Best Laid Wedding Plans (6 page)

“Mind if I take a peek?”

Her face said yes, she did. But gamely, she shook her head.

“No. Not at all. I've already drawn up some plans for the changes downstairs. They're on my desk. If you've got time, I'd appreciate it if you'd take a quick peek at them. Tell me what you think.”

“You already know what I think.”

“That I'm crazy. Right. Got that.”

“It's just—hell, Jenni Beth, I hate to see you pour time, sweat, and money into a proposition that doesn't have a sliver of a chance of making it.” When she opened her mouth, he held up a hand. “It isn't that you're not capable. This is just too big a job for one person. For one pocketbook.”

Fire flew from those beautiful blue eyes, and she stomped her foot. “Don't say that again.” She pounded a hand on her chest. “I
will
make a go of this. I promise you that.”

“Sugar—” He reached for her hand, but she yanked it away.

“Don't ‘sugar' me, and don't act all condescending. I don't want it or need it. I'm more than capable of deciding what I do want and then making it happen. I'm not twelve years old anymore, Cole. I don't need a daddy. I already have one.”

“Believe me, I don't want to be your daddy. I don't want to be your surrogate brother.” His gaze settled on her mouth, on those full, red lips. “After that night in Savannah—”

Heat bloomed on her cheeks. “I don't want to talk about that.”

“One of these days we will,” he growled. “Show me the plans.” A muscle ticked in his jaw, and he figured he'd just ground off a year's worth of tooth enamel. The woman refused to listen to reason, so he might as well save his breath—and help her. Any way he could.

She motioned for him to take the lead. Since he realized it might be the only time she'd ever do that, he snatched the chance and stomped up the attic stairs.

At the top, one hand on the banister, he stopped. Whistled. Whatever he'd expected, this sure wasn't it. Last time he'd stepped foot in this space, he and Wes had flopped on the bunk beds and discussed whether they had a prayer of making it to second base with their latest squeezes. Wes hadn't held out much hope. At that point, his heart had belonged to Sadie Wilson, and with her strict daddy, it would have taken a lot of convincing to push her over the edge.

An invite to the senior prom had seemed to be the ticket.

And that's how Cole let himself be talked into inviting Jenni Beth to that blasted dance.

But he'd been eighteen and so close to scoring second with Kimmie Atherton. A teenage boy's hormones won out over everything, every time. At the very last minute, he'd been a hound. He'd tossed honor to the curb and took Kimmie to the prom instead of Jenni Beth.

Wes had nearly pounded him into the sidewalk for it. But they'd still double-dated, and since they'd both scored second, all was forgiven—between them.

Not with Jenni Beth, though. Yeah, he got that the prom was a big thing in a young girl's life. And, yeah, Angus Duckworth had trounced all over her feet. Cole had actually found himself wincing. For years, she'd thrown that dance in his face every time they ran into each other as the reason she was so pissed at him—at least until that winter's night in Savannah. He'd been an even bigger dog then.

Still, there was more simmering beneath the surface. Another reason she wouldn't let him close. Another reason for her animosity. Instead of diminishing, it had grown by leaps and bounds this past year.

“What? There a monster in the room? Move.” She poked him in the back to nudge him along.

“Sorry. Seeing this space took me back a few years. Although I've gotta say, it never looked like this when Wes and I played up here.”

She laughed. “No, it didn't. You guys were pigs.”

“That's kind of harsh.”

“The truth sometimes is.”

He grinned at her over his shoulder. “You're probably right.”

Pointing at a stack of boxes in one corner, he asked, “Coming or going?”

“I'm not totally unpacked yet.” She sighed. “Six days and I'm suffering withdrawal.”

“Withdrawal?”

“No Starbucks. No Ned's Espresso. No Clary's corned beef hash for breakfast. No Saturday morning walks through Forsyth Park. I miss my favorite haunts.”

“Guess you would.”

“Wouldn't you?”

“Probably. But you chose to come home.”

She nodded. “I did. Sort of.”

He grunted. “Understood.”

He took in the pale blush-colored walls, the pastel flower-covered bedspread on a simple white bed, the antique dresser and mirror. All the little doodads she'd strewn around the place.

But it was the far end that grabbed his interest. Jenni Beth's work area. The rough walls there had been painted the color of expensive French vanilla ice cream, and she'd practically covered them with bulletin boards hidden beneath fabric swatches, paint chips, pencil drawings, and pages torn from decorating and bridal magazines.

Wicker baskets crowded beneath a desk area. A sewing machine hunkered on an old pedestal table.

Here was where she created her dreams—and it fascinated him. The alcove provided a glimpse into her thought process. Into what moved her. Into the real her.

Jenni Beth crossed the room. “I'm working on slip coverings for the dining room chairs right now. With luck, I can find fabric for new drapes.”

“Be easier to buy them.”

She fingered the material on her table. “Yes, it would be. A whole lot easier. And a whole lot more expensive.”

“True.”

“I'm trying to decide whether to spend the extra money to pool them.”

“They'll just gather more dust puddling on the floor.”

“I know, but to be authentic…” She trailed off. “Our ancestors did it to show their wealth, you know. To flaunt the fact they had enough money to waste it.” She pulled a face. “I don't. Of course, the extra fabric did double duty as a flycatcher, too, but with air-conditioning, we don't have the windows open all that much.” She sighed. “Decisions, decisions.”

He joined her at her desk. “Show me your plans.”

She slid a notebook and a file from a pile on the corner of her desk. “I have cost estimates, projected income, everything in here.”

He breathed in her fresh scent, the faint smell of flowers, then opened the file and sank onto the chair. She'd been thorough, had done her homework. When she'd worked in Savannah at Chateau Rouge, she'd been good at her job, at taking care of the details. He knew that. But if he needed more proof of her ability, here it was, smack-dab in front of him.

“Is this what you presented to Richard?”

“Yes.”

“Did you show him all of this?” He waved a hand over the papers.

“I sure did. And I left him a copy of everything in a nice neat folder.”

“And still he didn't give you an answer.”

She refused to look at him. “No. No answer.”

“He's a prick.”

Slowly, she turned her head toward him. “I couldn't agree more.”

Cole's focus wavered as those incredible eyes met his own, debated again the wisdom of withholding the phone conversation. Too many variables. If Richard changed his mind, he'd have stirred up a hornet's nest for nothing.

But if Richard didn't have a change of heart, Cole figured he'd stick close, make sure Jenni Beth got her dream with no interference from the banker.

He turned his attention to the file again. This was what Richard had brushed aside. Even after reading through it, he intended to exploit Jenni Beth, insist she use her bottomland, land worth a whole hell of a lot more than the loan, as collateral.

What did the man have up his sleeve? One section alone wouldn't do much. There was more here than met the eye. Richard Thorndike would bear watching.

As he digested her plan, her numbers, he became vaguely aware of her moving behind him.

“Jenni Beth, I'm blown away at the work you've put into this.”

“Thank you.”

Closing the notebook, he turned to find her cross-legged in the middle of that big old bed. Out-of-bounds reactions assaulted him. Being here alone with her in her bedroom? Bad, bad idea. Appalled at the feelings coursing through him, he fought to curb them.

This is Wes's sister
.
His
kid
sister.
He repeated the words over and over in his head like a mantra. He couldn't mess with her. Yet he'd done exactly that in Savannah. For one night, they'd given in to their feelings, feelings they'd tried to ignore for years. They'd made love. He should be satisfied, but he wasn't. Far from it—he wanted so much more.

But then, he wasn't the marrying kind. She was. It wouldn't be fair to take more. End of story.

His conscience dueled with his libido. Maybe it was this room. He'd reverted to a horny teenager, for pity's sake. Blindly, he turned back to her file and stared at the top sheet. Dug deep for some self-control.

Three strides would take him to her. To her bed. His fantasies. He raised a hand to his forehead and found actual beads of sweat. And they weren't caused by the attic heat. Nope. A window air-conditioning unit had the room's temperature under control.

It was Jenni Beth. It was him. It was an eighteen-year-old's hormones running amok in a twenty-seven-year-old's body. He'd crossed those boundaries once and vowed it would never, ever happen again.

So why now?

That damn little porch dance he'd witnessed, that's why. He'd been on edge ever since. She'd put crazy thoughts in his head. Thoughts that didn't belong, that had no place in there.

Thoughts he needed to blow out of the water.

This sweet little Southern belle was dangerous, and he'd do well to remember that.

Maybe his plan to stay in town a couple days, to keep an eye on her, wasn't such a great idea. If he had a grain of sense, he'd get the heck out of Dodge—or go out and have some fun.

Time to call Beck. The two of them could do the town. He almost snorted aloud. The town. Such as it was. Misty Bottoms used to be enough, though. Yeah, and there used to be more of it.

This whole miserable situation depressed him.

He skimmed another page in her notebook. Hell, she'd need nothing short of a miracle to pull this off.

“I know how important this is to you,” he started.

The look she sent him would have put even a mother superior to shame. She scooted off the bed and stood, arms crossed, tapping her pink-tipped toes in those strappy little sandals.

“But?” she prodded.

“Damn it all to hell, girl. If you'd lose those rose-colored glasses for even a few minutes, you'd realize exactly how much you're biting off.”

“I'm not a girl. I'm a woman, Cole. You think I don't know how bad the house is?” Angry tears misted those gorgeous blue eyes and made him feel a bigger heel.

“Jenni Beth.” He reached for her, but she took a step back.

“Don't Jenni Beth me. And these damn tears. I'm so disgusted.”

“What?”

“I knew this house was crumbling, but showing you through it, seeing it through your eyes—” She broke off. “It's humiliating.”

“Humiliating?”

“I'm ashamed of what we've let happen to Magnolia House. Grandpa Huxley left her to our safekeeping, and we didn't take care of her.”

“Sweetheart, there's no shame here. Look at me.” He crossed to her. Cupping her chin in one hand, he drew her close. “Things happen. Your family is sufferin'. I don't want to see you lose even more, and I'm afraid you will if you insist on plowin' ahead with this plan. You're puttin' a lot on the line.”

“Yes. My home.” He winced and looked about as uncomfortable as she'd ever seen him. “Cole?”

And she knew. Somehow he'd found out she'd put up her land as collateral. She felt the blood drain from her lips, her face. “Richard told you?”

He shook his head.

“But you know.” It wasn't a question. The answer was written all over his face. “How?”

He lifted his head, his gold-shot hazel eyes meeting hers. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.” Her fists clenched. “Yes, it does. I've been betrayed.”

“Jenni Beth.”

His hands reached out to her, but she drew back. “Don't touch me. I should have known. Small town. Everybody knows everybody else's business. Nothing is private.”

“That's not always a bad thing.”

“It's my bottomland to do with what I want.”

“I won't argue that, but you can be very sure Richard is up to no good.”

She shook her head. “He's a businessman. He needs collateral.”

“Bullshit.” He tossed the notebook he'd scooped up onto the bed. “On a purely business basis, no emotion or nostalgia involved, what you've given him here is enough for the loan.”

“But it isn't enough for you.”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “This project is a mammoth undertaking. You have no safety net, sugar. Your mom and dad—” He threw up his hands. “I love them, but you can't count on them for any real help.”

“Understood.”

“I wonder.” He studied her until she broke eye contact, toyed with a loose thread on those damned short shorts.

“There's no sense arguing about this, Cole. I'll do whatever it takes to make it work. If that means risking the land, then so be it.”

He started to interrupt, but she held up a finger. “Here's the thing, though, and you need to understand this. I don't intend to lose either my home or my land.” She picked up her binder and shook it. “I
will
make this work. Come hell or high water, Magnolia House will shine again. Brides will come here from all over for their special day. And I'm fully prepared to make sure it's everything they've dreamed of. The hotels and restaurants in town will boom again. The shops can stay open. Misty Bottoms will be more than a spot on the map.”