Goodbye to You (19 page)

Another date, another night of difficult wardrobe choices.

Leesh is working her second job at the lingerie store, and Bennie is understandably moping. I’m on my own.

I admire my reflection in the mirror. I think I did all right.

My hair’s still straight from Miguel’s masterful styling last night, so I don’t require more than a touch-up with the flat iron.

A few sections of hair hang loose around my face, and the rest fall down my back.

The sleeveless purple top is cut high but still shows off my curves. The black capris are fitted but not too tight.

I spin, checking out my butt in the reflection and nodding in approval.

I freshen my make-up and notice I’m glowing a little.

Smiling a lot.

My happiness on the inside is showing on the outside.

Love is a balm for the soul, and mine has sorely needed soothing.

I sling my large black bag over my shoulder and walk into the living room. Bennie sits motionless on the couch, remote in one hand, candy bar in the other, staring at the television airing a reality show marathon.

She intermittently grunts at the inane conversations of the “celebutantes,” but other than that, she hasn’t spoken to me all day.

I leave her alone when she gets all dark and broody like this. She’ll snap out of her funk in a couple days. I’d let her sleep on the couch forever if it meant she wouldn’t go back to Enrique. But when Bennie falls for someone, despite her anti-romantic rants, she falls hard. All in.

I understand.

I hug her, one arm around her shoulder. “Call me if you need anything. Or if you need more . . .”

I point at the empty candy bar wrappers littering the floor around the couch.

She grunts, her smile weak.

It’s something.

I’m about to walk out when she speaks. “Hey McBride, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

I chuckle. “Ha. Which is nothing, so I’m good.”

“That’s my point, crazy girl. Have fun.”

I blow her a kiss and walk out.

The pick-up is washed and waxed, vacuumed and polished. Nothing fancy, but at least it looks good tonight.

Shay’s gonna be mighty cute sitting in the passenger seat.

I get to his place in less than ten minutes. He’s in one of the cookie-cutter student housing complexes bordering the campus. The apartments are popular more for proximity than character.

I park and hop out of the truck to find him waiting on the steps of his building.

He stands, his long legs closing the gap between us.

“You’re . . . I know I say it all the time . . . amazing.” He reaches out his hand and curls his fingers in a couple tendrils of hair hanging over my shoulder. “I like it.”

“Thanks.” My gaze skims from the top of his dark, styled hair, to the crisp white polo encasing his defined biceps, to his boat shoes. “You clean up nice yourself.”

My wide grin belies my casual words. He’s gorgeous.

I link my arm in his and lead him to my truck.

He whistles. “Sweet ride. Not what I expected.”

“Not what you expected? Says the callus-handed boater who drives a dinky hybrid.”

He covers his heart with his free hand. “Ouch. Hit a guy where it hurts, won’t you?”

I giggle . . . wait, did I giggle?

Oh boy. I’m in deep.

“Hop in and let me show you real Southern hospitality. Pepe’s is delicious, but you need to get some authentic home cooking in you if you’re gonna be living here for a few years.”

We pull up to Mama Hattie’s, a country-cooking restaurant about thirty minutes outside of town. Since it’s not within walking distance of the campus, most of the clientele are older regulars.

The old tin signs decorating the posts on the front porch of this old-house-turned-restaurant lend a rustic touch to the building. Mama brought me here from the time I was little, and Hattie and her staff are like a second family.

The stairs creak as we step up, and I stop Shay with a hand to his chest.

Damn, it’s sinful for a man to feel this good.

“I want to warn you. Check your ‘future doctor’ tendencies at the door. Everything in here is battered and fried at least once, or cooked with a stick of real butter.”

He shrugs. “People know doctors don’t make the best patients. Most exhibit at least one awful habit. Battered and buttered will be mine. We’ve all got to go somehow. There’s only one thing to die from that’s more enjoyable than unhealthy meals.”

He winks, setting my panties on fire.

He opens the front door for me, and the rich, familiar, butter-tinged scents welcome us. The kitchen is visible from the entry, and a cacophony of pops, whistles, sizzles, and dings greet us.

Old Mama Hattie herself greets us at the door, her bright smile beaming on her dark, wrinkled face. She’s eighty if she’s a day, but her infectious grin is more like a child’s, bright, energetic, and optimistic.

She’s little, even shorter than me, and when her slender, papery arms wrap around me her chin grazes my shoulder. “Thea Michelle McBride, as I live and breathe! Where ya been, child? Mama’s missed your sweet face.”

“I miss you too, Mama Hattie. Sorry I haven’t been around much. Got lots going on.” I pull away from her surprisingly strong embrace and turn to Shay. His lips are curled into a slight smile.

I sweep my hand to direct Hattie’s attention to him. “Mama Hattie, this is my friend Shay. Shay, this is my dear friend Mama Hattie Owens.”

She sweeps an appreciative gaze from his head to his toes. She leans in and squeezes his arms. “Oooooh, sugar, if this is what ya been busy with, I’m surprised ya came up for air tonight instead a stayin’ under the covers with this one.”

Shay is adorable when he blushes about twenty shades of red at her words.

I try to suppress a laugh.

He takes her teasing in stride though and returns Hattie’s bright smile. He tilts his head in my direction. “If this one hadn’t caught me, I’d be coming over here to hide out with you, Miss Hattie.”

Hattie swats at his arm but looks at me. “Wooooo, baby girl, ya got a saucy one here.”

I nod in agreement.

Hattie shakes her head. “Boy, you couldn’t handle the goodies old Hattie can still dish out. Ask Old Man Taylor. He’ll tell ya.”

Hattie, enjoying her flirtation with a man young enough to be her grandson, takes Shay by the arm and leads him to a table in the back of the restaurant.

A small round booth in the darkest corner of the joint.

Hattie winks at me.

I slide into the tight space and my bare calf brushes against Shay’s hair-roughened leg, sending currents of electricity tingling through my entire body.

“Whatcha drinkin’?” Hattie pulls out a pad to take our order.

“Sundrop for me. I’m the designated driver tonight.”

Hattie nods at Shay.

“Beer. Whatever’s on tap.”

Hattie puts her hand on one hip, feigning exasperation. “Hey Mr. Fancy Pants, no taps here. Can or bottle. Your choice.”

Shay laughs at Hattie’s sass. “Well, sweet thing, why don’t you bring me whatever your favorite is.”

He winks, and Hattie swats at him with her notepad. She’s as crazy about him as I am.

We both examine the extensive menu, and when Hattie returns with our drinks, pen poised over pad, Shay sags against the cushions, his eyes blank.

“Know what you want?” I raise my eyebrows.

“No idea. What’s good?” He replaces the menu in the pocket on the wall behind the booth, tipping his head at me. “You know what? Surprise me.”

I crook my finger at Hattie, and she leans in. I whisper the order in her good ear. She nods and exclaims “Ooooh!” and “There ya go, child!”

Brows drawn, Shay presses his lips together. “What the heck did you order?”

“You’ll see!” I give into temptation, leaning in to kiss his cheek, but he turns his head the split second before contact.

Our lips connect, and I tingle all over. We kiss softly for a few minutes, and then someone plops change in the digital jukebox I convinced Hattie to get last year.

One of my favorite singers asks for his country girl to shake her bootie for him.

I can’t resist the request, so I jump up and join a couple other people treading the boards in the middle of Mama Hattie’s Country Kitchen.

I’m positive Shay’s never had a Carolina girl shake it for him like I’m about to.

I didn’t think people line danced anymore, except at weddings, but Thea and other patrons are shooting holes in my assumptions.

The dancers turn and stomp, rattling the floorboards. They clap to the beat, turn again, and then all the ladies stop in place and shake their hips at the singer’s request.

Her top molds to her curves, her breasts shimmying in time to the music. I cover my eyes, not sure how much longer I can take the torture of watching her move, knowing how hot she is underneath the thin layers of clothing.

Good grief. If this song doesn’t end soon, she’ll keep shaking what her mama gave her, and I’ll pass out from lack of oxygen to the brain.

Because all the blood flows to my groin, giving me the stiffest erection I’ve ever had.

This “taking things slow” might not last past tonight if that’s what she wants.

I can’t wait anymore. The six weeks since I’d last touched her smooth naked skin were like a lifetime, and I never want to go that long again.

If I could dance, I’d join her on the creaky boards, press against her lush bottom, and whisper in her ear what I’d do to her later . . .

“What are you going to do when you get her home?”

Hattie.

Crap. I’d been mumbling my thoughts. They weren’t just in my head.

“He-hey, Miss Hattie. Nothing.” I grab my beer bottle and take a long swig of the smooth local craft beer. “Can I get another?”

She squints her eyes before nodding and walking off. People scrutinize me when Thea’s around.

She’s loved, and her friends want to protect her.

I understand because I want to protect her too.

I wasn’t sure I could ever relax enough to let this kind of love in.

Hattie sets another beer on the table, grabbing my empty bottle.

The song ends, and Thea slides back into the booth, laughing. She’s flushed and glowing, heat emanating from her body from the exertion of dancing. Her straightened hair is frizzing again, wisps curling around her heart-shaped face and framing her enchanting blue eyes.

She’s never been prettier.

As Thea sits, another server approaches the table, arms laden with dishes of buttery, gooey, greasy goodness. He sets the food on the table. Food? More like heart attacks on plates.

Mac and cheese with a crusted top, greens swimming in liquid gold, breaded meat, fried okra, and biscuits. Lots of biscuits.

I can’t come here too much or else I’ll start packing on the pounds.

I shake my head and grab a paper napkin to wipe the sweat trickling down my neck. The air is comfortable, and I’ve endured worse in Key West in the middle of summer. When Thea’s around, though, the temperature climbs to sweltering-rainforest level.