It's In His Smile (A Red River Valley Novel Book 3) Read online

  Her phone range, the custom ringtone blasting out her favorite classic rock song by Bob Seger, “Old Time Rock and Roll.” Of all the strange things her mother had tried to instill in her, a love of classic rock and roll was the only thing that seemed to stick. She glanced at the caller ID. Taking a deep breath, she answered.

  “Are you ready?” Talmadge asked before she could say hello.

  “No.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. It said five fifteen. She punched the remote until she found a rerun of one of her favorite reality shows. “Joe’s fundraiser doesn’t start for almost two hours.” She wanted to relax for a few minutes. Kick back and maybe eat a gallon of ice cream.

  “It’s seven o’clock. We’re already late.”

  She studied the clock on the wall. The second hand didn’t move. Crap. The batteries had to give out today?

  “Open the outside door to your suite. It’s locked.”

  Miranda sat up. “You’re here?” She looked down at her faded pink sweatpants and old Three Little Pigs sweatshirt that was two sizes two big and had a bleached Clorox stain on the front. Her hand flew to her hair, still wet from a shower. Greeting Talmadge at the door in worn-out clothes she’d owned since puberty wasn’t how she intended to start the night. He was probably used to his dates wearing Prada. Or at least some sort of expensive designer faux leather so no animals had to die.

  But Miranda wasn’t his date. Maybe her appearance would remind both of them of that. Or maybe it would only make her feel more inadequate.

  Her heart rate doubled.

  “Glad you keep your door locked, by the way. Bea never did.” His voice streaming through the phone startled her.

  “I’m not dressed to go out.”

  “What are you wearing this time? An ‘I Club Baby Seals’ T-shirt? Come on, open up.”

  “Go. Away.” She didn’t try to hide her grating tone. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “Not going away.” Talmadge’s voice sounded amused. “If you don’t open the door, I’ll call the sheriff and tell him you had a break-in. You and whatever you’re wearing will show up on Tumblr before morning.”

  Her eyes slid shut. “I’d rather watch reality TV. Alone. I like Fast N’ Loud.” She got up and went to the door. She threw the deadbolt and slid the chain off its track, tugging the door open at the same moment she realized what she’d just said sounded amazingly sexual. Especially when saying it to an incredibly attractive man who oozed alpha hotness from his very pores.

  And oh baby, there he was, lounging against the doorframe like he was as comfortable in his own skin as she was in her faded Three Little Pigs sweatshirt. He wore a white linen dress shirt, the sleeves cuffed up on his forearms. He was the only man she’d ever met who filled out a pair of faded Levi’s better than a male fashion model.

  His mouth turned up into a cocky smile, and he stared at her with the phone still to his ear.

  “I like it fast and loud, too, but not alone.” His tone was as smart-ass as his smile.

  Miranda’s throat closed.

  “And if I insist on going separate from you?” she said into the phone, even though they were face-to-face.

  His eyes sank to the three small swine stitched across her sweatshirt. “I’ll huff and puff and blow your house down.”

  “I’m hanging up on you.” She tapped the End button with exaggerated flare, then turned and walked back into the den.

  “Ouch. That hurt. I may not recover.”

  She ignored him. Until she remembered that the word “Juicy” was scrawled across the seat of her sweatpants. A typical Christmas gift from her mother, which Miranda only wore in the privacy of her own home. When her splayed hand flew to her backside, Talmadge laughed.

  Hellfire.

  “Can I come in?” he asked with too much confidence. She should say no just on principle.

  “Might as well. You’re here.” She turned to face him with both hands on her hips. He stepped over the threshold. When he turned to shut the door, the sculpted muscles of his forearms shifted and flexed.

  Involuntarily, Miranda’s tongue darted out to trace her lower lip.

  “Uncle Joe is waiting for us. The place is already packed, and a reporter from Red River’s real newspaper is going to be there.”

  “Um, seriously.” She fanned a hand over her comfy attire. “I didn’t realize how late it was. It’s going to take time to get ready, so maybe you should go without me. Tell them I’m sick or something.” She couldn’t stop her gaze from scanning his entire length.

  “It’s Joe’s, not a state dinner at the White House.” He tapped at the screen of his phone and handed it to her.

  The Red River Rag’s latest post was a picture of her and Talmadge unloading supplies from the back of his truck. Lloyd’s head was sticking out of a backpack that Talmadge had modified to carry the little guy around so he wouldn’t get stepped on or so they wouldn’t have to lock him in the bathroom to keep him out of harm’s way. The caption read, Red River’s newest lovebirds are making a nice little nest together. The inn is transforming before our eyes, and their “baby” is snug as a bug.

  “Wow,” Miranda mumbled.

  “Scroll down,” Talmadge said.

  She did and there was another post—she and Talmadge in Brandenburg Park, directing the start of the gazebo. Red River sweethearts work together to make our little community a sweeter place. Is it too much to hope that they stay together? Or will it turn sour when our favorite architect flies the coop to go northwest for the summer?

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Miranda wanted to scream. But it was a fair question. One to which she didn’t want to find out the answer. Hence, the friendly professionalism.

  Talmadge gently retrieved his phone from her grip with a lazy smile on his lips. “Go get ready. We’re going to Joe’s together, because it looks like the tide of public opinion is turning in your favor.”

  Shouts of approval rang out when Miranda and Talmadge walked into Joe’s an hour later to boost enthusiasm for the festival and gazebo and hopefully jump-start the fundraising efforts. Being the center of attention when everyone thought she and Talmadge were sweethearts made her want to bolt.

  Talmadge must have felt her tense. Or maybe he noticed that she held her breath until her lungs wanted to burst. He placed a warm, firm hand to the small of her back and gave her a little nudge. The warm contact made flames shoot all the way to her toes. She should’ve worn a thinner top, because his touch and the white sweater she had grabbed from her closet in a rush were making her sweat. She faked a bright smile and tried to dazzle the crowd.

  Joe’s new waitress grabbed two menus. “Y’all follow me. Joe has a table saved for you in the back.” With a ballpoint pen tucked behind one ear and enough hairspray on her teased salt-and-pepper hair to hold together a mudslide, she led them through the restaurant.

  If Miranda thought Talmadge would move his hand when she started toward their table, she was wrong. To pull away she lengthened her strides. So did he, and his palm stayed flush and oh so electrifying against that intimate spot just above the waistband of her denim miniskirt. Her back brushed his shoulder as he gently guided her forward, staying so close that his musky soap made her mouth water.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  She tried to focus on the sound of crunching peanut shells under their feet as they followed her replacement past the checkered tables of beaming patrons. But not the peanut shells, or the country-and-western music that played in the background, or the chatter and obnoxious whispers from every table they passed could distract her from the sizzle of electricity that started at her waist where his hand rested and skated up her torso into her tightening nipples.

  “Making sure you don’t chicken out.” He dipped his head and whispered into her ear. “You need to be here tonight. You’re their leader until the festival is over whether you know it or not.”

  “Why would I chicken out?” Sure, she hadn’t been able hide the sh
iver that had started in her legs on the drive over. Come to think of it, she should’ve worn a longer skirt to hide her knees, which were in a full-blown knocking state by the time they walked through Joe’s front door. “Do I look scared?”

  “Like you’ve seen a ghost.” He increased the pressure against the small of her back.

  Several tables greeted them as they followed the waitress around the wood dance floor and headed to the back of the cavernous room. Miranda waved and smiled and waved and smiled.

  “Why? You’ve known these people for years.”

  “Some of them don’t think too highly of me because of my mother,” she said point-blank. “Guilt by association, I guess.”

  The server stopped at a table along the back wall of Joe’s and held out a hand. “Here y’all go. Just for you two lovebirds.” She set the menus in the center of the table and darted back to the front where a few more groups had walked in.

  “I think you have more support in this town than you realize.” Before they sat down, he glanced around the room where just about everyone was watching them. “Look.” He nodded to the room of onlookers and turned his gaze back on her. “They don’t look like a roomful of haters to me.”

  “They’re staring at you,” she said.

  “Then it’s a good thing you came tonight. When you put on a festival that kicks ass and takes names, they’ll wonder why they hadn’t given you more credit.”

  Talmadge guided Miranda into the booth and slid in opposite her.

  She squirmed at the stares that kept darting in their direction. And the whispers. The whispers were the hardest to take because of the whispers that had circulated about her mother ever since Miranda was old enough to understand what they were about. They had been humiliating. Cruel even, because some people expected Miranda to be cut from the same rode-hard-and-put-away-wet cloth. And Miranda would rather die a thousand deaths than relive the shame she’d felt from those malicious whispers and stinging stares.

  “I’m not used to being the center of attention. It’s unnerving.” She crossed her legs and waggled her foot.

  “Get used to it,” Talmadge said. “The Red River Record is interviewing you tonight. Their lead reporter has television experience and has connections with a camera crew in Taos, so he’s agreed to film the progress of the inn. If we use a local crew, they’ll be at our disposal and can document more of the renovations. I’ve got a syndicated home show lined up to edit the footage and run an episode when we’re done.” He unfolded a checkered napkin. “I’ve already informed the show that they can mention my name but you’re doing all the talking.”

  “Wow.” Her foot waggling kicked into warp speed. “Do people always jump like that when you snap your fingers?”

  He lifted a cocky brow. “In the architectural world, usually.” Then uncertainty flashed in his eyes. “Outside of the architectural world, it’s another story.”

  “I don’t have any experience with interviews or cameras or microphones. You have to do it.”

  He shook his head. “No can do. You’re the boss. If you want people to take you seriously as a leader with the festival and in the community, this is how you do it.”

  “By making a fool out of myself for public record? I’ve already had enough of that from the Red River Rag.”

  “By leading.” The corner of his mouth turned up, laughter glinting in his mesmerizing eyes. “You’ve already got the bossy part down like a champ.”

  His legs eased around hers, framing her under the table. The fabric of his worn jeans rubbed against her thighs. Her thin leggings did nothing to stop the friction from igniting a slow burn that traveled straight to ground zero.

  “Stop bouncing your foot. The whole table is shaking. Being a strong leader doesn’t mean you’re never scared.” He rubbed his inner thighs against hers. “It means you suck it up and do what you have to do even when you’re scared.”

  And that’s why he commanded respect just by walking into a room, no matter the crowd. Leadership came naturally to him.

  “I’m not like you,” she whispered. “I don’t know if I can pull this off.”

  His gaze caressed over her. “Sweetheart, you’re far stronger than I am. Bea knew it. I know it. You just don’t know it yet. I’m staying behind the camera. This is your moment to shine.”

  Oh.

  She stared at him, and her lips parted. She didn’t know what to say except, “Let’s order.”

  They both grabbed for the menus, and his hand landed on top of hers. It closed over hers like it was an automatic reflex, and for a second, everyone in the room disappeared except for him and her. And her stupid nipples stood at attention and gave a twenty-one-gun salute.

  Maybe she was glad she’d worn a sweater after all. At least it would cover the evidence of how her body responded to him with enough voltage that she might as well have stuck her finger in a light socket.

  She tugged her hand free, missing the weight of his. Missing the confidence and security she drew from such a simple thing.

  Hating herself for it too.

  She’d worked hard to make her own destiny. That path had gained her the self-respect that her mother never had. It had also landed her single and alone and wanting more, the same way her mother always had been.

  Go figure.

  And for the first time, Miranda’s resentment toward her mother eased the slightest bit. Her mom may have gone about trying to find companionship the wrong way, but Miranda was starting to see why she’d wanted it so badly. Being alone was better than being with the wrong person. She glanced at Talmadge, and her breath hitched. But when a person finally realized that the right person might be out there somewhere, being alone sucked.

  Trying to refocus, Miranda looked around the room to see if anyone had watched that small moment of accidental handholding. Her thoughts cleared enough to notice that almost everyone wore green T-shirts with Talmadge’s company name and logo across the back and printed on the front shoulder.

  How cute.

  “Have you started a cult or something?” She opened a menu and studied it like she’d never seen it before even though it hadn’t changed since she started work there at fifteen.

  “Uncle Joe asked me to donate the shirts for tonight’s fundraiser. I had my assistant send them from Seattle. It gave her something to do besides spa treatments and knitting at her desk since I’m not there to keep the company wheels turning.”

  “Your assistant is a she?” Miranda kept studying the menu. Of course his assistant was a she. Women all over the Pacific Northwest probably lined up to do the job for free just to get the chance to look at him. Looking at him was payment enough.

  “Jealous?” Talmadge cracked a peanut and popped it into his mouth with a smirk.

  Yes. “Of course not.”

  He chomped on the peanut and dug another one out of the tin bucket at the end of the table. “Her name is Ellen.”

  Ellen. Did Ellen have long legs, blonde hair, and possibly stand to inherit a hotel chain at some point in her future? Miranda dropped the menu to pick at a callus on her work-worn hands.

  “Ellen is almost old enough to be on Social Security. She’s also a loyal employee, and I don’t have to worry about her wanting our relationship to go beyond professional boundaries.”

  Oh. “It’s none of my business.” Miranda picked up her menu again. “You can get back to work in Washington as soon as the inn passes inspection and the gazebo is unveiled at the festival.”

  She looked up about the time he popped another peanut into his mouth and chewed, slow and languid, his eyes never leaving her mouth.

  “I’m sure it will be a relief,” she blathered on. “You know . . . the unveiling . . .”

  His eyes went all smoky and caressed down her neck to the drooping cowl neckline of her sweater. Flaming heat licked at the exposed skin just above her breasts when his gaze lingered there.

  “You can unveil anything, anytime, boss. No argument from me.” His vo
ice was low and husky.

  Her lips parted, her mouth turning to cotton.

  Joe came over to their table and shook Talmadge’s hand. “What can I get you two lovebirds? It’s on the house.”

  Miranda’s mouth fell open. Seriously? “We’re not lovebirds, Joe.” And he rarely gave anything away for free.

  “Thanks, Uncle Joe. We’ll both have a rib eye. Medium well. Your famous coleslaw and two beers. And bring Miranda one of my T-shirts. I promised her one.” He shot a cocky smile at her. A sexy-as-hell smile that made her insides melt to liquid.

  “Ordering for me isn’t exactly letting me lead.” She lowered her voice.

  “Knowing you and your frugal ways, you would’ve ordered a side salad instead of a real meal.”

  Joe shrugged. “He’s right, Miranda. You never want to impose.”

  She exhaled. Loudly. “All right. Since you insist, Joe.”

  “I’ll put that order in.” He turned to Talmadge. “But Miranda doesn’t drink. Never has. I’ll bring water for you, hon,” Joe said and disappeared.

  Talmadge’s expression blanked, and he stared at her. And then the confusion in his stare turned to suspicion as he narrowed those beautiful eyes.

  Beads of sweat broke out between her shoulder blades and trickled straight down her spine. Seven years ago she’d told him their two hours of tender, passionate lovemaking were a big mistake because she’d had too much to drink, which had been the first excuse to pop into her stuttering brain after they returned to Lorenda’s reception and Momma Long Legs had clamped all four limbs and both Botoxed lips around Talmadge tighter than her tiny designer dress had clung to her size-two figure.

  Miranda zeroed in on the menu and refused to look up. Refused to look at Talmadge, because she was afraid of what she’d see. She didn’t plan to explain that she’d lied as a desperate attempt to salvage some self-respect and deflect her humiliation that night.

  “Miranda.” Just one word that said he expected an explanation.

  “What if I didn’t want a rib eye?” Miranda demanded, tossing her menu aside. “Maybe I’m a vegetarian.”