by Ava Miles
Her sharp intake of breath could have awoken the sleeping lavender around them.
He continued, coasting like a man who’d crested a mountain and was on the way back downhill after a rough ride, “Your eyes are the sunshine. I told you that. But I haven’t told you about your smile.”
Taking a closer look into her moonlit face, he could see tears in her eyes. It gave him the courage to touch those lips, the ones that lifted into the first genuine smile she’d given him since this afternoon.
“Your smile lights me up inside, like a lightning bug. And your laugh… It hits me low in my belly, making me want to tumble you to the ground and put my hands on you. In the midst of all this chaos inside me, you are the one thing I feel certain about, the one thing that I know is true. Honey, I trust you all the way now, and for a man who’s been cut up by a betrayal beyond his imagining, that’s a hell of a feeling.”
“Oh, Beau,” she said, and that soft tone drifted toward him like the first flowers of spring, lush with promise and beautiful after so long a wait. “Since you trusted me, I’m going to trust you. I need to tell you what that kiss in the kitchen was like for me.”
She’d said it was like losing a lifetime of good sense, but he needed to hear more. “Honey, I’m all ears.”
“I haven’t kissed a lot of guys,” she said. “You might even laugh if I told you how many.”
“Then I’m more than honored,” he said, his voice darkening in accord with the shadowed land underneath his feet.
This woman. This moment. He was going to be changed by it.
She turned her body to the side and gestured to the fields. “I’ve grown up in a family that works hard and has been successful at it. My parents always warned us about people wanting us because we had a lot of money. Unfortunately, one of my brothers got caught by someone like that, and he paid dearly for it. I was in my mid-twenties then, and it made me even more cautious.”
“I can understand all that,” he said, shifting on his feet. “Women like that have chased me too. I’ve grown cautious.”
“But on the rare occasion I’ve liked someone, and I mean really liked them…I’ve never been swept away like I was when I first met you. Or today. Beau, that wasn’t a normal first kiss for me. You know the polite kind after a first date where it’s more a passing glance over the lips.”
He appreciated her honesty, even if it was disarming. “It wasn’t normal for me either.”
“I mean…I wanted to make love with you.” She stalked away a few steps. “We were in the kitchen, for heaven’s sake. Hargreaves or my aunt or uncle could have walked in. Do you have any idea how vulnerable that makes me feel? How out of control? Especially when you weren’t telling me what was going on with you. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Funny how her emotions were clear to him when his own were so muddy. “You’re scared of what I make you feel.”
“Exactly! I thought you were this good guy who sang these sweet songs, the perfect boyfriend. And I wanted him. This other guy, the one with the ripped T-shirts and jeans who has a chip on his shoulder… He doesn’t talk to me really about what’s going on inside him, and he scares me a little. Even if he is the one who swept me away in the kitchen today, who I wanted more than anything. Oh, hell! I’m not making any sense.”
She marched away a few more steps, her hands fisted at her sides, the moonlight cresting over her knuckles. He understood her frustration. Heck, he shared it.
“You’re right. I’m changing, and it’s messy. But one good thing about kissing you today… I realized kissing you like that—so soon—didn’t make me less of a gentleman.”
“I didn’t fully understand it when you said that before. Now I do.”
“Caitlyn, I’m not dithering about what I want anymore. I want to kiss you again and sweep you away. I want to do more than stroll with you after dinnertime. Will you go out with me tomorrow night? I’d like to take you to dinner and treat you good. Like you deserve. Hell, I might even shave off this days-old scruff.” Although he’d decided he kind of liked it.
“Don’t shave it,” she said, smiling in the moonlight. “I rather like it.”
Kindred spirits, he thought, taking a step closer toward her, his boots sinking into the soft dirt. It gave under his feet, and somehow he understood it was well nourished. The land had plenty to give because it was appreciated, celebrated even. Like she wanted to be. Like she deserved to be.
“Tell me how to make our first date the best you’ve ever had,” he said, laying his hands on her upper arms. “I figure since our first kiss was the best kiss of both our lives, we need to keep climbing.”
She touched his face, and the caress was a kind of benediction. “I only want you to be you.”
His chest locked in place. “And if I don’t know who that is anymore?”
“You do. Deep down. Even if you’ve forgotten. Beau Masters is the kind of man who makes a bed for an orphaned baby goat.”
He snorted. “Have you ever thought that Beau Masters is a pussy?”
He said it as if it were someone else. Old Beau.
“No,” she said, her head jerking back, her hand falling away. “We need men like that. Ones who aren’t just interested in busting things up or putting things down. We need men who will stand up for something. Even an orphaned baby goat.”
“Jeez, Caitlyn, I don’t know how I can live up to that.” I don’t know if I want to anymore.
“But you’ve done it your whole life,” she protested. “Beau, I researched everything I could about you. Do you think I would have asked you to be the spokesperson for the biggest venture of my life so far if I felt you were in any way unworthy?”
The weight of it all settled onto his shoulders, a familiar yoke, yet no less constricting. “I’m not an image, honey. I’m a flesh-and-blood man. Don’t put all your hopes and dreams on me. No one person can carry them.”
Hadn’t his mother toppled off her pedestal, destroying the house he’d built on her?
“I’m not putting them on you, Beau,” she said, her voice soft as a whisper. “I’m counting on your help is all.”
That mollified him some. “I’m asking you again. Will you go to dinner with me tomorrow night?”
In that one moment, he learned struggle could have a sound, and he made himself promise to recreate it in a song. It was a harsh breath followed by soft agonized hm. Then silence. “Yes, because I believe more in you than you do right now.”
It was the answer he’d hoped for, but he wasn’t sure he liked her line of reasoning. “Come to dinner with me because you want me. Not because you want to fix me.”
“I wouldn’t be that foolish,” she said. “Besides, the Beau I believe you to be is pretty wonderful. Why else would I have let you kiss me like that in the kitchen?”
“Would you let me kiss you now in the fields?” he boldly asked.
She put her finger to the mouth he was staring at. “Given how swept away we got earlier…”
He traced her cheek. “While I may be revising my gentlemanly ways, you can still trust me with yourself. I’m not going to make love to you until you’re ready. But make no mistake, Caitlyn, I do want to make love to you.”
Her brilliant gaze flew to his, and he could have sworn he heard the whisper of a gasp.
“It’s more than want. It’s…how I need music. Something I can’t live without.”
“That’s how I feel too,” she said. “But before we kiss like that again, I need to be sure, Beau. It’s a big step and not one I take lightly.”
He remembered she’d said their earlier kiss had made her want him, as a woman wants a man. “I understand what you mean.”
“But a sweet goodnight kiss?” Her mouth curved, and he gave in to the urge to trace those delicious lips of hers. “I think we can handle that.”
Caitlyn hadn’t turned away from him or the heaviness he was carrying. She trusted him as much as he trusted her—which allowed him to trust him
self. It was a safe port in a storm right now.
Lowering his head, he whispered a breath from her mouth, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Inside and out.” Then he kissed her softly, learning the way her mouth curved and fitted to his. Somehow the softness of their touch had the same power as the earlier force of their kiss in the kitchen, and he marveled at that discovery too. “Kissing you is pure pleasure, honey.”
She made a sweet sound low in her throat and then patted his chest, her fingertips lingering before they pulled away. “Will you hold my hand back to the house?”
He held out his hand, and she curled her smaller fingers around his. As they started back to the house, the soft ground gave way under their footsteps, but it held firm in the end. The same way they were holding on to each other, he thought.
Chapter 15
Making a date, usually a rare and nerve-racking affair anyway, turned out to be even more overwhelming in a country where Beau didn’t speak the language.
He’d agonized all morning, looking up nearby restaurants on Yelp, especially ones with English menus. When he’d settled on what one reviewer had called a sleepy French bistro only forty-plus minutes away in Cannes, he’d called to make a reservation only to have the attendant hang up on him after saying in a very thick accent that he couldn’t understand monsieur. Heck, Beau couldn’t understand the man either.
Even worse, he didn’t have any clothing good enough for his first night with the most beautiful woman in the world. He needed a new outfit and a reservation. Now. Should he ask Ibrahim to help? He balked. The man was working. No, he’d figure something out.
Heading down the stairs finally—he’d purposely delayed his breakfast—he ran into Clara and Hargreaves. They were standing in the foyer speaking in whispered tones.
“Good morning, Beau,” she said when she caught sight of him.
Hargreaves turned as well and bowed slightly at the waist. Old Beau had been schooled in manners since he was a boy, but this was a type of civility he’d never get used to.
“Good mornin’, Mrs. Hale,” he said, taking off his cowboy hat. “Hargreaves.”
“It’s Clara.”
“Clara. I feel I owe you and your husband an apology for my abrupt leave-taking last night. I acted like a right jackass.”
“You seem to have a lot on your mind these days,” the older woman said. Beau noticed she had on a cream knee-length dress that made his outfit of a dirty ripped shirt and jeans seem out of place. “Caitlyn tells me you two are going on a date tonight. You can’t imagine how delighted I was to hear the news. I’m lending you Hargreaves for the day to ensure everything goes off without a hitch. He speaks French and is well versed in bringing together all kinds of social engagements.”
Desperation prompted him to say, “Do you read minds, Clara? My drawl hasn’t been helping me with making a reservation.”
“I’d be happy to handle that, sir,” Hargreaves said. “Shall we confer while you have your breakfast? Madam, I’ll see you later.”
“Have fun, you two. I’m going to pull Arthur away from his paper and take him for a walk before the sun gets too warm.”
“Tell him he can borrow my cowboy hat if he has a mind,” Beau called, watching her dash up the stairs, looking much younger than a woman near eighty.
“That, Beau, would be a sight,” she said before disappearing from view.
Hargreaves fell in beside Beau when he started walking to the kitchen. “Ms. Caitlyn is with Ibrahim, I believe. In case you were wondering about being overheard, sir.”
He could ‘sir’ just about anyone, but he’d never taken to the address for himself. “Beau is just fine. I don’t stand much on ceremony.”
The man’s inscrutable face didn’t move, and Beau wondered if he was like one of those guards with the tall black hats in front of the queen’s palace in London he’d seen in that spicy Fergie video for “London Bridge.”
“I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t have the proper attire for a dinner out with a beautiful woman, and I can’t order anything online fast enough.”
“I have arranged for a car today in case you needed to run errands,” Hargreaves said as they entered the kitchen.
Just how long had Mrs. Hale—Clara—been planning on assisting him?
“Thank you,” he said, slicing himself a piece of country bread. Every morning it lay on the counter, waiting, and every moment he smelled it, all he could think of was home. He wondered if Ibrahim could bottle this scent.
“Shall we leave in a quarter hour, sir, for your shopping?” the butler asked.
“That would be great.” He had no idea how long it would take, but they were miles out from the nearest town. “It’s Beau, though.”
The man gave him a slight smile—“Yes, sir.”—and then bowed slightly and left.
Beau decided to stop pushing. The man could call him whatever he chose.
The drive to the nearby town Hargreaves had suggested was a quiet affair. Uncomfortable with being driven but resigned—if Hargreaves refused to call him by his given name, he certainly wasn’t going to allow him to drive—Beau was surprised to hear his phone ring. Checking it, he saw it was Rye.
“Hey, man,” he said when he answered. “You still celebrating?”
“Every chance,” Rye said. “Look, Bubba, it’s late here, but I thought I’d take a chance and call you. Seems people think I’m some kind of conduit. Your mama must have said something.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “All of my people…report to my mama.”
“I can help with that. Tommy Penders from your record label called me. He wants you to call him right away. He’s concerned about your new album. Says he needs to hear some songs. I told him I thought your theme of roots was going to speak to a lot of people. Mentioned we’d had a songwriting retreat. It pacified him some, but he’s still itching. I think your mama’s got him all worked up.”
Probably because she was worked up, worried about what he might write about her. “I’ll call him. Rye, I’m really sorry you’re in the middle of things. If you do have a trustworthy person in mind to handle some calls, I’d be obliged.”
“I can’t think of anyone better than Clayton.” Rye’s brother-in-law was a smart and no-nonsense manager. From what time he’d spent with the two of them together, it was clear their working relationship was different from the one Beau had with his mama. Rye led the way—Clayton only cleared it for him.
“If you’ll text me his number, I’ll call him.”
“You’d best not call Penders from your phone,” Rye said. “Have Clayton set it up for you. That man knows how to keep a person’s privacy intact.”
He was relieved. Tommy and his mama were tight, and the exec wouldn’t blink twice about giving her Beau’s new number even if asked to keep it to himself. “Thanks.”
“Hang in there, Bubba. Every shitstorm eventually runs out of shit.”
He laughed. “Wish I could sing that.”
“Me too,” Rye said, “but I’m reformed. You, however, might need to speak the words if you feel them. I’d say that’s good music, the kind you feel strongly about.”
“The kind of lyrics pinging around in my head these days would make a churchgoer drop to his or her knees and pray for my soul.” He looked up to see if Hargreaves was watching, but the man was a silent force in the front of the car. Something told him that the butler was the soul of discretion.
“Your audience shouldn’t dictate what you sing about,” Rye said. “Take it from someone who learned the hard way. You can’t bottle up your own truth.”
Rye couldn’t know how apt his phrasing was. “You should meet the master perfumer here.”
“I hear perfume and all I smell are strongly scented women. They always made me wonder what they’re hiding. You know that old phrase—I shouldn’t say it—whores in church.” Rye’s laughter had a pleased edge to it, as if he were a kid who’d gotten away with swearing. “God, sometimes I miss
speaking so plainly. Perhaps I need to open up my inner spigot a little too. All right, Bubba, I gotta get on. Time to feed Boone.”
“I wondered why you were up so late,” Beau said.
“Getting a little time with the missus,” he said, a wink in his voice. “Gotta get an early start with our boy around. I’ll holler at Clayton in a bit. Have everything ready for you to call Penders back. My recollection is he doesn’t like to wait.”
No, he didn’t. The man jumped on everything. Heck, he’d signed Beau, a complete unknown, after hearing him sing “Amazing Grace” at his granny’s funeral. “Thanks. See ya.”
The call ended, and for the rest of the ride into town, he contemplated his troubles. Reminded himself of his blessings. Caitlyn was at the top of the list. He wasn’t going to let the past color the excitement of today.
The small town they pulled into was lined with sandstone shops two or three stories high, dotted with a profusion of pink, blue, purple, white, and red flower boxes with hanging vines. People were strolling in the narrow streets, some arm in arm. A couple of women strode along with an air of authority, if he had to use a phrase, their long, sleek hair trailing behind like cloaks of confidence.
But as they left the car, Beau’s attention was captured by a lone man walking toward them—or rather the man’s navy suit. Normally seeing a man in a suit made Beau’s skin itch. Something about the way this man wore his threads was different. He was like those women they’d passed earlier. Confident. Bold. He wore that fine suit like an old gunslinger might have worn chaps. His white shirt didn’t look scratchy from starch, but soft and comfortable. A yellow tie with a path of navy lines was mimicked in a similar cloth artfully folded in the man’s breast pocket. He moved smoothly past Beau, and because he was so attuned to smell, Beau picked up woodsy notes of oakmoss and leather, if he had to guess.
“I want that,” he heard himself say out loud.
“A very smart suit, sir,” Hargreaves said. “I had thought we were merely shopping for a shirt and trousers. I see we have more to purchase than I thought. If you will give me a moment.”