Love, betrayal, and sweet revenge—life in Cottonbloom is about to get a whole lot hotter . . .
Sutton Mize is known for lavishing attention on the customers who flock to her boutique on the wealthy side of her Mississippi town. So when she finds a lace thong in her fiancé’s classic cherry-red Camaro, she knows just who she sold it to: her own best friend. In an instant, Sutton’s whole world goes up in flames. . .
Wyatt Abbott has harbored a crush on Sutton since he was a young kid from the other side of the tracks. He witnessed Sutton’s shocking discovery in the Camaro at his family-owned garage—and it made him angry. What kind of man could take lovely, gorgeous Sutton for granted? But then Sutton comes up with an idea: Why not give her betrothed a taste of his own medicine and pretend that she’s got a lover of her own? Wyatt is more than happy to play the hot-and-heavy boyfriend. But what begins as a fictional affair soon develops into something more real, and more passionate, than either Sutton or Wyatt could have imagined. Could it be that true love has been waiting under the hood all along?
Chapter Two
Sutton stared at the lace concoction.
From La Perla’s fall collection. Fine Italian lace. Ridiculously expensive for
something so small. A special order with the addition of a small embroidered
heart to sit at the owner’s hipbone. Oh yes, she was acquainted with the
underwear but not intimately acquainted. She’d ordered them through Abigail’s
Boutique, but not for herself. She was too practical.
Wyatt Abbott shook them even closer
to her face, obviously expecting her to take them. The thought of touching the
lace made her shrink against the driver’s door, and she fumbled for the handle,
finally finding it and yanking. The door opened and her momentum sent her to
the shop floor on her butt.
Her skirt bunched around her thighs,
probably high enough for Wyatt Abbott to see her simple cotton pink panties
from Victoria’s Secret. The fact they weren’t white was the wildest she got.
She’d even waited for them to go on sale. With a bruised ego and bottom, she
scrambled up.
Wyatt hadn’t moved. His mouth was
parted, still in a slight smile, the panties dangling from his fingers. Instead
of the roil of emotions gaining steam inside of her, she concentrated on his
hands. They were rough-looking and callused. The nails were short but lined
with grease. And they were big. They built things. Fixed things. Put things
back together.
A darkness came over his face,
clouding his earlier good-humor and giving him an edge of danger she hadn’t
sensed through his teasing. Instead of getting out of the car from the door, he
stood up on the passenger seat, stepped to the driver’s seat, and hopped next
to her, the black lace of her betrayal dangling in his hand.
“What’s the problem?” he asked.
A jackhammering noise from the other
bay filled the space so she didn’t have to. The crazy thing was that she had
sensed something wrong. Something had been wrong pretty much since she and
Andrew had gotten engaged.
She’d tried to put it down to nerves
or how busy they both were with work. But the truth was she’d been dragging her
feet with the wedding preparations. Between the two of them pulling away, the
distance had grown until only an echo of what had drawn them together remained.
The hum of a motor and the flash of
sunlight on metal drew her attention to the open bay door. Her best friend,
Bree Randall, stepped out of her BMW coupe dressed in heels, grey slacks, and a
sleeveless silk shell, the pink contrasting beautifully with her dark brown
hair and ivory complexion. She was a lawyer for Cottonbloom, Mississippi’s city
government and had been Sutton’s best friend since first grade.
No way could Sutton smile and pretend
everything was fine. She grabbed the front of Wyatt’s coveralls and looked up
at him. The boy she remembered had been too cool and a borderline jerk, teasing
her incessantly, almost to the point of tears. The man was still too cool, yet
something new lurked behind his ease. She hoped it was akin to kindness.
Bree drew closer. Stuck between a
devil she knew and one she didn’t, Sutton took a chance. Her voice was hoarse
and begging and she didn’t care. “Get me out of here. Please.”
Without taking his eyes off her, he
called out, “Yo, Jackson. Could you put the lady from the Beemer in the waiting
room? Tell her Miss Mize isn’t feeling well and stepped out back for some fresh
air.”
If his brother answered, she didn’t
hear him. Wyatt put a strong, stabilizing arm around her shoulders and guided
her around various pieces of equipment and mechanical parts to a door tucked
away at the back of the shop floor. She stepped outside, closed her eyes, and
took a deep breath. The freshness of the air counteracted the bile rising in
her throat.
Her knees wobbled as the stark
reality of the situation and the fallout took shape in her mind. She glanced at
the man by her side. What was Wyatt Abbott thinking right now? Probably that
she was borderline psychotic.
A huge red barn sat behind the shop,
and they passed from sun back into shadows. A body-sized punching bag twirled
from a high beam as they passed by. That explained why the arm at her back was
so solid. Her heels tapped on the wide-planked floor. The smell of weathered
wood was overlaid by something sweeter. Honeysuckle, maybe.
No hay was stored in the Abbott’s
barn. Two tarp-covered cars, the bottom curves of their tires the only part
visible, formed a path to the back where a scratched up leather couch and
mini-fridge sat.
“Sorry it’s so dusty in here. We like
to keep the doors open if the weather’s nice because of the views and cross
breeze.” He took a blue towel from his back pocket and wiped off a section of
the couch, leaving yellow streaks of pollen. Getting a little dirty was way
down on her list of worries and she plopped down, wrapping her arms around her
stomach and leaning over so her forehead nearly touched her knees.
“You want a Coke or tea or
something?”
She raised her head enough to see his
big hand holding out a bottle. He shifted back and forth in his black work
boots, the hem of his coveralls ombrèd black to grey with grease.
“It’s a little early for whiskey, but
I’ve got that too if you’d rather.” He sounded so worried and unsure, she
straightened, took the Coke and pressed the cool plastic against her cheeks and
neck.
“You must think I’ve gone batty.” She
rarely drank alcohol and never whiskey, but for a moment she considered it as a
viable option, even though it was still technically breakfast. It was five
o’clock somewhere, right?
“I think something really bad
happened,” he said. “I’m not sure what, but I suspect it has something to do
with the restaurant receipts and the underwear.”
“Oh God. The receipts.” Her mind
hadn’t even circled back around to those, but everything notched into place
like a puzzle whose missing piece turned up stuck on the bottom of a shoe
covered with chewed up old gum and bug guts.
His late nights working. Breaking
dates at the last minute. His distraction. How long had it been since they’d
shared the same bed? Two months? Three? She’d put it down to the natural
progression of a committed relationship and the busyness of their lives,
assuming things would be better once they were living under the same roof.
“I’m a moron.” Tears crawled up her
throat and choked off her feeble attempt of a laugh.
She closed her eyes wishing she could
teleport herself back under the covers. The cushion sagged next to her, and she
tipped towards him, her shoulder bumping his biceps. A moment passed before his
arm came around her shoulders, and they sank back into the couch together.
She turned her face into the space
between his neck and shoulder and took a deep breath, desperately trying to get
a handle on her out-of-control emotions. Pain was to be expected, but the
flashes of fierce fury took her by surprise.
Easygoing and nice and cheerful were
bandied about when people passed compliments her way. At least, she’d always
taken them as compliments. Now she wasn’t so sure. Maybe all those things were
code words for weak and gullible.
Another breath. She concentrated on
Wyatt’s warmth and scent. So different from the expensive cologne Andrew wore.
Wyatt smelled like pine trees and the garage. His dark, almost black hair,
tickled her nose. A tear slipped out and she wiped it away with the heel of her
hand.
“You want me to go get your friend?”
His chest vibrated against her, deep and rich.
Friend? She
didn’t want to examine the other half of the betrayal. Worse than Andrew
cheating on her was who he’d been getting down and dirty with. Her best friend.
No. A friend wouldn’t sleep with her fiancé behind her back while helping her
plan the wedding with an enthusiasm that oftentimes exceed her own.
Sutton ransacked her brain for
moments she could point to and say Aha!
but none came to mind. Bree had been supportive and helpful over the last few
months. Lies. How many lies had Sutton accepted as gospel truth? A few more
tears escaped along with a ragged breath.
Wyatt made a humming sound that was
distinctly uncomfortable, and he pulled away. “Let me—”
She grabbed his coveralls. “No. Don’t
you get it? That was her thong.”
He shifted to face her. “Is
identifying underwear in a single glance your superpower?”
Despite her life crashing down, a
shard of humor sliced through the shock, and her lips twitched. “Expensive
underwear. The heart on the panties matches her tattoo. A special order.”
“You fiancé and your best friend?”
Put like that, she felt even dumber.
“My life has turned into a cliché.”
“It’s a cliché because of how often
it happens. Nothing for you to be ashamed of. It’s them that should feel like
chickenshit.”
“You don’t understand how people like
to talk.”
“I understand, alright. I just don’t
care what people say.” The defiant edge in his voice spoke of his own pain and
sorrows, but right now she only had room for her own. He was quiet for a
moment. “You want me to get rid of her?”
Sutton sank back and took a swig of
Coke, the burn bringing a different, more welcome, sort of tear to her eyes. “I
need to talk to her. Confront her.”
“Yeah, but not hurt and crying. You
need to prepare. Get mad then get even.”
His advice made her sit up
straighter. She’d been raised to smooth feathers, not ruffle them. Her mother
had taught her how a smile and pleasant word could diffuse most situations. The
lessons had contributed to her business success but hadn’t done her personal
life any favors. Another whip of red-hot fury flayed her heart.
“She’s my ride back over the river.”
Her voice sounded even and strong, her anger a mast to cling to amid the
wreckage.
“I can be your ride.”
“But you have work to do.”
The look he cast her was full of
disbelief. “You’re not going through with the restoration, are you?”
The Camaro, the red harbinger of her
ruin, had already slipped her mind. She didn’t even like the stupid car. Her
daddy and Tarwater senior had hatched this surprise over a round of golf with
Ford Abbott after she’d confessed she couldn’t think of anything to give Andrew
as an engagement present. Only when her daddy had anted up half the money had
she agreed. Their “go big or go home” mentality had seemed a ridiculous waste
to her.
Dear Lord, her family. What would her
daddy say? As a long-standing judge, he was sort of a colleague of Andrew’s.
She closed her eyes and rocked forward and back on the edge of the couch.
“What if I’m overreacting?” If only
this was a bad dream. Yet, did she really want that? An undercurrent that felt
vaguely like relief trickled through the anger and humiliation and doubts.
“About which part, your fiancé
cheating or who he was cheating with?” Wyatt stuck a hand into his pocket, came
out with the thong and tossed it on her lap.
She leapt up and brushed it off as if
she were Miss Muffet and it was a venomous, hairy, black spider. She kicked at
it with the toe of her shoe. The red heart mocked her from the black lace. Yet
the little girl who’d shared her pimento cheese sandwich with Bree every day
during kindergarten wanted to be wrong.
She sank back down to the edge of the
couch, feeling like she was shoring up the situation with Scotch tape. “There
could be a reasonable explanation. Like she and Andrew went to lunch and for
some reason she had them in her purse and they fell out. Maybe I’ve jumped to
the wrong conclusion.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. She appreciated
the fact he wasn’t calling her on her BS excuses even though his face was the
definition of skeptical.
“You sure you don’t mind giving me a
ride?” she asked.
“I’ll get rid of your friend and take you home. That should
buy you some time to figure things out. Confront her on your terms.”
Her initial impressions of Wyatt
Abbott were from the viewpoint of a preteen girl. Back then, she’d been self-conscious
of her skinny arms and legs and flyaway hair, and whenever she’d come to the
garage with her daddy, Wyatt had made it his mission to tease her mercilessly.
What was he now? On the surface,
she’d label him a good old boy. Fun, flirty, simple. Except, his gray eyes were
anything but. Not flat like shale, but ready to spark a fire like a flint. Raw
emotions provided a sharp awareness. Her memories of him urged her to be
cautious with her trust, yet his jaw was set and his shoulders were rolled
forward as if ready and willing to go into battle.
“Why?” she finally whispered.
“Why what?”
“Why are you being so nice to me? You
hated me as a kid.”
“Hated
you?” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and tipped his head enough to
shutter his intensity of his eyes. “I never hated you, in fact . . .” He shook
his head.
“In fact what?”
“Not important. Simply put, unlike
your fiancé and your friend, I’m not an asshole. If you don’t need me—”
“No, I do need you.” She stood but
misjudged how close he was. They weren’t touching, but she could feel his heat
and appreciate his strength. “I just . . .”
Wyatt Abbott was handsome, but even
more potent than his looks was an intangible confidence and ease with himself.
The man probably talked a different woman out of her panties every weekend.
Would he cash in on her humiliation for a good story to tell brothers and
drinking buddies? Did it even matter? Whether it was him or someone else,
rumors would rush through the town like their river after a storm
Insecurities pinged between her head
and heart, the message clear. Protect yourself. But surely, she could at least
trust him to get her home. “I would really appreciate a lift home.”
He chaffed her arms like a coach
might comfort a little kid after a loss. “It’ll be okay. You wait here while I
handle your friend, okay?”
She nodded, and he strode back toward
the garage. Highlighted in a shaft of sunlight, he hesitated at the metal door
they’d ducked through and glanced behind him. A zing of warning—or
premonition?—skittered down her spine.
Her life had been spun into chaos,
yet in that moment, she felt connected to Wyatt in a way that terrified her.
Then he disappeared, and she waited to discover out if her trust had once again
been misplaced.
Copyright © 2017 by Laura Trentham and
reprinted by permission of St. Martin's Paperbacks.
