Simple Gone South

“And what a shape it is,” she whispered back, raised her pelvis to meet his, and they both laughed. This time she did not protest when he unzipped his pants and slipped them over his hips.

Then his mouth was on her breasts again and he was pressing, pressing, pressing against the sofa arm so they could feel each other better through the thin fabric of their underwear, because her dress was now around her waist. This was so perfect that she needed to savor it.

But she needed to stop. And stop him. If she didn’t, she was going to come, right here like a teenager in the backseat of a car. And if she came, she would owe him, wouldn’t feel right if he didn’t.

He sensed her hesitation.

“Lucy, I want you. But I meant what I said. I act on my last directive. But I wouldn’t mind if you changed that directive.”

And what if she did? What if they went upstairs, got into bed, and finished what they had started in Savannah? It could be wonderful.

But what if she repulsed him, like she had that night? What if he rejected her and ran again?

Unthinkable.

He looked at her with a question in his eyes.

“I can’t,” she said.

He nodded. “I understand. Not this time.”

She couldn’t speak to that. How could she lie there and tell him never when her dress was wadded up around her waist from both directions, her panties soaking wet, and her bra was on the floor?

“Lucy Mead,” he said formally with his rock hard penis still pressed against her. “I request that you allow me to call on you and take you to dinner tomorrow night.”

“All right,” she said because any other answer would have been ludicrous.

And she was tired of fighting—him and herself.

Chapter Twelve

Friday night at Lou Anne’s Diner was always busy, but especially so the first few weeks after football season ended. The citizens of Merritt were accustomed to going out on Friday night to see their Bobcats play, and they were a little depressed that it was over for the year and a little lacking in direction. So they headed for the diner for comfort food and to socialize with the same people they had been socializing with in the stadium all fall long.

Since she had not heard from him all day, Lucy had not been sure that Brantley would remember she had agreed to go out with him. Could be that, since she’d finally acquiesced, he’d crossed her off his list and moved on—like he had that night in Savannah.

But shortly before she got off work, he texted: Been working all day. Pick you up at 7. And he had. Right on time.

She wondered where he would take her, but she should have known it would be the diner. That was the place to go on Friday night if you wanted the world to know—and for some reason he still seemed intent on marking his territory.

It wouldn’t last, but that was okay. She’d finally faced that she needed to get Brantley out of her system so she could move on. No one could deny that he was good company and supremely entertaining. She would enjoy it as long as it lasted. She even intended to sleep with him, but not tonight and maybe not this month or next. It would be a time of her choosing because, this time, she would be in control. If they kept it light and breezy, it might even last until the Brantley Building was done and he left town again. If it didn’t, fine. She wouldn’t care and she would still do her job.

At the diner, it took a full five minutes for them to get from the front door to the first available booth. Everyone wanted a little Brantley magic.

“Lucy Mead, I have never fought as hard for a date as I have for this one,” Brantley said after they were settled across the table from each other.

“I doubt you’ve ever had to fight for a date at all.” Lucy dug her hand sanitizer out of her purse and rubbed some on her palms. She offered some to Brantley with a raised eyebrow.

“No. I like to wallow in my own filth. Besides if a man starts using hand sanitizer, the next thing you know, he’s growing orchids and making stained glass.”

“Or maybe not getting the flu.” She replaced the little bottle in her makeup bag and zipped it.

“I don’t get the flu. And it’s true; I haven’t spent a lot of energy trying to get dates. But damn, girl, you confound me. It briefly crossed my mind to ask Missy for advice—but only briefly.”

“Thank God for small favors.” That was all she needed.

“I did not dare. I have warned her too many times to stay out of my love life. I would never have heard the end of it. She would have built a float for the Merritt Christmas parade with a glitter banner that said, ‘Brantley needs Missy to Mess in His Business.’ But you would have been worth it, Lucy.” He winked and before she could stop him, he picked up her hand and kissed the back of her wrist.

Her stomach took a nosedive into the sea and caught a wave.

“I am hoping we have gotten to the simple part now, where I don’t have to beg you to see me. I am hoping you can see that this doesn’t have to be complicated.”

Simple part? He thought he was simple to deal with?

“Well, what do we have here?”

Lucy looked up. Oh, no. Lou Anne herself set water and menus on the table. She didn’t usually work on Friday nights. Lou Anne loved Merritt High football so maybe she, like her customers, hadn’t known what to do with herself tonight. Lucy removed her hand from Brantley’s and he stood to give Lou Anne a hug.

“I hear you’re back for good,” Lou Anne said.

“For good or evil,” he said lightly. “But at least for a while.”

A while. That said it all. Never forget that.

“Any chance our girl here might inspire you otherwise?” Lou Anne asked with a little knowing smirk.

“She is an inspiration.” Brantley settled back into his seat and opened the menu. “As is your chicken and dumplings and banana pudding.”

Great. Just what every girl wanted—to be compared to dumplings and pudding.

“Meatloaf and fried chicken tonight,” Lou Anne said. “Fried green tomatoes. Maybe the last of the season. I’ll give you a few minutes.”

Lucy’s mouth literally salivated. She wanted it all. She hadn’t known what her food choices would be tonight, so she had only eaten a container of yogurt and some raw vegetables today. She’d had to save all her calories for tonight because if she only ordered a bit of broiled fish or a salad, Brantley might tease her about being on a diet, remember how fat she had been, and run from her for fear that she might get that fat again.

Not that she cared; not that she could afford to care.

Brantley was clearly not worried about what he was going to eat. Not that he had to.

“She’s got pumpkin pie tonight!” he exclaimed. “I love pumpkin pie. Why does everybody think you can only have pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving time? Why can’t we have pumpkin pie on the Fourth of July, Easter Sunday, and every other day?”

“Maybe because pumpkins aren’t in season then?” Lucy suggested.

“I can send an email to Japan in less than two seconds. Somebody ought to be able to figure out how to make pumpkin pie happen year round.”

“It’s a tragedy.” Lucy looked at her own menu.

“You got that right. I’m having fried chicken, field peas, broccoli rice casserole, and fried green tomatoes. And I am ordering my pie up front so I don’t get left out if she runs out. How about you?”

She really wanted to have what he was having, but that was way overboard. The trick was to make it appear like she could eat like a normal person who went to the gym—not like she was depriving herself or like a pig that had been saving up all day.