It's In His Smile (A Red River Valley Novel Book 3) Page 15

  He had a life back in Washington. A life he needed . . . no, a life he wanted to get back to.

  A knock sounded.

  “Miranda.” The door muffled Talmadge’s voice.

  Both hands fell to her hips and her head tipped back. With a deep breath, she gathered her nerve and went to the door. She pulled it open with a quick jerk.

  “Look, Talmadge . . .”

  He leaned against the doorjamb, muscled arms folded across his chest, one knee bent, looking hurt . . . and sexy as hell. Miranda’s mouth went dry.

  “I’m sorry about bringing up the past. It was bad timing.”

  “The timing was impeccable.” Her fingers tightened around the doorknob. “Why are you even here, Talmadge?”

  “I’m here because . . .” His gaze darted away.

  “I know you want to honor Bea’s wishes, but I told you I can figure something out on my own. You can work on the rec center in a few years when your big project in Washington is done. Bea would understand that you have more important things to do right now.”

  A muscle in his jaw ticked.

  “But you and me . . .” She heaved in a sigh. “Look, I know you’re used to girls swarming you because you’re kind of famous.” Her eyes trailed over his flexed biceps. “And really well formed.” One side of his mouth twitched up, and heat flamed up her neck. “But that’s beside the point.”

  She sucked up her resolve. Squared her shoulders.

  “You’re only here for a short time, and I’m not one of those girls who wants you for your money and your notoriety.” Maybe his body. She shook off the thought. “I have to live here after you leave. I have to face the stares and the gossip and the murmurs.”

  “You’re right. But Bea wanted me to do this, so I’m here for the duration. You have my word, I’ll be here until the inn is open and the gazebo is finished.”

  Her hand flexed around the doorknob. She’d heard men make similar promises to her mother, and stupidly, her mother always believed them.

  Miranda swore she never would. But the sincerity in Talmadge’s silvery-blue eyes made her resolve crumble like a flimsy wooden bridge in an earthquake.

  “Even though people are already talking, we have to keep this professional.”

  “We could tell everyone we’re engaged, and then you could dump me,” he said, all seriousness.

  Good Lord.

  The man really was crazy. Or stupid. No, no. Talmadge wasn’t stupid. She was the stupid one for getting herself into this mess. So that just left crazy. Years of loud construction noise had definitely scrambled his brains.

  “We are not pretending to be engaged. We keep it professional and friendly. Present a united front for Bea and for the festival.”

  He nodded. “Professional and friendly,” he mumbled like he didn’t believe a word of it.

  And, well. She didn’t believe it either. Playing this dangerous game with Talmadge would likely leave her with a trampled heart when he left town for good.

  “Let’s get back to work then.” Talmadge pushed himself off the door. “Oh, Uncle Joe wants us to put in an appearance a week from Saturday at his place. It’s a fundraiser for the gazebo so you won’t have to depend on the Wilkinsons’ money.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you there.”

  He turned and strolled down the hall. “I’ll pick you up. If we’re going to present a united front, we actually have to be seen together acting professional and friendly.”

  She sputtered.

  “Be ready at seven that night,” he said over his shoulder.

  Miranda wasn’t sure how she was going to keep it professional and friendly when she was spending all day, every day with the only man who made her want to give the finger to her reputation and do him every which way she could.

  Miranda took Talmadge’s advice and started to assemble a trustworthy team to help plan the festival. After spending the rest of the week making phone calls to the small group of people that she had let into her inner circle over the years, she walked into the Chamber of Commerce building with enough gooey cinnamon rolls and coffee from the Ostergaards’ bakery to feed an army.

  If there was one thing she remembered from her high school AP history classes, it was that an army tended to be more loyal if their bellies were full. Not only did she want her soldiers going into battle against Mrs. Wilkinson fully armed and ready to fight, but Miranda wanted to win the war. So she set out the cinnamon rolls and coffee in the conference room and went back for the cranberry-pecan scones—Mrs. Ostergaard’s specialty. No one stood a chance against those.

  She’d scheduled the first meeting during Talmadge’s physical therapy appointment. On purpose. Miranda wanted to establish herself as the commander in chief without her council automatically deferring to him.

  Plus, she couldn’t think with him in the room, much less plan an attack or lead a charge.

  Within fifteen minutes the room was full of chomping, slurping, moaning-at-the-decadent-flavor volunteers.

  Miranda went to the whiteboard and plucked the top off of a marker. “Thanks for coming, everyone.” Her voice cracked, and she wanted to fan her eyes as she turned and looked at the roomful of helpers. For someone who had felt alone most of her life, she had a lot of friends. Maybe Talmadge was right. Asking for help wasn’t always a bad thing.

  She wrote out a list on the board. “Here’s what we need to accomplish for the festival. Can I get a volunteer to head each category? Everyone else can sign up to work on a task.”

  Within two minutes each category was filled, and Lorenda furiously scribbled every detail down on a notepad while Miranda wrote the names on the board so everyone could see. It took twenty minutes for Miranda to cover all of the assignments.

  “Let’s meet weekly for updates. Same time, same place,” she told her crew. “I’ll bring the refreshments.”

  As they stood to go, Mrs. Wilkinson walked in with her son, Bart—the Red River elementary school principal—in tow along with the mayor. She didn’t bother with a hello before launching her first barrage at Miranda.

  “I brought along two respectable people in our community to witness your lack of experience and to ensure that the chairmanship is rightly switched to the better candidate.”

  “This meeting is for the Hot Rides and Cool Nights Festival. You must be lost.” Francine held her travel-trailer-size purse in her lap.

  Bart’s receding hairline gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and he stared at his shoes. Mayor Schmidt—a tall, seventyish man with a potbelly and a keen eye for local politics—shoved his hands in his pockets.

  And wow. Mrs. Wilkinson must donate a lot of money to Mayor Schmidt’s campaigns because he looked as hen-pecked as Bart.

  Joe spoke up. “Looks to me like Miranda has everything under control.”

  “Sure does,” said Clydelle.

  Miranda ignored her quivering stomach and pointed to the whiteboard with an air of confidence. “Everything is well in hand.”

  Mrs. Wilkinson gave her a calculating smile. “I’ve got proof that someone of such”—she looked down her nose—“questionable character shouldn’t be in charge. Show them, Bart.” She elbowed her son in the ribs.

  He pulled his phone out and panned the screen around the room so everyone could see.

  Miranda darted over to him and snatched the phone. The Red River Rag was open with a picture of her wearing the strip-mining T-shirt. It was taken when she had walked out to the Dumpster to throw out the trash.

  “How . . . ?” Her words trailed off, because really? Gossip flowed like water in Red River, but this was getting ridiculous in a creepy stalkerish kind of way.

  The title read Betrayal at its worst! Maybe Red River’s favorite environmental architect should find another tree to hug. Is this kind of disrespect worth Ms. Cruz wrapping her limbs around his trunk?

  “How indeed?” Mrs. Wilkinson gave Miranda a smug smile. “How do you explain the lewd inference to your behavior?”


  “Miranda doesn’t have to explain anything to you,” Clydelle said. “But Mayor Schmidt and I may have a story or two to tell from way back.” She waggled two bushy gray brows at the mayor. “Don’t we, Harold?”

  A bead of sweat broke out on the mayor’s wrinkled forehead. “I think maybe we’ve misjudged Miss Cruz.”

  A look of desperation flashed in Mrs. Wilkinson’s eyes, and she studied the whiteboard. “I don’t see the gazebo on the board. Mr. Oaks rarely came to visit his own grandmother. How can he possibly be trusted with such an important addition to our community when he doesn’t live in Red River? He’s not even here for the meeting.”

  “I’m right here.” Talmadge walked in with drawings under his arm, his easy saunter exuding the self-assuredness of a leader.

  Trying to keep the meeting a secret was probably silly, since this was Red River and everybody already knew what she had for breakfast by now.

  “Sorry I’m late.” He took the seat closest to Miranda. “I brought preliminary plans for your approval, Madam Chairperson.” He gave her a dazzling smile. A real smile that had started to appear more and more since he’d been back in Red River. Not that half-smile that masked some sort of private pain. “I gave Ms. Cruz my word I’d be here until her inn opens.” He spoke to Mrs. Wilkinson, but he looked at Miranda. “She has my word I won’t leave until the gazebo is finished as well.”

  She just stared at him, hoping the admiration in her eyes didn’t make her look weak.

  He gave her an encouraging nod. “I hope they meet your specifications.” He said it like she had been the creative force behind his ideas. He placed the drawings on the conference table, and everyone leaned in to have a look. “If I didn’t capture your vision for the project, I can make as many changes as you want.” He spoke only to her, making sure everyone knew he answered to her and her alone.

  Miranda wanted to kiss him. And thread her fingers through his gorgeous sandy hair. And maybe take his shirt off and run her hands all over his chest.

  A storm of lust started low in her belly and gathered between her thighs. She crossed her legs and kept a determined and—hopefully—authoritative smile on her face. “Then by all means, Mr. Oaks.” That earthy purple color she loved so much flared in his eyes. “Show us what you’ve got.”

  Sitting at the head of the large oval table, Miranda maintained her composure but not without a sexy flush seeping into her cheeks. The gratitude in her expression, not to mention the craving in her eyes that said she wanted a Talmadge sandwich for lunch, was priceless.

  It also made him feel like something he should be scraping off the bottom of his shoe after taking Lloyd for a walk in a dog park. The half-truth he’d told her, leaving out the part about inheriting a truckload of money if he stayed until her inn opened, suddenly became almost as suffocating as the memories of what he’d done to cause his parents’ accident. Even if telling her did violate the terms of Bea’s will.

  He scooted his chair in, spreading out his sketches.

  His gaze moved over her pretty face to anchor to those plump lips. Which she pulled between her teeth.

  “That doesn’t change the fact that Mr. Oaks isn’t a true resident of Red River. We should use someone local,” Mrs. Wilkinson protested.

  “He was raised here,” Joe said without looking in Old Lady Wilkinson’s direction. “That’s good enough.”

  “I think you’ll agree that my design represents Red River beautifully.” That was one of his gifts, and the reason he not only excelled at architecture, but eclipsed every architect in the world when it came to environmental designs. He was a master at designing structures that blended with natural landscapes, cultures, and atmospheres.

  “My husband and I will fund the project if we find someone else.” She sniffed. “And appoint a new chairperson.”

  “We don’t need your money,” said Joe. “We’ll raise the funds ourselves. I’m having the first fundraiser at my establishment, and I’ve contacted other local business owners who are on board with raising money.”

  Mrs. Wilkinson’s mouth clamped shut, and her lips thinned.

  “I have an idea that might help out with that.” Talmadge looked only at Miranda, because how could he not? Her chocolaty eyes got bigger with every thread of help he stitched into her leadership role. “Actually, I got the idea from Miranda.” Her eyes widened another notch. “She doesn’t waste things.” When she smiled, the dimples in her cheeks almost made his heart stop. “I’d like to use as many recycled materials as possible. If we ask people and businesses in town to donate something from their homes, barns, anything really, I can make it work. McCall’s Hardware has offered to donate supplies. Anything else we need we can buy with the money we raise. It would be a new structure, but still have a nostalgic meaning for the community. It would be more historic, like the buildings on Main Street.”

  A ripple of oohs and ahs went around the table.

  Miranda leaned over to get a better look at the drawings, and her fresh lemony scent drove him to the edge. When she glanced up, the look of approval in her eyes made his chest expand. The softness in her eyes made him want to snatch her up and kiss her, tell her the truth about his inheritance, and then take her to bed, if she’d have him.

  She studied the drawings and placed a slender finger on the top of the gazebo. “That’s the weather vane on top of the inn.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

  Talmadge nodded, appreciative and impressed by the fact that she recognized it. “Would you consider donating it? It represents both Bea and you.” The two women he cared most about in the world. The thought shook him, and it took a second to catch his breath. “Maybe some of the churches in town, and Uncle Joe, and any number of people could donate something.”

  “Our church won’t donate a thing,” Mrs. Wilkinson huffed.

  “There’s plenty of other churches in town that would be more than happy to donate something,” Joe said.

  “It could be like paying homage to Red River,” Miranda murmured. “Our history. Our culture.”

  Yes. Exactly. But mostly, a tribute to her, even though no one would ever know. He’d been thinking of her when he designed it. The two skylights were her eyes, and the small river running around the gazebo to converge into a waterfall with a small footbridge over it was her silky hair. The pearl color of the paint was her skin, and the red trim of the eaves and the wood bench inside was the color of her lips.

  “Do something,” Mrs. Wilkinson hissed at her son and the mayor.

  But if anyone in the room had been paying the slightest bit of attention to her before, they had definitely tuned her out completely now. No way would Bart and Mayor Schmidt try to get rid of Talmadge with such a landmark idea, especially since he was offering his services for free.

  A glint of something formed in Miranda’s eyes. “It’s a wonderful idea, Talmadge.” Her voice was wistful. “And a beautiful thing to do for the people here.”

  Talmadge blinked, her words zinging through his creative mind. Holy shit. That was it! The answer to Trinity Falls. A gift to the indigenous people. An homage to the native tribes in Washington, with Trinity Falls blending with the natural landscape and flowing around the ancient ruins instead of through them.

  And he had Miranda to thank for it. He’d stayed in Red River to gain his inheritance by helping save her investment in the inn. Instead, she may have just saved him financially and professionally. If the tribal leaders saw the project as a tribute to all of their people, they might allow Trinity Falls to move forward.

  “I’m good with it,” said Joe.

  “Wait!” Mrs. Wilkinson demanded.

  “Let’s put it to a vote,” Francine said.

  Clydelle leaned over and spoke to her sister and her partner in all things mischief. “We don’t need to vote. Miranda is the chairperson. Whatever she says goes.”

  Everyone in the room looked at her, waiting.

  She looked around the room, her confidence obviously grow
ing because she sat a little taller. She nodded. “I approve.” She pulled her lip between her teeth. She did that a lot. When she was nervous, or unsure, or happy. It played hell with his concentration.

  He gathered up the plans and shoved them under his arm. “I’ll leave you all to finish up.” He needed to get the heck out of there and call his firm back in Washington. If he was lucky, he might be able to salvage his professional reputation before it was too late.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On Saturday night Miranda propped her feet on her coffee table and flipped through the channels, tired from a long day’s work.

  She needed a few hours alone. A little time without Talmadge’s woodsy scent, incredible mane of hair, and sexy, well-equipped tool belt tempting her to throw her friendly professionalism under the bus and nail him in the biblical sense.

  Miranda had never dated because she feared what people might assume. Because of rumors that started small and grew into a cancer that choked the life out of a person before they could stop it. Spending time with Talmadge every day at the inn and every evening working on the gazebo and festival only made her want more of what she couldn’t have. The random touches of their hands, brushes of their arms, grazes of their legs, not to mention how she sometimes caught him watching her . . .

  A pull started low in her belly.

  With so much testosterone flowing off of him that it caused her thighs to clench every time she looked in his direction, she wasn’t completely responsible for her actions if those random touches, brushes, and grazes led to him kissing her again. Or if he kept looking at her from under those sleepy, sexy long lashes. He was too damn gorgeous for his own good. Or for Miranda’s own good.

  She’d done without a man . . . a relationship . . . sex for this long, she didn’t want to break her record with someone who wasn’t in her long-term future. Again. She was already much more dependent on Talmadge than she wanted to be. And she was getting used to his company. Which was bad news. He wouldn’t be around forever, and she could stand on her own two feet without a man . . . without Talmadge Oaks.