Her Name Is Trouble: A small-town contemporary romance (The Daimsbury Chronicles Book 2) (3 page)

She could go online and find out...and then be tempted to dig up more about her parents, how they were doing. No, that would open the door wide for her to cave in and call them to hear their voices. They’d run her over again, no doubt. Breaking away without a trace had been all about finding herself, and she hadn’t acquired solid-enough footing yet to be her own person and refuse to be shaped into what they wanted her to be.

Still, the urge to know wouldn’t leave her, and she craved to find out what went on behind the scenes at
TnT
.

Missy stifled a gasp when a realisation slid in.

She had a perfect source right here—Luke would know what brewed. How to get him to talk to her, though?

Put on your big girl panties, sugar.
She’d have to use every ounce of the Southern charm she’d fought hard to stifle ever since leaving Texas. Luke Morelli wouldn’t know what hit him.

And she had an apology to deliver, too, in the process.

Chapter Three

Armed with a basket full of home-made Girl Scout cookies—she’d once read that Luke said his dream would be an assortment of such goodies to nibble on freely—Missy reached the doorstep of the Morelli household on the outskirts of town and stopped under the porch.

She could do this, surely.
Deep breath.
Ben would also never let her live it down that she owed Luke an apology for her catastrophic conduct the other day, and her own manners had plagued her for the past forty-eight hours, telling her she couldn’t hide out like a coward. She might’ve shrugged off the mantle of the true Southern belle but she still had standards, thank you very much.

So here she stood, peace offering in hand, and more devious motive carefully hidden. Okay, she just wanted some information; how wrong could that be? She
had
come to apologise.

The bell chimed a sound resembling Big Ben, and seconds later, the door swung open to reveal Liam Morelli with a small towel on a shoulder and a tiny baby lying stomach down on his left arm. The two of them melted her heart.

“Best accessory for a man,” she said with a nod towards the baby. “Honey, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Liam chuckled. “Yeah. If I could, I’d hold him all the time, but Honor’s adamant we don’t let him get too used to being held.”

“And she’d be right to say so. Speaking of Honor, is she here?”

No self-respecting Southern woman entered another female’s house without her consent, especially if the homeowner was married. Hell, in Louisiana, a wife could legitimately sock another woman if she found her alone in her kitchen with her husband.

“She’s gone out with my mum and Andie.”

Right—Liam’s teenage daughter from his first marriage. And that meant there wouldn’t be any woman inside. Her code of ethics did not support that.

Liam lifted his arm to bring the baby up and he dropped a kiss on the downy head. “So it’s just us lads. Innit, Ryan?” he asked his son.

Missy wanted to go all “aww” on them, but she couldn’t. She’d have to rethink her strategy—

“Come on in.” Liam stepped away from the entrance so she could enter.

“Actually, I can’t. Like, it wouldn’t be respectful to Honor for me to come in when she’s not here—”

“Missy, this is not the American South,” a deep voice said from inside, around a chuckle.

She gulped, pushing down all her good sense in the process. Luke was here, just beyond that door. A peek inside showed him on the three-seater sofa in the front room, left leg propped up on pillows on the coffee table.

The baby, Ryan, started squirming and a soft mewl escaped him. In a flash, Liam had turned him around and pressed him to his shoulder.

“Oh, no, you don’t. If you start crying now, you won’t stop and then your mummy will never leave you alone with me again...” His words faded as he walked back into the house towards what she assumed to be the kitchen.

How precious.
Everyone knew Honor had already been pregnant with another man’s child when she and Liam met, yet look how he loved that baby like his own. Honor Whelan-Morelli had landed herself a true gem with him.

Left alone on the porch, Missy had no other option than to step into the house and close the door behind her. The basket weighed heavy in her hand, and she shuffled in place all while giving Luke a shy, contrived smile. Suddenly, her good idea to come mine information didn’t seem so brilliant anymore.

Luke sat up straighter on the couch.

“You’re not gonna stand there all day, right?” A hint of humour permeated his tone.

She shook her head and started forward, only to catch the tip of her sneakers into the rug. With a quick hand out to clasp the nearby sofa, she righted herself just in time to not splatter all over the living room floor.

A wave of mortification burned through her under his steady—and unbelieving; she didn’t miss those raised eyebrows—perusal. Dang flat shoes. She could walk for miles in heels and not falter, thanks to her mother’s coaching, but put her in flats and she’d trip over a cordless phone. With her paltry money, though, second-hand sneakers from Oxfam had proved all she could’ve afforded during her last trip to London.

Missy stiffened her spine and forced another smile. She placed the basket on the coffee table and wrung her now-empty hands. “These are for you. To, um, say sorry for the other day.”

He smiled, and all her marbles scattered. Still so much the sight she had seen that magical evening with him...

“You didn’t have to—”

“Reckon I did!”

He chuckled. “Okay. Then thank you. Why don’t you sit down?”

She glanced at the high-backed sofa and dropped her weight into it. Habit forced her to scoot to the very edge so she could cross her feet at the ankles—never at the knees, as it had been drilled into her, unless she wanted a network of varicose veins on her legs.

The silence preyed on her nerves, and like it always inevitably happened, to her mother’s great chagrin, her mouth opened of its own accord to spew words.

“I hope the cookies came out good. I mean, I tasted them, of course, but I don’t know if you’ll like them, reckon, there could be too much sugar. You don’t eat sugar, do you?” She smiled hard to stop herself from blubbering.

He glanced at the basket. “I’m sure they’re good.”

The reserved tone struck her. She’d always known him to have a sunny personality, so why the chill now? Then it hit her and she almost slapped her forehead.

“Oh, they’re gluten-free.”

His head jerked up. “Pardon me?”

“I...I know you can’t eat gluten, so I made those myself. Used sorghum flour and xanthan gum that I found in the restaurant’s pantry. So, um, they’re safe. For you, I mean.”

He stared at her for so long, she wondered if she had a wart on her nose. “What?”

Luke huffed and shook his head. “You went to all that trouble?”

She shrugged, uncomfortable at the awe in his voice. “Well, you can’t eat regular cookies, so if I wanted to bring you cookies, I had to make sure you could eat them, know what I mean?”

He laughed then, the sound deep, rich, and soothing. Like decadent chocolate fudge licked off a spoon. Better yet, licked off his hair-free pecs and the dips and ridges of his eight-pack abs—

Get a grip on yourself!
A hot blush flamed through her and singed her cheeks.

Luke picked up a thin mint and bit into it. She almost combusted on the spot when he darted his tongue out to catch the crumbs that had stuck to his upper lip. The moan of pleasure that rumbled from his throat shattered what sense remained in her; she sat there gawping at him like a prissy, convent-raised schoolgirl catching her first glimpse of a man doing a strip tease in front of her.

“These are delicious, Missy.”

Lord, he could say her name all day long on repeat and she’d die and go to Heaven.

Except that it’s not your name...

The realisation threw a bucket of ice-cold water onto her heated thoughts and she sobered on the spot.

“Missy,” he said. “I still don’t know your full name.”

She licked her dry lips and pulled in a deep breath. “It’s Taylor. Missy Taylor.”

He paused with a cookie halfway to his mouth. “Taylor?”

“A very common name in the south. Why?” Attack would be the best defence.

He seemed to ponder her answer. “And you’re from Texas?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So what brought you here?”

She trilled a soft laugh. “You don’t beat around the bush.”

He lifted his shoulders. “See no reason for it, really.”

“Long story short, I hooked up with a boy, came to Europe to backpack with him—” she didn’t add that the backpacking took place in world-famous clubs, “—and we parted ways in London. One day, I lost all my belongings, and London being such an expensive city, I hitchhiked my way out and ended up here, where Ben and Jari took me on as a charity case.”

He frowned. “That’s not safe, you know.”

“What? Staying with Ben and Jari? They’re absolute darlings—”

“No. I meant travelling around on your own like that. You’d have been such easy prey.”

She understood where his concern came from—Luke having struck her as the embodiment of a gentleman—but his dismissal of her as a frail female still grated.

“I can hold my own, thanks.”

He let go of the cookie basket to sit back. “Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that you were naïve or gullible or anything.”

“Apology accepted.”

She stood; the intimate atmosphere between them having been ruined with her prickliness.
Way to go, Missy.
She hadn’t stuck her foot in her mouth this time, or tripped over him, but she’d killed the mood as effectively as a candlesnuffer over a flame. “I better get going.”

“Hey, I’m really sorry,” he said.

After laying his head back against the sofa, he brought his hands up and rubbed them over his face.

A sign of frustration if she’d ever seen any. “Something wrong?”

He peered up at her, and that’s when she noticed the dark circles rimming his eyes. Worry, most certainly, caused them, as well as the pain from his broken toe. The latter thanks to her.

“I find myself in a bit of a tight spot with work right now,” he admitted.

Missy sat back down. “Wanna talk about it? I’ve been told I’m a good listener. Like, when I’m not careening into people, throwing hot soup over them, and breaking their toes.”

Self-deprecation went a long way in setting a trusty mood for confidences.

He laughed, then the mirth died. “I have an important shoot next week in New York, but now I won’t be able to travel.”

“For
Sinners&Saints
?”

“Yeah. How’d you guess?”

“They’re your biggest contracts. I figured it’d take them to have you in such a tizzy.”

He sighed. “I don’t know how to break it to them that I won’t be able to make it.”

“Is it for
Sinners
or for
Saints
?”

“
Saints
.”

“So suits, then.”

“Yes.”

“What’s the collection like?”

He seemed to hesitate to answer her. Of course, confidentiality agreements and the like. “I won’t rattle to anyone, promise.”

Plus she also had an idea what this season’s offering would carry; she’d listened in on the design team a little before leaving, hoping that by getting involved in the business, her father would see that she could be trusted with his company. She had no plans to make CEO ever, but some respect for her intellect would’ve been welcome.

“Okay. Something tells me I can have faith in you.”

She gulped at that admission. If he ever came to find out she had hidden her true identity...

“The shoot is for formal suits, kind of a throwback to historical attire. You know, doublets and coats that look like riding jackets.”

“Very British.”

He nodded. “Indeed.”

Ideas fired up in her brain. “And here you are in England.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She laughed and opened her hands in a wide sweep. “Look around you. This is
the
setting for historical suits.”

“You want me to ask them to move the shoot here?”

“That
would
solve your problem, right?”

“True, but...”

“But what?”

“Missy, how can I ask them that?”

And here peeked out the good-guy nature of this man—surprising how he’d reached such heights without steamrolling or short-changing anyone in his whole career.

“You’re their brand ambassador, Luke. The line is nothing without you.”

He shrugged. “I’m not irreplaceable.”

Could he be for real? A part of her swooned at his humility.

“Yes, but right now, you are indispensable if they want to continue promoting their products with flair and panache. Ask them to move the technical team here for a few days.”

“I’m not sure—”

“Oh, come on, Luke. Thanks to you,
TnT
’s business has been doing hotter than a hooker’s doorknob on payday. Trust me on this; they need
you
more than you need them right now.”

“That’s akin to going in like a kamikaze.”

“What other choice do you have?” On this line, she stood and made for the door. “Think about it.”

She didn’t wait for his reply and let herself out of the house.

Only when she reached the swinging wood gate did she realise she’d found nothing about her father’s company and what it planned to do in the coming months that would prove so much a game changer.

Drat. This meant she’d have to find another opportunity to talk to Luke again.