Southern Fried Blues (The Officers' Ex-Wives Club)

by Jamie Farrell

  It eyed her.

  She eyed it right back.

  Wait. Was it staring at her pie?

  She’d thought the only thing armadillos did was to lie on the side of the road with their legs in the air. But this one was very much alive, and it was snuffling toward her.

  Her Yankee upbringing was moderately disturbed by this new turn of events.

  She hustled the last two steps to the gate handle and tugged. The door didn’t budge. The armadillo came closer. She didn’t like the semi-crazy look in its eyes.

  Were armadillos friendly? This whole it-being-alive thing was disconcerting.

  She yanked harder on the door. It caught on something up top. Stupid thing locked from the inside, and not only was she too short to reach over the fence and unhook the latch, the armadillo was sniffing closer.

  And those weird dots all over its shell weren’t symmetrical.

  She took a hesitant step back.

  The armadillo took a bold three steps forward.

  She scrambled farther back. Her heel banged into an old railroad tie. It bordered the small alcove where Jackson kept his garbage cans. Maybe she could flip one onto the armadillo. She eased up onto the railroad tie, then slid the lid off the closest can, grateful to find it empty and smelling of grass clippings. Jackson was a bachelor, after all. Balancing the pie in one hand, she reached for the handle on the garbage bin with the other.

  Barking exploded on the driveway. Anna turned with a gasp. She teetered on the railroad tie. The pie tilted. She spun back, reached to steady it. The armadillo jumped straight in the air. Anna shrieked and tried to retreat. Radish bore down on the armadillo. Anna’s heel slipped, she lost her balance, and suddenly she was tumbling backward, fighting to keep the pie from flying out of her hands.

  She had a moment to process one thought—This is going to hurt—when her rear end thumped into a hard object and instead of falling, she was sliding, butt-first, into something round and plastic and grassy-smelling.

  It wobbled, then everything stopped. Her feet stuck out of the garbage can. The rim of it dug into her back. Her arms were cocked at a weird angle.

  But by God, she’d saved the pie.

  A shrill whistle broke the stillness. Radish growled, but she didn’t seem to be eating the armadillo. It gave a sniff, then backed away. Radish stalked it until it was out of sight.

  Anna gave a heave with her arms and legs, but instead of leveraging herself out of the garbage can, she sank deeper into it, legs akimbo, still clutching the damn pie.

  Too bad she hadn’t baked her dignity into it.

  Jackson ambled into view. He wore running shorts and a ratty Bama T-shirt that dripped with sweat. His face shone with perspiration, and his chest heaved.

  Anna squeezed her thighs and tried to pump her legs for momentum to get out. No dice. She was stuck. Stuck and bent in half. “Urg!”

  Jackson peered at her over the pie. His lips twitched once, then settled into a serene, gentlemanly expression as if he pulled women out of his trash cans every day. “Need some help there, Anna Grace?”

  “Oh, I’ve got it. Thanks.” Her cheeks flamed. She was an idiot. An idiot holding a pie in his garbage can. He probably thought she was a stalker. Or crazy. She tried to leverage out with her legs again, but she couldn’t move.

  With the dangerous armadillo gone, Radish wandered over and sniffed at the pie.

  “Back, girl,” Jackson said. Radish whined, then thumped onto her haunches. Jackson folded his arms. His eyes went cobalt and crinkly. “Wouldn’t be any trouble if you needed a hand.”

  “I’m good,” she insisted. Or she would be, if he’d take the damn pie and leave her alone. She threw her weight back and forth, to get the can rocking so it would fall over and she could scoot out.

  Because really, did she need to add pulling me out of a trash can to his list of things he’d done for her?

  “How about I take this here from you.” He lifted the pie away. She tried to lower her arms, but she was past armpit-deep. Instead, she flapped, shimmying left and right. She hadn’t thought she could sink deeper, but she did. The angle was compressing her lungs.

  Crap. She had to ask for help.

  He peeled back the aluminum foil and sniffed the pie. “Mmm, cherry. You do a pie proud, Anna Grace.” A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Sure I can’t give you a hand?”

  She tried rocking the can again. Because if she could get out, then she could crawl into a hole and hide until he went inside.

  She swung her upper body right, then left, then right again.

  The trash can didn’t move.

  Jackson seemed to choke on something. Despite the ornery gleam in his eyes, she hadn’t caught a glimmer of a smile. He set the pie on another can, then gripped her under the armpits and hauled her out in one smooth motion.

  Her heart gave one of those weird thumps she was getting used to, and suddenly she was nose-first in hard, sweaty Jackson chest.

  She hadn’t been near a sweaty male in months.

  She hadn’t liked it for longer.

  The testosterone evaporating out of his pores was raw and potent. Her primal nature missed that.

  A lot.

  Trepidation warred with excitement in her chest. She tilted her chin up and stared at his nose. She hadn’t noticed the little bump in it before. Had he played sports? Been in a fight? Or maybe he’d been born that way.

  His nostrils flared. She took a fortifying breath, then raised her gaze another inch. His dark lashes were so low, they brushed his cheeks.

  It wasn’t fair for a man to have lashes that long and thick.

  It wasn’t fair that he seemed to be waiting for her to make the first move either. She’d taken charge every other time. It was his turn.

  Because if he’d kiss her already, she wouldn’t have to worry if she was doing it right, if he wanted to kiss her, or if he was only holding her to make sure she was steady. Which would’ve been nice of him since she wasn’t sure there was ground under her feet.

  He did want to kiss her, didn’t he? Or was there another reason for him to be caressing her waist with his thumbs?

  “Okay, Anna Grace?”

  That low, husky voice sent a shiver down her spine. “Peachy.” Except for the part where every nerve ending in her body had a couple of loose electrons.

  “Next time, I’m gonna make you ask for help.”

  He dropped his hold on her. Those electrons skittered off into the ether. Radish sniffed at the pie, but Jackson snapped his fingers, and she sank onto her haunches again.

  Was the dog pouting? Anna could sympathize. She swallowed her disappointment and tried to put on her happy face. Maybe she smelled too bad to be kissed. His momma’d probably warned him about trashy girls. She gestured to the pie. “Sorry I missed your message Thursday night. I wanted to make it up to you.”

  That big, goofy grin sent her heart pitter-pattering again.

  “Darlin’, you just did, and it didn’t have anything to do with the pie.”

  She shifted from one foot to the next. Her back was cramping in a weird place. “I didn’t want to leave it out where bugs might get it.”

  He reached over the fence and clicked the lock open. His dog trotted through. “Come on in.”

  That sounded like a very bad idea. A very good, very bad idea.

  “You got supper plans?” he said.

  Her plans hadn’t included wondering half the night if he wanted to kiss her. She had too few brain cells left to figure out that puzzle. “I have some leftover hot dish I should eat before it goes bad.”

  “Hot dish?”

  “The original Minnesota casserole.”

  “I’ve got homemade fried chicken and biscuits.”

  “You make it?”

  Did her heart always have to do that pitter-patter thing when he grinned at her?

  “My momma sent it home with me.”

  She did have a freezer, and hot dish froze well. She hadn’t had real Sout
hern fried chicken in—well, longer than it had been since she’d been turned on by a hot, sweaty man. “I wouldn’t want to—”

  “Of course you wouldn’t. But you brought dessert, so let’s call it even.”

  “You really think a pie makes dinner and coffee even?”

  His lips were twitching again. He shot a glance at the garbage can. “Maybe, maybe not. But you look like you could use a good meal, and I never object to pretty company.”

  “As long as you’re sure it’s not a bother.”

  The gate clanged shut behind them. “Anna Grace, you’re a lot of things, but you’re never a bother.”

  Like he’d tell her if she were.

  He let them into the house through the screened-in porch. Radish moseyed along next to her. Anna scratched the dog behind her ears. “How’d Radish get her name?”

  He slid his phone and the pie onto the counter and flashed another of those ornery grins. “Aw, now, that ain’t a right proper story for a lady. You go on and make yourself at home. Won’t take but a minute to get cleaned up.”

  He disappeared around the corner toward what she assumed to be the bedroom, and she found herself as disappointed as Radish when Jackson wouldn’t let her sniff the pie.

  Because she wouldn’t have minded getting cleaned up with him.

  IF JACKSON HADN’T thought Anna would’ve gotten derailed putting his bedroom to rights, he would’ve invited her to join him. Instead, he hopped about, tossed off his dirty clothes and then dug for a clean pair of jeans and a shirt in the laundry basket. One of these days, he’d burn some leave to finish putting the house in order. But between all the time he’d been spending up in Auburn or hunting, and then TDYs and training and getting up to speed at work, sorting out the house hadn’t taken priority. He’d done what he needed to live in it and put the rest off for when he had more time.

  Seeing as he had a woman who’d brought him pie here now, getting his bedroom put to rights was fast moving up his list of priorities.

  But first, a shower.

  He was back out in the kitchen in less than five minutes. Anna wasn’t there. He poked his head around the corner and found her sitting in a pile of books and movies, label maker out beside her, nose buried in a Mae Daniels book.

  She caught him watching her and pointed to her label maker. “They’re temporary.”

  He flashed her an easy grin. “Think you’re missing your calling, Anna Grace.”

  She ignored that and held the book up, and he caught the laughter dancing in her eyes. “One of your favorites?”

  Summerswept. He’d liked it the first time around, but it was an older Mae Daniels. She’d gotten better and better since then. He dug into the pile and came up with Southern Honey. “Try this one.”

  The smile on her face slid into an O. “Does Lance know about this?”

  “Shoot, Anna Grace, who do you think gave ’em to me?” He snagged Hero Nurse out of the pile too. “Don’t let the title fool you. You can bring it back next time you’re over. Might could learn a thing or two from Bernice in there. You like okra?”

  She snapped out of her surprise to give the same kind of nose wrinkle he expected out of someone who hadn’t grown up on the good stuff.

  “That’s okay, I got potato chips too,” he said.

  She moved to stand.

  “Sit,” he said. “You go on and keep having fun.” He snagged the remote off the counter and handed it over. “Don’t reckon you’ll need this, but if you do, hope you like football or hunting shows. I disabled all the girly channels.”

  “Of course you did.” She tucked the three books into her purse, and she was smiling when she went back to his mess.

  Nice symbiotic relationship they had.

  As it turned out, even though Anna insisted an undying love for the unfortunately named Golden Gophers, she was pretty smart about football. She didn’t seem to mind watching the Bama game he’d recorded while he was taking Mamie out to the shooting range. And though he’d been sure it would rankle Anna to eat greasy, cold fried chicken on the couch, she helped herself to a few extra paper towels and dug in beside him.

  She even opened up that bottle of ketchup he’d bought after Kaci mentioned Anna thought it was its own food group. Long as he didn’t watch her dipping Momma’s fried chicken in it, he was fine.

  She skipped the biscuit, which he couldn’t fault her for, since Miss Dolly’s niece’s cousin’s biscuits were light and flaky as a brick, but she liked her chips well enough to sort them into piles. Broken chips, whole chips, and it took him a minute to puzzle out that the third pile was folded-over chips. Looked like she was saving them for last, so he slid a couple of his own over onto her plate, making sure he accidentally-on-purpose brushed his arm over hers.

  She blinked a couple times quick. “Thank you.”

  He got a notion it’d been a while since anybody noticed the little things. Probably longer than since her moron of an ex took himself out of her life.

  “Leaving more room for pie,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes, but she smiled. And then she ate all of her chips—without ketchup, even—and helped herself to a couple more off his plate while they watched the game. Alabama kicked off after their field goal. Anna gestured to the screen with her chips. “Is it hard to tell the difference between the teams?” she asked.

  He’d taken enough ribbing in his life over not seeing colors right, but she seemed honestly curious. And for once, he found himself on the laughing side. “Nah, I just root for whoever doesn’t have North Texas scrawled over their helmets.”

  “Oh. That makes sense.”

  “I’m a right smart one.”

  She crunched into another chip, and he didn’t mind listening to that at all. Play continued in the game, and he leaned close enough to her to smell her hair. Smelled pretty.

  And a bit like grass.

  “So,” Anna said, “how’s a guy who grew up in Auburn end up going to school in Alabama and getting a tiger paw tattoo, but live to tell the tale?”

  She was a right smart one too, sneaking that in there. “You learn not to talk about it.”

  She tilted her head back and peered up at him. A commercial came on. He paused the game and took the plates into the kitchen, wondering if it was his imagination or if she was giving him a dirty look for avoiding the question.

  He decided it was his imagination, because that had this evening ending better than her giving him dirty looks. Once he slid the plates into the sink, he went digging in his drawer for a spatula to serve the pie with, but came up empty. “Anna Grace, you know where my pie server is?”

  “When’s the last time you used it?” She popped into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. Her shorts had a few stains he guessed had come from her tumble earlier, but he didn’t reckon he needed to point that out. Still, she didn’t seem bothered at all, so that was a good sign their symbiotic relationship could survive his avoiding a question or two.

  He scratched his head. “Don’t remember.”

  “If it’s not in the drawer, I’d check your dishwasher.”

  She seemed to get a kick out of knowing his kitchen better than he knew it himself. He pulled the dishwasher door open and about jumped out of his skin.

  His bronze armadillo stared up at him from the depths of his dishwasher.

  “Oh, hey, Enrique,” Anna said. Her lips quivered like she was barely keeping it in, but since she crossed the kitchen to bend over and pat his armadillo, putting her that much closer to him, he’d give her this one. “How’s it going? Oh, look. Pie server.”

  She lifted it out and smiled at him with all the innocence of a woman. He took the utensil, set it on the counter, and kicked the dishwasher shut. He closed the small gap between them. “You having fun, Anna Grace?” he asked, slipping his hands to those hips that were getting some curve back.

  Speaking of curves, there went her lips too, all full of sass and some intentions he could get on board with. “I am, tha
nk you.” Her fingers slid up his arms and her bare calf brushed his, leaving him wondering how he managed to find near about the perfect woman.

  Watched football, ate cold chicken, didn’t want commitment.

  “But that was awful mean of you to leave Enrique in the dishwasher,” she said.

  “You want an audience?”

  She shivered against him, but since she leaned closer, he took the shiver as a mark in his favor. “Maybe not.”

  Her lashes flirted with her cheeks. Her fingers had walked up his arm and shoulder to do something to the back of his neck that he was enjoying in other parts of his body too. He ran his fingers through that soft, pretty hair, then nudged her head closer to his. A hint of a smile teased at those soft lips. He brushed them with his own.

  She angled closer. He took his time enjoying all that soft skin and warm mouth. He did love a good long kiss with a kissable woman. He liked those little noises she made too, the way her leg crept up his, how she pressed closer and closer even though his body had gone past gentlemanly about the time he’d started looking at her lips.

  He found himself mighty glad she didn’t like biscuits. Mighty glad she was willing to share her pie with him too.

  He was thinking about giving in to those little hints she was dropping about where she wanted his hands to go when AC/DC exploded out of his phone on the counter.

  Wasn’t often Mamie irritated him, but either her timing was bad, or she knew he was sampling a Yankee’s biscuits. Frustrated the heck out of him to pull away. “Sorry, Anna Grace. This one’s important.”

  She took a shaky breath. “Okay. But I’ll be here. You know. When you’re done.”

  Just like that, she had him smiling again. “Pretty sure I can find you.”

  He snagged the phone and took himself into his bedroom. If he could get the bed cleared off and keep Anna focused on kissing him until they got there, he figured he had a sixty-five-percent chance. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Sugarplum, I’ve been—you got a girl over there?”

  He tucked the phone under his chin so he could shovel underwear into a box. “Yes, ma’am.”