The wrong bridesmaid, p.20
The Wrong Bridesmaid, page 20
Etta hums. “Black sheep or not, you stay around and ‘continue exploring’ as you say, you’re gonna get mixed up in it. Can’t be helped when you’re a Ford, even if you barely deserve the name.”
“You say that differently than they would.”
“I know. But sticking around will only make it harder for Hazel when you go, because we both know . . . you’re gonna leave. And she’ll be here, watching Cold Springs fall apart with your name carved in the ruins.”
She draws a work-worn finger across the tabletop, writing out Ford.
Well, shit. Talk about pulling no punches. Etta Livingston is brutally harsh and bluntly honest. No wonder Jed left her. He’s not man enough to handle her. He needs soft ego stroking and a woman who defers to him in all ways.
I think about my Aunt Chrissy, Jed’s wife, whose main job seems to be staying in trophy-wife condition, and try to find a single similarity with Etta, but there simply are none. I don’t know how Jed and Etta could’ve ever been a thing, except that Etta was probably as beautiful as Hazel, thirty or so years ago.
Still, it’s plain as day that they’d be a match made in hell.
Or maybe she wasn’t this way until she had her heart broken . . . by a Ford. Is Etta saying I’ll do the same to Hazel?
“You think I should go now?”
Etta rolls her eyes, and if she could, I think she’d slap me in the back of the head again. “No, asshole. I’m saying to stay and handle your shit. Quit running away like a scared kid.”
“I’m not a kid,” I tell her coldly. “And I don’t appreciate being told what to do.”
She doesn’t back down, smirking. “Seems I’ve hit a nerve. Is that what your daddy did? Or what he still tries to do?”
She’s right, on all accounts. But the person who treated me most like a stupid kid was Jed. So I don’t answer.
Instead, I give her a guarded look and return to eating my almost-gone burger as though we haven’t been talking at all. The burger is cold, and despite its deliciousness, it sits like sand in my mouth and I have to force it down.
“Fine then.” She stands up but pauses at the side of the table to get the last word in. “Do whatever the hell you want, but remember that there are people here who do give a damn, Hazel included. And we could really use your help. We’re trying to save this whole town from Jed. Help us. Help her.”
Without waiting for my reply, she leaves. I watch her go, but after a few steps, I look for Hazel instead. She’s dropping a round of drinks off at a table full of couples who look like they’re enjoying a night out while the kids are home with babysitters.
They’re all laughing at something Hazel’s said, and when she turns to walk away, her smile is bright and real. I scan the rest of the restaurant, seeing people eating and drinking and playing, all having a good time together.
Is this what Jed wants to ruin?
And for what? Money?
The idea disgusts me so much I push my mostly empty plate away.
A few minutes later, Hazel completes her rounds and comes back to my table. “Judging by the deep groove between your eyebrows and the super-frowny face, Aunt Etta was her usual, charming self? Whatever she said I said, ignore it.” She waves a hand dramatically. “She makes up stuff all the time, nearly a compulsive liar.”
She’s trying to cheer me up, so I force a smile to my face. “Etta said you told her last night was awesome. That a lie?”
Her blush is all the answer I need. “Well, I might’ve said that.” She winks teasingly, but she’s searching my face with perceptive eyes. “Look, whatever Etta said . . . seriously, forget it. I’m off in ten minutes. How about if we play a game or two, just hang out for a bit?”
I consider saying no, not because I don’t want to spend time with Hazel. I do, so much. But she comes with a whole different set of expectations, ones I’m not sure I can live up to. The alternative is worse, though, so I nod.
“Yeah, that sounds fun. You got that ridiculous pink pool cue with you?”
She gives me a very insulted look, although she’s grinning in her eyes. “Of course. Joan of Arc lives here, locked up safe and sound next to Etta’s stick in the office.”
I grab her hand, bringing it up for a kiss along her knuckles. “Go get it and I’ll meet you by the tables.”
A table clears as we approach, and I ask, “Eight ball?”
Hazel nods and I quickly rack the balls.
She chalks her cue and breaks, dropping a solid, the three, and the game is on. Any fantasies of her taking it easy on me because of last night evaporate on her next shot, a twin-rail bouncer that pockets the six.
Thankfully, I do get a chance when her shot on the two barely misses the side pocket. Hazel’s good, leaving me without much of an angle on anything, but with a lucky shot, I’m able to put both the fifteen and the ten into their pockets.
“That was bullshit,” Hazel grumbles but, at the same time, smiles a little.
“Just watch,” I reply, but while I sink the fourteen, I also scratch.
“Fuck!” I hiss, stepping back. “Your shot.”
Hazel chuckles, and I feel like it’s the chuckle of a killer. I might not get another chance at the game. I try to watch the table, but it’s distracting to watch Hazel caress her cue, bending over the table, and drawing her hand back to—
“Hey, big brother.”
I jump, trying not to yell as Wren sneaks up and surprises me. “Wren!”
She grins, knowing she caught me staring at Hazel. “Fancy finding you here.”
I scoff. “You knew I’d be here. But I am surprised to see you in here.”
“Winston’s brought me here once or twice before. He says it’s a safe space from Dad and Uncle Jed.” Wren waves at Etta behind the bar, who flashes a thumbs-up in return.
I gape in shock. “That woman damn near gutted me like a fish a few minutes ago, but with you . . . she’s all ‘hey baby, how’s your momma’n’em’?”
“She giving you a hard time about the subdivision?” Wren asks, and I nod. “Not really surprised. She’s asked Winston and I about it. Winston’s a brick, of course, but I told her the truth. I’ve got about as much stroke with Dad and Jed as Ryan Seacrest.”
“She accepted that?” I ask. “Or did you get the VIP stare?”
Wren laughs. “Etta knows where I stand. I might not be able to stop Jed, but I can do my part. Hell, I brought coffee to the last protest.”
“You. Protest,” I repeat, and Wren nods. “Nope, can’t see it. Doesn’t compute.”
Wren smiles wryly. “Why? I care about this town too.”
That she does, maybe more than me. Maybe I’ve underestimated my little sister. “What’s your take on the whole thing then?”
“This is exponentially worse than Jed’s usual assholery, a lot worse,” Wren says. “I shot my shot with Dad, more than once. I’ve talked with him about it until I’m blue in the face, but he ignores me. And don’t even get me started on Jed.”
I sigh, knowing what she means. “So why does everyone think I can do something about it?”
“Hope springs eternal? Return of the heir? Some pearl of wisdom like that?” she says, and I scoff.
“Pearls before swine is more like it.”
Wren tilts her head. “Maybe, just maybe, they’re desperate. Or maybe they figure you’re the one Ford with enough strength and enough balls to stand up and do your own thing once, and hope you’ll do it again. Maybe, just maybe . . . you’re their only hope.”
I growl and cross my arms over my chest, turning my attention to Hazel, who’s running the solids and joking around with the couple at the next table.
I appreciate the lightness she brings to everything. I want more of it, not all this heavy shit everyone else hits me with. I feel alive with Hazel, even if it makes me consider uncomfortable things, like what I might do to spend more time with her.
Fine, maybe like Wren said . . . I could do something.
“Well?” Wren asks, and I look over.
“Well, what?”
“I know that look, Wyatt,” Wren says. “You had that same look right before . . . right before you took off. It’s your thinking look.”
“Ah . . . well . . .”
“And that’s game!” Hazel says, standing up and grinning in victory. “Ooof, at least you got two!”
I shake my head. “Two out of three!”
“Pssh, sit down, scrub!” Hazel says. “You gotta get in line, someone already called next.”
I look, and sure enough, there’s a pair of quarters already sitting on the end of the table, along with a reed-thin guy of about fifty-five with a cue in his hand. “Sorry, young man, but this young lady and I have been going back and forth for, what, six months now?”
I sit down on the stool next to Wren, giving the man a friendly wave. “You go ahead, Mr. Irsing.”
It’s funny, watching my old science teacher and Hazel play for money. And I have to give him credit, Mr. Irsing keeps it close. But as the eight ball drops into the pocket, he shakes his head in sportsmanlike disappointment.
“Hazel, you made two weeks of practice utterly useless,” Irsing says, reaching into his wallet and taking out a twenty-dollar bill. “Honestly.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Hazel says, taking the cash. “You’re getting better. Keep it up, and I bet I’ll be handing this back to you before too long.”
“I doubt that very much, young lady. Now, I do believe Mr. Ford here wants his rematch. Take it to ’im.”
Chapter 17
HAZEL
Wyatt’s truck is right behind me as I make the last turn, the dirt of what passes as my driveway making a rumble beneath my tires. No going back now. Not that there really was after the way the grapevine was buzzing over the wedding.
Wyatt parks next to me, his truck huge next to Nessa. He gets out, looking at the outside of the house. “Nice.”
“Want to come in?” I ask, and Wyatt’s smile tells me the answer. My hand is remarkably steady as I open the front door, letting him in.
“Bawk! Welcome home, bitch!”
“The fuck?” Wyatt snarls in surprise as I snort laughter.
“Uh-oh.”
Wyatt’s still confused. “What the hell is that?”
I flip the light switch and Lester appears on his perch, squawking.
“Wyatt, this is Lester,” I explain. “Parrot and sailor all in one.”
“I see,” Wyatt says, eyeing Lester. “He’s a good home security system, I bet.”
“The best,” I assure him while crossing over to Lester. “Come on, buddy. It’s bedtime for birds.”
“Lester wanna watch!” Lester says, whistling a pretty decent “bow-chicka-wow-wow” that makes me blush and Wyatt chuckle. But when I hold out my arm, Lester flies over obediently, letting me tuck him in his cage and get his cover set up.
“Got your water . . . a midnight snack . . . your curtains,” I tell him as I get it all set. “You’re good to go. Good night, Lester.”
“Night-night!” he says before starting his fake-snoring routine.
I make sure his curtain’s set and turn around to see Wyatt looking around the rest of the living room.
“You have a nice place.”
“It belonged to my grandmother first,” I reply, wondering what Wyatt sees. “I know it’s nothing like your house, but my Gran loved it.”
Wyatt shakes his head, putting his hands in his pockets. “I would never compare the two. Your home looks warm and full of life.”
“And your family home?” I ask curiously, and Wyatt shrugs, though I can tell he’s thinking of an answer.
“Historical.”
It’s a telling no-tell, but I want to know more than just his personal issues with his family. Or maybe I want to know them in a different way. “What about your place in Newport?”
Wyatt shifts, looking uncomfortable, but answers, “It’s not like my family home at all. It’s more of a shack that’s attached to my workshop out on the edge of the woods.”
I laugh disbelievingly. “You make it sound rustic, but I bet it’s fancier than that.”
Wyatt shrugs. “It’s more about function. And the land was cheap.”
The honesty in his words makes me like him that much more. He’s different than I expect at every turn. “Then my thirty-year-old couch should be fine for you to make yourself comfortable while I take a quick shower,” I reply, taking a melodramatic sniff of myself. “I smell like fries, sweat, and pool chalk.”
Why did I say that? It’s true, but there’s no sense in highlighting the fact that I’ve been working all day and smell like a donkey’s ass end.
Wyatt looks at the couch and nods. “Sure, but one thing first . . .”
He takes my hand and pulls me into him, aligning our bodies. He lowers his mouth to my ear and growls, “Maybe I like the way you smell.” He places a soft kiss right below my ear, inhaling deeply. “The way you taste.” Another kiss to my neck. “The way you feel.”
He traces a fingertip along my collarbone, and a shiver runs down my spine. Thoughts flood my mind, and part of me wants to slow step Wyatt down the hall and into my bedroom, but I really do need a shower. And probably should shove some dirty clothes in the hamper before Wyatt’s in there or he’s going to think I’m a complete slob.
I groan, pulling away slightly. “I gotta shower . . . for real.”
He lets me go slowly, reluctantly. In response I press my palm to his chest, begging him to give me this moment. He steps back and lowers to the couch, his elbows on his knees and eyes burning. “I’ll be here.”
I walk backward down the hall and into my bedroom, where I quickly strip and throw my dirty clothes into the hamper along with the small pile that didn’t quite make it the previous couple of days. I’d do more, but a little bit of me still worries that Wyatt’s going to disappear while I’m back here.
Quickly, I hop in the shower and suds up. I’ve got the showerhead on massage, and the hot water works the knots out of my muscles, but along with it, my energy is equally sapped. Frankly, as much as I want Wyatt, I can barely keep my knees from giving out as I dry off.
Realizing my body has needs beyond the sexual, I pull on my favorite comfy pj’s, flannel pants and a long-sleeved shirt, which are soft but cute. I give my room one last look, wondering whether Wyatt is going to be able to see it in the state I’m in right now. I hope so . . . I don’t bring men home, ever. And despite my exhaustion, I want to spend as much time as possible with him. Whether that’s with a repeat of last night’s amazingness or simply lying down with his strong arms around me as we drift off.
As I make my way back to the living room, I see Wyatt still sitting on the couch, his eyes immediately finding me. But I get the feeling he’s been looking around, learning everything he can about me. I feel vulnerable, exposed, and move toward him slowly. “Find anything that has you running for the hills yet?”
“Well, those flannel check pants are about the only thing,” he teases lightly. “Thankfully, I’m pretty hard to scare.”
“I’m gonna try real hard to not take that as a challenge.” Bantering with him is perking me up a tiny bit.
Wyatt scoots over, patting the couch. “Come here.” Gratefully, I sit down next to him, and he brushes my hair over my shoulder. “Are you trying to scare me off?”
I shake my head, wanting to lean against him but instead sagging against the cushions. “Not exactly . . .”
“But?”
I look up at the ceiling, unwilling to meet his eyes for this confession. “But I’m reminding myself that you’re leaving soon,” I say honestly. I know I sound like one of those women who gets a little dick and becomes a stage-five clinger, something I am not. “It’s . . . difficult.”
Wyatt hums, still stroking my hair. “I haven’t made any plans one way or another.”
I don’t want to do this, don’t want him making promises he won’t keep. So I don’t ask for any. “Tell me about your life in Newport.”
Wyatt thinks for a moment, then lifts an arm, and I accept his invitation, leaning against him and relishing the comfort of his strength and warmth. “Like I said, I’ve got a place attached to my woodshop. It’s not much, but it’s got what I need—room to work, trails out the back where I can go into the actual woods to hike, pick up interesting chunks of wood from time to time for carving bits, and room to relax.”
I smile, liking the sound of it. “What do you do—like, for fun?”
“Wood,” he says, chuckling. “I can do a bit of everything, really. I’ve restored antiques, did a family’s stair banister, some in-home cabinetry work in the early days. But mostly what I do now are authentic traditional-method custom pieces, everything from furniture to antique reproduction millwork. I do an occasional art piece just for fun. That’s what I use the stuff I find in the woods for.”
I trace the length of his fingers, noting the rough calluses. There’re scars, too, the evidence of mistakes and lessons learned. “If I’d only seen you in your tux at the wedding, I never would’ve thought you . . .” I trail off, not sure how to explain without being rude.
Wyatt finishes for me. “You would’ve thought I was just like my family. Work with my mouth more than my hands?”
I nod, ashamed.
“It’s okay,” Wyatt assures me, capturing my fingers in his and holding them in his strong yet gentle grip. “I was like them for a long time. Being here, I realize that . . . I’ve changed. Or maybe I never was like them, and that’s why I left in the first place.”
I shift against him, leaning into him more. In response, I feel Wyatt twist, rearranging himself so that my back almost lies against his chest, his right leg pulled up on the couch to give me room. It’s intimate in a whole new way.
“Why did you leave?” I ask, laying my head against his shoulder.
Wyatt is quiet for a moment, and I think I’ve pushed too far. But his arms tighten around my shoulders, and I feel him inhale, his nose buried in my hair, and he answers. “I was in college. Young, stupid, having too much fun fucking off, like a lot of college kids. One long weekend, I came home for a visit. Jed took me out to lunch, said he wanted to hear about how things were going. It was fine at first. Hell, I was enjoying bragging about how well I was doing in classes, the friends I’d made, and the parties I was going to. And then he started talking about my future. He had it all planned out—my major, a list of people he wanted me to network with, how I was going to work for him after graduation. I laughed at him. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, but I was sure it had nothing to do with him. And then he explained that he’d gotten me into that college because my grades certainly hadn’t. It pissed me off, and then he revealed that he was paying for it, not my dad. He said he’d never had kids of his own, but he had me just the same, and he owned me. Not that I was family, not that I was like his kid. But that he owned me.”
