Prince Not Quite Charming: A Morning Glory Novella

by Liz Talley

  “I’m a failure. For all my bluster, I have no job outside of doing the books for my parents and ordering the supplies for the restaurants. I live with my parents for Christ’s sake. I dumped my boyfriend because he won’t commit. But damn it, I wouldn’t commit to me either.” Frances blew out a deep breath and then collapsed onto the deck. “God, why am I telling you this? It’s so embarrassing.”

  Clem shifted so he was on his side. Looking down at her, he felt his heart move again. “Because I’m a good listener.”

  She opened her eyes. “You are a good listener. Like my grandmother Sophia.”

  “But are you a good listener?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you listened to why your father wants the deli to be a certain way?”

  Frances made a frowny face. “You’re seriously taking up for him?”

  “No. I’m asking you if you’ve ever listened to him. It’s not an accusation, Frannie. It’s a simple thing.” Suddenly Frances’s reaction to his refusal to hear out her design plans made more sense. She felt discounted.

  “I didn’t have to ask him. My father did what he wanted. Then he tried to hand the new deli to Sal like he was bequeathing part of the kingdom to his son. He never asked me or Brit if we wanted to run one of the family restaurants. Instead, he left all the boring crap to me and he put Brittany out front because she smiles a lot. What value are we to him? Chattel? Daughters to marry off so he doesn’t have to deal with us anymore?” Frances sat up, her voice crackling with anger. “It’s ridiculous in this day and age. He’s a sexist.”

  “Is he?”

  She scratched her head. “Maybe. But my dad’s always been proud of me. He tells everyone about my degrees, and he trusts me to handle the business, not the boys. He won’t let Dom touch the books, and he tells Vinnie to let me handle the vendors. But this whole ‘let me give each son a restaurant to run’ thing drives me insane.”

  “What does he say?”

  “He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Mama Mello’s belongs to him. He makes the rules.”

  “So you haven’t asked him about this?”

  Frances stilled. “Well, not exactly. I mean, I think he knows but … Are you saying this is my fault?”

  “Hell, no. I got my own daddy issues. I merely wondered if you listened to him.”

  Frances flattened her lips but didn’t answer.

  “You see, I ran from my family and their expectations. I listened to my father’s plan for me and how I wasn’t living up, and then I did the opposite of what my father wanted. If he wanted me to run for class president, I skipped school and got in fights so I couldn’t qualify. If he wanted me to be an Eagle Scout because he’d been one, I got drunk and threw his Eagle Scout badge in the fireplace. Whatever I could do to piss my dad off, I did. Then as soon as I could leave, I hauled ass.”

  “Oh,” she said, looking down at her interlaced fingers.

  “But sometimes I think I threw the baby out with the bathwater trying to prove I could be exactly who I wanted to be. Revenge is a dish served cold. They just don’t tell you it’s shit to eat by yourself. I allowed my anger to distance me from my family, and that’s been hard. So don’t do that. Doesn’t mean you can’t stand up for yourself, but don’t set a wedge between you and your father.”

  Frances slid her hand onto his thigh. It was meant to be comforting and was. Still, minutes ago he’d been palming her breasts and plundering her gorgeous lips, so the desire switch inside him flickered.

  “So, you don’t see your family?”

  “Not much. My mother got sick a few years back, and I went home more frequently then. Thankfully she’s better. She comes to visit every now and then. My sister Skypes me. She has a little boy named Silas. He’s three. I still haven’t actually met him.” He knew sadness shadowed his words. Not like he could take the regret out. He missed his older sister. He missed his mama. And damn it, he missed his dad too. Every critical, unyielding inch of the man. Still, Clem was too stubborn to swallow his pride and let his father back into his life. Those words his father had said about Clem being a disappointment, then cutting him off financially and saying he didn’t want him back home until he realized what being an Aiken meant had kept Clem firmly in Mississippi.

  “I’m sorry,” Frances said, finding his hand and giving it a squeeze.

  “See, we all have issues. We’re all stubborn. Thing is, I never did what I suggested you should do. I haven’t listened to my father … for years. Maybe I need to. I don’t know.”

  For a few minutes they sat silently, serenaded by the night around them.

  “You want to see something I’ve never shown anyone before?” he said, wanting to break the seriousness of the moment.

  “Besides the lake?”

  He stood and pulled her to her feet. “Not the lake.”

  A few minutes and one piggyback ride through the tall brambles, Clem set Frances down on the top step of a large barn that sat hidden on the hill. “This place belongs to Henry Delmar. I rent the barn from him. I don’t come out here to just fish.” He took out his keys and fumbled to see the lock in the moonlight.

  “Here,” Frances said, using her phone to shine a light on the lock.

  Clem popped the lock and pushed the heavy doors open. Finding the light switch, he illuminated the huge space.

  Frances stood for a moment, her eyes adjusting to the light. Then she made a slow survey, her gaze landing on a huge trestle table before moving on to a rustic bar cart and finally landing on a huge bed set up for the photo he’d taken last week. Bookcases, buffets, and credenzas sat willy-nilly, awaiting the truck that would pick them up on the following Monday. His workshop took up a good fourth of the barn, and the smell of freshly cut wood and the polyurethane he’d used on the custom white-oak-barrel end table assaulted them.

  “You make furniture?”

  He nodded. “My side hobby that’s fast becoming a true business. I can’t keep up with the orders as is.”

  Frances walked inside, running her hand over the top of a knotted-pine workbench. “This is incredible.” She jerked her gaze back to him. “Surprising.”

  He felt himself bristle. “Why?”

  “You’re like one of those nesting dolls. I think I know who you are based on the outside but you’re continually surprising me when you open up.”

  “Not everyone is who they appear to be. Like you. You come on like a …”

  “Bitch?” She laughed. “I come on too strong. Speak when I should listen.” She made a face.

  “So I’m a nesting doll whatever that is, and you’re a … box of chocolates. Never know what you’re going to get.”

  “But you want it.” She grinned.

  “I certainly do.” And he did. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted another woman. Which was strange to admit. Clem Aiken, Morning Glory’s not-quite stud muffin, had the tables turned on him. He’d had many ladies bat their eyelashes at him, toss not-so-veiled invitations his way, and then wait for his call, but he’d never known what it was like to be … obsessed with someone. And that’s what he was fast becoming—too smitten with a woman who would disappear from his life next week. Irony sidled up beside him and gave him a smack on the ass.

  “Nothing to do about that.” Her words held longing, regret, and acceptance.

  “Guess not. But we could give in to what we have between us. Just climb into my truck, head to my place, and exhaust ourselves until the sun comes up.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Don’t it?” He grinned. “Or we can … not do that.”

  Frances bit her lower lip. “I like the sound of the first one.”

  “But …”

  “Where’s the third option? I like third options.”

  “I can get my W-2s and you can start painting the nursery. Or is that only for Lon?” He tried for lightness because he knew that as much as they wanted to go back to his place, they wouldn’t. He wasn’t one to pressure a
woman to climb into his bed. He liked his women willing, and he appreciated the ones who knew the score and didn’t get weepy or pissed if he didn’t call. But Frances was a horse of a different color. She felt somehow above all his normal actions. Which meant he respected what she wanted. Even when he knew he wasn’t what she wanted.

  “That was for Lon. You’re another matter altogether, Clemson Aiken.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because you’re the kind of man I could fall in love with.”

  Frances couldn’t believe she’d uttered those words.

  Fall in love?

  How stupid could a woman be? She’d known Clem a grand total of five days if one counted his dumping a pitcher of ice water on her head at her brother’s wedding. Hadn’t she climbed into his truck and told him she didn’t believe people could fall in love in two weeks’ time? Yet like a loon she’d said something like she could fall for him.

  Clem’s eyes widened.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I meant more like I could get attached. Because with you, it wouldn’t be just sex. That’s what I meant.”

  “You said fall in love.”

  “No. Not love.”

  “Because you said—”

  “I know what I said. Which was stupid. People don’t fall in love at first sight.” She turned toward a bookcase and stroked the smooth wood.

  “Of course,” he said. She could feel him watching her. “So, first or second?”

  “What?”

  “On the options. My place or yours?”

  She wanted to go to his place. It would be good. She knew it just from the way he kissed her. Clem Aiken was a sure thing. “I guess it’s best to take me back to the apartment.”

  Clem looked disappointed. “Yeah, that’s probably true.”

  “Yeah,” she said, looking around. “Thank you for showing me your work. It’s incredible. You’ve created something so meaningful.” She meant every word. The furniture he’d made was something enduring. Families would gather around his tables and people would pass down his pieces from generation to generation. The essence of this man was ingrained in each line.

  “Thank you, Frances.”

  Frances. Not Frannie. She liked it better when he called her the childhood nickname. It was as if he could see through the veneer to the woman she truly was beneath the designer dress and too-expensive shoes.

  He turned and gestured toward the barn opening. She did as bid, padding barefoot beside him as they moved toward the pier where she’d left her shoes. Clem swept her into his arms when they came to a brambly patch and set her down on the cool soft grass near the truck.

  “I’ll grab your shoes,” he said, jogging toward the pier. Regret etched every movement. He’d wanted her to say yes. She’d wanted to say yes.

  She needed what he could give her. But the reason she’d said no was something she didn’t want to admit. She might be falling in love with him.

  Which was so utterly ridiculous.

  Because that was bullshit.

  Truly.

  Still, there was so much to love about him. Obviously he was a big country dream of a man with his bulging muscles, quick grin, and loping gait. But beneath the stained ball cap and country music was a kind soul who took out his neighbor’s trash, spent time with lonely veterans, and hung out with the local gay guy in a place where the local gay guy could easily be a pariah. He called her baby, told her he’d keep the snakes away, and had pulled back on the pier when he very easily could have had her naked as the day she was born.

  Clem Aiken was a true Southern gentleman … one she could, as stupid as it sounded, fall for.

  So she’d go back to the apartment where her brother had been living and try to erect some kind of protective barrier around the vulnerability she’d leaked all over the place tonight.

  “Let me help you,” he said, opening the passenger door.

  “I can climb in myself.” She pushed his hand away and struggled into the cab.

  Clem didn’t say anything. Just walked around and climbed into the driver’s seat, firing the up big truck.

  “This is a stupid truck. Who wants something a regular person can’t get into?” she grumbled, trying to deflect attention off the fact she was a coward and onto the fact Clem’s truck was stupid.

  But Clem merely looked knowingly at her. He saw through her.

  And that made her mad. So she crossed her arms and stared out into the night as they pulled away from the magical place Clem had so sweetly shared with her.

  “Are you going to say anything?” she asked after a few minutes.

  “Nope,” Clem said, staring straight ahead at the dashed yellow line.

  Frances issued a sigh. “Well, this is ridiculous.”

  Clem didn’t say anything.

  They’d gone from tender to tense. Intimate to distant. All in the matter of minutes. All because she’d said no. But she couldn’t be upset at him. Clem had left the decision on whether to further their relationship to her. Wasn’t like she expected him to be happy she’d shot option number one down. Wasn’t like they didn’t have amazing chemistry that could ignite into something really hot between the sheets. They’d both denied themselves to save her from being suckered into something she didn’t need in her life at the moment—complication.

  “Are you mad at me?” she asked, wishing she hadn’t as soon as she uttered the question.

  “No.”

  “Why aren’t you talking? You never have a shortage of words.”

  “Nothing to say at the moment.”

  “You’re mad.”

  Clem looked over at her. “I’m not mad, Frances. I mean, I want you. Bad. But I respect you too. Sometimes a man doesn’t have much to say. It’s not a crime.”

  “Oh.”

  And that was all they said to each other on the way back to the apartment complex. When they arrived, Frances scrambled out before he could do the whole Southern-gentleman thing and met him in the high beams of the truck. Which meant she was temporarily blinded. “Well, thank you for tonight.”

  Clem shoved his hands in his pockets. “It was … interesting.”

  “Yeah. Guess it was.”

  “So I’ll pick you up about ten tomorrow morning. That good?”

  “For what?”

  “I won at pool.” He tugged her arm and moved them from the blinding lights. “Remember? I get another day.”

  “But we already decided this isn’t going anywhere. Besides, if we don’t make some decisions, the restaurant won’t be ready in time. We need to talk about changes or whatever, and then we need to act swiftly.”

  “Give me the morning. After lunch we’ll get back to business.”

  Frances paused. She wasn’t sure what more he could teach her about living in Morning Glory. At this moment, she could honestly say that she got it. The brass fixtures, fancy mood lighting, square plating and cosmopolitan décor wasn’t going to fly in a town where Denny’s was the primo destination for date night. She’d have to rethink the paint color and call the supplier to cancel the black leather and stainless steel chairs. The concept of a stacked-stone wall and marble backsplash for the bar seemed ridiculous. Clem had made his point, but she wasn’t conceding total defeat. She figured they could meet somewhere in the middle. “Fine. I’ll be ready at nine. We’ll head to the restaurant for early afternoon. Sal called me and he’s antsy … though also amazed by the Blue Man Group. Who knew he’d like painted dudes so much?”

  “Good.” Clem squinted at her in the darkness. “Guess I’ll go now.”

  “Okay.”

  He ducked his head toward her before catching himself and straightening. “Good night, Frances.”

  “Night, Clem.”

  She walked away, her pinky toe screaming in protest against the unforgiving leather of the shoes she shouldn’t have bought but had because they were 20 percent off. Of course her libido was pissed and her heart a little whiny over her decision to go with her brain and no
t her gut. Having sex or anything more with Clemson Aiken other than a business relationship would be a bad decision. She knew that. She had to remind herself over and over because love wasn’t something that happened over frying chicken or shooting pool. Love took time to grow, mature, and cement into the heart of a person.

  It was what she’d always believed. It was something her mother had always told her—the one-year rule. Give something a year before making a decision, whether it was a job, a boyfriend, or a living arrangement.

  Good sense should trump fleeting pleasure every time.

  Except when pleasure’s not so fleeting.

  She had a sneaking suspicion that what she could have with Clem could be not so fleeting. Like it could be something bigger than what she could hope for.

  Damn her gut and all those stupid feelings.

  Clem rode around for an hour before he went home.

  The night was soft and warm. Fall in the South was like his sister—perpetually late and apt to make a big, splashy entrance right before the party started. The only sign thus far was slightly cooler mornings and yellowing grass, so even as he put his truck windows down, he left the AC running.

  The truck ate up the highway, running way more smoothly than his thoughts.

  Why had he opened himself up to Frances? Why had she turned him down on something they both obviously wanted? Okay, so yeah, he’d pulled back from taking her right there on the pier, and if truth be told, he hadn’t expected her to agree with him. Which made him sort of an ass. He wasn’t going to pressure her, but it was obvious the woman needed a good roll in the hay. He was damn sure willing to provide it. Yet there was something more than sex between them.

  Which was weird.

  Maybe it was where he was in his life, all the questioning of his past decisions. He’d never been wishy-washy but rather decisive. He made a decision, set a goal, and threw himself into accomplishing whatever it was he wanted. He never let up and he never second-guessed himself. But over the past few months, he’d been thinking about his mother getting older, about a nephew growing up without him in his life. About Charleston and the way the confederate jasmine perfumed the air outside his bedroom window. He’d turned thirty, and many of his buddies had already tied the knot. A few had babies on the way. Hell, Bo Jeter had bought his cemetery plot. Talk about long-range planning.