think it’s the perfect blend for a seasonal. It’s great.”

  She smiles and bites her bottom lip before releasing it. Fuck, it’s sexy. “I’m glad you approve.”

  The design.

  The lip biting.

  The way her eyes bounce back and forth from my eyes and mouth.

  I approve of it all. One hundred percent.

  4

  Frankie Dawson

  “Hey beautiful. Can you break and join your old man for lunch?”

  I look up and see my dad standing in the art department doorway. “I can do anything for my old man.”

  My old man.

  The graying hair around his temples. The deepening lines around his eyes and mouth. My dad is no old man but he has aged far beyond his thirty-nine years. Life mistreated him for a long time. Years spent in various types of jobs requiring extreme physical labor robbed him of his youthfulness a long time ago.

  I’m, like, thirty eraser swipes away from finishing this layer of my new design. I hate to stop in the middle and lose my place. “Can you give me five minutes to finish what I’m doing?”

  “Sure. I’ll meet you in the break room.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  I decrease the opacity of my eraser to soften the look and give me a better transition between the two images I plan to merge. “Damn, girl. You are good at what you do.” I do that a lot. Talk to myself when I’m working.

  “I love it when a girl is good at what she does.”

  I jolt at Porter’s unexpected voice in the doorway and over-erase the layer I’m working on. I can’t decide if I’m more shocked by his surprise appearance or the underlying sexual tone beneath his comment. “All right, sneaky. You just caused me to goof.”

  “Sorry.”

  I undo my last action. “No problem. Easy fix. What’s going on?”

  “I’m leaving for lunch. Would you want to join me?”

  I’d love to join him, but I’ve already told my dad we’d eat together today. And I’m not sure what he’d say about my having lunch with his boss. Our boss.

  Is it okay to turn your boss down for lunch? “I would love to, but my dad is waiting for me in the break room. It’s a daddy-daughter lunch date over pimento and cheese.”

  “I’m sure Scott enjoys having a lunch buddy.”

  This is my fifth day at Iron City, and Daddy and I have had lunch together every one of those days. “I’ve been gone from home for the better part of the last three years. It’s nice to get to spend that time with him. Especially since I’m leaving again in three months.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to be guilty of stealing a princess away from her father. We can do lunch another time.”

  “I would like that.”

  Daddy has already taken our lunches out of the fridge and spread both on the table. That’s him. Always taking care of his little girl. “Pimento and cheese again?”

  “You know it.”

  My mom makes the best—the kind with cream cheese in it. None of that premade store-bought crap for us. “I asked for extra jalapeño in this batch so you have me to blame if it sets your mouth on fire.”

  “I don’t mind a little heat.”

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Dad holds up his half-eaten sandwich. “Don’t worry. I didn’t wait.”

  “It wasn’t my fault. My boss came by right after you left.”

  “Which one?”

  “Mr. Beckman.” As far as I’m concerned, Porter is my only boss; I haven’t seen Lucas Broussard or his wife, Lawrence. And despite Oliver’s office being only a few doors down from the art department, I’ve only run into him a few times.

  I’m curious to see what Dad will make of Porter’s lunch invitation. “He asked me to go to lunch with him.”

  Dad stops chewing and his head tilts to the side. “What did you tell him?”

  “That I had lunch plans with my old man.”

  “Good.”

  I figured he wouldn’t like it. “Good because I didn’t stand you up, or good because you don’t want me having lunch with Mr. Beckman?”

  “Porter is your boss, and you are his summer intern. There’s a line you don’t cross, and it’s best if you don’t do anything that could blur it.”

  “I don’t think eating burgers together qualifies as an act that will blur the boss-intern line.”

  “It has nothing to do with eating burgers, Frankie.”

  I think my dad sometimes forgets that I’m twenty-one. “I know what you’re talking about, but I don’t see the harm in sharing a meal together while we talk shop.”

  “You talk shop with Porter, huh?”

  “Yeah. We discuss fonts and Photoshop techniques and plug-ins and I know that when he nods his head and says ‘yeah’ that he isn’t just nodding and saying ‘yeah’ for the heck of it. He understands what I’m talking about. We bounce ideas off each other. We speak the same language.” It’s nice to talk to someone who gets me.

  “Well, as long as that’s all you let him bounce off you.”

  “Daddy.” I cannot believe he just said that to me.

  “You’re a beautiful girl. I assure you that hasn’t gone unnoticed by him or any other man at this brewery.”

  I should have known that I couldn’t work with my dad without him being on guard. “He hasn’t done anything out of line.”

  Well, maybe that’s not the complete truth. Let’s see… I caught him looking at my butt the day he interviewed me… and there’s been at least three occasions this week when I’ve seen him looking at my boobs… and then there was yesterday. I’m pretty sure he sniffed me when he leaned over to inspect my work.

  Scott Dawson would not approve.

  “I wouldn’t expect Porter to be anything but professional with you. That’s the kind of man he is. But outside of work… I think that could be another story.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “More than one woman has shown up at the warehouse’s back door asking for Porter. Oliver too.”

  Porter is hot. I’d be surprised if a woman got a little bit of that and didn’t come around looking for more. “How old is Porter?”

  “Too old for you.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s not why I’m asking.”

  “Then why are you asking?”

  “He’s part owner of a hugely successful company. I think it’s safe to say that his talent played a large part in that success. I know I have a lot to
learn, but I’m trying to gauge the level my talent should be at this stage of the game.”

  “Porter wasn’t much older than you when he interned at a printing company owned by Lucas Broussard. Lucas wanted out of the printing business and Porter and Oliver were looking for an investor. That’s how Iron City was born.”

  I think there’s way more to Porter Beckman than I suspected. “I’d love to hear that story from the beginning.”

  “Ask him sometime when he’s not busy. I’m sure he’d love to tell you all about it.” Dad looks at the clock. “I need to get back.”

  “It hasn’t even been twenty minutes.”

  “I know, but I don’t like this new guy in the warehouse. My counts have been off lately, and I suspect he could be the reason.”

  That’s always a problem my dad has to deal with. “You think he’s stealing from Iron City?”

  “Not sure, but I want to avoid a routine. I don’t want him to feel like he’s able to predict how long I’ll be gone when I step away from the warehouse.”

  “Are you going to tell the bosses?”

  “Already have. They’re helping me monitor.”

  “You’re close to them, aren’t you?”

  “I guess I am.”

  It makes me feel good that they think so highly of my dad. All the more reason that I need to prove how good I am. All the more reason to show him it wasn’t a mistake to hire the warehouse manager’s daughter.

  This week’s assignment is to update Iron City’s website since Porter has been too busy perfecting the fall seasonal recipe with Oliver. Sweet potato cream stout. Sounds even more like a dessert than the smoked vanilla porter.

  I’ve only seen Porter for a few minutes over the last several days. He gave me the website assignment on Monday and basically disappeared. I appreciate the obvious confidence he must have in me and my abilities, but it’s lonely being by myself so much. I’m confident in my designs, but it would have been nice to have had him here to approve what I’ve done.

  “Hey. Everything going okay in here?”

  I look up from my computer screen and smile—maybe a little too much—when I see Porter standing in the doorway. “It’s a little lonesome… but all is well.”

  “You’ve been sitting in that same spot for three days working on the same thing. Aren’t you stir-crazy?”

  “A little. I should probably get up and walk around a bit.” It’s not good to sit in the same position for too long.

  “Feel like taking a drive with me?”

  A drive… Porter and I in a car… just the two of us. That would probably blur the employee-intern line even more than eating burgers together. My daddy would not approve. “I’m game. Are we riding in the Porsche?”

  “No. I’d never drive it to the brewery. I’m in my truck.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Not sure. I just know it’ll be away from here.” I follow Porter out of the art department. “Quick detour to grab my keys.”

  I stand at his office door waiting for him. “Should I go clock out?”

  “No need.”

  I watch the door that connects the offices to the warehouse, hoping and praying my dad doesn’t come through it and catch me leaving the brewery with Porter. Doesn’t matter if I’m twenty-one and a college graduate or not. That would not go over well with him. He’s already made that much clear.

  Porter stops at Molly’s office doorway. “Frankie and I are going to step out of the office for a little while.”

  Frankie and I are going to step out of the office for a little while? Shit. Shit. Shit. That sounds suspicious. God, I hope she doesn’t jump to conclusions. Or say anything to my dad.

  The heat is nearly suffocating as soon as we walk out of the brewery. “I bet it’s at least ninety.”

  “If it’s ninety out here then it’ll be a hundred and ninety in my truck.”

  Porter’s monster black Ford pickup is jacked up and blacked out from top to bottom. It’s badass. “This is not what I expected you to drive.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “A luxury car.”

  “Because my other car is a classic Porsche?”

  “I guess.”

  Porter follows me to the passenger door and opens it. I’m talking legit. He opens it for me like a gentleman. Like my dad still does for my mom. Like guys my age don’t do. Or at least the ones I’ve dated.

  I use the running board to less than gracefully climb into the passenger seat. Thank God I’m wearing Chucks and not some kind of heel. “Short people and tall trucks don’t go together.”

  “Guess that means you don’t drive a monster truck?”

  “I drive a Honda.” Porter starts the engine and its rumble matches its badass exterior. “It’s big and loud. I guess men enjoy that—the roar of a big motor.”

  “We like ’em big and loud.”

  “Because size matters?” Now I’m the one making statements with sexual undertones.

  He chuckles. “Can’t lie. Size matters.”

  “I like it, even if I do need a ladder to climb into it.”

  He turns on the radio. “Want the eighties or nineties station?”

  “I’m partial to music from those decades, but I listen to lots of other kinds of music too.”

  “I don’t mind eighties or nineties. Nice change of pace for me.”

  Porter chooses the eighties station on his satellite radio and Toto’s “Africa” is playing. “Like that one?”

  “Love it.”

  He’s quiet as he drives down the road and I keep sneaking peeks at him. “Where are we going?”

  He stares ahead for a moment. “I don’t know.”

  I don’t know Porter well, but I can still recognize that his behavior is odd. “Is everything okay?”

  He grips the wheel. “No, Frankie. Everything is not okay. But I don’t want to talk about it while I’m driving.”

  Shit. Is he unhappy with my work? Is he going to fire me?

  He wouldn’t ask me to leave the brewery just so he could let me go. That doesn’t make sense. Something else must be going on. But what? “I don’t understand what’s happening here.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry.” He takes one hand from the steering wheel and pushes it through his hair from front to back. “Would it be okay if I took you to my condo?”

  Ohhh… he wants sex. I should have been able to figure that one out when he asked me to go riding with him.

  You are so dumb, Frankie.

  Porter is incredibly handsome. I’m sure he could ask a dozen women to go to his condo for sex, and every one of them would probably say yes. But I’m not that way. I don’t fall onto my back and spread my legs for a guy because he’s hot. That doesn’t make me a prude or goody two-shoes. Just means I have standards.

  “I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that I was that kind of girl. I’m not.”

  “No, Frankie. God, no. I don’t want to take you to my house for sex. That’s the last thing on my mind right now. I need to talk to you about something. Something that’s really important to me.”

  “I thought…” Shit. How humiliating. I want to melt and soak into the leather seat beneath me. “I’m terribly sorry. You can take me to your house if you’d like.”

  I’m too embarrassed to utter another word so music is the only noise in the cab of Porter’s truck during the rest of the drive. I’m grateful for the noise. It takes away from the awkward silence.

  We park and I follow Porter through the lower-level parking lot to an elevator. Silence all the way until we’re inside his condo. “Want something to drink?”

  It’s a hot June day in Alabama. It’s so hot that you almost need an IV to stay hydrated. “I’d take some water.”

  One look and I learn two things about Porter: he’s clean and organized. His gray living room’s decor is minimal with streamline furnishings. And spotless. Everything has its place.

  “I like your condo. Have you been here long?�
�

  “Two years.”

  I bet the cost of living in this area is astronomical. “The area is great. You have so many nearby dining and entertainment options. That must be nice.”

  “One of the reasons I chose this place.”

  Porter hands a bottled water to me before sitting in the chair beside the sofa. “I’m sure you must think I’m acting crazy.”

  “I wouldn’t say crazy. Maybe a little… unusual?”

  He twists the top off his bottled water and drinks close to half. “I know we don’t know each other well, but you’re the first person who came to mind when I recently got some bad news.”

  I have no idea what that means. “What’s on your mind?”

  “My mom was just diagnosed with breast cancer.”

  Oh. I get it now—why he asked me here to talk. “I’m sorry to hear that. Did your mom say what stage she has?”

  “One B?”

  “Did she explain the stages and what they mean?”

  “No. She’s so shaken that I’m not sure she’s had time to absorb anything about the stages or treatments.”

  That’s understandable. “One B is early breast cancer. The tumor is on the smaller side and has only spread to a few lymph nodes. The five-year survival rate is really high.”

  “So 1B is a good one to have? I mean, as good as it can be with cancer?”

  “As far as cancer goes, there are definitely worse stages.”

  The lines in Porter’s face ease. “Was your mom’s bad?”

  “She had 2A. It’s a little more advanced than 1B. The five-year survival rate for her kind is around 93 percent.”

  “And my mom’s kind is higher than that?”

  “Oh, definitely. I’m not positive, but I think they may even predict it to be 100 percent.”

  Porter’s face almost completely relaxes.

  Surgery. Radiation. Chemo. Side effects. Expectations. I tell Porter everything I know about breast cancer and its treatments. I answer his hundred and one questions, but more importantly I tell him what to expect as his mother undergoes treatment—the important stuff no one tells you.

  “Where does your mother live?”

  “Mobile.”

  “Is that where you grew up?”