“Fine.” He let out a troubled exhale. “It’ll be a long two weeks.”
I smiled. “For me too.”
“So … no tux?”
“No!” I said sharply. “Khakis and a button-up.” Granted, had it been up to Chelsea’s expensive Atlanta wedding planner, tuxes would have been standard. We’d had to remind her, several times over the last year, that ninety-nine percent of the attendees were country folk and not millionaires. “No tie.” I added. “And even in that, I can’t guarantee you won’t be called a city boy.”
“It’s okay. I kinda am a city boy.”
I smiled. And in that moment, despite everything stacked against us, I felt a glimmer of hope that we would survive the wedding weekend.
3 months, 2 weeks before
tight (tīt)
(adj.) barely allowing time for completion
“a tight schedule”
It was official. Brett was coming to the wedding which meant he was coming here, would stay in my house, touch my stuff, pet my dog. Would meet my friends again, my parents—oh god, my father. All because Chelsea couldn’t mind her own business. I stared at my living room in a mild state of panic. I’d had two weeks to prepare; this wasn’t a surprise. Had twelve days and nights to work down my carefully written “to do” list.
Twelve days. And yet, two hours before Brett landed¸ only three items were crossed off.
Get a manicure/pedicure.
Shave.
Wash all dirty clothes.
Fold all clothes.
Drop off dry cleaning.
Stock the kitchen with enough food to look normal.
Buy candles and burn throughout house the week before.
Do baseboards.
Change sheets.
Wipe down all surfaces and toss all trash.
Hide all clutter.
Move high school awards and items to garage.
Track down and hide all Modern Bride issues.
Throw away ruffled pillows and toilet seat cover.
Hide super tampon boxes and any embarrassing bathroom/medication items.
Kidnap Megan, Tammy, Jena, and Mitzi and lock them away until Brett leaves.
Okay, so the last item was a joke. Sort of. A joke only because the feasibility of kidnapping four bridesmaids in such a short time frame seemed a bit ambitious for a novice criminal. But, even if I threw that item off the list, I still had a shitload of work to do in a short length of time. I moved to the bedroom, sweeping my hair into a ponytail and unbuttoning my shirt with hasty fingers. I stepped out of my skirt and moved to the dresser before retracing my steps, picking up the discarded items and putting them into the hamper.
I was sure there were normal individuals out there who liked cleaning ... but I hated it. Hated it with a passion. If there were a way to murder Cleaning in the study with a candlestick, I’d be the guilty Miss Scarlet. I normally straightened up on Sunday mornings, sometime between cereal and an afternoon nap. But my weekend excursions with Brett had pushed those Sunday cleanings off by ... four weeks? Five? I mentally added “Clean toilet” to the list. Then I changed into a T-shirt and jean shorts and got to work.
***
Two hours and forty-three minutes later, my panic had reached a more manageable level, one where exhaustion sat on its chest and made it shut the hell up. I swapped my sweaty tee for a cute tank top and grabbed my keys, giving the house a quick glance over before heading for the car.
It looked good. Clean, but not like I’d prepared for him. For once, I was grateful for such a small home, the dirt not having too much square footage in which to hide. Checking my watch, I swore at the time, grabbing my cell from the counter and running out the door.
***
“You hungry?” I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel, noting, for the first time, the cracks in its vinyl. I wondered what kind of car Brett drives. Seems weird that I didn’t know that. That I hadn’t been to his city, his house.
“Starving. I had some crackers on the plane, but nothing else.” He relaxed in the passenger seat, his hand resting on the back of my headrest, the faint scent of soap and a light cologne drifting over with his shift into place.
My stomach growled, as if it had the right to input an opinion. The sound reminded me of my failure to eat, not since eleven this morning, when I scarfed down a Wendy’s chicken salad behind the tellers. I probably burned a thousand calories during my cleaning frenzy. I was surprised my body hadn’t gone into shock.
“What’s a good local restaurant?”
I smiled. “Beverly’s is good, just be prepared.”
“For what?”
“Everything.” Might as well rip off the Band-Aid now. On the upside, it was after eight. Maybe the dinner crowd had thinned.
***
Nope. The dinner crowd was still in full force when I pulled into the gravel lot. My eyes scanned and recognized at least ten of the trucks in the lot. I felt a pit form in my cavernously empty stomach.
“Lots of trucks,” Brett commented.
“Farming is a major industry here. Add that to the redneck factor, and you’ve got testosterone fighting via mud flaps at every four-way.” I put the car into park and leaned forward. Kissed him lightly on the lips. “Thank you for coming here.”
“Thank you for letting me.”
“It’s been nice knowing you.” I grinned wryly.
“It won’t be that bad, I promise.”
I kissed his naïve little mouth and turned off the car.
Beverly’s was one big room, a buffet set on the back wall, picnic tables filling the large, paisley-wallpapered space. There were no private tables; everyone grabbed any available seat, community pitchers of tea on the tables, refilled on a regular basis by one of Beverly’s four girls. There was no menu, and there weren’t any specials. Lunch was seven bucks, dinner was ten, and credit cards weren’t accepted. Sweet tea, coffee, and water were the only drink options, and you cleared your own plate when done. When short on cash, Beverly had an IOU form at the front counter that you could complete and settle up when times got better.
I grabbed Brett’s hand and sucked in, squeezing between two tables and heading deeper into the room, beelining for an open spot at Table 9. I smiled at the Rutledges and Corina Rose, mouthed a “hey” to Patty Thomas. Breathed a sigh of relief when I stepped into the bench, flashing smiles to the individuals on either side. Watched Brett as he made his way to the other side. He wore a T-shirt and jeans with tennis shoes. I had told him to dress casual, had been worried that he’d stick out. But even in that, he looked expensive, couldn’t hide the aura of confidence and wealth that separated him from every other man in this room.
“This place is nice.”
I didn’t know if Brett was just being polite, but, in our town, it was the best food you were gonna find. I met his eyes and was pleased to see sincerity in them. I shrugged. “The food’s really good.”
“Do we have a waitress?”
I laughed. “Sorta. Beverly’ll come by with plates and glasses. It’s her way of greeting everyone. Anything you need, that’ll be the only time we see her, so be sure to ask for it then.”
He eyed the row of condiments lining the table’s middle. “I’ll be fine.”
“Good. She doesn’t like extra work.”
“Are you talking about me, missy?” Beverly’s voice craned through the air and smacked me on the back of my head. I gave Brett a look of mock panic and turned around, accepting the woman’s fierce hug, her long nails digging into me like it’d been weeks instead of days.
“All good things,” I reassured.
“Humph. Likely. Who’s this?” She eyed Brett like he was a piece of choice fried chicken. “This the rich South Florida man you’ve been running off with?”
Brett’s eyebrows rose at the comment, the dimple in his cheek exposed when he stood and offered his hand across the table. “Brett Jacobs,” he said smoothly. “While I am from South Florida, I can’t vouch for the rest of the desc
ription.”
I made a face at him before recovering, smiling at Beverly. “Yes, Brett is my new boyfriend. He’s visiting this weekend from Fort Lauderdale.”
“Oooh ... Fort Lauderdale!” Beverly waved her palms from side to side like a can-can routine. “Fancy! And you’ll be here all weekend?”
“Yes.” Brett smiled and I cringed at his omission of ‘ma’am.’ The word was a Southern requirement, a verbal side dish that must accompany every course. It didn’t matter if the person addressed was six years old. Or twenty. Or ninety. In the South, we said ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ ‘sir,’ and ‘ma’am.’ I saw Beverly’s eyes flick to me. She stiffly held out two plates, stacking a couple of silverware rolls on top of them. I took the plates, Brett’s hands reaching out for the glasses.
“The dessert today is lemon pie,” Beverly said pointedly, as if there was a code word stuck somewhere in that sentence.
“Yum.” I set the silverware down. “Thanks Beverly.”
***
“What did I do wrong?” Brett spoke from the side of his mouth as he heaped an impressive amount of mashed potatoes on his plate. Our elbows knocked each other, a woman on my right crowding me in her haste for fried catfish.
“What do you mean?” I pointed to the gravy ladle, and he passed it over.
“The look that passed between you two. I did something wrong.”
“Oh.” I smiled. “You didn’t say ‘ma’am’ when you responded to her.”
He paused, the sudden halt messing up the flow of the line. I bumped him with my hip and nodded at him to continue. “What ... a Southern faux pas?” he asked.
“Yes. Sir.” I added the second word, grinning at him. “See how easy it is?”
He leaned over, pressing a kiss on my cheek, before pausing at my ear. “I love you.” On his way back to standing, my cheeks burning red from the confession, he dipped back down. “Ma’am,” he added, gently pinching my butt.
Wait—what? “Now you got it.” I mumbled, grabbed a roll and looked up at him, his eyes skimming the buffet one last time. I didn’t even know how to respond, didn’t expect the buffet line at Beverly’s to be the place where this moment would happen. But Brett didn’t seem to need a response, his legs already in motion, his broad shoulders moving through the tables.
I followed him back to the table and wished I had chosen a less public venue.
***
Brett’s fork was scraping his plate when the cops showed up. A foursome, swaggering through the front door, shaking hands and greeting citizens on their way to our table. They surrounded us, John Bingham placing a friendly hand on my shoulder as he leaned over and brushed his lips over my cheek. Brett’s eyes watched the movement, his face tightening slightly as he set down his fork. I scooted back, my eyes sweeping over the foursome, identical in their green uniforms, all wearing a relaxed expression of arrogance and control.
Blake Gadsden: Married Marianna Nichols last March, I was a bridesmaid, along with eighteen other emerald-ensconced beauties.
Russell Shaverton: Our high school quarterback. 3 brain cells. 100 good intentions.
Clive Summerbell: Last month, I opened a savings account for him. He once cheated on Janice Weiland but nobody talks about that.
And … finally … the man whose hand still rested on my shoulder. John Bingham: My high school sweetheart. The man I lost my virginity to fourteen years ago. Prom king. Once proposed marriage in a field by his grandfather’s pond with a tiny solitaire. I said no; it didn’t go over well. My father still hasn’t recovered.
I smiled, tilting my head back and narrowing my eyes up at John. “John. What are you boys doing here? Shouldn’t you be keeping the streets safe?”
“Already handled.” He flashed a smile back, the fingers of his hand moving slightly, a caress against the skin of my shoulder.
Brett’s eyes met mine as he stood, the group of men stepping back slightly as the air became more crowded. “I’m sorry, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you. Brett Jacobs.” He held out his hand, my shoulder spared for a brief moment as John reached across, my eyes watching their hands meet.
“Brett, this is John, Russell, Hank, and Blake.” I zipped around the circle. “Boys, this is my boyfriend, Brett. He’s in town for Chelsea’s wedding.”
“Is that so?” John put his hand on the table, lifting his leg through as if he was going to sit down.
I smacked his leg, stopping the moment. “We’re having dinner, John. Give us some privacy.”
“I’m just being friendly, Ril.” He dipped his head toward me, and I scowled in response.
“I know friendly. Ya’ll git. I heard someone’s stealing DVDs from Rick’s. Go investigate.”
“All those trips to Tahiti got you outta the loop. We snagged Sharon Marzola for that last week. Caught her red-handed via stakeout.” He winked proudly at me, like I should be impressed. “You done eating?” he nodded at Brett.
“Yes.” Brett’s mouth twitched as he glanced at me, and I laughed, well aware that he—damn the social consequences—would not be addressing John as ‘sir.’
“Russell, show the visitor some Quincy hospitality.” John nodded to the plate, and I reached out, stopping the skinny arm before it escaped with Brett’s dirty plate and silverware.
“We got it. John, stop it.” I stood, suddenly too close to him, and folded my arms.
“I’m just following orders, princess.”
My eyes literally rolled themselves. “I’ll take it up with the chief.”
“If that’s what you want.” He shrugged, shaking his head briefly at Russell, whose hand dropped underneath mine.
“It was nice to meet you guys.” Brett settled back down, dragging his plate closer.
“Thanks for stopping by. I’m sure we’ll see you all tomorrow.” I glared at John and slid back onto the bench.
“I’m sorry about that.” I said the words softly, as soon as the glass door clanged shut behind the foursome.
He laughed, ripping a piece of bread in two and dipping it in the butter. “Don’t. It was entertaining. I take it you have a history with the blond?”
“Yeah. High school sweethearts.”
“He single?”
“Yes.”
“Should I be worried?” He set down the bread.
I smiled. “No. But go easy on him. He hasn’t had to see me with anyone for a while. It’s ... strange for him. Hearing the stories and now, seeing you here.”
“What are the stories?”
“Oh, you know. Dark, handsome stranger whisking off innocent, sweet, loved-by-all Riley Johnson. Corrupting her weekends before sending her back a ruined woman.”
“Oh, is that what they’re saying?” His mouth curved.
I nodded, widening my eyes. “Oh yes. It’s quite the scandal.”
“Loved by all?” His skeptical look made me laugh.
“Loved by most,” I conceded. Crap. We were back in the love territory, and I swear it was by accident. My heart picked up, a knot suddenly tight in my abdomen.
“What was all the fighting over my plate? Is that some kind of hazing ritual here in the South? Clearing someone else’s dirty dishes?” I loved the way his eyes smiled. I felt like they didn’t do that when we met.
“Oh. They wanted your prints and DNA.”
The eye smile thing he’d had working stopped. “For dating you?”
I played with the fork in my mouth, testing the strength of it with my teeth before releasing it. “Yep.”
“Isn’t that a violation of some cop law—can’t they be fired for that?” He was pissed, and I raised my eyebrows at him.
“I stopped it, Brett. Besides, I’m not certain it was all John’s doing. My father is probably behind it.”
“Your father? What does he have to do with them?”
“He’s their boss. Quincy’s Chief of Police.”
I’d never really seen the reaction to my father’s job before. Not from a prospective love
interest. And I didn’t know if I hadn’t seen a reaction because they didn’t exist, or because the reaction was diluted through a phone call or word of mouth. But there, in Beverly’s restaurant, Brett recoiled. Physically retreated away from me as if I was contaminated.
“What?” I leaned forward, unwilling to let him separate us. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“It just seems like something you would have mentioned.”
“Why? I haven’t told you my mother works as a pharmacy tech. Will that also cause you to break that bench in your haste to escape?”
He leaned forward once again. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was just surprised.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You’ve never mentioned your parents.”
“Neither have you. And you haven’t asked,” I pointed out.
He ran a hand through his hair, glancing to the right, his eyes meeting with Dorothy Riepenhoff, who raised her eyebrows at him as if waiting for his response. He glanced from her to me, his eyes imperceptibly squinting as if to question her invasion. I hid a smile behind a gulp of tea. He was the one who wanted to visit Quincy.
“Plus, you love me. So you can’t really run now,” I offered, watching his eyes flip to mine. There. I brought it up. Before we even left the restaurant. Pretty good for a girl who’d recently accused herself of being afraid of commitment.
His mouth twitched. “What a sad soul I’d make, hopelessly lost in unrequited love, tied to a girl with a police chief father.”
I tilted my head and took another sip, hiding behind the clouded glass. “It may be reciprocated,” I mumbled.
“What’s that?” His hand gently pushed the glass away.
“Maybe. Maybe I do have feelings for you.”
“Maybe,” he repeated. “Maybe you love me?”
“Yes. Kinda.”
“You can’t kinda love someone.”
“No?” I returned the glass to my mouth for a conversation-stalling sip.
“No. I won’t allow it.” He stood, placing both hands on the table and leaned forward, across the space. Next to him, Dorothy stared at us and clapped excitedly like she was about to win something. “Say it, Riley Johnson, and I’ll march down to the precinct right now and let your dad take a pint of my blood.”
Tight Page 9