Wyatt tried to shake the image of Sutton Mize standing in the barn, her back straight, her tears dried up, her strength of spirit palpable. Despite the fact she’d been dicked over by both her fiancé and her best friend, she would come out the other side shrouded in the same quiet grace. Any other woman of his acquaintance would be either wailing or loading her shotgun.
But not Sutton. No, she had gathered her dignity around her and accepted the small amount of help he was glad to offer. If she’d asked him to drive to the Tarwater and Tarwater law offices and punch Andrew, his only question would have been face or balls.
The garage was busy. Willa was in the pit under the car she had been assigned to work. Jackson was right outside the bay door talking to their Aunt Hazel. She gestured to the twenty-year-old Crown Victoria she shared with her twin sister, Hyacinth. The thing drove like new, mainly because they brought it in at least weekly for a once-over.
Mack had abandoned his invoicing and was examining an old-school Charger that was still up on the bed of a tow truck. A beauty, but a badly damaged one. She might only be good for parts, but Wyatt might be able to fix her. Already moving on from the loss of the Camaro, he itched to get under the hood.
The garage might have a harder time recovering and moving on, though. Tarwater’s Camaro was supposed to provide the jumpstart into Mississippi they needed. Dread circled his stomach at the thought of telling Mack. His brother had broad shoulders, but he was showing signs of strain.
He refocused himself on the task at hand: getting rid of Sutton’s ex-bestie without letting the ungentlemanly words lurking at the back of his throat escape. He opened the waiting room door. The woman stopped mid-pace and pivoted to face him.
A cross between impatience and annoyance marred an otherwise pretty face framed by chocolatey brown hair, stick straight and lustrous looking. She popped a hip and drummed her blood-red tipped fingers on crossed arms. The general impression was one of elegance, but the vibe she gave off was animalistic with sexual overtones. A predator. If a man enjoyed his women with claws—metaphorical and otherwise—she was your dream girl.
“Where’s Sutton? I’ve texted her a half dozen times. I have cases up today.”
“Wyatt Abbott, mechanic extraordinaire.” He forced a smile with as much charm as he could muster to throw her off her game.
She sized him up from head to work boots with a gaze he imagined made lesser men quake. Or confess. When it became clear he wasn’t offering up any more information, she made a huffy sound. “Bree Randall, Cottonbloom, Mississippi, city counsel. Where is Sutton?” The last three words came out in a slow, clipped voice as if she assumed his grasp on the English language was tenuous.
“Things are more complicated than we originally discussed. You can head on, and I’ll give Sutton a ride over the river once things are settled.”
“She should cut bait and not spend the money. Last I heard Andrew was thinking about selling the Camaro anyway.” Over the entitlement in her tone and manner was a confident aura that she was always in the right.
If he wasn’t already inclined to dislike her, her attitude cinched it, especially given her fishing analogy and the country accent she hadn’t quite been able to shake. His brother Ford carried himself in a similar fashion, and it incited annoyance like a swarm of no-see-ums.
“Restorations generally increase a car’s value.” The line was a standard sales pitch, but also true. The Abbotts’ reputation had been earned through honest dealings.
“I want to see her.” She stepped toward the door and waved a hand, shooing him aside.
He planted a shoulder into the jamb and blocked the way. “She’s busy.”
Shadows passed over her face at his terse answer, but he couldn’t discern the cause. Did she suspect that Sutton knew? Did she regret hurting a friend, or was she more worried about getting caught? Whatever the cause, she avoided his eyes while she retrieved her purse and hiked it over her shoulder.
“Fine. Tell Sutton to check her phone.” It was a demand, not a request.
Wyatt didn’t respond except to step out of the way and toe the door open. He followed close behind, herding her toward her BMW coupe. Her car was all looks with nothing of substance under the hood. BMWs were notoriously high maintenance.
Still chatting with the tow truck operator, Mack sent him a curious look. Wyatt dropped his gaze, wanting to put off adding to Mack’s stress for as long as possible.
Bree hesitated at her bumper, fiddling with her key fob. “You sure she doesn’t need my help?”
“You’ve helped enough, don’t you think?” This time he didn’t bother with a customer service smile.
Bree’s eyes flared then narrowed on him. She bit her bottom lip as if questions or more demands hovered, but instead she slid into the BMW without a word, the tinted windows offering camouflage. She spun out of the parking area and onto the two-lane parish road. He stared until she was out of sight.
His aunt Hazel grabbed his sleeve as he stepped back into the shop. Her twin sister, Hyacinth, wouldn’t be far away. Wyatt and Jackson were the latest in a long line of Abbott fraternal twins. Every generation had at least one set, sometimes two, and according to family lore, none had ever married. Wyatt and Jackson had found this more amusing than disturbing over the years, joking that they were destined for a set of bunk beds in the old folks’ home.
Aunt Hazel’s classic beauty was still visible under the sagging skin, wrinkles, and white fluffy hair. But her storybook, kindly grandmother appearance belied the intimidating fire that burned in her soul. Although she was smaller in stature and not as bombastic as her twin, she commanded a room. When she spoke, people listened.
She had more in common, personality-wise, with Jackson, which was maybe the reason Wyatt and his aunt Hazel had always had an undeniable bond. Just like Jackson could see behind his smiles, Hazel had always known when something was troubling him. She wasn’t the giver of hugs—that fell to Hyacinth—she was the giver of wisdom, and the person Wyatt had turned to time and again in his youth seeking the guidance of a mother figure.
Hazel shared the same color eyes as her younger brother, his pop. In them, he found the comfort of the familiar, but also the pang of loss. Wyatt leaned down to give her a hug and kissed her cheek, even though she tensed at the demonstration. Her floral perfume shot him back twenty-five years, and he tightened his hold on her for an instant.
“Something wrong with the car?” he asked.
“A funny rattle under the hood. Jackson is taking a look-see.”
Since his pop’s death, the aunts had brought the car in at least once a week complaining of phantom noises. The brothers knew they were using the car as an excuse to check in on them, and the aunts knew that they knew. But they all continued to play along for reasons that involved pride and stoicism.
“Sounds like Jackson has you covered. I need to skedaddle.” He thumbed over his shoulder and took a step back. “Customer service issue.”
Hazel was too perceptive where he was concerned, and he made an escape before her puzzlement manifested into questions he didn’t want to answer. Jackson popped up from the side of their aunts’ car and stopped him with a wrench held out like the arm at a train crossing.
“Hold up. You haven’t kidnapped Sutton Mize, have you?”
“Kidnapped? What kind of man do you think I am?”
“The kind to make googly-eyes at a taken woman. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
“It’s not like that.”
“She’s engaged to Tarwater.”
“She was. Is.” The back of his neck crawled and his eyebrow twitched, the omission treading too close to a lie. Normally, confiding in Jackson was a given, but this wasn’t his secret to share. Anyway, he didn’t know what she planned on doing. She wouldn’t be the first woman to forgive a cheater. “I’m running her back to her place. That’s all there is to it.”
“What about Tarwater’s car? You want me to put Willa on it?”
“Naw. Let it sit ’til I get back.” He would buy a six-pack on the way home and break the news to his brothers that afternoon. Maybe by then he’d have thought of some way to mitigate the loss.
Jackson’s hazel eyes—Abbott eyes, they were called—bored into him with the intensity of a laser-guided missile. “Is everything okay?”
Wyatt heard the undertones. Are you okay? was what his brother was really asking. “I’m fine, but…” He glanced toward the back wall and the barn beyond. “Cover for me, would you? I’ll fill you in later.”
Jackson turned back to his work without another question, and Wyatt gave him a pat on the shoulder on his way by.
Not sure what he’d find in the barn—women were unpredictable creatures, and Sutton seemed more complicated than most—he shuffled through the door. Between the dust and pollen worked into the grooves of the wood floor and the thrift store couch, any damage she could inflict in a fit of rage might be an improvement.
Instead of a woman who planned to set shit on fire, she appeared serene, standing at the back of the barn, sipping her Coke, and staring toward the woods that spanned all the way to the horizon. The same stance he’d found himself in more often of late.
Memories of summers long gone echoed through the woods. The brothers had taken care of each other while their pop had toiled away building the business. Leaving four boys to their own devices had led to a few broken bones and near-death experiences in the tops of trees or on the river, but they’d survived and even thrived. He missed the simplicity of those days.
“Hey,” he said softly.
She spun and he was struck anew at the complexity of her eyes, both in color and feeling. “I feel like I could walk into the woods and come out two hundred years ago.”
He understood exactly what she meant. The woods were a magical place where past and present collided and sadness and hope warred. Although the peace he’d once gained from the view had turned to an unexplainable restlessness.
“You’d sorely miss indoor plumbing.” His reward was a lightning quick quirk of her lips. He propped a shoulder against the opposite side of the wide barn door. “I often think about my ancestors walking these woods. Same trees, same river.”
She made a noise that struck him as polite interest.
“I sent Bree on her way,” he said.
His words broke her trance with the woods. Her color heightened and her body tensed. She shifted and leaned her back against the jamb as if needing the physical support. “Was she suspicious?”
“I think so. Wanted to know why you weren’t returning her texts.”
“I turned off my phone. I can’t—” Her voice cracked.
“I get it. Just letting you know that a reckoning is coming sooner rather than later, so you’ll have to decide how to play it.”
“What play do I have except to face it head-on?”
He picked at the grease under one of his fingernails and looked at her from under his lashes. “You could forgive him. Extract promises it will never happen again. Maybe you’d be happy.”
“Puh-lease. I may be gullible, but I have a healthy dose of self-respect.” At her declaration, relief calmed the whoosh of his heart. She deserved someone better than Tarwater, but he hadn’t been sure she realized it too.
She rubbed her forehead and gave a breathy, ironic sounding laugh. “You know what’s weird? I’m more upset about Bree than Andrew.”
“Not weird.” But it was surprising.
“Bree has been my best friend since before I can remember. I thought we had each other’s backs.”
Wyatt didn’t have a best friend aside from his family, and he couldn’t imagine one of them screwing him over. Except for Ford. Screwing Wyatt over had been Ford’s favorite pastime as a kid.
Her eyes were dry, but she looked exhausted and wrung out. He side-stepped to the stairs leading up to the barn loft. “Let me change, and I’ll run you over the river.”
She straightened and brushed her hands down her skirt, twisting her neck to see up the stairs. “You live here?”
“Jackson and I converted the loft into an apartment of sorts.” He gestured impulsively. “Wanna see?”
“I’d love to.” A portion of the strain around her eyes and mouth eased. If it made her feel better, he would be happy to provide a distraction.
She preceded him up the stairs and the sway of her hips halted his mental inventory about how messy he’d left the loft that morning.
She opened the door at the top and stepped tentatively over the threshold as if a trap might spring at any moment. A puff of cool air greeted them. A couple of lamps flanked the couch in the living space, but turning them on was unnecessary. Sunshine poured through skylights. His bedroom was in the left corner, Jackson’s in the right. His open door showcased an unmade king-sized bed against the far wall.
Two windows were taken up with the air conditioners, but the rest could be opened if the weather was nice. His favorite nights were in the fall when he could stare up at the stars, throw the windows open, and fall asleep to the crescendoing call of the cicadas.
A small kitchen with the bare essentials was along one wall, but neither Wyatt nor Jackson cooked anything more complicated than mac and cheese or canned soup, preferring to head over to the old family house beside the garage to mooch dinner with Mack. But amid the chaos of the garage, the loft was a fortress of solitude.
“This is lovely.” She shuffled farther into the room and did a turn that billowed her skirt out from her legs. “Did you renovate it by yourself?”
He followed her as she made a slow circle around the room, her heels tapping hollowly against the dark wood planking. “For the most part. The advantage of being related to half the parish means that I have plenty of people to call on if I need help. Of course, the disadvantage is my dating pool is drastically smaller. Unless I aspire to become a redneck joke.”
His weak attempt at humor elicited a small smile, and he mentally tallied it as another victory.
“There are Abbotts all over the parish. Are you kin to all of them?”
“A few I won’t claim in public, and a few have jumped the river over to Mississippi, but yes.” Tracing his family tree was an avoidance tactic that wouldn’t work for long, but he understood her need.
She turned and half-sat on the edge of the window. “What’s it like growing up with family all around like that?”
“Annoying.” He couldn’t go anywhere without running into someone he was related to, however distantly. His youthful indiscretions had been public fodder, but on the plus side, he had a phone full of numbers to call if he needed help. “It can be pretty great too.”
“I can imagine it was fun as a kid to always have someone to play with.”
The wistfulness in her voice made him want to offer her a hug. Which would be weird, right? He tucked his hands into his pockets.
“You have a sister though. Is she not around Cottonbloom anymore?”
“How do you remember that?” For the first time since the thong discovery, she turned her complete focus from managing her inward pain and confusion to him. Confessing his childhood crush was a no-go. At his shrug, she continued. “Maggie. A year older, but for some reason, we’ve never been close. When I was looking to buy the boutique, my dad offered me a loan with the stipulation my sister got a stake and a job. It’s been interesting.” Her eye roll was so slight, he almost missed it.
“Family businesses are complicated, huh?”
“The absolute best and worst.” She’d nailed exactly how Wyatt felt about the garage. “You must run into some of that here. You and your brothers can’t always agree.”
He hummed at the understatement. If their disagreements got too heated, it wasn’t uncommon for them to take it out back and settle things the old-fashioned way. More often than not though, the fights ended in laughter. Basically, the Abbotts were a human resources nightmare.
Some might view their methods as immature and unprofessional, but it acted as a release valve to the tension that would otherwise simmer and grow into something far more unmanageable and destructive. The way it had between Ford and Mack.
“I need to change out of my coveralls to run you home.” Dirtying the seats of his car was near sacrilege.
“Oh, right.” She presented her back and stared out the window. It was a pretty view made even prettier with her framed by it.
He retreated to his bedroom. Changing clothes with her on the other side of the thin door took on a strange intimacy, even though there was nothing sexual about it.
He stepped out, barefoot and buckling his belt, and met her gaze in the window reflection. Pinpoints of sunlight brightened and intensified her eyes. The intimacy deepened and stretched into an awareness he couldn’t quantify, as if her reflection distilled truth rather than distorted it—pain and betrayal, but also a tempered strength.
“Time to face up to reality.” She turned, shattering the moment, her voice too high and bright and a blush staining her skin. She didn’t wait for an answer, but swished her way down the stairs.
After pulling on boots, he trailed in her wake, not sure how to explain the urge to protect her or the melancholy sadness that echoed in his chest. The girl who he’d crushed on hard had turned into a woman who inspired a tangle of feelings he couldn’t ignore.
But the reality was, dropping her off at the curb and waving good-bye would see their paths diverge once more. In fact, this incident, including him, was something she’d probably work hard to forget.
* * *
Sutton patted at the inferno raging on her cheeks as she stamped down the steps. Wyatt Abbott unsettled her. Her memories of the boy he’d been didn’t line up with the kindness he’d shown her now. Even as she attempted to stay leery about his motives, she could imagine hanging out with him in his cozy loft or on the couch staring out over the woods for the rest of the day, talking about nothing in particular, but laughing a lot.
Out of the baggy coveralls, he was in better shape than she’d imagined. His jeans were well-worn with a fraying split at one knee, and his T-shirt emphasized arms that were familiar with heavy lifting and hard work. She tried her best not to notice or admire. After all she was technically still engaged.
What was wrong with her? Shock. Obviously, she was in shock and was practicing some weird avoidance technique by noticing another man’s biceps an hour after discovering her fiancé was a cheater.
The longer the situation marinated in her head though, the clearer it became. She was more upset about Bree than Andrew. Certainly, Andrew deserved blame, but it was Bree’s betrayal that prodded her heart with a hot poker, stoking the flash fire of her anger and hurt.
Added to that sickening stew was a feeling of foolishness. Who else knew about Bree and Andrew? In a town as small as Cottonbloom, indiscretions were hard to hide. Even if they had kept things on the down-low and out-of-town as all the restaurant receipts implied, someone knew. Someone always knew.
How long had it been going on? She would check the dates on the receipts she’d stuffed into her purse when she got home, where she’d be free to cry and yell and hit something. Inanimate, of course. She would never go so far as to actually hit someone. Not her style. Her style was to suck it up and move on with a smile. Even if it was fake.
At the bottom of the steps, she stopped one more time in the barn door. If she wasn’t so practical, she might believe magic existed in the deep and endless woods stretching over the rise. But the woods did end. Somewhere out there a road or a farm or a strip mall cut them off. Everything eventually ended.
“Thinking about making a run for it?” A humor that had already become associated with him in her mind lilted the question. Yet, it didn’t sound rhetorical.
“I’m tempted. Does that make me weak?”
“Makes you normal. Ready?”
She followed him around the side of the barn. A half-dozen cars in various states of disrepair were lined up in two rows behind an enormous magnolia tree.
He gestured toward them. “Our car graveyard. They’re cannibalized for parts, then sent to the salvage yard. We try not to keep more than six or eight back here, otherwise it starts to look like we’re running a junkyard.”
They bypassed the graveyard to a low-slung, two-door car painted dark blue with a white pinstripe down the side. She ran her finger over the curve of the car’s roof. A vented bump in the middle of the hood and round headlights gave an impression the car was a living entity patiently waiting for Wyatt to breathe life into it.
“It’s an AMC ’71 Hornet.” He opened the passenger door and gestured her in.
The interior gave both the impression of age and modernity. For some reason, she pictured him driving a truck—maybe white, definitely big and reliable—not a fast car that held an edge of danger.
He joined her and cranked the engine, the low rumble like the car sighing in pleasure. The supple leather of the seat caressed her hand and not the other way around. It was unexpectedly sensuous.
“You restored it?” she asked, for something to fill the space.
“Yep. Dropped a rebuilt V8 engine under her hood and ripped out the interior down to the frame. He patted the dash. “She was a mess when I found her, but look at her now.”
“Gorgeous,” she said and meant it. She understood more about dresses than cars, but she could look at a dress on a hanger and see the potential it held for a client. She imagined cars were similar. “Is this your favorite car ever?”
“It’s my favorite right now.”
“You won’t keep it?”
“Nope. I’ll sell her soon and find another project car to fall in love with.” The dispassionate tone was surprising considering his prideful, doting manner with the car.
“Will it be hard to sell?”
“People are always looking for classics, and top-of-the-line Hornets like this aren’t common. I should turn a tidy profit.”
“I meant, aren’t you attached, you know, emotionally?”
He shot her a half-amused look. “I don’t get emotionally attached to my projects.”
Wyatt drove over the steel-girded bridge that separated Cottonbloom, Louisiana, from Cottonbloom, Mississippi, then pumped his brakes before the turn down River Street. “Where am I going? Your shop or your house?”
She should go into Abigail’s. The weeks leading up to the Junior League gala were busy and one of the most profitable times of the year for the shop. But her sales skills were currently in hibernation. Maggie could handle a day alone. Wyatt was right, she needed to gird herself. The confrontation was like a storm brewing on the near horizon.
“Home.” She gave Wyatt directions.
She sank lower in the seat and pressed her purse against her hollowed-out stomach. The Hornet was barreling toward her new reality. The distraction offered by Wyatt was about to end. No doubt, he was itching to leave the complication of her problems in the rearview mirror.
She switched her phone on. Calls needed to be made. Her phone vibrated and messages popped up on the screen, too fast to read. Texts and calls from Bree and Maggie. Andrew’s name listed next to a missed call less than three minutes earlier. He never called during his office hours. Bree must have raised the red flag. Would he come clean or attempt to convince her of his innocence?
Innocent until proven guilty. The old adage whirred through her head. Perhaps she hadn’t extracted a confession yet, but she’d certainly amassed enough evidence for a conviction.
Her street was lined with houses from the 1940s and ’50s, most of them squat one-story brick homes. Oak trees crossed arms over the street, sunlight sneaking through like ropes of bright light. The sidewalks had buckled in places from the roots, and kids on summer break took full advantage, jumping their bikes over the ledges. It was a happy, vibrant street, but the usual warm, fuzzy feelings didn’t materialize through the numbness.
She pointed, and he turned into her driveway. Her house would fit in the front yard of her family home, but its charm compensated for its lack of square footage. The interior had been upgraded by the previous owner, and a meticulously maintained rose garden in the back had sold her on her first viewing.
The announcement three years ago that she’d be moving out of the family home had not been met with congratulations and hugs but tears and pleas to stay on her mother’s part. Her father counterbalanced her mother’s histrionics with his usual placidness, neither supporting nor condemning her decision. Eventually, her mother’s fears of Sutton using her new house as a stepping stone out of Cottonbloom and her sphere of influence had calmed.
He pulled in behind her practical four-door sedan. It looked like the before picture from a joke car ad next to the Hornet. Even at idle, the car’s dynamic energy imparted a feeling of impatience, as if the car needed to be exercised like a thoroughbred horse.
“Cute place,” he said.
“Not as much personality as your loft, but I love it.” The next words came out with a combination of desperation and knee-jerk politeness. “Would you like to come inside for coffee?”
“Another time.”
Why did this small rejection resonate so painfully? Pity hid poorly behind the kindness in his eyes, and she dropped her gaze to the slice of sunlight marking a line between them.
Her first taste of being the object of pity and deemed pathetic. Although, she had a feeling she’d been wearing an invisible cloak of patheticness for at least as far back as the receipts went.
Wyatt shifted and drew something from a side compartment. A business card. Of course, this was all business for him. Andrew’s car was still taking up a bay in his garage.
Her words stumbled out. “The Camaro … I’m not sure—”
“Don’t worry about the car right now. We’ll figure it out.” He flipped the card over and wrote numbers on the back before holding it out between his index and middle fingers. “That’s my cell on the back. If you need anything, you call me. Okay?”
She took the card, even though she didn’t plan on making use of it. As soon as he left, the event that had brought them together in such a strangely intimate way would be hers to deal with alone. Their bond would fade like a friendship formed at summer camp.
Nevertheless, she clutched his card to her chest like a talisman, pasted on a smile, and pushed the Hornet’s door open. She hesitated on her slide out, looking over her shoulder at him.
“Thanks for everything. I know we weren’t on the best of terms as kids, and dealing with an imploding relationship wasn’t on your radar this morning, but you’ve been great. Really, really great.” The words were inadequate, but a simple thanks and a strained smile was all she had to give at the moment.
He returned her smile even as worry pulled at his brow, a smudge of grease highlighting the crinkle between his eyes. “Call me if you need me. I mean it.”
She nodded and closed the door. The Hornet didn’t back up until she had her front door unlocked and one foot inside. Once the rumble of his engine had faded, she dropped his card and her purse on a side table in the foyer, grabbed her phone, and kicked off her heels.
She padded down the hall to the kitchen. The silence pressed the walls closer and a feeling of claustrophobia jacked her heart rate higher. She cracked open the window over the sink, but immediately shut it. The riot of color and the scent from the blooming roses, which she typically enjoyed, turned her stomach, too sweet and cloying.
If she called the boutique, Maggie, quiet and intuitive, would guess something bad had happened, so she texted instead, not exactly lying when she said she was sick. Throwing up was a distinct possibility. Next, she texted Bree and asked if they could get together later that night. While she wanted to chicken out and text Andrew as well, she pulled on her big-girl panties—metaphorically cotton and white—and hit his number.
“Sutton. What’s going on?” His voice was brisk and lawyerly.
“I’m returning your call.” Not the answer he was after, but she didn’t plan on making this easy for him.
“Is everything okay?”
“Depends on your definition, I suppose.”
After a long silence he sighed, but she couldn’t separate impatience from dread. “And by your definition?”
“Not okay.” Her words had thickened. She would not cry, dangit.
“Are you home?”
She picked at the folds of her skirt and didn’t answer, afraid he would hear how upset she was and twist that to his advantage.
“I’ll be over as soon as I can clear my schedule.” He disconnected.
Anger flared and burned away her tears at his high-handedness. What would happen if she wasn’t here when he showed up? His imagined frustration as he beat on her front door and stamped his feet like a toddler made her feel better.
Not that he would show that kind of emotion. He rarely showed any kind of emotion around her, positive or negative. He was calm and collected and blank behind his blue eyes. Passionless.
Not like Wyatt. In their brief time together, she’d seen humor and anger and worry flicker across his face and spark behind his eyes. Who would have thought gray eyes could be so warm? She rubbed her temples to rid herself of the useless thoughts. He wasn’t her white knight or protector. He barely qualified as an acquaintance.
Events were in motion. She retreated to her bedroom and changed into black cigarette pants, a kelly-green button down shirt, and flats. The closest outfit she had to a power suit. Her face was pale and her eyes shadowed even though she hadn’t lost any sleep over the drama—yet.
Energy crackled as she paced her den. Words flitted through her head. Words she attempted to assemble into coherent accusations. Forty-five minutes later, a knock on her door made her jerk and then freeze. Before her limbs answered the command of her brain, the door squeaked open. Andrew called her name, and footsteps sounded. Not one set, but two. A distinctly feminine voice and a tap of heels echoed in her entry.
While she processed the implications, Andrew and Bree came around the corner and into the den. Andrew was good-looking, with his streaked blond hair and white smile. Maybe a little too white, but he and his father were on billboards and advertisements selling themselves as trustworthy lawyers. He worked out and manscaped regularly. After years of being friends, she’d been flattered and more than a little overwhelmed when he’d pursued her with the same single-mindedness that had brought success in the courtroom.
Why her? The question seemed to take on greater significance now.
Bree slipped in beside him, not touching him but her body language giving the impression of a united front. A united front against her. Tears clawed their up her throat, and she took a deep breath through her nose to keep them at bay.
“I wasn’t expecting you until tonight, Bree,” Sutton said.
Instead of meeting Sutton’s eyes, Bree looked to Andrew, her dark brown hair swishing around her shoulders like a curtain of silk. When they were kids, she’d had frizzy hair, braces, and terrible acne. All that had been fixed with time, expensive salon treatments, and a good orthodontist.
Now Bree was beautiful and sophisticated and gave off a powerful vibe in her power suit and power heels. But to Sutton, Bree would always be the little girl with crooked teeth and bad hair who’d kept her secrets safe. Until now.
“Mother told me the wedding invitations have arrived. We need to nail down who we want to invite. Father wants to add the governor to the list.” Andrew strolled to her couch and sat, propping his arm along the back cushion and his ankle on his knee. He was either oblivious to the mounting tension, or his attitude was a courtroom ploy to throw her off guard.
It would have worked if she hadn’t caught Bree’s eye for a split second. She acted like Sutton might pull a shotgun and take her out at any moment.
Andrew patted the seat next to him, but Sutton wasn’t sure which one of them he was calling over like a favorite dog. She planted her feet and squared her shoulders. “Let’s not throw manure around. I assume you know about the surprise I was planning regarding your precious Camaro. While I was emptying the glovebox, I found a stack of restaurant receipts.”
“Is that what this is about? You should have called and asked me about them. Those were all business meetings. Potential clients.”
“You take clients charged with federal offenses to the nicest restaurants in Jackson? Because you need their business?”
“Of course not.” His smile didn’t disappear but his demeanor changed, his tone chiding. “I’m honestly disappointed in you, Sutton.”
Even though they were close to the same age, he had a way of making her feel younger and, as a result, insecure. If she hadn’t retrieved the last piece of damning evidence from the dusty barn floor and stuck it in her purse, doubts might have swamped her righteous anger.
Instead, her anger swelled until she was royally pissed off. His nerve in the courtroom was legendary, and she was curious how far he’d go to cover up the truth. “How have I disappointed you? Do tell.”
The irony didn’t make a dent in Andrew’s sanctimonious expression. “Trust is the cornerstone for any relationship.”
“So when you were working late”—she air-quoted his often-used excuse—“you were wining and dining potential clients?”
“We might get the most press from our criminal cases, but we make the bulk of our money on estate management and wills. Not as glamorous, but definitely lucrative.” He gave her the same smile he used for billboards.
“These dinners would be tax write-offs then?”
He made a scoffing sound that was probably supposed to make her feel like an idiot. “Of course.”
“Therefore, your father and the firm’s accountant would be privy to them.”
Andrew’s smile faltered, and a sense of satisfaction surged to meet her anger. She had him trapped but wanted to keep him squirming. She pivoted to face Bree. “Sorry I made you wait around this morning for nothing.”
“I was worried about you.”
Bree was worried alright. Closer to terrified, if Sutton was reading her expression right. Unlike Andrew, Bree hadn’t fully mastered the art of lying.
“You called Andrew because you were worried about me?”
Bree answered with a shrug.
“Hang on, I have something for you.” Sutton slipped into the dim hallway and took a deep breath. The climax of the confrontation was upon her, and her muscles ached from the tension hammering at her body. She grabbed her purse and stared at the white card on the table with Wyatt’s number scribbled on the back. On impulse, she slipped the card into her pocket.
When she stepped back into the den, Andrew was up and whispering to Bree, his expression stony. A smile came to his face as if Sutton’s steps into the den pulled marionette’s strings. Was his every move orchestrated to manipulate?
“Let’s see … I know they’re in here somewhere.” She forced a singsong note into her voice. First, she pulled out the stack of receipts and lay them on the end table. Andrew made a move to take them, but Sutton slapped his hand away. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they make it safely into your father’s hands.”
“It’d be easier—”
“No!” It was a tone she’d never used with him. Maybe had never used in her life. She’d never needed to.
Andrew pulled his hand back as if she might strike again at any moment.
“Here it is. Yours if I’m not mistaken, Bree?” She sweetened her tone even if it wasn’t with real sugar, pulled out the lacy black thong, and displayed it for both Bree and Andrew, the heart front and center.
Bree’s eyes widened. Her hand came up to take it before she caught herself and gnawed on her bottom lip, a habit she’d worked hard to break, as a sore would inevitably pop up. Any other time would see Sutton subtly reminding Bree of this fact, but not today. Her instinctive grab for the underwear reinforced Sutton’s position.
Andrew lost his full-bore bravado. She imagined this was how he looked during closing arguments of a case he knew he would lose. Did he ever lose? He would today.
“Why would you think those are Bree’s?” he asked.
“They’re Bree’s because I sold them to her. An expensive special order. See the cute little heart? It matches the tattoo on her hip, but I think you know that. Why wasn’t your first question where I found them?”
“I don’t know.” It was not the answer of a high-powered lawyer but a child whose lies had been exposed.
“Because you do know where I found them, right? Under the seat of your Camaro.” She tossed the scrap of lace in the air.
Bree caught it and crumpled it in her hand as if she could make it disintegrate. “It’s not what you think.” Her voice was small and tear-filled, and Sutton had to drown the spark of sympathy that automatically flared.
“Let me take a stab. I think you and Andrew have been gallivanting across two states screwing each other’s brains out for last few months. Am I wrong?” She forced a nonchalance she didn’t feel into her voice and face, even locating the gumption for a smile.
Bree put her hand on Andrew’s forearm, her red nails a pretty contrast to his dark suit. With their coloring a study in contrasts, they looked like handpicked models for the cover of a magazine. “We’re in love, Sutton.”