The Right Stud Read online

  My lips tighten and I sigh. “No, leave that to me, but we might have to go back to that bar tomorrow just to find him.”

  “I’ll need to get a sitter for the dogs and Jean Claude, but I’m in.”

  We talk about what all we’ll say to Mr. Cheater, but I know I’m just bluffing. I’m never going back to that bar. Tonight was a lesson: guys are a waste of my precious time. If I really need to get off, I can always pull out my battery-operated boyfriend. At least he doesn’t lie to me.

  I take another bite of ice cream. “Tonight was just a horrible idea.”

  Lulu sighs. “See you in the morning?”

  I mumble a goodnight, set the phone down, and think, digging hard for my usual optimism. Tonight may have been a disaster, but tomorrow is a new day.

  And my weekend can’t get any worse.

  “Bacon! Bacon!” Rufus’s scratchy voice greets me as I come down the stairs and enter the kitchen the next morning.

  It’s eight, and my eyes are barely open as I give the long-tailed, scarlet macaw a bleary glance. Like a regal king, he’s perched on the top of an antique curio in the kitchen, one of the few spots I let him hang out when he’s not in his cage. His beady, seemingly omniscient eyes follow me as I drag myself over to the kitchen counter.

  “Coffee first, then bacon,” I mutter as I pass. “Be glad I let you eat my pork at all, bird.”

  “Bacon!” he belts out as his head bobs back and forth.

  I flip him off.

  He gets the gist of my meaning, and it’s confirmed when he shouts through the kitchen, “Fuck off! Fuck off!”

  I roll my eyes and open the cabinet door to grab the coffee supplies just as Mrs. C waltzes in the room. I keep my face straight when I see her—like I do most days. Artsy and a bit of a kook, she’s wearing yellow and blue plaid… pajamaralls?

  “I like your outfit.” It’s a neutral term for the garish, flannel overalls that look like she could sleep in them.

  “Thanks, dearie. No chafing, and I can fish in them!” she says in her thick southern accent as she swishes around the room. “Stop misbehavin’, Rufus! I can hear your screeching all the way in my bedroom.”

  Mrs. C owns the obscene bird, and when she asked to be my first boarder, I ditched my “no pets” policy and jumped at the opportunity. Especially since she’d been a friend of Granny’s, and she’s paying me money I desperately need to renovate the house. Her gray hair is still in pink rollers, but she’s in full makeup, ready to take on the day.

  “Bacon!” Rufus cries.

  We both ignore him.

  “Did you sleep well?” I ask, pushing the start button on the coffee and busying myself with getting out the ingredients to make her favorite blueberry muffins.

  I don’t make a full breakfast during the week, but the weekends are all about the good food.

  “Slept fine. How was your big night out? Did you meet someone nice?” Behind round spectacles, her eyes are gleaming, and I try to hide my grimace, hating to disappoint her after she’d been so enthusiastic when I left last night in my red dress.

  “Meh. I don’t think the nice ones hang out at the Smoky Siren.” I force a smile following a long exhale. “You sit down and I’ll make breakfast. It’s what a B&B owner is supposed to do after all.”

  “Back in my day, they’d tell you to go to church to meet a nice man.” Her eyebrow arches, and she leans closer. “I met Mr. C at the farmers’ market, not that I’m knocking the Lord’s house. I just think after a while, it helps to have something else in common. Once the poking phase wears off.”

  “Is that so…” I focus on cracking eggs into the dry mix and not encouraging her.

  “The poking phase is necessary. Don’t get me wrong, and I do enjoy the pleasures of the flesh.” She taps her finger on the counter and her voice goes lower. “You’d never believe how stimulating fresh produce can be. Why I’d never seen a zucchini with such length… and girth. I grew a tomato once that looked just like a—”

  “Did you know tomatoes are berries?” Sweet Baby Jesus, I am not discussing erotic vegetables with Mrs. C!

  “Of course.” She pulls back, tugging her pajamarall straps. “Anyway, what do you like to do?”

  Glancing at the bowl of yellow muffin batter mixed with dark purple blueberries, I consider her question. “I like to bake…”

  “That’s good. Men love women who bake.”

  “I like restoring furniture and fixing up this old house…”

  “You’re getting better at it, too.” She gives me a pat on the back as she takes her usual seat at the rectangular table for eight, another one of Granny’s antiques. “This table is gorgeous.”

  I smile. “Thank you.”

  I’d redone it this past month, stripping the polyurethane and stain off and then repainting it with a soft green chalk paint. A few hours with a sander and the end product is what I considered the masterpiece of the kitchen, a breezy shabby chic table with a distressed finish.

  “And don’t you worry,” she continues as I slide the muffin tin into the oven. “I ain’t had a man in twenty years, and I’m happy as can be. Sure I get lonely, but that’s why I have Rufus to talk to. I tell him everything, even my ailments. Why just last week I was explaining to him the pain of having a hemorrhoid and I swear to God he was nodding his head in all the right spots. He gets me. Birds are fascinating. Did I ever tell you…”

  She rambles on about the intelligence of Rufus, and I tune her out as I go to the fridge and pull out the spinach and cheese frittata I’d prepared yesterday. I set it on the counter and hustle around to the back door where I pull Granny’s apron off the hook and slip it over my head, tying it in the back. White and soft with a couple of holes from being washed so many times, it’s another part of the house I don’t want to let go.

  The muffins and frittata are baking and are close to being done as I fry the bacon for Rufus. I’m making about ten slices, my intent to stay caught up on his treats for the week.

  Mrs. C is on her second cup of coffee and making a list of the items she wants me to pick up for her at the local art store when the doorbell rings.

  “Can you get that?” I ask her. “It’s either Ben or Lulu.”

  I strain my ears to hear the familiar barking of Lulu’s entourage, but there’s only silence coming from the foyer that leads to the front door. It’s probably my brother Ben wanting to talk about selling the house—again.

  Granny left this old place to both of us equally when she passed, and while I want to keep it as a home and a business, Ben wants to sell, with absolutely zero sense of nostalgia or family loyalty…

  Familiar anger tightens my throat as I think about our disagreements these past weeks. We’ve always been close growing up, but this impasse is really pulling us apart.

  Mrs. C pushes her glasses up on her nose as she rises. “Sure, dearie.”

  Careful to avoid the grease spatters, I use a fork to extract the bacon from the cast-iron skillet just as I hear a male voice down the hall along with Mrs. C’s loud laugh.

  Hmm, must be Ben, although he’s not one to make Mrs. C laugh.

  I square my shoulders, preparing for defense, as I pat down a piece of bacon to get off the excess grease.

  “Bacon! Fuck!” Rufus’ head bobs back and forth as he watches me blow on the pork.

  I hold it up for him just out of reach, chastising him. “You’re a crazy ass bird, you know that?”

  I toss it up in the air, and he catches it with his beak. Using his claws, he delicately plucks it apart. His eyes send me a thank you—or so I tell myself. I briefly wonder if his bacon addiction is going to put him in an early parrot grave—but I forget everything when Mrs. C and the man who definitely isn’t Ben walk into the kitchen.

  Oh. My. God. Random Hot Guy stares at me, and the humiliation of last night, of waiting for him for two hours, flies over me.

  My lips press into a frown and I put my hands on my hips. “What the hell are you doing here?�
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  Four

  Jax

  I pull up to The Conch Shell and take it in. It sits on a small rise facing the ocean, surrounded by grass and sand. A beautiful, rambling two-story Victorian-style home with a front porch that looks straight out of Southern Living, the exterior is painted a bright azure color, faded and peeling in places. My eye catches a fallen board on the bottom right side. Still, the front door is a freshly painted stark white, slightly distressed, a sure sign that someone is attempting to slowly redo the place.

  I study it critically as I walk to the side of the house, taking in the structure and bones. Technically, my meeting with the owner isn’t until ten, but I’d come out a bit early to get the lay of the land. Also, I’d anticipated more summer traffic as I drove in from Charleston, but the roads had been clear.

  The wooden accents in the corner of the porch show signs of dry rot. The entire house I’m sure is a maintenance nightmare—a wooden house in a perpetually damp climate. Behind me, the ocean crashes, and I turn to look out at the sea. But damn, that’s a stunning view. I can only imagine the owners got it for a song, decades before the area became such coveted real estate. It makes sense to fix it up…

  Or sell it.

  The developer side of me rears its mercenary head, the part that had Pearson’s Real Estate Developers, Inc., recruiting me out of architecture school to exploit. My eye for investment, for cultivating traffic flow and increasing commercial appeal are all elements of design I learned from my dad, from the years we’d spent in the hot sun building houses while he shared with me his dream of designing them.

  When he was young, he didn’t have the money to go to school, and then he died before he ever had a chance to go back. Going to architecture school was the one thing I wanted to do to honor his memory.

  I pull out my phone and take a few snaps of the problematic areas. If this restoration angle doesn’t work out, maybe the old lady will be interested in making a few million. I’ve never met a woman I couldn’t charm out of her real estate… among other things.

  Strolling to the front door, I slide my phone into my breast pocket and press the white button centered in a plate that appears hand-painted with seashells and a little mermaid. I’ve got to hand it to the decorator—she’s a true artist.

  The door flies open, and I straighten. Then I almost laugh at the short round elderly lady eying me with suspicion. She’s wearing bright yellow, flannel overalls, and after a second of scrutiny, her gray brows arch, a scheming light hitting her eye.

  “Well, hello! And you are?”

  “Jax.” I extend a hand. “Jax Roland. You must be Ms. Hall. I’m here early—I apologize. I left my suitcase in the car. We can look around first if my room isn’t ready yet.”

  “A new boarder!” She claps and steps to the side, motioning for me to enter. “Right this way, kind sir.”

  I’m confused by her new boarder comment, since she invited me to stay. The foyer is part of an open floor plan, and a deep red Persian rug connects it to the living area. Oak paneling covers the walls, which I don’t like. It would look better with some shiplap or just a coat of paint over it. Maybe textured? I’m already taking mental notes of things I’d change if this place was mine. Tall windows flood the space with light, which is fantastic, pulling the eye out to the beach beyond.

  I follow her through the hall into a sitting room, complete with a smoke-stained fireplace, Edwardian armchairs, and a gold velvet sofa with tapestry pillows. A black baby grand topped with lace doilies and black and white framed photos sits in the corner of the room near the window. It is definitely an old lady place.

  “Like I said, I’m sorry if I’m early…” I stop talking, since she clearly isn’t listening as she bustles off ahead of me like she’s running from a fire.

  She waves a hand over her head as she continues down the hall in the opposite direction, and the intoxicating aroma of fresh bacon laced with sweet blueberries floats in the air. My stomach growls, and I follow her to what must be the kitchen.

  “Tell me,” she says as she looks at me from over her shoulder, “do you like fresh produce, Jax Roland?”

  What an odd question, but I’m about to answer when the entry way opens on a bright room, and my jaw drops. Standing in front of a stainless range with her dark hair swept up in a messy bun and her long, silky legs extending from behind a tattered white apron is the girl from the Smoky Siren. Ashton.

  Her eyes flare as they rake over me, taking in my navy shirt, jeans, and leather loafers. Her mouth tightens. Obviously, she’s not happy to see me.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she snaps.

  I’m reeling. “What the fu-udge?” I manage to keep it civil, but just barely.

  The gorgeous sex kitten with lips like heaven is standing right in front of me or at least her really pissed off identical twin sister… who’s still pretty gorgeous, despite the anger blazing in her eyes.

  “I, uh… I’m not sure what’s happening right now.” I look from her to the older woman totally confused.

  “Ashton Hall”—the old woman waves her hand between us—“this is Jax Roland. He says he’s here to stay.”

  “You’re Ms. Hall? The lady who contacted me about renovating a beach house?” Our eyes lock. Mine I’m sure are confused as shit, while hers are brownish-green firecrackers.

  “And you’re Jax Roland.” Her anger is still there, but it’s changing into something like furious embarrassment, turning her cheeks a pretty pink.

  She looks down, wipes her hand on the white apron, and quickly slips it over her head. “You’re early. I’m not ready for our meeting.”

  She’s dressed in cutoffs and a tight tee, and my eyes travel quickly down her perfect legs to her cute little bare feet where her toenails are painted red, the same color as her dress last night.

  “I’m sorry.” I clear my throat. “I expected the traffic to be heavier, and I wanted to get a feel for the place before we started.”

  A buzzer sounds, and she spins around, leaning forward to open the oven, filling the small kitchen with the mouthwatering aroma of what looks like some kind of breakfast pie and blueberry muffins. The scent combined with the sight of that ass straining toward me in cutoffs…

  “Jesus,” I hiss softly, and I hear a chuckle to my left. Averting my eyes from Ashton, I catch the old woman grinning, and I know I’m busted having impure thoughts.

  The oven door slams, and Ashton drops two pans on the stone-tile countertop, her movements agile and confident as if she’s done this a thousand times. She’s still not facing me as she bustles around the kitchen, opening cabinets and yanking out dishes.

  I dart my eyes over at the older lady, but she’s watching us both with a smirk.

  “Um, can I help you with anything?” I ask.

  “You could start by being on time. It seems you have a problem with keeping track of your commitments, Mr. Roland.”

  Ah, she means last night…

  When she turns around, her hand is on her hip. “If you’ll give me a few minutes.”

  “Take all the time you need—” I start, but she cuts me off.

  “I’ll be ready at ten, like I said I would.” Her eyes flash as she adds the last part. “Help yourself to breakfast. Everything you need is right here.” She indicates the area on the buffet where she’s set up plates, silverware, and napkins, then nods at the counter space next to the fridge. “OJ and coffee are over there.”

  “I don’t mean to disrupt. I can always leave and come back—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She slaps down an oven mitt. “You’re here. You must eat something.”

  She storms out of the kitchen without another word, and the old woman steps forward, picking up one of the stacked plates. “That girl is a great baker. Sassy, too.”

  Yeah.

  My eyes are fixed on the space where Ashton Hall stood while I try to decide if I should curse my shitty timing or thank my lucky stars.

  When I
finally got back to the Smoky Siren last night, it was dark and locked up tight, and I was sure I’d never see Ashton again. I figured it was karma for lying to my date for the evening.

  The reason for my late arrival to the bar was my sister’s frantic phone call that her cat was stuck on the roof. I told her it would climb down on its own, but no, her three kids were crying and apparently Mittens would die up there alone all night…

  I wound up climbing a ladder in my suit and searching through the fucking tree limbs leaning over her roof—which I informed her she needs to trim today—until I found a fluffy white kitten that bit me as a thank you.

  “You never told me how you feel about fresh produce.” The old lady loads a plate with frittata, three muffins, and five strips of bacon and hands it to me.

  “Thanks.” Shaking my head, I take the overflowing dish, not really sure what to do next. “I had breakfast at the hotel.”

  “Powdered eggs and bruised oranges. Am I right?” She’s stacking her own plate, and I can’t argue with her.

  “I had a protein bar.” I set my plate on the table where she’s now sitting.

  “Might as well have eaten a Snickers.”

  I pour myself a cup of coffee, dousing it with the heavy cream sitting beside the pot. As I make my way to the table and pull out a chair, the older lady is eyeing me critically, and I feel like she’s taking notes.

  I take a seat and she starts in. “Are you married?” She chews on a piece of muffin. “My name’s Mona Capshaw, by the way, but most people call me Mrs. C.”

  I huff out a laugh. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. C, and no, I’ve never been married. You?”

  She laughs. “My man’s been gone for years, but boy did we have some good times. Like Ashton, he loved to cook.” She gets a wistful expression on her face. “My favorite dish was these stuffed peppers. He’d take fresh jalapeños and cut them in half, fill them with shrimp and cream cheese, top with breadcrumbs and bake at 450… Mmm…” She presses her lips together, then immediately arches an eyebrow. “Just be sure to wash your hands after handling the peppers. Mr. C forgot once, and well, let’s just say my more delicate parts weren’t happy.”