Trust didn’t come easy
And I hurt her with my doubt.
But she took her promise kind of smile
And turned me inside out.
I handed her this beat-up heart
And I’d crawl a country mile
For the pleasure of her kiss
And her promise kind of smile.
Emory’s tears were flowing freely by the time he went into his guitar solo. She stepped forward and waited for him to throw his head back, close his eyes, and go to his private place. But this time he didn’t. He leaned forward, opened his eyes wide, and shared the moment with her. He played from his heart and soul in a way that let the world—and her—know how much he meant those words.
Then he smiled. When she let her heart show in her return smile, he paused, lifted his eyes to heaven, and shook his head. “It gets me every single time.”
When he slid into the chorus, he picked up the tempo and the crowd went wild.
She smiled at me, yes, she smiled at me
And she didn’t speak a word.
When she offered love with a guarantee
Her smile was all I heard.
When she swore she’d always be mine
It was with silence in perfect rhyme.
Because she’s got a promise kind of smile.
My Emory’s got a promise kind of smile.
The applause broke out but he didn’t acknowledge it. He put his guitar down and walked toward her with his arms open. She didn’t make him walk the whole way.
The applause continued as their mouths met and Emory celebrated the only place she’d ever want to be.
He pulled away a bit. “I said some things to you that I didn’t mean. I didn’t even think I meant them then. I wanted to drive you away for your own good.”
“You are a stupid man.” Even she could hear the love in her voice when she said those words.
“Yeah. I’ve been informed of that by more than one person by word, action, and deed.” His voice went soft. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “Like the song says, when I offered you my love it came with a guarantee.”
“I wanted to come to you sooner but I had to work out some things. And I had to face that I have post-traumatic stress disorder. And I had to learn something about forgiving Jackson.”
“Oh, honey.” Her heart wanted to cry because she’d left him to go through that without her but her head knew he’d had to get there alone.
He shook his head. “It’s okay. That fire in L.A. wasn’t my fault. And neither was the one that killed my family.”
“You thought that?” She was horrified.
He nodded. “And I couldn’t let myself have you until I worked that out, but, Emory, I love you. You have no idea how much.”
“I think I do. I felt how much before you even knew.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “You’re a wonder. I’ll never deserve you but I’ll spend the rest of my life trying.”
“I’m going to enjoy that part.” They laughed a little together.
“I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen with my career,” he said, “but I’m not giving up music.”
“I’m glad.”
“I’m writing. I’ve got the band back. Chase, too. We’ve got plans to record. Touring—I don’t know. I’m getting some help so I think I’ll be able to eventually. But I don’t know that I want to do another big concert. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to do another big tour.”
“As long as you’re happy.”
“Right now, I just want to be with you. I want to write my songs during the day while you make parties. Then I want to sit on the porch at night and play those songs for you. And I’m thinking one of the parties you make might be a wedding.”
“I know how to make that happen.” It was already taking shape in her mind. Spring. White tulips. Julie with a basket of rose petals.
He brought her back. “But right now, I really just want to go home.”
Those might have been the sweetest words she’d ever heard.
“Then let’s go.”
He smiled and took her hand and started to lead her toward the door.
“Wait! Your guitar! And my purse, and phone … ”
He laughed. “Sammy’ll get all that.”
Sammy? She looked up and Sammy peeped around that ugly sculpture and waved.
And Emory walked out the door with Jackson Beauford and never looked back.
About the Author
Alicia Hunter Pace is the psuedonym for the writing team, Jean Hovey and Stephanie Jones. They live in North Alabama and share a love of old houses, football, and writing stories with a happily ever after.
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A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
(From Sweet Gone South by Alicia Hunter Pace)
The smell of cooking fudge is only sweet if the candy maker isn’t dead tired and sick of the smell of chocolate. Lanie Heaven wearily crossed the floor of the Heavenly Confections kitchen to check the temperature of the vat of dark brown bubbling syrup. Almost there. She looked at her watch. 6:20P.M.No time to make truffles, but she could do it when she returned home. There was just enough time to pour up the fudge and pack some candy to take to book club.
There was a knock at the front door. Damn. Why hadn’t she turned off the lights at five o’clock when she’d locked the shop door? Not that it would have mattered. The people of Merritt, Alabama knew she was in here and had no compunction about pounding on the door — or trotting around back and ringing her apartment bell, for that matter. With her luck, it would be Sophie Ann McGowan, who would want a single chocolate star and then complain that it wasn’t as creamy as the ones Lanie’s grandmother used to make. Sophie Ann wouldn’t go away but she could wait; the fudge could not.
Lanie grabbed the copper pot and headed toward the marble candy table. The throbbing fatigue between her shoulder blades turned to a sharp pain and Lanie shifted the pot. The knocking resumed and escalated to banging. Lanie jumped and the pot began to tip. She jerked it back but not soon enough. Pools, rivers, oceans, of thick chocolate spread at her feet and beyond. Self-preservation made her jump back to avoid being burned.
She would have cursed if she had known a word bad enough to equal the situation. And that was saying a lot because she knew some pretty bad words. Money, time, and energy gone because she’d let herself be distracted. Another person might have gone into a cleaning frenzy, grabbing towels and mopping up chocolate but Lanie knew better. It was best to let it harden, and then scrape it up and steam clean the floor. It would be hours before the molten liquid would be cool enough to come up easily in chunks so there was no need to even miss book club — not that they got around to discussing books very often. She sometimes wondered why they didn’t just go ahead and call it Drinking, Eating, and Gossiping Club. But either way, she was ready for an evening of good wine, good food, and good gossip with her three best friends.
The banging at the front door increased to pounding. Sophie Ann must be having a real chocolate emergency. Maybe she’d like to eat off the floor like a starving dog. Lanie wiped her hands on her splattered apron and hurried from the calamity of the kitchen to the cheerful little storefront. She looked out the door and, again, would have cursed if there had been an adequate word in her bad girl vocabulary.
Not Sophie Ann. Luke Avery. And that was worse, a million times worse. She’d met Luke at a party right after he’d moved to Merritt from Mobile last fall. He’d bitten into one of the peanut butter filled chocolates she’d brought and ended up on the floor with an EpiPen stuck in his thigh. Intellectually, she knew it was
n’t her fault. Yet every time she saw him, she couldn’t stop herself from sheepishly apologizing again — and it clearly annoyed him. Well, she wouldn’t do it tonight. She unlocked the door and jerked it open with more vehemence than she knew she had.
“I don’t have any espresso made,” she said, “and the machines are clean and ready for the morning.” Seven in the morning was usually Luke’s favorite time to pound on the door and make demands, though she didn’t open until nine.
He looked her up and down and frowned disdainfully. Luke was a no nonsense kind of man and she suspected he didn’t appropriately appreciate her work clothes. Today her chef’s pants and matching apron were black, printed with multicolored jellybeans. The black chef’s clogs were ugly but they just made sense for anyone who had to stand on a concrete floor. What was she supposed to wear? Stilettos?
“I don’t want any espresso,” he said, like he was surprised, though she couldn’t fathom why. He never bought anything else. He was probably afraid there were peanuts lurking in all the candy. “I want to talk to you for a minute.”
“I havejusta minute. I’m on my way to book club.” She stepped aside and allowed him to enter.
Luke Avery’s eyes preceded him into the room — big heartbreak eyes the color of Windex, accented by dark circles and black lashes that Lanie couldn’t have achieved with an extension job and a triple dose of mascara. Those eyes hadn’t been built for sadness but they had learned it well. His mouth looked sad too and it was a shame — full lips like his ought to be smiling. Even his high cheekbones and the smooth pronounced plains of his face looked sad, probably because he could use ten pounds. A good cut had coaxed his dark thick hair into smooth neat layers but it looked like it would curl when it was wet. His hair might be the only thing about him that wasn’t sad.
“What can I do for you, Luke?” Lanie crossed her arms and leaned on the wall.
“I suppose you’ve heard the governor appointed me to Judge Gilliam’s seat.”
Of course, she’d heard it. This was Merritt; everybody had heard. At thirty-two, he was now the youngest circuit judge in the state. After Judge Coleman Gilliam had dropped dead on the golf course, everyone had said Luke got the appointment because his father, the state senator, was tight with the governor and because people felt sorry for him at being a widower with such a young child.
“Congratulations,” Lanie said. “Are you here to alert me to start calling you Judge Avery?”
“Of course not!”
“Don’t look so offended. I was joking. Sort of.”
“I’m not offended.” He closed his eyes and opened them again, as if he was signaling that he was closing one subject and moving on to the next. “I’ve been living with my parents on their farm right outside town.”
“I know. I drove you there that time I nearly killed you. Remember?”
He frowned some more. “Now that I’m on the bench, I need to live nearer to the courthouse. Besides, my little girl just turned three and started nursery school in town. I think we need to move.”
“You have my blessing and permission to move to town.”
He rolled his eyes — those big blue eyes. “I hear you have an apartment for rent.”
Lanie uncrossed her arms and straightened up. That got her attention. Indeed, the apartment upstairs, across the hall from her own, was empty and she needed to rent it. Business had been good but she’d gotten carried away and spent too much on too many upscale renovations to the shop and the apartments. The rent she needed to charge was unheard of for an apartment in a town the size of Merritt — and she needed that rent to hire some staff. Kathryn, the shop manager, and Allison, Internet sales manager, were hard workers but if they were stretched thin, Lanie was practically transparent.
She wanted — needed — to hire someone to help with the Internet sales and open the shop earlier so the coffee bar she’d installed could live up to its potential. When she’d bought the thing, she’d fanaticized about chatting with the good people of Merritt in the early morning hours while she made them lattes and sold them muffins. She thought it would be fun but had never found out. Unfortunately — or fortunately — to keep up with the candy making, she found herself in the industrial kitchen earlier every morning and later every night. Still, her good business sense wouldn’t allow her to hire a new person until she rented that apartment. Luke might be just the person to pay what she was asking. Everybody knew Luke Avery was a trust fund baby and the widower of a real estate heiress.
Everybody also knew the story of how Carrie Avery had wrapped her Mercedes SUV around a telephone pole — and how Luke’s best friend had been with her. Some claimed the two of them were cheating on Luke. Others said Carrie was just driving Jake Hampton to the airport. Either way, the story would have never made it from Mobile to Merritt if Luke’s father hadn’t been a state senator and Jake hadn’t been a linebacker for the New Orleans Saints.
“You want anapartment?” She would have figured he’d want a house in the historical district or out by the country club.
“I want to move. Soon. How many bedrooms does it have?”
“Three, though one of them barely deserves to be called a room, let alone a bedroom.” She wanted to bite her tongue. This was no way to go about renting an apartment.
But he didn’t appear to be put off. “That’s what I need. I have to hire a nanny. I’m not looking for a live-in, but she might have to stay over sometimes. Emma goes to school half days. My mother has been picking her up but she’s about to go back to the state capital with my father.”
“Do you want to see the apartment?” Book club could wait for this.
Luke looked at his watch. She liked that he wore a watch. These days, most people pulled out their phones to check the time. “I need to get home now but I could come back tomorrow.”
“Three-thirty would be good for me.”
“I’ll see you then.”
Without so much as a goodbye or a backward glance, Luke got in his green Porsche and drove away.
Lanie wondered if she should have the website completely revamped or just update what she had. That kept her from dwelling on what it would be like to have a child underfoot.
• • •
Missy Bragg opened the door of her stately federal-style house and air kissed Lanie’s cheek. Missy was tall, blond, and moved like the cheerleader she’d been.
“Come on in. Tolly’s here. We’re out on the sun porch.” Tolly — short for Townshend — Lee was Lanie’s closest friend.
“No Lucy?” Lanie handed Missy a candy box and removed her jacket.
“Not yet.” Missy led her to the sunroom and set the candy box on the coffee table beside a platter of homemade calzones, antipasto, and meatballs.
“Oh, yum,” Lanie said. “I’m starving.” Though it was a well-kept secret from all but those closest to her, Missy was probably the best cook in Merritt. She didn’t let it get out because she didn’t want to be called on to run every food-related fundraiser in the county.
“There’s tiramisu for dessert.” Missy opened the box of candy and lifted out an amaretto chocolate star. “And these can be pre-dessert.”
“Pre-dessert is my favorite course,” Tolly said and drained her wine glass. “Except for pre-drinks and drinks.”
Lanie moved to the bar, poured herself a glass of wine, and refilled Tolly’s.
“There’s a marzipan rabbit for Beau under the bottom layer of tissue,” Lanie said, referring to Missy’s three-year-old son.
Missy lifted out the little yellow confection. “Oh, Lanie, this is beautiful. You’re an artist. Beau will love it. You’re so sweet to him. Harris took him to watch football practice at the high school. Then they’re going to get some dinner with Nathan afterwards.”
Missy’s husband, Harris, had played quarterback at the University of Alabama before going to law school. Now he and Tolly were in a law practice together. Nathan Scott had been Harris’s teammate and was now head coach at Me
rritt High School.
“They’re practicing football on a Tuesday night in March?” Tolly asked disdainfully. For a woman born and raised in the heart of the South Eastern Conference, Tolly didn’t have much tolerance for football.
“Spring training, Tolly,” Missy said. “You’d never know you were Harris’s cousin.”
Missy was intent on matchmaking Nathan with Lanie, something that was never going to work out. Lanie hoped this conversation would drift onto something other than her love life.
No such luck.
“So, what do you hear from Nathan, Lanie?” Missy asked.
“I hear he’s in the middle of spring training.”
“Have you talked to him? How are things going with y’all?” Tolly asked.
“He came by after practice last night and talked to me while I made toffee. Things are going great with us.” That much was true. After two dates and a few granite-lipped kisses, she and Nathan had admitted there was no spark and agreed to be friends. Now, they’d been seen together enough that everyone in town thought they were romantically involved. Neither of them did anything to correct that opinion. Nathan wanted to be left alone to get his team in shape and Lanie had reasons of her own.
“So give some details,” Missy said.
Missy would never talk about her own sex life but that didn’t mean she didn’t want to hear about everyone else’s. Lanie doubted that her friends would be delighted to hear that the sexiest thing about Nathan was his willingness to haul a hundred pound sack of sugar from the storeroom to the kitchen.
Missy persisted. “Have you seen what he looks like in the morning yet?”
It was her own damned fault for being in this uncomfortable predicament. It had been easy to join in the sexy girl talk and complain about how there was no one to date in Merritt. After that, it had been nigh on impossible to tell Missy she wasn’t interested in going out with Nathan. Truth was, she’d learned a long time ago that she was not cut out for a relationship. She was simply no good at the one thing that seemed to be so fundamental to every other member of the human race, and other animals too. But her friends didn’t know that and never would. She might never have the things they had and would have, but she could be spared that particular humiliation.
Forgiving Jackson Page 31