Sutton took a step back, the words like a punch to her chest, making it hard to catch a full breath. “Are you serious?”
Andrew spun away and ran a hand through his hair, ending up at her front window and leaving Bree to do the dirty work. Sutton stared into Bree’s dark, almost black, exotic eyes.
Bree nodded and glanced over her shoulder at Andrew’s back. “I was working on the Jordan case and in and out of his office. One thing led to another. We challenge one another. We didn’t mean for it to happen.”
In love. Somehow that hurt worse than the two of them just having torrid sex. “So I don’t challenge you, Andrew?”
He turned and half propped himself against the sill, throwing his hands up and letting them fall. “You’re nice. And funny. And laid-back. And that was—is—great. But everything was too easy between us. Too … boring.”
The word reverberated in her head like a gong. “Boring?”
He held his hands up. “Bad word choice. But you can’t deny there was never any real passion between us. We haven’t been together in months, and I’m not sure you even noticed.”
“I’ve been busy. And so have you.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. Yep, he’d been busy all right. Doing Bree.
“I’m really sorry.” Bree’s voice reminded Sutton of the time Bree ate all the cookies on their sleepover. Except this wasn’t cookies she’d taken, but Sutton’s fiancé.
Sutton jabbed a finger in Andrew’s direction. “You waltzed in here talking about wedding invitations and the governor. How long were you planning to keep up the charade? Were you going to marry me and keep things going with Bree?”
Andrew huffed a few unintelligible words and Bree shuffled around to face him. “We were going to tell you soon. Definitely before the invitations went out. Right, Andrew?”
Sutton would have bet her boutique that soon would have never come.
Andrew ran his hand through his hair again, the gesture taking on a vain quality now that Sutton’s blinders had been smashed to bits. “Breaking things off with Sutton isn’t as straightforward as simply walking away from a relationship. Our families are important in Cottonbloom. Her daddy’s a judge. I can’t afford to make an enemy of him.”
Sutton cast a side-eye toward Bree. The implication was clear; Bree’s family—a long line of cotton farmers from the north part of the county—weren’t important. While they didn’t have the kind of connections Sutton’s parents had, they were nice, good people. She had loved spending the night at Bree’s house and waking up to pancakes and bacon around their small kitchen table.
“I asked and asked but you told me the time wasn’t right.” Bree pivoted from Andrew to Sutton. “I wanted to tell you right after the first time something happened. I hated keeping secrets from you.”
“Please,” Andrew said. “You got off on sneaking around. Don’t lie.”
Sutton wanted to curl up in the corner, stuff her fingers in her ears, and “la-la-la” until she woke up from this nightmare.
Andrew pushed off the sill and crossed to Sutton. When he tried to take her hands, she stuffed them into the pockets of her pants, the fingers of her right hand sliding over the edge of Wyatt’s card.
“Give me a chance to make it up to you, baby.” He was the definition of sincere and contrite.
Bree’s face crumpled, and she took a step back. Shock, anger, disbelief but also heartbreak. Part of Sutton wanted to take Andrew back if only to strike out at Bree, but that part was small compared to the part that wanted to hurt Andrew somehow. Unfortunately, breaking one of his perfect teeth wasn’t in her playbook.
“Too late for that.” Sutton ran her finger over the embossed lettering of the card like it was Braille. Words poured out of her mouth, bypassing the logical check of her brain. “Anyway, I have my own confession to make. I haven’t missed you, because I’ve been seeing someone else too.”
“What? Who?” His indignation was rich, considering his lover stood not three feet from his side.
“Wyatt Abbott.”
“From that car garage over the river?”
“That’s right.”
“He’s a mechanic.” He imbued the last word with more than a fair amount of disdain.
“Yes, he is. And a darn good one.” She didn’t know that to be a fact, but Wyatt’s confident air gave the impression of expertise. He was probably good at everything.
“How long has it been going on?”
Sutton dug her hole so deep she couldn’t see over the edge. “A while now. I suspected you were cheating, so I … so I cheated too. With Wyatt.”
“Alright, so we’ve both had some fun. Let’s call it cold feet. We can put that aside and focus on making us work.”
A sound that might have been a sob came from Bree. She turned and ran out of the room before Sutton could take a step in her direction. The outer door banged shut and quiet fell between her and Andrew.
“God, you are such a jerk. You broke Bree’s heart.” The fire that burned through her was swallowed under the avalanche of the truth she’d spoken. You broke Bree’s heart. Not you broke my heart. A chill slipped over her, the numbing effect slowing her thought processes. Confused. She was confused and needed to get Andrew out of her house.
“Your daddy is going to be upset if we don’t work things out. Everything is booked. Everyone knows even if the invitations haven’t gone out. Think of the money and face we’ll lose if we cancel now.” His voice was smooth and persuasive and had charmed her once upon a time.
“You’re worried about the money and face we’ll lose?”
“Please. You can’t tell me you’re not thinking the same.”
She clung to her weak lies. “I’m with someone else now. Sorry.”
He drew up and put his hands on his narrow hips, his expensive suit jacket fanned out behind him. He reminded her of a lizard who puffed up to look more intimating. “You’re only saying that because you found out about me and Bree. I’ll bet you’re making it all up.”
Dangit. She averted her eyes even as she realized the move highlighted her lie. Was she any better than Andrew right now? “I’m not lying.”
“Right.” He drew the word out. “Are you planning to bring him to the gala then?”
A more colorful curse nearly slipped out. The gala was in less than three weeks. Held at the country club, the event was black tie swanky. As she was on the planning committee this year, and Andrew and his family were the sponsors, going together had been a given.
“That sort of thing really isn’t his style.”
“So that’s a no, and it’s because you’re not actually seeing Wyatt Abbott. Tell the truth.”
In true courtroom style, Andrew had somehow flipped the story to make her feel like the guilty one. Sutton shook her head and drew herself up, refusing to be intimidated by him—outwardly anyway. “You should take Bree. Announce to Cottonbloom that there’s a new power couple in town.”
His eyes grew hooded; a look she once would have pegged as mysterious now struck her as duplicitous. “I’m still planning on taking you. Once you have a chance to sleep on things tonight, I know you’ll decide to do what’s right.”
“Do what’s right for who? You?”
“Your father—”
“This has nothing to do with Daddy.” As soon as the words were out, a lightbulb went on. It had everything to with him. She strode to the front door and held it open. “Get out.”
He followed more sedately, his casualness a veiled threat in and of itself. Not of physical harm but of a battle not yet conceded. “You’re overly emotional. I get that. I did something really dumb, but I was scared. I don’t love Bree; I love you.”
She didn’t believe him. Not anymore. Softer now but with no less steel, she said, “Get out.”
“I have a feeling you’ll come around. Probably best to not do anything rash like tell your parents. You’ll feel differently about things tomorrow.”
Would her parents be disappointed? No doubt. But while they might be overly controlling and protective, they loved her and would support her no matter what. “We’re not living in medieval Europe. You aren’t a lordly prince making an alliance through marriage. I thought you actually cared about me.”
“I do.”
The answer made her burst out in borderline hysterical laughter. She threw her hand up, intending to shoo him away. Sunlight refracted through the diamond on her finger, sending points of light bouncing. The ring felt like a two-ton anchor. She yanked, but it got stuck at her knuckle.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” she muttered as she twisted and pulled at the ring until her knuckle swelled even more. Frustration clawed at her insides, mixing with the pain of betrayal and anger. “Get. Off. My. Porch.”
The condescending amusement on his face sent her careening over the edge of what was polite. Words that would have gotten her mouth washed out with soap as a kid flew from the dark, angry pit that was once her heart.
A fair amount of what she interpreted as disgust crossed his face. “No reason to give me back the ring. We’ll talk after you’ve calmed down.” He took the steps at a jog and slid into his BMW. He and Bree even had matching cars. They were perfect for each other.
She craved the satisfaction of throwing the ring at his windshield, but it didn’t budge. The thought of lopping her entire finger off and mailing it to him ring and all flashed. Talk about medieval. Or was that something a mobster would do? Speaking of mobsters, did she know anyone that could “take care of Andrew?” Maybe not kill him but rough him up a little?
Her clientele was mostly women with too much money on their hands. She pictured the Quilting Bee ladies going after Andrew with canes and knitting needles. Imagining Andrew getting beaten up by a gang of little old ladies injected some much-needed humor.
But if she had to wear his ring for another minute, she might resort to the finger chopping. What did they do in movies? Butter. Or oil. She retreated to the kitchen.
Standing over the sink, she poured olive oil over her finger and twisted the ring off with ease. After washing up, she held out her hands. The ring weighed a fraction of an ounce, but a weightless freedom took its place.
She stared at the innocuous bit of metal and stone on her counter in a shaft of sunlight, the beauty of the diamond mocking her. The first step to dismantling their farce of an engagement had been taken. What should have been the easiest step hadn’t been.
The rest was too intimidating to consider. She checked in with her sister at the boutique with a vague excuse, but skipped breaking the news to her parents. Instead, she retreated to her bed, even though it wasn’t even lunch time yet, crawled under the covers, and let the tears flow.
* * *
Wyatt circled the body-sized punching bag hanging from the barn rafters, breathing hard, his muscles burning. Imagining Tarwater’s face added extra zing to his punches. The intensity and the rhythm of the workout usually offered relief from his chaotic thoughts. Not tonight.
Sutton Mize lurked in the back of his mind no matter how hard he pushed himself. Had she had it out with Tarwater? Had the asshole convinced her to take him back? How weird would it be if he drove by her place to check on her? Stalker weird or nice weird?
He pictured Sutton’s eyes turning from teasing to devastated the instant he’d pulled out that scrap of lace. Shuffling around the swinging bag, he landed a series of jabs. He should have known she wasn’t the type of woman to get down and dirty in the front seat of a car. She deserved chilled champagne, six-hundred-thread-count sheets, and rose petals. All that romantic crap he rolled his eyes at when it came across his TV or movie screens.
Breaking the news of the lost job to Mack and Jackson had added another level of stress he needed to work out. Jackson had shrugged and moved on, but Mack’s current of worry had quickened. Even though Wyatt hadn’t been directly responsible, guilt weighed heavily on him. He launched a flurry of punches.
“What’d that bag ever do to you?”
Wyatt startled around, his hands up. Mack leaned in the doorway of the barn, only a few feet away, his feet crossed at the ankles, his arms over his chest, looking like he’d been there awhile.
“It’s been a crazy day.” Wyatt aimed a couple more punches at where he imagined Tarwater’s face would reside before unlacing the sparring gloves.
“You’ll need to call Miss Mize about the car.”
“I will. She was pretty tore up this morning. I hate to reopen the wound so soon.”
“It can sit for now, but by Monday it needs to get gone one way or another.”
“I don’t suppose pushing it over a cliff would be at all professional.”
Mack’s lips twitched into the start of a smile. How long it had been since he’d seen his big brother smile? Too long.
Wyatt slapped the gloves against his leg and looked at Mack from the corner of his eye. “Bottom line, how bad does this loss hit us?”
Mack wandered farther into the barn. “Timing could have been better, but we’ll survive.”
It would be easy to let Mack’s deflection stand, but Wyatt forced more questions. “We won’t default on any loans, will we?”
“Lord no. Why would you think that?”
Wyatt tossed his hands in the air. “Because you avoid talking to me or Jackson about the finances. A big part of that is my fault for not pushing you, but I know how much we borrowed to upgrade the shop equipment. Jackson and I had to sign the papers too.”
Mack half-sat on the back of the couch. “I’d hoped the Camaro might jump start some word-of-mouth business over the river.”
Restoring totaled cars and selling them at auction brought in decent money, but if they wanted to grow their name in classic car circles, they needed some big projects from big names.
“I thought Ford had designated himself our ambassador to the north,” Wyatt said sarcastically. “Isn’t he supposed to be cultivating our name with the elite?”
Mack made a dismissive sound. “He wants to be reimbursed for every fucking golf game and country club lunch. Business expenses, he says. How many projects has he closed in the last year of rubbing shoulders?”
The answer to the rhetorical question was one. And it had just fallen through. “Wanna drink?”
Mack waved him off. Since their pop had died, he hadn’t had the time or inclination to relax and drink a beer after work. Lately even their dinners together had grown sporadic.
“Things with Ford will work out. They always do,” Wyatt said softly, even though he wasn’t sure he believed it this time.
Mack rubbed at the dark stubble at his jaw. “Since Pop died, everything feels different. I have no clue what his end game is and no way to control him.”
Although Mack wasn’t actually the oldest—Ford took those honors—he was the foundation of the family or maybe the sun that the rest of them orbited. He was also the one who shouldered most of the burdens. Not because Wyatt and Jackson couldn’t, it was just the way things had always been, even when they were kids.
“Trying to control Ford will make him do something stupid to spite you. You need to practice subtlety and manipulation.”
Mack sucked in a deep breath and let it out with a slight smile. “Not my strong suit.”
Wyatt chuffed a laugh. Mack was tough and straightforward and didn’t coddle, but he was also steadfast and loyal and had a giant’s heart hidden under his gruffness.
Their brotherly bond, which had veered closer to hero worship on Wyatt’s end as kids, had been cemented the day Ford had dared Wyatt to climb the huge magnolia tree at the side of the barn. Wyatt hadn’t been able to resist the goading. Fucking Ford and his uncanny ability to get under his skin.
In the Abbott family, authorities weren’t called to get you out of self-inflicted troubles. You learned real quick to get yourself out, preferably in one piece. An hour later, he’d made it down with only bruises and scratches, his face streaked with tears. Urging him on, Mack had waited at the bottom to catch him in a hug.
“You want me to cozy up to Ford? See if he’ll drop some clues about his plans?” While Wyatt didn’t like their brother any more than Mack did, he had something Mack lacked—the ability to snap on a mask of easygoing good humor.
“I hate to ask you to do that.” Mack glanced at him from under his lashes.
“I’d be happy to. Anything you need, bro, anytime.”
Mack nodded and scraped his boot along the wood floor, his eyes downcast. Something else was bothering him.
“You sure you don’t want a beer? Or we could hit the Tavern like old times?” Wyatt asked.
“Nah. I’ve got some paperwork to finish.” He thumbed over his shoulder.
“How about we go fishing this weekend then?”
“I need to evaluate the Charger that came in this morning. Not sure if it’s salvageable. Might have to move it to the graveyard.” With that, Mack retreated. The garage was his life, his reason for being. Nothing else mattered—except for family.
Worries circled like buzzards after a kill. Troubles were stalking close but Wyatt couldn’t see them clearly enough to form a plan of attack or shore up his defenses.
By the time he’d showered and pulled on jeans and a black Abbott Brothers Garage T-shirt, the temperature had downshifted into pleasant territory. Jackson was at the track. Wyatt could head there or to the Tavern on his own, but a vague restlessness needled him like a bug that wouldn’t land long enough for him to slap dead. Tonight, he’d chalk it up to Ford and Mack and the garage.
As he was grabbing a beer from the fridge, his ringtone sounded. A Mississippi number popped up on the screen. “Hello?”
“Hi. Hello. It’s Sutton Mize.” The raw emotion in her wavering voice squashed his leap of satisfaction at her simple greeting. “I hope you don’t mind me calling you this late.”
“It’s not late by my reckoning. How are you doing?” He winced. The polite question usually merited a slingshot, “fine, thanks” answer.
“I’m…” She drew the word out.
“Forget I asked that. I’m an idiot. Or so my brothers like to inform me on a daily basis. What can I do to make things better?” He tensed, hoping she didn’t blow off the offer as a platitude.
“Actually, I was wondering—” She blew out a sharp breath. “Can we talk? Face to face, I mean.”
“I can swing by your place right now.” How much of an eager beaver had he sounded like? He forced a more measured tone. “Or whatever.”
“That would be great. I live on—”
“I know where you live. I dropped you off this morning, remember?”
“Of course you did.” Her laugh was brittle, but at least it wasn’t tears. “It seems like a lifetime ago.”
“You need anything?”
“I don’t suppose you have a DeLorean tricked out as a time machine under one of those tarps in your barn?” A dry humor laced her voice and the rigid set of his back relaxed. Making jokes was a good sign. Or a sign she was close to a nervous breakdown.
“Afraid not.”
“A dump truck of chocolate to bury my troubles under?”
“I might be able to scrounge something up.”
“I’ll see you soon, then?”
“You can count on me.”
She disconnected, and he stared at the phone, his restlessness appeased for the moment. He had a mission and headed to the Hornet with a spring in his step, refusing to examine his change in mood. The car’s body curved like a femme fatale, and he skimmed a hand over the smooth metal of the hood on his way to the driver’s side.
The garage sat well outside of town on a two-lane parish road that didn’t see much traffic. Bad for business, but good for the soul. Clouds wisped across the sky, haloing the almost full moon and casting an eerie light. The hum of cicadas and the call of night birds filled the heart of summer, and lightning bugs flashed in the trees along the side of the road.
He took a deep breath, the loamy air tinged with salt and wood smoke. It was a perfect night for a bonfire and a little trouble. He slid into the seat of his car and ran his fingertips over the leather stitching of the steering wheel.
He cranked the engine and closed his eyes, enjoying the sound, but also listening intently for any knocks or skips. He heard none. Good thing, since he’d added her to the list of cars to take to next month’s auction. He’d invest the profit into another project. He’d driven the Hornet a good six months, which was a long time for him. Time to move on. He enjoyed the car, but he wasn’t in love.
He flipped on the headlights, popped the clutch, and coasted onto the road. Crossing the river took him into Mississippi. The dividing line of their town and fortunes.
Sixty-plus years earlier, Cottonbloom had been one town. With the opening of the college, the Mississippi side had attracted the doctors and lawyers and professionals, while the crawfish industry and manufacturing ruled the Louisiana side, bringing good blue-collar jobs to the parish.
The economic and social rift grew after WWII, and then sometime in the fifties, the town broke over fishing rights on the river. While there was no push to reunite the towns of Cottonbloom—state loyalties had been bred into the new generations—the divisiveness that marked the last sixty years had eased since the inception of the shared yearly Labor Day festival.
That didn’t mean the sides weren’t still competitive. The high school football rivalry meant nothing in terms of state titles, and everything in terms of pride. Cottonbloom Park, sitting on the Louisiana side, had been revamped, and a baseball league had restarted and become a major social outlet for both sides.
The divide hadn’t affected Wyatt growing up. He’d been happy in Louisiana, in his family, in the garage. His life was complete and whole and happy. Except for the recent troubles with Ford. And that vague restlessness he’d been touched by of late.
He made a pit stop at Glenda’s Diner. She had the best pies and cobblers on either side of the river, and he got two slices of lemon meringue to go. He parked in front of Sutton’s house, grabbed the carton, and headed to her front door, his stomach flopping like a bullfrog trying to escape a gig. Why was he nervous? This was nothing approaching a date, it was a mission of lemon meringue mercy.
She opened the door before he made it to the front porch steps. Her hair was back in a ponytail, and she was barefoot and in tight black pants that hugged her curves, her toe nails a glittery, bright purple. The playfulness of the choice surprised him.
Her eyes were red-rimmed and slightly swollen, but she smiled, and although it was strained, her eyes had an echo of the sparkle he’d noted that morning before the shit hit the fan.
“Thanks for coming.” She gestured, her movements jerky as if she too were nervous, and led him into a den with bookcases and a wall-mounted TV. The ceilings were low, but instead of feeling closed-in, the room felt cozy.
“I brought two slices of Glenda’s famous lemon meringue. Are you game?” He held them out.
She pressed one hand against her stomach and took the carton with the other. “I don’t think I’ve eaten since breakfast. Pie sounds perfect. I’ll brew some decaf.”
Once she’d disappeared into the kitchen, he moved toward the bookcases. His heel knocked against something, shifting it. A bolt of gauzy dark blue fabric slipped off a stack tucked to the side of the bookcase, unrolling on its fall. He picked it up and did his best to rewrap the slippery fabric, making a mess of it. Hidden partially behind a chair several more bolts were propped against the wall. The fabric stacked on the floor consisted of delicate looking laces and more gauze.
She turned the corner and stopped short. “What are you doing?” Her voice pitched high.
“Sorry. Knocked it over. What’s all the fabric for?” He waved a finger over the cache.
She didn’t return his smile, marching over to clutch the bolt to her chest as if he’d threatened to drop a baby over a balcony. “It’s for nothing.”
“It’s obviously for something.”
“A stupid hobby is all.” Her half-shouldered shrug and the way she said it made him think she was repeating someone else. Maybe her parents. Maybe Tarwater.
“I doubt that. Knowing you, it’s something very professional and pretty awesome.” He might not have gone to college, but he could add two and two. She sold clothes, so why wouldn’t she make them too? “Do you design stuff for your shop?”
She shifted the bolt back against the wall into the shadows and chewed her lip, her gaze darting toward him. Running her hand over the fabric in a caress, she said, “Not to sell. I’m not good enough.”
“Who says?”
“I do. I’m not trained or anything, I taught myself. Trial and error.”
“That’s how I learned to take an engine apart and put it back together. Nothing wrong with the method.” He looked around. “You do your sewing here or at the shop?”
“Here. I turned a spare bedroom into a work area.”
“Will you show me?”
“Why would you want to see it?” Suspicion slowed her words.
Why did he want to see it? Maybe because he wanted to know what she was passionate about. What she cared about.
“Curiosity?” When she continued to examine him as if he’d asked to see her medical records, he added in a sing-song voice, “I brought you pie.”
“Okay, fine.” She led him halfway down the narrow hallway and stopped with her hand on a doorknob. “You’re not allowed to laugh.”
The moment had taken on an importance that outweighed a simple show and tell, and he wondered if Tarwater had dismissed her design aspirations. He put a hand over his heart. “I would never.”
He held his breath while she took a deep one. Finally, she pushed the door open and flipped the light on. A mechanical marvel of a sewing machine sat under the window. A worktable with a ruled edge was covered in fabrics, and white paper cut in different sized panels were scattered around. In the midst of the chaos, a black dress hung on a headless torso.
The only experience he had with women’s clothing was removing it, but even he could tell the dress would be at home in a magazine spread. “You made this?”
“Designed it from scratch.” Through the uncertainty and nerves was pride. He recognized the same spark when he finished an engine rebuild.
“I’d bet you’d have women beating down the door at Abigail’s for it.”
“I couldn’t display this next to a Vera Wang. Who would buy it?”
He had no clue what a Vera Wang was so couldn’t argue the point. “You’ll never know unless you take a chance. You could hang it with the other fancy dresses and see if it sells on its own merit.”
She fingered the edge of the sleeve that hung limply on the form. “Just hang it up and see if it catches anyone’s eye?”
“What else are you going to do with it? Stick it in the back of your closet? Seems a shame.”
He could see the seed sprout even though she didn’t respond. She nudged her head toward the door. “Coffee should be perked.”
She led him into a kitchen that had been refurbished but retained a quaint, fifties style charm. Black-and-white subway tile supplied the backsplash over dark grey granite countertops. A window over the farmhouse-style sink was framed by blue and white checked curtains.
Their talk turned small and innocuous. They both agreed Rufus’s had the best barbeque, but the best pizza was the place just off the river on the Mississippi side.
She moved the slices of pie from the carton onto small white plates in front of bar stools at the high counter next to napkins and forks and poured them both coffee in delicate-looking cups with matching saucers. The contrast with the loft’s galley-style kitchen, which was stocked with the finest paper plates and plastic silverware, was telling.
They sat side-by-side and ate the first few bites in silence. About halfway through her piece, she wiped her mouth, cleared her throat, and fiddled with her fork, an air of expectation making him shift toward her.
“I asked you over because”—she took a breath and said on the exhale—“we need to talk.”
Even though they weren’t involved beyond sharing a handful of childhood memories, one terrible morning, and a piece of pie, the dreaded words ricocheted around his stomach, demolishing his appetite. He put his napkin and fork back by his plate. “Okay.”
“I’ve done something ill-advised.” She slipped off the seat and paced on the other side of the counter. “No, I should call a turnip a turnip. I’ve done something dumb.”
“Is this about Tarwater’s Camaro?”
“No, but it does have to do with Andrew and Bree.” She rubbed her forehead. “You were right that Bree suspected something was up. They both showed up not long after you dropped me off.”
“That was bold.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought too. Honestly, I got mad. Really mad.” She sounded embarrassed about a perfectly normal reaction considering the circumstances.
“Good for you. Did you break something over Tarwater’s head?”
No hint of amusement broke through her solemn expression. “I wanted to hurt them—him—and I sort-of, kind-of involved you. I’m so incredibly sorry.” The last spurt out on what might have been a sob, but her eyes were dry and huge and her hands covered her mouth. Horror. She was horrified.
Had she killed them and needed help disposing their bodies? He tried a weak laugh. “Am I supposed to be dueling Tarwater at dawn or something?”
“Nothing so chivalrous. I told Andrew and Bree that you and I were involved. Romantically.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Sexually.”
“Well, now.” It wasn’t often something shocked him. The state left him at a loss for a casual quip.
“I don’t think Andrew believed me, but I guess Bree did. Or wants to anyway. I got a couple of calls this evening from friends”—she imbued the word with sarcasm—“asking about you and me in a very roundabout way, and I realized things had already spun out of control. I didn’t want you to hear from someone else. Please, don’t hate me.”
She was back to covering her mouth. This time her eyes shimmered with tears, but not because her fiancé had cheated on her with her best friend. No, she was upset and worried about how the rumor might affect him.
“You think a little talk about the two of us together would make me mad?”
“I don’t even know if you have a girlfriend. She might—”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.” He picked up his fork and took another bite of pie, his appetite fully restored. In fact, he felt downright jolly all of a sudden. “I don’t mind you using me as a shield, if that’s the kind of help you need.”
“But I told them we’d been involved for a while.”
He shrugged and took another bite, her worry over his reaction tipping him to the edge of laughter, although he was careful to hide it. “How does Glenda get her crust to taste so good, do you think?”
Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Finally, she said, “A heap of Crisco and some lemon zest, I would guess.”
He hummed, scraping up the crumbs. “I might take up baking if I can charm the recipe out of her. What are my chances, do you think?”
“Wyatt.” Her firm tone had him looking up. “Do you understand what I’ve done? I’ve told a lie that now involves you, and if everyone isn’t already talking about us, they will be tomorrow.”
“You make it sound like this is the worst thing you’ve ever done.” He made a scoffing sound.
Her eyes flared wider, her lips pinched, and she gave a tiny shake of her head.
“Good Lord. This is the worst thing you’ve ever done, isn’t it?” A smile defeated his best efforts to keep his amusement at bay.
She took up pacing again, her thrumming angry-tinged energy hypnotic. “Bree stood there and told me they were in love. In love. It was humiliating and embarrassing, and I was so mad. Your card was in my pocket, and I just … gah!” She stuck her tongue out and made a gagging sound.
Now he did laugh. “For a minute there, I thought you’d killed them and needed help dumping their bodies out in the swamps.”
“You thought I had murdered them in a fit of jealousy?” Her laugh was throaty and unexpectedly sexy. “You underestimate my pathetic niceness.”
Her self-depreciating summation gave him pause, but before he could delve further, the doorbell chimed followed by a quick rap on the front door. Sutton froze, her laughter silenced, her smile pulling into a grimace.
“You expecting company?” He slid off the barstool and brushed his hands together.
She shook her head.
“Let’s really give them something to talk about, shall we?” Wyatt waggled his eyebrows and stepped toward the door. She caught his wrist as he reached the foyer. Although he could easily pull out of her grasp, he paused and she grabbed onto both his arms.
“It could be my mother. Or father. Or even Andrew.”
A shadow was visible through the window, the street light giving it monster-like proportions. Wyatt bristled with aggression. Even though his knuckles were sore from his earlier round with the punching bag, he wouldn’t mind teaching Tarwater a lesson in basic human decency in the most primal way.
“One can hope,” he said darkly. “My car’s parked in your driveway. Won’t be hard to connect the dots from it to me, but I’ll slip out the back if you want.”
Her hands tightened on his arms, the foyer too dim to make out her expression, but her voice was strong. “No, I want you to stay.”
He went for the doorknob, wrapped a steadying arm around her waist, pasted on the smile that had charmed more than one woman home with him, and opened the door.
Bree Randall stood on the other side, wearing the same clothes from that morning, but looking unkempt. Her blouse was untucked, her mascara had smudged around her eyes, and her hair looked like she’d driven over with her head stuck out of the window.
Sutton tensed. He squeezed her waist, and she took the signal, letting her weight fall into him.
Bree’s astonishment was projected clearly by her darting eyes. “You weren’t lying?”