Chapter Six
Trace
I’m standing on a platform in a men’s formal wear shop, wearing a tuxedo jacket, I never expected to have to put one on again.
Cash is kicked back in a chair, boots crossed, hat tipped low, trying not to laugh.
“Damn, Buchanan,” he says, rubbing his jaw. “You clean up real good. Delta might pass clean out.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t start.”
“You're a city boy,” he fires back. “Stick you in a suit and suddenly you look like you’re about to shut down a boardroom.”
The tailor steps back and studies me. “This cut was made for you. I’ll take in the waist and hem the sleeves. The full tux will be ready by tomorrow at noon.”
“That works,” I say.
While he pins the slacks, Cash watches me with that look that says he knows more than he should.
“So,” he drawls, “we’re gonna pretend you don’t know why Miss Evie practically kicked me out of the house this morning to get you fitted? Or are we calling things what they are?”
I don’t answer out loud but I know what it is—Delta, the way her breath caught this morning when our eyes met across the kitchen before anybody said a word. She’s under my skin, and it’s driving me crazy. Cash smirks like he heard all of that anyway. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
At the register, he bumps my shoulder. “You know you’re in trouble, right?”
I answer before I can stop myself. “I don’t care.”
Delta
I’m halfway through folding laundry when Mama calls, opening with a dramatic sigh that tells me everything.
“Delta, baby, I need you to come up to the house and get ready here.”
Lord. The prom-flashback headache hits instantly.
“Mama, I can get ready at my own house.”
“I know you can,” she says, sweet as syrup, “but I want to see you before you go. Indulge me. Please, Delta. Do it for me.”
There it is. The emotional blackmail. She barely uses it, but when she does, you’re done.
I exhale. “Fine, Mama. I’ll be there.”
“Good. And hurry up.” Click.
I stare at the phone because she really hung up like she didn’t just strong-arm me. I shower, lotion up, then slide into sweatpants, a T-shirt, and my fuzzy slides. I pack my makeup, shapewear, shoes, clutch, and jewelry in my garment bag and head to her house.
In my old bedroom, I slip into a black gown with gold beading that catches light like fire. The dress fits like it was poured on. Mama stands behind me at the vanity, smoothing my curls into a sleek, low bun, fingers sure and gentle.
“You look good, baby,” she murmurs, fastening the earrings Daddy bought me years ago. “These belong with that dress.”
Preston used to hate this jewelry. His name tries to crawl up my spine, and I shove it right back down. He doesn’t deserve another second.
I slide my feet into stilettos that already feel like torture devices, but there’s no turning back now.
My clutch is on the bed, the dress is perfect, and I’m one deep breath away from losing my composure.
I reach for the landline on the nightstand.
The internal directory is taped beside it, though I don’t need it. I know all the extensions by heart.
I dial 330 Cabin Three.
It barely rings once before he picks up.
“Buchanan.” His voice is low and warm and way too steady for what it does to me.
“Hi, Trace.” I keep my voice controlled, even though my heartbeat is doing the most. “Pick me up from Mama’s. We’ll head to the gala from there.”
There’s a pause; not hesitation, just acknowledgement. “Yes ma’am. I’ll be there.”
“Thank you,” I say, softer than I intend.
“My pleasure.”
I hang up and set the receiver back in its cradle, touch up my lipstick and spray on my perfume. When the doorbell rings, I grab my clutch, and head downstairs.
When I reach the bottom landing and see him talking with Mama, my lungs forget how to function. The tux hugs his shoulders and chest, his hair is brushed back, beard lined sharply, eyes warm and hungry when they land on me.
Every bit of air leaves him. I see it.
“Jesus, Delta,” he says, voice low, reverent. “You are… stunning.”
I try to play it cool, but my cheeks go hot. “Thank you. You don’t look too bad yourself.”
His hands go straight to his pockets, fingers flexing against the fabric. He wants to touch me. I feel it from here. His self-control looks like it hurts.
Mama claps her hands together. “Picture time! Get over here.”
We both give her that long-suffering look, but we go. Trace steps behind me, one hand gentle at my waist as Mama snaps the picture, and electricity shoots straight through me.
When we’re done, I glance at my favorite slides by the door, then down at the heels trying to kill me. “Lord, I wish I could take my sandals. These heels are going to murder me and they won’t fit in this clutch.”
Trace’s eyes flick to my shoes, then up my legs, then back to the slides. Heat curls low in my belly.
“I forgot my keys,” I say suddenly, and run back upstairs even though they’re already in my bag.
When I come back down, he’s exactly where I left him, looking entirely too good. We say goodbye to Mama and step outside together.
My car gleams in the porch lights. I reach for the fob, but Trace extends his palm.
I arch a brow. “You just think you’re about to drive my car?”
He gives me that ‘don’t play with me look’ and doesn’t move his hand.
I sigh like he’s exhausting me. “Fine.” I drop the fob into his palm.
He opens my door first, of course. When I glance back, Mama is framed in the screen door, watching us like this is a movie she already knows the ending to. I buckle my seat belt. Trace checks mine, checks his, starts the engine, and we pull away from Copper Ridge.