Her Name Is Trouble: A small-town contemporary romance (The Daimsbury Chronicles Book 2) (5 page)

Soft, rosy colour dappled her cheeks, and it seemed to him she bit back a smile. Then, with a plop not unlike the one she’d given on the sofa in his mum’s front room, she sat down in the opposite booth.

“Go ahead.” She nodded at the plate. “The food’ll grow cold.”

He took a spoonful of rice and chicken in tandoori sauce and closed his eyes in bliss.

Missy laughed, and the light, lovely sound jolted him like an electric current. He glanced at her, finding a beautiful smile on her features.

“I know,” she said. “I had the same reaction the first time I tasted Jari’s signature dish. And every other time since.”

“I miss this, you know.”

“What? Tandoori? They have joints everywhere in New York.”

“No, I mean, good food I can trust to eat without having to worry about it having gluten of some sort in there.”

“Oh, yeah.” She scrunched her nose. “I imagine that mustn’t be easy. Like, there’s probably only a few staples you can get around.”

He nodded. “And it starts getting old real fast.” He took in another spoonful and swallowed. “In a way, it’s a good thing, ’cause I don’t derail my diet that way and don’t have to worry about clothes being too tight when I go for a runway show or a shoot.”

“Now that is strange.”

“What is?”

“A man talking about dieting. Lord knows I don’t do any of that, but you’re a guy, you know. Well, no offense, but you get my drift.”

He chuckled. “None taken. I’m a model, Missy. That says it all.”

After downing half the plate with silence between them, he glanced up to find her studying him. “What?”

She shrugged. “I was trying to see how much you’ve changed since your debut in the modelling world.”

“And?”

“Doesn’t look like you’ve changed much. I still see the same lad as on that very first
Sinners&Saints
poster.”

A laugh escaped him. She must not be looking hard enough. He’d definitely aged in the past eight years. “You’re good for my ego.”

He finished his plate and pushed it aside. An insane question popped inside his mind, and he asked it before he could lose his nerve.

“Don’t you miss Southern food?”

She seemed startled by the query, eyes growing wide and the smile fading from her lips. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her reaching for the hems of her long sleeves and bunching the fabric in her closed palms. He must’ve touched a sore spot.

Perfect, Morelli.
He couldn’t have put his foot in his mouth if he’d aimed any better.

Then she gave him a contrived smile and broke the stilted silence.

“I do miss Texas, you know.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you that. None of my business.”

“It’s okay.”

She tilted her head to the side again; a gesture he was coming to see as utterly adorable and perfectly in keeping with her bright personality.

“So since you work for
TnT
, that means you’ve been in the south often enough,” she continued. “Any favourites?”

“Shrimp and grits,” he replied without any hesitation. “And I’d have killed to try one of those lattice pies.”

“But you couldn’t given how they’re all made with all-purpose flour and probably have a tin of lard or vegetable shortening in the crust.”

“Exactly.”

Missy averted her face for a few seconds, and she clenched her fists even tighter around the sleeve edges. Something must be working at her. Had he done something awful by making her think of her home? He wouldn’t forgive himself if he had.

“Missy—”

“Tell you what,” she said and silenced him. “Why don’t you come for supper at my place on Thursday, when I’m off duty here? I’ll make you shrimp and grits as well as pie that you can eat.”

The way she bit her lip after delivering her spiel told him she wasn’t as self-assured as she wanted him to think. And that, more than the prospect of good, safe food or even of being in her company, alone, tilted the balance of his answer.

“You got yourself a deal,” he said with a smile.

Chapter Five

Missy checked the pie again in the oven. She snorted—the huge 1940s-era Aga looked more like a monstrosity in the tiny confines of the cottage she rented at the back of Jenny Fortenberry’s shop that reminded her of the 7-11 back in the US. She’d scored the place when Jenny, a forty-something spinster until last year when she went through the Weight Watchers program, got swept off her feet by pub owner George Bennett and married him, settling across town in his house.

Ben had raised the first three months’ rent and Missy had paid him off just a few weeks earlier, with her latest pay check. She could now look forward to buying some second-hand clothes with the money that would remain on the next payday. Jenny had left behind everything down to the last lace doily so Missy hadn’t needed any household stuff.

The shrimps were done, and the grits simmered on the stove. Now she just hoped Luke hadn’t been bitten by the bug of being fashionably late in the fashion world, and dinner should run like clockwork.

What had she been thinking, asking him over to supper? And alone, on top of it, at her place?

She had no more time to ponder the query because a knock came at the door. A glance at the clock on the mantel showed her the hour to be on the dot. So he was also punctual.

Missy lost her breath when she opened the wood panel and stopped dead to stare at him on the doorstep.

In jeans that highlighted his long legs and a ripped T-shirt that clung only just so to his muscular torso, he looked every inch the male model. Add to it that tousled hair and he could pass for a sinful vision that had just tumbled out of bed. And the smile he gave her... How could she not swoon?

After swallowing down the drool in her mouth, she forced out a smile. Yes, she must probably look totally deranged right now, but what would anyone expect upon such a sight? Thank goodness she also didn’t look too shabby compared to his casual clothing, having pulled on her best jeans and a khaki sweater with long sleeves.

From behind his back, he pulled out a bunch of flowers. Daisies; how sweet. The simple blossoms agreed with her sensitivities more than the illustrious Black Baccarat roses Blake had had flown in for her from Holland once.

The thought of her father’s minion threatened to throw a pall of gloom on her evening, and she could not have that. So she smiled again at Luke, this time a genuine expression, and accepted the flowers.

“They’re beautiful,” she said.

He shrugged, one big shoulder rolling easily with the move. “Didn’t know what to get, and these seemed to scream your name when I saw them. Okay, not
your
name, but...they just seemed like flowers you might like.”

So he’d be bumbling around her? How utterly precious! She grinned and let out a laugh—good to know she wasn’t the only one out of her depths. And if he appeared uncertain around her, that could mean... No, she wouldn’t think of that. Whatever happened that night would happen; she wouldn’t read anything into it.

“Daisies are perfect,” she said to reassure him.

The smile he bestowed onto her brightened her whole world, and for a moment—or even for that evening altogether—she’d get to have him in her life.

She’d take that with everything she had.

Missy stepped aside to let him enter, and she noticed the arm brace on which he leaned. Seemed to her he didn’t hobble anymore, but even put the sole of his left foot flat on the floor when he walked.

“You’ve been to the doctor today,” she said with a gasp. Jenny had kept her abreast of the gossip buzz every day, and no one had yet mentioned that Luke had moved up from crutch to brace.

He jostled the prop and pointed at his toes. “Liz cut me loose just an hour ago. Says the toe is healing but I still gotta take it easy.”

She winced as she closed the door. To think this was all her fault... “Sorry for that.”

He frowned. “For what?”

“The foot.”

“Nah, don’t worry.” A chuckle escaped him. “I got a legitimate excuse to stay back for a few more days, and the shoot’s been moved to here. So win-win everywhere.”

She nodded. “Good, then. Let me go put these in water.”

She felt more than heard him follow her into the kitchen. His presence in the cosy confines of the cottage should’ve looked like too much, because he filled the space with his all-male bulk, but strangely, that’s not what came to her mind. With him around, she experienced the wrap of comfort settling around her, that feeling of being at ease in a place like it were the most natural thing in the world.

That’s how he’d made her feel on the night of the cocktail party. They’d done nothing but talk, but he’d made the world right for those few hours.

“Hey,” he asked. “Everything okay?”

That’s when she realized she stood with a spoon in her hand, halfway to the pot of grits. The creamy corn bubbled and hissed, a splatter landing on her sleeve. With quick fumbles, she turned off the gas and grabbed a dishtowel to place the pot on a cold burner.

“Missy...” He drew close, stopping right behind her. “Are you all right?”

Never better
, she wanted to say, but she couldn’t. So she settled for a half-truth. “I was thinking of Texas.”

He now stood an inch from her; his body heat permeated through her sweater to gently tickle her back.

“I’m sorry. It’s because of me you’re thinking of home and—”

She turned and found herself sandwiched between him and the Aga. Thank goodness she’d turned off the oven and stove, but she’d also say she ran more risk of combusting into flames from his proximity to her rather than from the heat the appliance might generate behind her.

“It’s...” She peered up into his face, and the remembrance of the way he’d looked at her eight years earlier materialized in her mind. “They were good memories,” she finished.

“You’re sure?”

She nodded.

He must have at least a foot’s height on her, what with her standing there in bare feet. Twice her size in breadth, too. That disparity in bulk and brute force never struck her as menacing or overwhelming, except maybe the latter but in a different sense. Luke, with his male presence, made her feel whole... A lump lodged itself into her throat and she gulped to clear it.

“We should eat,” she said in a whisper.

He stared at her for long seconds, then nodded. “How can I help?”

“You just go sit down. I’ll bring everything.”

He didn’t debate this suggestion and went out of the kitchen. Missy breathed in a long inhale when he left, then she shuddered because his leaving made the room cold and empty; two sensations creeping up into her heart all of a sudden.

She should get a grip on herself. Luke was here for food, not anything else. And she needed to mine some information from him.

So with a resigned sigh, she took both the pot of grits and the cooked shrimp to the table and settled opposite him.

They didn’t share any words as she served the food and they both started on their servings. He made a sound like a happy groan when he pushed his empty plate away. The satisfied note stirred longings inside her. Would he moan that way when he experienced pleasure?

A hot blush stole up her cheeks and she excused herself to duck into the kitchen and get the pie.

“Do you mind if I move to your front room?” he called out.

“Of course not. Go ahead.” His foot must still be troubling him, and sitting on a hard chair must not help matters any.

Missy cut two hefty slices of cherry pie and ladled a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top of each. She quickly carried the plate into the other room, and the sight there almost stopped her in her tracks. Luke had settled on the plush rug in front of the fireplace, his back propped against the sofa, left leg straight in front of him. He presented such a picture of casual ease, the unholy thought that he belonged here in this room with her ran skittles through her system.

Bad line of thought. If he came to know about her...

Pulling all her resolve together, she stepped into the front room and made a beeline for him.

“You have exactly ten minutes before the ice cream melts and everything becomes an inedible puddle of goo,” she said as she handed him a plate.

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

She settled down next to him, feet drawn under her in a lotus pose. “Never eaten pie before, sugar?”

He motioned for her to wait with his fork, then he plunged it into his pie and brought a morsel to his lips. His eyes closed as he ate, and they popped open only after he’d swallowed.

“You’re a goddess,” he said.

A laugh escaped her. “It’s just pie.”

“Tastes like heaven.”

A warm glow spread through her at his compliment. “Eat up before it gets ruined. There’s more if you want.”

She ended up taking two more trips to the kitchen to refill his plate, and each time, he demolished the slice with as much gusto.

Missy laughed as she watched him finish the third serving. “I thought models didn’t eat, and certainly not dessert.”

He winked. “We make exceptions from time to time.”

“So what’s your poison?”

A sheepish grin touched his mouth. “Frozen yoghurt.”

She shook her head. “Empty calories, but well worth it.”

“What’s yours?”

“What’s mine what?”

“Your caveat?” he asked as he put the plate down and settled back more comfortably against the sofa.

“I’m not a model.” She knew what he got at, but the urge to tease gripped her and she relished the light sensation.

“Even so, nobody keeps a figure like yours while eating a full Sunday roast at each meal.”

“Unless that person is bulimic,” she quipped.

“Are you?”

The serious tone jolted her, and she sat up straight. “What? No!”

“So you mean to say you are naturally thin?”

What was he getting at? “Of course not.”

“But you don’t eat? You hardly touched your plate tonight.”

How could she tell him she’d been so captivated by watching him eat, by his lips on the spoon or his tongue licking creamy grits off his thumb, that she’d hardly needed any other sustenance?

Another thought crossed her mind. She needed him to think she was as different from Iris Ann Taylor as day from night, so he’d know who Missy was if he ever learned the truth about her identity. Maybe the time had come to spell out
her
truth. Missy’s.

“There...” she paused to take a deep breath. “There was a time when I didn’t have anything to eat, and that’s when I lost weight.” She shrugged. “I just haven’t put it back on again, is all.”

He gave a sharp, audible intake of breath. “I apologise.”

She blinked up at him. “For what?”

“For being a jerk and pushing you to reveal all this. I...it mustn’t be easy for you to relive those times.”

She shrugged again. “T’was just my life. Period.”

“Missy, I...” He stopped talking and glanced around.

“What?”

When he turned to her, she hitched in a breath. His face had grown sombre, too serious. Then he reached out and clasped her hand. The pad of his thumb rubbed onto her palm, and spirals of heat shot from the point of contact.

“Why do you always hide your hands under those too-long sleeves?” he asked.

The question doused her internal fire. The reason why she covered her wrists—he shouldn’t find out about it.

But the torpor of pleasure had rendered her sluggish, and though her brain fired commands like a tennis ball machine gone haywire, none of her nerves heeded the orders.

Luke’s thumb had reached her wrist, disappearing under the hem of the sleeve. She felt the moment when he encountered the raised scars, because he froze.

Then before she could pull her hand from his grip, he pushed the fabric away and smoothed his touch on the mutilated skin. He stared at the sight for what seemed to her like an eternity, then his voice—low and rumbling—broke through the silence.

“Missy, what...what are these?”

She bit her lip and looked away. How to tell him the way these came to be? How to admit, or even explain, that she’d felt alive only when she’d done such atrocities to her body?

Without releasing her hand, he sat up and huddled closer to her, on his knees. The breath lodged in her lungs when he loomed over from that position. With no fire in the grate, the only light in the room came from the dwindling sunshine dying to make way for twilight. Shadows cloaked him, but no sense of menace permeated. She still felt comfortable with him, like she belonged...
Silly thought, Missy!

“Was it,” he started, “a suicide attempt?”

She wet her lips and shook her head. Words evaded her right then.

“Then what?” he continued.

Something inside her wanted to berate him for prying. That’s why she hid her wrists, because everyone who saw them would want to know why and she had no time for their gawking curiosity.