George laughed. “You and candles. It doesn’t compute.”
“I know.”
“It’s time for you to get out of boss mode and let other people help you out. So embrace this clearly romantic undertaking.”
“Actually, I’m finding it refreshing—humbling, even—to allow strangers to come to my aid.” It felt like putting on a new coat that you were sure wouldn’t fit or look good, but not only did it fit, you looked awesome in it.
“That’s what the Christmas season is all about.” George was twitchy but waxing sentimental. No wonder. It was his third Irish coffee.
About two in the morning, when Deacon finally got to sleep, he dozed off thinking that so far in Charleston, he’d sucked at coming to anyone else’s aid, except Aunt Fran—and maybe those kids he’d bought bikes for. But that was too easy. He needed to think about what else he could do and for whom, something hard that challenged him. No way do I want those elves to stop working on my present, he thought, and then he was out like a light with a smile on his face.
* * *
The next day at work, Macy was busy, so busy that she had to cut short her lunch with her parents at a deli on King Street. They’d all converged there from their offices. She hugged them good-bye right after her BLT but before the gooey, giant brownie her dad ordered for them all to split.
“We understand,” her mother said with a smile. “We have afternoon classes to teach anyway. So don’t worry. Do what you have to do.”
“I’ve got your mother to keep me company,” her father said, beaming.
“Is this a date now?” Macy’s mother teased him.
“You bet,” her father said back, and kissed her.
Macy loved how happy they were together. “Be good, you two!” She blew kisses at them.
“We love you!” they called after her.
She hurried on her way, buoyed by the meet-up. One of her couples was on the verge of getting engaged, and the guy wanted her help figuring out how to make it a moment in time his beloved would never forget. Macy had been on the phone all morning trying to arrange for him to pop the question inside a chic private art gallery after it was closed for the day. It took forever, but finally, after lunch, she got permission from the owner. She also arranged for a local restaurant to serve a romantic meal in the gallery, beneath the future bride’s favorite painting, which the future groom had already arranged to purchase for her.
“Yay,” she murmured, right as she hung up with the restaurant’s chef. But the next second her phone vibrated. Please, she thought, don’t let that be anyone messing up all the plans I just made.
But it wasn’t. It was Tiffany. Her heart sank anew. Why was Tiffany calling? She was supposed to be at the candle shop with Deacon. Macy wanted that date to work out. She was too into Deacon herself. He was dangerous, and she was in no place to date a dangerous man. She had Two Love Lane to worry about. And … and …
And she was afraid of falling in love. She’d screw it up. She just knew it. And then she’d be among the brokenhearted, and that wouldn’t do. Pain hurt. She was a wimp. She was much better at arranging other people’s happily ever afters. To hell with her own. She’d make do with chocolate. And great shoes.
“Tiffany,” she said smoothly. “How goes it at the candle shop?”
“Macy, Deacon is an absolute doll,” Tiffany said in a low tone. “And we just started making our candles. But—” She hesitated.
“But what?” Macy felt her temples throb with anxiety.
Tiffany gave a little cry. “My sister is driving me crazy. She keeps looking over my shoulder. It’s like being watched by your parents at a middle school dance.”
“Wow. Sorry I suggested it. Can you go somewhere else? Do candles another day.”
“It’s too late. Deacon likes making them. He’s into it, Macy.”
“He is?”
“Yes! Either that, or he’s into my sister. And I think my sister has the hots for him. I’d better just leave.”
“Please don’t. Deacon would never treat a date poorly. Flirting with your sister would be awful of him. I’m sure he’s not. He’s just being kind.”
“How can you be sure?”
Macy really couldn’t. But she knew him. Somehow, she did. “I just know,” she said, feeling a little sheepish. “Can you take your sister aside and ask her to go back to the workroom or something?”
“She doesn’t have a workroom. Everything is stored up front. She’ll be hovering no matter what.”
“Ask her to leave the store. You know how to make candles. You don’t need her.”
“She needs to close out the register and shut down her equipment. I’ve never done any of that.”
“Tell her to leave for half an hour. A coffee break.”
“There are other people in the class. They’d think it was weird if she left. And we have coffee here.”
“I see.” Macy didn’t know what to do.
“I’m leaving,” said Tiffany.
“Please don’t do that!”
“I don’t want to stay. My sister doesn’t have a boyfriend either. She’s always wanted what I wanted. And she’s ruining this date.”
“Do you … do you want Deacon?”
“Who wouldn’t? He’s totally hot. And his enthusiasm for candle making is adorable. He’s terrible at it. But at least he acts like it’s fun.”
“I didn’t think he was into crafts, but I was hoping he’d give this a shot. I’m so glad. Stay, Tiffany. Ignore your sister.”
“Impossible. Someone needs to finish my candle. I’m going home.”
Click.
“Darn it!” Macy immediately dialed Deacon.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m making a grapefruit-scented candle, and it rocks.”
Macy couldn’t help but chuckle. “Um, that’s good.”
“We should come back here together sometime. You should make one.”
“I will.” Macy’s heart warmed that he wanted her to go there with him. “Hey, is Tiffany gone?”
There was a pause. “She’s talking to her sister in a corner. They’re waving their hands around.”
“Tiffany thinks her sister likes you.”
Deacon gave a short laugh. “I think she does too.”
“Oh no.”
“I tried to fob her off. But she’s pretty persistent. Invading my space and all that.”
“Tiffany’s leaving.”
Deacon sighed. “I can’t say that I blame her. Wait. Here she comes.”
Macy waited. She heard voices, several “good-byes.”
Deacon came back on the line. “She asked me to finish her candle for her. She won’t let her sister do it.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out. She’s not mad at you, is she?” Macy asked.
“No. She gave me a hug. She fibbed and said she had a terrible headache. I told her I’m sorry she’s leaving.”
“Well, now you know why she left.”
“I want to go too,” he murmured low. “I mean, I’m here with these other people in the class. But the sister … she’s, um, heading my way. She has a glint in her eye. Too bad because I was having fun. Candle making is cool. You can accidentally explode things. And of course there’s fire. All these wicks are getting a pretty good flame. I stuck my finger in one for four seconds.”
“Why are men fascinated by explosions? And fire? And daring themselves to do dumb things?”
“Because it’s fun?” Deacon guessed.
“Don’t leave your candle,” Macy said. “I’ll come down and finish Tiffany’s for her and fend off her sister so you can finish yours.”
“Whew. Thank you.”
“I’m glad to help. And sorry it didn’t work out with Tiffany. You can always reschedule.”
“Nah,” he said. “No way do I want to come between two sisters. And she’s made it clear she’s done.”
“All right.” Macy tried to sound like the disappointed matchmaker. But deep inside … she was g
lad.
And wouldn’t you know it? She loved making candles too.
But Deacon was better at it.
“Sorry,” he said, on their walk back home.
“No, that’s okay.” Macy’s candle—Tiffany’s, really—was lopsided. She brought it home anyway. She’d give it to Tiffany next time she saw her.
“How’d you do that?” Deacon asked. “I mean, it was sitting on a flat table, like mine.”
“I have no idea how it happened. Something went … crooked.”
“It’s hard to mess up candles,” Deacon said.
“You’re impossible,” she said back.
“But I’m a good candlemaker. I’m going to ask Tiffany’s sister if I can do bubblegum flavor next time.”
They arrived at her door.
“Candles don’t come in bubblegum flavor,” she told him.
“Mine will,” he replied.
“It can’t happen,” she said.
He got extra close to her. “Sure it can.”
She sighed. “You need to back away.”
“You really want me to?”
“Everyone across the street is looking at us. A whole bunch of tourists.”
“So? They’ve never seen people kiss before?”
“We’re not—”
And then they were kissing, each of them holding their own candles in a bag. And in that kiss was such longing and wishing and frustration and hot, carnal desire that when a police siren was suddenly heard, Macy was sure someone was coming to arrest them for a public display of affection of the highly erotic kind.
She gladly would have gone to jail for that kiss.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“I think this is our last piazza bourbon,” Deacon told George. “It’s time for fireside bourbon.”
George laughed. “You’ve said that already. But we keep coming out here.”
Deacon sighed. “I like Yo-Yo Ma, but I hate to leave.” No man wanted to dress up in a tux, sit in a box at the symphony, and make small talk when there was a college football game on television, a stocked bar, pimento cheese on crackers, and fireside bourbon.
The only bright spot for him was that Macy was coming over to attend the concert with Fran, and he’d get to escort them both as far as the lobby of the Gaillard, where they would meet up with Celia, their hostess, and he’d linger behind and wait for Louisa, his blind date.
His blind date who wasn’t a blind date, that is. It was a complicated operation, but Louisa had it all figured out, how she’d ditch him and leave Macy with no choice but to step in.
Speaking of which—the totally in-the-dark object of his desire came walking down her front porch steps at that very moment in a gown the color of a well-circulated penny.
“Get a look at that,” said George.
“Whoa.” Deacon couldn’t take his eyes off the plummeting neckline until he noted that Macy also wore an unbuttoned dramatic black coat with a big, furry collar that made him think of Cruella de Vil—in a good way, an erotic way that he was appalled and turned on by. So he tried to focus on the little shiny things holding her blonde curls together, baubles that picked up the last few rays of sunshine.
She was a Southern goddess who looked like she might have a whip hidden in the folds of that coat, and now she stopped on the sidewalk below their piazza and looked up at them. “Hey! How are y’all?”
“Fantastic!” said George with more verve than usual.
“Very well, thanks,” said Deacon. “I’m looking forward to our evening.”
Macy beamed. “I’m excited, too! I can’t wait for you to meet Louisa. You’ll love her, Deacon.”
She couldn’t hear George’s diabolical chuckle. “If she only knew,” he murmured.
“Shut up,” Deacon hissed, then said to Macy, “I’m sure I’ll enjoy Louisa’s company”—he felt generous, and slightly liquored up—“if she’s a friend of yours.” And he meant it. Any friend of Macy’s was a friend of his.
“She’s wonderful,” Macy assured him while he tried not to ogle her cleavage, which he could drop a peppermint down if he merely stuck out his arm and released one from his fingers. There was a bowlful of the red-and-white striped sweets on the piazza, and he was sorely tempted.
“Fran said you’d have me a drink prepared.” Macy squinted up at George, having no idea how close she’d come to getting a free piece of candy in addition to a free drink. “Is that right?”
“A mere drink, milady?” George called down to her as if he were in a Shakespeare production. He loved attention, especially from beautiful women and men—and passing tourists, several of whom stopped across the street on the Battery wall to watch the goings-on at the glamorous mansion with three piazzas.
He put his hands on the balcony railing and tossed his head, which made the sweeping curl on his forehead drop over his eye, lending him a Hollywood look. “Au contraire! I made a special, one-of-a-kind cocktail to commemorate this beauteous evening.”
“Awesome!” Macy’s surfer-girl exclamation broke the dramatic spell. But George didn’t care because she was clapping, and she hadn’t removed her gaze from his.
The people across the street clapped too. One even whistled.
George turned to Deacon, “God, I love this town,” he said.
Deacon still wanted to drop the peppermint down Macy’s gown and then run downstairs to the sidewalk and fish it out himself. With his mouth. What else was he supposed to think about when her luscious breasts were on such classy display?
“This cocktail,” George continued to explain to Macy in his Shakespearean tone—because he really didn’t know when enough was enough—“is to celebrate Fran’s debut in Charleston society, Deacon’s date tonight with a Southern belle, and most important of all, our neighbor Macy’s kindness in putting up with the motley, needy, dare I say ‘panting’ crew next door. And I’m not talking about the Corgis.”
The tourists, thankfully, moved on, their attention diverted by two yellow labs trotting toward them, their tails at full wag; a horse-and-carriage ensemble carrying even more tourists; and the blood-red of the setting winter sun.
“You belong here, George.” Macy laughed up at him, then winked at Deacon.
Damn. That wink went straight to the high school crush center in Deacon’s brain and then down his body, testing the elastic stretch of his very expensive boxer briefs. Indeed, if Aunt Fran were to come out onto the piazza, he’d feel compelled to turn the other way.
“What’s this illustrious beverage called?” she asked George.
George hesitated but a second. “The Yo Yo Ma-garita,” he declared.
Deacon groaned. “Really?”
“I made that up right this minute,” George said, “and I think it’s pretty clever.” He turned back to Macy with a delighted smile. “The secret ingredient is a splash of limoncello! Get it? Cello?”
Deacon shook his head. George glared at him, but brightened again when Macy said, “Of course I get it! You clever man!”
George chortled. “You’ll be hearing Yo-Yo Ma’s cello inside your head if you drink too many. Which might be a good thing, depending upon what he’s playing. God forbid, it’s a dirge. Or a march.”
Macy laughed. “I’ll be right up.”
“I’ll meet you downstairs.” Deacon was resigned to appearing dull at the moment. No red-blooded male could compete with George at his most charming. No one.
“I’ll be waiting in the little foyer,” she announced to Deacon with not an ounce of flirtation in her tone, sadly.
“We’d better have tequila,” he warned George. “And limoncello.”
“Of course we do.” George waved a dismissive hand at him. “Now stop taking out your sexual frustration on me, and go open the door for the person who’s really making you crazy. ’Kay?” He turned on his heel and hurried inside to whip up his new alcoholic creation.
And Deacon went to get Macy. He didn’t even mind any more that he was missing a good football game. He wa
s recording it anyway. Earlier that afternoon, he’d decorated the cubbyhole of the foyer with real mistletoe from a nearby sea island farm. He’d picked it up at Harris Teeter, his new favorite social hangout.
“Don’t tell me any scores,” he said to George on his way out the front door, which was now covered on both sides with sparkly Christmas wrapping.
“Shut up and rescue that magnificent creature downstairs. She belongs up here, surrounded by Corgis on the burgundy velvet couch. And you’d better prepare yourself. Your aunt is on pins and needles. She thinks no one will like her tonight. I’m relying on you to see to it that she feels like a star.”
“George, she is a star.”
“I know, but she forgets.”
Ten seconds later, Macy announced, “I see it,” when Deacon unlocked the hall doors.
She should. The sprig of mistletoe was attached to a ribbon slowly spinning from the ceiling inside the tiny entryway.
Behind him, jazz music played from the first-floor condo belonging to a mysterious young man he’d glimpsed only twice. A few feet behind Macy, on the other side of the outer doors, two tourists discussed the oyster po-boys they’d had for dinner as they walked by.
Deacon crossed the threshold into the matchbox-sized chamber, his back squeezed against the brass mailboxes, and shut the doors to the hallway behind him.
They were now in an area about as big as an airplane bathroom.
Yes, it was a bold move. And he had no idea how Macy would react. Her ebony coat and gown took up almost the whole space—that, and his heady wonder at her utter gloriousness.
“Sorry, Frost.” His dazzled appreciation grew as he inhaled her flower scent and touched one of the dangly pearl earrings she wore. “You know the rules.”
“Good try, Banks.” She smiled up at the mistletoe, and a wispy black piece of fur from her coat caressed her cheek. “Those rules don’t apply when one of the kissers is employed by the other.”
He couldn’t help himself. He allowed his gaze to sweep over her plunging décolletage and back to her face. “Perhaps it’s too early for mistletoe anyway. I think the tradition goes back to pagan mating rituals that took place at the winter equinox, which isn’t for a few days.” Her pupils widened.
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