If she quit Montgomery Industries, it would take years in another company to reach the position she currently held. Her mother would throw an epic hissy fit before pointing out the two pounds Jessica had gained since the last time she’d been home. Her sister Caroline would shake her head so the hundred-dollar blowout to her perfectly honeyed blonde hair showed to its full advantage while still conveying disappointment. Not a hint of family scandal could attach itself to the Montgomery name while Caroline’s husband Mitch made his bid for the Senate.
Her thoughts moved forward. Falcon was two hours from Birmingham. She’d drive from Richmond and dip through the red-clay plains of southern Georgia, where she’d spent part of her childhood summers. She’d visit her ma-maw’s old house and take some flowers to her grave. Lord knows, her father never bothered to pay his respects to his mother. Then she’d head to Falcon, Alabama, and do her best to convince Logan Wilde his dream job awaited in Atlanta.
She would play her father’s games, but she’d play her way.
* * *
“Sorry I had to call you back early, Coach. That stove is a beast. I was afraid I’d screw things up if I tried to fix it.”
“I’m not your coach when you’re working at Adaline’s. You can call me Logan.”
Scott Larkin, one of the Falcon football rising-senior linemen, gave him a shy smile, his gaze dropping to fill a glass with ice from behind the bar. “It’s weird to call a grown-up by their first name.”
Damn. Was that what he was now? A grown-up? He supposed at thirty-one, he finally qualified. “Mr. Wilde, if you insist, but I’m fine with Logan.”
Logan killed the sweet tea Scott slid down the bar in half a dozen swallows. He tapped his glass, and the boy refilled it from a sweating pitcher. Rubbing a bar towel over his sweat-streaked face and down the two-week’s growth of beard, he smeared grease over the white cotton.
Damn, August in Alabama felt like the pits of hell. Another trickle of sweat snaked from his temple into his beard, and he scratched at the coarse hair running down his neck. Strike that, continue south
past
the pits of hell and keep on going until the heat incinerated you to ash and the humidity clogged your lungs, making each breath an effort.
That
was August in Alabama during a heat wave.
“How’d you make out?” Scott asked.
“Unearthed four sounders of wild pigs. Less than last summer. I think we’re finally getting the upper hand.” He’d spent over a week in solitude, wandering from camp to camp, hunting the ferocious pigs that had invaded the river bottoms. He’d been alone, but not lonely.
The rhythm of the woods was written in Logan’s DNA, and he moved instinctively, cutting through the forest, leaving man-made trails behind. Once he’d lost his human scent, he’d almost become a wild creature himself. The wind spoke to him through the trees, and he’d come across deer, raccoons, squirrels, and birds. A copperhead slithered across his path, and he’d only tipped his hat in deference to its dominance.
Eventually, reality intruded. Robbie Dalton, his cousin-in-law and Falcon’s head football coach, had joined him for the last two days of the hunt. The football season was starting soon, and their quiet hunting time was interspersed with discussions of lineups and strategy.
Scott wiped down the bar, the lemony fresh scent of cleaner filling the air. The boy’s arm flexed. Thin silvery streaks marred the tan of his biceps. Stretch marks? Logan made a closer examination of his lineman. As the football team’s strength and conditioning coach, Logan paid attention to which boys had yet to hit puberty and which could handle the extra reps and weight that came with unleashed testosterone.
Scott had been gangly and knock-kneed last spring. Now suddenly he had gained a man’s muscles, and a few inches in height. His dad Ben, a former Falcon linebacker who’d played for Alabama, had probably pushed some crazy workout regimen on the kid. Lord save him from well-meaning helicopter parents living vicariously through their offspring.
“What have you been doing this summer, Scott? You’ve gained some bulk.”
Instead of flexing and showing off, Scott pulled the sleeve of his short-sleeve broadcloth shirt down. “Lifting some in the garage and running is all.”
Logic told him the kid had hit a growth spurt, yet niggling unease fluttered in his stomach.
The back door swung open and Brian, his bartender-manager, strode through. A crate of highball glasses tinkled with his every step. Logan called out to him, “I’m going to have to head home to shower. I don’t want to turn anyone’s stomach. Everything set for the dinner opening?”
“You know it, boss. Everything’s good to go now that our stove crisis has been averted. The new menu is going over well with the staff and the customers.” Brian grinned and unloaded glasses from behind the bar. It was Saturday and the dinner crowd would be heavy. Weekends attracted diners from bigger cities who came for the quaint atmosphere.
“Glad to hear it.”
Brian returned to the kitchen, and Scott scuttled behind. The rattle of bottles and the clang of a dolly broke the too-brief silence. “Logan! Damn, what’s up, buddy? Haven’t seen you for a coon’s age.”
Logan forced a smile for his old high-school friend. “Good to see you, Justin. Didn’t know you delivered for Tom.”
“First week.” He pulled a box of top shelf liquor off the dolly. “You want me to unpack it?”
“Slide the boxes behind the bar. Brian or I will stock them. Thanks.”
Justin emptied the dolly, but instead of leaving, he draped an arm over the top. “Dude, big party tonight in Wayne’s garage. Why don’t you come over? Like old times.”
The nostalgic edge in Justin’s voice turned Logan’s stomach. Hanging out in friends’ basements or garages drinking himself to oblivion, smoking weed, doing the occasional line of coke had been the norm in high school. Those were days Logan didn’t care to relive.
Instead of advising Justin to grow up and get a life, he only said, “Got to work tonight.”
Justin’s smile was guileless. “That’s right. I forgot you’re a famous chef now.”
The spread in
Southern Living
had benefited the whole town, and Adaline’s saw a bump in business whenever he switched up the menu. Out-of-towners meant increased tourism dollars for everyone. Logan had gone from being the town fuck-up to one of its saviors. The irony never failed to amuse him.
Yet for all his recent success, someone always brought up his past. The drifting, the drugs, the drinking. Usually in a “look how far you’ve come” sort of speech, but sometimes given in a “we’re waiting for you to screw the pooch again” tone. He loved Falcon, but the offhand, sometimes teasing remarks pissed him off and made him feel restless and boxed in. He hid it all behind a smile.
“Catch you later,” Justin said on his way through the kitchen door.
Logan was alone. His smile faded, and he turned on the stool, leaning back and resting his elbows against the mahogany bar. Blessed cool air poured out of the ceiling vent and offered some relief. A quick wash in the river had helped eliminate the grime of two weeks living in the woods, but he’d gotten dirty and sweaty again fixing the temperamental high-end stove.
The calm before patrons showed up never failed to incite a bittersweet sadness for the restaurant’s namesake, his grandmother Ada Wilde. Portraits and quotes from her favorite Southern writers covered the walls. He let his eyes drift shut, memories of Ada scrolling.
Sunlight flashed. The heavy wooden front door clanged. He slit his eyes open. A woman stood in the doorway, pulling off big round sunglasses and looking around.
His gaze drifted down her body. A floaty, sleeveless, pale-pink top and a gray pencil skirt to her knees. Long, gorgeous legs teetered in black heels, but she was too skinny and severe for his taste. Although, who was he kidding, he’d be up for just about anything.
He’d been going through a dry spell. No, an extreme drought. Since opening Adaline’s, he didn’t have the time for a relationship, and one-night stands required too much energy. He had turned responsible and boring. Ada would be so proud.
The woman approached the bar, her walk swishy and sexy as hell. His gaze was glued to her legs the whole time. Damn. They really were outstanding. She cleared her throat, and his face shot up. He’d obviously been in the woods for too long. Heat burned up the back of his neck.
Diamond studs played peekaboo in dark brownish-red hair hanging like silk curtains to her chin; her bangs cut a straight line above finely arched eyebrows. She looked … expensive.
“Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for the owner of this establishment.”
He’d half-expected a Russian accent and for her name to be Natasha. Her sweet, throaty drawl had him blinking a few times in silence and staring like the village idiot.
A hitch snagged her words, and she spoke slowly as if he really were the village idiot. “Is his office in the back? Perhaps, I’ll check—” She took a step backward and to the side, glancing toward the swinging kitchen door.
“He’s not back there.” Logan ran a hand down his beard and pulled at his chin hair.
“How do you know?”
“Just do.
The woman tucked a piece of hair behind an ear, the curled tip a point against the fair skin of her jaw. A smattering of freckles formed faint constellations over the bridge of her nose. She shifted on her heels, and his gaze darted down again. Fucking gorgeous.
“Will he be in this evening for dinner hours? I need to speak with him.”
His guard went up. He’d attracted a few women lately who had read the
Southern Living
article and decided it was open season on single restaurateurs. The writer they’d sent had been young, pretty, flirtatious. He’d dialed back the charm and kept everything professional. Hadn’t helped. A fair amount of embarrassment at her fawning descriptions of him had tempered the excitement at getting free advertising in a major publication. Logan had never imagined chef groupies existed, but all kinds of weird inhabited the world.
“About a job?” he asked.
The tiniest of smiles flared, lighting the stoniness of her demeanor with a very non-Natasha-like charm. “Yes, about a job.”
“He’s not hiring.”
“And how would you know? Are you the manager?” It was her turn to examine him from head to toe. His work boots, grease-lined jeans with a rip at one knee, and formerly white T-shirt didn’t impress—if her dismissive sniff was any indication.
“I’m … the handyman.” Not a complete lie. He was very handy. He grinned, and a furrow appeared right between her eyes.
“I’d like to leave Mr. Wilde a message.” She rummaged around in a compact black tote hanging from her shoulder, muttering the word “pen” half a dozen times.
“He’ll be in by”—Logan checked his watch—“seven, if you want to come back.”
“Are you certain? He hasn’t returned my calls.”
And with good reason. His phone was buried somewhere in the mud of the Tuckalachee River. The call about the defunct stove had come through Dalt’s phone. “Positive. Why don’t you leave your name and number with me?”
She stared straight into his eyes as if gauging his intentions, and harrumphed. “I’ll be back at seven.”
She gathered her black leather bag close and walked out, the brief flash of Alabama sunlight blinding him for an instant.
What rock had that dude crawled out from under?
He looked about a month overdue for a shower. It was a pity too, because under the grime he wasn’t an ogre. And he had his teeth. In fact, contrary to the stereotypes, they were straight and white, but maybe it was an illusion of the dim bar and his dark, unkempt beard.
Jessica checked her watch. What the heck was she supposed to do in this mosquito-sized town for three hours? She refused to hang out at the Wal-Mart. The heat exacerbated the headache that had been brewing since Birmingham.
The AC in her car had gone on the fritz, going in and out and not keeping things as chill as she liked. She loved her Audi, bought with her own money right out of business school. Sleek, black, expensive—at least it would have been if she hadn’t found a deal on the used car. Unlike Caroline, Jessica had refused her father’s generous gifts of cars and house down payments, knowing his offers came at a steep price. Her sister had gained a mansion and a Mercedes but had given up any pretense of independence.
Although, she couldn’t criticize, considering she was in podunk Alabama following her father’s orders like a brainwashed minion. Cars and houses hadn’t tempted Jessica, so her father had just found another lever to ensure her compliance.
She tossed her bag on the passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel, the black leather, which looked buttery soft, cooking her like a hotcake on a griddle. The sweat trickling down the back of her neck would probably sizzle on the seat. She started the car, and an anemic burst of cool air chugged out of the vent. She turned the AC to max, but the air seemed to get warmer.
She reversed out of the parking spot, but before she could shift into drive, the temperature gauge blinked red and the car sputtered off. She turned the key over and back, pumping the gas pedal a few times. Nothing. An unwelcome helplessness set her knees into a tremble. She tried again. The battery buzzed, but the engine didn’t crank.
Her mind swirled until the tsking, logical side of her brain gained control. With the advent of smartphones, help was only a few clicks away. She would call AAA. They would send a truck and tow her car to the nearest garage. Then she could call a taxi. Simple. She sighed. As long as she had a plan, she could control the panic tramping around her belly.
The car turned suffocating, the hot air constricting her lungs. She cracked the driver’s door, but the slight breeze coming off the tarry parking lot didn’t provide much relief. She riffled through her bag and came up with her phone. A tiny message in the corner of her screen sent ripples of unease through her stomach.
No Service.
Were these people Quakers or something? No cell phone service? How did they communicate? Smoke signals? She shuddered a breath out of her dry mouth. Next logical step would be to head back inside and plead for help. A shadow crossed her body the same time a hard rap on the car roof made her bobble the phone to the floorboard.