Southern Girl Series: Bohemain Girl, Neighbor Girl & Intern Girl

by Cates, Georgia

  “If you say so.” Never argue with a client. Especially when they’re being gracious enough to overlook your shortcoming.

  I’m seated across the table from Oliver. I was grateful when the host chose this chair for me instead of the one next to him. I was under the impression the greater distance would be less distracting, less intimidating, less personal. Wrong. It’s a direct line for full-on eye contact with those ice-blue lures coaxing me to look their way.

  Dark hair and blue eyes—my favorite combination.

  Stop looking. Stop looking. Stop looking, dammit.

  You’re here to discuss business. Be professional and get on with it.

  “I’m dying to hear about the event you’re planning.” I take my iPad and stylus from my bag. “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s a grand opening for our business.”

  Our business. That means it’s Oliver’s too. That’s why he came. His surprise attendance has nothing to do with a desire to see me.

  Silly woman.

  “So you’re siblings and business partners? That must be interesting.”

  “Well, sort of but not exactly. Oliver and their friend Porter are my husband’s business partners. The three of them own Iron City Brewery.”

  “Oh yeah. I’m familiar with Iron City.”

  “My husband and I started Bohemian Cider Company. It’s a new business yet an extension of Iron City, which is already successful. This event won’t be your typical start-up company grand opening. We already have tons of clients. Clients we need to schmooze.”

  Right. Schmooze. With alcohol.

  This meeting has suddenly taken a turn for the worse.

  Planning an event for a brewery feels… wrong. Some might even see it as a betrayal of Tommy.

  I’m not sure I can do it.

  “Do you have a day in mind?” Maybe their date will coincide with something else scheduled and I’ll be off the hook.

  “The third Saturday in June.”

  I open my calendar app and pretend to study the dates; I already know I have an opening. Mrs. Thompson canceled her divorce party. Her husband and his millions talked her into coming back despite the fact that he has not one, but two girlfriends.

  How can I take this job?

  I’m a professional so how can I not?

  I can’t make this decision right now. I need time to think about this.

  “My schedule is filled, but one of the clients for that day hasn’t paid her deposit. I’ll need to confirm her one way or the other before I can commit to your event.”

  “Of course. Totally understandable. Should we hold off on talking plans until we know for sure?”

  I’m not completely certain I’ll decline the job. “I don’t think so. I’d love to hear what you have in mind. Venue, food, decor, etcetera.”

  “I was thinking about B & A Warehouse because of the amount of space we’ll need.”

  “A little rustic but a good choice for this type of event. You can dress it up or down according to your clientele.”

  “I think the rustic aspect is the reason I like the venue so much. Our clientele is mostly informal. It would be silly to plan a black-tie affair.”

  “I’ve held events at B & A Warehouse several times. The staff is impeccable.”

  “I read on their website they offer catering. Is that something you’d recommend?”

  “I don’t usually recommend on-site catering from the venue, but they’re actually really good. And reasonably priced.”

  “Ladies, excuse me for a moment.” That’s all Oliver says as he pushes away from the table, not waiting for a reply or permission from either of us.

  His sudden departure is a little odd. And bordering on rude.

  And then I figure out why when I watch him walk to the bar where a pretty blonde sits alone. Gee. That was a little asshole-ish to abruptly leave the table during a business meeting to go hit on a woman. No. It wasn’t a little asshole-ish. It was a lot asshole-ish.

  Whatever.

  Lawrence turns to look at her brother before leaning toward me. “I’m glad he stepped away. I was wanting to talk to you about planning a surprise birthday bash for him.”

  “Surprise birthday parties are the best. So much fun.” Even for assholes. “When?”

  “He turns thirty on July 16, so we’d finish BCC’s event and then we’d have to immediately jump into it.”

  “It’s not a problem. Same questions. Venue? Theme?”

  “I’m thinking about Bridge Street Gallery and Loft. It has enough space for everything I want: a bar, stage, and dance floor.”

  “I think that would be the perfect venue for a large birthday party.”

  “Ollie has a ton of friends and family from back home I’d want to invite. College friends. Fraternity brothers. Business associates. The list would grow quickly.”

  “Big guest lists aren’t a problem, but we’ll need to discuss it later because he’s on his way back to the table.”

  Oliver was either shot down quickly or arranged a hookup in record time. My money’s on the hookup.

  “Sorry about that.”

  Lawrence looks confused. “About what?”

  He points toward the bar. “That.”

  Lawrence twists in her seat. “Oh hell.”

  I clearly don’t understand what’s going on. It’s possible that I may have misread the situation. Perhaps Oliver didn’t abandon our business meeting to hit on a pretty woman at the bar after all.

  “Don’t worry about it. What did I miss?”

  Lawrence’s eyes widen. “I was telling Adelyn about our need for a car service on event night since Iron City advocates responsible drinking.”

  Responsible drinking. Those two words catch my attention. “I’ve never heard of a brewery that promotes responsible drinking other than making a general statement about it.”

  “Our product inhibits motor function. Our attitude is that it would be irresponsible to provide our beer and ciders for the public without setting an example of how to enjoy them responsibly.”

  “That’s such a good point. I wish more people were onboard with that mindset.”

  Iron City Brewery is different and any reservations I had about working with them are being eliminated.

  “I’m going to give my PA a call and see if that client came through with her deposit.” A small fib.

  “Yes, darling?” Maurice answers.

  “Maury, I need you to check the books for June 18.”

  “Girl, you were here when that crazy-ass bitch came in to cancel her divorce party.”

  I don’t need to see Maurice to know his head is impersonating a bobblehead doll as he talks about Mrs. Thompson. That woman sets his flamer ass on fire. I think it’s because they rival one another in the flamboyance department.

  I nod at Lawrence. “I know but I needed to confirm before I booked something in its place.”

  “Puh-lease book something in her place before the divorce is back on. ’Cause you will have to put my ass up in the nuthouse if I have to deal with her again. And I ain’t sure our health insurance covers a diagnosis of run crazy after dealing with crazy.”

  “Oh, Maury, you know you love Mrs. Thompson.”

  “Oh hell to the naw.” I can just see him swishing his index finger back and forth like a windshield wiper.

  “Consider yourself in the clear.” I nod at Lawrence. “I’m confirming an event for that date right now so put it on the books.”

  “Thank you, sweet baby Jesus. Who’s my rescuer?”

  “Lawrence Broussard. Bohemian Cider Company.”

  I end my call with Maury and slip my phone back into my bag. “The date is reserved.”

  “Fantastic. Do I go by the office to make the deposit or do that here with you?”

  Now is as good a time as any to warn Lawrence and Oliver about Maury. “The office. You’ll deal with my PA, Maurice, on all the financials. It would be a lie to say you’ll be dealing with a professional young Af
rican-American gentleman. He’s loud. Highly inappropriate. Often offensive. He will, without a doubt, be wearing something outlandish every time you see him. Probably something with feathers. And possibly makeup with false lashes. But he’s the best personal assistant I’ve ever had. I couldn’t do this without him.”

  Lawrence laughs. “You had me at outlandish.”

  I’ve lost clients in the past because they couldn’t handle Maurice or deal with his exaggerated femininity. Good riddance. But Lawrence strikes me as nonjudgmental. Oliver, on the other hand, seems like a man’s man. I’m not sure he’d find Maury’s behavior entertaining. Straight men typically don’t.

  Oliver’s eyes lock on mine. And damn. His stare is raw. Makes me feel like I’m standing before him naked. And I have a feeling he knows this. I suspect it’s a well-practiced device. “This is Lawrence’s company. Her celebration. She’ll be the one dealing with Maurice but no worries. I’m sure they’ll be fast friends. She’s drawn to those who are… unconventional.”

  Lawrence’s company. Her celebration. Those four words catch my attention.

  So what enticed Oliver Thorn to attend our lunch date?

  Lawrence pushes away from the table. “I think I’ll make a quick bathroom run before they bring our lunch. Where are the restrooms?”

  “By the entrance to the left.”

  It’s just Oliver and me at the table. Unless I count our companion, uncomfortable silence.

  I don’t typically go blank but this man does something to me. To my brain. To my insides. Everything sort of turns to mush.

  “My welcome-to-the-neighborhood happy was delicious.”

  Dear God. The way the word delicious rolls off his tongue should be illegal.

  “I’m happy to hear you enjoyed it. What was your favorite?”

  “The bread, no doubt. I’ve never tasted bread that good.”

  “It’s an old family recipe passed down for generations.”

  “It’s amazing and you can bet your ass I’ll be on your doorstep if I catch a whiff of it baking.”

  Promise?

  “I always make several loaves at a time. I’ll bring you some next time the baking bug bites.”

  “Please do. And tell me how to persuade the baking bug to bite.”

  “I mostly bake when I’m—” I stop mid-sentence when the pretty blonde from the bar approaches our table and stands next to Oliver.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Go away, blondie. We were talking. He was telling me how much he liked my bread. He was practically begging for more and I was about to invite him over to… I don’t know. Break bread or something.

  “Can we talk, Oliver?”

  “It’s not a good time. I’m in the middle of a business meeting.” Oliver’s expression morphs from pleasant to irritated. There’s no mistaking the change.

  “Please.”

  “Two minutes, Lacey, and that’s it.” Oliver’s jaw is clenched when his chair screeches across the floor. “Excuse me for just a moment.”

  “Of course.”

  Alone, I stare out the window while I wait for Lawrence or Oliver to return. Lunch beats them both to the table. “Everyone left you?”

  “I hope not. I can’t eat all this food.”

  Lawrence returns as our server comes by to offer fresh ground pepper. “Where’s Oliver?”

  “The girl from the bar came over. She asked if they could talk.”

  “Shit. I was hoping she’d leave.”

  My curiosity is piqued. I can’t not ask. “An ex?”

  “Yeah. Sweet girl but she has lots of problems. Ollie tried to help her, but you can’t help someone who isn’t ready to be helped.”

  That could mean a lot of different things. I’d ask more but I don’t want to come off looking nosy. “How’s the quinoa and kale salad?”

  “Really good.”

  “I’ve considered trying it but I’m loyal to the Waldorf. It never lets me down.”

  I look at Oliver’s plate. It has a seriously short shelf life. No one likes a soggy bun or cold burger and fries. “Do you think we should ask the server to put his plate under the heat lamp?”

  “Maybe, but let’s give it a few more minutes first. I can’t really imagine him giving Lacey much more of his time.”

  As Lawrence predicts, Oliver returns a couple of minutes later. “Sorry about that.”

  “What’s going on with her?”

  I’m probably happier than I should be when Lawrence asks about the situation.

  “Nothing new. Just drunk like always.”

  “Geez. She’s tanked? It’s barely noon?”

  “Alcoholics and addicts have no sense of time when it comes to getting their fix. You know that.”

  “All too well.”

  They both sound like they know.

  “Did she drive?”

  “Of course. She always does, but I took her keys and called a cab. I put her in the back myself and watched it drive away.”

  I have no mercy for people who drive under the influence. It’s just so stupid and irresponsible. And completely avoidable. But repeat offenders are a different kind of animal—a potential killer every time they’re behind the wheel intoxicated. Anyone in their path could become a victim. “Someone wants to get drunk? Fine. That’s their prerogative. But they have no right to make a two-ton piece of metal their killing machine.”

  I regret my outburst the moment killing machine leaves my mouth. This is a business meeting. I don’t get to have an opinion about such things when it comes to clients. It’s bad for business. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “You have a passionate opinion and that’s your right. Never be sorry for it.”

  I suspect Lawrence Broussard has a lot of passionate opinions. I like that. I like her. And I like what Oliver did for his ex.

  Oliver Thorn. I am not disappointed he came.

  3

  Oliver Thorn

  Adelyn is standing at my front door with another basket of goodies. The aroma brings my taste buds and saliva glands together to do the tango. “The baking bug bit.”

  “I’ve been eagerly awaiting that bug to bite.” Fuck, I’ve been craving her bread. And, fuck, I’ve been craving her company.

  It’s been four days since our business meeting. Not that I really ever considered it any kind of work consultation between her and me. Crashing on Lawrence’s lunch with Adelyn was just an easy way to spend time with her.

  I’ve gone back and forth with myself at least a dozen times about going next door to visit. I’ve stolen many glances of her the last few days. Some from my kitchen window. Some from my driveway. Some from my upstairs guest room that overlooks her backyard and pool.

  Damn. That woman knows the perfect way to stretch her body on a lounger. And she knows exactly how to wear a skimpy bikini. I especially love the black one, although I’m not prejudiced against the turquoise one. It’s a close second.

  I wonder if she knows I look at her. I wonder if she wants me to.

  “Come in.”

  She enters my foyer and looks around. “Wow. I love what you’ve done here.”

  “Not what I’ve done. This was all Lawry’s doings. She’s the decorator of the family. I’d have posters of dogs playing poker taped to the wall if it were left up to me.”

  She goes to the table and picks up a framed photo of Lawry and me. “You were such a cute kid. How old are y’all here?”

  I’m not really sure but our cheeks are fuller, our eyes brighter. It’s definitely the post-Jimmy-and-Christie era of our lives. “Probably seven and eleven. Maybe eight and twelve.”

  “Four years apart. Same as my brother and I.”

  “You’re older?”

  “No. Tommy was.”

  Was. “He’s passed?”

  “Yeah. Car accident two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” It sounds cliché but I’m not sure what else to say.

  “Thanks.”

  She returns the
photo to its place before following me to the kitchen. “I packed raspberry butter this time instead of jam. I thought you might like to try it.”

  “Where in the world do you buy raspberry butter?”

  “You don’t. You make it.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that, but it sounds good.”

  My sister has a fixation with nutrition, and tasty food is my thing.

  The pink spread glides over the still-warm bread and then seeps into it. Damn. My mouth floods in anticipation. Just like a woman after the right kind of foreplay.

  Fuck. I shouldn’t have thoughts like that while I’m with Adelyn. She’s my neighbor. Not even a down-the-street neighbor. She’s right next door. Our houses can’t be an inch more than fifty yards apart.

  You don’t fuck neighbors. If things go bad, there’s no getting away.

  “De-li-cious.” Something about hearing me say that amuses her. I see it in the smile she’s suppressing. In those dimples threatening to deepen at any moment.

  Motherfucker.

  Those damn hazel eyes and pale long lashes darkened with mascara. Those damn scattered freckles across her porcelain skin. Those damn flaming locks.

  Don’t look, Oliver. Don’t get sucked in. It will end badly. It always does. Change the course of this ship before it runs ashore and ruins any potential for platonic friendship.

  Neutral conversation. That’s safe. “Did you grow up here?”

  “I grew up in a lot of different places.”

  “Military brat?”

  She’s no longer boss over that smile. It has won the battle. “No. A Baptist brat.”

  “Oh.” Fuck me. Adelyn is a preacher’s daughter. That puts all kinds of nasty thoughts in my head.

  “What about you?”

  “Savannah, Georgia.”

  “How’d you end up all the way in Birmingham?”

  “I went to college at Alabama.”

  “Roll-damn-tide,” we say in unison.

  She points at me. “Jinx. You owe me a Coke.”

  I haven’t heard anyone say that in forever.

  “Don’t have any of those. How ’bout a beer instead?”

  “I’ll take a beer.”

  I’m limited on choices at the moment. Doesn’t say a lot for a beer brewer. “Pale Hazel or IPA.”