Simple Gone South gs-3

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “Poor us. Poor Eller.” On the way to her house, Lucy had to turn down the street where Big Mama lived—where he lived now, come to think of it. The moment had passed. Either she wasn’t going to call him on it, or she hadn’t made the connection, after all. Either way, he needed to stop it, needed to remember that he was, for the time being, around people who knew his history. “Speaking of Eller,” Lucy said. “I am really surprised that you are willing to have her live in that carriage house so close to your grandmother’s cat—you know, that monster. That animal is practically a lioness with a hurt paw and cubs, but more aggressive.”

  Uh-oh. She’d met Princess. “Yeah. Well. See, Princess used to be that way. Big Mama had her on some kind of cat food that she was allergic to. Made her mean. She killed a whole pack of wild German shepherds last summer. But they got that food situation straightened out and she’s like a different cat. I didn’t know all that, of course.”

  Lucy almost laughed. He could tell by the way she bit her lip and dropped her eyes. “Have you been home?” she asked. He’d dodged the Princess bullet, at least for now. “To the carriage house?”

  “No, Lucy. I came straight to you. I didn’t even change out of my meet-and-greet clothes.”

  “For the most part the carriage house is done. It would be completely, except Miss Caroline decided she wanted new cabinetry in the kitchen and bathroom. The bathroom is done, but the kitchen is not. It will be in a few days.”

  “No problem. I do more bathing than cooking. In fact, I do no cooking, while I am totally committed to hygiene. I just need a place to keep my beer cold.”

  “You’ve got a brand new Sub-Zero for that.”

  “Pretty fancy.”

  “Wait until you see the cabinets. Will Garrett is doing them.”

  That name rang a bell. “Who is that? Do I know him?”

  “You have not provided me with a spread sheet of who you do and do not know, Brantley. So I cannot answer that question.”

  “Ah, my Lucy is feisty tonight.”

  She ignored that. “If you don’t know Will, you should. He’s a master craftsman. Builds amazing furniture. I’ve used him a few times. I’d use him more but I don’t have that many clients who can—or are willing to—afford him.”

  “Hey. I do know who that is. He’s younger than I am, but I remember him from school.” If he recalled correctly, Will had been a poor kid. Some said he was from the wrong side of the tracks, though Brantley had never figured out, or cared, just where those tracks were. Well, good on Will. “What’s he doing hanging around Merritt where people don’t appreciate his work?”

  “I don’t have that particular information,” Lucy said. “I guess he likes it here. Many do.” She gave him a pointed look. “I know Will does lots of high end custom work. He ships stuff all over the world.”

  Lucy sure did know a lot about this Will Garrett. Brantley didn’t like that. If he remembered right, he’d been a good looking kid. “Where does he live?”

  “How should I know?” She turned into her driveway. “But there are some issues with some of the woodwork in the Brantley Building. I don’t know much about what the budget will be yet . . .” She let her voice trail off.

  Happier that she didn’t know where Mr. Master Craftsman lived, Brantley said, “Sounds good. Big Mama wants it done right. It’s going to cost. I’d be shocked if she didn’t know how much right down to the penny.”

  Lucy cut the motor, opened her door, and met his eyes. “Understand this. I am letting you in to get Eller. Regardless of the impression I gave you in Tolly’s driveway, I am not going to have sex with you.”

  “Understood,” Brantley said cheerfully. And he did. He didn’t expect to have sex, though he certainly was open to it. His goals for tonight were to make her laugh and to get just a little friendlier. You had to do these things in stages. He opened his door. “I’m right behind you. I just need to get something from my car.”

  * * *

  Lucy had no more than turned on the lights, than Brantley was behind her. Eller ran into the room and, upon seeing Brantley, put on a show worthy of a game show contestant who’d just won the car.

  Brantley knelt to pet her. “How’s my girl? Huh? Who’s a good girl? Has Lucy been good to you?”

  The dog reared up on her hind legs and began to awkwardly dance around.

  “Hey!” Brantley patted her head. “When did you learn that?”

  “She wants a treat,” Lucy said. “They’re on the side table.”

  “Oh?” He reached for the pouch. “I don’t recall bringing these.” Light dawned on his face, as he gave Eller her reward for dancing. “Lucy Mead! You’ve been buying my dog treats and teaching her tricks. And you pretended not to like her. You love my dog. That must mean you love me too.”

  Heat drenched her from head to toe. “Yeah. That’s it. Have for years. Now take her out. And not the front. She’s afraid of the boxer across the street.”

  While he was gone, Lucy gathered up all of Eller’s belonging and put them by the front door. With any luck, she would have him out of here in less than five minutes.

  But there was no luck. When Brantley strolled back into the living room, he had two open beers. “I couldn’t help but notice there was some beer left from our barbecue and football night.” He handed her one.

  Oh, what the hell. It had been a hard day. She sat on the sofa and took a sip. She would let him drink his beer and then he was out of here.

  He wandered over to the gong, picked up the hammer, and struck it three times.

  “Attention! This is the portion of the evening where the very repentant bad, bad Brantley Kincaid atones for his appalling manners when he left his dog on the sainted and beautiful Lucy Mead’s porch without obtaining her permission.” And he gave her that unfair smile.

  She felt a little grin playing with the corner of her mouth. Words were cheap and easy but she doubted if there was a former fat girl alive who could keep from smiling when she heard the word beautiful applied to her.

  Encouraged, Brantley rang the gong one more time and picked up a large brown shopping bag that she hadn’t noticed until now. He joined her on the sofa and set the bag at her feet.

  “All for you, Lucy!” He gestured to the bag.

  She let herself smile full on. “Is there a Jack-O-Lantern in there?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Open it up and see.”

  The bag was full of things. The first thing she pulled out was a t-shirt—purple and pretty gaudy from what she could tell. This was fun.

  But when she went to unfold it, the fun stopped. There was a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge on the front with hot pink letters that said San Francisco. Ugly as it was, that wasn’t what horrified her. The shirt was huge. A glace at the tag in the back proclaimed it to be a triple extra large. Is this how Brantley saw her? Was she that big?

  There was nothing to do but say thank you. She opened her mouth and met his eyes—which looked wide with surprise. His mouth was a perfect O.

  He laughed and took the shirt from her. “That’s not yours. That’s for Evelyn. I forgot there was other stuff in there.”

  Relief washed over her as he took the bag and rummaged around, pulling things out. “Let’s see. Cable car magnet for Evelyn. Toy cable cars for Beau and Emma. Bib for baby Lulu.” He rummaged around some more. “Uh oh. Nothing for Missy. Meant to get something at the airport. I’ll have to buy her something and pass it off as coming from San Francisco or I will never hear the last of it.” He thrust the bag back at Lucy. “I promise the rest is yours. The finest, classiest souvenirs that San Francisco has to offer. Don’t look too hard at where they were made.”

  With some trepidation, she pulled out item after item, but there was nothing else alarming, and each item funnier and tackier than the last. There was a plastic back scratcher from Chinatown, a plate with scenes from the city, a shot glass, a picture frame that played “I left my Heart in San Francisco,” and an Alcatraz snow globe.
>
  “That right there, baby,” Brantley said pointing to the snow globe, “I thought was the cream of the crop, but it’s hard to beat what’s in that little box there.”

  Lucy opened the box and burst out laughing. “I have been needing cable car earrings.”

  Brantley ran his hand down her cheek and said, “There it is. There’s that laugh, the one I ditched a fancy cocktail party to come back early for.” He looked in the bag. “There’s just one more thing. Couldn’t come back without a shirt for you.”

  Her stomach tightened as she reached in the bottom of the bag to pull out a plastic sack. It was hot pink with green writing and a gold lame bridge. If a more garish shirt had ever been made, Lucy had never seen it.

  But it was a spandex cropped tank top, size small.

  Warmth was already spreading through her when Brantley leaned into her and said, “I thought that would be a very attractive look for you. Maybe you’ll model it for me some time.”

  Knowing it was a mistake and not caring, she grabbed his cheeks and brought his mouth to her own.

  “Lucy Mead,” Brantley said and snatched her into his arms, laid her back, and devoured her mouth all in one forceful, sweet, tender motion. He broke the kiss and said, “I was a little too quick on the draw with that laying you down. Raise up.” And he proceeded to unzip her dress and pull it down in front.

  Then he was busy with her bra and she ought to stop him. But she didn’t want to.

  He gasped. “Oh, Lucy.” Her bra was on the floor now and he looked at her in wonder. Or it seemed that way. Could it be? He ran his hands over her breasts, almost worshipfully. “You are beautiful. So lush.”

  She might have thought about what he said and analyzed it like she did everything, but he settled in to feast on her breasts and there could be no thoughts—only feelings. He took his time, sweet, sweet time. She had not had very many lovers, and never had she known a man who knew how to so thoroughly make love to breasts. Even he had not known all those years ago in Savannah. But now he seemed to have a sixth sense that told him when to lick and swirl, when to nuzzle, and when to increase pressure and lightly bite, almost to the point of pain. And he knew when to stop and start all over again.

  She was lost.

  She pulled his shirt out of his pants and slid her hands along the muscles on either side of his spine. They shuddered together, totally in sync. Fearful that she would pass out, Lucy took a deep breath. This was special, powerful, and defied comparison. It probably always would.

  He shifted until he was lying between her thighs, throbbing, hot, and wanting. It was when he raised up and reached for his zipper that she stiffened.

  “Shh, Lucy.” He covered her mouth with his and then worked around to her ear. “You said you were not going to have sex and that’s what I know until I’m told different. But that zipper—it can be a little rough on the man parts when they’re in the shape mine are in.”

  It was then she discovered there was something better than how he was making her feel—it was these feelings mixed with laughter.

  “And what a shape it is,” she whispered back, raised her pelvis to meet his, and they both laughed. This time she did not protest when he unzipped his pants and slipped them over his hips.

  Then his mouth was on her breasts again and he was pressing, pressing, pressing against the sofa arm so they could feel each other better through the thin fabric of their underwear, because her dress was now around her waist. This was so perfect that she needed to savor it.

  But she needed to stop. And stop him. If she didn’t, she was going to come, right here like a teenager in the backseat of a car. And if she came, she would owe him, wouldn’t feel right if he didn’t.

  He sensed her hesitation.

  “Lucy, I want you. But I meant what I said. I act on my last directive. But I wouldn’t mind if you changed that directive.”

  And what if she did? What if they went upstairs, got into bed, and finished what they had started in Savannah? It could be wonderful.

  But what if she repulsed him, like she had that night? What if he rejected her and ran again?

  Unthinkable.

  He looked at her with a question in his eyes.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  He nodded. “I understand. Not this time.”

  She couldn’t speak to that. How could she lie there and tell him never when her dress was wadded up around her waist from both directions, her panties soaking wet, and her bra was on the floor?

  “Lucy Mead,” he said formally with his rock hard penis still pressed against her. “I request that you allow me to call on you and take you to dinner tomorrow night.”

  “All right,” she said because any other answer would have been ludicrous.

  And she was tired of fighting—him and herself.

  Chapter Twelve

  Friday night at Lou Anne’s Diner was always busy, but especially so the first few weeks after football season ended. The citizens of Merritt were accustomed to going out on Friday night to see their Bobcats play, and they were a little depressed that it was over for the year and a little lacking in direction. So they headed for the diner for comfort food and to socialize with the same people they had been socializing with in the stadium all fall long.

  Since she had not heard from him all day, Lucy had not been sure that Brantley would remember she had agreed to go out with him. Could be that, since she’d finally acquiesced, he’d crossed her off his list and moved on—like he had that night in Savannah.

  But shortly before she got off work, he texted: Been working all day. Pick you up at 7. And he had. Right on time.

  She wondered where he would take her, but she should have known it would be the diner. That was the place to go on Friday night if you wanted the world to know—and for some reason he still seemed intent on marking his territory.

  It wouldn’t last, but that was okay. She’d finally faced that she needed to get Brantley out of her system so she could move on. No one could deny that he was good company and supremely entertaining. She would enjoy it as long as it lasted. She even intended to sleep with him, but not tonight and maybe not this month or next. It would be a time of her choosing because, this time, she would be in control. If they kept it light and breezy, it might even last until the Brantley Building was done and he left town again. If it didn’t, fine. She wouldn’t care and she would still do her job.

  At the diner, it took a full five minutes for them to get from the front door to the first available booth. Everyone wanted a little Brantley magic.

  “Lucy Mead, I have never fought as hard for a date as I have for this one,” Brantley said after they were settled across the table from each other.

  “I doubt you’ve ever had to fight for a date at all.” Lucy dug her hand sanitizer out of her purse and rubbed some on her palms. She offered some to Brantley with a raised eyebrow.

  “No. I like to wallow in my own filth. Besides if a man starts using hand sanitizer, the next thing you know, he’s growing orchids and making stained glass.”

  “Or maybe not getting the flu.” She replaced the little bottle in her makeup bag and zipped it.

  “I don’t get the flu. And it’s true; I haven’t spent a lot of energy trying to get dates. But damn, girl, you confound me. It briefly crossed my mind to ask Missy for advice—but only briefly.”

  “Thank God for small favors.” That was all she needed.

  “I did not dare. I have warned her too many times to stay out of my love life. I would never have heard the end of it. She would have built a float for the Merritt Christmas parade with a glitter banner that said, ‘Brantley needs Missy to Mess in His Business.’ But you would have been worth it, Lucy.” He winked and before she could stop him, he picked up her hand and kissed the back of her wrist.

  Her stomach took a nosedive into the sea and caught a wave.

  “I am hoping we have gotten to the simple part now, where I don’t have to beg you to see me. I am hoping you ca
n see that this doesn’t have to be complicated.”

  Simple part? He thought he was simple to deal with?

  “Well, what do we have here?”

  Lucy looked up. Oh, no. Lou Anne herself set water and menus on the table. She didn’t usually work on Friday nights. Lou Anne loved Merritt High football so maybe she, like her customers, hadn’t known what to do with herself tonight. Lucy removed her hand from Brantley’s and he stood to give Lou Anne a hug.

  “I hear you’re back for good,” Lou Anne said.

  “For good or evil,” he said lightly. “But at least for a while.”

  A while. That said it all. Never forget that.

  “Any chance our girl here might inspire you otherwise?” Lou Anne asked with a little knowing smirk.

  “She is an inspiration.” Brantley settled back into his seat and opened the menu. “As is your chicken and dumplings and banana pudding.”

  Great. Just what every girl wanted—to be compared to dumplings and pudding.

  “Meatloaf and fried chicken tonight,” Lou Anne said. “Fried green tomatoes. Maybe the last of the season. I’ll give you a few minutes.”

  Lucy’s mouth literally salivated. She wanted it all. She hadn’t known what her food choices would be tonight, so she had only eaten a container of yogurt and some raw vegetables today. She’d had to save all her calories for tonight because if she only ordered a bit of broiled fish or a salad, Brantley might tease her about being on a diet, remember how fat she had been, and run from her for fear that she might get that fat again.

  Not that she cared; not that she could afford to care.

  Brantley was clearly not worried about what he was going to eat. Not that he had to.

  “She’s got pumpkin pie tonight!” he exclaimed. “I love pumpkin pie. Why does everybody think you can only have pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving time? Why can’t we have pumpkin pie on the Fourth of July, Easter Sunday, and every other day?”

  “Maybe because pumpkins aren’t in season then?” Lucy suggested.

  “I can send an email to Japan in less than two seconds. Somebody ought to be able to figure out how to make pumpkin pie happen year round.”