Prince Not Quite Charming: A Morning Glory Novella

by Liz Talley

  “We already ordered everything. The boxes are stacked in the kitchen.”

  “But it isn’t installed yet, right? Frances made this whole board and stuff. She has a degree in marketing and an associate degree in restaurant management, plus tons of practical experience.”

  Clem arched a brow. Degrees only went so far. Running a restaurant in Morning Glory, Mississippi, would be a helluva lot different than running one in Manhattan. “That could put us behind schedule. I got other jobs, Sal.”

  “I get you, but I need to get this right. I’m going to talk to Frannie about staying a few weeks. She can supervise the final stages of the restaurant,” Sal said, turning to him. “The woman needs a break from the family business.”

  “Her? You’re going to ask her to oversee things while you’re gone?” Dread burgeoned in Clem’s gut. It was bad enough Sal was always there trying to “help” with the job. But his icy sister with the killer right hook would be ten times worse. Any initial interest he’d had in the Italian beauty dissipated like water droplets on hot cement. Zip. Zap. Gone.

  Sal grinned. “She’s a firecracker, but she’s smart. It’ll be cool. You’ll see.”

  With that, Sal tucked his hands in his tuxedo pockets and sauntered away. Clem set the empty water pitcher on the table and headed back to the bar. He needed another drink. Then maybe another. The next week or two would be hell.

  Luckily he’d spent a lot of time there, so he was accustomed to the temperature.

  Yep, things were about to get hotter in Morning Glory.

  Frances stood inside the doorway of Sal’s new restaurant and surveyed the empty space. Twisting her lips, she ran her gaze over the concrete floor, open beams, and recently hung drywall. The space had loads of possibility, but the generic vibe wasn’t going to cut the mustard in today’s restaurant market. She’d studied photos Sal had sent her in order to choose colors and materials, but nothing was as good as seeing the space in person. Ideas crackled in her mind, starting with the far wall. A wall of stacked stone would be a fantastic focal point.

  “Excuse me,” she said to one of the workers carrying boards to the kitchen.

  The man turned and lifted a shaggy brow in a universal What? Then he checked her out. She made a dissuasive face. “Where’s the foreman?”

  “Foreman? You mean Clem?” the man drawled in an accent that reminded her of the thick condensation on the windows that morning.

  She couldn’t believe she’d actually agreed to this madness. Staying in Morning Glory hadn’t been remotely on her radar, but when Sal begged her to be his eyes and ears on the restaurant project, she’d found herself nodding. Two weeks away from her problems in New York City would be perfect for figuring out what she’d do next. So what if she felt like a stranger in a strange land?

  And Morning Glory was strange. That morning she’d passed only one person on her way to the restaurant—a chatty mailman. At first she’d thought the man had been talking to someone else about the wilted begonias in the planter on the square. But he’d been asking her opinion. On flowers.

  She’d mumbled something about the forecasted rain helping and hurried away.

  “Ma’am,” the worker asked, jarring her from her thoughts.

  “Oh, yes. Mr. Aiken. Is he on-site by chance?” she asked, stepping over a stack of fresh lumber and plucking the silk blouse she’d paired with cream slacks from the perspiration gathering between her breasts. September was hot in Mississippi.

  “I’ll go get ’im,” the man said.

  Frances pulled a small pad from her bag and started making a list. She’d need exact measurements before calling a stonework supplier. And she knew the perfect pendant lighting for the bar. Maybe brass fixtures for an Old World feel. The Brass Monkey shipped overnight, so they could get the rails and—

  Someone cleared his throat, and she glanced up to find the man who’d poured a pitcher of water over her head a few nights ago. “You.”

  “Me,” he said with a knowing grin.

  “You’re Clemson Aiken?”

  “At your service.” He executed a slight bow. “But call me Clem. And you’re welcome for saving your life the other night.”

  Frances frowned, tapping her pen against the notepad. “Saving my life or trying to drown me?”

  “You were on fire.” His brown eyes twinkled. She’d never seen eyes twinkle, but this guy had that going on. He was also tall. Six three. Or maybe six four. Tall drink of water with linebacker shoulders and a chiseled jaw. Her girl parts should be tingling, but the fact that he was a bit too full of himself put a stop to that. She’d heard the rumors about him. He was a ladies’ man, tipping girls into the back of his truck, romancing them with cheap wine and overpracticed lines. That was enough to put her off any twitch, tingle, or blip.

  “That’s a stretch,” she said, feeling annoyed at the pleasure he was taking in needling her.

  “Nice haircut,” he said, indicating the bob that brushed her shoulders. She’d nearly cried when Wanda at Hair Teasers had lopped off her pretty brown waves. She wasn’t vain about much, but her hair was her thing. And he had to bring that up. What an ass.

  “Thanks. I like it,” she lied, brushing her hair back and returning her gaze to the pad. “So, my brother left me to supervise the final stages of construction. I’m Frances Genovese.” She held out her hand.

  Clem looked at it. “You ain’t gonna slap me, are you?”

  “Not unless you dump freezing water on me again.”

  He gave her hand a firm shake. Again, she noted how big his hands were. They were nicely sculpted and very masculine with their blunt tips and visible tendons. She’d always been a sucker for a man’s hands.

  “Since we’re on a tight schedule, I need any changes you’re contemplating ASAP. We have the tile for the floor in the kitchen. It’s basic but will work with the red paint Rosemary picked out,” Clem said, turning so he could also survey the room.

  “No red. I sent Sal the color. Wall Street.” Frances dug inside her purse to the swatches she’d brought down for Sal.

  “Wall Street?”

  “That’s the name of the dark gray paint. Didn’t Sal give you the list with the numbers and colors?”

  “No.”

  “I have them. And I want to discuss a stacked-stone wall as a focal point. Maybe a bronze sign with the restaurant’s name mounted in the center? I think it would be dramatic.”

  “We’re doing a Venetian plaster, and Rosemary sent over a series of sketches from Morning Glory from back in the 1950s. Sal wants to respect the history of the place. I even saved a teller’s booth for the checkout.”

  Frances tilted her head. “I think you’ve received some conflicting information. Sal asked me weeks ago to design the space, using my extensive marketing background and experience in working in restaurants. He trusts what I came up with—a restaurant with more modern elements. In today’s competitive market, we’re seeing a move toward high-end, energy-efficient spaces.”

  “Who’s ‘we’ and what ‘market’?” Clem said, his previous aw-shucks demeanor gone.

  “’We’ is the whole global restaurant community. Look, I’m well-versed in what makes a restaurant successful. I live in a city with over twenty thousand restaurants, of which three belong to my family. I have a degree in marketing with a minor in business—”

  “I get all that, but this isn’t Manhattan. See the difference?”

  “Oh, believe me, I’ve seen the difference,” she said, hating the snootiness in her voice. Sure, she didn’t understand the way the small town worked. People smiled too much and asked weird questions like if she went to church or if she knew Jay-Z. There was no Starbucks, and high couture seemed to be Walmart. Not that she was a snob. Okay, so maybe she had too much Manhattan in her, but she wasn’t backing down. She knew what would work in this space. “Mr. Aiken, I’m an expert in my field. I’ve studied countless design elements and trends in restaurant decor.”

  “I get that,
but your knowledge can’t be applied to this restaurant, Miss Fancy Pants.”

  “Miss Fancy Pants?” Frances repeated, her voice rising. So she was discerning in her tastes. That didn’t mean she deserved his insults. “First, Mr. Aiken, there’s no need for name-calling. This isn’t a hootenanny. It’s a business meeting. Second, you were hired to do a job, not render an opinion. I’ll be selecting the design elements, including paint color and a damn stacked-stone focal wall. You understand, or do I need to translate for you?”

  Clem’s jaw hardened and his eyes narrowed. “So you think you can come in here and treat me like I’m a stupid hick and then make dumb decisions?”

  “Dumb decisions?” she repeated, jamming her pad into her bag. “I don’t make dumb decisions.”

  “Yeah, you do. You don’t know your market. You don’t know the people in this town. They don’t want SoHo or Midtown when they go out to celebrate a baseball championship or the fact Barbara Sue graduated from beauty school. They don’t drink martinis or eat caviar. And if I had hired you as a consultant and you came in here with this marble-and-bronze bullshit, the door would be hitting your ass on your way out.”

  “How dare you,” she said, knowing she sounded melodramatic. She wanted to stomp her foot or maybe slug him. She’d never been so mad before. Okay, she had, but not at a virtual stranger she’d just met.

  “How dare you,” he repeated, his eyes flashing. He looked pretty spectacular when he radiated ire. Somehow his chest was broader and the color flushing his broad cheeks made him more masculine, if that was even possible. She hated she noticed those things. But she did. God help her, she did.

  For a moment they seethed at each other.

  Finally, Clem stomped toward the kitchen without a word.

  She stood there for a few seconds before she stomped after him. He’d dismissed her ideas without even considering her expertise. Who did he think he was? He worked for Sal. Her brother had admitted being more preoccupied with the menu and leaving too many decisions to Rosemary, who knew next to nothing about restaurants, so he’d called Frances and asked for help. And now this Neanderthal implied she didn’t know her market? Ha. She had more knowledge about running a restaurant in her pinky nail then he did in his whole giant body.

  She could see him through the window between the kitchen space and the front of the restaurant, cell phone at his ear. Stopping at the threshold, she heard him say, “Fire your sister.”

  Sucking in a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, Frances prepared to do battle. So Clem was going to tattle to Sal? Tell her brother to fire her? Who did he think he was?

  Clem wagged his head. “Yeah, I get that, but she doesn’t know the market, Sal. Trust me on this. These people don’t sip scotch or carry Louis Vuitton luggage. They drink sweet tea and shop at garage sales. They ain’t gonna appreciate what your sister’s trying to do. In fact, they’ll feel intimidated in a space that’s too fancy. You won’t be open a year. Two at the most.”

  Frances withdrew the foot she was about to set in the kitchen. Instead, she stilled, her gaze on Clem as he arched his back, cracking it.

  “I’m not saying she’s not good at her job, dude. She just doesn’t know Morning Glory. You can’t bring in someone who doesn’t understand our culture and give her free rein.”

  The workers were probably on a smoke break because Clem stood alone in the midst of dust and debris. He wore old jeans and work boots. A dark red T-shirt clung to his frame, dampening the area between his shoulder blades. Brown curls of hair licked at the clasp of his beat-up ball cap. And as mad as she was at him, she wondered for an instant how soft those curls would feel on her fingertips.

  Then she shook herself. She wasn’t going to stand there and gawk at a man who was naysaying her. She might not know the people of Morning Glory, but she knew what all people liked. Something impressive. Something chic. Something that wasn’t cheap plastic and sticky. Just because people lived in a small town didn’t mean they didn’t appreciate nice stuff.

  That was a universal truth no matter if a person lived on the Upper East Side or Hicksville, USA.

  Clem went on with his tattling—stacked stone and fancy paint—and then he grew still. “You want me to do what?”

  Frances frowned.

  Just what in the hell had her brother suggested to elicit that sort of response from Clem?

  Clem stared at the space where the ovens had been installed a few weeks before and tried to calm down. It wasn’t Sal’s fault he’d asked someone so unsuitable to help out with the design elements. Neither Sal nor his sister understood the world which they’d landed. The citizens of Morning Glory weren’t fussy or pretentious.

  Sal gave a heavy sigh.

  Clem could almost see the man rubbing his face on the other end of the phone. “Look, Clem, I get Frances can be a pain, but she has good ideas. I’m not saying all are good, but if you two could work together, I’d appreciate it. I trust you both.”

  “Impossible. She wants a stacked-stone wall as a focal point. She’s brought in marble samples and paint colors that sound like something a snooty maître d’ picked out. This is Morning Glory, Sal.”

  “So you’ve stated.” The phone crackled, and in the background Clem heard someone give directions for how to work a headset. “We’re about to tour Graceland. You’re going to have to deal with this.”

  “But—”

  “Why don’t you teach her about Morning Glory? Show her who the people are. Turn her into a Southern girl. You know, fishing and stuff.”

  “You want me to do what?” he asked, very close to yelling.

  “If Frances doesn’t understand the town, help her. She doesn’t get being Southern, so teach her what that means. Teach her how to be a country girl.” Sal sounded pleased with his suggestion.

  “Are you bat-shit crazy? I can’t teach her how to be country or Southern. She’s so New York I hear Tony Bennett playing when she enters a room.”

  Sal laughed. “Well, if anyone loves being a good ol’ boy, it’s you, Clem. Share that knowledge. Now, I’m on my honeymoon. I got better things to do than mediate between you and Frances. Pull on your big-boy pants and deal.”

  The click in Clem’s ear might as well have been a gavel pounding a judge’s desk. Judgment rendered. He sucked in a deep breath, wiped away the sweat dripping in his eyes, and pocketed his phone.

  “What did he mean about teaching me to be a country girl?”

  Clem turned to find Frances standing in the threshold, arms crossed. Her position smushed her boobs together and the humidity did the rest, causing her blouse to cling to her in all the right places. The woman was way overdressed for a construction site, but she looked damned fine regardless. “He wants me to expose you to the target market, but it ain’t gonna happen. You can’t understand what it means to be—”

  “Why can’t I?” she interrupted, sounding insulted. He wondered if Frances went around looking for fights. She took offense mighty easily.

  “Because you can’t. You’re probably wearing a thousand dollars’ worth of threads, and your perfume is some la-di-da designer. Do you even own flip-flops?”

  Frances made a face. “Shower shoes?”

  That made him laugh. “See? Ridiculous. You can’t learn how to be a country girl.”

  “I can learn anything.” She uncrossed her arms and parked her fists on trim hips. Something about her move reminded him of an adorable, petulant toddler … but Frances was way more attractive. Sexy. Determined. Pissed. It was a good look on her.

  Clem studied her. Frances wore wedge heels and lipstick the color of wild plums, but she didn’t seem frivolous. She looked like a businesswoman, and something about her capitulating her stance to learn about Morning Glory earned her respect points. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad … if she’d sheathe her claws long enough to learn about rural Mississippi and the town that would welcome the new Italian restaurant next month. Wouldn’t be fun teaching Frances about what it meant to be a
country girl, but it could be interesting.

  And, hell, it had been boring around here anyway.

  “You’re willing to put aside your design elements for … say, three days in order to study the target market?” he asked, knowing the disbelief in his voice would rankle her.

  A small V appeared between her perfect eyebrows. “I’m not that stubborn, Mr. Aiken.”

  “Clem,” he said, not so sure. She looked as stubborn as they came.

  “Clem,” she amended, uncrossing her arms and relaxing slightly. “Part of being a good businesswoman is being able to adapt, being able to recognize others might not be off-base in their assertions. I have faith in my abilities, but I admit I could have missed the mark in my design plan.”

  He started to fake a heart attack but stopped himself. There was something in the way she said those words. Perhaps it was an acceptance of sorts. Or … just something. “Okay. We’ll hold off installing flooring and fixtures. The guys will finish up the plumbing and install everything back here. For the next three days, you and I are going to … conduct some country-girl lessons.”

  “Country-girl lessons?” Her brow wrinkled.

  “I’ll teach you how to be a small-town, Southern country girl.”

  Frances blinked once. Twice. “You know how to do that?”

  “Baby, I forgot more than you’ll ever know about country girls. In fact, you could say I’m a bit of an expert.” He chose that exact moment to deliver his trademark smile, the one he used often on said country girls. In fact, one once told him his smile made her panties fall right off. He liked to pair the sexy smile with a slow perusal of a woman’s body, a combination that often netted him exactly what he wanted.

  Frances swallowed. Hard. “Well, I guess you’re the right man for the job. Where should we start?”

  “You ever heard of Penny Pinchers?”

  “The place where Eden works? Isn’t it a discount store?”

  Clem nodded. “Sugar, you need some flip-flops and some shorts. Maybe a cute little denim shirt.”

  Frances shook her head. “I’m not dressing like someone off a reality show to appease some crazy fantasy you have. All my parts are going to stay covered. This is business, Clem. Not pleasure.”