“Good for him,” Harrison said outside the shop window.
“Mr. Wyatt’s gone now,” True told him gently.
“Aw.” Harrison’s face softened.
“But his daughter’s great.” True kissed his cheek to cheer him up. “Remember Jane? She runs it now, and she’s as nice to the kids from Sand Dollar Heaven as ever.”
“I’m glad.” Harrison pulled her close. “I don’t know what I would have done without this place. Without Mr. Wyatt making me feel like I belonged.” His expression was tender, which only increased his hotness by infinity times sixty-nine. “And then I met you here. After that, I knew exactly where I belonged. For the rest of my life.” He paused a millisecond, just long enough for a wisp of a sea breeze to lift their hair. “I love you, True.”
True’s eyes filled with tears. “I love you, too. Will you faint if I kiss you, Mr. Gamble? Maybe moan and whimper? You’re looking pretty wobbly right now. Kind of how I was inside The Damn Yankee.”
“I think I can handle your star power, Miss Maybank.”
“But you’ll need to take off those dorky sunglasses first,” she advised him. “And maybe lose the hat. I’m pretty choosy about whom I kiss among my fan base.”
“Oh, yeah?” He’d tucked his gorgeous lion’s mane inside that hat, and now it came tumbling down. “Do you always say whom? You sound like a librarian. It kinda turns me on.”
She laughed, and before she could take outrageous advantage of him, he gathered her in his arms and kissed her senseless.
“Wow,” she whispered when they took a break.
He looked at her long and hard. “I’m staying here. You matter more to me than my dang career. I can still keep it up. I write better songs when I’m with you than any I could write apart from you. I’ll work out the rest. Love’ll find a way.”
Just like Carmela had assured her in the Starfish Grill. Love had found a way for True and Weezie to make it through their hard times. It had brought Gage to Carmela—and Carmela to Gage. Today it had united hundreds of strangers at The Damn Yankee.
Boundaries, roadblocks … none of them mattered.
“We belong together,” Harrison said. “Maybank Hall and Biscuit Creek—Weezie and Gage and Carmela—me and you.” He held her close. “Will you marry me again, my Sewee princess?”
True looked up into those warm brown eyes, the same ones that had shone with quiet pride and happiness when he’d shown her his secret honeysuckle bower for the first time. He’d made a drum from a coffee can and a flower wreath for her hair. They’d done the limbo under a low oak tree branch and pretended it was a ceremonial dance. “Yes, you dear, dear man.” She smiled. “I’ll marry you again.”
The Miss Mary bobbed in the creek behind them. Her shrimp nets were out for repair, and her hull was about to get a fresh coat of paint. Her new owner figured that paying quadruple what the boat was worth was the least he could do to help the previous owner retire. He already had three new co-captains, too, young men from Sand Dollar Heaven. Among them they had seven kids, and two of their wives had babies on the way.
“Wanna go swimming to celebrate?” Harrison asked True.
“Yes,” she said with a grin. “A dip in the creek would feel wonderful.”
“This way.” He took her hand. Just like the old days. “I got something to show you.”
They walked along the wharf beneath a blue bowl of a sky. And he sang her a love song called “Miss Priss,” which he’d written for her that same morning. Conveniently, the very last line ended with the words wedded bliss.
“It’s perfect.” She squeezed his hand. “I love how you got ‘sexy kiss’ in there, too.”
“You do?” His boyish look of surprise made her laugh out loud.
“I love everything about it.” She gave him the sexiest kiss she could muster.
He gave it right back.
Her bones must have evaporated. She was pure Jell-O. “I can’t believe you wrote another song for me.”
“They’re all about you, True. I look back now, and I see that so clearly. It’s because you’re the one I love. You’re the one I feel all the emotion about.”
“You mean, I really am MoonPie fine?”
“Hell, yes, you are.”
Not ten minutes later, True’s left hand had a diamond ring on it from Croghan’s Jewel Box in Charleston. She and Harrison stood on the stern of the Miss Mary, an open bottle of champagne and two half-drunk glasses behind them in the cockpit.
“Ready?” Harrison asked her.
“So ready,” she answered him.
They jumped into Biscuit Creek together.
“Whoopee!” Harrison yelled in midair, his hand clutched tightly around hers.
True laughed under water, and they came up kissing.
CHAPTER ONE
Blackballed Hollywood bombshell Lacey Clark was one of those GRITS people—a Girl Raised In The South—and knew all about Scarlett O’Hara and Tara and how to hang on during rough times. Out in L.A. she thought she’d escaped a bottom-of-the-barrel existence, but she was right back where she started, home again—the same way she’d left it, too, with only a few dollars in her pocket. But she did have Henry, her five-year-old son. In his tiny cubby of a room, she dutifully got him into bed and tucked him in tight with a threadbare quilt, her heart squeezing with a love so strong she knew she could take whatever craziness life threw at her because she had something bigger and better—the love of this little man. His hand curled in hers, and his lips, puffy and dry from keeping the car window down for three thousand miles, curved like a slice of watermelon, sweet and pink.
“Tell me a story, Mama.” Henry’s husky boy voice sounded like snakes and snails and puppy dog tails—along with jellyfish and horseshoe crab carcasses, his new favorite things.
The South Carolina rain came down something fierce, but the weatherman said it’d all clear out by morning, which was a good thing. Lacey had a life to build from scratch. “How about the story of the brave little boy who crossed the country in an old ambulance and survived on white-powdered doughnuts and hot dogs?”
“Hey!” Henry grinned. “That’s me!”
“Yeah, well”—she smoothed his hair back—“you’d think it was you. But this boy was named George. And he was a secret spy.”
“He was?”
“Uh huh.” She wished she’d had spy skills in L.A. She’d never have allowed herself to get caught up in the easy life she’d lived the past three years. She should have known it was all a mirage, a silly game she’d been playing, too good to be true. What kind of mother let her life implode like that?
Never again.
Even above the rain she heard a car door slam shut.
“What was that?” Henry’s brow creased. “I thought no one was coming here for a while.”
No one was supposed to.
Lacey stood, her heart pounding like the dance floor at a honky-tonk on a Saturday night. “It’s probably the pizza man delivering to the wrong address,” she said smoothly, but no one came out this way and in this kind of weather unless they had a reason. “Don’t you worry a thing. Just close your eyes and I’ll take care of this.” She leaned down and blew out the candle which stood sentinel in front of the solitary window. “’Night. I promise I’ll finish George’s story tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” Henry already sounded sleepy. “’Night, Mama.”
She shut the door, walked briskly through her own connecting bedroom, then raced down the spiral stairs, glad for the loud downpour and her bare feet. Dear God, let him sleep and dream, lulled by the rain. The sea.
At the bottom of the stairs, a cozy lamp on the kitchen counter glowed yellow behind its old paper shade. She strode past the plank table and heard a grunt, a clattering of metal against metal. Visions of axe murderers made her turn back and grab the flashlight lying on the counter. A second later she was at the thick wooden arched door, which lacked a window or a peephole. On the other side was a small portico, but it wo
uldn’t provide much cover for whoever stood out there.
She felt very much like the Cowardly Lion until she thought of Henry. And then she was Dirty Harry and Indiana Jones, all rolled into one. “Who’s there?” she called coolly.
“Can you give me a hand with this door?” a male voice boomed.
The keyhole rattled, but the door stayed shut.
She knew that voice. She did. And she wasn’t scared of it. Annoyed, yes. But …
How did she know that voice?
Adrenaline made her throat tight. “You’re at the wrong place,” she called. “This is a private residence.”
“Yeah, I know. Hurry it up, please. The rain’s coming down sideways, and this Louis Vuitton bag ain’t cheap.”
He said ain’t with all the insouciance of a true Southern male. Whether gentleman or redneck, they knew a guy’s worth had nothing to do with his grammar, how much money he had in the bank, or what his ancestors’ names were. It was about how well he could hold a rifle, drink his bourbon, and tell a good story.
Her guard went up another notch. “I’m sorry you’re miserable, but I’m not letting you in. Only a fool would open the door to a stranger these days.”
Especially when you’re a woman alone with a precious child upstairs.
She held tighter onto the flashlight. If he stormed the door, she’d clonk him on the head with it if she had to.
“You think a psycho killer would bother having this conversation? If you’re the Molly Maid people, you’re gonna regret leaving me out here. I’ll be tracking in sand and—”
“I’m not the cleaning service.” Her heart hammered against her ribs. “I’m telling you again, sir. I’m not letting you in. I’m about to call the police. So you’d better skedaddle.”
“Skedaddle, my ass!” He gave a good thunk on the door. “But hey, what’s a little more water? And a little more humiliation? I’ve endured plenty the last couple days. Oh, yes, indeedy.”
She was the one with the sob story, so she wasn’t going to feel sorry for him. But somehow she did. All Southern men could hold TED talks about how to charm the ladies.
Don’t go soft on him.
“You should get back in your car,” she said. “I don’t care how wet you and your luggage are. When are you men gonna take responsibility for your own choices? I’m so sick of y’all expecting women to be your mothers. Honestly.”
She was breathing a little hard, and her accent was coming back thicker than a Dagwood sandwich.
“Don’t take your man woes out on me, girlfriend. And you can keep my mother out of this discussion, if you don’t mind.” There was a flash of lightning and an almost instantaneous clap of thunder. “Now open the damned door.”
She swallowed hard and ignored her wobbly knees. Lightning didn’t sit well with her. Neither did being responsible for a man getting fried on her doorstep. But she wouldn’t panic. She couldn’t afford to.
“Your key”—she said in her best no-nonsense voice—“doesn’t work because you’re at the wrong place. I have the lease here.” Monica did, actually, but Lacey was the double-crossed former employee with no place to go. That had to count for something.
“That’s it,” the stranger said. “I’m calling Callum.”
Lacey’s eyes widened. “You know Callum?”
“Of course I know him. You know him?”
“Yes, but—” Callum lived on the West Coast. A local wouldn’t know him. Unless—shoot. Unless he was somehow involved with the movie. Lacey’s heart sank. She was hoping to steer clear of the movie and all the hoopla associated with it.
“Lady?”
“Yes?” She bit her thumbnail, wondering what he would say next to coax her to open the door.
“I’m telling you now.” The man’s tone was softer now, a little menacing. “I’m not going to drive to that crappy Beach Bum Inn and deal with this tomorrow. I have to get to work early in the morning, and I need my sleep. Callum said no one was here and to make myself at home. I intend to do that. With or without your permission. And with or without a key.”
Lacey drew a breath. “I’m going to let you in,” she said slowly. “But only for a minute.”
“About damned time.”
With shaking hands—but ready to do battle—she opened the door. A huge crack of thunder split the air.
“You’re in my lighthouse,” he said in toneless greeting and strode past her—whoosh—like a freight train. He wore old jeans, Red Wing boots, and a brown quail jacket with the corduroy brim popped up, not for show, it appeared, but to keep off the rain. Beneath the coat was a ratty mustard-brown sweater vest with braided leather buttons, and underneath that, a faded red Henley open at the neck.
He was about her age, with hard cheekbones and a distinctly pissed-off demeanor which intensified when he turned to look directly at her, water streaming off his high-crowned, wide-brimmed sable fedora.
Her heart nearly stopped in her chest.
It was Beau Wilder. The Beau Wilder. International superstar. He’d won the People’s Choice award for Favorite Movie Actor the past three years. He excelled in action adventure, rose to heroic heights in detective or police stories, and kept the audience on the edge of their seats in thrillers.
“Holy bejeezus.” Even as a Hollywood insider of sorts, she was gobsmacked.
“Uh huh, I know,” he said dismissively.
He hadn’t shaved for days—typical behavior for your average macho male celebrity—but he was Ralph Lauren handsome, too, tall and broad-shouldered. A man’s man, for sure, but distinguished—elegant, even—in the way that a sweaty, mud-laden horse with highly muscled flanks is when it wins the Kentucky Derby.
Shock and—she had to admit it—awe were quickly replaced by indignation. His eyes were bloodshot, and he reeked of alcohol. Henry was upstairs, for goodness’ sake. “I’ve got some bad news for you, Mr. Wilder.” Her voice shook just a little, but he was only a man—and an actor at that. “This isn’t your lighthouse.”
“For the next two months it is,” he shot back and dropped his bag with a thunk, managing to avoid the puddle forming at his feet. “I traded Callum four front-row seats to a Lakers game to get this place. That’s a business transaction. I have rights.”
His tone was deliberate, gritty, as if he were facing a Bad Guy. A Bad Guy who was gonna lose.
“You don’t really expect me to buy that,” she said.
“What?”
She laced her right arm over her left. “You’re in a lighthouse. Not a courthouse. I’m not your perp, and you’re drunk.”
He scowled at an invisible audience first, then looked her up and down, taking his time. She was used to that—but he was getting off on the wrong foot with her in a big way.
“Hey,” she warned him. “Mind your manners.”
She shifted on her feet, nervous again because suddenly he exuded unholy joy, his eyes glowing the same green golden-brown as the tips of marsh grass caught in a beam of sunlight.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “You’re the hot tamale who starred in Hell on Wheels.”
Released online-only, five years ago. It had gone viral, too, but in a bad way. Which was why Lacey was no longer a natural blond. She tossed her head. “Don’t get sexist with me, Mr. Stud Muffin.”
“Oh, for crying out loud. It was a compliment.” He lifted a very suggestive brow. “Greta.”
He might be a pain in her backside right now, but, Lord, he drew the eye. And he’d seen her movie. She couldn’t believe it! Her whole body responded to the new energy he put out—at her expense, yes, but she’d always liked bad people. Really bad people. Not pretend ones like Sheena who rebelled because they needed attention but people who bucked the system because they were too smart to stay bored—too selfish to sacrifice fun.
Like her.
But she was done. Done with bad people and the excitement they brought into her life. For Henry’s sake, she was willing to learn bored. There had to be something to it.<
br />
“You look like I Love Lucy now,” he said. “But you’re still Greta Gildensturm. You can’t hide those eyes, or that—that—”
Despite her warnings, he gazed at her as if she were Cool Whip and he was the spoon—which considering the source, she knew she should find flattering. But she was over all that malarkey and over all the men who did it, even one-in-a-billion men like Mr. Beau Hot Stuff Wilder. And because he must have valued his life, he didn’t finish the sentence.
“Her name was Lucy Ricardo, not I Love Lucy.” She made a duh face. “That was the name of the show.” And she refused to acknowledge her character’s name in Hell on Wheels. She’d refuse to her dying day. She’d refuse even after death, if that were possible. She’d come and haunt anyone who tried to put her and Greta Gildensturm together.
“She’ll always be I Love Lucy to me.” Smug. Still a little drunk. But damned cute. And bad clear through.
Oh, God. The worst kind of man.
And the best kind of movie star.
She crossed her arms over her ample breasts, which she’d declined to have reduced. Her back didn’t hurt. So why should she? Was it her fault God made her that way? And she was scared of doctors and knives and, oh, anything that had to do with medicine, including Band-Aids and Luden’s Cherry Cough Drops, which she’d choked on once when she was five.
So it would be a cold day in hell when she got a breast reduction.
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “If you meet someone who looks like Theodore Cleaver, you’re gonna say, you look like Leave It to Beaver? Does that make sense?”
He didn’t seem to be listening. “And you were just in the news. You spilled a whole pitcher of margaritas over Callum’s head at a West Hollywood restaurant with Monica Lowry sitting right next to him. Don’t tell me you wanted to break up those two lovebirds. They deserve each other.” He lifted a wet cigar to his mouth and clamped down on it, grinning. “Yep, Hell on Wheels and Greta Gildensturm both trended on Twitter that day.”
Sweet Talk Me Page 32