Let It Go (18 page)

“Oh boy.” Chance chuckles. “Gavin’s got her cornered up. Probably trying to sell her the world,” he comments on the young, daring Don Juan, Brody’s cousin. “Don’t worry. He’s harmless.”

Savannah laughs. “It’s not him I’m worried about.” She contemplates her outspoken,
don’t take no shit off nobody
elder sister. “Trust me. Whatever he’s selling, she ain’t buying.”

Chance laughs out loud. “I like this girl, Nelle,” he exhibits an easy intimacy, using his wife’s nickname. Annelle gives him an affirmative grin.

“Your mama and daddy sure made some pretty babies.” Annelle brushes Savannah’s hair off her shoulder, the way a mother would.

“Thank you.” Savannah continues, “I’d say y’all did a fine job with that one.” She glances at Brody, who’s stooped over signing paperwork at the wiles of Candida Wooten.

Annelle smiles, knowing she cannot take credit for his attractive lineage yet thrilled to include him among her own biological children. “His face just lights up when he talks about you. I know you may not be his
girlfriend
,” Annelle is sure to stipulate Savannah’s previous declaration, “but we sure are happy you’re in his life.” Savannah remains quiet, feeling unworthy of such an avowal, considering her and Brody’s casual hooks-up. “You’re the first girl he’s talked of since his divorce. That was really hard on him.”

“His divorce was a godsend,” Chance pipes. “He had no more business being with that woman than he has being over there signing papers with that one.”

“Chance,” Annelle scolds, returning her attention to Savannah. “I know he’s all big and strong. But he’s got a tender heart. He loves big. It’s the only way he knows how to do anything.” She looks around at the colossal collection of wood art, symbolism of his commitment to something he believes in. “He got his daddy’s heart. Big.” Annelle smiles.

“To hell with my heart. I don’t know why the boy didn’t get my intuition,” Chance says. “I knew. The first five minutes I spent with his ex. I knew she wasn’t right for him. And that woman over there.” He leers at Candida Wooten. “He doesn’t need to be getting into hock with her either.”

The end of the night finds the regal gallery coming to a close, the majority of its patrons having made their departure. Savannah and Jac embrace.

“It was real nice to meet you, Jac,” Brody extends a thankful handshake. “Hopefully we’ll be seeing more of each other. I’d like to get to know the rest of the family.”

Jac thinks of their rather astute and pressing mother, Buffy. “Be careful what you wish for.” She chuckles. “Thanks for the invite. I had a good time. And you have some great pieces. I’ll have to keep you in mind when I need something authentic for my house.”

Savannah smiles with her sentiments, knowing that if her savvy intuitive sister got an uneasy vibe from Brody, she certainly would not extend her approval.

“Hope Gavin didn’t talk you to death.” Brody grins, throwing his eyes in the direction of his relentless cousin, now conversing with and holding up his parents at the door, surely irritating his father, who is hopeful he might catch the end of the football game.

Jac’s expressive brow makes its ascent. “Actually, I found him quite entertaining. Surprisingly enough.”

“Ooh,” Savannah quips, eager to get Jac alone for the extended
dish.

“Ooh nothing,” Jac dismisses. “I’ll see you at Mama’s tomorrow.” She kisses Savannah on the cheek. “And something tells me I’ll be seeing you around,
gym boy
.” She winks at Brody, purposely using his initial handle, her way of letting him know Savannah tells her everything and he shouldn’t soon forget that fact.

Brody nods, perceptive of her drift, expressing his compliance to mind his p’s and q’s.

“Jac. Jacqueline,” Gavin calls after her. “Wait up. I’ll walk you to your car.”

Chance laughs jovially. “You better run, Jac, if you aim to shake that cur,” he compares Gavin to a breed of dog notorious for their specialized working and hunting skills. “He’s giving it the ol’ McAlister try.” Chance puts his arm around Annelle in the small of her back, prepared to escort her out the door. Looking back at Brody and Savannah, he whispers to his wife, “Think our boy’s ready? To give it the ol’ McAlister try?”

“I do believe he is, honey.” Annelle takes him in, standing there attentively beside Savannah. “Thus has a broken heart passed,” she reflects on the somber experience of Brody’s recovery from his failed marriage. “I dare say Savannah just might be his breath of renewed life.”

“Time will tell,” Chance says. “Proud of you, my number one Son,” he calls to Brody, his first born. “Was a good night. Love you always.”

“Love you, too, Daddy,” Brody calls back.

“You’ll come see us now, won’t you, Savannah?” Annelle chimes in.

“Yes Ma’am.” Savannah waves them
adieu
as they exit the gallery.

“So far, so good,” Brody says, duly noting
number eight—respectful
and
number nine—gets along with my family
on his ‘must-haves’ dating and mating checklist. “They like you. I like Jac. I’d say we’re over 500,” he talks in football lingo, meaning they’ve won more than they’ve lost. Savannah chuckles, fully comprehending. “And the fact that you get that makes you all that more attractive.” Brody turns to her, his hands about her waist, pulling her closer to his frame.

“We’re all cleaned up,” the high-pitched voice interrupts from behind them. Savannah pulls away from Brody with the irritating presence of Candida Wooten.

“Ahem,” Brody clears his throat. “I thought you left with Edgar,” he speaks of her husband.

“Heavens, no.” Candy flits about as if finding things to do. “We still have forms and paperwork to fill out. It’s going to be a looong night,” her inflection quite provocative.

“Thanks for the invite,” Savannah quickly interjects. “I should be going.” She attempts to excuse herself, feeling as though she may be in the way of some
gigolo
business.

“Toodaloo!” Candy sounds off.
Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out
.

“Unh-uh,” Brody expels, grabbing Savannah’s arm, holding her from walking away. “That will have to wait, Candida. We can finish up the paperwork next week.”

“But I want to get you paid by Monday. We have some sizable checks here.” She wriggles the paperwork about in her hands. “And quit calling me Candida. It’s Candy.” In her bare feet now, having slipped out of her heels, her hair freed from its up-do lays about her shoulders. “You know, like that sweet, sugary substance you lick off a lollipop.” She licks her lips, eyeing Brody as if he might be the center of her favorite flavored tootsie pop.

“Gawd,” Savannah mutters at the blatant display. Snatching her arm from Brody’s grasp, she flees for the exit.

“Send the paperwork with Edgar,” Brody instructs Candida. “I’ll stop by his office next week.”

“You leave and this will be the last exhibit you have in this town,” Candy threatens, her ego severely wounded.

Brody shrugs, backing away toward the door. “Do whatever you have to do,
Candida,”
he makes a point of using her formal title yet again.

“What am I supposed to
do
now!” she yells after him, her pent-up sexual frustration unsatisfied.

Chapter Thirteen

“Savannah,” Brody calls, stalking her down the street. She ignores him, her
blinging
silver heels clicking off the concrete at a near jog. “Savannah!” he asserts, his deep voice causing passersby to take notice.

“What!” she snaps at a whisper, turning around, uncomfortable with the attention Brody draws.

“What the hell is going on? Talk to me.” His ribcage contracts and expands briskly, catching up to her.

“You tell me.” She spins back around, continuing at a driven pace, the added height of her heels challenging his long stride. “Are you some kind of starving artist gigolo? Is that how you support your business?” Savannah huffs, the burning question rings completely absurd, however arguable.

“What?” Brody turns his body to face hers, now trekking backward. Insulted at her laughable inquiry, his eyes search hers attempting to read their authenticity. “Is that what you think of me?” He pounds his fist against his bruised heart.

“I don’t know what to think. But I know what I saw in there.” Savannah shakes her head, willing the image of the bawdy cougar Candida Wooten from her memory.

“What you saw was a bored housewife with too much money and time on her hands, barking up the wrong tree,” Brody clarifies his disinterest, groaning as his shoulder thumps off a street sign in his attempt at maneuvering backward down the street.

“Obviously she doesn’t accept rejection all that well.” Savannah broods over Candida’s ultimatum to Brody. “You better run right back to that gallery and give her what she wants. If you want to keep your
coveted
clientele.” She dodges Brody by deftly steering off onto a side street.

Tiring with the game of cat and mouse, Brody swiftly tracks her down, heaving her over his shoulder at her waistline.

“Put me down!” Savannah wails, mortified at what fellow street-goers must think.

“Just like my father. You think I’m a fool. I know exactly what Candida is.” Brody continues marching along, Savannah wriggling about intent on freeing herself from his grasp. “Sorry folks. Lover’s quarrel.” Brody explains, his charming grin enough to settle the concern of cautionary passersby.

“Maybe you should have considered that before you jumped in bed with her,” Savannah speaks figuratively in idioms, still unsettled about the literal repercussion, her arms and legs busy in their attempt to escape his snug hold. “Where are you taking me?” Even with her head hanging at his backside, Savannah notices a difference in the street lighting. What was once bright and bustling is now dark and enclosed. “Put me down!”

“To my truck.” He calmly navigates the back alley leading to the loading dock behind the art gallery.

“I don’t want to go to your truck. Especially if that’s where you take
Candy
,” she mimics the high-pitched woman’s voice, “and all her cronies.”

Brody stops, gently lowering her from his shoulder, her back now leaning against said
tainted
truck. His mind quickly denotes
number two—girl’s gotta have heart
from his checklist, as she is currently giving him a run for his money. He boxes her in, one arm on each side of her waist, his hands pressed firmly against his vehicle. Their bodies separated, their chests nearly connecting with each labored breath from their rousing jaunt. “If you insinuate one more time that I’m sleeping with that woman…”

“You’ll what?” Savannah challenges the steel blues level with her dark greens, their mouths mere inches apart, their sweet breath clashing.

“Ah,” Brody growls. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”  His mouth hovering about hers, painfully advancing and retreating from her pink pouty lips while continuing his thought, “I’d like to tell you I’ll walk away, right now. But I know I won’t. I don’t want to, dammit.” He curses his weakness, caressing his hand down the side of her face, a need within for her to trust him at his word.

Savannah chokes back a moan at the stimulation of his touch, wishing herself immune from the arousing affection in his eyes. “If you’d move out from in front of me. Maybe I could do us both a favor. And walk away,” she forces the sentiment, her words and her body language at extreme odds, her frame melting into his.

“Is that what you want?” he asks, fully prepared to step aside. His inquisition equally disputed as he presses the full length of himself against her.

Continuing with her mixed signals, “Yes,” she whispers. Her reply directly followed up with squelching contact of her lips against his. Soft but pressing, she devours every bit of moisture from his obedient mouth. With each wet, plush, savory caress, the intricate dance between their mouths and tongues grows stronger, relentless and consuming. Her doubtful mind wreaking havoc, she pushes him away. Only to advance once again, pulling at the buttons on his suit jacket, releasing it from his frame. Her hands busily working at his interior shirt.

Brody cups her face in his hands, delivering perfectly placed kisses from her temple to her ear and down over the length of her neck, his lips and teeth working in tandem. “It’s okay, Sweet Savannah, to want me,” he whispers, biting down appropriately on her neck, causing her to release a disparate moan. Brody chuckles at her conflicted response, knowing she struggles the same as he, his mind and body caught up in a tug of war. One protective, exuding an advising ‘no,’ the other completely wanton, screaming a resounding ‘yes!’

“But I don’t want you,” she laments. His chest now bare of the confining fabric, Savannah holds herself taut to it, unable to deny the pleasure of its warmth and powerful landscape.

“You sure have a funny way of not wanting me,” Brody growls. Covering her mouth with his, he guides her inside the roomy backseat of his crew cab pickup, effectively closing the door and locking them in. Savannah settles astraddle his hips as he sits upright in the backseat, shimmying her little black dress up around her thighs to accommodate his size. “Talk to me.” Brody rests his hands on each side of her neck, his thumbs gently stroking her jawline.

“I don’t think
he
wants to talk,” Savannah dismisses, her hand trailing below to
Thor,
his engorged, erect form awaiting her feminine attention.

“
He
can wait,” Brody affirms. Intercepting her mindful hand, he holds it in his, raising it up to rest against his heart. “There’s something going on in that pretty little head of yours. You’re a writer. A creative type. I get that, Savannah. But you’ve got to quit overthinking things. Reading into stuff.” He shakes his head with her conclusion that he’s some kind of
starving artist gigolo
.

“I’m not overthinking. I just want to be honest with myself. About what this,” she shifts her hands back and forth between them, “is.”