by Eva Charles
It almost seemed like I did something to piss her off, but I haven’t spoken with her since the other night when I brought pizza over to her place, and we almost ended up fucking on that ridiculous air mattress. There were no problems up until the time I left to deal with the disgruntled Sayle employee who thought he could break into his former lab and take his work. At least no problem aside from my hard, aching dick.
You could say I dodged one the other night. One being my own stupidity. I’ll be smarter next time. Charleston has plenty of attractive women. I should not have sex with Kate McKenna. It’s all true, but the story doesn’t end here. It ends in some bed, somewhere, after we’ve both come a half-dozen times. I can pretend otherwise, but that’s the reality. She’s too far under my skin, taking up too much space in the spank bank, and I think about her too damn much.
Every guy knows the best way to get a woman out of his mind is to fuck her out. They don’t all go away easy. Some linger, and it takes a repeat, or ten, to get rid of them, but it can be done. Kate’s going to be a lingerer. I already know it.
That’s neither here nor there because right now I’m in front of the library with my hands full of sweet tea, like the pussy I am. My first stop is the circulation desk. “Afternoon, Miss McCrae.” I plop down a cup of iced tea in front of her. “I know you don’t take your coffee with sugar, but I assume you take your tea sweet.”
A bony hand flies to her chest. “Do people drink it another way?”
“Not our people,” I say, halfway up the stairs to find Kate.
“Thank you for the beverage, Mr. Sinclair. Don’t overstay your welcome.”
The woman’s got balls. When I get to Kate’s office, she’s saying goodbye to a client. The door’s closed, so I can’t hear the conversation, but Kate has her hand on the woman’s arm. Whatever she’s saying is kind and encouraging. I can tell from watching them. Aside from whatever beef I’ve had with her, she’s a good person. I knew that from the moment I met her.
The problem is that even good people are sometimes motivated by outside sources. She’s made it no secret, at least to me, how much she wants that Pulitzer for her mother. If I were smart, I’d turn right around, head down the stairs and out the door, and drink the damn tea I’m holding myself. But I’m not smart.
When the woman opens the door to leave, Kate sees me. But instead of saying hello, she turns her back and walks over to the table where she sits down in front of her laptop. I hope she doesn’t expect me to leave that easily. By now she should know how much I love a challenge.
“Hey,” I say, taking a seat without being invited. I put the iced tea in front of her. “It’s hot out. Thought you might appreciate a cold drink.”
“Thank you.” Poor woman. She wants to be pissed at me, but I brought her some tea and now she’s torn. “I’m really busy,” she says. “I don’t have time to chat.” She is the worst liar.
“I’ll only stay a minute. The restraining order has been dismissed.”
“How did that happen?”
“My lawyer took care of it. It was apparently faulty. It needed to be filed by Sorlin’s daughter and it wasn’t.”
“Who filed it?”
“His old firm.” I slide the paperwork across the table. “Take a look at the name of the firm. Look familiar?”
“It’s King’s old firm.”
“Yep. They could refile the request on behalf of his daughter, but the lawyer doesn’t think they will as long as you stay away from Sorlin.”
She nods. “I would be happy to go to court and contest the order. I’ve been doing a little research. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“That’s debatable. They could argue that just showing up and questioning him was wrong. But it doesn’t matter, right or wrong, you were never going to be successful against them. Don’t go back to see Sorlin.”
“I’m sorry?” she asks with a pissy tone.
“Don’t go back there. He didn’t have anything for you, and next time, the order will stick. It’ll follow you around forever.”
She wants to tell me to go to hell, but she knows I’m right. The last thing an investigative journalist wants dogging her is an order to stay away from an old man with dementia. It will be brought up every time there’s an issue. Doesn’t matter if it’s expired or not.
“I appreciate you handling it. How much do I owe you for the lawyer?”
“Nothing.” She glances at me. “Lawyer’s on retainer, and this took a couple phone calls. No big deal.”
“Thank you.”
“If you’re interested in returning the favor, why don’t you tell me why you’re pissed.”
“I’m not pissed. I’m busy.”
“Bullshit. You were pissed when we spoke this morning. Couldn’t wait to get off the phone.”
“The other night, you left—"
“I had to leave. That’s what my job entails. Trouble doesn’t strike between nine and five. Well it does, but it also happens at other times. Inconvenient times.” I reach for her hand, but she pulls it back into her lap. “Kate, what do you want me to say? If that had been someone calling with an important lead on the King story, you would have been out the door in a flash.”
“It’s not that you left,” she says, staring at her hands. “It’s what you said before you left.”
What I said? Jesus. That could be anything. “I said a lot of shit that night. Help me out here.”
“You said, ‘the break in is off the record,’ as though I would run to a tabloid as soon as the lock clicked behind you. It never crossed my mind.” I hear the hurt in her voice.
I do remember saying it, and although I’m sorry it upset her, I would probably say it again. It’s just the way it is. We each have a job to do, and there will be times when our jobs will be at odds.
When I’m through defending my behavior to myself, I try to see it from her perspective. It was a dick move.
“I own it,” I admit, without making excuses. Sometimes with women, it’s just less trouble to eat the humble pie, especially when you were wrong. “I straight up own it. It’s going to take time to learn a new way of thinking—for both of us.” I get up and go around the table, pulling a chair close to her. “I’m sorry I hurt you. Hurting you was the last thing on my mind that night.” She doesn’t pull her hand away when I reach for it this time.
“You going to be mad all day? Because if not, maybe we can grab a drink after work.” She smiles. It starts small, but soon she’s laughing, and I know I’m not in trouble anymore.
“I’ll probably be done being mad by six o’clock. But then I have my class, and later Lucinda and I are getting a bite to eat.”
I lean in to nuzzle her neck, sliding my hand up her skirt. “How about after dinner? Lucinda’s old. I bet she doesn’t stay out late.”
She pushes me away. “I work here. This is a library. You need to behave.” She doesn’t want me to behave—or at least she’s torn about it.
“I’ll stop for now. Because the next time I have your panties off—let’s just say we would be better off not to be in a library.”
23
Kate
Getting through security at the front gate at Sweetgrass is akin to getting on base at Camp Lejeune where my brothers were stationed.
“Ma’am.” A beefy guard nods at me, looking into the backseat of the car. “Any weapons with you?”
Oh God. “I have a gun in my purse,” I confess with some apprehension.
“We’ll safeguard it while you’re on the property. You can have it back when you leave.” I reach for my bag. “Please hand me the purse and I’ll remove the weapon.”
“Can you pop your trunk, Ma’am?” the second guard asks in a voice that indicates it’s more of a command than a question.
Why am I here again?
Because I accepted Gabby’s invitation, and because Smith didn’t make excuses when I lectured him about how hurt I’d been about the break in is off the record remark.
&nb
sp; I’m glad we talked it through, because no matter how I tried to justify it, I couldn’t move past the hurt. And I refuse to let any more men into my life who I need to make excuses for. I already have plenty, thank you very much.
I can accept that we need to work on breaking old habits. Although in my mind, I’ve given him a deadline. If he can’t make measurable progress by the end of the summer when my lease is up, there’s no point in—remaining friends. And let’s face it, we’re nothing more than friends with benefits, and that’s all we’ll ever be.
We’re too different—not just where we came from, but where we’re going. Boston is my home and my ultimate destination, bed or no bed, and Smith doesn’t like the cold climate. But for now, we’re friends with a strong physical pull that might, or might not, get the chance to burn itself out before the leaves begin to change color. That’s good enough for me.
When I’m free to enter Fort Knox, I park the car where the security guard instructed, and climb the front steps of the beautifully restored antebellum mansion. The house is magnificent, with stately columns, and generous pots of bright red geraniums and wave petunias lining the steps. Two iron urns flank the doorway, each holding a boxwood topiary draped in lights that I’m sure twinkle after dark.
With a growing apprehension, I ring the front doorbell. The lock clicks while I’m still admiring the foliage and the glossy black door opens. JD Wilder, himself, stands just inside, staring out like I arrived from a distant planet. After a few long seconds, he glances over my shoulder, perhaps looking for the spaceship. “Hello, I’m Kate—”
“I know who you are,” he snarls. “How did you bypass security, Miss McKenna?”
“I left her name at the guard house,” says a kind, familiar voice from behind him. “Like I did for each of the guests I invited.”
Gabby hands off a drooling baby with a fist stuffed in her mouth to her husband, and pulls me inside. “Come in.” She wraps me in a warm, friendly hug. “I’m so glad you made it!”
“This is for you and J—your husband,” I say, when we separate, handing her a jelly jar of strawberry preserves I picked up at the local farmers’ market. “And this is for the baby. It’s a book. It was my favorite growing up.” Anxiety has taken control of my brain, signaling for more adrenaline like it’s planning a party. If I don’t control myself, I’ll soon be telling them about every book and toy I loved as a child.
JD stands several feet away, fuming. I can practically see the smoke pouring out of his ears. It’s not helping my stress. I eye the door. It’s still open, and there’s nothing more I’d like right now than to run out and back to the safety of my little house without a sofa or a proper bed.
“Gracie and her daddy will love this book. They read together every night.” It’s difficult to believe this man, who is barely controlling his rage, reads to his daughter at night.
The baby starts to fuss and Gabby turns to her husband. “Why don’t you take her upstairs and play with her? I’ll join you after I show Kate to the kitchen.”
He places a protective hand on Gracie’s back, murmuring softly to her, and turns a simmering glare on his wife, before striding toward the stairs without a single word to either of us.
“I’m sorry about that. He beat me to the door.” She squeezes my arm. “Don’t worry. It’s just a hiccup. JD will be fine.”
She has a persuasive manner, but I don’t believe for one second her husband is going to come around. I’m not even sure she believes it.
“If you need to be with the baby, I don’t mind waiting here.”
She glances in the direction of the stairs and clasps my hand. “Promise me you won’t leave?”
I don’t know if it’s the nerves, but I start to laugh.
“You were thinking about it, weren’t you?”
I nod sheepishly, and she laughs, too. “I won’t go anywhere until you come back. I promise.”
“I can’t have you waiting here. But if you go down this hall to the end,” she points toward the back of the house, “you’ll run into the kitchen. Everyone there is a whole lot friendlier. And Delilah is making Devil’s Margaritas.” I must look as apprehensive as I feel. “You know what? They can wait a few minutes upstairs. Let’s go to the kitchen and I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
I touch her arm. She’s needed upstairs, not just to pacify the baby, but to pacify her husband. I’m not a child. I can brave the kitchen, especially if there is some booze there to calm me. “It’s okay. You go up and smooth things over, and I’ll find the kitchen. I can get along with anyone who knows how to make a decent margarita.”
She eyes me carefully. “Do not leave, or I will chase you down. I won’t be long.”
I follow the sound of laughter to the kitchen. Smith’s laugh booms over everything else. I stop right before the doorway to quell a small panic. What if he doesn’t want me here with his friends? What if he asks me to leave? Whatever it is, you’ll survive it. I practice a bright, cheery hello, smooth the flirty sundress I put on with him in mind, and step into the kitchen with my chin up.
“Kate,” Smith says, freezing in place before my cheerful hello hits the air. “What are you doing here?” I suck in a lung-full of air. “Is something wrong?” he continues, tentatively. There’s worry all over his face. I’m sure it never occurs to him that I was invited.
“Mrs. Wilder—Gabby—invited me,” I squeak. “She dropped by the library and asked me to come. Said she wouldn’t take no for an answer.” The more I babble, the deeper his frown becomes, but I’m on such a roll that it will take a force of nature to stop me at this point.
“I’m Lally,” a woman says draping a substantial arm around my shoulders, “and this is my kitchen, child. Gabby invited me is more of an explanation than he needs or deserves.” She scowls at Smith. “Is this your house? No? Then it’s none of your damn business.” She squeezes my shoulder and releases me. “That’s how we talk to men around here. Don’t raise their expectations by answering stupid questions. Otherwise, before you know it, he’ll be askin’ about everything. How many pairs of shoes you got in that closet? And, How long is your mama plannin’ on stayin’?” She shakes her head, with a chiding tsk-tsk. “I can see you’re not a southern girl.”
Lally is short and curvy with wide streaks of golden blonde covering what looks to be her natural dark hair. It’s an odd hairstyle, but it works on her. I think she could make anything work.
She fills a glass, and nudges Smith out of the way, stepping between us to offer me an iced tea. “Take a drink. Go on,” she encourages. “It’s hot out, and you look parched.” I can still feel the sear of Smith’s eyes on me. Lally’s not anywhere near tall enough to shield me from his glare, or from the security team that I expect to rush in at any time and drag me away.
I take a sip of the cool drink, and then another. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”
She turns to Smith. “I like this girl. She has good taste—in tea. Apparently not in men.”
“Lally, this is between me and Kate,” he says, still glowering at me.
“Then don’t be bringin’ it into my kitchen. Go tell Gabby I need her here. And don’t be in a hurry to come back, because we’re going to be talkin’ about things that don’t concern you.”
“Like what?” he says with much more impertinence than is wise.
She rests both hands on her ample hips and raises her brow. “Like monthly visitors and sanitary products, and whether slips will ever make a comeback or if they’re truly a thing of the past. Go have a drink with the boys. It’ll settle your nerves.”
“You’re all damn crazy,” he says, waving a hand in the air and stalking out.
“I’m Delilah.” A buttermilk blonde with clear blue eyes, and a more pronounced southern accent than anyone I’ve met so far, approaches me. “I’m part of Gabby’s let’s-see-how-uncomfortable-we-can-make-the-guys plan, too. She means well.”
“I’m Kate, but I guess you’ve figured that out.” I take ano
ther sip of tea and place the glass on the counter. Coming here was just plain stupid. There’s no other way to describe it. “I should probably go. I’m ruining Smith’s birthday celebration.” It’s the last thing I want.
“You have to stay. Even with Lally, who accounts for half a dozen women, we’re still outnumbered.”
“I hope you’re not referring to my waistline, Miss Delilah,” Lally calls from near the sink.
“Of course not. I’m talkin’ about your feistiness.”
“Here,” she says handing me a red-tinged margarita. “Taste it and let me know if it’s missin’ anything.”
I look at the drink longingly. A little alcohol could go a long way right now, but I don’t think getting drunk is a great idea. I’m clearly not among friends. I take a small drink from the unsalted half of the rim. “It’s not missing a thing. What makes it red?”
“Wine. It turns it a pretty color and cuts some of the sweetness so you can drink more of them.”
I take another sip. “How long have you and Smith been friendly?” she asks, while I try not to choke on the drink.
“We met when he tried to chase me out of town about a month ago.”
Delilah’s shoulders shake gently, but her lips are pressed tight, so she doesn’t laugh out loud. “That’s so romantic,” she gushes, playfully. “A story to tell your grandchildren.”
“Behave yourself,” Lally calls from the stove. Her hearing is clearly as sharp as her wit.
“What fun would that be?” Delilah sips her drink. “Mmm. This is good. You know, Kate, I work for Smith, but it’s more than that. He’s like the big brother I never had.” She pauses, dropping an ice cube into her glass. “Don’t toy with him carelessly,” she warns, “otherwise you’ll have to deal with me.”
With a ghost of a smile, Delilah raises her glass. “Sláinte,” she says, in an Irish toast to my good health.
24