Sweet Talkin' Lover

by Tracey Livesay

  Humbled by Gwen’s kindness and generosity of spirit, Caila dropped her chin to her chest as an acidic sweep of guilt burned through her gut and unshed tears stung the backs of her eyes.

  “Have you found Mayor Bradley helpful?” Gwen’s words were benign enough, but Caila detected more behind the woman’s innocent expression.

  It didn’t matter. Mentioning the mayor was the jolt she needed. Caila straightened. “Helpful” wasn’t the word she would’ve used to describe Wyatt.

  Sexy. Infuriating. Tempting.

  She casually took another bite of her dessert and managed a noncommittal, affirmative sound.

  “He’s like our crown prince, a perfect mixture of Will’s sense of responsibility and Harry’s charisma. Smart as a whip, too, but he barely has to show it.”

  Caila believed her. Wyatt definitely worked his easygoing persona, but there wasn’t a moment during their interactions where she wasn’t aware of the intelligence brewing behind the pretty exterior.

  “Did you know Bradleton is named after the Bradleys? They’re one of the town’s founding families. Every generation of Bradley has been mayor and part of the town’s politics for as long as I can remember.”

  Sounded very incestuous.

  Maybe that was the problem. The town didn’t have the opportunity for fresh ideas or new growth because one family kept a chokehold on the seat of power.

  But Caila was confused. Why was Gwen telling her this? Never mind that she was gobbling up the information almost as much as she’d devoured the pumpkin bar. Why did Gwen think she would want to know more about Wyatt?

  What had she seen?

  Caila’s phone rang.

  “Excuse me.” She flipped it over and saw Ava’s face on the screen. “I need to take this. Thanks for the snack and the chat. I’ll come back and clean up my—”

  Gwen waved her away with a hand. “I’ll take care of it. Part of the service here at Sinclair House. Go on and take your call.”

  Caila slid from the barstool while accepting the FaceTime call. “Hey! Give me one moment to get to my room.”

  “Sure.” Ava’s sharp cheekbones lifted with her smile. She sat at her desk in her chambers, her black robe open over a royal blue shirt.

  Caila settled on the window seat and pulled her knees to her chest. “Tell me to get my head in the game.”

  “Get your head in the game,” Ava immediately parroted. “Why am I giving advice from a Disney teen movie? Is that why you called?”

  Caila smoothed her free hand over her hair. “It’s this project from work. You’d think no one else at that company had ever made a mistake.”

  Ava nodded. “You know how that goes.”

  Kendra’s words came back to her. “We have to be better than everyone else . . .”

  “I’ve given that company close to ten years of my life.” She’d worked to the exclusion of almost everything else. “It’s all I have.”

  “Did you hear what you said? That’s why I’m concerned about your personal life. Because I don’t want work to be all you have.”

  Warmth spread within Caila’s chest. “I appreciate that, girl, I do. But I’m not willing to give up my life for a relationship.”

  “No one is saying you have to.”

  “In every relationship I’ve seen up close, the woman has given up her identity to participate. I won’t do that.”

  Ava frowned. “Caila—”

  “I didn’t call to talk about my personal life, or lack thereof.”

  Well, not exactly.

  Ava held her hands up, palms out. “Okay, okay, I’ll let it go. For now. So, are you still planning on heading back home on Monday?”

  She and Ava had an agreement. Any time Caila traveled for work, she informed her friend of her travel dates and her destination. Just in case anything happened.

  “It’s possible I may be here longer than anticipated.”

  “Why?” Ava flicked locks of her long black hair over her shoulder. “You said this would be a simple assignment. An evaluation of a factory in a small town. Similar to projects you were assigned as a marketing analyst when you first started working at Endurance. A slap on the wrist for what happened at the Drake.”

  Caila hadn’t told Ava the full extent of what she’d been tasked to do because she knew her friend wouldn’t approve. As much as she loved Ava, the other woman could be judgmental about the choices people made. It was the former prosecutor, current superior court judge in her.

  Caila could feel the familiar twist of frustration tightening her chest. “From the moment I got to this place, nothing has gone according to plan. The plant is in turnaround, which means it’s not running at full capacity, and the main person I need to talk to is on vacation. For two weeks.”

  “Shit,” Ava breathed. “Are you going to stay there the entire time? You up for that?”

  Ava understood how difficult it was for Caila to be back in a small town that was so much like the one to which she’d been forced to move as a child.

  “No. I don’t know. I should leave, but . . .” Caila pulled on loose threads on the window seat cushion’s cover.

  “What’s going on? I can hear your mind working from here.” Ava narrowed her eyes. “Is it being there? Does it remind you of Pop-Pop?”

  Caila’s throat thickened, making it difficult for her to speak. “Of course not. I’m fine.”

  Ava eyed her for a tense moment. “So you essentially have two weeks off?”

  Caila wasn’t viewing the situation as a supplemental vacay. “I guess.”

  “Have you seen any hunky cowboys in . . . where are you again?”

  Caila rolled her eyes. “Bradleton, Virginia. And you went to school here, too. When did we ever see any cowboys?”

  “I went to college there. I didn’t conduct a county by county tour of the state. What about gorgeous men? See any of those?”

  Wyatt’s image flashed in her mind. “Not at all,” she murmured, biting her lip.

  Ava perked up. “You’ve noticed the men where you are?” she asked, interest in her voice. “That’s progress. Who is he?”

  Damn. She’d let down her guard. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Ooh, you’re equivocating. That means there is someone. You better tell me. You know I won’t let it go.”

  And she wouldn’t.

  Caila sighed. “Nothing can come of it.”

  “Why?” Ava raised an elegant brow. “Is he married?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Gay?”

  “No.”

  “Felon?”

  “Ava!”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “He’s the mayor.”

  Ava’s head jerked back in surprise. She blinked several times. “And? That just means he’s employed. Bonus points!”

  “It’s not that simple. He’s trying to save the plant and I’m . . . doing the evaluation.”

  “Okay. I can see how that might make things difficult.”

  “Exactly. And the fact that I find him extremely attractive doesn’t help.”

  “How attractive?”

  “Like, if I met him in another time or circumstance I’d want to jump his bones attractive.”

  “Wow,” Ava breathed.

  “I know. But I can’t. We’re on opposite sides of this situation. My career is on the line and I won’t jeopardize that. I’m not sure what I want to do.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a big deal. I’m just thrilled you’ve met someone who’s piqued your interest. Is it mutual?”

  Caila remembered the way he’d pulled her to him, the evident need in his gaze when it dropped to her mouth, the flush upon his cheeks.

  “Yes. He asked me to go to the homecoming game with him.”

  “Oh, honey, that’s wonderful. Is he getting you a corsage and taking you to the dance afterwards?”

  “I’m gonna call Netflix and have them cancel your comedy special. You’re not funny.”

  �
��Sorry, but you said it so earnestly. ‘He asked me to homecoming!’” Ava’s eyes brimmed with laughter and she exhaled a shaky breath. “Are you going to go?”

  She wanted to, but—“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  Ava looked offscreen and Caila heard a voice informing her the docket was about to start. Ava nodded and refocused on Caila. “I have to go. But I don’t see a problem. He’s not your client or the owner of the factory, so there’s no ethical dilemma. If you’re both in agreement, up front with what you want, and you can remain impartial, what’s the harm in getting to know each other and enjoying yourselves?”

  She should’ve left.

  In fact, when Wyatt had called Sinclair House about picking her up, it’d been on the tip of her tongue to cancel their plans for him to take her shopping. But Ava’s words had stopped her. Maybe Wyatt Bradley was an itch she needed to scratch. They both seemed to want it and she had no qualms at all about her objectivity when it came to work, so was there any harm in pursuing a physical relationship?

  Still, she’d declined Wyatt’s offer to pick her up at the B&B. She didn’t want to be dependent on him for her comings and goings. Besides, being in his car evoked feelings and sensations she wasn’t ready to explore. When she’d explained that she’d prefer to meet him, he’d reluctantly given her the address. She’d followed up with Gwen, who’d confirmed that she’d like the place, as it was one of the nicer boutiques in town.

  But when Caila walked into the store, her presence announced by a cowbell over the door, she wondered how Wyatt and Gwen could have ever thought this store was in line with her style, even though it was indeed nice inside.

  Gleaming planks of light-colored knotted wood covered every surface except the back wall, which had been painted a bright orange. Track lighting shone down on various racks of shirts, sweatshirts, and camouflage gear. She walked farther into the space, past tables displaying hiking boots, trucker hats, and a small selection of camping gear.

  A large wooden spool table showcasing a selection of colorful T-shirts caught her eye.

  “Proud to Be a GRITS (Girl Raised in the South).”

  “Diamonds Are Made Under Pressure.”

  “What Part of Redneck Don’t You Understand?”

  Was this some kind of joke?

  A middle-aged, bespectacled white woman with short dark hair came over to Caila, looking as if her presence in the store was confusing.

  “Can I help you find something?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Caila said.

  “Are you looking for a gift? We don’t carry a lot of, um . . . urban-type clothes.”

  Caila glanced down at her camel-colored trousers, crisp white dress shirt, and brown crocodile-embossed leather pumps.

  The very epitome of street wear, she thought sarcastically.

  Her fingers tightened around the straps of her purse. “I’m waiting for someone.”

  “Oh. Okay.” The shop owner nodded, as if Caila’s explanation finally cleared up her confusion. “Holler if you need anything.”

  The cowbell clattered and Wyatt strode in looking annoyingly handsome in a white T-shirt, dark-wash jeans, and a stone-colored cardigan. Her heart demonstrated its approval by threatening to leap from her chest, and for the millionth time she cursed the effect he had on her.

  The older woman hurried to the front of the store. “Mayor Bradley! What are you doing here?”

  “Mrs. Anderson,” he said, sounding surprised. He took her outstretched hand. “How have you been?”

  “Just fine.” She eyed him over the rims of her glasses. “Are you picking up something for your grandfather? Or has he finally convinced you to go hunting with him?”

  “No, no, I’m just . . .” His voice trailed off, and rubbing his jaw, he scanned the place, his brows drawn together. When he spotted Caila, partially hidden by a double rack of puffy coats, his eyes brightened and he smiled. “Never mind, I found her.”

  “No worries, and I’ll see you tonight at the game.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets as he approached. “Hey.”

  “Hello.”

  “I wasn’t sure—” He exhaled and shook his head. “I see you found the place.”

  Damn him. It would’ve been easy to remember it was only physical if he’d come in with his usual winning smile and seductive words. But that one hint of shy uncertainty . . . It cracked a hole in the shield she’d erected to separate her heart from her desire.

  “I used this thing called a GPS,” she teased, “but I think your sense of direction must be broken. No offense, but this place isn’t for me.”

  He looked around and frowned, before pulling out his phone. “My friend’s wife suggested this store.” He slid his thumb up the screen several times, then he laughed. “I thought she’d said 460 Maple Street, but it was 640.” He slid the device back into his pocket. “Come on, it’s only a block and a half down.”

  Twenty minutes later, having found the correct place, she ran her fingers over the cute floral-print maxi dress she’d added to the jeans, V-neck tees, and sweaters Wyatt held.

  “What am I doing?” she asked.

  He shifted the load in his arms. “You’re going to be here longer than you intended. You needed more things to wear.”

  He thought she was talking about the clothes when she’d actually been questioning if she’d made the right decision to stay. People who hit it and quit it didn’t go shopping or attend football games together. She was beginning to enjoy herself a little too much. But she went along with his assumption.

  “You have dry cleaners here, right? I would’ve been fine.”

  “You want to be fine or do you want to fit in?”

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  His gaze seared a leisurely path down her body, and butterflies executed flights of fancy in her belly. She mentally ordered them to calm the fuck down.

  “Nothing,” he said, his voice husky. He cleared his throat. “But you don’t have meetings the entire time you’re here. There’s the football game and the Harvest Festival. You don’t want to be walking around in a business suit and heels.”

  “Wait a minute! I didn’t say I was going to the game, let alone the Harvest Festival.”

  “We can discuss it later. Go try these on.”

  “You’re so bossy,” she said, grabbing the stack from him and making her way to the dressing rooms in the back.

  It was a nice setup. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, lighting the common space that contained a three-panel mirror and a large green velvet bench. On the far wall were three curtained stalls. She went into the first one and placed the clothes on the chair provided.

  She hated shopping for clothes. It was torture and an experience, if not invented by a man, then made worse by his “improvements.” It didn’t matter how smart or accomplished you were; in the dressing room, under the harsh overhead lighting and image-distorting mirrors, every woman was made to feel inferior.

  She slid out of her slacks and pulled on the first pair of jeans. The boyfriend cut was relaxed through her hips and thighs and cropped at her ankles. She turned and checked out all angles. Not bad, although she didn’t like the light wash.

  “Come on out. Let me see.”

  She started. He’d followed her? She peered around the curtain and discovered him sitting on the bench, staring at his phone.

  “I’m not doing an impromptu fashion show for you.”

  He looked up, almost managing a sincere expression. “Strictly business. I have expertise on how the women dress in Bradleton.”

  Total bull, but his quick comeback amused her. “I bet you do.”

  She pushed the curtain aside and walked out. He hid his triumphant grin by cupping his chin in consideration.

  “Nice, but they’re a little high around the ankle.”

  “That’s the style. I thought you were an expert in women’s fashion?”

  He smiled and shrugged sheepish
ly. “Do you like them?”

  “They’re fine.”

  “You don’t sound excited, which means you need to try on another pair.”

  “These’ll work.”

  “I thought women were supposed to like shopping?”

  “I love clothes. I hate shopping.”

  Which was why she employed a personal shopper.

  “What kind of jeans do you normally wear? Do they have those here?”

  “I don’t wear jeans.”

  His eyes widened. “That’s crazy. Everyone wears jeans.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “I. Don’t.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  Jeans were for people who lived normal, relaxing lives and did fun things on the weekend. They weren’t for women trying to make partner at a prestigious firm where very few people looked like her.

  “I work for a Fortune 100 company. We don’t do casual Fridays.”

  Or any other day of the week, for that matter.

  “And when you get off work?”

  “I’m at the office between twelve and fourteen hours a day. I’m not kicking it with the girls when I’m done. I usually go home. That’s if I don’t have a dinner meeting or professional function to attend.”

  He stared at her, wide-eyed. “Weekends?”

  “Work.”

  “You wear business suits to the office on the weekends?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t wear jeans, either.”

  And in the few hours when she wasn’t working or sleeping, she wore running gear.

  His incredulity annoyed her. She motioned to his outfit. “What about how you dress?”

  He stood and held his arms out to the side. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

  Nothing. You look good enough to eat.

  “Shouldn’t you wear something a bit more professional? That befits a man of your station?”

  “My station?” He snorted. “You should meet my mother, you two would probably get along.”

  She could tell from his tone that it wasn’t meant as a compliment.

  “You’re the highest-ranking official in your town, but you dress like the lead in a teen drama. Haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘Clothes make the man’?”