Fireflies and Magnolias (11 page)

He inhaled her fragrance, a sultry mix of magnolias and temper. A drink sounded pretty damn good, but he didn’t know where she kept her liquor. He’d never been inside her home before. As he scanned her place, he told himself he was only looking for her bar—if she had one.

But it was a lie. This bird’s eye view into the woman who both fascinated and challenged him was too good to pass up.

She liked color. That was for sure. The family room was painted a fire engine red and filled with modern art in primary colors. The furnishings were comfortable, chick-like. A pattered paisley afghan hung on the white sofa, and fluffy pillows in a soft yellow made the nearby matching ottoman look more inviting.

Seeing no bar, he detoured to the kitchen. It was littered with dishes, so he suspected she didn’t like to clean up after herself. Neither did Rye. The cabinets were caramel-colored, the appliances stainless steel. Hand-drawn and painted pictures by Rory and Annabelle were secured to the fridge with magnets, along with photos of her and her family.

As he wandered through the first floor, he spotted a silver tray topped with a bottle of Rye’s favorite bourbon on an antique sideboard in the dining room. A pewter candelabra fitted with long white candles graced the middle of the formal dining room table.

At Rye’s request, Clayton had procured graduate housing for Amelia Ann when she first moved to Nashville, but within six months, she’d found this townhouse to rent and moved. He could see why. It had more flair and was closer to Hillsboro Village’s main strip, one of the trendiest parts of town.

After pouring himself a tumbler of bourbon, he returned to the family room to wait for her. He made himself sip his drink instead of downing it, all the while massaging the back of his neck. Every muscle was rigid with tension.

A floorboard above him moaned, and he couldn’t help but think about Amelia Ann changing her clothes up there. As usual with her, his iron-clad self-control crumbled to dust. Amelia Ann invaded the quiet place he inhabited, from which he usually observed the world at a cynical distance.

When she emerged, she was dressed in one of those long, form-fitting tunics women wore that fell to mid-thigh. The outfit did little to quell his passionate thoughts. The bold red top was a downright contrast to the boring brown pants suit she’d been wearing. Not to mention her bright blue tights. Dear God, who would have thought a woman could look so good in such a strange combination of colors?

“I’m starving, so I ordered a pizza while I was upstairs. I’m glad you found a drink.”

She headed to the kitchen, so he followed. If she thought she was going to distract him from his purpose, she was crazy. Then he almost laughed. To work in East Nashville, she must be.

Opening the refrigerator, she took out a half-f bottle of white wine and poured herself a sizeable portion in a crystal wine glass. If the way she was slamming around the kitchen was any indication, she was still vibrating with anger. Opening a box of crackers, she stuffed a few in her mouth—all un-finishing school like.

“I didn’t have lunch,” she explained and held out the box.

He saw gluten-free on the front and shook his head. His mama ate that crap, and he’d accidentally tasted one of her crackers once. Eating plastic credit cards was more appealing, and for the life of him, he couldn’t understand how women willingly ate that shit.

After munching, she took out an apple and cored it, eating the slices quickly, drinking her white wine between bites.

He sipped his bourbon in silence, sensing she needed some time to gather herself. He wasn’t about to back down, but he also didn’t want a hellcat on his hands. This fight was going to be epic enough without her raking her nails across his face.

When the doorbell rang, she swept by him. He heard her converse with the pizza guy, her usual charm restored if the tone of her voice was any clue. When she came back to the kitchen, she brought out two plates, plopped two pieces of pizza onto one and handed it to him. The smell of pepperoni and mushrooms was enough to make him cave. At least she wasn’t one of those complete health freaks.

“There’s salad too,” she said and opened a plastic carton to add greens to her own plate.

He hated salad. Never understood why God had created so many varieties of plants that basically tasted like grass. As a stupid kid, he’d eaten grass on a dare at summer camp once, so he knew.

With her plate in hand, she headed to the family room, so he followed. Tucking her legs under her, she settled onto the couch with a pillow on her lap and put the plate on top of it. He took the ottoman and dug in.

The first bite was perfect. The crust was solid without being too heavy. The cheese trailed from his mouth to the slice of pizza, so he swiped at it with his teeth, making her laugh.

“This is my favorite pizza place in all of Nashville,” she finally said in her normal tone of voice.

He liked the place too. Sometimes he ordered takeout and picked it up before heading home. “I never took you for a pizza kind of girl.”

“Mama never let us have pizza growing up, so I’ve been making up for lost time.”

Her mama’s diabolical parenting was well known to him, but he’d never thought it possible that she would deny her children something as all-American as pizza. Although, come to think of it, Rye had consumed more large pizzas than anyone Clayton had ever met in their first years at Vandy when he was fresh away from his mama’s apron strings.

“Rye did the same,” he told her.

She closed her eyes and chewed. “Good taste runs in the family.”

Her face was chalk-white from fatigue, but the beauty of it made it tough to swallow the bite he’d just taken. Her eyebrows were arched over the most delicate brow bone he’d ever seen, and her mouth…

Well, that pink rosebud shape called to him like a siren, begging him to kiss it and lose himself in her.

He shifted in his seat.

“You’re staring at me,” she said, and he glanced up to meet her now steady gaze.

“No, I’m not.”

Her gentle snort was so unlike the Amelia Ann he thought he knew. “Now who’s lying?”

“Eat your pizza.”

She did, but there was a slow smile on her face that told him she thought she’d won some victory…and maybe she had.

When they finished, they set their plates on the coffee table covered in fashion magazines. She finished off the rest of her wine. He downed the remainder of his bourbon, sensing—with what felt a lot like regret—their fight was about to renew.

“Are you ready now?” he asked, kicking back. No reason he couldn’t be comfortable.

She crossed her arms. “Yes. Thank you. Now, about what Jared told you. He had no right. I asked him to keep it confidential.”

Of course she had. “Don’t matter. He told me just the same.”

“I didn’t expect him to tattle like a kid,” she said with fire and brimstone in her voice.

Right, which was why he couldn’t do the same with Rye. “Jared likes you, Amelia Ann. He thinks you’re one of the brightest interns who’s ever worked for him. He’s worried about this internship, and so am I. It’s in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Nashville.”

“I know that.” She huffed out a sigh. “Aren’t you going to add that the firm serves some pretty scary
ruffians?”

“Ruffians?” he asked, crossing his ankle over his knee. “You’re insulting me. These people deserve to have legal representation as much as anyone. From what I could tell on the Internet, the clinic provides exemplary pro bono legal services. What I question is the lunacy of you working there. Have you no sense?”

She shot off the couch, her fists at her sides. “No sense? What I have is a head on my shoulders and a desire to help. Clayton, after what happened to my sister, I decided I wanted to help women just like her. And not you or anyone else is going to stop me.”

His next words would need to be chosen carefully, so he paused a long moment before speaking. “Amelia Ann, that’s a laudable type of law to practice. But honey, those women aren’t Tammy. They’re from a completely different world.”

“They’re still the victims of domestic violence, Clayton, and someone needs to help them. Trust me, the bruises don’t look any different. It doesn’t matter if a woman is living in a million-dollar mansion like my sister was or a one-room hovel. Women who suffer that type of abuse need help, even more if they have few or no resources. And I’m going to help them. No matter what.”

Her voice was increasing in volume the more she talked, and she was breathing hard. She wasn’t going to be swayed. That much was obvious. Seeing this side of her made his chest ache. As young as she was, she knew what she wanted, who she was. He admired and respected her, which only made him want her more.

“If this is so important to you, why haven’t you told your family?”

She rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding? If this is how
you
reacted to the news, can you imagine how Rye is going to handle it? After what that crazy fan of his did this summer, I knew he’d go ballistic if he found out about me working in East Nashville.”

“Do your colleagues know who you are?”

Her hand rose to rub her forehead. Her fatigue was palpable. “Are you asking if they know I’m Rye Crenshaw’s sister?” she asked. “No. I don’t like anyone knowing. They…treat me differently sometimes.”

The vulnerability of that statement captured his heart, and he tightened his grip on the ottoman to keep from going to her. As the son of a country music legend, he understood that feeling all too well.

“What are we going to do here then, darlin’? I work for your brother and am one of his oldest friends. I don’t feel good about keeping quiet.”

“I know that, dammit.” She squeezed her eyes shut tightly. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Getting found out, you mean?” he asked dryly.

“I was going to tell everyone in a while. Maybe. After things settled down.”

Right. When pigs sprouted wings and flew. “And when was that going to be?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure I’ll sense it when the time is right.”

He tapped the sides of his chair. “You’re going to have to tell him, honey. This secret’s too big for me to hold onto.”

She sank to her knees in front of him. “Clayton, please. I need more time. This internship means the world to me, but I don’t want to upset Rye!”

It took some effort to force indifference into his voice. “You need to tell him.”

“Why do I always have to fight so hard for the things I want most? With this. With
you.”

Tears sprang into her eyes, and he cursed under his breath.

“Don’t make this about us.”

She hung her head. “I can’t help it. I’m so tired of fighting.”

Her voice held the bitter traces of exhaustion and despair, and he couldn’t take it any longer. He shot out of the chair, pulled her to her feet, and wrapped her up in his arms.

“Come on, now. Don’t do this.”

“Why does everything have to be so hard?” she whispered against his chest.

“Shh…” he only responded, smoothing his hands over her back, wanting to ease her pain.

“If I promise to take every precaution, will you give me more time? Clayton, I’ve already been dressing simpler, not wearing hardly any makeup. I’ve even leased an older car to take to and from work.”

Yeah he’d seen the junker. Jesus. His gut trembled as he processed all the changes she’d made for this difficult job she loved. He’d never doubted her brain, but she had more street smarts than he ever would have imagined.

“Yeah, that BMW would be boosted in a heartbeat.”

She nodded, and the slight movement against his chest lit fires in him—the mere thought of her was enough to spark excitement in him, her touch set off a raging fire. At this moment he didn’t have the strength to look for the extinguisher.

“Please give me more time,” she pleaded again.

He stared over her shoulder, and knew he was going to regret this. “Okay, I’ll give you a month. But I have one condition.”

“A month?” she gasped. “But that’s nothing.”

He found himself compromising. “We can revisit it if needed.”

When she pushed back, her eyes were brighter. She was darn near impossible to resist when she looked at him like that.

“Thank you. What’s your condition?”

“I want you to call me if you ever need any help. The time of day doesn’t matter. And I want you to continue to take
every
precaution.”

She jumped up and wrapped her arms around his neck, squeezing him tight. “I promise! Thank you! Thank you so much.”

He held her way longer than necessary and cursed himself for enjoying the feel of her body pressed against his. She must have felt the change between them too, because she loosened her hold on his neck and slid down his body in the most arousing way possible until her feet were flat on the ground.

When she glanced up, he caught his breath. Her eyes twinkled like stars, and her skin glowed like a full moon. He wanted nothing more than to lay his claim to her.

Here was trouble, looming like a tornado in the distance. He’d better run for it. “Now that we’ve decided that, I need to be going.”

Her hand caressed his cheek. “Don’t go. Not yet.”

The husky invitation had his muscles locking in place. He could hear the roar of the tornado bearing down on him, but though he knew he should flee, his legs wouldn’t move. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any woman. Had been fighting that feeling for months.

“I told you this can’t happen,” he said, finding his voice if not his legs.

“You can change your mind.”

He grabbed the hands that still clung to his neck, tracing circles on his skin, and unlocked her embrace. Stepping away hastily, he grabbed their plates and headed into the kitchen.
Get it under control
, he told himself. But he noticed the way his hand was shaking as he held the plates under the faucet.

A moment later, she trailed him into the room. “You don’t have to clean up.”

“It’s no bother,” he responded since it was the most neutral thing he could say.

After wiping his hands, he forced himself to stride past her to the door. She followed him, that transcendent glow on her face gone.