by Liz Talley
“A doorman? In Shreveport?”
“Well, more like a security guard but, yeah, total uptown.” He shoveled in a few more mouthfuls of peas and chewed thoughtfully. “It would be great for a woman like you—career-focused and single. They’ll be upscale and safe, so you might want to check into it.”
He thought of her as a single career gal? Something about that idea struck a chord in her. Moving off the farm and into a more manageable patio home had felt like conceding to her age and lack of a man in her life, as if she were admitting that the house she’d lived in for twenty-three years was too much for her to take care of alone. Daphne had consoled herself with the fact she was being practical and giving herself that blank slate for a new life. Clay made her sound . . . smart, successful, and not so on the shelf. Like the heroine of her own life, rather than a stuffy children’s author who hadn’t gotten laid in over two years. “I’ve already put money down on a place, but I think that sounds like a great project. Always good to bring new life to downtown.”
“Yeah.” He swiped the last bite of corn bread into the remaining juice left by the peas and popped it into his mouth. “That was incredible. You’re a terrific cook.”
Daphne looked at her own plate. She’d barely touched anything despite professing she’d been starving. Her stomach felt too jittery. She pulled a piece of corn bread free and popped it into her mouth. The buttery goodness wasn’t what she wanted.
Clay pushed back his chair and went into the kitchen. “More wine?”
She looked at the one sip left in her glass.
Remember: two-glass limit, sugar britches.
“Sure,” she said, eating a few more bites so he didn’t notice she’d barely eaten. “I made a chocolate pie, too.”
“Lord, woman, you’re spoiling me. I usually eat Subway or pick up a salad from Whole Foods most days,” Clay said, returning with the bottle and filling her glass nearly to the top. He sat down and poured the same amount into his. For a few minutes, they both sipped the crisp wine and allowed words to remain unspoken. Daphne tried not to down the wine too fast, but her nerves were back. Or maybe they hadn’t left. She knew exactly what she’d allowed to happen by inviting Clay to dinner. Maybe she was setting this up on a subconscious level—her inner “goddess” putting all the pieces where she wanted them. So she could have exactly what she desired.
Or maybe she was thinking too damn much. The wine warmed her, curled around her like an old friend, making her feel mellow and a little sleepy. She took the last sip and set the empty glass down like a statement.
Clay set his own empty glass on the table, his eyes on her. “You know, I just don’t get something.”
“What?”
“Why are you out here all alone? A woman like you is the total package—smart, beautiful, successful, and”—he tapped his plate with the tines of his fork—“a good cook. I don’t know how Rex let you get away and why someone else hasn’t already snapped you up.”
Daphne blinked several times, trying to think how to answer that loaded question. Total package? Felt more like she was a banged-up box in the return cart behind the counter. A last-season return that would be immediately tossed into the clearance section . . . or maybe she’d clung to that notion because it was safe to feel that way. After all, she’d had men show interest, but that was only after they found out who she was.
Oh, she was no celebrity in this area. People in North Louisiana were more apt to know the name of amateur dirt-bike racers than they would a local author. Still, she’d gotten a lot of press with the Disney deal, and that brought some fellas out who would normally not look her way. Opportunists weren’t what she was looking for, so she’d ignored any overtures and focused on her career while giving her heart time to “get right” before diving into something.
But Clay wasn’t like those guys. If anything, he was quite the opposite, with his unassuming manner, boundless enthusiasm, and generous compliments. Still, he was not the right guy to jump back into the dating pool with. Or whatever pool they were skirting around, occasionally dipping a toe into.
She folded her napkin next to her plate. “You’re sweet, Clay, but in December I’ll turn forty years old, and in case you’re not up to speed, that’s not what most single guys my age look for in a woman. Men my age want pretty, young things.”
Clay tilted his head, reminding her of Jonas, who was in the laundry room and would have to be fed shortly or he’d start barking incessantly. “Are you crazy? Of course men want women like you. You don’t play games or use guys to get free drinks or tickets to Dierks Bentley. You don’t take constant selfies in a bikini or kiss every guy at the lake because you drank too many vodka tonics. No, you’re independent, smart, beautiful. If guys your age don’t want women like you, there are other guys who do. Guys who are fed up with dating immature, shallow women. Guys like me.”
Daphne had wondered why Clay had been flirting with her. Now she understood. He was tired of swimming in his own dating pool. Still, his words were too much for her to handle. Oh, they were good words . . . words she’d secretly wanted to hear, but still dangerous. “I think you’re painting me as something I’m not.”
Pushing back her chair, she grabbed her plate and started for the kitchen. As she rounded the table, he reached over and laid a hand on her arm. “Hey, I’m not blowing smoke up your ass, Daphne.”
She raised her gaze to his. He looked sincere, God help him. “Sugar, I know you’re trying to make me feel good about my husband leaving me and then finding someone younger and . . . uh, bouncier . . . lickety-split. Like I said, it’s sweet, but—”
Clay’s laugh interrupted her. “Are you kidding? I’m not being sweet. I’m trying to get in your pants, Daphne. Maybe you aren’t up to speed on how this works, but let me fill you in. A guy forgets to tell his brother about dinner, and then he prays Ellery and her fancy fiancé are too busy to show. Then he uses as many ways as he can to let the woman he’s been thinking about for weeks know he wants her. He brings her wine, compliments her cooking, and maybe pours a little too much extra in her glass, hoping that it loosens her up a little. He tries to make her understand that he wants her . . . and he prays she lets him”—he took the plate from her hand and set it on the table—“kiss her.”
He tugged her toward him.
“Clay, I don’t think—”
“That’s the problem, Daph. You’re thinking.” He stood, quick as a cat or some other really fast animal. A puma. A striking snake. Something dangerous and sexy slamming into her with intention. Clay cupped the back of her neck, and she looked up at him. His blue eyes were half-lidded, and they were studying her lips. He lowered his head, and when he was a mere inch or two from her lips, he whispered, “How about we don’t think?”
Then he kissed her.
Clay Caldwell kissed her, and damned if her knees didn’t buckle at the rush of hunger unleashed inside her body. The torso beneath his T-shirt was rock hard. This was no Rex, soft and slightly pudgy. No, this was a fantasy . . . a young, hot, hard man who knew how to kiss a woman.
The hand he’d rested on her lower back moved down, hauling her body closer to his. The fingers at her nape exerted slight pressure, tilting her head so he could deepen the kiss. His tongue invaded, causing something hot and slithery to invade her belly. No, not her belly. Lower. Deliciously lower.
He used his mouth to punish and then tease, gently sucking at her bottom lip before deepening the kiss.
Daphne, held hostage by the desire rampaging like Godzilla ripping through a city, could do nothing more than knot her hand in his shirt and hold on.
The alarm on her phone dinged. Feed Jonas.
Daphne tore her mouth from the delicious assault. “Clay, wait. Stop.”
He did. “What’s wrong?”
“We can’t. We have to stop.” Daphne released his shirt and pressed the wrinkles out. Her ragged breaths matched his, and she was certain her body was calling her a total idiot for halting what had
been the best thing it had felt since . . . forever.
Clay sank down into his chair. “Okay.”
Okay?
“It’s just that this is crazy. I’m too old for you. You used to date Ellery.”
He made a face. “Yeah, in high school. And we went out, like, three times.”
Daphne rubbed a hand over her chest. Her heart was pounding, her nipples were hard, and the throb in her pelvis hadn’t faded. She was primed like a Formula 500 engine waiting to tear around the track. “Still. This is a bad idea. You’re my contractor.”
“We’re both adults, and it’s just sex.”
Just sex.
Daphne ran an unsteady hand through her hair. “Uh . . . um, how about some chocolate pie?”
Jesus, she was so lame. How about some pie? What kind of dorky, lame-ass woman who needed to have multiple orgasms yesterday turned down hot, no-strings-attached sex with a guy like Clay? The man had abs of steel, sexy blue eyes, and wanted to do her. And instead of shucking her drawers and climbing aboard, she’d offered him dessert.
Clay’s mouth twitched. “Sure. I like pie.”
Daphne all but bolted for the kitchen, thankful for the swinging door and what it could hide. She leaned over, clasped her knees, and pulled in three deep breaths.
This was crazy and she couldn’t do it. She wanted to. She really, really wanted to be the kind of person who said to hell with it and let things take their course. But she was Daphne Witt, former secretary of the PTA, current children’s author, and soprano in the Saint Peter’s Episcopal Church choir. She couldn’t. It would be so wrong.
So, so, so wrong.
But Clay could probably go all night, not the usual five minutes of thrusting before ejaculating and then rolling over and falling into a chain saw snore. She knew this from his kiss and the way he’d moved his hands slowly. He hadn’t ground his pelvis into hers or rushed through the kiss so he could get right down to business. No, he was a pro.
He’d be good at sex. She knew this like she knew her checkbook would balance. Some things were sure bets.
Daphne straightened, opened the refrigerator, and removed the pie she’d baked that afternoon. Before she closed the door, she grabbed the second bottle of the white blend Ellery had brought by. Just one more glass, and then she’d shoo Clay out. Tell him she had to be in bed early because she had to take her father to the doctor tomorrow.
Exactly. She was a responsible, decent, God-fearing woman who wasn’t going to let her passions rule her decisions.
Even if she really wanted to.
CHAPTER SIX
Dear Miss O’Hara,
Sometimes I like to create fantasies, too. I know what you mean about reality being tough. I’m thirty-five years old and still can’t believe all the things I’ve been through in my life—a change in career, the death of my wife, the Dallas Cowboys losing to the Redskins. Just kidding about the last one. I’m over it. Mostly. But I get you. Sometimes you just want life to be easy and pretty, the way it is in the movies. But there’s something good about those bad times. They shape us and make us into something we never thought we would be. I’ve learned these lessons as a wine grower. Timing is everything. When to harvest, when to lower temperatures, when to leave the grape on the vine. Every decision has a consequence, but you won’t know the result until you uncork the bottle. Reality can be sweet, but sometimes you don’t realize it until you look back.
Best,
Evan
Ellery looked up from her phone and surveyed the display she had been working on for the last ten minutes. It was lacking . . . something.
“Hey, Rach, the new gloves are on the back shelf. I think it would be better to move them to this table. Will you grab them? Oh, and then can you fetch the hand forms from the back? We’ll use those crocheted Loro Piana gloves on one, and the long Sacai striped on the other.” Ellery shoved her phone into her pocket as Rachel went to fetch the gloves. She and Rachel Maneri swapped out working boutique and accessories, and because they were a good twenty years younger than any other salesclerk, they’d bonded quickly.
Ellery scooted the white marble table with the gilded legs away from the aisle. She’d used a half-torso mannequin and wound a soft angora shawl around the form, securing one of the flaps high on the shoulder with a Gas Bijoux crystal insect pin. A fuchsia Inverni cashmere beanie sat atop at a jaunty angle.
Rachel set the box down, and Ellery looked at her new friend. “What do you think?”
“It doesn’t look very fallish,” Rachel said, eyeing the display Ellery had created. “Shouldn’t we use fall colors?”
Ellery rolled her eyes and faked a French accent. “Oh, darling, you’re so provincial.”
“Well, excuse me. I didn’t go to design school. Whoop-dee-doo.”
Ellery laughed. “Point taken, but you don’t have to go to design school to see that sometimes a punch of the unexpected draws attention, makes the customer feel whimsical, fashionable, and daring. But you’re not wrong—an element of fall would be good. What about those fluorescent pumpkins? Those could be funky and sexy at the same time.”
Rachel looked at her like she’d gotten into the cooking sherry. “Oooh-kay.”
Ellery closed her eyes momentarily and took a moment to miss being with her design friends from college. They would have totally understood what she meant.
But she couldn’t blame Rachel for thinking her pairings odd. After all, Rachel majored in accounting or something else number oriented. Right from the beginning Rachel had remarked on the silliness of high fashion and said she worked at Selber’s only because her grandmother, who worked in bridal registry, had gotten her a job over the summer. Summer had faded into autumn, and Rachel decided she could handle a part-time job and school, even though she thought everything in the store was overpriced and ridiculously frivolous.
For some reason Ellery’s mind drifted back to Faux-Hawk and his assessment of her. So she appreciated couture? The Ralph Lauren, Diane von Furstenberg, Carolina Herrera, and Stella McCartney collections often made her stop in her tracks and trace the satin seams or brush the fine wool. Nothing wrong with liking nice things. Or Minnie Mouse.
Rachel trudged to the back for the hand forms. The store had closed to customers fifteen minutes before, and Ellery still hadn’t heard from Josh. It was Thursday night, and she’d ordered him to pull away from studying long enough to meet her at Sutton’s Steakhouse for a drink before the bar closed. She’d used a sexy Bitmoji and then an actual Snapchat of her giving him a Marilyn Monroe–worthy pout. But he hadn’t responded.
Her stomach growled.
“Hungry?” Rachel asked, plonking down the hand forms, grabbing the striped glove, and threading it onto the longer form.
Ellery pressed a hand against her stomach. After she’d left the vineyard, she’d found a protein bar in her glove box and had that for lunch. She thought about the scents in her mother’s kitchen when she dropped off the wine, taking the stupid money for it even though she’d told herself she wouldn’t. But when your mom held out three twenty-dollar bills with a smile that said “Whatever you want, baby,” it was hard not to snatch the cash and make excuses for why she took it. The wine had been good, but the memory of Gage the barkeep’s knowing smirk and the way he’d looked down on her like she was some silly piece of frippery had soured her. Not to mention the whole reason why she’d gone—snooping around a guy she had no business snooping around. “Yeah, I’m starving.”
“You want to go over to Jason’s Deli when we’re done here? I think they’re open until nine thirty.”
Ellery didn’t want a salad and iced tea. She wanted vodka and her fiancé. Her face must have portrayed that.
“If you don’t want to, no biggie. It’s not like I can’t meet up with my friends.” Rachel’s defensive words were drizzled with hurt. Rachel had been a few years behind Ellery in school, and she vaguely remembered her as slightly emo, a little nerdy, and totally disdainful of the cool set, o
f which Ellery was one. So any hint of a slight was met with defensiveness. Ellery understood. She remembered high school and what a war zone it had felt like sometimes. No one came out unscathed.
Even her. Hadn’t the only boy she’d truly crushed on made her look like a fool? Clay’s betrayal had hurt more than she’d ever told anyone. She’d been a sophomore and he a senior, and as the bomb dot com of high school, Clay had been “the” guy to hook and reel in. For months she’d tried to get his attention at weekend parties, but he’d always been wrapped up in older girls. Then she’d worn a half shirt with shorty shorts to the lake, and he’d homed in on her. Lord, he’d been fine as a fox, so Ellery had tumbled hard for him. When he’d cheated on her with that skank cheerleader, her heart had spider-cracked, and her ego had plummeted from the penthouse to a dirty tenement in Loserville.
That was why it was hard to be nice to Clay now. For him, it was water under the bridge. For her, it was still a stinging dam of hurt that held back forgiveness.
“I know you can, Rach. I just miss Josh, is all. I asked him to meet me at Sutton’s, and he hasn’t texted me back yet.” Even as she uttered the words, she knew she sounded vulnerable—something she despised being. She didn’t want anyone to see her cracks. But at her admission, Rachel’s gaze softened.
“He’s still studying all the time, huh? That sucks.” Rachel pulled the stack of cashmere wraps from the box at her feet. “Maybe you should surprise him at school. Take him some cookies or cupcakes or something like that.”
Ellery tilted her head. “That’s not a bad idea. If the mountain won’t come to me, I’ll go to Muhammad.”
Rachel snorted. “You may have gotten that backward, but, yeah, go to him. He’ll know how much you miss him.”
“Rain check for Jason’s? You know I love their chicken salad,” Ellery said.