Waiting for Your Love (Echoes of the Heart) (10 page)

“While the whole town watches the show?”

“You’re a Dixon, honey.” Nic shook her head. “Your family should have its own Facebook page the way people keep track of your comings and goings. Everyone’s weighing in on him panting after you again.”

“He’s kinda pitiful these days,” Clair said. “Folks are shunning him for the lying, cheating dog he was to you. Meanwhile he’s running his sainted daddy’s dry cleaning business into the ground.”

Bethany winced. “His father died, C.”

“Ralph Carrington was a crank,” Nic reminded her, “and he’s been gone for two years.”

“And Benny had no problem,” Clair added, “leaving his mom to sink or swim handling things on her own—until he skidded out of art school, with no one interested in commissioning or showing his no-good sculpture.”

Bethany shrugged.

“His family’s money could have bought him
some
kind of apprenticeship in New York.” She’d refused to follow Benjie to Manhattan after high school. It had meant giving up her scholarship, but it wasn’t like she’d been able to paint anymore anyway. “It was his father’s donation that finally got him a spot in art school.”

“Your talent’s the main reason Benjie got into Pratt, and you know it.” Clair tossed her long blonde hair over the nearly bare shoulder of her micro-mini sundress. “Make this a smackdown to remember.”

Nic wiggled her smartphone in Bethany’s face. She was constantly tweeting, sharing, tumbling, gramming, or whatever else she did with her legion of virtual playmates.

“You’ll be trending on social media by midnight,” she promised.

“My dream come true.”

“Hashtag,
DirtyDogGetsHis.
”

“Hashtag,
HellNo
.” Bethany yanked the phone away and smacked it to the bar.

Clair pouted. “The guy deserves it.”

“My family doesn’t.”

Bethany had put them through enough. Her dreams of being a painter dashed, she’d run off to Atlanta after aging out of foster care. She’d no longer trusted anyone or anything she knew. Wanting a totally new life, she’d been desperate to start over again. And again. And then again.

She’d wised up a year ago, making her way back to Chandlerville with a half a dozen failed
fresh starts
in her rearview mirror. But even then she’d kept her distance from her foster family, mortified by the way she’d cut them out of her life. She’d been unsure of her welcome no matter how many ways her parents and older siblings had tried to reach out to her, or how hurt they must have been at her reticence.

Now, settling back into the family was the only dream she was chasing—even if the Dixon clan still loved all-in, like a tidal wave of unconditional acceptance that left her close to sobbing in gratitude one minute and nearly breaking out in hives the next.

“I don’t want a fight,” she told her friends.

Clair’s side-glance labeled Bethany a liar.

“He’ll get the idea,” Bethany insisted, “if I keep ignoring him.”

“Disappearing, you mean,” Nic corrected. “While you use steering clear of Benjie as your excuse.”

“I’m doing no such thing.”

Bethany had reconnected only this past January with the people she should have trusted from the start. Her foster family had a wedding and Marsha and Joe’s thirty-fifth anniversary on the horizon. And Bethany was going to be there for every moment of it. The planning and celebration. Helping any way she could. Soaking up how lucky she was to have a place in their crazy, zany world.

“I don’t care what Benjie does anymore.” So what if his unwanted advances were jumping up and down on her last nerve? “I told him to get lost last week when he showed up drunk on Dru and Brad’s doorstep. I’ll tell him again if he really comes all the way over here. Pitching a public fit will only cause more gossip and get my family involved. My brothers have been chomping at the bit all summer to measure out some Southern justice.”

“You could snag yourself another guy to hang out with,” Nic suggested. She laughed at Bethany’s rude hand gesture in response. “I know you’ve sworn off men. But I’m just saying. That would get the point across to
BenBotheringYouLongEnough
, without raising a caution flag with your bad-boy bros.”

Bethany wasn’t so sure about that. Her parents and older foster siblings knew enough about her life in Atlanta to say a time or two or twenty that they were happy to see her settling down.

She drained her pinot gri, her attention wandering to the one person in McC’s who seemed oblivious to her dilemma. Rick’s newest employee, working his first night behind the bar, had been attentive, efficient. But he’d yet to chat her and Nic and Clair up the way he had other patrons clustered around the horseshoe-shaped counter. Not that Bethany had noticed. Much. Except for wondering who he was and where he’d come from. And why what was clearly about to go down with Benjie should feel even more mortifying with this gorgeous stranger there to witness it.

Bethany watched him bend over to pull something from the minifridge beside the sink.

Clair sipped her beer. She caught Bethany staring at the guy’s assets. “I’ve seen you look at a box of Dan’s strawberry cupcakes that way. Right before you inhaled a half dozen of them.”

Bethany fluffed the spiked, purple-tinged bangs of her close-cropped auburn hair.

“I don’t know why I let you two talk me into girls’ night,” she complained.

Benjie had worked his way deeper into the crowd, stopping to talk to a table of Braves fans who were being polite. But they were clearly wanting to get back to the game they kept glancing around him to watch.

“I mean,” Bethany said, “what were the chances he
wouldn’t
show up? I could have stayed put in Atlanta. Pitched in at the youth center after teaching my class.”

“Or headed straight to Dru’s as soon as you hit Chandlerville?” Nic tsk-tsked with a shake of her head.

“I need all the painting time I can get.” And her peaceful, makeshift studio at the house that her foster sister shared with her fiancé was Bethany’s haven.

“You
need
a social life,” Clair corrected. “Pronto. Which doesn’t include volunteering teaching children how to be creative, pulling all-nighters in your painting cave, or covering odd shifts for your sister at the Dream Whip. All so you can steer clear of Mr. Wonderful over there.”

Nic was keeping a closer eye on Bethany now than Benjie. “Not that he’s the only reason we’re seeing less and less of you by the day. Your family is ramped up to an extreme state of togetherness. Even for them. It was freaking you out long before this new thing of yours started up in the city.”

Bethany smiled. The same way she did each time she remembered that beginning next month she’d be working a few days a week as an artist in residence at a Midtown Atlanta co-op.

“Now you have an even better reason to ditch us,” Nic griped. “We practically had to drag you out tonight like—”

“Some kind of
friend-tervention
?” Clair tugged at the mid-thigh hem of her dress. The thirty-something guy sitting on her other side nearly fell off his bar stool. “You need to lighten up, B, before you crack. Date a little. Have a good time. Stop letting your family get to you. Stop worrying about getting your heart stomped by another Mr. Wrong. Have a little fun with—”

“Mr. Right Now?” Bethany’s gaze returned to the sexy cowboy behind the bar.

He sported the kind of neatly trimmed beard stubble that would have made him her type . . . if she was allowing herself to have a type these days. The faded Stetson he wore might have been overkill on a less rugged man. His jeans were worn in delicious places. His soft chambray shirt elicited fantasies about smoothing her fingers across the muscles that rippled beneath as he and Law worked in fluid tandem.

She shook her head, appreciating the view and her friends’ concern. But the kind of flirty hookups Nic and Clair thrived on weren’t for Bethany anymore. Her heart, she’d learned the hard way, hadn’t come with the necessary off switch. She fell too hard, too fast. And she’d already loved enough men in her life.

She glanced out McC’s windows to the gently falling night, longing to be back at Dru’s fighting to make something happen with her paints and canvases. Instead, she was at a bar, watching Benjie Carrington’s latest descent into public intoxication.

“Is he actually wearing jeans?” she asked.

Nic snorted. “Who knew it would take half a decade in New York City to yank the stick out of his uptight butt.”

Benjie made eye contact with Bethany finally, as if he’d just realized she was there. His smile went all intimate and
How you doin’?
The room seemed to shrink, everyone between them zeroing in on Bethany’s eye roll. The fury she hadn’t shaken in five years bubbled higher. Like an overheated pot of soup, threatening to soak everything.

Clair finished her Stella and motioned for another, flashing the new bartender a smile. “Too bad Papa Carrington’s check to that fancy school couldn’t buy Benny some actual talent.”

Nic drained her vodka cranberry. “I hear he’s thinking he can get his work into a local gallery. He’s been flashing a lot of green around, donating serious bank to the Atlanta art community.”

Bethany had peeked at the sculpture samples he’d pinned to various social media boards—both school projects and freelance attempts. They were as flat and uninspired as the sketches and paintings she’d tried to help him bring to life when they’d dated. But in high-end art circles, money often trumped talent.

And money—unlike inspiration—was something Benjie had never lacked.

“His pieces have a better shot getting placed somewhere prominent in the city than mine ever will,” she admitted.

“Fraud,” Clair said.

“You’re a hundred times the artist he’ll ever be,” Nic reminded Bethany.

“Except I’m not making art anymore.”

“Not since he—”

“Screwed me?” Bethany’s gaze locked with the gorgeous brown eyes of Law’s new colleague.

The guy gave her a slow smile and a fresh glass of pinot. A jolt of adrenaline sizzled through her. She went to look away and couldn’t. Neither could he, evidently, his eyes widening as their fingers grazed. His touch lingered. His easy wink said he’d meant it to.

“Stop avoiding the inevitable,” Nic said.

“Inevitable?” Bethany mumbled, sizing up the six-foot-tall-and-then-some bartender who’d caught her attention as soon as she’d walked into McC’s.

Nic poked her with another elbow.

“Ouch!” Bethany yelped.

“You’re drooling.” Her friend pulled Bethany’s hand and glass toward their side of the bar. She handed Bethany a napkin.

The cowboy winked again before walking away. His backside had Bethany spilling her wine as she gulped it. She wiped her mouth. Her attention wandered lower, snagging on obscenely scuffed boots that looked to be for hiking, not riding.

“Earth to Bethany,” Clair called.

“I . . .” Bethany said. “What?”

Her friend hitched a thumb over her shoulder. “
BenStalkin’YouBaby’s
here.” She grinned at the running massacre she and Nicole insisted on making out of Benjie’s name. “Pull yourself together.”

Their bartender had returned with a cold Stella for Clair, who preferred her fancy Belgian beer out of the bottle. He passed Nic a fresh cocktail, then propped a brawny arm on the counter and settled in for the show.

Who
was
this guy? And what the hell was wrong with Bethany, sitting there thinking that if the only way to teach Benjie a lesson was to get her
Girls Gone Wild
on one last time . . . Wouldn’t it be fun to do it with an easy-smiling cowboy?

She cocked her head at him. Not that she was seriously considering hooking up with a total stranger who was studying her as if he were sorting through the first pieces of a complicated puzzle. Not when just the sight of the man left her desperate to find out whether he felt and smelled and kissed as good as he looked.

But Benjie didn’t have to know that, right?

“We’ve never met . . .” she heard herself saying to the Rick’s new hire. “But would you consider maybe helping me out of a bind with my—”

“Hello, gorgeous.” Benjie invaded her personal space, sliding between her and Nicole.

“Back away slowly,” she warned him, “and no one gets hurt.”

He’d always been James Bond handsome. Pierce Brosnan’s Bond—tall and lanky, almost effeminate. The most strenuous physical activity Benjie had ever embraced was lifting his arm to ask his parents for a handout.

“I was hoping you’d be here tonight,” he said, meaningful and sincere and fake beyond bearing. “I guess destiny has taken a hand.”

Nicole mimed a gag at his
Casablanca
misquote. “Or you’re destined to step outside and stand in front of Bethany’s truck.”

“While she runs you down,” Clair offered.

“In overdrive,” Bethany concurred.

The bartender chuckled his approval.

When Benjie slashed the guy a killing glare, the cowboy—why hadn’t she bothered to even ask him his name?—tipped back his weathered hat and casually checked the flat-screen overhead. The Braves were in the bottom of the sixth. His brown eyes twinkled when he glanced back to Bethany, and Bethany only, as if Benjie didn’t exist.

It felt as if the guy had hugged her.

Then Benjie and his bourbon breath crowded Bethany even closer.

“Let’s get a table,” he cajoled, “so we can talk privately.”

“I believe the lady asked you to back off,” said the hunk she’d invited into her problems.

“I did,” Bethany told her ex.

“I know we have a lot to work through.” Benjie’s words kept slurring around the edges. “But I—”

“I get that you’re a miserable failure,” Nicole interrupted, “running back home with your tail between your legs. What I
don’t
understand is how you think it’ll make things better getting your drunk on and trying to hit on our girl after the way you used her.”

“Go home and lick your wounds, Benny,” Clair told him, purring the nickname he despised. “You’re just making yourself look silly.”

“As opposed to you walking through the center of town herding a dozen dogs at one time?” Benjie glared down his nose at Clair the way all bullies did when they meant to puff themselves up by beating away at someone else.