Sweet Talk Me Page 8

  Penn sent her an eat-shit-and-die look. Kind of well deserved, actually, so True let it go. Carmela slunk off, defeated. True would comfort her later. Meanwhile, she leapt up to pull out Penn’s chair as her way of apologizing for her friend’s wretched attempt at using local vernacular.

  “Thank you, Gertrude,” Penn murmured in her refined Charleston accent—Geechee with a twist of old, old money.

  True’s jaw clenched. Her name was True. Not Gertrude. She’d told Penn a thousand times, but apparently she didn’t believe her. Once again, she was tempted to call her fiancé’s mother Pennsylvania, but wisely, she refrained.

  Roger brought them two menus, but Penn flicked hers away with a beautifully manicured hand. “I already know what I want. A Caesar salad, balsamic vinaigrette on the side, topped with grilled salmon. And a Diet Coke. No ice, with lemon.”

  “I’m not one of your operating room nurses, Penn Waring. I don’t take orders.” Roger looked down his nose at her. This was his forty-fifth year at the Starfish as a busboy. “I went to school with your older brother. I remember when you were a mealymouthed brat tootling down the Battery wall on your tricycle.”

  “Well,” said Penn, and opened her mouth to say more.

  “Don’t you dare bless my heart, either,” he interrupted her. “I’ll send your waitress over if your attitude improves.”

  Penn inclined her head. “What do you do here, Roger? You’re certainly obstreperous.”

  “You know very well what I do,” he replied. “I get water or tea”—sweet and always a free refill—“when I like someone. And I take away everyone’s dishes, whether I like ’em or not.” He softened his glare and looked at True. “You doin’ all right, young Miss Maybank?”

  True smiled. “You bet, Roger.”

  He sent her a meaningful look—Good luck; you’ll need it—and walked away.

  Her heart sank. Her armpits were sweating. She was a wimp, and she was afraid of Dubose’s mother. Even imagining her on a tricycle didn’t help.

  “So.” Penn unfurled her napkin with a snap and placed it on her lap. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I have some bad news. The wedding caterer quit, and she’s taken the reception place with her.”

  It was like a bomb went off in True’s eardrums. But it turned out only to be her heart almost exploding out of her chest in shock. “What?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I need to call her right now and get her back!” True’s fingers trembled as she reached for her phone.

  “Don’t bother,” said Penn. “I already tried. It seems there was a huge mix-up. She thought the wedding was the following weekend. She’s already booked for your weekend.”

  True felt the fingers of a panic attack brush against her throat. “If it’s her fault, can’t we force her to make it right?”

  “She doesn’t have the resources. She knows this opens her up to a lawsuit, but she has no option but to cancel.”

  Of course, Penn was cool. She was a surgeon. True wouldn’t take it personally—but she did. It hurt that Penn wasn’t freaking out with her. “Why were you dealing with the caterer?”

  “I’m paying for the wedding.” Penn sounded slightly offended. “Did Bosey not tell you?”

  Her nickname for Dubose always rankled. So did not knowing that Penn was in control of their wedding. “No.” True swallowed hard. “He didn’t. I’m sorry. I just assumed—”

  “If you want to be an attorney’s wife, you can’t crack under pressure.” Penn’s eyes bored into hers. “As you know, my son likes to do things in grand style. He loves tradition. Pomp. Elegance. The best champagnes, a string quartet, and of course he just bought his five-thousand-dollar custom-made tuxedo from Savile Row when he was on his last trip to London. If you don’t want to disappoint him, you’ll find a way to make the big wedding happen.”

  “Of—of course, I’ll do my best. Surely with your connections, we can get someone else. I know it’s last-minute—”

  “I won’t be here,” said Penn.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to England to a medical conference. I told Bosey. He must have forgotten to mention it.”

  True gulped. “He never did.”

  “You simply can’t tell him any of this when he’s trying so hard to do a good job in New York,” Penn said. “You’ll have to handle this on your own.”

  True blinked. “Maybe … maybe we can elope.”

  Penn drew in her chin. “How disappointing that would be for all your wedding guests, some of whom are Dubose’s clients. The partners will be there, too.”

  “Dubose won’t blame me. He’ll blame the caterer.”

  Their waitress brought their meals—not that True could eat anything now without becoming ill.

  “Perhaps he will blame the caterer,” Penn said. “But he’ll be disappointed in you all the same. He’ll want to know why his future wife couldn’t make lemonade out of lemons. He’ll be hurt that you didn’t think of his business interests. Or his personal preferences.”

  She opened her purse, put a discreet fifty-dollar bill on the table, and stood. “I think it’s best that I go and let you mull this over. I’ve got to pack. But listen to me, True. If you manage to repair this problem, imagine how impressed Dubose will be with you. Let’s face facts. He wants to marry you because you’re reliable. Dutiful. And you’re easy on the eyes. But he pulls the most weight in this relationship, doesn’t he? You owe him one.”

  Oh, God. She owed him one!

  When Penn left the restaurant, True pushed her platter of flounder, new baby potatoes, and green beans aside. She pulled the Dick Francis title over, and laid her head down. It was warm and stuffy inside her arms, and pitch black, and she could smell the pages of the book. She never wanted to leave this little cave. Ever.

  Penn had hit on her greatest fear—that she brought nothing to the table with Dubose. She ran a two-bit U-pick operation. Her house was falling down about her ears. She read novels instead of going back to school. Every day, she asked herself the question: Why was he with her and not one of those fabulously successful Charleston girls?

  A few seconds ticked by. Silverware clinked against plates, laughter rang out, and talking continued. And then she sensed rather than saw a presence looming over her.

  “Go away, please, Roger. I’ll give you this booth back in a minute. I swear.”

  “It’s not Roger, Miss Priss.”

  Her eyes popped open. But she didn’t lift her head. “No,” she said in a thin voice. He was still here. Her unlucky genie. The one who always showed up at the wrong time.

  She felt the table shake as Harrison slid into the opposite seat.

  “You can quit your crying over my imminent departure,” he said. “I’m sticking around, after all.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  True raised her head, and if her eyes could have shot deadly gamma rays at Harrison, they would have. “I’m not crying about you. I’m not even crying.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s the deal then?”

  Whatever happened, she was all worked up. In fact, even in that schoolteacher blouse, she was prettier and sexier than a half-dressed Kitana from Mortal Kombat. Not that he played video games. Much. He was way too busy and important.

  And you just keep lying to yourself, Earthrealm warrior.

  True tucked in her chin. “It’s a long story.”

  “I got all day, in between a bunch of phone calls.” In fact, his phone was vibrating right now. He lifted it to his ear and held up an index finger. True scowled in his general direction.

  “Vince?” he said into the receiver, then put his hand over it. “Move Dick Francis, and eat that flounder,” he said to True. “You look like you need some fuel.”

  She shoved the book in her purse and pulled the platter over. Without a word, she picked up a piece of fish with her hand, stuffed it into her mouth, and began chewing slowly.

  He got back to Vince. “I’m here.”

  “Your man
ager woke me up, you know that?” Vince was the best architect in LA. He was also a cross-dresser with a fondness for Donna Karan.

  “Good. I need you on the first flight outta LAX. You’ll have to connect in Atlanta, then Charleston.”

  “Damn, Harrison.”

  “I’m making it worth your while.” Vince had done a great job renovating Harrison’s Venice Beach surfer shack and transforming it into a sleek, minimalist bachelor pad. The photo spread had recently landed in Architectural Digest.

  “Dan told me about it.” Vince sounded a little nicer now. And he should. He was being paid out the wazoo to get his butt over to South Carolina. “What’s this about building a house in a couple of weeks? Are you on drugs? Or just your average demanding celebrity?”

  “The latter.” True was eating a baby potato now. It looked like a big acorn stuck in her cheek. “You interested?”

  “Of course, I am,” Vince said hastily. “I’ll make it even cooler than your place. I’ve got connections in Atlanta and Miami. How soon do you need a construction crew?”

  “I’d say three or four days.”

  “That’s easy. And we can have the whole project done in three weeks.”

  “Good.”

  “But it’s going to mean throwing around major money.”

  “I’ve already begun. I bought myself a trailer park this morning. They weren’t going to allow the house to go up, but that’s where Gage wants to stay. I convinced him he deserves the primo lot facing the creek and the elements—too close for comfort in a trailer but just fine for a solid house, a breezy Charleston style, by the way—”

  “With a piazza on both floors and twelve-foot ceilings,” clarified Vince. “Yeah, I got your number.”

  “I hired a bushwhacker to clear out the undergrowth,” Harrison went on without missing a beat, “but he’ll have lots of oaks. Which reminds me, you’ll have to raise the first-floor height. We get hurricanes over here, and we’re in a flood zone.”

  “Done. Who is this Gage guy?”

  “My brother. And he’s gonna hate this. He wants his trailer back. But I’m padlocking the doors and getting it hauled away.”

  “Don’t do it yet. I’ll use it as my office while I’m on site. If it’s habitable.”

  “It’s clean as a whistle. Just about to fall down, and the decor will burn your eyeballs. Vintage early ’eighties with a southern sensibility.”

  “Oh, okay. Does that mean there’s an Elvis rug on the wall?”

  “Sadly, no. Just a couple of mounted deer heads and a Creedence Clearwater Revival poster.” True was staring at him wide-eyed, so he winked. She fluttered her lashes, as if the wink had disturbed her zoning out. At least half her flounder was gone. “Good girl,” he told her. “Keep going.”

  She picked up a wilted string bean and began chewing, and she was so cute and unintentionally provocative a jolt of lust hit him hard.

  “Are you there, you crazy southern coot?” Vince barked down the line.

  “I’m here.” Good thing he was sitting down. Otherwise, he’d embarrass himself in public.

  “I’ll see you late this afternoon,” Vince said. “Where am I staying? And don’t tell me that trailer. I don’t want to live Duck Dynasty twenty-four hours a day.”

  Harrison resisted the urge to play footsie with True. She’d probably choke if he tried. “I booked a block of rooms at the Francis Marion in Charleston for everyone involved in the project, and I’ll have a fleet of limos for transport. Someone will meet you at the airport. I told the limo company to look for a guy in a dress. He’ll have lumberjack legs, so he’ll be hard to miss.”

  “Wow, I’m impressed.” Vince chuckled. “I didn’t know big, handsome stars like you were capable of doing anything but looking good and singing.”

  “Surprise,” said Harrison, and hung up grinning.

  True was still chewing her string bean. She looked so forlorn, Harrison stood up and went to the bar, where he ordered her a straight shot of Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka. It was local and damned good.

  While he was waiting, Carmela walked in ready to fight someone, apparently. Her hands were clutched into fists, and her cheeks wore red flags. She went straight to see True, but a few seconds later she was back with Harrison at the bar. “What’s happened to her? She called me and then she didn’t say a word. So I ran back here … in case she was choking, which she’s not, thank God.”

  “I have no idea what’s going on with her. I’ll bet you wondered if she was kidnapped, too, huh? Imagined she was on her way to the ladies’ room and some guy put a revolver in her back?”

  “How did you know?” Carmela crossed herself. “She’s okay but a little odd acting.”

  The bartender, a twenty-something guy with a big Adam’s apple, was freaking out, looking blindly around him for a shot glass.

  “Do I know you?” Harrison asked him.

  “Paul Westfall,” he squeaked. “I was a year behind you in school.”

  “Cool.” Harrison grinned. He remembered the guy now. Total geek. Chess player. He often taught class for their usually hung-over chemistry teacher, who’d sleep at his desk.

  “It had to have been Penn who shook her up.” When Carmela bit her lip, she looked just like Brigitte Bardot. “They had lunch. Penn would make a scary mother-in-law for anyone, but especially True. She’s down on herself because she’s been stuck at Maybank Hall all these years, and Penn’s so accomplished. I told her, look at me! I’m running a business with no customers.”

  Harrison flipped through his wallet and tossed down ten hundred-dollar bills, along with his business card, for Paul. “Keep the change, buddy. And get yourself back in school. You need to be mixing things in labs, not at a bar. If you need an interest-free loan, call me. I also give scholarships.”

  Now he did, that is.

  He picked up the shot—a gorgeous amber color—and turned away before Paul had a stroke or something. “Isn’t Gage in your store now?” he asked Carmela.

  “Yes, God bless him. He’s practically my only customer. He loves to straighten my shelves.” She stood on tiptoe to get a better look at True. “Roger told True they needed her booth because the line’s out the door and down the block, thanks to you being here. She told him over her dead body. And now she looks like Dracula’s wife, all pale and bloodless and cold.”

  “I’ll work on her.” Harrison would like nothing better than to warm her up. He remembered that night on the Isle of Palms. Jiffy Pop had nothing on that girl. But that girl also had a ring on her finger and a wedding coming up. And he was a country music star with a career that stayed in the fast lane because that was where he wanted it.

  Carmela gave him a knowing look. “She’s getting married, you know. Please remember your boundaries, or you’ll have me to deal with, Mr. Gamble. I love her too much to see her dreams get pulverized in the blender of your celebrity, all right? She’s been through a lot.”

  “Nice metaphor,” he told her. “And nice Sunday meetin’ biker dress.” He gave her a nanosecond’s once-over.

  Carmela blushed. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be good. And call me Harrison.” He winked at her and took off with True’s vodka shot. At the booth, he slid the glass across the table to land right in front of her—in the early days, he’d done his share of bartending himself—and sat down next to her. “I need to ask you a favor.” He enjoyed their physical proximity, which was a nice way to say she made him randier than a bull surrounded by a herd of cows in heat.

  “Oh?”

  “Maybe you should down that first and tell me what happened.” He indicated the vodka.

  “This is a bad time for me, Harrison.”

  “Go ahead.”

  She lifted the glass to her mouth and drained it, then gasped for air. “Thanks,” she said. “That was really good. But I need to get busy. You sound busy, too. You’re building Gage a house?”

  “Uh-huh. Exciting times.”

  She actually seemed to brea
k out of her haze a little. “That’s really nice.” She looked him straight in the eye. Hers seemed so sad. But flippin’ gorgeous, too. He could get lost in those eyes for a long, long time.

  “Hey.” He heard the huskiness in his voice. She always got to him, even in her prim southern-lady outfit that she needed to dump in favor of something less uptight. “You all right? Anything I can help you with?”

  She shook her head. “No, this is something I have to handle myself.” She took another sip of vodka. “You said you had a favor to ask me. Ask away. I’ll have to say no, though, whatever it is. I’m too busy to help anyone right now.”

  She didn’t look very busy. But he wouldn’t tell her that.

  “All right.” He slung an arm behind her.

  She scooted away. “You can’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “You know.” She angled her head at his arm, which was still on the back of the seat. “That.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Maybe we should talk while we’re walking, then. You wanna come with me and find Gage? He’s straightening shelves at Southern Loot.”

  “All the shopkeepers look forward to his visits.”

  “He’s OCD, I guess. He even told me he’s figured out he has this so-called Asperger’s syndrome. You ever heard of it?”

  “Sure. But he’s really just Gage.”

  “Exactly.” Harrison leaned close. “He can stack boxes and think out of the box, all at the same time.”

  “Yes, he can.” True’s smile was serene. “And Weezie is just Weezie. Our doctor said she’s an Aspie, too. But they’re both bigger than any label.”

  Yes. It was as if a Zen bell rang in Harrison’s head. This woman. This one. Right here.

  Their faces were so close. He wanted to lean in, lay his forehead on hers, close his eyes, and be. Just be. And maybe wind up kissing. And running a hand over her sweet little breasts and wrapping a leg around hers, which looked mighty fine in that skirt. Yes, they were in a restaurant and everybody was probably staring at him, but they should be looking at her. She was the fascinating one—

  “Harrison?” She pushed on his chest. She was acting alert now, and the zoning out had somehow been transferred to him. “I’ll walk with you a little and say hi to Gage. But then I really do have to go.”