Delaney had many strong suits, but admitting she was wrong wasn’t one of them. As she sat in the arctic cool of the office, she vacillated between being pissed that he’d gloated and chagrinned that he had a right to.
The truth was, he wasn’t wrong.
She’d have saved herself a good four months with her cheating ex if she had listened to Beau in the first place. After she’d realized he was right, she’d felt about as tall as a toadstool for the things she’d said to him. But the worst part about the whole thing was, before Beau had told her about Carlton’s cheating, they had been tipsy and flirty and she’d come entirely too close to wondering what his lips would feel like on hers. Part of the reason she had reacted so horribly was the guilt she’d felt at even entertaining thoughts of kissing another man when she was engaged to the perfect man.
She snorted aloud in the small room. Perfect, her ass. She’d probably never know how many women Carlton had slept with during their years together. She knew of at least two, since she’d found them both in bed with him that awful night two months ago.
Taking a deep, pride-swallowing breath, she squared her shoulders and headed back outside, pausing long enough to grab a bottle of water from the fridge for him as a peace offering. She marched over to the side of the car, opened her mouth with the full intention of apologizing, and was promptly interrupted by Beau’s muffled voice.
“I’m working as fast as I can, Dee. I’m already going to catch hell from my mother for not feeding her cat at six like I promised.”
At the mention of Georgia, Delaney’s earlier curiosity bobbed back to the surface. Momentarily setting aside the purpose of her coming out here, she said, “What, exactly, did you tell your mother about me, anyway?”
Beau’s head popped up from behind the Mercedes’ hood, his eyebrow lifted. “I’m sorry?”
“Your mother’s expression when I told her my name made it clear she knew exactly who I was. I’m trying to imagine why that might be.”
Beau gave an exaggerated eye roll before disappearing back behind the hood. “My mother’s greatest talent is being dramatic,” he said, his voice once again sounding like it was coming from the end of a tunnel. “I don’t know what I’ve said specifically, but I’m sure I’ve mentioned you a time or two over the years.” A ratcheting sound filled the space as he continued doing whatever the heck he was doing under there.
“So you didn’t tell her about the Christmas party?”
Something metal clanged to the concrete floor, followed by a muttered curse and shuffling as he retrieved the fallen item. “Jesus, Delaney. Do you really think I’d blab about that night to anyone, let alone my mother?”
Walking around to the front of the car so she could actually see him, she shrugged. “How should I know? The South has more than its share of mama’s boys. Clearly my name more than just rang a bell for her.” Remembering she was here to make nice, she held out the water.
He scowled even as he swiped the bottle from her hands. “No ‘clearly’ about it. The last thing I think I ever said about you had to do with the birthday gift I got at your shop. And do I look like a mama’s boy to you?”
She bit her lip. What he looked like was Mr. July from the first annual Mechanics of the South calendar—a publication that should totally exist. Ignoring his question, she said, “And that was all she needed to look at me like that?” Not a chance. The woman knew something.
After taking a long pull from the water bottle, Beau propped one grease-stained hand on the hood and said, “I know that you and your mama share everything but toothbrushes, but that’s not the way I do things.”
An unexpected shaft of pain speared her heart. Delaney and her mother used to share everything. All that had changed in the last month, further cementing this year as the worst of her life. If her mama was doing any sharing now, it was with hubby number four, Darren “Call me Whiz” Schumacher, peddler and restorer of old pinball machines. One word from him and her mother had dropped everything and relocated to Memphis, where apparently the vintage gaming market was hot, hot, hot.
Which was when Delaney discovered that her mother’s bookkeeping talents were not, not, not.
Wrapping her arms around her middle, she scowled right back at him. “Honestly, Beau, you could be broadcasting it from the local radio station for all I know. The fact that you are elbow-deep in grease in a family business I didn’t even know your family had is a pretty good visual of just how little I know about you.”
He rolled his eyes. “What, did you think I was born in a suit, clutching a briefcase?”
“No, but I assumed law was the family business. You know, that little ol’ place called Finch, Rodney, and Meek?”
***
Beau stifled a sigh and chugged the rest of his drink. She was determined to be ornery tonight. He knew her well enough to know that she was smarting from his being right about Carlton, and was trying to find fault in him somehow. “It’s one of the family businesses. Granddaddy always expected it to be the only family business, but my dad had different ideas.”
After two years of college, Buford Rodney had ditched the life he was expected to live and moved to Honeysuckle Hill to marry his college sweetheart and open the garage. Granddaddy never had quite gotten over his son’s decision, especially when Buford’s teenage brother died in a car wreck a year later, dashing the older man’s hopes for a legacy—until the day Beau was born.
“So how does Granddaddy feel about you working here now?”
Beau shrugged, unwilling to delve into that conversation. Instead, he skipped straight to the end result of their argument. “He understands the necessity. He’s holding off his retirement for another year so that he can still take me under his wing when I start work with them. He doesn’t want the letterhead to change when he leaves, if you know what I mean.”
She threw him a wry look. “I grew up in Birmingham, the city built on nepotism and legacies. Of course I know what you mean.”
“You say that with such affection,” he said, sarcasm coating the words. “Sorry if not everyone has to start a business from scratch. You should be proud of Hart of Dixie, but there’s no reason to be smug.”
He tossed the empty bottle in the recycle bin and leaned back over the engine. He didn’t have the specialized computer equipment needed to instantly diagnose the problem, so he had no choice but to do this the hard way. Not how he’d intended to spend his evening. He didn’t mind the daily grind of working on cars—he’d been raised at his father’s elbow, after all—but he couldn’t wait to get back to the Chevy. He was so close to finishing that baby, he could taste it.
He realized then that there was no sharp retort or snide comeback to his comment. Cautiously, he lifted his head and glanced toward Delaney. She stood there, her jaw tight and her eyes hooded, looking like a wax figure of herself. He stepped back and straightened to his full height, instantly wary. It hit him in a flash. She was moving. By herself. Without a moving truck full of fancy, monogrammable knickknacks.
“Aw hell, Delaney, what—?”
“You know what?” she interrupted, her voice perceptibly tight. “I’m going to go back to the office so you can concentrate on my car. Otherwise, neither one of us are ever going to get out of here.”
“Delaney, wait,” he said, grabbing for her arm.
She jumped back as though he might burn her. “Dammit, Beau, don’t get that grease all over me. You do what you do, and I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
With that she retreated to the office, leaving nothing but the lingering scent of vanilla and a whole lot of questions. Well, that was fine with him. Turning his whole attention to the car, he got back to work. With any luck, he’d have her on her way before either one of them could say something they regretted.