Sweet Talking Man

“Hey, Mr. Lively,” Birdie said, brightly.

Oh, God. Ever since the apology last month, Birdie forgot to be brooding each time Leif’s name came up in conversation. The child had even tried to invite him to the Beauchamp family Christmas Eve extravaganza. Luckily, Leif hadn’t been in town. The last thing Abigail needed was someone picking up on her attraction to him. Her cousin Hilda would have noticed for sure, which was why Abigail had balked when Hilda had approached her about volunteering for the art festival. The Beauchamps were such a tight-knit bunch they might as well have been high-thread-count bedsheets. Hiding anything from family was impossible.

“Hey, Birdie,” Leif said, holding up a finger to the older woman he’d been speaking with. She shot Birdie a look of aggravation before pasting a smile on her face.

Birdie set her drawing pad and pencil case on the table. “I brought my mom.”

Leif’s gaze strayed to Abigail’s. “So I see.”

“And I have a new drawing pad and pencils. Fancy and Pops got them for me for Christmas.”

Abigail hadn’t heard Birdie string two sentences together since the girl had decided to go all Joan Jett on her. But in Leif’s presence, Birdie was...effervescent. Abigail found it slightly embarrassing. Leif seemed to understand and kept his warm smile on Birdie.

“And what about your mother?”

Birdie glanced at her. “My mother?”

“Does she have a new pad and pencils?”

“Nope,” Abigail said, waving a pad half-filled with Birdie’s drawings. “I’m starting with a used pad and pencils.”

Leif’s smile reached his eyes. “I’m surprised to see you here, but I’m glad you came.”

If only.

Warmth dripped into Abigail’s belly before she could strike the naughtiness from her head. What was wrong with her? Daydreaming about a guy like Leif? He was too different, too earthy and holistic and—

He had the best smile in three parishes. He had a slight dimple in his left cheek and eyes the color of a fall sky. His jaw had a blockish quality, while his lips were sensuous. How Abigail knew they were sensuous, she wasn’t sure, but she was certain he could kiss her up one side of a wall and down the other. And make her beg for more.

“I didn’t have a choice. My mother gave us the lessons for Christmas.” Abigail pulled out a chair next to an older African-American woman who was knitting a baby blanket while watching them with hawk eyes.

Birdie’s thunderous expression told Abigail she’d screwed up again.

“So the college wouldn’t give you the money back, huh?”

Abigail smiled. “Nope. You’re stuck with me.”

“Well, your daughter has to have gotten her talent from somewhere.”

Birdie bloomed pink. “I get it from my dad. He’s a musician. Don’t you play guitar, Mr. Lively?”

“In this class, I’m Leif. Save the mister stuff for school. And, yeah, I play guitar, ukulele and—”

“Drums,” Abigail added.

His head jerked toward her. “Not too loud, I hope.”

Abigail shook her head. “I saw you playing them once when I was passing out flyers.”

Leif’s eyes twinkled. “Ah...the flyers about the noise ordinance or the zoning issue?”

“Both.” Abigail shrugged. “Didn’t do much good, but a girl has to try. I owe it to my guests. They come to the B and B for tranquillity.”

“And your banana bread.”

“That, too.”

Leif glanced up as another woman entered the room. “Well, I’m happy to have you both in class...whether you had a choice or not.”

He moved to speak to two college girls who had tumbled into the room in shorts...in January, for cripes’ sake. They were wearing UGG boots, slouchy tunic shirts and ponytails that swung in tune with their lazy strides. They took a seat at the middle table, the smell of honeysuckle wafting off them.

Leif took his place in front of the classroom and held up his hands. “Welcome, friends, to Introduction to Drawing. I’m Leif Lively, your instructor, and I know something brought each of you here for a good reason.”

Oh, please.

Yet the man sounded so sincere, so welcoming.

“I know some of you are here because you need the credit—” he gestured to the coeds behind Abigail “—and some of you are here because you want to progress in your study of art.” This time he looked at Birdie.

“And some of you don’t know why you signed up for a nighttime class that will teach you the basics, and hopefully the joy of drawing.” At this, he looked at Abigail.

She felt the heat in his glance, a small flare of attraction. Her first inclination was to revel in the idea he found her attractive, but she quickly quelled the thought. She’d misread the emotion in those blue eyes. She wasn’t the kind of woman Leif pursued. She’d seen Marcie in her tight, gaudy gown and flashy red Mustang. The bodice had dipped to the woman’s navel, showcasing enough boobage to smother a small child. Marcie was young, pretty and nubile—three things Abigail was not.

She had no business reflecting her bizarre attraction to her art teacher back on herself. Something was wrong with her—probably the beginning of a midlife crisis. Turning forty pressed down on her. When her ex-husband neared forty, he’d loaded his convertible with his Les Paul guitar, a new wardrobe and Morgan Cost, the waitress/karaoke deejay at the Sugar Shack in Raceland, and headed to California to pursue his dream of becoming a recording artist.

Yeah, midlife crisis.

“So, let’s get started,” Leif said, clapping his hands together and jolting Abigail from her reverie.

After they’d been drawing for a while, Leif came by her table where she’d flat-out screwed up her attempt at shading an apple. She really sucked at drawing—but if Leif needed his closet organized, she was his gal.

“That’s a nice line,” he said, leaning over her, flooding her senses with the heady scent of mint mixed with pure male. Dear God, he smelled good. Not like incense at all, but rather clean with a hint of sultry. Like sitting by a fire atop a mountain, crisp air dancing—

What was she doing? Waxing poetic over Leif’s shampoo?

But that didn’t stop her from swaying toward him, before she caught herself. “I’m not good at this,” she said.

“Relax,” he said, his voice stroking over her like a hand over velvet. “You’ve got the basic concept. All you need are—” using his own pencil, he made a few swoops, rounding out the shading “—a few curveballs in your life. You like to live on the straight and narrow, don’t you, Abigail. Or is it Abi?”

His question oiled the creaky, unused portion of her heart. No one called her Abi anymore. Except her mother, now and again. She’d once been like those girls at the middle table—young, silly, full of dreams. But as time went by and she struggled to take care of Birdie while her husband drove into the sunset with a mediocre karaoke singer and the funds from the savings account he’d emptied, she’d transformed into Abigail—a woman who didn’t moon over sappy movies or embrace being called by a nickname.

“Abi?”

“Oh, sorry. Um, call me Abigail, please.”

His hot breath fanned her neck. “Whatever you want.”

Cripes, why did everything the man said sound like an invitation to have sweaty marathon sex? She rubbed away the goose bumps rippling up her arm. “That’s what I like to hear.”