Best thing she could do was give herself a nice pity-party then suck it up and move on. She would find a way to apologize to Jarod. Maybe he’d accept it, maybe he’d tell her to go screw herself. But at least he’d know she was truly, deeply sorry about her lie of omission.
But she’d never be sorry that she’d spent New Year’s night with him. Would never, ever regret the hours that she’d had him all to herself. Maybe, when he got over being mad, he’d realize the same thing she already knew.
“Magical,” she whispered into to the empty, lonely room. “It was magical.”
Chapter Five
One week later…
Jarod drove his F150 up the imposing driveway that had already been cleared from last night’s snowfall. The three-story Victorian was in near perfect condition, as gorgeous now as it had been in its heyday. It was also a shade of pink that made him shudder in masculine terror. It looked like a gingerbread house surrounded by mounds of white frosting.
He followed the circular drive halfway then parked. It took him a moment to gather the courage to get out of the truck and walk up the three wooden steps to the porch.
As he crossed to the etched glass door, it swung open. A slight girl with gray eyes and blonde hair beckoned him forward. “Come in, Mr. McClure. I’m Mettie Jamison, Miss Odie’s assistant.”
He had to admit, he was terrified to cross into the domain ruled absolutely by Odemina Wilson. He nodded to the girl then stepped inside. She took his coat and gloves then led him to the left and gestured for him to enter a big parlor. For just a second, he felt as if he’d gone back a hundred years in time.
“All original furnishings,” said Mettie. “And as far as I can tell, still sitting in the same locations Miss Odie’s great-great-grandmother arranged them.” With a flourish of her hand, she indicated he should sit down on a red-velvet couch with fancy wood scrollwork along its top. Though he felt like a fool, he did so.
“Would you enjoy a cup of tea?” she asked.
“No, thank you. But if you had a shot of tequila, I might well say yes.”
She grinned then slipped from the room, her job done.
Odemina made him wait fifteen minutes in the room filled with antiques and smelling like lemon wood polish. When she finally deigned to join him, she walked in leaning heavily on a silver-tipped cane. Regally, slowly, she made her way to a wingback placed opposite of the love seat. Separating the seating arrangement was a large cherrywood table filled with ceramic bric-a-brac.
Miss Odie was a small, thin woman, as white as paper and just as sharp-edged. She was dressed in a simple black dress with a single strand of pearls dangling from her neck. Her gray hair was done up in a double-bun and pearls shone at ears. She wore black hose and black shoes. Miss Odie never wore any other color—not since the death of her husband, Jeremiah Wilson, ten years before.
“Mettie tells me you turned down tea in favor of spirits,” said Odemina. She said spirits in the same way a preacher might say Satan.
Her brown gaze sparkled with ire and intelligence, pinning him like a carnivore that had just discovered a tasty bit of meat.
Jarod’s mouth opened then closed. Good Lord, it was a blow to his manhood to realize how much awe and fear he held in reserve for Miss Odie. She was a formidable woman. Finally, he said, “Yes, I did, ma’am. In jest.”
“You have a peculiar sense of humor, Mr. McClure.”
“If you say so, ma’am.”
She narrowed her gaze at him, taking his measure. Or maybe she was supposed to wear glasses and pride kept her from correcting her vision in such an obvious way. His own grandmother refused to go to the eye doctor until she plowed through the garage door with her Honda. The remote control hadn’t worked and she was so vision-impaired she hadn’t realized the door never rolled up.
“You know my granddaughter, Honey Sinclair Wilson.”
Boy, did he ever. He wondered why Honey didn’t use Wilson. As if Odie were reading her thoughts, she said, “She doesn’t want to bank on the family name. She’s got gumption. Like me.”
He didn’t know how to respond so he merely nodded.
“I would like you to stay away from her, Mr. McClure. And I’m willing to pay you to do it.” Her pink lips thinned.
Flummoxed by this firmly delivered edict, Jarod stared at her. Miss Odie was used to verbally walloping people in conversation. She met his gaze head-on without apology.
“I heard tell her little business is putting a hurt on yours.”
“Competition is a healthy thing,” he said, though he barely managed to maintain his respectful tone. A week away from Honey had cooled his ire. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her, in particular the look on her face as he let his pride dictate his final words to her. He’d hurt her.
Now that his mind was less clogged with testosterone-fueled grievances, he could admit they’d enjoyed each other. He’d told himself plenty of times that the mind-blowing sex had been enough. He’d also told himself that she wanted nothing more than to blackmail him to cement her business in Clement Falls.
But he hadn’t heard a word about Honey…or from her…and he’d been left in a swirl of guilt and anger ever since.
“Pride is a terrible thing,” said Miss Odie. “Pride lost me a son, Mr. McClure. And it might very well have lost me a granddaughter if she hadn’t had the heart to forgive an old woman. She’s patient, that one. Sweet too.”
As much as he didn’t want to think about Honey having decent qualities, he knew Miss Odie’s reputation well enough to be impressed. She wasn’t one to heap compliments on anyone—not even relations.
Damn it. He hated thinking that he might very well have told Honey no if she’d revealed her identity after that snowy kiss. What a shameful thing to know about himself—that he would judge her motives instantly without getting to know her.
Miss Odie seemed to be waiting for him to respond. So he said, “I’m sure you’re right about your granddaughter.”
“What kind of man takes a woman’s body and rejects the rest of her?”
Jarod felt the blood drain out of his face. Did Odemina Wilson know about the Sex Club? About the night he and her granddaughter had shared? He wanted lightning to strike him or Mettie Jamison to smack him unconscious with a tequila bottle. He’d take any abuse or punishment to avoid hearing that the town matriarch knew he’d fucked her only heir.
Miss Odie wasn’t looking at him though. Her eyes looked distant, as if she were remembering something that pained her. After a moment, her face cleared and her eyes found his again. “That’s what my son said to me when he ran off with Honey’s mother. I couldn’t abide it, Mr. McClure. Couldn’t give up my pride to accept my son and the wife he’d chosen. And it’s too late to take back my words or my actions.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Odie,” Jarod said gently. He was sorry too. It had to hurt a mother deeply to not only outlive her child but know that the wounds between them would never be healed.
“Thank you for your kindness,” she said. After a pause, she added, “How much, Mr. McClure?”
“Pardon me?”
“Boy, you’re not deaf or dumb. How much money do you want to keep away from my granddaughter?”
“Seems to me, Miss Odie, you’re about to make the same mistake twice.”
She straightened in her chair and smacked the cane on the floor. Her gaze sparked with her infamous temper. “Mind your tone. Honey has been moping around town for a whole week. Won’t tell me why.” Miss Odie sniffed, her regal head tilted up. “Doesn’t want to upset me or get my dander up. But I make it my business to know what goes on in my town.”
Her gaze let him know what business she knew and Jarod felt embarrassment heat his neck. Oh my God. Odemina Wilson not only knew about the Sex Club but that he’d spent New Year’s night with her granddaughter in one of its private rooms.
“You’ve already made up your mind about my granddaughter,” said Miss Odie. “I’m just helping you to keep it
made up.”
“I won’t take your money,” said Jarod. “And I won’t stay away from Honey. I like her.” The moment the words popped out of his mouth, he realized it was true. He did like her. Well, then. What the hell was he doing here jawing with her grandmother?
“I’m a powerful woman, Mr. McClure. Powerful and wealthy. Only a fool defies my will.”
“Then I guess I’m a fool.” That said, he rose to his feet, nodded goodbye and left the parlor. Mettie waited in the foyer with his coat and gloves. He put them on and went through the door she opened.
Once he got into his truck and turned it on to warm the engine, he put his shaking hands on the wheel and squeezed until his heart stopped trying to leap out of his chest. He’d just told Odemina Wilson to stuff it. There’d be consequences. He shuddered to think how she might retaliate.
Let the old biddy do her worst. He had something more important to worry about. He started the truck and headed toward town.
* * * * *
Inside the Wilson house, Odemina sat in her chair, staring into the distance, thinking about the past and the present. When Mettie entered, a smile playing on her lips, the old woman heaved herself out of the wingback. “Well? What’s he doing?”
“Got in his truck and took off,” she said, wrapping her arm around the fussy old woman to lead her out of the parlor. “You think he’ll go to Honey?”
Odemina gave a rusty chuckle. “Oh now, Mettie. Only a fool defies my will.”
* * * * *
“Mind if we talk?” asked a familiar male voice.
Honey dropped the paperwork in her hand, not caring that it missed the desk and scattered onto the floor. She whirled around and cried, “Jarod!”
He lounged against the doorway, his fists clenched by his side. He looked at her for a long time…so long it felt like a year passed. Then he said, “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
His apology was unexpected. Her heart tripped over in her chest. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to apologize to you. I should’ve told you who I was, even if that meant you walked away.”
“Ian told me, Honey. I called him on my cell to tell him I was coming to see you. He said you called ProCare today to tell us you were shutting down.”
“It was the only way to—”
“To reward a foolish, prideful man?”
Oh wow. He was so tender-hearted. Stubborn, yes. But so was she. “It just makes me wild when you say things like that,” she admitted.
“I don’t want you to shut down your business just to say you’re sorry. Please, don’t do that.”
“Okay,” she said, relieved that he felt that way. She liked Honey Do. Liked running her own business and keeping townspeople employed. And she knew Jarod felt the same way about ProCare. They could come to some understanding, she was sure.
“What now?” she asked. It was a loaded question. Filled with risk and with possibility. She wasn’t going to shrink away from her feelings or pretend they didn’t exist. “I think I could fall for you, Jarod.”
He crossed the space between them and gathered her into his arms. “I do believe you’ve already fallen for me.”
The laugh caught in her throat. In his eyes glimmered what they might one day call love. And she sure felt the same way. But for now…
“You think we could go back to the Club tonight? Try out those silk ties on you?”
He shook his head. “I was thinking you might like to go to dinner. Maybe a movie. Casablanca is playing at the Wilson Theatre.”
“Don’t you think we’re past the courting stage?” She was thrilled that he wanted to spend time with her in and out of the bedroom. Though maybe she’d give him a surprise in the theater.. She seemed to recall that it was very, very dark in there. “You thinkin’ we should start over?”
“I’m thinkin’ we can start wherever we want,” said Jarod. As his lips lowered toward hers, he whispered, “So I’ll start with a taste of Honey.”
The End
About the Author
Michele welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
Also by Michele R. Bardsley
1-800-SEX4YOU (with Chris Tanglen)
Life Without Raine
Lighthearted Lust anthology
Redial 1-800-SEX4YOU (with Chris Tanglen)
Shadows Present
Two Men and a Lady anthology
Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you breathless.
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White Hot Holidays 26: A Taste Of Honey Page 4