She wound her arms around her purse and sat up straight. If only she could leave.
But she wouldn’t know what to tell Mr. Houseman. She had already promised him she
was going to help.
She moved her seat closer to the empty chair, but as soon as she had, the man in the
bomber jacket returned. Without Slug. And he’d spotted the empty seat.
Nothing she could do now. She scooted her chair back to its original position and
closed her eyes.
Take deep breaths. Take deep breaths.
With her next inhalation, her senses were filled with the most heavenly fragrance.
Spicy and aromatic.
She opened her eyes to find the striking stranger sitting next to her. She turned
to look at the table behind her.
The hostess closed the door. April was simply going to have to make the best of the
situation. For now. Maybe later she could somehow wiggle her way over to the Lilly
Pulitzer table. April also had an ulterior motive to help with the fundraiser. This
was going to be her magic ticket into the Summerbrook Ladies League—something she’d
always wanted—and something her mother had always wanted for her.
Her best friend, Jenna, had automatically joined the league years ago with all the
other young debutants in town. Right after the big ball. April wanted to be a part
of it—all the cookbook committees, the parties, and the fashion shows. She and her
BFF would do them all together. If only she could get in. But she wasn’t a debutant
and her family didn’t have the pedigree that Jenna’s did. Jenna didn’t care, though.
Never had cared that April had her…past, and she loved Jenna for that. It wasn’t going
to be so easy, however, for April to enter the cliquish league.
Mr. Morrow, president of the Summerbrook Civic Club, tapped a butter knife on the
wooden lectern at the front of the room. “Thank you all for coming tonight. I guess
you know why we’re here.”
She heard some stirring, and she caught a glimpse of a woman near the lectern nodding,
but April didn’t move. She stared ahead and hoped to blend in with the others at her
table. But how her pleats and pearls were going to fit in with all the rivets and
leather she didn’t know exactly.
Mr. Morrow looked down. “When Ben Evans’s grandfather came to me and told me about
Ben’s leukemia and his medical bills at the Children’s Hospital, I knew that all the
Summerbrook civic organizations had to get involved in a big way. We’re all going
to work together like we haven’t before.”
The handsome biker with the blue eyes and hard, angular jawline leaned in his chair
and closed the space between them. She clutched her purse even tighter to minimize
her presence at the table. She turned her attention back to Mr. Morrow.
“We’re all going to undertake multiple projects as quickly as we can for Ben. Those
medical bills aren’t going away after only one fundraiser. Each table or team will
choose a date for their event and the type of project they want to sponsor,” Mr. Morrow
explained.
When Mr. Morrow finished, an old, woolly-bearded man in leather chaps stood up. “Jim,
most of you know that Ben is my grandson. Oh, for those of you who don’t know, I’m
Patch Evans.”
She’d had no idea who the man was—even though she knew Ben’s family well. Ben’s dad,
Purvis Evans, had recently been laid off at the local car dealership, and his mom
worked at April’s bank as a teller. She wouldn’t have guessed that Ben had motorcycle
riders in his background. Not that that was bad or anything. It’s just that people
in small Southern towns usually shared similar interests with their family members.
Families were tightly woven units below the Mason-Dixon. Take a family who likes country
club living…well, they all usually belong to the club. Take a family who likes NASCAR,
well, mostly they’re hanging out together at the local racetrack.
She broke away from her thoughts when the old man choked out a few more words. “My
family is terribly grateful for all your help.”
The lean bomber-jacket guy beside her moved again in his seat and looked into his
lap. She was careful not to let him see her glancing at him from the corner of her
eye. All the emotion in the room and at her table caught her off guard. Maybe that
was why she was so…so…twitchy.
“No problem, Patch.” Mr. Morrow checked his watch. “In about an hour, we’ll stop and
discuss what each team has decided. In the meantime, I’ll walk around and make sure
we’re talking about different dates for each of the events.” He turned as the door
behind him opened. “Betsy here will take your drink orders if anyone’s thirsty. Her
sweet tea is so good, you’ll think your tongue will slap your brains out.”
Betsy smiled hugely at the compliment. She didn’t seem to mind the crevice between
her teeth. Or the unusual expression of praise. April wished she could be less uptight—like
Betsy. But April worried about most everything, a trait she grew up recoiling from
because of her own overprotective mother. And old-fashioned grandmother.
Betsy leaned over to take a drink order from the table beside her and April saw something
Betsy would have minded. She had a small split in the seam of her trousers. April’s
heart ached for her. Gapped teeth
and
pants.
Chairs grated on the tile floor as people settled down in their groups to talk. April
glanced at the table to her left. No room to move her chair. She peered at the table
behind her. If she turned her seat around, it would look bad. She eyed the door. But
she couldn’t leave. For so many reasons.
At her table, a middle-aged man with a red bandana said, “How ’bout I start. I got
some ideas you guys might like. Oh, excuse me. And ladies. I’m Crank Allman, by the
way.”
What kind of ideas did these people have? Coming up with names like Crank and Patch—not
to mention Slug. In all her twenty-six years, she’d never heard of so many odd monikers
in one place. At one table. Whatever happened to names like Bill and Bob?
She twirled the pearl ring on her left hand and noticed how much it looked like a
wedding band when the pearl was on the palm side, so she left it that way. Wouldn’t
hurt if anyone there thought she was married.
“I’m gonna need me a secretary, though.” Crank paused. “How ’bout you?”
She didn’t look up. He couldn’t possibly be talking to her. She was planning to move
her chair to the sweater-and-pearls table as soon as it wouldn’t look so obvious.
These people probably didn’t want her in their group anyway. She was merely waiting
for the right moment to oblige.
The bomber-jacket guy next to her reached for her arm. “I think he’s talking to you.”
She startled at his touch. His strong hand was warm and almost electric. She tried
to smile. “I don’t know that I’ll be here that much longer. Maybe someone else should
volunteer.”
“I’ll take over if she has to leave early,” said the blue-eyed man sitting next to
her. He smiled and handsome lines formed parentheses on each side of his mouth. The
angles of his jawline and his perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth made him look
like a male model in one of those Armani suit ads. Without the suit, of course. “The
two of us can share being secretary.”
He had to be kidding. She tried to hide the concern from showing in her face. There
wasn’t a pig’s chance at the Miss Summerbrook Fire Queen Pageant she was going to
stick around—not with the cookbook clan merely feet away. She didn’t know a single
one of the people at her table. But she couldn’t let on to them right now that she
was uneasy. And had a completely different agenda. She had to go along for the time
being.
Think, girl, think.
There had to be a discreet way out of this. If there was, she was going to figure
it out. She always did.
Crank tossed a spiral notebook onto the table. “You each need to write down your name,
address, and phone number so our secretary—excuse me—
secretaries
can keep a record in case we need you for something before our next meeting.” When
the good-looking man beside her received the list, she watched as he wrote, “Bull
Clayton.”
Bull? The Ladies League gals would have boyfriends and husbands named Preston and
Tillman and Hamilton. There was just no end to the crazy things bikers called themselves.
Bull looked nothing like a thick male bovine as his name implied. A svelte stallion,
maybe. When he finished writing his phone number, he pushed the notebook in front
of her.
She couldn’t write her address and phone number in there. Who knew where that list
would end up? And even though nothing would probably come of jotting down her number,
she didn’t need to take the chance. In fact, she’d been the one at her agency to order
and distribute the pamphlets on personal safety last month. Single women living alone
shouldn’t advertise their addresses and phone numbers. That was rule number one. At
least the accident had had one positive effect—steering her toward a suitable career—a
career at which she excelled in being careful.
She glanced up at Bull, who still had his arm extended and hand on the spiral notebook.
A feeling of fireflies fluttering in her lower tummy warmed her in a way she’d never
experienced. Her body wasn’t being careful at all.
This was all too difficult to absorb and she felt a twinge deep inside her head. Oh,
no. Another of her stupid headaches was trying to settle in. The whole evening had
been filled with tension. Of course, a migraine would follow.
She closed her eyes. The flashes of light came first, and then the old crash came
rushing back. The screams. The sirens. The fire.
She opened her eyes and shook her head. If only she could erase what the Rebels had
done. But that was impossible.
There had to be a way for her to deal with this problem. All she had to do was analyze
it and sort it out. That might be hard to do at the table; however, all the bikers
were busily talking to one another and weren’t paying any attention to her. Thank
goodness.
Just then Betsy walked toward her. April took off her sweater, whispered in Betsy’s
ear, and wrapped the sweater around Betsy’s waist. She gave April the most beautiful
smile ever.
Great. The bikers were still debating something. No one had seen.
Her phone vibrated. Jenna. With the phone in her lap and hidden by the table, April
texted back.
Can’t talk now.
April’s head tensed more. Another text from Jenna.
What’s wrong?
April took another deep breath, trying to compose herself, trying to keep the headache
away.
Long story. I’ll call when I’m out of here.
She really needed to pay more attention to what was going on at the table. Lucky for
her, she was off their radar. Her cell vibrated again.
Out of where? I thought you were at league thing with the girls.
She wasn’t going to get rid of Jenna without an explanation so she texted where she
was and what had happened.
…but this guy named Bull helped me out, so I’m okay.
April sucked in a deep breath. Little lights twinkled in her vision from the headache
that was trying to get a foothold in her brain.
Maybe answering Jenna’s text wasn’t such a good idea. She had a tendency to be overly
alarmist. And obviously April had a tendency to be overly stupid for telling Jenna
anything. No imagining what she was going to do.
Maybe April should just leave. But what if Slug was still out there? He hadn’t come
back to the banquet room, and his motorcycle had been parked beside her car. By now,
he could have rounded up all his friends from the other corners of the restaurant.
She had to be reasonable, though. He shouldn’t be upset at her because
he
hadn’t fixed his own kickstand.
There was another problem with leaving, as well. What would she tell Mr. Houseman?
And Ben? She couldn’t face letting him slip away. Then there was the league. Too much
was at stake.
Whatever it takes
.
No matter what, she was going to stay. Tonight. She could always call Mr. Morrow next
week and ask to be reassigned to another group—even if it wasn’t the league ladies—as
long as she did something to help Ben. Bull pushed the notebook back in front of her.
She stole another look at the handsome man.
Humph
. Nothing like Bull had ever ridden into Summerbrook before.
She needed to get her mind on the work at hand, though. As she read some of his words,
she became confused.
With finality in his voice, Crank said, “So, the weekend of April 28
th
is the best date.”
Curiosity got the best of her. It sounded like they were planning to do something
big the weekend of her birthday. She raised her hand again. “Excuse me.” She cleared
her throat. “What exactly are you doing, and what does ‘Bikers for Ben’ and ‘Ride
for a Reason’ mean?”
Crank said, “Well, we decided that we’d do a charity bike ride, gettin’ sponsors to
donate money for each mile we ride from Summerbrook to the Charleston Battery and
then on to the Children’s Hospital.”
She lowered her head and tapped her pencil. In a low voice she said, “What about a
bake sale or a charity auction or something?”
A burley man with a handlebar mustache and muttonchops spoke up after everyone chuckled.
“We don’t know nothin’ ’bout no bakin’ or no auctionin’. All’s we know is bikes.”
Bull had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and she could see muscular
definition in his forearms. Was he ever fit. “What Chops means is that rides are what
we know best to raise money. We’ve done it before. It’s what we do well.” He smiled
that same Hollywood smile that she’d noticed before—the one that kept taking her off
guard.
He moved his arms forward on the table and she saw a piece of a tattoo, but as quickly
as she saw it, he tugged at his shirt and it disappeared under his sleeve again.