Leave the Night On

by Laura Trentham

  In love. Somehow that hurt worse than the two of them just having torrid sex. “So I don’t challenge you, Andrew?”

  He turned and half propped himself against the sill, throwing his hands up and letting them fall. “You’re nice. And funny. And laid-back. And that was—is—great. But everything was too easy between us. Too … boring.”

  The word reverberated in her head like a gong. “Boring?”

  He held his hands up. “Bad word choice. But you can’t deny there was never any real passion between us. We haven’t been together in months, and I’m not sure you even noticed.”

  “I’ve been busy. And so have you.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. Yep, he’d been busy all right. Doing Bree.

  “I’m really sorry.” Bree’s voice reminded Sutton of the time Bree ate all the cookies on their sleepover. Except this wasn’t cookies she’d taken, but Sutton’s fiancé.

  Sutton jabbed a finger in Andrew’s direction. “You waltzed in here talking about wedding invitations and the governor. How long were you planning to keep up the charade? Were you going to marry me and keep things going with Bree?”

  Andrew huffed a few unintelligible words and Bree shuffled around to face him. “We were going to tell you soon. Definitely before the invitations went out. Right, Andrew?”

  Sutton would have bet her boutique that soon would have never come.

  Andrew ran his hand through his hair again, the gesture taking on a vain quality now that Sutton’s blinders had been smashed to bits. “Breaking things off with Sutton isn’t as straightforward as simply walking away from a relationship. Our families are important in Cottonbloom. Her daddy’s a judge. I can’t afford to make an enemy of him.”

  Sutton cast a side-eye toward Bree. The implication was clear; Bree’s family—a long line of cotton farmers from the north part of the county—weren’t important. While they didn’t have the kind of connections Sutton’s parents had, they were nice, good people. She had loved spending the night at Bree’s house and waking up to pancakes and bacon around their small kitchen table.

  “I asked and asked but you told me the time wasn’t right.” Bree pivoted from Andrew to Sutton. “I wanted to tell you right after the first time something happened. I hated keeping secrets from you.”

  “Please,” Andrew said. “You got off on sneaking around. Don’t lie.”

  Sutton wanted to curl up in the corner, stuff her fingers in her ears, and “la-la-la” until she woke up from this nightmare.

  Andrew pushed off the sill and crossed to Sutton. When he tried to take her hands, she stuffed them into the pockets of her pants, the fingers of her right hand sliding over the edge of Wyatt’s card.

  “Give me a chance to make it up to you, baby.” He was the definition of sincere and contrite.

  Bree’s face crumpled, and she took a step back. Shock, anger, disbelief but also heartbreak. Part of Sutton wanted to take Andrew back if only to strike out at Bree, but that part was small compared to the part that wanted to hurt Andrew somehow. Unfortunately, breaking one of his perfect teeth wasn’t in her playbook.

  “Too late for that.” Sutton ran her finger over the embossed lettering of the card like it was Braille. Words poured out of her mouth, bypassing the logical check of her brain. “Anyway, I have my own confession to make. I haven’t missed you, because I’ve been seeing someone else too.”

  “What? Who?” His indignation was rich, considering his lover stood not three feet from his side.

  “Wyatt Abbott.”

  “From that car garage over the river?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s a mechanic.” He imbued the last word with more than a fair amount of disdain.

  “Yes, he is. And a darn good one.” She didn’t know that to be a fact, but Wyatt’s confident air gave the impression of expertise. He was probably good at everything.

  “How long has it been going on?”

  Sutton dug her hole so deep she couldn’t see over the edge. “A while now. I suspected you were cheating, so I … so I cheated too. With Wyatt.”

  “Alright, so we’ve both had some fun. Let’s call it cold feet. We can put that aside and focus on making us work.”

  A sound that might have been a sob came from Bree. She turned and ran out of the room before Sutton could take a step in her direction. The outer door banged shut and quiet fell between her and Andrew.

  “God, you are such a jerk. You broke Bree’s heart.” The fire that burned through her was swallowed under the avalanche of the truth she’d spoken. You broke Bree’s heart. Not you broke my heart. A chill slipped over her, the numbing effect slowing her thought processes. Confused. She was confused and needed to get Andrew out of her house.

  “Your daddy is going to be upset if we don’t work things out. Everything is booked. Everyone knows even if the invitations haven’t gone out. Think of the money and face we’ll lose if we cancel now.” His voice was smooth and persuasive and had charmed her once upon a time.

  “You’re worried about the money and face we’ll lose?”

  “Please. You can’t tell me you’re not thinking the same.”

  She clung to her weak lies. “I’m with someone else now. Sorry.”

  He drew up and put his hands on his narrow hips, his expensive suit jacket fanned out behind him. He reminded her of a lizard who puffed up to look more intimating. “You’re only saying that because you found out about me and Bree. I’ll bet you’re making it all up.”

  Dangit. She averted her eyes even as she realized the move highlighted her lie. Was she any better than Andrew right now? “I’m not lying.”

  “Right.” He drew the word out. “Are you planning to bring him to the gala then?”

  A more colorful curse nearly slipped out. The gala was in less than three weeks. Held at the country club, the event was black tie swanky. As she was on the planning committee this year, and Andrew and his family were the sponsors, going together had been a given.

  “That sort of thing really isn’t his style.”

  “So that’s a no, and it’s because you’re not actually seeing Wyatt Abbott. Tell the truth.”

  In true courtroom style, Andrew had somehow flipped the story to make her feel like the guilty one. Sutton shook her head and drew herself up, refusing to be intimidated by him—outwardly anyway. “You should take Bree. Announce to Cottonbloom that there’s a new power couple in town.”

  His eyes grew hooded; a look she once would have pegged as mysterious now struck her as duplicitous. “I’m still planning on taking you. Once you have a chance to sleep on things tonight, I know you’ll decide to do what’s right.”

  “Do what’s right for who? You?”

  “Your father—”

  “This has nothing to do with Daddy.” As soon as the words were out, a lightbulb went on. It had everything to with him. She strode to the front door and held it open. “Get out.”

  He followed more sedately, his casualness a veiled threat in and of itself. Not of physical harm but of a battle not yet conceded. “You’re overly emotional. I get that. I did something really dumb, but I was scared. I don’t love Bree; I love you.”

  She didn’t believe him. Not anymore. Softer now but with no less steel, she said, “Get out.”

  “I have a feeling you’ll come around. Probably best to not do anything rash like tell your parents. You’ll feel differently about things tomorrow.”

  Would her parents be disappointed? No doubt. But while they might be overly controlling and protective, they loved her and would support her no matter what. “We’re not living in medieval Europe. You aren’t a lordly prince making an alliance through marriage. I thought you actually cared about me.”

  “I do.”

  The answer made her burst out in borderline hysterical laughter. She threw her hand up, intending to shoo him away. Sunlight refracted through the diamond on her finger, sending points of light bouncing. The ring felt like a two-ton
anchor. She yanked, but it got stuck at her knuckle.

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” she muttered as she twisted and pulled at the ring until her knuckle swelled even more. Frustration clawed at her insides, mixing with the pain of betrayal and anger. “Get. Off. My. Porch.”

  The condescending amusement on his face sent her careening over the edge of what was polite. Words that would have gotten her mouth washed out with soap as a kid flew from the dark, angry pit that was once her heart.

  A fair amount of what she interpreted as disgust crossed his face. “No reason to give me back the ring. We’ll talk after you’ve calmed down.” He took the steps at a jog and slid into his BMW. He and Bree even had matching cars. They were perfect for each other.

  She craved the satisfaction of throwing the ring at his windshield, but it didn’t budge. The thought of lopping her entire finger off and mailing it to him ring and all flashed. Talk about medieval. Or was that something a mobster would do? Speaking of mobsters, did she know anyone that could “take care of Andrew?” Maybe not kill him but rough him up a little?

  Her clientele was mostly women with too much money on their hands. She pictured the Quilting Bee ladies going after Andrew with canes and knitting needles. Imagining Andrew getting beaten up by a gang of little old ladies injected some much-needed humor.

  But if she had to wear his ring for another minute, she might resort to the finger chopping. What did they do in movies? Butter. Or oil. She retreated to the kitchen.

  Standing over the sink, she poured olive oil over her finger and twisted the ring off with ease. After washing up, she held out her hands. The ring weighed a fraction of an ounce, but a weightless freedom took its place.

  She stared at the innocuous bit of metal and stone on her counter in a shaft of sunlight, the beauty of the diamond mocking her. The first step to dismantling their farce of an engagement had been taken. What should have been the easiest step hadn’t been.

  The rest was too intimidating to consider. She checked in with her sister at the boutique with a vague excuse, but skipped breaking the news to her parents. Instead, she retreated to her bed, even though it wasn’t even lunch time yet, crawled under the covers, and let the tears flow.

  * * *

  Wyatt circled the body-sized punching bag hanging from the barn rafters, breathing hard, his muscles burning. Imagining Tarwater’s face added extra zing to his punches. The intensity and the rhythm of the workout usually offered relief from his chaotic thoughts. Not tonight.

  Sutton Mize lurked in the back of his mind no matter how hard he pushed himself. Had she had it out with Tarwater? Had the asshole convinced her to take him back? How weird would it be if he drove by her place to check on her? Stalker weird or nice weird?

  He pictured Sutton’s eyes turning from teasing to devastated the instant he’d pulled out that scrap of lace. Shuffling around the swinging bag, he landed a series of jabs. He should have known she wasn’t the type of woman to get down and dirty in the front seat of a car. She deserved chilled champagne, six-hundred-thread-count sheets, and rose petals. All that romantic crap he rolled his eyes at when it came across his TV or movie screens.

  Breaking the news of the lost job to Mack and Jackson had added another level of stress he needed to work out. Jackson had shrugged and moved on, but Mack’s current of worry had quickened. Even though Wyatt hadn’t been directly responsible, guilt weighed heavily on him. He launched a flurry of punches.

  “What’d that bag ever do to you?”

  Wyatt startled around, his hands up. Mack leaned in the doorway of the barn, only a few feet away, his feet crossed at the ankles, his arms over his chest, looking like he’d been there awhile.

  “It’s been a crazy day.” Wyatt aimed a couple more punches at where he imagined Tarwater’s face would reside before unlacing the sparring gloves.

  “You’ll need to call Miss Mize about the car.”

  “I will. She was pretty tore up this morning. I hate to reopen the wound so soon.”

  “It can sit for now, but by Monday it needs to get gone one way or another.”

  “I don’t suppose pushing it over a cliff would be at all professional.”

  Mack’s lips twitched into the start of a smile. How long it had been since he’d seen his big brother smile? Too long.

  Wyatt slapped the gloves against his leg and looked at Mack from the corner of his eye. “Bottom line, how bad does this loss hit us?”

  Mack wandered farther into the barn. “Timing could have been better, but we’ll survive.”

  It would be easy to let Mack’s deflection stand, but Wyatt forced more questions. “We won’t default on any loans, will we?”

  “Lord no. Why would you think that?”

  Wyatt tossed his hands in the air. “Because you avoid talking to me or Jackson about the finances. A big part of that is my fault for not pushing you, but I know how much we borrowed to upgrade the shop equipment. Jackson and I had to sign the papers too.”

  Mack half-sat on the back of the couch. “I’d hoped the Camaro might jump start some word-of-mouth business over the river.”

  Restoring totaled cars and selling them at auction brought in decent money, but if they wanted to grow their name in classic car circles, they needed some big projects from big names.

  “I thought Ford had designated himself our ambassador to the north,” Wyatt said sarcastically. “Isn’t he supposed to be cultivating our name with the elite?”

  Mack made a dismissive sound. “He wants to be reimbursed for every fucking golf game and country club lunch. Business expenses, he says. How many projects has he closed in the last year of rubbing shoulders?”

  The answer to the rhetorical question was one. And it had just fallen through. “Wanna drink?”

  Mack waved him off. Since their pop had died, he hadn’t had the time or inclination to relax and drink a beer after work. Lately even their dinners together had grown sporadic.

  “Things with Ford will work out. They always do,” Wyatt said softly, even though he wasn’t sure he believed it this time.

  Mack rubbed at the dark stubble at his jaw. “Since Pop died, everything feels different. I have no clue what his end game is and no way to control him.”

  Although Mack wasn’t actually the oldest—Ford took those honors—he was the foundation of the family or maybe the sun that the rest of them orbited. He was also the one who shouldered most of the burdens. Not because Wyatt and Jackson couldn’t, it was just the way things had always been, even when they were kids.

  “Trying to control Ford will make him do something stupid to spite you. You need to practice subtlety and manipulation.”

  Mack sucked in a deep breath and let it out with a slight smile. “Not my strong suit.”

  Wyatt chuffed a laugh. Mack was tough and straightforward and didn’t coddle, but he was also steadfast and loyal and had a giant’s heart hidden under his gruffness.

  Their brotherly bond, which had veered closer to hero worship on Wyatt’s end as kids, had been cemented the day Ford had dared Wyatt to climb the huge magnolia tree at the side of the barn. Wyatt hadn’t been able to resist the goading. Fucking Ford and his uncanny ability to get under his skin.

  In the Abbott family, authorities weren’t called to get you out of self-inflicted troubles. You learned real quick to get yourself out, preferably in one piece. An hour later, he’d made it down with only bruises and scratches, his face streaked with tears. Urging him on, Mack had waited at the bottom to catch him in a hug.

  “You want me to cozy up to Ford? See if he’ll drop some clues about his plans?” While Wyatt didn’t like their brother any more than Mack did, he had something Mack lacked—the ability to snap on a mask of easygoing good humor.

  “I hate to ask you to do that.” Mack glanced at him from under his lashes.

  “I’d be happy to. Anything you need, bro, anytime.”

  Mack nodded and scraped his boot along the wood floor, his eyes downcast. Som
ething else was bothering him.

  “You sure you don’t want a beer? Or we could hit the Tavern like old times?” Wyatt asked.

  “Nah. I’ve got some paperwork to finish.” He thumbed over his shoulder.

  “How about we go fishing this weekend then?”

  “I need to evaluate the Charger that came in this morning. Not sure if it’s salvageable. Might have to move it to the graveyard.” With that, Mack retreated. The garage was his life, his reason for being. Nothing else mattered—except for family.

  Worries circled like buzzards after a kill. Troubles were stalking close but Wyatt couldn’t see them clearly enough to form a plan of attack or shore up his defenses.

  By the time he’d showered and pulled on jeans and a black Abbott Brothers Garage T-shirt, the temperature had downshifted into pleasant territory. Jackson was at the track. Wyatt could head there or to the Tavern on his own, but a vague restlessness needled him like a bug that wouldn’t land long enough for him to slap dead. Tonight, he’d chalk it up to Ford and Mack and the garage.

  As he was grabbing a beer from the fridge, his ringtone sounded. A Mississippi number popped up on the screen. “Hello?”

  “Hi. Hello. It’s Sutton Mize.” The raw emotion in her wavering voice squashed his leap of satisfaction at her simple greeting. “I hope you don’t mind me calling you this late.”

  “It’s not late by my reckoning. How are you doing?” He winced. The polite question usually merited a slingshot, “fine, thanks” answer.

  “I’m…” She drew the word out.

  “Forget I asked that. I’m an idiot. Or so my brothers like to inform me on a daily basis. What can I do to make things better?” He tensed, hoping she didn’t blow off the offer as a platitude.

  “Actually, I was wondering—” She blew out a sharp breath. “Can we talk? Face to face, I mean.”

  “I can swing by your place right now.” How much of an eager beaver had he sounded like? He forced a more measured tone. “Or whatever.”