Authors: Camden Leigh
Love Me Crazy (2 page)
“No, Dean’s away on business. Remind Eleanor that we require her decision today. Color and cut. Otherwise she’ll have to resort to store-bought crystal.”
Imagine the horror should anyone’s lips touch crystal bought off the shelf. I cover my mouth before my giggle escapes.
“
That will be all, then. If I don’t make it, see you promptly at eight tomorrow morning.”
I shove my phone in my purse and take a huge gulp of wet, sticky air. So it begins. For six weeks I’ll be completely subservient to the most horrid boss in all the South. And to top my crap cake, I’m not allowed to make friends. Not that I’ll have time, but still. It’s no wonder this is a paid internship.
But I don’t just need this job, I want this job. Mrs. Jacquelyn Covington is
the
party planner of the South. It’s unfortunate she’s such a grouch because I could learn a lot from her. She has a way of simplifying the ornate, something I don’t see a lot of back in Boston. There, bigger is better. Grandiose earns the elite’s approval. With Mrs. Covington, the finer details set the tone.
Restraint equals sophisticated elegance.
I think I read that in a
Belle Bride
magazine article featuring her. I just wish she’d give me a chance to fail before assuming I already have.
Fifteen years ago the definition of home was playing in the fields while Dad talked crops with his crew, learning to shoot Coke cans off a stump and avoiding my sisters so they wouldn’t dress me like a fucking princess. Ten years ago I would’ve defined home as beating my best score on the latest video game, Sunday dinners with my family and Dad teaching me to chew tobacco behind the barn and laughing when I turned green because the shit was nasty.
Six
years ago home became less about family. It was about bonfires, football, avoiding my parents, and getting laid. I was seventeen then. Ready to take on the world. But it took only one year and one funeral to fuck up that vision. Now I define home in one word. Hell.
My sister smacks my chest with her hand. “Five years, Quinn. Five years and you call today?”
“Just drive.” I still my bouncing leg and adjust the seat belt, ducking my head to survey the Eliza Pinckney statue guarding the park in the heart of Lucas Hill.
If I knew coming home would get me this welcome, I would’ve found another ride. I’d banked on my twin cutting me a break. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
“Does anyone know you’re here?” Ellie slaps the steering wheel. “Oh my stars, Quinn. Does Mom?”
“I’m here because of her e-mail.” Mom had sent one sentence saying she was selling Dad’s vintage truck by week’s end. It’s been in the family for decades. No fucking way is that happening.
Ellie hangs a right at the only light in town. The familiar water tower looms overhead. “Since when do you respond to e-mails? I left you voice mails and texts.”
“Since never.” I haven’t responded to anyone’s messages, but I read and hear them all. I fiddle with the air vent, needing hurricane force winds to cool my ass down. The southern humidity dripping from my lungs doesn’t compare to Ellie’s well-deserved anger. And she’s just getting started. I glance at her. “Listen, keep my visit under the radar. I don’t want Mom knowing I’m here. Anyone at the house?”
“Just me. Kat left before I got up.”
“Is she doing okay?” I ask.
It
hurt to leave Ellie because we were twisted pretzels when we were small. Inseparable. But she was eighteen and self-sufficient when we left for college. Leaving Kat plain-out sucked. She was so small. Wonder what she’s like now.
“No, Quinn. No. She pretends everything’s fine but then disappears into your stupid darkroom and fiddles with your old negatives, crying tears that look orange under those weird lights. None of us are okay.” Ellie’s sigh overpowers the AC. “You’re a moron. Dang it, Quinn, why’d you come back? Why?”
Fuck, she’s about to cry.
“For the truck,” I mumble.
After ten minutes of uncomfortable silence, gravel crunches under the tires, sending my focus out the front window. The oaks must be ten feet taller, the Spanish moss longer, and the driveway shorter. Freshly painted, the plantation house sits even more regal than I remember, with thick square columns lined like soldiers across the wide porch. “When did y’all get rocking chairs?”
Ellie slams on the brakes and punches me.
“
Oww
. What the hell?” I massage my arm.
“When did we get rocking chairs? Are you kidding me? First the truck, then chairs?” She cuts the engine and grabs my seat belt strap before I can escape.
Rain taps against the window. I stare beyond her until my eyes burn, forcing me to blink. I glance at the barn in the distance, the amber fields closing in around me and the black stain splitting the infamous Covington magnolia in two.
“When did—”
“
No. Don’t.” Ellie holds out her hand. “Just answer me one question. You gave us no explanation. All I want is to know why?”
I shrug. “Busy.”
Her eyes grow larger than crab apples. “Will you stay this time?” she chokes out.
I shake my head and steel my arm for another punch. Instead she grabs my wrist and turns my hand over. She pokes the spiral tattoo on my bicep.
“Probably best, considering you’ve painted your arm like a totem pole.”
Thank fuck she can’t see the rest. “I’m sorry. I really am, but I couldn’t come back.” My gaze flicks to the ominous house I’d collapsed to a two-dimensional memory. One I could rip up and incinerate. “I wish I weren’t here now.”
“You could’ve called,” she says.
Yeah, I should’ve, but it was easier to pretend everything about this fucking place never existed.
“Then I could’ve told you I’m getting married,” she adds.
“Congrats.” I pat her hand and pull the key from the ignition. I’m sure as hell not getting stuck here.
“Please come to the wedding.” She grabs my arm. Her eyes glaze over.
“I—”
“No.” Her nails dig into my arm like a spring-loaded bear trap. “Don’t answer. I hope to see you there.”
She’s setting herself up for disappointment pushing this subject. We both know I’m a no-show.
“Where are Dad’s keys?” I ask.
“
You’re leaving now?” She’s out of the car before I’ve cracked the door. “Stay one night, please.”
“The keys, Ellie?” I follow her up the front steps, squinting through the rain.
We shake off on the porch and remove our shoes like we were taught. No mud, no ticks and no person comes into this house unless they’re pristine, punctual and polite. Mom’s three Ps.
“Same place as always.” She twists her toes inward and drops her chin.
I reach out but pause. If I show her how much being here is fucking killing me, I’ll never be able to leave. I swipe my hand across my chin and welcome the scratch. It does nothing for the guilt busting through me, but I’ll take anything. I rub harder and grit my teeth. “Let me see if the truck starts. How about lunch?”
Her eyes light up, and a toothy grin spreads across her face.
“Not here. Past the cemetery, next town over,” I say.
She kicks the rocking chair. “I can’t. I have a wedding meeting with Mom.”
“When?” My heart overheats as it hightails it down the drive and waits in the road for the rest of me to catch up.
“Soon.”
I scan the driveway. The one person I can’t see while I’m here is Mom. “Next time?”
“Right,” she says. “Next time. But please say good-bye
this
time.” She wraps herself in a hug.
“Promise.” I’ll keep it, too.
She pushes the door open and sun-heated pine knocks me back a step. I inhale sharply, filling my lungs with memories. Ellie and I sliding down the banister, Kat cocking her hip and hitting it on the clock. Dad and Mom twirling in the parlor while we watched, hungry for our
turns.
One by one the memories roll in, making me super eager to get this shit over with and put a few hundred miles between me and this house.
“Ten minutes, Ellie.” I head past her and shut my lungs to the scents of home.
“I’ll be in the parlor,” she calls behind me. “Watch out for Davy.”
“Davy?” I question, but I don’t have time for her answer. I don’t have time for memories, sisters, and definitely not Mom. What was I thinking coming here? Five years should have dulled the pain, lessened the guilt, but all I feel is fucking torture jumping on my chest and taunting me. This blows. I shove the swinging kitchen door open. I’ll just grab the keys and ge—
The door rebounds and nearly slaps me in the face. I grab it before impact, eyes locked on the curvy ass in front of me. I follow the silhouette sliding on all fours across the island.
“Want to dance?” the girl growls. She waves a meat cleaver over her head.
If that knife slips, it will dissect her brain in two. I step forward, releasing the door silently behind me. Who’s she talking to anyway?
A gobble erupts and a turkey flaps up to rest opposite the girl.
Crockett is still alive? I shake my head. Kat fucking did it. She trained that damned turkey. Last time I saw Crockett, Kat had its broken wing bandaged to a stick and was trying like mad to teach it to sit.
“Last warning.” Unlike the lazy drawls around here, the girl’s voice is perfunctory and deep. Kind of late-night sexy.
Her rear hypnotizes me with slow rocks from side to side. Round and rain-soaked. Her shirt suctions to the indent at her waist. A badass high heel dangles from her foot and her lightly tanned arms drip water, but . . . look at that fucking hair. Good God, she’s autumn. A dark, wet auburn—
“
I’m going to fucking eat you for lunch.”
I press my lips together and shake off my surprise at a female cussing beneath my mother’s roof.
Mom
. Shit. She could arrive any minute. I need to get the hell out of here.
I move along the wall of cabinets, eyes trained on the knife waving overhead.
The girl lets loose a string of fuck-me-shit-bird-go-to-hell’s when Crockett balks at her.
I spot the key drawer and see no other way to get to it but through the standoff. I press my palms against my eyes. Oh, what the fuck, taking an extra minute to get rid of the bird won’t kill me.
“You know, manners will get you further,” I say.
Redhead jumps and her knee slips off the counter. Regaining control, she sits back on her heels, knife in front of her face but aimed at Crockett.
“A little help?”
I lean against the fridge. “You could be a thief.”
“I’m not a thief.” Her voice shakes as she crawls backward off the island and plants herself against the stove.
“But you
are
a stranger.”
“So are you.”
“You’re in
my
house.”
“Then you should know who I am.”
One of Ellie’s friends, I presume, though I don’t recall any redheads coming around in high school. She must be an out-of-town college friend, because if she was from here, she’d have field dressed that bird by now.
She
wedges into the corner cabinets and lowers the knife, her vibrant eyes visible above the hilt.
A slow breath escapes and I pop my lips together to hide my surprise. What I’d mistaken for a soft tan isn’t a tan at all, but a mass of freckles. Forehead, cheeks, nose, eyelids, shoulders . . . like a bucket of burned-out stars tipped over and sprinkled across her skin. Beautiful. But her eyes take the fucking cake. Green. Gorgeous. Full. And surrounded by sexy black smudges like she’d just rolled out of my bed. Wait . . . fuck. I drop my stare. Keys. I’m here for keys.
I move toward the drawer. “Yep, you’re def-definitely a stranger.
And
you’re threatening my sister’s turkey,” I trip over my words. Fucking moron. She’s just a girl.
“That’s
not like any
turkey I’ve ever seen.” Her gaze darts across the room, scanning said turkey. “Can you, I don’t know, put him outside or something?” She pulls up onto the counter, eyes dancing crazy like jarred lightning bugs. “Please.”
“Can’t.”
A sexy-as-hell gasp rolls across her lips.
Bet her gasp tastes spicy like cinnamon Red Hots. I straighten and force my eyes off her to take on Crockett. “Fan down,” I try. Who knows if Kat succeeded but if she—
“Fan down? That’s all you’ve got?”
“Crockett. Fan. Down,” I demand, refusing to look the idiot. Redhead had me beat when she crawled across the island, ass in the air. She can keep that title.
Crockett submits and tucks his rear feathers into a razor sharp point. He drops to his belly and makes a clucking purring sound. Thank fuck he listened.
The girl sags against the cabinet.
“
I’ll hand it to you, most wouldn’t have made it through the door.” I move past her legs and open a drawer while checking her out. “Especially ones waving meat cleavers and cussing like a Jersey mobster.”
“I’m
not
from Jersey. I’m from Boston.” She turns toward me. “And most people aren’t attacked by a fu—” Her gaze stops on mine but seconds later, drops. Her skin turns pink, camouflaging her freckles.
Haven’t caused
that
reaction in a while. I discreetly check my fly. “What were you saying?”
“Um, ya know, fowl. Attacked by fowl.” She slides off the counter to her feet.
“Right.” Enjoying her fluster, I check another drawer.
I find Crockett’s feed and pour a handful on the counter. “Attaboy, Crockett,” I whisper.
“Crockett?” the girl says.
I give her a smile for a peace offering. “Meet Davy Crockett.”
She snorts louder than Sunday dinner, then turns a medley of reds until her skin decides on raw pink.
Amused by her inability to keep her reactions in check, my gaze drops to the dip in her collar where her shirt ties together and the loops tangle as if they’re trying to mask her embarrassment.
Damn. Focus. Here for the keys. Here for the truck.
I snap my gaze to hers and find her eyebrows raised and her lips pursed. Holy sexiness.
“May I help you with something?” she asks, fanning the knife.