Sweetheart Bride

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear all the details,” Callie said. “I’ll put Thelma at the front register and I’ll be right over.”

Brenna was about to disconnect but then she remembered. “Oh, Callie, Nick said he wants you to be in charge of all the landscaping once the house is done.”

“Really?” Her sister squealed so loud Brenna had to hold her cell phone away. “I wanted to offer, but I chickened out and never applied. I dreamed about doing that, but I can’t believe he actually asked for me. You didn’t force him, did you?”

Brenna got an image of trying to force Nick Santiago into doing anything. Impossible. “Oh, no. He’s not the kind to bend to the whims of a woman. He asked for you outright.”

A brief memory of Nick telling her to make the mural beautiful fluttered through her mind. Okay, maybe he did bend to the whims of a woman every now and then.

Callie chatted on, excitement in every word. “Okay. I won’t say anything until he brings it up. But I’ll start playing with some garden designs. I know the layout of that acreage by heart, anyway.”

“Yes, you’ve always wanted to live there and you’ve dreamed of cultivating that big garden. I know, I know. And after seeing the house, I can understand why. That’s your thing, sis, not mine. I just get to help decorate the place.”

She said goodbye, then again thought back over her sometimes-good, sometimes-bad conversation with Nick.

“Make it beautiful for me.”

She’d seen the dare in his eyes when he’d said that. And she’d heard the gentleness in his request. Nick might not be the kind she could sweet-talk or force, but he could be the kind who would do something sweet and special simply because it pleased him. And he had done it for her, too, she sensed. But why? The man certainly presented a paradox. Too strange and spine-tingling for her to figure out right now, but too mysterious and intriguing for her to let go just yet.

“I’ll need to read up on how to restore a mural,” she said to get her mind off Nick and his “make it beautiful for me” lips. Then she pulled into a parking space across from the Fleur Café and hurried in to spill everything to Winnie and Callie.

* * *

Nick stood in the empty drawing room of Fleur House and sniffed the last of the sweet notes of Brenna’s floral perfume. The smell of wisteria and jasmine hung in the air like a wedding veil, light and full of mystery.

And she thought he was the mysterious one.

He felt as empty as this big house.

Her laughter had echoed out over the quiet, still rooms like a rogue wind invading a hot house. Brenna seemed all buttoned-up and professional, but Nick thought there might be a free spirit hidden underneath that sensible facade. Did he dare encourage that side of her?

No, because he’d practically shouted at her to back off on trying to figure out what made him tick. He didn’t have the right to encourage her in any aspect. He couldn’t allow himself to get close to her, either. No time for that. He had to get this house in order and move on.

And where are you going?

The voice shouted into the silence of the afternoon and moved through the last of the sun’s rays as he did one more walk-through of the house.

Tomorrow, the noise level would change and he wouldn’t have to be alone with his silence. He’d be surrounded once again by hammers and drills and nail guns and saws. He’d hear the familiar sounds of workmen arguing and measuring, the noise of readjusting and tearing down. Demolition and restoration always signaled a change in the air, a forward movement of action. These were the sounds that soothed him. Not the laughter of a woman who seemed to be such a beautifully confusing contradiction. He’d smell the scent of sawdust and paint thinner, the scent of new paint and new wood, not the scent of wisteria and jasmine.

Tomorrow, he’d be in the thick of things again and then he could lose himself in his work, day and night.

Except for the times he’d lose himself in watching Brenna Blanchard making everything she touched beautiful.

He strolled toward the old mural that he’d saved after her last-minute plea. The genteel vista spoke of times gone by, times with smiling people walking along the bayou. The women wore colorful colliding frocks and the men looked dapper and distinguished in their waistcoats and top hats.

“Make it beautiful for me, Brenna,” he said out loud, the echo of his solitude shouting back at him.

And he knew, she’d already made everything beautiful.

Too beautiful.

* * *

“He said that?” Winnie grabbed her coffee and took a long swig, her pecan-brown eyes going wide.

“He said exactly that,” Brenna replied, her fork of bread pudding somewhere between her plate and her mouth. “And it was the way he said it, as if he’d never seen anything beautiful before.”

“Must be some mural on that wall,” Callie retorted through a mouthful of the creamy pudding. She finished chewing and let out a sigh. “It’s so romantic.”

“He is not romantic,” Brenna said. “Didn’t you hear the part about him living in a trailer and always being on the move? The man might as well wear a sign that says ‘Don’t bother. I ain’t buying any.’”

“Or maybe the man protests too much,” Winnie replied with her usual sweet smile. “And that in itself is highly romantic.”

“He’s not romantic,” Brenna repeated, trying to convince herself. She couldn’t do it, so she gave up. The man was like a walking Heathcliff—shuttered, disengaged, disturbing...and the total package, the kind of package a woman couldn’t help but tear open. She wanted to dive right in and find the treasure. But she couldn’t, wouldn’t do that.

“I mean, the house is so romantic,” Callie said with another sigh, completely ignoring Brenna’s denial. “I hope I get to sneak in with you and see it all gussied up. I’ve always—”

“Wanted to live there,” Brenna finished. “We all know that.” She shrugged and shot her sister an indulging smile. “At least the new owner is single. He’s a widower. You might have a chance.”

“Oh, how tragic...and romantic,” Callie said on another sigh. “At least we can understand how the man must feel. But why buy such a big house if he’s all alone?” Her expression turned dreamy. “I know. He wants to wander around from room to room, lamenting his lost love. Tragic and poignant.”

Brenna looked at her sister. “Have you ever considered writing a romance novel?”

Winnie brought some clarity to the situation. “Maybe he bought the house for his new bride.”

Callie sat up straight, ignoring Brenna’s question and Winnie’s speculation. “I need to lose about ten pounds and do something about my sallow, washed-out skin and what about these laugh lines? What can I do about that?” She pushed at her long curly golden hair. “And maybe a haircut.”

“No,” both Winnie and Brenna said.

“Don’t cut your hair,” Brenna told her sister. “It took you a while to get it long again.”

Callie nodded, quiet now. “You’re right. I do have good hair in spite of losing it all...before. And besides, what am I thinking? Winnie might be right. He’s probably found a new wife already. Of course, I don’t want to fool with another man. Too much trouble. I might be in remission, but I’m still too tired to tackle a relationship.”

“Amen,” Brenna said. “I don’t mind you stepping out, but not me. So I had a little talk with myself on the way over here. I will remain professional and businesslike. I won’t pry into Nick’s life at all.”

“Yeah, right,” her sister said. Then she leaned close. “Might want to test that theory. Nick just walked in the door and he’s headed straight for our table.”

Brenna gasped. “Why is it that all the men in our life always wind up in this café? Remember how Julien hounded Alma every day, over pie and petulance?”

Winnie giggled. “And suga’, we sure got both.”

Callie looked up with mock-surprise on her face. “Nick Santiago. How in the world are you?”

* * *

“Hello, ladies.” Nick couldn’t help the grin that smeared the sternness off his face. “As if you don’t already know that I’m demanding, surly and hard to work with. I’m sure your pretty sister has filled you in on all my bad qualities.”

Callie didn’t take the bait. “Actually, I’ve been the one filling her in—on what a nice man you can be. I’ve sent enough flowers with your signature on them to know.”