Sweet Talk Me (11 page)

“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 break 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.”

He mentally cleared his head. “Right.”

He stood up, watched her slide out of the seat, enjoying every moment of looking down the pucker in her blouse, and extended a hand. She took it—ah, sweet Jesus, those fingers felt good—and he pulled her up. Right into his face. Or beneath his face. But close enough.

“Who are you marrying again?” he asked her, low in his throat.

She looked blankly at him, then said, “Dubose,” in the next instant.

“Too late,” he replied, much satisfied.

“It’s that vodka,” she said. “And if you expect a favor when you tease me like that, you’d better think again.”

“You already said you’re too busy to help.”

“I did say that, but since you’re an old friend, I’ll do it. As long as it won’t take very long.”

“It won’t. All you need to do is say yes. I can handle the rest. You can just sit back and watch.”

“Really?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“Okay, then.”

“Fantastic.”

They were walking side by side through the restaurant, Harrison nodding at everyone he made eye contact with. Which was everybody. He was good at sweeping a room. Didn’t want anyone to feel left out. He was also a master at acknowledging questions, comments, and good wishes without actually stopping.

“Thank you so much,” he said to a sweet young couple, then, “I know, crazy, huh?” to someone else. When a snarky old guy turned around and told him that he obviously approved of spray tans for men, he said, “You betcha!” even though he’d never had a spray tan in his life. Always better to kill ’em with kindness.

Oh, but that was Roger-the-busboy asking about the tan. Damn. Harrison would’ve flipped him off had there been no ladies present. All in fun, of course.

“Your name’s on the water tower!” cried Mrs. Bloomfield, his old third-grade teacher. “How many people can say that?”

Aw, hell. He had to stop to see
her
. He leaned over her table and took her tiny, withered hand. “I hope you’re well, Mrs. Bloomfield.”

“Except for a weak bladder, I’m fine.” She smiled demurely.

“Mama.” The woman with her put a finger to Mrs. Bloomfield’s lips, then looked at Harrison. “Sorry. She says anything she wants these days.”

“Not a problem,” Harrison replied.

“You look so handsome,” Mrs. Bloomfield said behind her daughter’s finger, “in your tight trousers.”

Awwk-ward … He glanced at the daughter, who just rolled her eyes and put away her finger. “Uh, thank you, ma’am.”

“You must be rich as Croesus.” Mrs. Bloomfield fondled her dyed macaroni necklace, probably made by one of her own students.

“I never met the guy,” Harrison replied with a smile that had won him millions of female fans, “so I wouldn’t know.”

She laughed. “Is this your girlfriend? Or wife?”

True’s eyes widened. “No, Mrs. Bloomfield. It’s me, True. You were my third-grade teacher, too.”

“True?” Mrs. Bloomfield squinted at her. “Oh, for a minute I could swear you were your mother in that outfit.” Ooh. Sucker punch from an innocent old lady. “Aren’t you marrying Dubose Waring?”

True nodded. Poor kid.

“Then what are you doing with Harrison?” Mrs. Bloomfield said, right into a lull in general conversation in the dining room.

True looked at him.

He’d let her handle this one.

“We’re just friends,” she said into the silence. “Old friends.”

“That’s right,” Harrison told Mrs. Bloomfield. “True here’s putting up me and my brother Gage—and his two mutts—at Maybank Hall while his house is undergoing renovations. A few weeks tops, and then we’ll be out of her hair.”

“What?” True’s eyes flew wide.

“He said you’re letting him and Gage and his two mutts stay at Maybank Hall,” Mrs. Bloomfield repeated to her as if True were deaf.

Which meant the whole dining room stopped chewing so they could hear True’s answer. She smiled like an angel, but Harrison could tell she was seething.

“I heard every word,” she told Mrs. Bloomfield. “I’m just not sure he got that right.”

“Sure, I did,” he said easily. “I’ve got Gage’s pickup truck out front on Main Street now. The dogs are kenneled up in the back. Oh, and we needed to bring his old TV set along. A chair, too, and a few other little things. I hope you won’t mind.”

“Of course she won’t,” said Mrs. Bloomfield. “Who wouldn’t want to help out Biscuit Creek’s two biggest stars? I’m not sure we appreciated the extent of you Gamble boys’ talent when you were growing up. We should flog ourselves for being so obtuse. Or at the least bend over backward to make it up to you now.”

Yeah, that pretty much summed things up.

“Isn’t that right, everyone?” Mrs. Bloomfield said.

“Hell to the yeah,” crowed a guy in a Simpsons T-shirt, his mouth full of okra gumbo and corn bread. Touching—but a little gross.

“Good golly, yes!” Paul the bartender, who was still a geek, piped up from the back. Good ol’ Paul. Rather,
Dr.
Paul. At least someday.

“Anyone who likes Twinkies is a friend of mine,” one elderly woman at a table of church ladies said.

“I prefer MoonPies,” another church lady averred.

A vigorous discussion of the merits of MoonPies versus Twinkies broke out across the entire dining room, with Harrison trapped right in the middle. True pointed at an invisible watch on her wrist. Crowd control.

Good call.

He wished he had his bodyguards, but he didn’t. It looked like he’d have to do this Biscuit Creek style. So he put his fingers between his lips and whistled.

Like magic, the hubbub ceased. If only the rest of the world would shush at a whistle.

“Hey, everyone.” Harrison took True’s arm, and when she met his gaze, her eyes were snapping blue fire. “As you know, I can’t stay in Charleston. I’d be stalked by the paparazzi. And Gage isn’t fond of hotels. I know here in Biscuit Creek among our own, Gage can work on his crosswords without distraction. And I need a few good weeks of peace so I can write another hit song.” He gazed around the dining room. “If we can both manage to accomplish what we have to do, I’m gonna update the Biscuit Creek library as a thank-you, so it’s in everyone’s best interests not to call in
Entertainment Tonight
.”

“He needs to write that hit song!” Mrs. Bloomfield clutched True’s arm. “And Gage needs to construct his crosswords! Help Harrison, True. Help him help
us
. I want more Darynda Jones and Nora Roberts novels in the fiction section. And my son-in-law can’t live without his Gage Gamble Sunday puzzles in
The New York Times
.”

“Help Harrison help us help the
library
!” a man in a bow tie and suspenders exclaimed.

“That should be the town’s temporary top-secret slogan,” a second man in a bow tie and suspenders said.

Anything was better than
BISCUIT CREEK: YOU WERE HERE!
—which was painted on a bullet-ridden sign at the turnoff from Highway 17.

Everyone started chatting loudly about the library and all that Harrison’s money would do for it. One man pulled out a harmonica and started playing a little ditty—for the sheer heck of it. Because some moments were just too exciting
not
to play the harmonica.

Aw, small-town life. Harrison had forgotten how downright heartwarming yet peculiar it could be. “True?” he whispered in her ear. “Remember I said you just have to say yes?”

“All right,” she murmured back, “but only if you and Gage help Weezie run the U-pick operation while I attend to wedding matters. And take care that Skeeter and Boo behave as nicely as our three hairy hooligans, which isn’t saying much.”

“Piece of cake,” Harrison said. “Deal?”

True bit her lip. “Deal.”

“Who’s getting married again?” Mrs. Bloomfield asked above the harmonica playing.

Good Lord. Someone was playing spoons now.

“Dubose and I,” said True. “You’re invited. Everyone here is.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Bloomfield’s face fell even farther than it already had due to her preponderance of wrinkles. “I guess I’ll come. Although … are you sure? Harrison here is
very
handsome.”

“
Mama
,” her daughter chided her above the merriment.

But Mrs. Bloomfield would not—could not—be stopped. “They’d make a fine couple. In fact, I seem to remember a story about Harrison crashing a fuddy-duddy party after the prom and making some idiot look the fool.”

Dubose, of course.

Harrison coughed into his fist. He had to stay on True’s good side. “We’ve really got to go, Mrs. Bloomfield.”

“I hope to see you at the wedding,” True said, her smile tight. “Bye, now.”

Mrs. Bloomfield blew her a kiss. “Good-bye, dear. Live it up while you still can.” She looked pointedly at Harrison then back at True. “For me if not for you.”

“I-I’ll do my best.” True took off, her gorgeous behind swishing like nobody’s business between the seats, in time to the beat of the spoons.

Harrison had a feeling she wasn’t even aware of it. He kissed the back of the old lady’s hand and went after his new landlord, who had damned good rhythm.

“My, he’s a hottie,” he heard a third church lady say. “But no
Entertainment Tonight
reporter will ever hear those words from
my
lips.”

Good
, Harrison thought. At the door he found Carmela trying to soothe True by offering her a stick of Fruit Stripe gum. Lord, this really
was
a small town.

“We’ll go get Gage,” he said to Carmela—no way was he going to look at True, but he could hear her, groaning and whimpering under her breath while she worked that stick of gum—“if he’s still at your store.”

It was time to move into Maybank Hall.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lord, have mercy on my soul
, thought True, borrowing one of Ada’s favorite sayings. She had one goal: to keep her sanity long enough to marry Dubose. But with Harrison and Gage moving into the house, the bumper tomato crop, and all that she had to do to keep her wedding from turning into a shambles, she didn’t know that she’d make it. She really wanted to get to her studio. Playing with her canvases always calmed her down. But since she couldn’t, she had to be content with getting the men settled in, the rules established, and Weezie cooperating.

When Harrison and Gage arrived at the house, the first thing they did was let the mutts, Skeeter and Boo, out of their kennels to be welcomed by the Maybank Labs. That was a chaotic scene. And then everyone worked together to unload a few things from the trailer and put them upstairs in Gage’s temporary quarters: an old rag rug, a dented desk, a hideous plaid armchair, an ancient tacky bedspread.

The vintage TV set they left downstairs in the front parlor.

Weezie was in awe of it. “Is it really from 1979?” she asked Gage. “What’s that dial? Where are all the channels? Why is it so big? What’s that giant antenna for?”