You'll Always Have Tara

Chapter Twenty-four

Aidan drops me off at the castle. I don’t see him the rest of the day, but I wake the next morning to find a CD on the floor in front of the connecting door, a folded piece of paper taped to the plastic case.

I remove the note and smile when I see the CD is a copy of “Casual Sex in the Cineplex” by the Sultans of Ping—an original copy, from the look of the cracked, scuffed jewel case. I flip the case over and, sure enough, “Where’s Me Jumper” is listed as one of the tracks.

I open the note. I have never seen Aidan’s handwriting, but the bold, energetic scrawl seems familiar somehow. Maybe not familiar, but fitting. Bold, energetic handwriting for a bold, energetic man.

I found this CD in one of my old trunks and thought you might like it since you’re already a huge fan of “Where’s Me Jumper.” I was always fond of “Kick Me with Your Leather Boots,” but I think you’ll enjoy “Karaoke Queen.” I lost the liner notes ages ago. You can google the lyrics to learn the words. I look forward to another of your Bathtub Concerts—less bubbles this time, yeah?

Affectionately—which is a wee bit more than fondly,

I am back in bed, reading Aidan’s note for the third time, when someone knocks on my door. I practically leap out of bed when I hear Miss Belle’s rolling voice in my head.

Grace and poise, Miss Maxwell, the anchors that keep a young lady from drifting into disgrace.

I am still wearing my pajamas—a silky, see-through chemise I bought at a lingerie boutique in Charleston called Bits of Lace—so I pull my robe out of the wardrobe and slip it on. It’s a fluffy white fleece robe like the kind they have at fancy spas, with a big cursive T embroidered in pink thread. Emma Lee gave it to me last Christmas along with a pair of lipstick-pink faux-fur slippers. I left the slippers at home, because I have an extremely low tolerance for the color pink. I can only stomach so much of the nauseating color before I’m reaching for the ipecac.

I take several poise-restoring breaths before I pull the door open, slow and graceful-like. I expect Aidan to be standing in the hallway, but it’s Sin. He’s wearing a gray flannel three-piece suit and a slow-burning, dimple-coaxing smile. The top two buttons of his crisp gray shirt are open, revealing a sexy V of smooth tanned skin, and he has one arm behind his back.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, looking at my bed-head hair and bare feet. “Are we still on for lunch or has another Prince Charming swept you off your feet in my absence?”

He pulls his arm out from behind his back revealing a giant bouquet of frail, paper-thin pale pink peonies wrapped with a white velvet bow and my heart skips a guilty beat.

Tell him. Tell him you spent the night with Aidan.

Hush! A lady doesn’t kiss and tell. Besides, spending the night with Aidan didn’t change one damn thing. Didn’t he say—just as plain as day—that he couldn’t be your Prince Charming?

“Are those for me?” I say, stalling for time.

Sin looks around, frowning in confusion.

“Did another fairytale princess move into Tásúildun while I was in London?”

I laugh. “Be careful Rhys Sinjin Burroughes. I’m Southern born and raised, which means I have a genetic deficiency making it damn near impossible for me to resist flattery.”

“Flattery?” He slaps his hand to his chest. “You wound me. Mortally. Flattery is insincere praise, while my praise is quite sincere, I assure you.”

Damn you, Miss Belle! For all your schooling on grace and poise, you didn’t teach me a thing about how to respond when a fan-your-face gorgeous man shows up at your door wearing a Dolce and Gabanna suit that hugs him in all the sinful places, or what to do when you find yourself the object of affection for not one, but two dashing beaux!

I thank Sin for the flowers and promise him I will be ready to go to lunch in an hour—an hour and a half, tops. Then, I close my door and lean against it before I fall to the floor in a fit of vapors.

I grab my phone off the nightstand and dash off a group text.

To Emma Lee Maxwell; Manderley Maxwell de Maloret:

Hypothetically speaking, let’s say you were attracted to two men. Let’s say one of them was named Aidan, a sweet, strong, silent type who made you think of picket fences, even though he made it clear he wasn’t the marrying type. Now, let’s just say the other one was named Sin, a tall, dark charmer, who brought you expensive bouquets and made you think of naughty nights. If you were stuck smack dab in the middle of two men, which one would you choose?

Showered and delicately spritzed with my favorite perfume, I am putting the finishing touches on my face when my iPhone chimes.

Text from Emma Lee Maxwell:

Need more information. What kind of flowers? What color?

Text to Emma Lee Maxwell:

Text from Emma Lee Maxwell:

Pink peonies? Ooh, choose Sin.

I laugh. Leave it to my baby sister, the professional matchmaker, to get to the very center of a perplexing matter of the heart. I send her a kissy face emoji and go back to applying my second coat of mascara.

I take a cue from Sin in choosing my outfit—a black Raf Simons for Dior sheath dress and matching jacket. With the jacket on, it looks almost prim. The perfect Sunday dinner ensemble. Without the jacket, it’s all curves and cutout back. I finish my look with the two carat diamond stud earrings my daddy gave me as my high school graduation gift and slip my feet into the black Louboutins I wore when I filmed news segments for WCSC (an impulsive first-paycheck splurge, back when I foolishly believed Daddy would always be around to supplement my income).

I look in the mirror and feel a queasy kind of sickness, the queasy kind of sickness I used to feel before Grayson would pick me up to take me to the Carolinian Debutante Ball or the Charleston Rose Ball. I smooth my jacket and tell myself it’s only nerves. Just a pesky old case of the nerves, that’s all.

Maybe it’s your body’s way of telling you that you’re acting as phony as stinky, old Maribelle Cravath, with her fake as Splenda greetings and false smiles, because, let’s face it, dahlin’, you are not a lady-who-brunches-in-Louboutins kinda girl. Never have been, never will be. What was that your daddy used to say about people trying to be something they weren’t? Oh yeah. You can put pearls on a pig and call her Miss Petunia, but she’s still a pig.

The thing about hateful little voices inside your head? They’re just like pigs in pearls, you can’t trust ’em one darn bit.

I stick my tongue out at the girl in the mirror, just in case the hateful little voice in her head is looking, then grab my iPhone and purse and head out the door.

I am halfway down the stairs when my phone chimes again.

Text from Manderley Maxwell de Maloret:

Aidan. You have to respect a man honest enough to tell you what he’s willing to offer, even if it’s less than what you hope for. A well-tailored suit and expensive bouquet can hide a multitude of sins (excuse the pun).