Let Me Call You Sweetheart: Come Rain or Come Shine (2 page)

The blonde angel nudged them both to a small bistro table in front of the window spilling sunlight into the room. The shop, all blues and yellows and lace, was quaint, like everything in this town. Except for his muffin date, of course.

Charlie sat across from him, being the opposite of quaint, her spine rigid, her eyes wary, and her arms crossed over her chest. Her hair was the same cocoa color as her eyes. It fell soft and wavy around her face and touched her shoulders.
 

Actually, all of her looked soft, which completely went against her character. She ought to be rail thin and hard as nails to match her attitude. Lean and mean. Instead, her curves suggested a voluptuous, yielding quality about her.
 

Yeah, right.

“What do you do, Mrs. Cleaver?”

“What?”

“Your job? Profession?”

“No, I mean what did you just call me?”

Jeeves held his hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry. You just reminded me of
Leave it to Beaver
’s mom. Your dress does. I meant no disrespect.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I’m a graphic novelist.”

He smirked. The one that got him hired more often than not. “Graphic as in bow-chicka-bow-wow?”

Cleaver blinked at him.

The heavenly angel arrived then with the food of the gods on pretty yellow plates and coffee that smelled like it just came out of the roaster. One bite and he realized why his date would have wrestled him to the ground for the muffin. “Good God,” he said. “Marry me, Myrtle.”

She patted his hand and winked before she went back to work.
 

If he ever settled down, it would be with a woman like that. He imagined a chorus of angels followed her around, singing whenever she entered a room or took something out of the oven. He looked across the table.
 

No angel chorus for that one. Organ music. Creepy, depressing organ music. The kind they played in old vampire movies. “You’re staring at me,” he said.

“You have crumbs on your chin,” she answered.

Jeeves wiped his chin with a napkin. “You don’t like me.”

Charlie shrugged. “I don’t really know you.”

“Which makes your dislike of me all the stranger. Let me guess, you were Team Ryan and are still mad the writers had Jessica choose Dante.” That’s usually what it was. People took his last show,
Raiders
, very seriously. The two-season love triangle ended in the series finale with him getting the girl. He didn’t think he’d ever stop getting mail about it.

“I didn’t actually watch that show.”

Ouch. “Okay, then there must be something besides the muffin mayhem that teed you off.”

She pursed her lips in consideration of his words. She had freckles. They were cute. As if God sprinkled chocolate jimmies on her before he sent her out to conquer the world, one bad actor at a time. “I suppose I haven’t really been very neighborly.”

Careful. This was where he would sink or swim. Well, probably not swim. He might stand a chance treading water, though. If he navigated the next moment well. “It’s hard to be nice to a guy who commits larceny before he’s been properly introduced. I get that.”

Was that the corner of her mouth lifting in an almost-smile?

“Tell me about our neighborhood. I heard there was a story behind our houses.”

Charlie relaxed a little. “One of the town founders built them. One for him and one for his wife.”

“That’s unusual. Why did she need a different house? Don’t most married people live together?”

“Most do. Apparently they couldn’t. They were childhood sweethearts, so the story goes. They grew up as next door neighbors on the East Coast, actually. Very much in love. He had the house you’re living in built before he asked her to marry him. He brought her all the way across the country and proposed on the front porch.” Charlie poured more cream in her cup. “They planned a huge wedding, went on a fantastic honeymoon, and then they came back to live in the house he’d built for her.”

Watching her talk, it was as if she’d forgotten she didn’t like him, so he didn’t dare interrupt.
 

“Except all they did was fight from that moment forward. Publicly, privately, loudly, sometimes without words. They just could not get along. So, he figured he’d save their marriage and build her a new house. She moved next door to him and they were happily married until the day they died. No more fights. People say their romance was the stuff of epic love stories.”

“Maybe we should get married and honor the town tradition,” he said.
 

“You’ve been in town less than fifteen minutes, and you’ve proposed to two different women. How is it that you’ve earned your confirmed bachelor title?”

“Nobody ever says yes.”

She choked on her coffee. Which brought his attention to her breasts and then he wondered how he’d missed them before. They were fabulous. Well, most breasts were. This particular set he liked because they were big.
 

When she had her breathing back under control, he asked her more questions about the town. It was obvious she loved Port Grable. The more she talked, the less pinched her face became. Her lips were really gorgeous. She wasn’t the kind that wore make-up, so they were a natural shade of pink—a creamy color.
 

“What do people do for fun around here—at night?” he asked.

“Oh,” she answered. “Port Grable has a very exciting nightlife. On any given night, there might be a school band concert in the auditorium or a bridge tournament at the VFW.”

“Sounds intriguing.”

She smiled. Her creamy pink lips reminded him of bubble gum. Why did everything about her circle back to food in his mind?

“Mel’s Tavern has a jukebox.” Charlie raised her brows in mock excitement.

“A real live jukebox?” he answered.

“If you wanted excitement, you picked the right town to flee to from boring old Los Angeles.”

And he had. Jeeves had known the second he reached city limits he’d done the right thing. This place, assuming he could keep his neighbor soft and sweet like she was now, was exactly what he needed.

Myrtle returned with a warm-up for their cups. She might be another good reason for the move, this Myrtle.
 

“Jeeves wants to know about the nightlife,” Charlie told her friend.
 

Myrtle pursed her lips. “Did you tell him about bingo at the Masons’ lodge?”

Jeeves relaxed into the back of his chair, crossing his arms. “I can’t believe you were withholding bingo from me.”

Charlie shrugged. “I can’t believe you were going to steal my muffin.”

Myrtle rested the carafe on her hip. “Autumn Festival brings out some nighttime adventures too.”

“Right,” Charlie agreed. “Hay rides.”

“Corn maze,” Myrtle offered.

“The Sweetheart Dance.”

“Cake walk.”

“I’m going to fit in just fine around here, I can tell already,” he said.

Charlie lost her softness when he said that. She sat up straight and looked at her wrist. “Time for me to go.”
 

“You aren’t even wearing a watch,” he said. What was her problem? “You just looked at your empty wrist.”

“Thanks for the meal, Myrtle.” She stood. “It was…meeting you.”

She left out the
nice
. What a piece of work.

“The…was all mine,” Jeeves answered. He didn’t know if she heard him or not, since the door jingled right after he said it.
 

Chapter Two

Charlie took a long pull from her beer and pretended not to care how everyone in the tavern was crowding around Jeeves as if he was some kind of celebrity. Okay, so he was some kind of celebrity. But still.

He’d never have to buy a beer again. Even Cheapskate Chuck, who hadn’t watched television since
Howdy Doody
went off the air, told Mel to add one to his tab for Jeeves.

Myrtle returned from the bathroom and took her seat. “You didn’t roofie my wine while I was gone, did you?”

“You wish.” Charlie nodded toward the star. “You not going over there to welcome him like everyone else?”

“Nah. I like musicians.” Myrtle’s gaze lingered on the salt-and-pepper guitarist tuning his instrument on the makeshift stage. Well, he was a guitarist when he wasn’t fixing cars at the service station. Or fixing the pipes at Myrtle’s Muffins. Or mowing the lawn of Myrtle’s house.
 

“He’s married, Myrt,” Charlie chastised.

Myrtle blew him a kiss. “Oh, I know.”

“He’s never going to leave his wife.”

“Not if he knows what’s good for him, he won’t.” Myrtle glanced at her wedding ring. “He wouldn’t get far. I am an excellent shot.”

“Ladies,” came the trying-too-hard drawl from her new neighbor. “How serendipitous to run into you both. May I join you?”

Charlie rolled her eyes when Myrtle welcomed him to the empty chair. She knew she wasn’t being fair. He’d been a quiet neighbor so far, and he’d been pleasant at the muffin shop. She just really didn’t like him.

“This place has atmosphere,” Jeeves said dryly as he settled in.
 

“Yes, it certainly does.” Charlie looked around in mock admiration. The dim lighting provided just enough illumination to get across the room without bumping into much, but not enough to notice the well-worn condition of the furniture. “The beer lights alone—”

Jeeves interrupted her. “Those beer lights are vintage. They’d pick up a pretty penny at auction.”

It was disturbing how he cut her off like that. She didn’t want him to be the one defending her town. She took a long drink to hide her displeasure.
 

“What I want to know is why neither of you mentioned live music.” Jeeves pointed the neck of his bottle toward the stage. “Is he any good?”

“He can tune a car like a god,” Charlie answered. She turned to her friend and asked in a saccharin voice, “What else is he good at, Myrt?”

“Sometimes when he cuts the grass, he does it in diamond shapes,” Myrtle answered, being purposely obtuse.

Jeeves knit his brows together. “Okay.”

Mel, the tavern owner, turned off the jukebox in the middle of Whitesnake and Sam adjusted the microphone. For the hundredth time that day, Charlie wondered
again
why she didn’t hate Myrtle for having everything. If there were such a thing as a perfect man, Sam Malloy was him. And as always, before he began his first song, he sought out his wife’s gaze and settled a slight wink on her so she knew every note of every song was for her.

He began with Dylan’s “Make You Feel My Love”. An involuntary sigh escaped Charlie. Sam’s voice was low and a little gravelly, pouring over every pleasure center in a woman’s body like thick maple syrup.
 

She felt Jeeves’ eyes on her and glanced up at him quickly. “What?”
 

“Just enjoying the show,” he replied, his eyes not leaving hers.

“The show is on the stage.” She pointed to Sam. “Up thataway.”

“
This
show is more interesting.”

She crinkled her nose in confusion, and he barked a sharp laugh. He was so weird.

Jeeves picked up Myrtle’s left hand and inspected her wedding ring. “You were not wearing this last month. Fellas work fast around here, huh?” There it was again, a little twang. Maybe his drawl wasn’t artificial.

“I don’t wear my ring when I bake.” Sam didn’t wear his when he fixed cars either.
 

“My heart is broken, you know.”

“I know.” Myrtle flipped her bouncy curtain of blonde expertly. “I shouldn’t have played so reckless with your feelings the day we met.”

Couples were shuffling to the well-worn parquet floor to dance. Charlie enjoyed watching the Hammersmiths most of all. They were spry for their age. Dancing with the grace of fifty years together, they made her feel all melty inside. She sighed again and realized as soon as she did it that
he
was watching her.

“What?” she asked, exasperated.
 

“You’re kind of pretty when you get all soft like that, Cleaver.”
 

“Don’t call me Cleaver. And don’t call me pretty, either.”
 

He held his arms up. “I said
kind
of
. Don’t get all pissy.”

Something about him made her want to stomp her foot and push him down. It was all that fake charm, she supposed. Men like Sam, up on the stage wearing old jeans and an older denim shirt, were real. Sam always put Myrtle first. He didn’t say flowery things, well not in front of Charlie he didn’t, but he showed her in a million ways every day that he loved her. And when he sang, it was about sharing what was inside him, not getting attention and paparazzi pictures taken.

Guys like Jeeves were about pretend.
 

“I suppose you want to dance,” Jeeves said after she ignored him and watched the Hammersmiths some more.

“Not particularly,” she answered without looking at him.

“Well, I want to dance.”

Charlie gestured to the room. “Have at it. I have a feeling even Cheapskate Chuck would be amenable to a turn around the floor with you.”

Jeeves stood and came around the table with his hand out. He was far too good looking and he knew it. All smug and square-jawed. Too tall and dressed like a guy playing the role of a small-town hero.
 

“I said no,” she protested.

“No, you said ‘not particularly’ which is not no.”

“It means no.”

“Miss…hey what
is
your last name?”

Charlie pressed her lips together firmly, and Myrtle, the goddess bitch, took great pleasure in answering, “Jeeves. Her last name is Jeeves.”

Surprise washed over his pretty face. “Well, what do you know about that? Jeeves and Jeeves. Now you have to dance with me.”

“I don’t want to dance with you,” she said, putting her hand in his and getting up, resigned to it.

He led her to the floor just as Sam finished the song. Charlie swung around to leave, thinking it was her lucky night. “Not so fast, Jeeves.”

“Don’t call me that.”