She jumped straight out of bed. Oh, hell. Double hell! Where was he? Why couldn’t he have said how far away he was? She might have several hours but who knew? He could be five miles away. But surely not. Surely he did not leave Nashville at four o’clock in the morning.
Still, she couldn’t chance it. If those phone messages had almost done her in, seeing him would be her complete undoing. She could not be Brantley Kincaid’s distraction while he decided what he wanted out of life.
She had to get out of here. Where to go, where to go? It didn’t have to be for long—just until tomorrow night. He’d give up by then. He had to go to work on Monday, after all, and so did she. She’d go to Oxford, Mississippi, to her parents’ house. They were on sabbatical from Ole Miss. There was a doctoral candidate house sitting while they were in Tibet, but it was still their house, therefore hers. She’d call the girl on the way. She’d say—well, it didn’t matter what she’d say. She didn’t have to say anything, explain anything. She had a key and a right to be there.
First, she needed to dress. She’d laid out her clothes for the gym—yoga pants, sports bra, and a t-shirt. And a hoody because it was cold in the mornings now. That would do. Shit. She needed to pee and there was so little time. She threw on the clothes and ran to the bathroom, socks and cross trainers in hand. The toilet was as good a place as any to sit while putting on shoes and socks. She should have thought of that little time saver years ago.
Okay. Calm. She’d need some things. Not much, but some. Her luggage was in the attic. No time for that but there was a canvas boat bag in the closet. She grabbed it and headed for her vanity.
Toiletries first. Where was that cosmetic bag? Here, but what did it matter? A handful of this, a handful of that. Underwear. Socks. The shoes she had on would do. Okay. Real clothes. One outfit was plenty. She’d be back tomorrow night. A pair of jeans and that lightweight red cotton sweater should be fine. If not, she had the hoody and the t-shirt she was wearing. It didn’t matter if she wore them twice. All that mattered was getting out of town before he got here.
Almost to the finish line. Cell phone. Purse. Did she have cash? Not much, but plenty of credit cards. Her phone started to ring. She crammed it in her hoody pocket and threw open the front door—where she ran right into Brantley. He held a dog leash in one hand and his phone to his ear with the other.
The phone in Lucy’s pocket went to voicemail.
Brantley said, “Hello, Lucy Mead.” Then he turned off his phone and hers beeped, signaling that she had a message.
Chapter Four
Lucy knew there was very little chance of remaining collected in this situation, but she intended to try.
“Hello, Brantley. How are you this morning?” she said as if she ran across him on her porch every morning of the week, as if he had made no attempt to contact her since he was last in Merritt.
He was wearing faded jeans, white running shoes, and a luxurious cotton knit shirt the color of a caramel apple. The shirt hit him at mid hipbone and there was a short, heavy brass zipper at the neck, unzipped just enough to show his collarbones. He had to know how good he looked—no one with hair and eyes like his could wear that color and not know.
He pushed up the sleeves.
“How am I? Ignored. That’s what I am.” He smiled and leaned on the doorframe. A ball of fur no bigger than a softball peeped out between his shoes. “Meet Eller. Her name evolved from L.R., short for Lab Rat. It’s a better name than Blanchfleur, which she never even answered to.”
The dog was solid white with red bows in its hair, one over each ear. It could not have weighed more than two pounds. Where was the golden retriever, the bulldog, the Doberman pinscher? Where was the dog that a man who refused to say sofa should have? Pit bull, beagle, Irish setter. Cocker spaniel, even.
“That is not the dog I would have expected you to have,” Lucy said.
“Yeah, well, she’s not the dog I expected to have either, especially with those bows the groomer put in her hair. On the other hand, I see her as living, breathing evidence that I have no insecurities about my manhood. Though I admit you have taken me down a peg or two in that department. And I can’t help but wonder why.”
She briefly considered pretending she had changed cell phone providers and hadn’t gotten his messages but discarded the idea.
“I’ve been very busy,” she said.
Eller sniffed at Lucy’s white Adidas and Brantley looked her up and down. “Off to the gym?”
“Uh, no.” She ran a hand through her hair. She hadn’t even combed it. Ever since she’d let it grow, it was wild under the best of circumstances. These were not the best of circumstances. “I have to be somewhere.”
“Do you?” He took her arm and gently propelled her back though the door. “You don’t mind if Eller and I come in for just a minute, do you?”
“Uh, no. Please do.”
Brantley walked around, taking in her living room. Lucy had worked very hard to make the treasures her parents had given her from their travels work with her traditional pieces. Finally, she’d struck the right balance, making a comfortable, interesting room. Brantley stopped in front of the three-foot tall gong from China.
“I’ve got a great idea for a game,” he said, picking up the hammer. “I’ll ring this gong. You go put on your Jasmine outfit and run in here and say, ‘Yes, master!’”
Anger coursed through her—at him, at herself, maybe even at that poor excuse for a dog, who was sniffing at her camel saddle ottoman. Calm. She must remain calm. He was smiling that flirtatious smile but there was something more in his face—not quite anger, but maybe a challenge. Yes. He was gauging her response to see if she had listened to his Halloween voicemail all the way through, to see if she understood the reference to the Jasmine costume. She could feign confusion, but why? She didn’t want him to think that his messages had affected her in such a way that she could not listen to them through to the end. At the same time, she did not want him to know she had listened multiple times.
Finally, she said simply, “I don’t have a Jasmine outfit.”
“Too bad. I bet we can get you one from eBay. Where’s your computer?” He looked around the room.
“As much as I would like to peruse eBay with you for fantasy attire, I have somewhere I have to be.” After all, she didn’t have to say where. She didn’t have to justify herself for leaving town. She held up her boat bag as proof that she was leaving.
“Do you?” He took the bag from her. He didn’t grab it or wretch it from her hand; he hadn’t had to. She had stupidly held it out. “Since you are ill prepared for the Jasmine and master game, let’s play a different one. It’s called ‘Brantley looks at what Lucy’s packed and guesses what she’s up to.’”
“No, I don’t think—” She reached for the bag. “That’s my property and you have no right.”
“Wait, wait. No.” He drew the bag away from her grasp. “If I don’t win right away, I’ll let you be on your way. And it is your property. I’ll give you that. But it is also evidence to prove that you are lying to me. Because unless I miss my guess—” He opened the bag and looked in. “Lucy Mead! What a mess! Some people live in a mess. They do. But the order in this house does not match up with the mess in this bag.”
“I am messy. I’m a huge mess. All the time. Just look at my hair. This house is only orderly because the maid was here yesterday.” In case he asked, what could her maid be named? Thelma Lou. Yeah.