Southern Charm & Second Chances (The Savannah Sisters Book 2)

by Nancy Robards Thompson

  She thought about taking it to him at his apartment, but it was dark outside and she was tired. Surely, by now he’d realized the phone was missing. He hadn’t come back to get it. That meant either he didn’t need it tonight or he figured they’d see each other in the morning and she’d bring it to work.

  That would come soon enough.

  When she was back inside her bungalow, she held the phone for a few moments, not quite sure what to do with it. It felt odd to be in possession of something of his that was so personal. And, yes, it dawned on her that she was holding in her hot little hand the modern-day equivalent of his little black book, personal diary and photo album all rolled into one.

  But she would never snoop.

  Even though she was curious.

  After all, he’d dated Tatiana Ross, one of her favorite actresses. What if he had pictures?

  And what the hell was she thinking? She would never—never—invade his privacy like that. Besides, she didn’t want to see pictures of him with other women.

  Even thinking about it made her feel a little sick to her stomach.

  She marched into the kitchen where she’d left her purse and stashed his phone inside. Then she double-checked the front door, turned off the lights and went into the bedroom to finish getting ready to go to sleep.

  The moment her head hit the pillow, she thought she heard something. A ringing sound? Was it his phone? She lifted her head.

  Nothing.

  Really, it had sounded more like a car horn.

  The sound had probably drifted in from outside.

  She fluffed the pillow, turned over and closed her eyes.

  But what if Liam was trying to call to make sure she had his phone? If his apartment had a landline, he could use it. Maybe he’d called his phone once he got back to the apartment to make sure it wasn’t lost.

  If she didn’t answer, he might worry. And stay up wasting time notifying his carrier to suspend service or lock his phone, only to have to undo everything tomorrow.

  She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She only paused a moment before deciding to retrieve it and leave it on her bedside table—just in case he called.

  She padded into the kitchen and fished it out of her purse.

  For good measure, she pressed the activation button to see if there was a notice of his call.

  Nothing.

  The screen flashed a number pad and asked for a passcode.

  For some idiotic reason, she felt relieved that the device was locked. She didn’t know why. She was not going to search his phone. Her cheeks flamed at the thought.

  But her thumb stayed on the activation button just long enough for the number pad to disappear and the question “How may I assist you?” to pop up on the screen.

  It was the phone’s automated assistant.

  She clicked off the application like it was hot or might read her mind and tell Liam that she’d been curious about the pictures on his phone. That was completely ridiculous and she knew it.

  She set the phone on her nightstand and put her head on the pillow, wide awake now.

  What would people find on her phone if she lost it? Nothing embarrassing or incriminating, that’s for sure. Just a bunch of family photos and the space that they were turning into the tearoom.

  Her mind drifted back to their talk about family—how Liam had admitted that a strong family would be nice.

  Why is he so ambivalent to call his father?

  Her family wasn’t every family, of course, but in her experience, she’d learned that sometimes you must swallow your pride and be the first one to reach out.

  How could his dad not be proud of him?

  Malcom Wright, what’s wrong with you? How can you let fifteen years go by without speaking to your son?

  She turned over onto her other side and adjusted her pillow, trying to get comfortable.

  Maybe this was simply an unfortunate case of two pigheaded men, both afraid to be the one to extend the olive branch.

  If she could just get the two of them in a room, she’d make them sit there until they talked it out.

  Clearly, they needed a mediator. Someone to bring them together.

  She flopped over onto her back and blinked at the ceiling.

  The pinpricks of a good idea needled her body. She reached out and felt around on the nightstand until she’d found Liam’s phone.

  She was just going to try something...just to see if she could—

  She pressed and held the activation button until the automated assistant activated.

  How may I help you?

  The words swam on the screen and a line that looked like a sound wave danced beneath them.

  “What is Malcom Wright’s home phone number?”

  The ten-digit number appeared on the screen.

  * * *

  A week later, Liam arrived in New York City with Jane, Charles and Gigi. The four had decided to fly in a day before the Oscar Hurd Foundation festivities to give them time to relax and spend an evening in New York.

  The workaholic in Liam knew he should run by La Bula to check on things, but the realist in him knew that if he did, invariably, something would ensnare him and he would end up spending the evening working rather than with Jane as he’d promised.

  Of course, it had crossed his mind to take her to the restaurant with him—they could have drinks and dinner—but he’d quickly axed the idea when he thought of all the questions that would rise at the sight of him out on what was obviously a date with the pastry chef he’d fired.

  Doubling down on his vow to not go within five blocks of La Bula, he invited Charles and Gigi to join him and Jane for dinner. They declined in favor of trying to score tickets for a Broadway show. They extended the invitation for Jane and Liam to join them, but the thought of spending the evening alone with Jane was more enticing. He politely declined.

  Jane was staying at the Marriott Marquis. So were Gigi and Charles. Liam was staying at his own Upper West Side apartment. He and Jane hadn’t yet told anyone that they were...involved. Otherwise, Liam would’ve invited Jane to drop the pretense of the hotel room and stay with him.

  She probably would anyway. She said she was dying to see the view he had of Central Park. Now that he was back in New York, he realized he was eager to see it, too, eager to sleep in his own bed and the next morning to use his French press to make the coffee that he would enjoy as he took in that Central Park view.

  Navigating between Jane’s hotel and his apartment made him feel like a teenager sneaking around to see his girlfriend—was that what she was? His girlfriend? Until now—until he’d been faced with the very real possibility of being out with her and running into someone who knew him—he hadn’t really needed to label their relationship.

  Now that they were in the city, the pressure was on to keep the fact that they were sleeping together a secret from her family—only because she hadn’t told them yet. That was his only hesitation. It dawned on him that until she told her family—or was comfortable with others knowing before they did—he needed to keep it from his friends and colleagues in New York City. It wasn’t that he didn’t want anyone to know; it just seemed like anytime he stepped out with a new woman, he managed to attract paparazzi attention. He was no George Clooney, but even having dinner with her in the city might open Pandora’s box.

  He wasn’t sure Jane was prepared for it. Even though it had been a long time since he’d felt this way about a woman, he wasn’t ready for their relationship to belong to anyone but them.

  That’s what would happen if a photo of them landed in the tabloids. It could be a juicy story—Jane used to work for him, he’d fired her, she moved to Savannah, he bought into a restaurant in her hometown... It would be best if they didn’t take chances.

  That meant that he’d have to fix dinner for he
r at his place.

  He left her to freshen up at the hotel while he shopped for their dinner.

  He sent a car to pick her up at seven. He would’ve gone himself, but he needed to get dinner started so that he wouldn’t be in the kitchen all night.

  It was an easy but elegant supper. The market had the most beautiful heirloom tomatoes. So they were starting with bruschetta. It would be simple and clean—chopped tomatoes mixed with minced garlic and onion, basil and olive oil. Then they would enjoy Parmesan risotto, butter-poached lobster. For dessert, he’d picked up an assortment of Ladurée truffles.

  He had everything ready and even had a chance to shower and shave before she arrived.

  After the doorman sent her up, Liam greeted her with a glass of pinot noir and a kiss that promised what was to come later.

  “Are you staying?” he asked when she’d settled herself on a stool at his kitchen island.

  “I brought clothes for tomorrow,” she said with a knowing smile.

  “Will Gigi worry about you if you’re not there?”

  She squinted him. “First, I will probably be the last person on Gigi’s mind tonight. She looked pretty happy with Charles. Plus, if she did come looking for me, she could probably figure out that I’m with you. And if she needs me, she can always call.”

  “Fair enough.” He swallowed against the uncertain feeling he’d grappled with earlier. Jane didn’t seem concerned about anyone finding out about them. Was he making more out of this than he should?

  “That reminds me, please tell me you don’t have plans tomorrow morning,” she said.

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “I have a surprise for you.”

  There was that smile again.

  “A surprise? What is it?”

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

  He washed and dried his hands. He sat on the stool next to hers, faced her and poured her more wine. They talked about what she should expect tomorrow evening at the awards dinner and how, as much as she hated to admit it, she had butterflies.

  “It really doesn’t matter if I win, but it would be so nice. I keep telling myself over and over it’s a dream come true to be nominated.”

  “You realize that even being nominated means you can pretty much write your own ticket. If you need help with the tearoom, you will probably be able to get it easier. Then again, when you win—” He shot her a devilish smile. She closed her eyes and smiled. “No, seriously,” he said, “if you win, you’ll get a nice cash prize. That will go a long way toward the tearoom.”

  “And Paris,” she said.

  “And Paris,” he said. “Definitely Paris.”

  She inhaled sharply and closed her eyes again. “Oh! I shouldn’t even be thinking about things like that. Not yet. I just need to keep repeating my mantra. ‘It’s a dream come true to be nominated.’”

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Changing the subject to something completely different, have you made any headway on hiring a new executive pastry chef at Wila?”

  “I haven’t. And I’ll tell you why.” He sipped his wine. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.”

  He’d planned on waiting until they got back to Savannah to talk business, but since she’d brought it up, now was as good a time as any.

  “What if, in addition to the tearoom, you had a commercial client to whom you supplied all its desserts?”

  Jane shook her head. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. It would depend on who the client is and how much they ordered. It’s hard to say without running the numbers. I wouldn’t know where to find a client like that without doing some research.”

  “What if Wila was that client?”

  * * *

  The next day, Liam brought Jane breakfast in bed.

  Jane noted with satisfaction that there were no morning-after lemon-blueberry crepes on the menu.

  Though it wasn’t the first time they’d spent the night together, it was the first time they’d been together in New York, Liam’s stomping ground.

  She wondered what her former coworkers would think if they could see Liam and her now—

  Well, not now. As in this minute when they were stretched out on Liam’s heavenly king-size bed, covered only by the downy-soft cotton sheet, leisurely eating a breakfast of bagels with cream cheese and lox from Russ & Daughters, which he’d had delivered earlier, and dark, rich coffee that he’d steeped in his French press, and reading the New York Times.

  His bedroom had high ceilings and large windows that let in the morning light. They were high enough that they didn’t need window treatments for privacy and they allowed the most spectacular view of Central Park.

  She set her coffee cup on the nightstand and indulged in a languid full-body stretch.

  What would her former coworkers think if they could see how far she and Liam had come since that fateful day when he’d fired her...the last time they were together in New York?

  She glanced at her phone, checking the time and to make sure Gigi hadn’t called or texted. She hadn’t, but it was getting close to nine thirty. She’d arranged a little surprise for him this morning and they still needed to shower and get ready.

  She’d mentioned it last night, but said, “Don’t forget, I have a surprise for you. We need to be in midtown by ten forty-five.”

  “Ten forty-five this morning?” He lowered the paper he’d been reading and looked at her, simultaneously edging his leg over hers and hooking his foot around hers, as if securing her in place.

  “Yes, this morning.”

  “I have to stop by La Bula,” he said. “I need to mediate a problem between some of the staff. I thought I’d drop you off at the hotel and then go in for a bit. That way you can do whatever you need to do to start getting ready for tonight.”

  She snuggled into him.

  “But first the surprise,” she said.

  He tossed the paper aside and pulled her into his arms.

  “I can think of all kinds of ways I’d like to surprise you,” he said. “None of them require getting dressed or leaving this bed.”

  He kissed her and she almost lost herself for a moment, but then she remembered that they still needed to get ready and traffic could be unpredictable.

  “Hold that thought,” she said. “Right now, we really need to get a move on.”

  He sighed. “What in the world do you have up your sleeve?”

  He picked up her bare arm and began kissing the sensitive inner area.

  Oh, boy.

  Reluctantly, she wiggled out of his grasp.

  “Come on. We can’t be late.”

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  She shook her head and smiled. “You’ll know soon enough.”

  * * *

  At 10:49 a.m., they were standing in front of a diner that Liam had never heard of. Jane held out a piece of paper and compared the address with the numbers on the building.

  “This is it,” she said.

  “You’re taking me to a diner? We’ve already had breakfast. But if you’re hungry—”

  “Not hungry, but I’d like some coffee. Let’s go in.”

  He opened the door for her and followed her inside.

  The place was empty, except for one person—a bald guy—sitting at a table with a coffee cup at hand, elbows on the table, his head bent over a newspaper.

  When the door closed, the guy looked up.

  Liam’s heart stopped.

  “Malcom?” Jane beamed.

  His dad nodded, unsmiling, and clumsily got to his feet, locking gazes with Liam.

  “What the...?” Liam uttered a string of words under his breath.

  For a split second, Malcom Wright looked like a moose caught in headlights.

  “I shouldn’t h
ave come.” He reached for his wallet and pulled out a five and dropped it on the table. “But your girlfriend here seemed to think it would be a good idea for us to talk.”

  Liam turned to Jane. “You did this?”

  The light in her eyes had dimmed a bit. “I did. I thought you and your dad could talk. I thought maybe he could use the extra ticket and come with us to the dinner tonight.”

  “Well, you thought wrong, Jane.” He hadn’t meant to yell. It just slipped out. His mouth was open to apologize, but his dad cut him off.

  “Don’t yell at her. You don’t have to be a jackass about it.”

  “Shut the hell up. You are the last person who should tell anyone not to yell. I spent my entire youth listening to you bellow.”

  Liam gritted his teeth and fisted his hands, trying to tamp down the anger that was shaking his entire body. He was literally seeing red. He turned to Jane and took care to lower his voice to a slow, clipped whisper.

  “You overstepped. I told you I didn’t want to do this. Why do you always think you know what’s best despite what others say?”

  “I’ll leave,” Malcom said.

  “Don’t bother,” Liam growled.

  He turned and walked away from his father and Jane.

  * * *

  Jane tried to call Liam at least a dozen times, but each time her call went directly to voice mail.

  How could she have miscalculated so badly? Since Liam had said he wanted to mend things with his dad and Malcom had been receptive when she’d called, she thought if she could get them in the same room they’d sit down and talk it out. Clearly, she’d overstepped. She wished Liam would give her a chance to apologize, but he wouldn’t answer his phone.

  She’d already apologized to Malcom, who’d seemed to be taking it in stride. Then she’d walked the six blocks back to the hotel. She was in New York City but she spent the entire afternoon sitting in her Times Square hotel room staring at her phone. At one point she’d even contemplated skipping tonight’s award ceremony, but what good would that do except make her look ungrateful for the honor the foundation had bestowed upon her?