Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
M AGGIE
I’m not too familiar with Lexington. While I was married to Calvin, he didn’t like me coming into the city alone. But he didn’t want to bring me and he wasn’t exactly the sort to encourage friendships. He thought everyone in and around Bellehaven was beneath him—and by extension, me. When Damien pulls his truck into the long drive of what appears to be an antebellum mansion, I know this is not the kind of place I would normally go. Because I can’t afford it. Because I’d gotten used to avoiding the nicer places back home because that could mean running into my ex. Still, this place is gorgeous.
He pulls up under a black awning, and the valet rushes over to open my door for me before walking around and taking the keys from Damien. The Merrick Inn is swanky, but not in that fussy, overdone way. It’s a kind of place that screams old money.
“You weren’t kidding when you told me to dress up,” I tell him as he ushers me up the steps, his hand hovering at the small of my back. Why the hell is it so hot when a man does that?
“It’s definitely not the place for jorts and flip-flops,” he says with a grin. “The space itself isn’t casual, but I promise you that it’s much more laid back inside than you might think. There’s live music, great cocktails, and the best damn fried chicken you’ll ever eat.”
“I’m not much for cocktails, but you had me at fried chicken,” I tell him. And then it hits me that I’m actively flirting with him. Not because he dealt with the situation with my landlord and literally fixed that whole hot, weeks-long mess in less time than it takes me to do a load of laundry. I’m flirting with him because he’s hot, because despite our first meeting, he’s charming in that self-assured, cocky country boy kind of way. And maybe that’s it. Because fancy truck and nice suits aside, he still seems like a country boy. “You grew up in Bellehaven, right?”
The hostess greets him warmly as we walk in, grabs a couple of menus, and ushers us back to a large room full of tables. There’s a small stage set up in the corner with acoustic musicians setting up to play for the night.
Once we’re seated with our menus and our drink order placed, he finally answers my question. “Born and raised in Bellehaven. My parents still live there—they’ve got a farm just outside of town. I like to go out there and play at it every once in a while. Get my hands dirty just to remember how much I don’t like it. I’m better suited to the courtroom than the cow pasture.”
I laugh at that. “I cannot see you in a cow pasture. Not for the life of me.”
“I’ve got some stories to tell about cow pastures. That’s where we used to party back in the day,” he tells me. “I’ve been in lots of them. Just not to work.”
—
I’m staring at the last piece of chicken on my plate, literally at war with myself over whether or not I should risk making myself ill to eat it. It’s so good I can’t stand to let it go to waste, but at the same time, I’m painfully full. “It should be a crime to walk away from chicken that good… I’d pack it up and take it home, but heating it up in a microwave would be a sacrilege."
He reaches over and picks up the chicken leg from my plate. “I’ll take one for the team.”
I can’t even be mad about it. “How was your prime rib?”
“Excellent… as always. I know you said you weren’t big on cocktails. Is there a reason for that?”
“I just don’t drink much. I never really had a taste for it. I do like a hard cider once in a blue moon, but that’s about it,” I answer.
“Good. Because I’m not quite ready for this night to end just yet… How do you feel about a dive bar with cheap pool tables and a jukebox?”
“A real jukebox?” I ask. In all honesty, given what his office looks like and where he brought me for dinner, I’m a little curious about how he defines “dive.”
“I keep a roll of quarters in the truck for just such occasions,” he says with that cocky grin and the dimple that I’m certain has gotten him into and out of trouble more times than can be counted.
“Alright. The shop is closed tomorrow other than making deliveries for weddings and funerals… luckily only funerals. That’s a mistake no one wants to make.”
His eyebrows lift in question. “I feel like there’s a story there.”
“Oh, there is. It wasn’t me, thankfully, but in a shop I used to work in, one of the girls accidentally mixed up the delivery locations and someone’s deepest sympathies arrangement showed up at someone’s wedding at one church. Then there were bouquets for a funeral at another church across town.”
He starts laughing at that. And the harder he laughs, the funnier I find it.
“I’m just picturing the looks on everyone’s faces,” he says.
“I don’t want to. That poor bride!”
“That poor widow,” he says.
The server returns with his credit card and he scribbles his signature on the bill. When he stands up, he holds out his hand, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to put my hand in his. And the minute I do, I feel it. That spark. I don’t just like him. I don’t just find him attractive. This is something else. And when he glances back at me, I know he feels it too.
—-
The Stumble Inn is exactly what he said it was. A dive bar. The building is a cinder block rectangle in need of painting—a fact only highlighted by the numerous neon signs and the spotlights focused on the gravel drive. It’s on the county line and looks about as disreputable as any place can.
Damien opens the passenger door for me, and as I climb out, I give him the look. The one that screams “what have you gotten me into?” “You asked me to go to a dive bar, Damien. You didn’t tell me that a death wish was a requirement for entry.”
“It’s not that bad. I promise. If you don’t like it, we’ll leave… It’s better on the inside.”
It would have to be. With very low expectations, I let him take my hand once more and walk me in. The minute we step inside, I get it. This place, sketchy as it may look out front, is pure ’70s cool with red vinyl booths, padded bar, and wagon wheel chandeliers. “Oh, my god.”
“I know right? This place is a hidden gem,” he says, leading me to a booth in the back. Then he heads to the jukebox, which has pride of place against a wide support column in the middle of everything. He drops in a bunch of quarters, and old school country music starts pouring out. Nobody wails about unrequited love quite like George Jones.
When he comes back to the table, he doesn’t sit down, but instead holds out his hand. I’ve not slow danced with anyone in what feels like a hundred years. But as he leads me onto the tiniest dance floor in all of creation, occupied by one other couple, I’m both excited and scared. “I’ve not done this in a really long time.”
“Just like riding a bike,” he says, putting my left hand on his shoulder before grasping my right hand in his left. “You know how to two-step.”
He doesn’t phrase it as a question. And yeah, in theory, I know how to two-step. As he starts leading me around the dance floor, I have to wonder just how often he brings women here. How often does he play the hero and then use that to his advantage? It’s not fair of me and I know it. But just because my ex-husband never hit me doesn’t mean he wasn’t abusive. I’ve got some trust issues, and slick lawyers—and Damien is that—are a big-time trigger. So why the hell am I here? And why the hell do I, doubts and all, not want to leave?