Sweet Talking Man

“What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t think I’d find ya, did ya?” she asked, shoving a finger in his face. “My daddy knows a lot of people in this state. You can’t hide, you no-good bastard.”

Leif inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to figure out how a dude handled something like this. He felt caught in some crazy docudrama or a Maury Povich special. “I wasn’t trying to hide from you.” Much.

“Bullshith.” Marcie teetered as she tried to square her shoulders. “You were runnin’ like a damn...uh, something I can’t think of right now.”

He glanced at Marcie’s best friend, Rachel, who still sat in the Mustang looking guilty as hell. “How much did she drink, Rach?”

She held up a half-empty bottle of Crown Royal. “She started last night. I’m sorry. I couldn’t talk her out of it and I couldn’t let her drive herself. She’s loaded.”

Good Lord. Marcie swayed, her blue eyes still locked on him. Abigail had edged onto the grass and he could only imagine the censure in the woman’s eyes. He’d seen her around St. George’s, hovering over the school like a blimp or like that character in Monsters, Inc.Always watching. Abigail Beauchamp Orgeron seemed to be the perfect mother, business owner and citizen—always going the extra mile. She was the kind of woman who made him twitchy.

“Okay, look, Marcie, this isn’t the time or place to talk about what happened between us. Things didn’t work out, honey. One day you’ll see breaking off the wedding was the right decision for both of us.” Leif placed a hand on her elbow, mostly so she wouldn’t fall, and turned her toward the car. “Now go back with Rachel. It’s crazy to show up here like this. When you sober up, you’re going to feel—”

“Don’t tell me what I feel. I waited all my life to wear this dress. See what you’ve done to me,” Marcie said, wrenching her arm away and catching sight of Abigail. She dragged her drunken gaze from his neighbor’s head to her loafers. “Wait. Who’s that?”

“Uh, nobody,” Leif answered before Abigail could open her mouth. Somehow it made him sound guilty. Marcie narrowed her glazed eyes.

“Wait, are you sleeping with her? Her? She’s not your type. She’s, like, old. My mom wears shoes like hers.”

Abigail looked at her sensible loafers, then at Marcie. It was like watching Courtney Love go toe-to-toe with Katie Couric. “For your information, I’m his neighbor, and every woman should have a good pair of loafers—even rude, inebriated women.”

Marcie’s brow crinkled. “Inevreated?”

“Drunk,” Abigail clarified.

“Well, that’s his fault,” Marcie said, pointing to Leif. “But I’m sorry I said that. Still, my mom totally has those shoes. Guess you shop at Talbots, too.”

Abigail turned to the waiflike preteen staring at him and Marcie with eyes as big as dinner plates. “Come on, Birdie. We’ll do this later. Mr. Lively has his hands full.”

Birdie stood agog, not budging. “Okay.”

“Wait.” Marcie held up a finger. “I got something for you, Leif.”

Oh, God. Please don’t let it be a shotgun. Surely Rachel didn’t let her bring a weapon. But then again, Rachel wasn’t the most sensible of girls. She’d brought a drunk, bridal-gown-wearing Marcie from New Orleans.

“Now, Birdie. Come on.” Abigail’s voice sounded more urgent.

Leif glanced at Abigail, then worriedly at the rump of Marcie. The rest of her had disappeared into the car. “You guys don’t have to go. It’s fine.”

But it was not fine.

The fluffy veil swayed as Marcie wriggled out, lunging toward Leif.

Whew. No shotgun or pistol or machete.

Just a plate. With a huge hunk of cake.

“This is for you,” she said, scooping a hunk of white iced cake off the plate. “Thought you might like a piece since you insisted on almond buttercream for the wedding cake.”

And then she smashed the entire piece right between his eyes.

He didn’t try to stop her because he knew he had it coming. He was the one who’d broken off the engagement. He was the one who’d broken her heart...or at the very least ruined her grand New Orleans wedding, complete with the vows at Saint Louis Cathedral, a carriage ride through the Quarter and a honeymoon in Tahiti.

“There,” Marcie crowed, twisting her hand, grinding the cake in good. He felt the icing slip down his face and tasted the sweet buttercream frosting. “Hope you like it.”

He swiped the cake from his eyes in time to see Marcie rake her icing-covered hand down her gown and spin on a heel, nearly falling onto the hood of the still purring Mustang. She marched to the open passenger door, spit out some of the netting that had gotten into her mouth and glared at Leif. “And now you can go screw yourself.”

Except she didn’t say screw. She said the other word, making him glance over at Abigail, who had earmuffed Birdie. Too late, of course.

Leif scraped off some cake and flung it to the ground, then swiped a finger through the icing, sliding it into his mouth. “Mmm. Almond buttercream was the best choice.”

Marcie growled at him before giving him the finger and crawling into the car. “Get me the hell away from him.”

And with that last directive, Rachel reversed the car out of the driveway. With a small regretful wave, she aimed the shiny Mustang toward the bricked gate of the subdivision. Leif waved, then took another swipe of icing and sucked it off his finger. The cake really was excellent. He wondered if Marcie had been obligated to pay for the wedding cake she’d hemmed and hawed over for a month. Or maybe she’d picked up a random white cake and played it off as the wedding cake. He wouldn’t put it past the pretty drama queen.

He’d loved that about her.

At one time.

Abigail’s head wagged between him and Birdie.

Leif shrugged. “You know, it really is good cake.”

The too put-together woman’s mouth opened slightly and she stared at him as though he’d grown devil horns...rather than having just gotten cake in the face from a drunken woman wearing a bridal gown.

Birdie shimmied down the driveway, craning her neck to catch a final glimpse of the sports car. As the vehicle roared onto the highway, she spun toward them, a fantastical smile invading her face. “That was awesome.”

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_6eb2ede2-7b1a-598f-a309-169d52be6117)

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Leif stepped from the shower and shook his hair, causing droplets to fly and speckle the mirror spanning his bathroom wall. No more buttercream frosting, thank God. Only the lavender and mint of the organic shampoo his friend in Colorado made by hand. The scent comforted him, reminding him who he was, where he came from.

Damn, Marcie.

What kind of woman did something like what she’d just done? So over-the-top. Thank goodness he’d realized what his life would be like with the drama queen of Saint Charles Avenue and gotten the hell out of town. Of course, he probably should have broken things off before she had ordered the cake, but by that time Marcie had turned into a locomotive, bearing down on the planned wedding date full force. Once he’d agreed they should get hitched—a proposal extracted in the middle of some raunchy sex—Marcie had taken the reins and dragged him behind her on her way to New Orleans’s wedding of the century.

Before he could say “maybe this isn’t a good idea,” wedding rings were ordered. Looking at the excitement on Marcie’s face and checking out the emerging crow’s-feet around his eyes, he’d decided marrying the daughter of old New Orleans money wasn’t a bad way to spend the rest of his life. She was good in the sack and pretty as a buttercup. So while Marcie spent the next few months booking reception halls, ordering invitations and analyzing bridesmaids’ dresses, Leif tried to envision a life of...chains.

Because eventually that’s what his impending marriage started to feel like. Prison. His casual proposal spoken in the heat of the moment had turned into a nightmare.

And then his mother passed away, leaving him a cryptic piece of the puzzle to her past, to a life he’d never known existed.

He’d returned to New Orleans a week after the funeral, telling himself that finding out the truth about his past wouldn’t change his future with Marcie. But he’d awoken the next morning beside his future wife and couldn’t breathe. Not literally, but almost. His heart galloped, a crushing weight sat on his chest and his clammy palms curved around the edge of the bed, holding on for dear life.

He just couldn’t do it.

Marcie was a nice girl, but not his soul mate, not the woman he wanted to wake up next to each morning, not the woman he wanted to sit beside in a rocking chair, watching the sun sink over the marshlands of Louisiana. He had never wanted to live in Louisiana. He craved the mountains, thin air and people who appreciated good tofu.