8. Gus
8
GUS
“How about a drive instead? Hayes House is a bit of a hike.”
I push to my feet, holding my hand out for her, hoping that she’ll take it. More than anything, I want to feel her skin against mine, even if it is nothing more than our palms pressed together.
Her skin is soft as she takes hold, rising gracefully, eyes filled with mischief. “You know where I live?”
Shit…
“Errrr…”
Okay, time to tap dance. I can do this. There’s a very reasonable explanation for why I am in possession of that fact. One that isn’t that I looked it up in her personnel file. Which, to be fair, is true. I verified it in her personnel file. After I eavesdropped in payroll on her first day.
Not at all against company policy or a violation of her personal privacy. Said no one ever.
Margeaux raises an eyebrow, her impish smile widening as she waits for me to respond. My heart rate picks up, my brain slowing down in equal measure. At least she’s not running in the opposite direction.
“Would you believe me if I told you that Willa mentioned it?” I try, hoping I come off suave, rather than desperate. Because I most certainly feel desperate.
Margeaux shakes her head. “I don’t believe I actually told her where I lived.”
Shit…
“How about it was a lucky guess based on you sitting with Marisela and Alex?”
Pursing her lips, Margeaux seems to consider my answer for a moment. But only a moment. Then she steps in closer, leaving mere inches between us. I can’t help but smile, trying to match the one still spread across her face, enjoying the fuck out of this playful vibe she’s got going. As nervous as I am about being called out over this, deep down, I can tell I’m not in too much trouble. Thankfully.
“You could just admit you looked it up.”
“Might have.”
“And here I took you for such a rule follower.”
I shrug. “Every now and again, I do something that surprises even myself.”
Margeaux’s giggle fills the air, overtaking the din of conversation that had been surrounding us, working its way into me, flooding my veins. Fuck, there is something about this woman, something I can’t name, but every time I’m around her, it’s like my soul wakes up.
I hold out my arm, turning toward the parking lot, and Margeaux follows my lead, looping hers through mine. I don’t bother announcing our exit. The group will either see us leave together or figure it out soon enough. Last thing I need to do is give them ammunition to harass me. Or Margeaux for that matter. I’d like to think they’d be on their best behavior with her here, but I can’t be sure .
We silently make the short walk to the gravel lot, the cool fall temp settling around us. Looking over at Margeaux, I breathe easy, enjoying how comfortable this moment is. Natural. That nothing about it feels forced. I’ve only spent a few hours—total—with this woman, and somehow it feels as if this should be our every Friday night.
When I reach my vehicle, I stop, turning to the redheaded beauty still on my arm, and wait. Wait for the reaction that I know is coming. Because it always does.
“Which one is yours?” she asks, looking around at all the trucks parked in the small lot.
Good question. Valid question. Hickory Hills is a small, rural town in the middle of Southern Georgia. The vast majority of this town—hell, Knox County—drives a truck. I, however, am not a part of that majority.
I stay silent, guiding her gaze with mine, waiting for her to follow. It only takes another second or two, then the gasp comes.
“OMG, no.” Dropping my arm, Margeaux spins to face me, hands cupping her face, covering her open mouth. I nod. “No. Gus…”
I nod again.
And Margeaux loses it.
If I thought her giggle from before flooded into me, I was wrong. Because this laughter takes ahold of my soul and lights it up like the Fourth of July. It weaves its way into my very being, and in an instant I know I won’t ever be the same.
“Gus, seriously? A muscle car? I didn’t take you for a…” I wait for her to finish that statement. “That kind of guy.”
“I’m not,” I tell her. “But twenty-one-year-old Gus? He was convinced that this car was the shit and had to have one. Because it was going to bring in all the chicks. So, that’s what I went out and bought. A 1971 Plymouth Barracuda, in Glacial Blue. ”
“It’s so…so…”
“Pretentious? Cocky? Obnoxious?”
“I was going to say out of character,” she offers. “I’ve been under the impression you were a lot more serious than a seventy-one Barracuda would suggest.”
Out of character… I’ll take it…
“Hux went with douchey the day I brought it home. They gave me so much shit for buying this car. And the more they did, the more I dug my heels in. I was all Tom Petty and ‘I won’t back down’ about it.”
“Wow, such a badass…”
“I was. A real badass,” I chuckle, the sarcasm dripping off my words. “Twenty-something Gus Hayes, badass extraordinaire.”
“And did it? Did it bring in all the chicks?” Margeaux mocks, playfully knocking me with her shoulder. I take the jab, knowing I deserve it. I opened myself right up to it by admitting to that. I’ll take a jab from her any day though, as long as it keeps her right here with me.
“I did okay. But sadly, it did not have the ROI that I had hoped for.”
“Yet, you’re still driving it…”
She circles the car, lazily dragging her middle finger along the hood. I follow, my eyes glued to her backside, desire coursing through me as I watch her ass in her perfectly fitting jeans. Margeaux Finnegan might be the only woman I know who isn’t turned off by the fact that I just used ROI in everyday conversation, and that fact has me amped up even more.
“Because it’s still a cool car, Margeaux.”
She stops at the passenger side door, cocking her hip to the side. I take the hint, unlocking the door and opening it for her. “Yeah, if you’re Richard Hammond.”
My jaw goes slack as she lowers herself into the seat. Did she just…? No. I’m hearing things. Unless she’s even more impressive than I thought. Which is going to be hard to beat.
Holding the door open, I lean down until we’re eye level, her emerald irises flickering in the evening light.
“You know who Richard Hammond is?”
Her cheeks tinge pink and I see the realization hit her that she didn’t mean to admit that out loud. She’s so damn cute like this that I have to fight the urge to kiss her, and at the rate I’m going, I don’t know how much fight I have left in me.
“Were you going to drive me home?” she deflects.
Nice try…
“Not until you tell me how you so easily name-dropped a rather obscure English TV car show host,” I prod.
“I lived in Amsterdam, remember?”
Oh…yeah…
“And my little brother Louis is a huge Top Gear fan…” she mutters.
Slamming the door, I run around the front to my door, barely containing my desire to do my best Dukes of Hazzard impression and slide across the hood. For all the excitement buzzing through my veins right now, I still need to maintain some sense of decorum. Not to mention, Ken Noble, the town mechanic who has helped me keep the ’cuda up and running all these years, would have my balls if he ever caught me doing such a thing.
Firing up the engine, I listen as she purrs, the rumble coursing through the car, adding to the excitement of the evening. Time to take this beauty for a ride. Both the car and the amazing woman to my right.
“Well, here’s to Tom Petty-ing it.” Margeaux holds up her fist, knuckles out, waiting for me to reciprocate.
Holy shit. She really is perfect…
I bump my fist against hers, then put the ’cuda in drive and peel out of the lot. Margeaux squeals, grabbing my arm, and I already wish I hadn’t agreed to take her home. Maybe I can find the long way back to Hayes House. If there is such a thing.
We ride in silence for a moment, the hum of the engine and gear shifts all the soundtrack we need. Only, I’m on borrowed time. And there’s so much I want to know. So much I want to ask. To the point I don’t even know where to start.
“Tell me about Papa Duck’s,” I say, glancing over at her.
“Oh boy, how much time you got?”
“All night.”
I smile, meaning it. I’ll find us a place to park and spend all night hanging on her every word.
“My grandfather Remy loves food. And loves to experiment with food. There are all sorts of old family stories about how he was always playing with his food and coming up with crazy combinations. It’s even apparently how he wooed my grandmother from another man—via his courtbouillon. He joined the army straight out of high school as a way to support my grandmother, since her father said they couldn’t get married until he had a job. Once his unit discovered he could cook, that’s the job they gave him. When he got out of the army, they opened up a little place in the same neighborhood they grew up in, and that’s where Papa Duck’s has been ever since.”
“And the name? Where does it come from?”
I do an extra lap around the center of town, delaying the drive out to the old plantation site. I want as much time as I can get with Margeaux. To hear as many of her stories as I can coax out of her. Here’s hoping she doesn’t notice that we’ve passed the town Civil War monument more than once now.
Shaking her head, she lets out a long breath. “Childhood nickname. As the story goes, he was on the playground and they were playing duck, duck, goose. And he was ‘it,’ or whatever it’s called when it’s your turn to tap people on the head. I should point out, his parents didn’t speak English very well, so Cajun French was what he spoke at home, and then English at school. So, there he is, playing this game, and he forgot the word goose. So little Remy simply shouted papère canard!”
Margeaux throws up jazz hands, as if the punchline of papère canard needed any extra flair. I choke out a laugh, gripping the steering wheel tighter so that I don’t run us off the road. Last thing I need is for us to crash.
“That is not the real story, is it?”
“Oh, it sure is,” she assures me. “Papère canard. Papa Duck. After that game, that’s all anyone would call him, and the name stuck. So of course, what else would you name your restaurant?”
“Nothing—that’s clearly the only choice.”
Soothing, comfortable silence falls between us, the last trickle of her laugh still hanging in the air. I start to slide my hand over to grab hers, then stop. Gripping the gear shifter instead, I focus on the road, on the sound of tires, on anything other than wanting to be closer to her. That line is still there. The line I so desperately want to cross. The one that according to my brothers isn’t as big of a deal as I’ve made it out to be. Not that I’ve verified that with HR.
Or that Margeaux wants anything more.
“Gus?”
“Hmmm?”
“That’s like the third time we’ve driven past the library.”
Her impish smile is back, and she doesn’t bother to hide it as she places her hand over mine on the gear shifter. Sparks fly as her hand meets mine, and I let out a groan, unable to hold back .
“Noticed that, huh?”
“The large, bright-white, antebellum building with roman columns labeled library? Yes, yes I did, Gus.” She laughs.
“This is what I get for hanging out with a girl who has both an MBA and a law degree,” I quip.
“Not sure what that has to do with it. Pretty sure a kindergartner would notice that.”
I glare at her, shifting into the next gear and revving the engine. The car takes off down the straightaway out of the center of town. Margeaux is thrown back into her seat, a gasp escaping. She grabs ahold of my arm, the electricity in the air humming right along with the engine as we race toward Hayes House.
Minutes later, we’re closing in on the old plantation house, my classic car hugging each curve of the old dirt road like it was made for it. I hate the idea of being this close to the end of the night, but the feel of Margeaux’s hand still clasped around my arm as I shift is a rush all on its own. The reason I bought this car all those years ago. And more than enough of an excuse to try and get her back into this car again.
I slow down as we approach the massive old mansion, not wanting to disturb anyone who may already be asleep. It’s been years since I’ve been over here, so I’m not entirely sure how many people we have in residence these days, especially during this time of year, but I know that it’s more than just Margeaux, Marisela, and Alex. A lot more.
Putting the car in park, I kill the engine, wondering what to do next. It’s probably not polite to invite myself up, but holding her hostage here in the car doesn’t seem fair either. All I know is that I don’t want this to end. Shit, I should have taken her back to my place. There’s still time, and it’s not that far—just on the other side of the property. All I need to do is? —
“Thank you for driving me,” Margeaux says, opening her door and getting out.
Shit…
Following her lead, I tumble out of the car, jogging to catch up. “So, ummm, have we told you the history of Hayes House?” I ask nervously, trying desperately to delay the inevitable.
Margeaux stops on the front steps, one eyebrow quirked up in confusion. “It’s the original house?”
“It is, sorta,” I explain. “The very original home of the Hayes family is where the barn that we turned into the bunkhouse sits. This monstrosity was actually built after the war. Augustus and Llewellyn were the town blacksmiths, and made their fortune selling guns to the Confederates. Llewellyn was actually killed in the Battle of Atlanta, so all of us that are left are all descendants of Augustus. He built this place. We didn’t have an actual plantation, at least not in the traditional sense, but that didn’t stop them from building a plantation-style home with their newfound money. After my parents got married, Auggie built Miss Belle her dream home, that she named Magnolia Manor, which is where my siblings and I grew up.”
I ramble, word vomiting the whole family history in a single breath. It’s more information than anyone has probably ever wanted—or needed—about the Hayes family and this building, but here we are.
“Is that where you still live?” she asks, stepping in closer.
I lick my lips, a zing of confidence hitting me. “No. I share a small house with Hux and Jace. It’s all the same property though. That first turn we took off the main road? If we’d veered right instead of staying straight, we’d have ended up at Magnolia Manor. Gone left, we’d have ended up at my place.”
Margeaux nods, one side of her mouth softly turning into a smile, her gorgeous eyes staring into mine. I feel like she can see into my soul, and in this moment, I want to bare the whole thing to her.
“Good to know.” Rocking back on her heels, she gives me a wink, then turns to go. “Night, Gus.”
“Margeaux, wait…” I reach out, trying to grab her arm, but she steps away. My heart sinks, feeling the same gutting feeling as seeing that smudged number on my hand.
“Gus…” Her voice is breathy, full of something I can’t name, but feel so deep that I can’t help but want to let her know she’s not alone in it. “Please. I’m trying really hard here. We agreed to be friends. And I really want that. I do. You have no idea. Because the more time I spend with you, the more I wish that you weren’t Gus Hayes . But you are. And it’s a shame, but we’ve both worked too hard to get to where we are in our careers to be those people. So friends it is. Please.”
She’s right. I know she is. And fuck if I don’t respect every ounce of her for everything she’s accomplished and everything she wants to accomplish. But there’s also something I know that she doesn’t know.
“Margeaux!”
I reach out again, grabbing her hand. This time I don’t let go.
I swing her in to me, our bodies colliding with a soft thud. A barely audible gasp escapes, followed immediately by her sucking in a long breath. I wrap my arms around her waist, holding her tight against me. Her body fits so perfectly against mine, like it was made for this. The whole world stops, a hush falling over the night, nothing existing but us.
“Turns out, might not be as against the rules as we thought,” I whisper. “So here’s to Tom Petty-ing it.”
I don’t waste another second. I press my lips to hers, hard and fast. And I see stars. Margeaux kisses me back, her sweet taste taking over as she wraps her arms around my neck. I deepen the kiss, wanting more. More of her, more of this moment, more of everything. Because nothing has ever been this good. Nothing will ever be this good again.
Pulling me in closer, Margeaux whimpers, deepening the kiss. Her teeth graze my bottom lip, the tinge of pain adding some spice to the sweetness that is still lingering on my tongue. Fuck, this woman is magical. Worth every potential broken rule.
A car door slams in the distance, and it’s enough to break my concentration. Which means it’s also a sign to stop. This might not be as against the rules as we initially thought, but we also don’t need to be caught making out on her doorstep. So I inch away, hating every millimeter I put between us.
Cool air rushes around me, a stark reminder of the moment we lost. The moment I’ll spend the rest of the night thinking of. Still, I can’t help but stare at the redheaded beauty before me as she traces her fingers along her now swollen lips.
Backing down the steps, I wink, trying to give us the space we need.
“Night, Margeaux.”