Seven Books for Seven Lovers

by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair

  Before the heels of her boots hit the gravel, Pepper snatched the car keys out of her hands. “Naughty,” she scolded, slipping them safely into her purse. “Let’s get inside before he does.”

  “Yeah,” Ivy agreed, following her to the front door. “Hopefully everyone in there hasn’t heard about my incident today.”

  Pepper frowned, pushing open the door. “What incident?”

  Ivy stopped in her tracks as her eyes adjusted to the dark bar and she realized everyone was looking at her. The jukebox in the corner started a new song and the first verse of “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” blared throughout the bar. Ivy groaned, dropping her head in her hands.

  Pepper grasped her wrist and tugged her farther inside. “Come on,” she said. She led Ivy through the tables and the people milling around to get two seats at the bar.

  Ivy tried to focus on the dark, polished wood of the bar, ignoring the people around her. She’d never actually been into Woody’s before. When she’d lived in Rosewood she’d been underage. She’d celebrated her twenty-first birthday at Drai’s in Hollywood.

  She lifted her eyes in time to see the hunk of a bartender coming toward her. He was well over six feet tall with wide shoulders, shaggy blond hair, and a wide, friendly smile. He had the laid-back carriage of a surfer with the strong, callused hands of a man who made more than just drinks. All the pretty boys she’d run across in LA had nothing on this guy.

  “Hey, Emmett,” Pepper said.

  Emmett planted his large hands on the top of the bar and flashed them both a ridiculously charming smile. “Evening, ladies. Who have you brought with you, Pepper?”

  Ivy chuckled. She didn’t run across that much; of course, Emmett didn’t look like a Top 40 guy. He wasn’t from around here, either. She would’ve remembered him.

  “Oh, come on, Emmett! Really?” Pepper sighed. “This is Ivy. Ivy Hudson. Ring a bell?”

  Ivy nudged Pepper and shook her head. Her public persona carried with it a lot of baggage and presumptions. She actually liked that he didn’t know who she was. It wouldn’t last long, and she wanted to enjoy it while she could.

  Emmett shrugged off their exchange and offered his hand. “Emmett Sawyer,” he said in introduction and gave her a firm but gentle shake. “Nice to meet you, Ivy. What can I get you two to drink?”

  Pepper ordered a vodka cranberry and Ivy got a rum and Diet Coke. Emmett disappeared to make their drinks.

  “Where did Rosewood find a guy like that?” Ivy asked.

  Pepper smiled and reached over for a couple of pretzels from a nearby bowl. “Emmett bought the bar about two years ago. Moved here from Florida, I think, although God knows why. He’s done an amazing job with this place. Honestly. It was never this nice before. He refinished all the wood and recovered all the leather booths and stools. He does some carpentry work on the side, and there isn’t a better advertisement for him than this place. I was thinking of hiring him to do some work at my new house.”

  That explained the hands. “You bought a place?”

  “Yeah,” Pepper said. “I finally saved up enough to buy one of the little historic houses off the square. Unfortunately, all I could afford was one that was more old than historic. It needs a ton of work. But it’s all mine and I can walk to the salon when the weather is nice.”

  “I’d love to see it,” Ivy said.

  “No way,” Pepper said. “No one is setting a foot into that house until it’s been totally redone. Especially not someone who’s graced the cover of Rolling Stone magazine and sung on the soundtrack of my favorite movie of all time. No way.”

  In LA, it seemed like everybody was somebody, so Ivy didn’t feel that special. Aside from fans and reporters, she wasn’t used to people seeing her that way. Emmett brought their drinks and she took a healthy sip to chase away her anxiety. “I’m just Ivy,” she said. “Forget the whole rock star bit and just think of me as the girl I was before all that.”

  A familiar voice chimed in, “The mousy daughter of the band teacher with hand-me-down clothes who dated her way into superstardom?”

  Ivy didn’t need to turn to know who it was. That voice had haunted her dreams since she was twelve. She slowly spun on her stool to face her school nemesis. “Lydia Whittaker,” Ivy said with a saccharine smile. “I thought I smelled the stench of desperation and peroxide when I came in here. I didn’t realize you were a part of our conversation.”

  “That’s because she wasn’t,” Pepper pointed out.

  Lydia flicked her long blond hair over her shoulder and focused her gaze on Ivy. “Well, I saw you come in and I simply had to come over and welcome you home.”

  Welcome her? Yeah right. More like lob the first new volley of their thirteen-year-old war. She was about to answer when Lydia shifted her attention to Pepper.

  “Oh, bless your heart,” she said with a smug twist of her lips. “I see Pepper glommed on to you the minute you came back to town. Appropriate pairing, I suppose, although with those fancy designer clothes and her new house, I can’t call y’all Thrift Shop and Trailer Park anymore.”

  Ivy cringed at hearing the cruel monikers Lydia had labeled them with in school. Lydia came from a wealthy family that owned two of the local restaurants, Ellen’s Diner and Whittaker’s, as well as a huge horse farm on the edge of town. Her air of superiority stank of old money and privilege, but it hadn’t always been that way. In elementary school, Ivy and Lydia had been best friends. Their parents were friends to this day.

  And then, in middle school, a toxic combination of hormones, boys, and fierce competitiveness changed their dynamic. Lydia started hanging out with Madelyn Chamberlain, who had always been a bit of a brat and thought she was better than everyone else. Overnight, Lydia became the most popular girl in school and Ivy lost her best friend.

  She supposed Lydia needed to feel superior to Ivy and the only thing she had over her back then was money. Things were strained for a few years, but when Lydia’s crush—Blake—asked Ivy out, the gloves came off and the claws came out. Apparently not much had changed while she was in California.

  Ivy’s hand shot out to grab Pepper’s wrist. She’d gone for her purse and Ivy wasn’t sure what was in it, but she knew no matter what, it wouldn’t be good. They needed to just walk away, as much as it pained her.

  “Well, don’t you waste any of your precious few brain cells coming up with new nicknames. We’re good with the ones our mamas gave us. Seeing you again has been . . . yeah. Let’s go play darts, Pepper.” She grabbed her drink in her free hand and kept her grip tightly on her friend’s wrist.

  “See y’all ’round,” Lydia said cheerfully.

  “She’s damn lucky she drives to Birmingham to get her roots done,” Pepper growled under her breath. “I’d love to get my scissors near her head for just two seconds . . .”

  Ivy laughed and put her drink down on the empty table beside the dartboard. “Maybe I shouldn’t give you a sharp metal projectile,” she noted.

  “Nah, I’m good,” Pepper said. “Emmett just refinished these floors and I’d hate to get blood on them. But if you hadn’t stopped me, I’d have gladly hit her with my pepper spray for calling me Trailer Park again. It’s the same strength they give police officers for riot patrol.”

  “Shoot. I thought you had a gun, or I would’ve let you.”

  Ivy plucked the darts from the case and tried to envision Lydia screaming and writhing on the floor. Admittedly, she would enjoy the spectacle, especially knowing it wouldn’t cause permanent damage. Lydia deserved it for making fun of Pepper. Her family did the best they could. There shouldn’t be any more shame in living in a trailer than there was in shopping at thrift stores, like her parents did. Sometimes every penny mattered.

  Ivy threw her darts, doing terribly. After a moment passed without Pepper taking her turn, she realized her friend wasn’t paying attention. “Pepper?”

  The redhead snapped her gaze back to Ivy. “Sorry. Is it my turn?” She l
ooked back in the other direction and sighed. “I noticed Grant watching me again.”

  “Grant Chamberlain?”

  Pepper nodded and tossed her darts. “None other.”

  “Are you guys . . . ?”

  “No!” she said, her eyes widening. “Absolutely not. That’s the problem. He won’t take no for an answer. I think he’s just a spoiled rich boy who wants what he can’t have. He’s been trying since high school when he was a freshman and I was a junior. I have to admit he’s got balls.”

  “Why not go out with him once to ease his curiosity? He’s cute. Firefighters are sexy.”

  Pepper sipped her drink and laughed. “Yeah, and he knows it. But I’ve always had a strict rule: never date a Chamberlain.”

  Ivy brought up her hand to throw again. “Wise words,” she said. As she was about to let go of her first dart, the familiar notes of her first hit song began to play from the jukebox.

  Really? The tension level wasn’t high enough in here already? She spun on her heels to look for the offender who’d chosen the song. Lydia Whittaker was smiling conspiratorially as she leaned on the jukebox. Of course. Always starting something. Then the front door opened and Ivy’s gaze traveled to the hulking figure lurking in the entrance of the bar.

  Her eyes met his as her voice drifted out of the speakers. There was an instant snap of electricity as they looked at one another. A recognition . . . a connection . . . an unspoken attraction that brought a heat to her cheeks. She thought she had felt something at the cabin earlier today, but she’d dismissed it. Now, there was no ignoring the warmth in her belly and the tightness in her chest.

  The connection was severed as he turned to look at the jukebox. As he realized what was playing, there was a dance of emotion across his face. Pain, embarrassment, anger, sadness . . . Maybe all of it rolled together; she couldn’t tell. When he looked back at her it was gone, and his cool, detached expression had returned. His jaw flexed tight as he swallowed hard and turned away from her.

  Never date a Chamberlain. Wise words indeed.

  “Emmett, I will pay you a thousand dollars right now to take that damn song out of the jukebox,” Blake said as he approached the bar.

  The bartender shook his head. “Sorry, man. Your brother paid me two thousand to keep it in.”

  “Which one?” Blake demanded. There would be hell to pay. The joke was old. It was bad enough that he’d had to listen to that stupid song on the radio for the past five years. He shouldn’t have to listen to it in his local bar.

  “Which do you think?” Emmett said, cocking his head to the side.

  Blake followed that direction until he saw his brother Grant sitting in a booth with some woman he didn’t recognize. Flavor of the week. “Nice,” he said between gritted teeth.

  But Grant hadn’t played the song. He was firmly embedded in a seduction plot and didn’t even realize Blake had come in. No, that dubious honor went to Lydia Whittaker. The evil smile curling her thin, bitter lips spoke volumes. Namely that she was ready for him and Ivy to have a knock-down, drag-out fight while she watched. No doubt Lydia intended to console him when it was over.

  He never should’ve gone out with her. He had been hoping she’d realize there was no chemistry and she’d finally leave him alone. Too late he realized Lydia didn’t care about chemistry. Since seventh grade, she’d wanted his name and the social status that went with it.

  Blake had tried to let her down gently a few weeks ago. She hadn’t taken the hint. And now adding Ivy back into the mix, even temporarily, would stir things up. The two girls had always been fiercely competitive, and at times downright catty. Lydia had done her best to make Ivy’s life hell when he and Ivy were dating, and tonight she seemed to be back to her old tricks.

  Why did she have to show her ass tonight? Blake had deliberately loitered outside talking to a friend to avoid going into Woody’s right behind her. He’d known the bar would be a powder keg the moment he saw Ivy slip in. The last thing he needed was Lydia throwing sparks.

  “How much do I have to pay to make sure an Ivy Hudson song doesn’t play in this bar ever again?”

  Emmett’s brow knit together in thought. “Ivy Hudson? Holy crap!” he exclaimed. “You mean the woman that came in with Pepper is the one singing that song?”

  Blake glanced back over at the two women playing darts. “That would be her.”

  Emmett leaned onto the bar. “I didn’t get the connection earlier. So what’s the deal? Did she write this song about you?”

  “Yes.” If only that stupid reporter hadn’t revealed that the song was about him, he could’ve licked his wounds privately. Ivy never confirmed or denied it publicly, but it didn’t matter. She let the press torture him for hurting her.

  Emmett shook his head and tried not to laugh. “What the hell did you do to her, man?”

  “It’s not what I did to her,” Blake admitted. “It was what she caught me doing to a cheerleader in college.”

  Emmett’s eyes got wide. “Ahh . . . So, you want a beer?” he asked, artfully changing the subject.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Emmett slid a full mug across the counter and Blake grabbed it. Ignoring his brother and both his exes, he took an empty seat at a table with a couple of the guys he went to school with.

  “Hey, Jesse,” he said. “Curt.”

  His friends welcomed him, all three trying very hard to ignore the obnoxious song playing in the background and discuss today’s Auburn football game. It wasn’t working.

  “Size matters . . .” the recorded Ivy belted out. “I said it didn’t, I didn’t mean it. I told you everything was fine, but size does matter.”

  By now, a couple of folks in the bar had taken to singing along with the chorus. Great.

  “I’ve had just about enough of that,” Blake finally said. Pushing back from his seat, he crossed the bar to the jukebox and without hesitation unplugged it from the wall. Grant had paid Emmett to keep the song in the jukebox, but nothing said the jukebox had to be operational.

  The song instantly silenced, the machine going dark. A few people in the bar applauded; a few others ribbed him for not having a sense of humor. Ivy stood quietly, turning away from him to throw her darts when their eyes met.

  “That’s more like it,” he said. Blake glanced up at Lydia. She looked temporarily defeated, but that wouldn’t stop her scheming for long. She was a smart girl. It was a shame she used her powers for evil. “Got any more quarters left, Lydia?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Good. Stay out of this.” He turned and started back to his table. He was halfway there when he heard someone shout from near the pinball machine.

  “Ivy? Are you just going to let him interrupt your song like that?”

  Blake stopped in time to see Ivy stiffen. She was never good with confrontation; she preferred to leave her cutting words for her songs. But when she was backed into a corner, she was like a small dog—quick to bite. He watched as she took a deep breath, and then turned to face the crowd with the sweet smile that had charmed America while spewing her vitriol.

  “No,” she said. “It’s fine. This is just one jukebox in one bar. That album went quadruple platinum, and ‘Size Matters’ is the second-longest-running number one single in iTunes history. Blake can’t unplug every iPod in America. And even if he could,” she added, looking him in the eye, “the damage is done.”

  A few people chuckled. Blake wasn’t one of them. She was right. The damage was done, and so were they. Any flicker of attraction between them was just biology conspiring against him. He supposed it was time to put the last nail in the coffin and move on.

  “I wish I could,” he retorted. “I would consider it a public service—protecting the general population from bitter, autotuned, subpar pop music.”

  “First,” she said, taking a few steps toward him. Her spine was ramrod straight and defiant, pressing her breasts against her silky top and giving him unhelpful flashbacks to today’
s earlier encounter. “My music is not autotuned. I am not a belly-baring teenage pop princess. I play my own instruments. I perform live. I write my own music. And if that music is bitter, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”

  “Blame?” Blake laughed. “I think I should get a cut of those four million sales. Before I broke your heart, your songs were nothing but the sad refrains of coffeehouse open mic nights.”

  Ivy’s mouth fell open, her response stolen from her lips.

  It was a low blow and he knew it. Ivy had struggled with her music for months. He knew how hard she’d worked and how her professors just hadn’t seen the emotion and spark that made her songs special.

  Grant sidled up. “That’s probably not the best idea,” he noted. “Never piss off a woman with a dart in her hand unless you fancy an eye patch.”

  Blake smiled and shook off his brother’s suggestion. “I’m not too worried about that. I remember watching her out on the field during gym in high school. Her aim was never that great.”

  “It may not be,” Ivy said, recovering herself. “But at least if I stuck something in you, you’d notice.”

  A roar of voices and laughter followed her insult. Blake sighed. Why did she always go for the small-dick jokes? He didn’t have one. He wanted to scream it at the top of his lungs, but it would only make him look like he protested too much. No one would believe him, and he wasn’t about to start wagging it at strangers on the street to prove his point. It was above average. And an excellent performer, too, if his reviews could be trusted. He’d never heard any complaints.

  Ivy, of course, didn’t count.

  She left him no choice but to strike back. Blake had been subjected to years of embarrassment because of Ivy and her song. He’d lost the Iron Bowl when the Alabama marching band played it, causing him to botch a crucial play. His season fell apart. His dream of a Heisman had vanished along with the Tigers’ bowl game chances and his first-round draft selection. Yes, he’d made out with another woman and probably would’ve slept with her if Ivy hadn’t burst in on them. It was a stupid mistake, and he’d regretted it every day since then. And not just because his entire life unraveled because of it.