Chapter 28
Bellini
“What are you wearing for Lady Whiskey’s Tits and Ass Show, Bellini?” Mrs. Kerns asked me.
“It’s T and A for tinsel and All I Want…”
Mrs. Kerns tapped her foot with annoyance, and I gave up.
“Stacy is making an outfit for me.”
“You better try it on a few days before the show. My great niece is not known for modesty.”
That was true. “She told me that she’d make sure I was covered. That I wouldn’t…uh…pop out.”
Mrs. Kerns raised that eyebrow at me again. She was so intimidating!
“She promised,” I insisted, feeling some fear trail down my spine like a cold winter icicle. “I talked to her. My mother hired her.”
“Your mother hired my great niece, who is often barely dressed, even in Montana weather, to make you a modest dance outfit.” Mrs. Kerns was incredulous.
I cringed. “Yes, ma’am.” My voice came out in a choked whisper.
“I think I’ll like Bellini’s outfit,” Logan said, ever helpful.
“I’m sure you will,” Mrs. Kerns said, sarcasm dripping. “Make sure that your top half will not fall out, Bellini. I will talk to Stacy. There’s a lot of movement in your dance, and we don’t want any surprises. It would reflect poorly on my instruction.”
“There’s no need to talk to Stacy,” Logan said, grinning, leaning back on his heels.
Mrs. Kerns crossed her arms, glared at him, and then lifted that eyebrow.
Logan stopped grinning immediately.
I side-kicked him.
He said, “Ouch!”
“What about you, Logan?” Mrs. Kerns asked, staring at him as if she expected him to say that he would be decked out in a Chippendales outfit. “What are you wearing?”
“A black suit and a red silky scarf and a black hat with a red feather, apparently.” He lifted his palms. “And a boa constrictor. Red.”
Mrs. Kerns sighed impatiently. “Very funny, young man. You will not be wearing a snake. I believe you meant a feathered boa. Make sure your pants aren’t too tight, or they’ll split when you’re swinging Bellini around.”
“Got it.” He glanced at me. “I do not want my tight pants to split while I’m swinging Bellini around.”
I laughed. “That would make my night glorious. Unforgettable.”
Mrs. Kerns threw her hands in the air. “Are you two ready for another rehearsal, or do you want to stand around and giggle giggle giggle, exactly as you did in high school?”
“Yes, ma’am,” we both said, back to being quite serious.
No smiling! No giggling! We did not like getting in trouble with Mrs. Kerns!
“Ready?” she snapped. No nonsense, get in line, pay attention, be serious!
We weren’t ready. Our bodies ached from our hours of being wrangled and mangled here three days ago. But we didn’t have a choice.
Mrs. Kerns said in her staccato voice, “Prepare your form… Arms up… Oh for heaven’s sake, Logan! You are not a water buffalo, so don’t dance like it. Bellini, move, move your body! With grace, not clumsiness. Point. Your. Toes!”
That night, after another body-wrenching dance lesson, Logan and I left the torture studio and drove toward downtown so I could pick up my truck at the bar.
I had gotten to the bar at eleven that morning.
I had more work to do tonight at home with the bar’s books, and the thought of that was dispiriting.
I definitely needed more Christmas spirit, not more accounting.
The houses in Kalulell were ready to go for Christmas.
Almost every single one was decorated with lights, Santa Clauses, Rudolph, and more reindeer.
Some of the displays were over the top, and Logan pulled over so we could enjoy the decor.
We had a “choose your top three” vote to determine which houses were the most Christmassy.
“Want to see my office so you can see where the stage and the catwalk will be for the show?”
“Sure. Yes. My mom told me all about it, as she’s been there before, as you obviously know, and I know the building you’re in and how big it is—it’s huge—but I should have seen the inside before now.
With running the bar and Mom and, well, dance lessons that make me feel like I’ve been hung upside down for a week, I’ve been a little busy. ”
“And up until recently, you’ve been busy avoiding me.” His smile was so handsome, the lines fanning out from his eyes, the shadows from the streetlights flashing over the hard planes of his cheeks.
“Yes. That took up a lot of time, too. Avoiding you clearly didn’t work, despite my best efforts.”
“Glad you’re not avoiding me now?”
“Maybe.”
“Ah, maybe. But I’ve been trying to be charming.”
“Oh, you’re charming, and I curse you for it.”
“Curse me? That sounds dangerous. Are you part witch now? I’ll try not to be so charming.”
“Thank you. No more charm from you.” This was one of our problems. We always talked like this. Joking. Bantering. Chatting about nothing and serious talks about everything.
We parked right in front of his building. I appreciated that it was well over a hundred years old and had such history. It was solid, well cared for, the original architecture intact. The bakery and bookstore on the first floor were perfect.
We headed toward the doors. I was impressed by the sign, Hamilton Architecture. “Who do you rent the building from?”
“I own the building.”
“The whole building?”
“Yes. When I rented the second floor when I first came back to Kalulell, I put up a wall, added a bathroom, and lived in half of it. I wanted to make sure there was enough work for me here. Then, when we got more clients, and I had employees, I took down the wall and rented the third floor. A year later I bought the building from Clarence Bellingham. I rent the lower floor to the bookstore and the bakery.”
We climbed the steps, and he unlocked the door to the second floor.
“Wow! Oh, my goodness!” I walked around his office. “Wow!” I said again.
It was modern, open, all desks and tables in the center.
He had remodeled it—he was an architect and builder after all—but it had done nothing to diminish the original splendor of the old building.
The old posts, dinged and chipped, still held up the next floor.
The wood floors had been sanded and shined up, but they were still the original hundred-year-old-plus wood floors.
The windows, during the day, would flood the room with light.
Antiques here and there and bookshelves holding old books gave it a homey feel.
Leather couches facing each other over a coffee table and comfy chairs in a circle created solid, but friendly, working spaces.
“It’s incredible, Logan.”
“Do you like it?” I could tell he was pleased at my response.
“Yes. I could even work here, and I don’t know a thing about architecture.”
“You’re welcome anytime. I even have an empty desk and table right there.”
He certainly did. There was a kitchen along one wall and a long, wood table where people could eat together.
I stared down at it. It was made by Kade Hendricks.
On the wall was a painting/collage of the building, created by Kade’s wife, Grenadine Scotch Wild.
She had used wood for the doors and painted the name, Hamilton Architecture, on it, along with Logan’s truck in front, circling the tires with strips of black rubber.
“I love Grenadine’s art and Kade Hendricks’ tables,” I said. “I bet people like working here. Great building, great place downtown, great boss.”
“They seem to stay awhile.”
“It’s so professional, but it’s warm, too. I could see how you could get creative in this space.” I eyed the high ceiling, the beams, and the whole open feel of the room.
“Thanks, Bellini.”
I turned to him. His voice sounded gruff. We locked eyes and…zoom. That sexual tension that was always between us roared up like a fire. Neither one of us looked away.
“Would you like to go upstairs and see my place?” His warm eyes were watchful, waiting, patient.
Gee whiz.
What should I do?
Say no, Bellini, I told myself. Don’t hurt you, don’t hurt him.
Say yes, Bellini, I told myself. You can take a quick peek upstairs because you’re dying to know what his home looks like, then you can skedaddle on out and not imagine graphic sexual scenes in his bedroom.
“Sure.” The word came out breathy—or breathless, I couldn’t figure out which.
His smile was gentle, quietly happy, and we walked up another set of stairs. I went first, and I knew my butt was on full display. Sheesh.
He reached around me and opened the door on the third floor.
“Wow,” I said again as we entered his loft.
“I should quit saying ‘wow’ so much, but I can’t help it.
This is…” I was momentarily at a loss for words.
“Logan, you have outdone yourself. I didn’t know that a loft could look like this.
Warm and homey and yet…” What was the word?
“Cool. It’s very cool. So stylish. And masculine and manly and Montana-y. It looks like you.”
“Thank you, Bellini,” he said, and I saw that he was, once again, flattered.
The living space, minus the bedroom, was one huge room.
As below, he had preserved the old architecture, but the lighting here was different than the office.
It was modern and yet traditional. He had an antler chandelier over his table, clear glass pendant lights over his kitchen counter, and modern wood lamps on side tables.
Thick rugs, leather couches, a wide steel and wood coffee table, and… plants.
“Plants? I didn’t know you had a green thumb.”
“I bought the easy ones. Someone I knew a long time ago liked plants, so I figured I’d buy some, too.”
That someone was me. Back then, I loved plants, loved gardening, loved getting in the dirt. I still do, though I don’t do it as much as I’d like. “Well, they seem like healthy plants. Is your kitchen island an antique?” I walked toward it, running my hands over the quartz.
“I found two long sideboards in an antique shop, attached them, and put the quartz over them both.”
There were drawers on both sides. “It’s so unique. So traditional yet used as an island! How creative.”