longer than the Gettysburg Address, by Emmy’s estimation.
Sol looked positively miserable, and for once Emmy empathized with him...until Audrey handed him the microphone, and his deep, clear voice rang through the auditorium with not a single bobble.
“Taylor’s Grove has always been there for me, and I’m grateful. Of course, I didn’t realize I was...” Emmy again saw the handsome twenty-something he’d once been shining through the gruff camouflage as he glanced at Audrey’s paper and grinned sheepishly. “Six thousand one hundred ninety dollars’ worth of grateful.” The audience laughed, and he waited for them to quiet. “But I love this town and all of y’all—except EmmyLou Creighton.”
Another wave of laughter and another standing ovation as he limped back to the wall beside her, never looking her way.
Emmy’s shoulders drew back as her spine stiffened in anger at the rebuff.
But an easy smile covered her wrath...and the knowledge that the jerk’s admission was exactly as truthful as her own.
June 22
EMMYLOU GRABBED TWO towels as she stepped out of the shower, wrapping her wet hair with one, drying herself with the other, briskly. She should have been dabbing her skin gently rather than scrubbing it like a potato, but she was much too jittery. As she turned, her eyes dropped to the reflection in the full-length mirror of the skin on her thigh just below her butt cheek.
Oh Lord...is that the beginning of cellulite?
“No...no,” she whimpered. “Cellulite isn’t allowed. Not today.”
But sure enough, on closer inspection, there were indeed a couple of small dimples. Why, oh, why hadn’t she been proactive and gone ahead and splurged on that miracle cream while QVC had it on sale? “Now it’ll cost me an arm and a leg,” she huffed.
The mention of a leg brought her back to the reason she was jittery...
Sol Beecher would be here soon.
“Over six hundred tickets in that drawing.” She slapped the towel over the bar, spreading it out to dry. “The man has five and one of them gets picked as the winner. What are the odds?” She snorted at her reflection. “Why, those odds would be six hundred to five, I believe.” She tried to do the math in her head, but it got jumbled, so she gave up, satisfied to be in the neighborhood of correct. “Something close to one hundred something to one.”
Today Sol was picking up the keys to the beach house. She’d been planning what she’d wear for the event for two weeks and had finally decided on her gold bikini. She would be lounging by the pool—totally oblivious that this was the day they’d arranged. When he arrived, she wouldn’t have her cover-up available. In her own backyard? Of course not. She would invite him into the house, so he’d have to follow her—and no doubt check her out thoroughly—and he would be the sorriest man alive that he’d ever allowed her to slip away.
But now? Now his vision would fill with the sight of cellulite—two dimples of it, one for each eye. A much easier math problem than the other one.
What it added up to was that she was back to square one about what to wear.
She rushed to her closet, jerking hangers, searching for the new perfect outfit to show off her...assets. And make him sorry.
Geez, he could get her riled.
Since her first date at the age of fifteen, she’d never lost a guy she wanted. That wasn’t to say no one had ever broken up with her. Lots of them had. No, that was an exaggeration. A few of them had. But those breakups came at times when she was ready to call it quits.
Sol Beecher was the only one who ever walked away leaving her still wanting him.
Still she hadn’t completely admitted defeat, even after all these years.
Someday he would get through the self-absorbed funk he walked around in. He would see her...want her. And when that happened, she’d kick his bad leg out from under him and let him fall on his metaphorical ass.
The lime-green skirt had previously failed to catch his attention, and the gold bikini was out.
Wonder Woman costume? Nah, too obvious.
The chime alerted her that a vehicle had pulled into her driveway. She sprinted to the bedroom window and let out a groan at the sight of Sol’s black truck. “Early? Noooo!” She snatched her watch from the vanity and examined it. Sure enough, the stem was pulled out. She’d thought it was ten-ten, when in reality it was ten fifty-five.
Sol Beecher was only five minutes early.
Bentley woke from his nap in the middle of her bed. He jumped down and headed to the door as she threw the towel from her hair and ran back into the closet, grabbing the first top and bottom her hands touched. No time to dry her hair...or even run a comb through it. No time for makeup. The shorts were old jeans she’d cut off—ragged and frayed at the edges—while the T-shirt was one a friend had brought her. Bright purple, it sported a picture of Chewbacca on the front with MILWOOKIE above him in green block letters.
The sound of the doorbell mixed with Bentley’s bark of greeting.
Emmy rammed her toes into some flip-flops and her fingers through her hair on her way to the door. Bentley loved being out in the yard, but he didn’t have on the collar that went with the underground fence. So she grabbed the collar he was wearing as she turned the doorknob. Excited by the company, Bentley jumped back, causing her to jerk the door open with a swoosh.
Sol’s brown eyes widened in surprise...and then squinted. “EmmyLou?”
Go ahead, buster. Rub it in.
“Yeah.” Embarrassment made her insides cringe, but she refused to let him see her discomfort. “Just got out of the shower.” Bentley danced with excitement, hopping up and down like a deranged kangaroo. “Come in, would you? He’s going to rip my arm out of its socket.”
“I’m a little early. I figured I’d just stop by on my way into town.” Sol stepped inside and closed the door. “But I see I should’ve called first. This is obviously a bad time.”
The way his eyes raked over her went through her like a tack into corkboard. “Not a problem,” she snapped, releasing her hold on Bentley.
The dog made straight for the man’s bad leg...and began humping it.
“Oh good Lord!” Emmy scrambled to disengage the two, but Sol lost his balance and stumbled back against the door, luckily catching himself. “Oh crap, I’m sorry. Really. I’m so sorry.” She was overdoing the apology. “Get down, Bentley. I’ve never seen him like this.”
“Would you just get me the damn key?” Sol forced the words out. “Please.”
She pulled Bentley along and closed him up in her bedroom, then hurried to the kitchen to grab the key and the list of rules for the use of the beach house. She paused there to catch her breath and give her brain time to come up with something humorous to alleviate the awkward moment.
She and Sol didn’t get along, but that didn’t make it okay to humiliate him.
Aggravate? Yeah. Humiliate? No.
She looked down the rules, stopping as number six caught her eye...and gave her an idea. A true EmmyLou-ism.
She sauntered back to the living room, handing him the key when she got within arm’s reach. “That’s the key.” She then held out the paper and he took it, his eyes scanning it. “Just a list of rules for the house,” she explained. “Common sense mostly. Don’t put cans down the garbage disposal. Don’t start a campfire in the living room. Don’t pick the lock on the family’s private suite.”
He met her gaze, his eyes hooded.
“That’s