Ain't Misbehaving (9781455523801)

by Cannon, Molly

  She remembered. He’d said it would make a good place to paint. He apparently didn’t care if everything he showed her broke her heart into a million pieces. Unlocking the door, he pushed it open so she could enter. “I realized it would make a great workshop.” He flipped on the light and she saw workbenches lining one wall, a table saw at one end of the room, and a peg boards holding every kind of tool imaginable.

  Wandering around, she examined the assortment of drills and clamps and power tools she couldn’t name. “Wow, now this is what I call a workshop.” She noticed a door on the far wall. “What’s in here?” She turned the knob and pushed open the door.

  “Oh don’t bother with that, Marla Jean. It’s nothing.”

  His warning came too late, as she found the light switch. What she found inside that room made no sense to her. A large wooden easel dominated the middle of the room. Blank canvases were stacked against each other, leaning here and there against the walls. Jars holding paint brushes sat on a worktable beside rows of unopened tubes of paint. A big picture window was covered in a shade that when lifted would let in the perfect amount of morning sun.

  “What in the world?” She turned back to him, searching his face for an explanation.

  “I’m sorry, Marla Jean. It’s not what it looks like.” He seemed uncomfortable.

  “What does it look like?” She was confused.

  He sighed. “Well, I guess it is what it looks like. It’s an art studio, for you.”

  “For me?” Wandering inside she picked up a paintbrush. “I don’t understand.”

  “I know, it’s crazy. You have your new life and your new apartment. You’ve moved on, and I understand that. But even before I came to terms with how I felt about my father, I finally came to terms with how I feel about you.”

  “I know how you feel about me, Jake. I’ve always known.”

  “Have you?”

  “Of course. We’re friends, good friends I hope.”

  “Just friends? I’d say things are different since the night you cut my hair.”

  “You mean the night we had sex. I know you feel guilty because I managed to seduce you. And now you think you owe me something, but you don’t.”

  “You didn’t seduce me. I took advantage.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sakes.” She rolled her eyes. “I was a willing participant. And what does that have to do with the fact that there’s an art studio in your workshop?”

  He seemed embarrassed and began a rambling explanation. “At first I started fixing little things you’d mentioned, like painting the porch blue, and then I bought the hammocks. One thing led to another—you know, so they’d be ready in case you managed to buy the house, and when that fell through and you actually moved away, I couldn’t seem to give the place up to anyone else, because I couldn’t see anyone else living here but you.” He sat down on a stool, looking defeated. “So I kept it.”

  A flare of hope flickered inside her bound-up heart, but she wasn’t about to jump to any cockamamie conclusions. She walked over until she was standing right in front of him. “Jake, I’m going to ask straight out. Is this just you taking care of me the way you take care of everyone in your life, or is this something different?”

  He gazed into her eyes. “You’re going to make me say the words, aren’t you? Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Nothing about this is obvious, so yes. I need the words. Something simple and uncomplicated I can’t misunderstand.”

  “Okay. How about I love you? Not like a friend. I love you like the woman I want to spend my life with.”

  “You do?” She was stunned. “You love me?” Talk about universes flipping upside down.

  “And I know that’s not what you want to hear. I know you have your new life in Derbyville—”

  “How do you know what I want to hear?”

  “Well, you made it clear you were looking for good times and meaningless sex.”

  “I don’t think I said ‘meaningless.’ ” She moved closer and put her arms around his neck. She placed a whisper of a kiss at the corner of his mouth.

  At her touch his voice grew dark and husky. “I’m pretty sure you said meaningless. And you said you weren’t ready for serious, and you needed time to sort out your life after your divorce.” His hands settled on her waist.

  “Sometimes I talk too much.” She moved in until her blouse brushed against his T-shirt before placing another kiss on the side of his neck. “Let’s go back to the important part where you love me and want to spend your life with me.”

  “Why is that important?” She could read the flare of hope in his eyes.

  “Because I love you, too, Jake.”

  When he kissed her it wasn’t gentle. It was a greedy, grasping kiss that rode over her with raw passion. His words belied what his body was telling her. “I’m not trying to rush you into anything. I thought maybe we could try dating first.” He held her close until they were touching thigh to thigh.

  Her fingers made feathery trails through his hair. “Dating would be nice.”

  “We can take things slow, if you like. How long’s the lease on your apartment?” His big wide hands were tracing shivery patterns up and down her back.

  “Six months.” She kissed the other side of his mouth. “Only five months to go.”

  “I’m not sure I can wait that long, but I’ll try. In the meantime, I have this fantasy of you and me in one of those hammocks.”

  She grabbed the flashlight and pulled him out of the workshop. “I’ll show you my fantasy, if you’ll show me yours.”

  Marla Jean stood just inside the entrance of Lu Lu’s, slowly scanning the joint. An hour earlier she wiggled into her tight red dress, tugged on her favorite cowboy boots, and headed out on that hot summer Saturday night to the local watering hole. It had been five long months since the first time Jake had told her he loved her. He’d been serious about taking it slow, about not pushing her into anything too quickly. But as of next week her lease would be up on her apartment, and she was ready. Ready to spend her days and nights with the man she loved. She was sure of exactly what she wanted, and now, by God, she, Marla Jean Bandy, was going to get it.

  The smell of stale beer and the sound of country music poured out of Lu Lu’s as she pulled the door open and walked inside. She spotted her prey seated at the bar talking to the bartender. Linc and Dinah sat listening on one side of him and Irene Cornwell and Genna Stanley were on the other. Marla Jean didn’t take the direct route but circled around the edge of the dance floor, keeping her target in sight.

  “Hey, Marla Jean, how about a dance?” She glanced up at the tall man who’d stepped into her path.

  Grinning she said, “Sorry, Donny Joe, my dance card’s full.”

  He nodded toward the bar and winked. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

  “Thanks, Donny. I think I will.”

  As she made her way through the crowd the place got quiet. People parted until a path opened up leading straight to the bar and the man seated there. Jake sat with his back to her, and just as she approached, Linc let out a whoop, and then leaned over and slapped him on the back. Before she had time to wonder what that was all about, Irene Cornwell made the mistake of putting her hand on his arm.

  “Take your hands off him, Irene.” Marla Jean’s voice was friendly enough, if a rattlesnake could be considered friendly. Without taking her eyes from Jake, Marla Jean pulled a ball-peen hammer from her bag and bounced it against her palm. “And I’ve gotta warn you, I don’t fight fair when it comes to the man I love.” Irene held up both hands and beat a hasty retreat.

  Jake spun around with a big smile on his face. “Hey, Marla Jean. It’s about time you got here. Let’s dance.”

  “I didn’t come here to dance.” She sighed as he swept her onto the dance floor. Her arms went around his neck, and he pulled her closer than might be considered polite in public.

  “So, what did you come here to do besides cause a riot in that dress?”

 
“I told my landlord I wasn’t renewing my lease. I thought you might like to know.”

  “Hallelujah, woman.”

  She squealed when he picked her up and spun her around before setting her back on her feet. Snuggling back into his arms, she murmured, “I thought you’d like that. So tell me, mister. When I came in it looked like you were entertaining everyone at the bar. What’s going on?”

  “I wasn’t entertaining anyone. I was showing them something important.” He winked and his grin lit up the room.

  She pretended to scold him. “I thought we agreed you didn’t show any of your important parts to anyone but me these days.” Being in his arms had her softening like a snow cone on a warm day.

  He laughed. “I like it when you’re possessive, and the hammer’s a nice touch.”

  “You said it was for keeping bozos at bay. You didn’t say the bozos couldn’t be women.” She fingered the soft dark curls at the back of his neck.

  He stopped dancing. “I have something that will do the job better than that old hammer. Why don’t we make a trade?” Reaching into his shirt pocket he pulled out a ring and went down on one knee smack dab in the middle of the dance floor. “Will you marry me, Marla Jean?”

  Her heart hitched in her chest, and her tight red dress hitched up to an indecent length as she sank down beside him. She reached for him, and the hammer clattered to the floor, forgotten. He waited for her answer, his beautiful face awash with masculine grace and hope. Was there a word bigger than “yes”? A word that really said all she felt for him?

  A crowd gathered around, bombarding them with hoots and catcalls.

  “Come on, Marla Jean, you know you want to,” Donny Joe yelled.

  “Say yes, Marla Jean,” Dinah hollered.

  Jake leaned in, his voice hot and smoky. “Come live in that old house with me and let’s have lots of puppy dogs and babies.”

  At his words, images of a future filled with laughter and love and the family she’d always wanted flooded her head. She nodded, giving him her private answer, giving him everything that was in her heart. For the benefit of the crowd she followed with a loud “hell, yes” that had them clapping and carrying on like drunks at a church social. Jake slipped the diamond ring on her finger and then picked her up and started carrying her toward the front door.

  “Kiss her, Jake,” someone shouted from across the room.

  “I don’t plan to stop there,” Jake called back without pausing as he shouldered his way out into the parking lot.

  Marla Jean bounced along in Jake’s arms grinning like a loon until he dumped her onto the front seat of his pick-up truck. “Kiss me, Jake,” she insisted.

  “Hold your horses, woman.” He tucked her inside and shut the door, and then ran around to the driver’s side.

  He got behind the wheel and turned to pull her into his arms. “Now then. Where were we?”

  “You were about to kiss me.”

  “Oh yeah.” He wrapped her in his arms and looked deep into her eyes. “I love you, Marla Jean.” And then he kissed her like he had every right, like she was all he’d ever wanted.

  “I love you, too,” she murmured against his lips, like he was all she’d ever need. His hand slid halfway up her skirt, and she nipped at his lip and moaned, “Take me home, Jake.”

  He leaned his forehead against hers and with great reluctance nudged her to the passenger side of the truck. “Okay, but you stay over there, and try not to be a distraction.” He started the truck, and pulled out of the parking lot, his big hand settled possessively on her thigh.

  She held up her left hand, studying the ring he’d placed on her finger, watching it twinkle in the moonlight. “Hey, you know all those babies we’re going to have? Well, I’ve been thinking about names. Maybe Lotus Petal for a girl, or Jiminy for a boy.”

  He hit the brakes. “Now hold on, Marla Jean…” He launched into a lecture about the importance of picking exactly the right name for their future children. How they couldn’t go off half-cocked and saddle them with some God-awful moniker that would scar them for life.

  She closed her eyes and listened, a contented smile on her face.

  Who said you couldn’t find love at Lu Lu’s on a Saturday night?

  Nothing can faze a no-nonsense city girl… except maybe a smooth-talking country boy.

  Please turn this page for a preview of

  Crazy Little Thing Called Love

  Available in April 2013

  Chapter One

  You can’t take time off now. It’s out of the question.” Diego Barrett, head chef at Finale’s, made his decree and turned back to the stove as if everything was settled.

  Etta swiped at a lone tear and sniffed. It was hard to believe she’d ever thought she was in love with this guy. “Diego, I’m not asking for your permission. My grandmother died, and I’m going to Texas to take care of the arrangements.”

  He never looked her way as he banged around the restaurant kitchen, lifting lids, stirring a pot here, tasting a sauce there. “What about your sister? She lives in Texas. Why can’t she handle things?” He stomped over to the table that held menu plans and supply lists. “And how the hell am I supposed to get anyone to cover for you on such short notice? The Mann party is coming in tomorrow night, and they could make or break our reputation. Remember, Etta? The Mann party. The big opportunity we’ve been working our asses off for?”

  “If you could stop ranting long enough to listen I’ll tell you. Mimi will cover for me tomorrow, and everything will be fine. But I’ll be gone at least a week. Adjust the schedule accordingly.”

  “For God’s sake, why can’t you wait a day or two? Why do you have to leave right now? I need you here.”

  “The question you should be asking is, ‘Are you okay, Etta? Is there anything I can do to help?’ ”

  Sounding like a spoiled child, he tried guilt. “You know what kind of pressure I’m under. Thank you for adding to it.”

  She took off her apron and started gathering her things. “And thank you for your support, Diego.”

  “How’s this for support?” He sat down at the table, his tone overwrought. “If you leave me now, don’t bother to come back.”

  Without a second thought, she picked up a vat of cold soup, a lovely vichyssoise, and dumped it in his lap. “Oops. There goes the soup of the day.”

  His howl of outrage and the pungent smell of leeks followed her out the door.

  Donny Joe Ledbetter hated funerals.

  He huddled in his thin black suit coat as an uncommonly bitter wind whipped through Everson Memorial Gardens and battered the mourners who’d gathered graveside to pay their respects to the dearly departed Hazel Green. Miz Hazel, as she was known by one and all, had lived a colorful life and had died too soon at the frisky age of sixty-eight.

  Amen and bless her soul.

  She would be missed by the good folks in Everson, including Donny Joe. She’d been his next-door neighbor, a grandmother figure of sorts, a neverending source of unsolicited advice—some good, some bad. And of late, his business partner.

  He didn’t treat her passing lightly, so when he was asked to be a pallbearer, he agreed without hesitation. He had a real affection for the old girl. He let his gaze travel over Etta Green, Miz Hazel’s granddaughter. Too bad he couldn’t say he felt the same about her.

  She had steamed back into Everson a few days ago to take care of the funeral arrangements for her grandmother, but grief could only go so far in excusing her surly attitude. She’d bulldozed everyone in her path, and out of the respect people had for Miz Hazel she’d gotten away with it. Now she perched on one of the spindly chairs set up for the family in front of the casket, her fireplug of a body vibrating with defiance and anger.

  What a piece of work.

  She wore a long-sleeved black dress that covered her from chin to ankle. Her fists were clenched tightly in her lap as if it were all she could do not to shake them at the heavens for taking her beloved Grammy away t
oo soon. Her pointy, high-heeled black pumps tapped out a nervous rhythm on the dry winter grass, suggesting she might kick the shins of the first person who dared express any hint of sympathy. Donny Joe planned to keep his distance.

  By contrast her older sister Belle had arrived just in time for the service. Ah, Belle. They’d had a short-lived flirtation one summer a long time ago, and he hadn’t seen or thought about her since. She’d grown into an attractive and, from all appearances, even-tempered woman. Sitting demurely, ankles crossed, she wore a simple gray dress set off by a wide-brimmed black hat. A veil covered her face giving her the air of an Italian film actress. She sobbed quietly behind the filmy material while her daughter Daphne stared straight ahead. She looked to be maybe eight or nine years old, but she didn’t squirm or wiggle around like most young kids he knew. In fact she showed no emotion of any kind.

  Donny wished he could be as stoic. Miz Hazel’s death hit him harder than he’d expected. Despite her untimely demise she’d lived a good life, and the gathered crowd was a testament to how many people she’d touched. Shivering in the cold of the cemetery, surrounded by grave markers of Everson’s deceased, made him wonder about his own life. Who would shed a tear if he was to meet his maker tomorrow? Would anybody really give a damn if he lived or died? It gave a man pause.

  Brother East, the Baptist preacher, asked everyone to bow their heads in prayer. Then after a chorus of murmured “Amens,” he instructed the pallbearers to say their final farewells by placing their boutonnieres on top of the half-lowered glossy white casket. Donny Joe removed the pearl-tipped pin holding the pink rosebud onto his lapel and trailed along in line with the others. Each man said a quick good-bye to Miz Hazel and laid their rose beside the giant funeral spray that adorned the box holding her remains. Donny Joe could feel his eyes start to water and blamed it on the stinging wind. When it was his turn, he stopped and took a moment with his thoughts.