Sultry with a Twist (13 page)

Pru called from downstairs, and Luke pulled his boots on and shoved his wallet in his back pocket. She’d probably give him hell for skipping out before supper, but he’d make it up to her another time. When he rushed into the kitchen and opened his mouth to say good-bye, he had to stop short to keep from knocking June over.

“For you,” she said with a smile, holding out a steaming mug.

The tangy scent of spiced cider wafted up, making his mouth water. He accepted her gift, taking a reluctant sip while scanning her over the top of his cup. She’d changed into skintight jeans that hugged those wide hips for dear life, paired with a thin, pink sweater unbuttoned low enough that Luke could see cleavage if he looked at just the right angle. Which he did.

“To celebrate your first Sunday without getting the wooden spoon,” she said, padding on bare feet to the kitchen table. She lifted the lid on Pru’s wicker picnic basket and stuffed a handful of napkins inside.

“Thanks,” he said, “but I’m on my way—”

“I packed lunch. We can eat by the pond.” She slipped her little feet into a pair of flip-flops and nodded at the counter. “Grab that blanket, will you?”

Before Luke could say no, Pru walked in and waved two white envelopes in the air.

“You coming, Grammy?” June asked.

Pru shook her head. “I’m headin’ back to the church hall. We’re makin’ pies and cookies to sell at the fair tomorrow.” She handed both envelopes to Luke and patted his shoulder with her big, bony hand. “But take these with you.”

He recognized his name scrawled in his own clumsy handwriting on one, and June’s name in loopy cursive on the other.

“It’s still a little early,” Pru explained. “I wasn’t s’posed to give you these till spring. But with June goin’ back home in a couple weeks, heaven knows when we’ll see her again. Thought you might like to open these together.”

“Oh, no.” June’s shoulders drooped an inch or two, and her brown curls shook right along with her head. “I don’t want mine. I already know what it says.”

“What’s in here?” Luke asked.

“Don’t you remember?” June asked. “In senior English, Mrs. Moore made us write letters to ourselves ten years into the future. We had to predict where we’d be and all that.”

“Junebug, I can’t even remember what I ate for breakfast yesterday.” He folded the letters in half and tucked them behind his wallet. “Sounds like fun though.”

“Well, you have a blast. I’m throwing mine out.”

“Must be some juicy stuff in there.” He had no intention of trashing it, at least not until he’d read it first. To hell with work, he’d play hooky with June the rest of the day. Like Pru had said, June would leave soon, and who knew when she’d come to visit again? He flipped the blanket around his neck and held the door open for her.

In Luke’s perfect world, every day would feel exactly like this one—cool and crisp with the gentle sun barely warming the tops of his shoulders. It was that perfect, narrow window between seasons when he could spend all day outside and never feel uncomfortable. He’d been away from the pond too long and forgotten how much he missed the scents of wet earth and stagnant water. The smell of carefree youth. He pulled a deep breath through his nose and sighed slowly.

With the new chill in the air, Luke decided to spread the blanket in a patch of sunlight beside the tall reeds. While June knelt down and unpacked the picnic basket, he pulled his envelope out and tore it open. He didn’t recall the assignment, but Luke had a feeling he’d written the bare minimum, and he didn’t expect a long letter from his eighteen-year-old self. Once he unfolded the paper, he snickered. One short paragraph, just as he thought.

“
Hey
there, you good-looking son of a bitch
,” Luke read. An immediate grin formed on his lips. That sounded a lot like him back then. “
Right
now, you’re bored as hell writing a dumb-ass letter to yourself. But since the teacher’s watching, and you need this credit to graduate, I’ll go ahead and tell your future. You’re a Green Beret squadron leader, traveling the world to kick ass and take names. Your elite team of men has just been assigned a top secret mission to rescue a yacht-load of naked supermodels
…”—Luke laughed, while he crumpled the paper and tossed it into the wicker basket—“I’ll spare you the rest. Jesus, was I really that much of an idiot?”

“No.” June uncovered a plate of cold fried chicken. She snatched a drumstick and pointed it at him. “You were worse.”

Luke scoffed, pretending she’d offended him, and then stretched out on the blanket and dangled June’s envelope in front of her face. “Let’s read yours now.”

“No! Give it here.” She dove over a plastic bowl of potato salad and landed on top of him, before straddling his chest and making a frantic grab at the letter. “Mine’s embarrassing.”

“Sweet! I can’t wait.” Luke kept it out of her reach and laughed, while trying to find the leverage to flip her over. It didn’t take long to roll June onto her back, and unfortunately, right into the potato salad.

She gasped like he’d just tossed her into a tub full of ice cubes. “My hair!” Mustard-yellow clumps matted June’s curls against one side of her head, and Luke tried—swear to God, he really did—to keep a straight face. But he could only take so much, and eventually, he convulsed into hysterical laughter, flopping onto his back and holding his sides.

June reached beside her head and grabbed a handful of goop, then smeared it across the side of his face. “Not so funny now, is it?” But it still was, and he chuckled while using one finger to push a creamy bite into his mouth. She leaned over him to make another grab at the letter. “Gimme!”

Luke fisted the envelope and rolled to his feet before she could get a good grip on it. Then he backed away from the blanket a few paces. “No way. I let you listen to mine. Now it’s your turn.”

June groaned and started picking potato chunks from her hair. “You’re so mean.” She threw one glob in his direction, and it landed on his boot.

“Okay,” Luke said, sliding his finger along the seal, “the moment of truth.” He pulled June’s stationery out and unfolded it, then cleared his throat and began. “
Dear
June, if you’re reading this, then ten years have passed. I hope you had fun in college and made some new friends…
” Luke rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Sounds just like a girl.” He continued reading aloud. “
By
now, you’ve earned your doctoral degree, and you’re practicing psychology as Dr. Gallagher, PhD
—” Luke’s eyes widened, frozen on the page. He glanced at June, whose face flushed ten shades of crimson. She looked like she wanted to crawl into a mud hole and die. He read the next few sentences in silence, which detailed their wedding—a casual ceremony at the pond in which she’d worn her mother’s dress—and went on to describe each of their three children, all boys who looked exactly like him. June had predicted he’d leave the army after his first enlistment and then earn a living as a civil engineer.

Luke’s throat tightened, and he swallowed a cherry-sized lump. No wonder she hadn’t wanted him to read her letter. “Don’t feel bad, Junebug,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “I didn’t get what I wanted either.”

Judging from the look of mortification in her wide, brown eyes, that wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear, so he tried again. “You dodged a bullet. If this came true”—he held up the letter—“I’d’ve dragged you down with me, and trust me when I say it was a damned hard fall.” Luke knelt on the blanket in front of June and laid the letter in her lap. “You deserve better than that. Wait for the right guy, and don’t settle.” The words burned his throat like bleach.

June tilted her head to the side. “You don’t think very highly of yourself. Why is that?”

It seemed obvious to Luke, since he’d felt like a reject his whole life. Hell, his own mama couldn’t even stand him. He shrugged a shoulder. “I’m a screw-up, Junebug. Always have been.”

“Well, I don’t see it.” June pushed the picnic basket into the grass and crawled forward until their knees touched. She took one of his hands in hers. “You could’ve done anything with the money Morris Howard left you, but you started a charity—”

“Nonprofit. And how’d you know about the money?”

“Grammy told me. And look at all the good you do, not just for people who need help with their homes, but for those guys who need a second chance. Look at what you did for Pauly last night. And you must have the patience of a saint to put up with Karl. I couldn’t even stand him for one day.”

“A lot of people do more good than me.”

“But most people do less.” She linked their fingers and gazed at him intently, despite the globs of potato salad beginning to dry in her hair.

As much as it warmed his heart to see June cared, Luke didn’t appreciate people blowing sunshine up his butt crack. He knew who and what he was, and he was okay with it. “Stop trying to make me out to be some kind of hero. I’m still the same horse’s ass I was when I wrote that letter.”

“Hey.” She leaned in and took his face firmly between her palms. “Nobody talks about my best friend like that.” With fire burning behind her gaze, she inched forward, until Luke felt her warm breath on his skin. “Take it back.”

Luke’s stomach flashed hot and lurched against his ribs. June’s eyes were on his mouth, while her hands and quickening breaths caressed his face. “What’re you doing, Junebug?” His mind clogged with warring emotions, part of him needing her to pull back and an even larger part needing to gather her close and never let go.

“Take it back.”

“Okay, I take it back.”

The sliver of air between them crackled with electric tension. June eliminated the space, until her lips whispered against his, “Repeat after me. Luke Gallagher is a good man.”

With his heart thundering inside his chest, he swallowed hard and stammered, “Luke Galla—”

And then she kissed him in one tender, simple motion that shook him to the soles of his feet. The touch of her lips was just as soft and sweet as he remembered, one gentle graze, and then another and another. Her fingertips tangled in his hair, grasping little handfuls and angling his face to deepen the kiss, and then her warm tongue swept across his lower lip more delicately than a water strider gliding along the surface of the pond. June’s heady scent caught in his lungs, and before Luke could stop himself, he crushed her body against his chest, fisting her sweater in one hand and stroking her cheek with the other.

But he couldn’t let this go too far, both for his sake and hers. The taste of June’s wet mouth, her scent filling his nostrils, taunted him as things he could never have. And if her childhood crush was still burning, it wasn’t fair to add kindling to the fire. Luke forced his hands to cup June’s face, and he pushed her gently away, breaking the kiss.

“We’d better stop,” he whispered in a shaky breath. Her eyes fluttered open, and her lips, still glistening from their kiss, parted into a wide smile. She practically glowed from the inside out, so damn beautiful it made him ache. “I don’t want to ruin things again,” he said.

June’s glow dimmed, and her smile faltered a moment, but she bit her lip and nodded. “Right.” She remained in his arms a few seconds longer before backing up to dish out their lunch on white paper plates.

For the next several minutes, they ate in awkward silence, dining on cold chicken, leftover biscuits from breakfast, and coleslaw. A bullfrog croaked to announce his presence before splashing into the pond, and June brought a startled hand to her breast. That’s when Luke knew he needed to break the ice.

“What’d you want to talk about last night?” he asked around a mouthful of chicken.

“Hmm?”

“Last night at Shooters. You said you wanted to talk.”

“Oh, right.” June lowered her bite of coleslaw and chewed the inside of her cheek instead. Clearing her throat, she began idly lifting containers and putting them back down.

“Spit it out, Junebug. There’s nothing you can’t say to me.”

With a smirk, she opened her mouth to reply, but pressed her lips together, biting short whatever smart-ass barb she’d intended to launch. He wished she wouldn’t bottle it up. He liked her sharp tongue, her biting remarks. Strange as it was, he liked her anger.

“It’s no big deal,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “But, about the other night at your house, before we almost…well, I want you to know there’s no grudge. I’m not mad about what happened here.” She gestured to the shady patch of grass where they’d had sex all those years ago. “But you were right when you said I hadn’t really forgiven you yet. I worked through it though, and I can forgive you now.”

“Oh.” Luke glanced down and pushed a fork across his empty paper plate. “Well, I’m sorry, all the same.”

“Me too.” She rose to her knees and packed the clear, plastic containers inside Pru’s basket. “I wasted almost ten years feeling hurt and angry, and it was selfish. But I want to start over. A clean slate, okay?”

Luke nodded, still focused on his plate. He’d been waiting for June’s forgiveness nearly a decade, so why did his chest feel heavy all of a sudden? Why did his stomach feel knotted like a pretzel again? It made no sense, but Luke almost preferred June’s passive-aggressive anger to her offer of a new beginning. It had been easy spending time with her knowing he’d never stood a chance, but now…somehow he felt uneasy. Afraid. But of what, he didn’t know.

What in the name of Sam Hill was wrong with him?

June gazed high above the sink, where the wooden spoon hung from a weathered loop of twine attached to its handle. She caught herself unconsciously rubbing her bottom and grinned, marveling at the power that unholy torture device still held over her. Standing on tiptoe, she pulled it down and then used its blunt edge to scrape the inside of Gram’s food processor.

She’d never made salsa from scratch before, let alone using freshly plucked garden chilies and tomatoes, but if the spicy, mouthwatering scent was any indication, she’d done a halfway decent job on her first try. She sprinkled a pinch of chopped cilantro into the bowl and dumped the mixture into a saucepan to let it simmer in a little olive oil.

She’d resolved to teach Luke how to love, and nothing said
I
love
you
like breakfast in bed—huevos rancheros, his favorite. It had taken some epic guilt-tripping for Gram to convince Luke to spend the night, and June didn’t intend to waste this rare opportunity.

While the salsa bubbled, she coated Gram’s skillet in butter and heated a flour tortilla for two minutes on each side, then slid the lightly browned flatbread onto a warming plate in the oven. After adding another hefty pat of butter to the skillet, she fried three eggs over easy, the way Luke had always liked them. She ladled some steaming salsa onto a plate, topped it with the warm tortilla, then added three flawlessly fried eggs. Another spoonful of sauce and a sprinkle of shredded cheddar, and the dish was complete. She even garnished it with a tiny bluebell from the backyard.

With a mug of piping hot black coffee in one hand and the world’s most perfect breakfast in the other, June made her way to Luke’s bedroom. Luckily, he hadn’t closed his door completely, so she bumped it open with her hip.

“Oh, sugar.” His room was empty. Seconds later, the squealing pipes in the hall bathroom told her he’d turned on the shower. So much for breakfast in bed. She could set her watch by Luke’s showers—exactly ten minutes. Hoping the stewed salsa would keep his eggs warm, she placed the meal on Luke’s nightstand and scrawled a short note on the back of a gas station receipt:
Happy
Labor
Day! ~June

Since she’d already checked in with Esteban, June returned to her bedroom to dress, choosing a pair of jeans that covered the stings on her legs. Most days she didn’t bother hiding them, but who’d want to buy food and drinks from someone who looked poxed? She slipped on her fitted, black Shooters T-shirt, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and then padded downstairs to the kitchen.

Gram had come in from the garden, and she stood behind the sink washing dishes while Lucky mewed and brushed against her calves.

“Come here, sweet kitty.” June made kissing noises and crouched down to scratch behind Lucky’s ears, but he hopped forward, rejecting her touch in favor of kneading Gram’s house shoes with his front claws.

“I think I’ve been replaced.” June grabbed a dish towel and began drying. “Maybe I should leave him with you when I go back to Austin.”

Because they stood so closely, June felt Gram’s shoulder tense at the words. “Plenty ’a time to talk about that later,” Gram said, clearly not ready to face June’s return home. Truth be told, June wasn’t ready to face it either. “I need a favor.”

“What’s that?” June asked.

“Can you take a couple hours off this week? I gotta have a procedure done, and I can’t drive myself—”

“
What?
” June interrupted, fisting her dish towel.
Procedure
sounded so clinical and serious. “Are you okay?”

Gram waved her soapy hand. “I’m fine. Just somethin’ Doc Benton orders once a year since my surgery.”

“Surgery?” Taking a step back, June scanned Grammy from the top of her gray head to the tips of her fuzzy, blue slippers, checking for dull skin or bowed posture, anything that might indicate Gram was unwell. “When did you have surgery?”

“Hmm.” Gram glanced out the window into the yard. “Goin’ on seven years, I s’pose. Had some intestinal blockage.”

“Wh—” The word died on June’s tongue, choked out by disbelief. Grammy had gone under the knife, and nobody had bothered to tell her? Heat flushed June’s cheeks—first in anger at her fellow townsfolk, and then at herself, because ultimately, she’d been the one to cut ties with Gram. Had Grammy been scared, or in a lot of pain? Who’d stood by her bedside to pray with her before the operation? Who’d brought flowers and cards afterward and driven her home to make sure she hadn’t overdone it?

“It was nothin’ serious,” Gram reassured her, but June knew better. Competent physicians didn’t recommend surgery without good cause. “So can you?” Gram asked. “Drive me?”

“Of course.” June finished drying a cereal bowl, then set it on the counter. “But do you promise you’re okay? Tell the truth.” She’d always seen Gram as unshakable—a six-foot-tall pillar of fortitude—but maybe this giant of a woman wasn’t as strong as she’d assumed. Maybe Gram was mortal after all.

“I’m fine, June,” she said in her signature, stern tone. “I swear it on the Good Book.”

June let out a breath. “Okay.” Since both hands were wet, she leaned against Gram, giving her a side hug. “I’m glad. And I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you, Grammy.” But she
would
be here the next time her grandmother needed her.

“Psh!” She bumped June’s hip. “Now, don’t start that mess.”

June smiled. The old Gram was back. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You workin’ Burl’s booth today?”

“Yeah. I told him I’d run the booth for free, if he’d donate half the profits. Wasn’t easy convincing him.” She dried the wooden spoon and reached up to restore it to its proper place above the sink. “I thought I was tightfisted, but he pinches pennies so hard they bleed copper.”

Gram grunted softly, her version of a snicker. “Where’s the money goin’?”

“I figured I’d split it between God’s Pantry and Helping Hands.”

They worked quietly for the next few minutes, letting the scratch of steel wool and the gentle slosh of water fill the silence. June peered out the window, taking in the clear, indigo sky and the morning sun playing across golden cornstalks. From her earlier visit to the garden, it seemed fall had decided to unpack its bags and stay awhile.

She looked forward to spending the day outdoors at the fair, even if it meant working. Maybe she’d abandon her post long enough to enjoy some cotton candy and ride the bumper cars. Too bad she couldn’t convince Luke to take the afternoon off and play, but he intended to celebrate Labor Day by laboring. No surprise there.

“What about you?” June asked. “Are you selling pumpkin butter, or making the sandwiches?” Gram’s church was famous for their five-alarm barbeque beef sandwiches. Their banner hadn’t changed since June’s childhood:
Come
for
the
Brimstone
BBQ, stay to be saved! Because your mouth should burn, not your soul!
June smiled to herself, realizing Burl’s booth-o-wickedness would probably face the church tent from the opposite side of the field, where the county lines changed from dry to wet. A showdown between sinners and saints.

“Well, I’m not rightly sure.” Gram drained the sink, shook her wet hands, and then wiped them on the front of her checkered, blue apron. “I’d kinda thought about—”

“Hey,” Luke interrupted, clomping into the kitchen in his heavy work boots. His damp hair dripped down the side of his neck, and he seemed more rested than she’d seen him in a week—skin bright and freshly shaven, his clear, green eyes free from the weight of exhaustion. He held the empty breakfast plate in one hand while sipping his coffee. “I’m heading out.” And then he walked right past her, set the plate in the sink, and turned to go without another word.

June’s heart sank an inch. He didn’t even mention the breakfast. He’d obviously eaten it, and there was no way he’d missed her note.

“Did you like it?” she asked in a voice much more fragile than she’d intended. “I got up at six to start making the sals—”

“Sorry.” Still facing away, his back stiffened, the wide muscles of his shoulders stretching that thin white T-shirt tight enough to bust a seam. “I didn’t thank you for the eggs.”

“Well, you still haven’t.” Heat flushed June’s face again, heart thumping as hurt morphed into anger. But just as June geared up to say,
See
if
I
ever
make
huevos
rancheros
for
you
again, dillhole
, she remembered the pastor’s words. This would take time. And patience.

Luke turned and made a grand, faux gesture of gratitude, flourishing his hand and bowing low like a knight in shining Timberlands. “A thousand pardons, your grace.” The hint of a smile played on his lips, and it was the only thing holding her back from flicking his face with the dish towel. “From the bottom of my soul, thank you for the eggs.”

“You’re welcome, jerk.”

“Uh, Lucas,” Grammy began, pausing to untie her apron. “What’re your plans for the day?”

“Same as the last time you asked. Installing granite countertops in the kitchen.”

Grammy froze, then jabbed one finger in the air. “You gettin’ smart with me?”

“No, ma’am.” Shaking his head, Luke leaned against the refrigerator and tried to hide a smirk.

“I gotta favor to ask.” She draped her apron over the back of a chair, then slowly lowered onto the wood seat with a groan. Bringing one hand to her hip, she massaged in circles, while her face contorted in pain. June gasped, remembering the conversation they’d had a few minutes earlier, but just as she opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, Gram locked eyes with her and winked.
Grammy
actually
winked?
“Need your help today,” she continued, “at the church tent.”

“Oh, no, no, no. I can’t, Pru. I already wasted one day—”

“It’s this hip-a-mine,” she interrupted. “Actin’ up again. It’s never been right since that time you left the floor wet an’ I slipped ’n fell. Remember?” She groaned again and nodded at Luke. “You dropped them ice cubes, never cleaned ’em up.”

Luke heaved a sigh, his shoulders rounding forward as he deflated like an old beach ball. “That was a million years ago, but yeah, I remember.”

“Sure would be nice to stay home ’n rest. Workin’ the fair’s tough on my back, and now, with this hip—”

“Jesu—uh, I mean, jeeze, Pru.” Luke squeezed the bridge of his nose, and June wondered if she should tell him he was being played like a royal flush. “Can’t you get someone from church to fill in for you?”

“We’re spread mighty thin, Lucas. There’s the bake sale, cookin’ up all that beef, collectin’ money, the mission work…”

“What about you?” Luke said, glancing at June with his brows raised in hope. “Come on, Junebug. Do me a solid here.”

June pointed to her T-shirt, where
Shooters
Tavern
looped across her chest in red embroidery. “I’m selling the devil’s brew today. Sorry.” But she wasn’t sorry, not at the prospect of sharing another day with Luke. Her time in Sultry Springs was limited, and she’d make the most of the opportunity Gram had just tossed into her lap. Maybe she could even drag him to the bumper cars. No, the Ferris wheel—that sounded more romantic. Plus, he couldn’t run away when belted in a seat and suspended sixty feet above the ground. “But, hey,” she said. “If you’re sticking around, can I get a ride? I need to pick up a ton of stuff from Shooters, and it won’t fit in my car. I’d planned on borrowing Trey’s truck, but this way I won’t have to.”

Luke closed his eyes and locked his thumb and forefinger around his temples. “What time’s your shift, Pru?”

Grammy glanced at the digital time display on the microwave, and June could practically see the wheels turning in her grandmother’s wily mind as she calculated how long it would take Luke to drive to Hallover and back. “Noon to six.”

Well
done, Grammy, you evil genius
. It was ten o’clock now, not enough time to make the round-trip and get any work done at his house before twelve. June felt a distant pinprick of guilt as she watched Luke hang his head in defeat, but she vowed to increase her efforts and get his property on the market in plenty of time. Besides, in the grand scheme of things, what difference would one day make?

“Fine,” Luke grumbled. “But I’m gettin’ a free sandwich out of this.” Pointing to June, he added, “Beer too. I’m gonna need it.”

“Deal. Let’s go.” June grabbed her purse and planted a kiss on Gram’s cheek. “Hope you feel better, Grammy. Call Luke’s cell if you need anything. Mine doesn’t get service out here.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Gram gave another conspiratorial wink. “You kids behave yourselves. Y’hear?”

***

Pressing her shoulder against the back door, June heaved forward with all her weight, while simultaneously jiggling the rusted key inside its lock. “Burl needs to replace this dead bolt,” she complained. There was a trick to getting the door open, but she hadn’t mastered it yet.

“Burl needs to replace a hell of a lot more than that. Here, move over.” Luke nudged her aside and took hold of the doorknob, then lifted hard and pulled back. “Now try.”

The bolt slid aside easily, and they stepped inside the veritable minefield that was Shooters. June kicked aside a fallen pool stick and wrinkled her nose at the foul potpourri of odors emanating from the men’s room.

“God bless,” she said, regarding dozens of unwashed beer mugs—some still half full—that covered the back tables. “There’ll be rings all over the wood now.” The staff wasn’t supposed to leave before cleaning the glassware and tidying the place. She did her part Saturday night, but nobody else seemed to give half a darn, least of all the owner. What a waste.

“This place is a dump. Looks even worse in the daytime.” Luke flipped on the lights, then inspected a few chairs until he found one clean enough for his jean-clad backside. “It’s a good thing Burl doesn’t have any competition around here.”

“You know, he’s not a bad guy. I actually like him a lot, but he’s a terrible businessman.” She swept her hand toward the pool tables, covered in a dusting of peanut shells and blue chalk. “He tries to save money by not hiring a cleaning crew, but it hurts him in the end.”