Sweet Southern Trouble, page 14
Her eyes narrowed. “Fine. I’ll take care of it myself.”
Tinker Bell squared her shoulders and stormed through the tiny kitchen toward the backyard, wielding nothing but the spatula. This he had to see. Nick pushed through the backdoor to the outside. Everything appeared relatively tame compared to wild parties he remembered during his playing days. He caught sight of Tinker Bell shutting off the blaring music.
“Party’s over. Everyone go home and go to bed. Preferably your own.”
The partiers started to moan and boo. Guys dancing with half their clothes off slowly stopped.
“We were just gettin’ to the good part,” some old lady said as she stood on top of a picnic bench and waved a cookie.
“Everyone. Out. Now.” Marabelle punctuated each word with a wave of the spatula.
The guys picked up their discarded clothing and helped the two women down from the bench, who mumbled something about Marabelle being a party pooper. Beer cans were tossed in the garbage, and her yard returned to some semblance of order.
“Thanks, Marabelle.”
“You rock.”
“Call you about tennis.”
The two old ladies slinked across the yard when Marabelle called out, “Miz Dawkins, Miz Koonce, what do you have in your hands?”
They stopped, hesitated, and then held up men’s boxers. “We won these fair and square. No way we’re giving them up.”
Nick laughed and Marabelle shot him another stink eye.
After the last of the revelers had disappeared into their cars, Nick guided Marabelle back into her kitchen.
Looking over her shoulder into the empty backyard, she said, “I can’t figure out what happened to Beau.”
The disappointment in her voice irritated him. He’d be damned before he’d watch her moon over Beau Quinton. Nick plucked the spatula from her hand, tossing it on the counter. Pulling a surprised Marabelle hard into his body, he threaded his fingers through her curls.
“Screw Beau,” he growled, lowering his head for a rough kiss. He loved the way her body felt pressed against his. Lush and curvy in all the right places. Even through her bulky sweatshirt and jeans. He tried to remember that she had a sassy mouth and a badass attitude, and he didn’t trust her worth a damn, but his body wasn’t listening. The soft mewling sound she made shot through him like a bolt of lightning. He forgot all about what he didn’t like. He forgot about everything except her hot mouth and the crushing kiss.
Nick wanted more. Sliding his hand to the curve of her butt, he deepened the thrust of his tongue, grinding his hips more intimately into her heat. And it still wasn’t enough.
“Marab—oh my.”
Nick and Marabelle jerked apart as if someone had turned the garden hose on them. Marabelle gasped. Her face flamed with desire…then embarrassment.
“Sorry to interrupt. Saw the light on.” One of the old ladies who had been dancing on the bench peered through the screen door to the kitchen.
Wobbly on her feet, Marabelle grabbed the countertop. “Uh—Miz Dawkins, is there something you need?”
“I wanted to thank you for a wonderful evening.” Mrs. Dawkins extended a clear plastic container with an apple pie underneath.
When Marabelle made no move to take it from her, Nick intervened, opening the door, introducing himself, and thanking her for the delicious-looking pie. Lilah Dawkins batted her gooped-up eyelashes at him and told him the pie came from the farmers’ market. Nick kept up the small talk, giving Marabelle time to pull it together.
“Y’all go back to what you were doing now. Forget I was ever here.” Lilah sent Marabelle a conspiratorial wink. He helped her out the door, making sure she crossed the yard safely.
Marabelle got busy gathering up dishes and filling the sink with warm water.
Shit. Perfect timing. Nick sighed heavily and moved from the kitchen into the front of the house, picking up empty beer cans along the way. He knew Marabelle needed space. He was willing to give it to her, but not for long. Dammit, she got under his skin like no other woman. And the solution to the problem was mind-numbing sex over and over until he got her out of his system. Or until he was ready to admit…he was in way over his head. Shit.
Nick returned to the kitchen with a handful of dirty plates and bowls, and placed them on the countertop. “Everything’s put away in your living room.”
“Thanks. I’ll finish the rest,” Marabelle said, not meeting his gaze as she continued to rinse dishes under the running water.
“You okay?”
“Sure.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “Okay. New subject. Why are you afraid of sex?”
Her head popped up. “I’m not afraid of sex.”
“Uh-huh.” He cupped her stubborn chin and gave her a level stare. “Afraid you won’t be able to resist me?”
She gave a nervous laugh, jerking her head away. “I’m stronger than you think.”
“You know it’s okay to be turned on. Even with a jock. It wouldn’t be the first time.” He chuckled low.
“Yeah? Could be a big letdown. For me. Maybe you’re lacking…in some way.” She shot him a cheeky grin.
Nick snorted. “I’m not. And you’re not lacking in anything except practice.” A flicker of surprise mingled with hope chased across her face. Marabelle appeared beautiful and fragile, and he couldn’t remember wanting a woman more. If he didn’t leave now, her old kitchen table might get a workout, and her neighbors an eyeful. “When we finally make it to the bed, we’re gonna set each other on fire. Get used to the idea. Now, I’m beat and need to head home.”
“Oh. Your trip. How’d it go?” She wiped her hands on a clean dishtowel.
Nick couldn’t resist looping an errant curl behind her ear. “We’re going to see some improvement with Brandon…hopefully soon.”
She beamed. “That’s great news.” Hard not to like someone as genuine as Marabelle when it came to her kids.
He nodded. “Yeah, it is great news.” Leaning down, he brushed her lips. “Sweet dreams, Thumbelina.”
* * *
Monday, Marabelle had spent part of recess on the phone trying to derail her mother from all things wedding. Edna focused a good portion of the conversation on bridesmaid dresses. That’s when Marabelle knew she was up a creek without a paddle.
After work, Marabelle caught Beau Quinton loading empty coolers from the party into the back of his black Escalade when she pulled into her driveway. She had less than three days to come up with an iron-clad reason her fiancé was not coming with her. Something her mother would believe without hesitation.
“Q, we need to talk.”
“Mary-bell, sweetie, I can explain about last night.” Beau wore a clean Cherokees T-shirt, sweatpants, and a false expression of remorse. Marabelle eyed his slightly damp hair and wondered if he’d finished showering after a workout.
She shook her head. “Never mind. I’ve got a problem and need to run something by you.”
“You in trouble, Mary-bell?” Beau released the cooler in his hands, ready to do battle on her behalf.
Marabelle’s heart warmed. “Not the kind of trouble you’re thinking.” She glanced around to see which of her nosy neighbors had tuned in. No one appeared out in the open, but she could’ve sworn Lilah Dawkins’s lace curtains fluttered in her front room. “Have you had dinner?” Beau’s eyes lit up. “Go inside, and I’ll whip something up while we talk.”
Rubbing his hands together, he said, “I’ll do anything for some of your home cooking.”
“Hold that thought.”
Marabelle pulled together ingredients for chicken piccata while Beau popped a cold beer left over from the party. Dredging the chicken breasts in seasoned flour, she explained to Beau that her mother was expecting her to attend her benefit with a fiancé in tow.
“And you want me to ask Coach Frasier for you?”
“No. I’m too embarrassed to even mention this to him. Once again my big mouth ran away from me, when like an idiot, I mentioned the word ‘fiancé’ to my mother. She’s not going to let this go until Nick is either kidnapped by aliens or lost at sea or something.” She dropped the chicken breasts in the pan of hot olive oil.
“I don’t see the problem. He’s your fiancé and the perfect solution. Just ask him.”
“Yeah, nah. I’m not ready for a real engagement, and he will never be ready for the social dysfunction that makes up my family. We make the Kardashians look downright boring.” Beau chuckled. “Please don’t mention this to him,” Marabelle pleaded, not wanting this kink to create any more confusion in an already complicated situation. This fake engagement was turning into anything but easy. “Isn’t there something big and important going on in the NFL this weekend that you can’t miss? Something my mother will believe or confirm if she decides to Google the information?”
He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against her cabinets. “Not really. We’re starting off-season workout programs. Draft’s not until the end of the month.”
“The draft…good one. I know Nick’s concerned about it, and he’ll need to be here for critical meetings. Perfect. Thanks, Q. Good enough to sound really important, but nothing she can snoop about or track online.” She flipped the breasts in the pan, pleased with this great excuse.
“Mary-bell, you’re making this way more complicated than it needs to be. Just ask him to go with you.”
Marabelle wished it was that easy. Paralyzed, she couldn’t take that step. It felt too real…and even permanent. And believing in the fairy tale only got you burned in the end. She removed the chicken breasts, dousing the pan with chicken stock, fresh lemon juice, and capers. “It’s better my way. Nobody gets confused or starts believing in things that aren’t real.”
Usually so affable and easy to read, Beau’s blank expression was making Marabelle nervous. “What are you thinking inside that beautiful head of yours?”
* * *
Something she didn’t want to hear. Beau couldn’t stop thinking that Coach Frasier would be seriously insulted, not to mention hurt, if Mary-bell didn’t take him to her mother’s benefit. Marabelle seriously underestimated Coach’s attraction to her. Beau shook his head. How could she be so lost, confused, and lacking in self-confidence? A plan had begun to form, and Beau hoped like hell he’d still play football for the Cherokees when it was all over.
“I’m thinking you’re making a big mistake,” he said, rubbing his scruffy chin.
She served him a heaping plate of al dente pasta and chicken seasoned with lemon juice and capers. “Okay. But you have to agree that it’s my mistake to make. Swear to me you won’t mention this conversation.”
He stalled, sniffing his food. “This smells great.”
Marabelle’s plate hit the table with a clatter. “No food until you promise,” she said in her schoolteacher voice.
“Yes, ma’am. I promise…” To not tell Marabelle what he had planned. He pulled out Marabelle’s chair.
Marabelle craned her neck, peering up at him. “Thanks for understanding, and to show my appreciation”—she pointed to their plates—“this meal is in your honor.”
“If it tastes as good as it smells, we’re even.” Beau slid into his seat. He shoved a huge bite in his mouth and chewed. “Mmm.” Swallowing, he nodded. “Delicious. Hell, Mary-bell, I’ll marry you tomorrow, problem solved, if you promise to keep cooking,” he added between bites.
Marabelle laughed, twirling pasta on her fork. “You don’t need a ball and chain just to get some home cooked meals. If you provide the ingredients, I’ll make meals for you and the guys anytime.”
“You got yourself a deal.” He winked and then attacked his food.
Chapter 13
Early the next morning, Beau flashed Chantal his sexiest smile and charmed his way into Coach Frasier’s office. He wanted to catch Coach before he left for a round of golf in Pinehurst.
Coach looked up from his paperwork as Beau knocked and pushed the door open at the same time.
“Q, what can I do for you? I don’t have much time.”
He and Beau had not really spoken since the night they’d fought over Marabelle at Corbett’s. Beau figured Coach was still nursing some animosity toward him. He hoped to change that with this meeting.
“Morning, Coach. This will only take a minute. I need to speak to you about something important.”
Nick nodded and indicated for Beau to take a seat. “What’s on your mind?”
Beau dropped down in the chair and leaned forward on his elbows.
“It’s about Marabelle.” At the mention of her name, Beau felt like he’d waved a red flag. Coach’s eyes narrowed, and the angry tic in his right jaw sprang to life. Beau almost laughed with relief. Almost. His suspicions were confirmed. “Over dinner last night, she asked me—”
“Excuse me?” Coach interrupted in a tight voice. “You two had dinner? Again?”
“Yeah, I stopped by to pick up the leftover coolers from the party, and it led to dinner.”
“And?”
“And what?” Beau cocked his head to one side.
“And what else did it lead to?” Coach gripped his pen as if he wanted to snap it.
Beau leaned back and stretched out his legs. Coach showed the classic signs of a man obsessed with a woman. “Nothing. But there’s something you need to know.”
Coach pinned him with his don’t-screw-with-me stare. “I’m all ears.”
Game over. Beau sang like a canary. Ten minutes later, he left Coach Frasier’s office with all his body parts still intact, and felt marginally better than when he had arrived. Beau believed in playing cleanly and laying all his cards out on the table. Coach deserved the truth, even if it got Marabelle in trouble. She’d thank him in the end. He’d bet his multimillion-dollar endorsements on it.
* * *
Marabelle strolled into a Starbucks after school. She spied the blond ding-a-ling at a table in the corner, sipping an iced coffee with a mountain of whipped cream. Yup. Starr had surprised her earlier by calling and requesting they meet to talk. It took Marabelle a minute to recall who she was. She had no idea what they needed to talk about, but Marabelle figured it had something to do with Beau. Starr hadn’t been happy at Corbett’s the other night when Marabelle showed up wearing tight jeans and Beau on her arm. Marabelle didn’t want rumors flying around about her and Beau; she could barely handle the ones about her and Nick. And she didn’t want her friendship to cramp Beau’s style. So she figured she had some explaining to do.
With her skinny latte in hand, Marabelle sat in the chair across from Starr, who wore some bust-enhancing white top with crisscross gold braiding. Marabelle wore tennis sweats along with cupcake batter in her hair, compliments of her students. Starr openly gave her the once-over without disguising her distaste.
“What’s on your mind?” Marabelle asked, cutting to the chase.
“Nothing really.”
Big surprise there.
Starr sipped her whipped concoction. “But my friend has a few questions.”
“What friend?” Marabelle spotted the answer heading their way from over her cup of coffee.
Ginger Jones.
Marabelle fought to tamp down her insecurities as a confident Ginger glided toward them, wearing expensive navy sailor trousers and a silk coral blouse. Ginger gripped her Louis Vuitton handbag’s strap with one hand and her coffee in the other. Marabelle pushed her pathetic JanSport knapsack, along with her insecurities, under the table. Who cared? It didn’t matter what she wore or what handbag she carried. She had what Ginger really wanted…Nick. Okay, technically, she didn’t have him. But hey, Ginger didn’t know that, and Marabelle planned to keep it that way.
“Let the games begin,” Marabelle murmured into her cup of coffee.
Ginger came to a halt next to the table, fluttering her impeccable French-manicured fingers, for Starr to move over. With her bouncing boobs, Starr settled into the next chair and didn’t appear pleased. Ginger took the seat directly in front of Marabelle.
“It’s Mary, right?”
“Marabelle actually. Except Nick calls me Tinker Bell, an endearing pet name, don’t you think?” Marabelle sent her a simpering smile.
Ginger’s cornflower-blue eyes hardened to ice chips. “Aren’t you wondering why you’re here?”
“Not particularly. I can pretty much guess what this is all about. You wanna go another round?” Marabelle said with her game face firmly in place.
Ginger bristled. Starr’s whipped coffee sat forgotten as her gaze darted back and forth.
“You should rein in your violent nature. It’s not becoming to a woman. I’m not here to fight you.” Ginger appeared calm as she brought her espresso to her lips. “I’m here on Nick’s behalf.”
“Really? Funny, Nick never told me anything about it. And he tells me everything,” Marabelle lied. She hadn’t spoken to Nick since yesterday, when he called and surprised her by asking her on a date. But she would’ve bet her last dime he hadn’t called this meeting.
A flicker of doubt flashed across Ginger’s face. “Listen, Miss Big Mouth, your so-called engagement is not fooling anyone. A man like Nick needs more in a woman than what you have to offer,” she said, flicking her mane of hair behind her shoulder.
“As everyone keeps reminding me, and yet…he’s still with me.” Marabelle smirked.
Ginger laughed. “Not for long. Look in a mirror. There’s no comparison,” Ginger said, not bothering to conceal her contempt. “Whatever you’re holding over his head isn’t going to work. He will throw you away like…like a smelly pair of sneakers!”
“Look, men don’t use me. I use them,” Marabelle the badass said, jabbing her right thumb toward her chest.
Ginger’s mouth curved into a humorless smile. “You’re a real man-killer, huh? I’m warning you…he’s going to break your heart.”
