Simple Gone South (Crimson Romance) (7 page)

Finally, she said simply, “I don’t have a Jasmine outfit.”

“Too bad. I bet we can get you one from eBay. Where’s your computer?” He looked around the room.

“As much as I would like to peruse eBay with you for fantasy attire, I have somewhere I have to be.” After all, she didn’t have to say where. She didn’t have to justify herself for leaving town. She held up her boat bag as proof that she was leaving.

“Do you?” He took the bag from her. He didn’t grab it or wretch it from her hand; he hadn’t had to. She had stupidly held it out. “Since you are ill prepared for the Jasmine and master game, let’s play a different one. It’s called ‘Brantley looks at what Lucy’s packed and guesses what she’s up to.’”

“No, I don’t think—” She reached for the bag. “That’s my property and you have no right.”

“Wait, wait. No.” He drew the bag away from her grasp. “If I don’t win right away, I’ll let you be on your way. And it is your property. I’ll give you that. But it is also evidence to prove that you are lying to me. Because unless I miss my guess—” He opened the bag and looked in. “Lucy Mead! What a mess! Some people live in a mess. They do. But the order in this house does not match up with the mess in this bag.”

“I am messy. I’m a huge mess. All the time. Just look at my hair. This house is only orderly because the maid was here yesterday.” In case he asked, what could her maid be named? Thelma Lou. Yeah.

“Now let’s see.” He reached in the bag. “Hmmm . . . blue jeans.” He held them up. “And a red shirt.” To her horror, he plucked out of the bag not the simple red sweater she thought she’d reached for, but the silk beaded top she’d bought last week to wear with black velvet pants to the Flower Guild Christmas party. Shit. “The question is, are you going to a tractor pull?” He held up the jeans and then the top. “Or the opera? Or maybe the Junior League is having a combined tractor pull and opera for a fundraiser.” He laughed. “If not, you should suggest it. I’d pay money to see that.”

“I packed in a hurry and made a mistake.” She held her head high.

“Clearly. Let’s see what else there is.”

“Brantley—”

“Four pairs of white socks and a thong.” He held up the red lacy wisp of elastic and satin. She expected him to make a comment about the thong but he said instead, “Lucy Mead, how many feet do you have?”

She folded her arms over her chest and said nothing.

“Let’s see what else. Empty cosmetic bag and a landfill of health and beauty aides. Big bottle of shampoo. I usually like a small one for a one-thong adventure. Eyeliner, sparkle lotion, and two lipsticks—Kiss Pink and Brandy Wine. I don’t see any mascara and I know what store women set by their mascara—at least women with eyes as big and brown as yours. I don’t see any deodorant, nightclothes, or a comb. No phone charger, though you could have one of those in your car. Less likely for the nightie and deodorant. Now some people like to sleep naked and enjoy their own personal musk but I just don’t see it for you, Lucy Mead.”

Plainly, he was pushing her and he didn’t care who knew it. But even in the face of all this, his charm was coming through, broadcasting like Times Square on New Years Eve night. She needed a weapon and anger was the only one handy.

She went there. Easily.

“You don’t know anything about me.” She had been itching to say that for years. It felt good—so good!

“I know you don’t call me back—and I know I will win this game. Because I know where you’re going.”

“Where?”

“Nowhere—or at least you weren’t going anywhere until thirty seconds after you got my stalker voicemail this morning. What I am thinking is you listened to my message, jumped up, and put on the first thing you laid your hands on. I’ll bet your bed isn’t made and I don’t smell coffee. Disappointing, that. I could use some. A doughnut wouldn’t be amiss, either. I’m hungry. I’ve been awake for a while. “

“You didn’t have to be. You could be in your bed right now.”

“Don’t distract me by making me think about beds. After dressing, you packed this orderly, sensible bag for your orderly, planned trip.” He went and sat on the sofa. “When I pack, I like a tidy bag and a list helps that happen. I don’t strike you as a list maker, do I? Well, I am. That’s why I was named Young Historical Architect of the Year last year. People give me a chance because I’m funny and likable, but they trust me because I give good results—
superior
results. Funny and likable does not get results. Smart and detail oriented does—which I am. Plus, I’ve got that list-making thing going for me. If there were an award for Packer of the Year—or of the decade even, I would win that award too.

“Lucy Mead, you would not. I could help you out with that, though. It all goes back to the list. For my list making, I like an old fashioned DayRunner. I tried a PDA for a while but it’s just not the same. And then there’s the iPhone, the Swiss Army knife of communication and organization. Trouble is, there are no margins for doodling. I get some of my best ideas doodling. Besides, I like the satisfaction of a good pen on real paper. DayRunner refills are not as easy to find as they used to be, but I manage. I already have mine for the new year. Melba knows just where to get them. I’ll get her to get you some.”

“I don’t want—” What didn’t she want? A DayRunner? Him here? For him to continue this maddening, witty, bossy banter?

To want him? She hesitated and it cost her.

“Back to the list,” he interrupted. “See, you have a master basic packing list for things you always need when you travel, like toothpaste and phone charger. Then there is a variable section for things like ski jackets and swimsuits. For instance, if we were making a list for you to visit me on Halloween, we would include things like thongs and deodorant in the basic list. In the variables, we’d have your Jasmine suit. If you were so minded, you might also write, ‘Bring Brantley some real barbecue because God knows they don’t have any anywhere but Merritt.’”

Her mouth was dry, arid even. “I am not coming to visit you for Halloween and I already told you I don’t have a Jasmine suit.”

He ran his hands through his silky thick hair. She wished she didn’t remember what it felt like. “There could be an alternative.” He held up her red thong and beaded top. “These might make an attractive ensemble. If you’d like to put them on so I can help you evaluate, I don’t mind.”

She had thought she’d been angry before. That wasn’t anger compared to what she was feeling now; that had been yoga and a massage all rolled into one. All of a sudden, she knew she was going to say everything that had drifted through her mind and heart since she was fifteen years old. It was going to feel good, better than good. It was going to be like lying naked on a mink blanket. And when she was done, he’d walk out of her house and she’d never hear from him or lay eyes on him again. Good. She wished she was sitting so she could jump to her feet for dramatic effect. During her time as Richie Sambora she’d learned a thing or two about drama. But she’d have to settle for moving in front of him and looking down at him, menacing. Oh, yeah. She could be menacing with the best of them. Dennis, even.

“Listen, here, Mr. Young Architect of the Year. I’ve got some things to say to you and you might want to get your DayRunner out and make a list of it. Number one. I don’t have a Jasmine costume. I am not going to get a Jasmine costume. And while I’m at it, you might as well know Jasmine was not a harem girl. Disney does not make movies about harem girls.” Brantley Kincaid had the audacity to smile, which was like gasoline on a fire. “Number two.” She held up two fingers. “Who do you think you are? You might be the Golden Boy of Merritt, Alabama, and the Prince of Green Hills, Nashville, Tennessee. You might be able to talk somebody out of a silver fork and into carving pumpkins, but you are not going to boss me around. You also might as well know that between my parents moving around from this university to that, and hauling me off to Timbuktu every time I turned around, I’ve lived in about a thousand places. And, Brantley, never, never have I ever heard of a florist who carves Jack-O-Lanterns. I looked it up on the Internet. Florists don’t do that!”

“They did for me.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Of course, they did! That’s my point. You are in charge of your world. People let you be in charge of them. But you are not in charge of me and I don’t ever have to call you back.”

“You’ve proven that well enough. But about that list where you are laying down the law to me. I’m pretty sure you’ve named about eight things, not two,” Brantley said. “That list making class needs to be sooner rather than later.”

“I’m not done with two yet!” Oh, what a maddening man. “You can’t tell me what to do. I am not some kid you can bribe with a choice of M&Ms and a full size Snickers. I am not your assistant, your housekeeper, your grandmother, or Missy—or any of the other ten thousand women who are just waiting around to try to please you. Most of all, I am not Rita May Sanderson.”

“Yeah.” He folded his arms over his chest. “I can tell that by the way you are not throwing objects at me.”

“What?” He opened his mouth to answer but she carried on. “Never mind. Also, you can’t just—”
Waltz in here and break my heart again!

“What number are we on?” he asked and grinned like the devil he was.

She hated him! “Shut up. And isn’t it about time for you to get back together with Rita May?”

“I am not getting back with Rita May. I am done.”

“You have said that before.”

“Never. Never have I said that. I have said before we were broken up, and who knew what the hell was going to happen. Well, this time I know what the hell is going to happen.
Nothing
is what is going to happen where Rita May Sanderson, otherwise known as Tradd Ellis Davenport, is concerned. She threw one taco too many. So if that’s what all the not calling back is about—”

“It’s not. You should just get in your vehicle and take yourself back to Nashville.”

He stood and gave her a long slow smile. “I’m not going back to Nashville.”

“Well, you can’t be here. Until you do, go to your dad’s. Or Miss Caroline’s, or Missy’s. Hell, go check yourself and that dog into the dog pound for all I care.”

He held his hands out and gestured to the space around him. “Oh, Lucy Mead. You really don’t understand. I am
here
. I am back.”

Chapter Five

“Back?” Lucy sat down on the saddle ottoman and immediately regretted it. Brantley towered over her, even after he sat back down. “What do you mean by
back
?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. I am here. I am moving into Big Mama’s carriage house. Today.”

“Wha—” She never stuttered. Or never used to. It couldn’t be true, not just when she had begun to get herself together from last time.
But had she? Begun to get herself together? Surely. It had been fourteen years.

Logic. That’s what she needed, so she asked a logical question that would make what he was saying not true, make him admit he was lying. “What about your business?”

He folded his arms over his chest. “My business is here now.
Right
here.”

What did that even mean? And if he really was staying in Merritt, how could she not know this? Why didn’t Missy tell her?

“Does Missy know this?”

“No one knows, not even my family. See, Lucy, after I decide something, I just get on with it. So, let’s you and me go down to the diner. I’ll buy you some breakfast and we’ll talk about it.”

“We don’t have anything to talk about, Brantley. And I don’t want any breakfast.” Her stomach growled. Audibly.

He raised an eyebrow. “Not hungry, huh?”

“No.” She crossed her legs. “I am not.”

“Well, I am. I’m starving. You could sit with me while I eat, just sit there and let me look at your pretty self. My attempts to court you through telecommunications have failed miserably so I am here to do it in person.”

A ragged breath tore through her. She closed her eyes. He was kidding her, had to be. He was acting like he didn’t remember that night in Savannah, when she had been so willing to give herself to him and he’d seemed so willing for her to, but at the last minute climbed out of her dorm room bed and ran. Humiliation of that level didn’t come along every day. She took a deep breath. And then another.

“Brantley, I am not going to breakfast with you. Besides, I don’t believe you are moving here. There’s nothing for you here. Your business is in Nashville . . . your house—”

“My business is wherever I say it is,” he said glibly. “I am closing my office down for now. I have put my townhouse on the market. I don’t know what I’ll do when the job here is finished, but until then—”

Job here?
Oh, God. No, it couldn’t be. Yet, it was so obvious. Why had she not seen it coming? Still, she had to ask, had to be sure.

“What job here?”

“The Brantley Building, of course. Same job you agreed to.”

Agreed?
That was putting it lightly. She had jumped. She had practically kissed Miss Caroline’s feet. She would have danced in the street, if she’d been a different person. She’d done everything but ask enough important questions.

“I cannot take the job now, for obvious reasons.”

“Obvious? Like you are obviously not hungry? What would those reasons be, Lucy Mead?”

Hell and double hell! Had she invented Savannah? Or had it meant so little to him that he didn’t even remember?

“We’re friends,” she said, though it wasn’t entirely true. “We’re in the same social circle. I cannot work for you.”

“For
me
?” He let out that golden boy laugh that had rung out on golf courses and at fraternity parties and debutante balls all over the south. “If you think you will be working for me, you don’t know much about Caroline Hurst Brantley. No. You will be working for
her
. And so will I. Miss Caroline rules these parts. She wants me. And she wants you. If you have decided you are not going to do this and plan to sashay over there and tell her so, good luck and by all means, take me with you. I could use a lesson.” He patted his knee and made kissing sounds at Eller, who jumped into his lap and looked at him adoringly. Of course; the story of his life.

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