by Mary Campisi
“Now.”
Carter made no effort to spare his waitress-lover discomfort or humiliation by collecting her clothes for her. Oh, no, when caught with his hands where they didn’t belong—or rather, his male parts where they had no business being—he’d grown more docile than a kitten. Mindy scurried off the bed, her thin body crouching to cover her nakedness as she located a red lace thong, a padded bra, a dress, and a sandal. She tossed the dress over her head, shimmied it into place, but not before Camille spotted the rose vine tattoo trailing down her right side.
Was that what turned Carter on? Tattoos on skinny girls half his age? Or was it the hero worship they showed him? Ridiculous! Whatever the reason, he’d have every opportunity to work it out in therapy.
“I can’t find my sandal,” the girl said, fixing her gaze on the silk flower in Camille’s lapel.
“If I locate it, I’ll have it sent to you at the diner.” She eyed the red underwear and lone sandal in the girl’s hands. “Come with me.” Camille moved toward the master bedroom door, opened it, and ushered the girl out.
“Mrs. Alexander, could you give me a second to put on my undies?”
If this were not the most pitiful and humiliating moment in Camille’s life, she might have burst out laughing. Her husband’s lover wanted a moment to slip into her underwear? The underwear she’d removed to have sex with Camille’s husband? “No, Mindy, I can’t. I’m sure you’re used to getting in and out of them in all sorts of places and are quite adept at it.” Did the girl even know what the word adept meant? Oh, Carter, why have you done this to me? I will make you pay. “Now come along. You’d best leave before I decide to call the police and report you for breaking and entering.” Of course, she’d never do such a thing. That would require some sort of explanation that didn’t involve a naked husband and his lover in the marital bed. Even Carter’s silver tongue wouldn’t get him out of that one since most of the town knew about him and his little Cherry Top Diner waitress.
If the girl had just kept her mouth shut for fifteen more seconds, Camille would have closed the door to the mansion and felt a bit of vindication for the humiliation she’d experienced. But no, pond scum was still pond scum, even if you scooped it out and transferred it to a crystal-clear swimming pool.
Carter’s sex toy stepped through the massive door, turned. She looked rather laughable with her tangled mop of wild hair, her smeared mascara, and red unmentionables. Oh, and the lone sandal dangling from her fingers. That was enough for a good chuckle until she squared her bony shoulders, her pale face a flush of pink, and hurled an obscenity that chilled Camille. “You can walk around your fancy house in your uptown clothes and big diamonds, but Carter loves me. Me,” she said, jabbing her chest with a pink-chipped fingernail. “And we’re going to have a baby and there’s nothing you can do about it!”
Chapter 5
Charlotte munched on a slice of peanut butter toast and scanned the paper.
Housekeeper: must be neat, punctual, and discreet. Apply to P.O. Box 162, c/o The Reunion Gap Press with references.
Bakery assistant: previous experience in a bakery preferred, but will train. 4:00 a.m. start time. Apply in person at Ronnie’s Sweet Treats & More.
Bartender: previous experience a must. Apply in person at The Oak Table.
There were three other possibilities: a delivery person for the local flower shop, an auto mechanic, and a live-in babysitter. She supposed she could fit into any of these positions if she had to, except for the live-in babysitter gig. That would be a hard one to pull off, especially since she’d never babysat anything other than a four-legged baby. She rubbed her jaw, wondered if there were any positions involving dogs. That would be something she’d be interested in. Dog walker? Dog sitter? Dog companion?
The excessive thinking was going to give her a headache. Ugh. When she lived in Nashville, she’d rolled from one day to the next, not worrying about how long a job would last, when she could pay off a bill, or why happiness always eluded her. She didn’t think about those things, or maybe it was more that she wouldn’t let herself think about them. Just keep moving in and out of life, too fast to stop and contemplate. That had been her motto.
But now she’d landed in Reunion Gap, her home, and the place of too many memories.
She had to clear her head and get some exercise or her brain would explode. Charlotte folded the newspaper and set it aside, then she tossed on an old pair of sweats and a T-shirt, grabbed the keys Rogan had given his mother to his new home, and headed out the door. She’d thought of walking the mile and a half to Rogan and Elizabeth’s house, but traipsing along a country road on the outskirts of town held no appeal, so she hopped into her sports car, popped in a CD, and cruised down the road.
Life didn’t have to be so complicated. It could be easy. Simple.
By the time she reached the two-story house with the wraparound front porch, she’d convinced herself that maybe what she needed was an objective viewpoint from someone who’d lived life on his own terms and found peace with that life—someone like Uncle Oliver. Maybe he could give her insight into why she couldn’t stay put or take a clean breath of air without thinking about what came next. And when she talked to him, maybe he’d admit to whatever was going on between him and Jennifer Merrick.
Charlotte pulled into the gravel driveway leading to Rogan and Elizabeth’s home and parked the car. She’d visited his penthouse in Los Angeles years ago, and it was nothing like the two-story that stared back at her, in desperate need of paint and a good washing. Off to the side, a few feet away, stood a sad-looking garage that required a lot more than paint and a scrubbing. The penthouse in Los Angeles had been pristine and upscale with its designer furniture and fancy paintings, and Rogan’s fiancée had been beautiful, classy, and resembled an ice statue. Charlotte studied the peeling paint, the shutters, the sagging steps. If she closed one eye, she guessed the place had potential. But it would be the memories that would make it beautiful, and as the years passed and their family grew, it would be the memories that would shine.
Their first home. Their first child. Maybe their first dog.
Charlotte had spent years running from her family and a life she didn’t want to claim, but maybe she’d been running from the life that belonged to her, the one she had no right to deny.
And maybe it was time to stop running and accept her life, her decisions, even her mistakes.
She walked up the front stairs, fit the key into the old lock, and eased the door open. The smell of cleaning products, lavender, and a hint of cinnamon reached her the second she stepped inside. Wedding gifts lay stacked on a table in the corner. A vase of wilting red roses sat in the center of the table, and alongside it were several wedding cards. Charlotte glanced at them, noticed the one on top that read, “To my Wife.” She inched it open, swallowed hard when she read her brother’s words. Dear Elizabeth, love of my life, mother of my child. I love you today, I will love you always. Let’s walk hand in hand and make this life together. Rogan.
She closed the card and headed for the front door. Whatever work she had to do could be done from the outside. The inside held too much intimacy, too many secrets that were not hers to know. Why did they make her so uncomfortable? Was it because she felt like an intruder, or because she’d never known that level of intimacy? Maybe it was a little of both. Charlotte made her way to the garage, unlocked the side door, and spotted the riding lawn mower. It was a perfect day to cut grass and gather leaves, and the riding mower would make the job easy. This was definitely something she could handle. Her father had taught her how to navigate a riding mower when she was ten and had called her a natural. Charlotte opened the garage door, filled the gas tank, and hopped on the mower. For the next two hours, she thought of nothing but the sweet smell of cut grass and the fall breeze on her skin. She’d just finished trimming the bushes and had downed a bottle of water when a silver Mercedes sedan eased up the driveway. Charlotte flipped her sunglasses on top of her h
ead, stared. How many people in Reunion Gap drove Mercedes sedans?
Only one.
Tate Alexander eased out of the sedan, dressed in tan slacks and a navy polo shirt. Did the man not own a pair of sweat pants? He moved toward the front porch where she sat, covered in sweat and grass stains, and said, “Your mother said you were here.”
Of course, she did. Rose Donovan, the determined matchmaker, would not think twice about revealing her daughter’s whereabouts to someone she considered a potential suitor. And no doubt about it, her mother considered the man a candidate to get a ring on her daughter’s finger. “No surprise there.” Charlotte eyed him. “You really need to ignore my mother, or she’ll start monogramming our bath towels.” He grinned, took a seat beside her on the porch step, far enough away so as not to intrude on her personal space, but close enough so she could smell him and see the dark flecks in his silver eyes.
“She wants to see her children happy; there’s no harm in that, is there?”
His voice spilled over her like warm honey. Charlotte scooted away, leaned against the base of the wraparound porch. “There’s harm when the other party doesn’t want to be involved.”
Tate rubbed his jaw, said in a quiet voice, “Right. Jason.” His gaze slid to her lips, hovered a second too long, darted back to her eyes. “I keep forgetting about him.”
Charlotte shrugged. “That’s because you haven’t met him yet. Trust me, he’s—” she paused, let out a long, slow sigh “—truly unforgettable.” She didn’t miss the twitch on the left side of his jaw or the way his lips pulled into a frown. Tate Alexander didn’t like hearing about Jason or the implication that the man was perfect.
Now why was that?
Was it pure male ego, or was there another reason?
“So—” she tapped her water bottle against her knee, eyed him “—was there a reason you tracked me down?” She raised a brow, smiled. “I’m guessing it wasn’t just to check out my latest designer duds.” Did the man always have to look so dang perfect? No sweat stains, no messy hair, no blemishes. Ugh. It was just ridiculous and another reason someone like that could not be trusted to give up his heart to someone like her.
Tate laughed. “I like your duds.” His silver gaze narrowed on the wet spots under her armpits. “Very…natural.” Another laugh and a shake of his head. “But I didn’t come to talk about fashion—”
“Or the lack of it?”
His smile faded. “You’ve got fashion and style, Charlotte Donovan, and don’t let anyone ever tell you any different.”
“Oh. Well.” Heat burst onto her cheeks, spread to her ears. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “I came to ask you a question.” He paused, leaned toward her, and said in a serious voice, “Are you looking for a job?”
Darn, had her mother told him about the collection calls? It was only twice, and she’d been making payments. How humiliating. “Why would you ask that? Do I look like I need money?” She followed his gaze as he took in her worn sweats and stained T-shirt. “People don’t do work in designer outfits,” she huffed. “At least not the ones I know.” Of course, the Alexanders wouldn’t have a clue because they didn’t subscribe to manual labor unless it was hired out, and those people wore uniforms.
“Like I said, you’ve got fashion and style, no matter what you’re wearing, or not…”
He cleared his throat, as though that last part had slipped out before he could stop it. The splash of red on his cheeks that followed said he hadn’t intended to imply she had fashion and style, with or without clothes. Goodness! Visions of that night in Chicago swirled through her brain, his perfect body covering hers, a combination of muscle and leanness…and those hands. Would she ever forget the gentleness of his touch? Or the look on his face when he—
“Charlotte?”
“Huh?” She blinked twice, tried to focus on a fully clothed Tate Alexander instead of the naked one sliding through her memories. One more blink and the naked memory vanished to the corner of her brain, where it would remain until she called it out again.
“What’s wrong?” Worry covered his face, filtered through his words. “You look like you’re going to faint. Let me get some water.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Really.” That was so not true. She had been fine until he showed up and her brain insisted on jaunting down memory lane to that night in Chicago. No woman slept with a man like Tate Alexander and expected him to commit to more than a night. Okay, maybe she would have been able to get him to stick around for two nights, but more than that? Not happening.
But that hadn’t been her plan at all. No, silly her, she’d believed the key to erasing him from her brain and her heart was to sleep with him and then be done. Ha, what a ridiculous notion! She caught him studying her as though he could see inside her head. “I’m fine,” she said, forcing out the words.
He held up his hands, shrugged. “Okay, you’re fine.” Pause, followed by a curious, “Why are you cutting your brother’s grass?”
“I wanted to surprise him, and I needed something to do.”
“Ah, well, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” His lips twitched. “I know I would if Meredith cut my grass while I was on my honeymoon.” Those silver eyes glittered. “But with a new wife, I’m not sure he’ll notice. I’ve heard love will do that to a man.”
Charlotte swallowed, tried to speak, and couldn’t form a single word. Hearing the man she’d never gotten over talk about honeymoons and love stole her logic and common sense. She pinched the bridge of her nose, blinked, and tried again. This time, a few words inched out. “Meredith doesn’t even know what a lawn mower is, let alone how to use one.” Her brain began synapsing and spat out more words. “Have you ever cut grass? On a rider or with a push mower?” The look on his face gave her the answer she’d expected. More words spilled out. “Of course not. You know, there’s more to life than just writing a check.” The last part was meant as a joke, but the narrowed gaze and the frown that went with it said Tate didn’t find it humorous.
“Right.”
“I…I was only joking.” She bit her bottom lip, tried again. “I know you’re aware that life isn’t all about money. I mean, it’s obvious you’ve got loads of the stuff, but you don’t really act that way. At least, not any more than most people born into money.” The brackets on either side of his mouth deepened and he sat very still. Not good. She’d insulted him and his fancy upbringing, even though she hadn’t meant to. “Let me try again. My family doesn’t have money. Never had it, probably never will, and that’s okay. It’s just how it is. Would we like to not have to worry about our car payments or how to pay for groceries and the gas bill in mid-February? Of course. And how about that vacation to Hawaii? It sure would be nice to hop on a plane and sit in the first-class section for once.” She brushed bits of leaf from her sweats, worked up a smile. “And get waited on first, too. I’d order a strawberry mojito.” The smile spread. “Mmm. Delicious.”
“You want to go to Hawaii?”
Was that an invitation or a question? Either way, the answer was no. “Of course not. I mean, of course, I want to go, but it’s never going to happen.” Not in a thousand years, even though she’d collected every brochure she could find on the place since she was sixteen.
“Hawaii’s beautiful,” he said in a voice stuffed with sadness and what sounded like yearning.
Yearning for what? And sadness? Why would he be sad? “So, you’ve been?” What a silly question. How would he know it was beautiful if he hadn’t visited? She bet he’d been there more than once, probably at least twice. His next words confirmed her guess.
“Three times.”
“Wow.” Three times. She couldn’t even imagine what that must be like. “Wow,” she said again.
He lifted a shoulder as though it were no big deal. “It would have meant more if I’d been with somebody I really cared about.”
Oh. Of course. Why would she think Tate Alexander would jaunt across the cou
ntry to beautiful places with someone he actually cared about? Then he wouldn’t be a playboy, would he? “I see. Well, I wouldn’t want to go there with somebody I didn’t really care about,” she said, mimicking his words. She pictured the kind of woman he’d invite to Hawaii: model-tall, blonde, super-thin—everything she wasn’t. Charlotte sat up straight, clasped her hands over her knees, and asked the question she had no business asking. “Why would you go to a place like that with somebody you didn’t care about?”
“Because I couldn’t admit the person I really wanted to be with might not feel the same way.” Those silver eyes pierced her heart. “And if she did, she’d expect me to open up and share, and I wasn’t ready to do that. It was easier to pretend I didn’t care, or at least I thought it would be.” He rubbed his jaw, let out a long sigh. “I was wrong.”
There were a lot of mixed messages and unspoken meanings in his words, but Charlotte wasn’t about to try and decipher them. Not with this man. Still, could he have been talking about her? The way his eyes narrowed and sparked when he looked at her made her pulse jump. There was too much she didn’t trust about the man, starting with his smooth-talking ways and the charming smile that had women falling all over him. A player, as her brother Luke would say. Of course, he’d know because word had it Luke was a player, too. Well, she was not going to be one of those women. “I hope the next time you go to Hawaii, you take someone you care about,” she said.
“I hope so, too.”
And then, he cleared his throat and changed the subject, as if there weren’t hundreds of unanswered questions left. “So, do you want to start earning money for Hawaii?”
“What?”
“If you’re sticking around, you’ll need a job, and I sure could use the help.” He paused, his lips pulling into a smile. “Why don’t you come and work with me?”
Was he serious? Work with him? “You’re kidding, right? You and I can’t be in the same room with each other; I doubt we’d would work well together.” The man had ideas—she’d give him that. Crazy ones, but ideas nonetheless.