Melting into You
Melting into You
Laura Trentham
Warning: Contains a grumpy, tattooed hero, a free-spirited heroine, and a second chance at love in this sexy addition to the Sweet Home Alabama series.
Why does Lilliana Hancock hate him? And why is she the only woman Alec Grayson can’t stop thinking about? The taunts she hurls in his direction only heighten the buzzing sexual tension coursing between them. But it’s her passion and loyalty that has him longing to kiss and make up.
Hancocks are known to hold a grudge, and Lilliana is no exception. Her current target is Alec Grayson. The man took her virginity in college and doesn’t even remember the momentous event. While it’s obvious Alec carries a burden of grief from his past, Lilliana can’t find it in her heart to relish his pain. Instead, she fights the urge to soothe him in the most inappropriate of ways.
There’s no avoiding one another in small town Falcon, Alabama. Lilliana’s scheme to turn her family home into a B&B to fund her dream of being a respected Southern artist puts her at odds with the town’s building inspector—Alec Grayson. Their paths are on a collision course that will either blow up their hearts or entangle them forever.
Also by Laura Trentham
Contemporary Romance
Sweet Home Alabama Novels
Slow and Steady Rush, Book 1
Caught Up in the Touch, Book 2
Melting Into You, Book 3
Highland, Georgia Novels
A Highlander Walks Into a Bar, Book 1
A Highlander in a Pickup, Book 2
A Highlander is Coming to Town, Book 3
Heart of a Hero Novels
The Military Wife
An Everyday Hero
Cottonbloom Novels
Kiss Me That Way, Book 1
Then He Kissed Me, Book 2
Till I Kissed You, Book 3
Christmas in the Cop Car, Novella 3.5
Light Up the Night, Novella 3.75
Leave the Night On, Book 4
When the Stars Come Out, Book 5
Set the Night on Fire, Book 6
Historical Romance
Spies and Lovers
An Indecent Invitation Book 1 (FREE)
A Brazen Bargain, Book 2
A Reckless Redemption, Book 3
A Sinful Surrender, Book 4
A Wicked Wedding, Book 5
A Daring Deception, Book 6 (Coming Soon)
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Contents
Blurb
Also by Laura Trentham
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Look for more
Also by Laura Trentham
About the Author
1
Falcon, Alabama, October
“Well now, I can’t rightly figure it.” Carl’s muffled voice filled Lilliana Hancock with dark foreboding.
She stared at the three inches of plumber’s crack sticking out from under her guest bathroom’s bureau. Ironic, considering the man was her electrician. A not-so-great electrician who was doing her a huge favor and happened to be her third cousin, once removed.
“Alec Grayson will be here tomorrow to inspect. What can’t you figure?”
Carl’s gritty, smoke-roughened chuckle echoed off hot-pink tiles that made Lilliana long for a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. An ulcer seemed imminent.
He shimmied another inch of crack into view. “Can’t figure why there are so many sets of wires.”
Lilliana dropped her forehead into her palm and massaged her temples. Her headache didn’t abate. “Forget it, Carl. Why don’t you leave everything where it is? I appreciate you trying, I really do.”
Carl crawled backward and stood, hiking his jeans up and over his belly. “Sorry, I couldn’t be of more help.” His expression was the definition of hangdog.
“Not your fault.” She leaned in to kiss his cheek, the smell of nicotine strong on his collar. She’d be sure to send him a thank-you gift. A sturdy belt or a pair of industrial-strength suspenders. “I’m sure you have paying customers to get to.”
The rest of the electrical was in better shape—she didn’t worry about the house burning down around her—but this bathroom was her nemesis. She hated everything about it. And Alec Grayson would make a beeline to it considering it was the epicenter of carnage when her friend Jessica Montgomery had fried half her hair off with a flatiron.
She’d informed Alec Grayson two weeks ago that the electrical work had been completed. A bald-faced lie. While her intentions had been honorable, her follow-through was questionable. Or was her motivation to blame? How else to justify why Hancock House still wasn’t ready to open as a B&B after over a year of work?
After she saw Carl out the front door, Lilliana retreated to the airy bedroom she’d claimed as the master and threw herself crossways on the king-sized bed. A blue-and-green blocked fabric hung from the ten-foot-high curtain rods and a matching comforter covered the dark-stained four-poster bed. The walls were painted a light blue. She’d designed and sewed everything herself. The room was her oasis and usually soothed her, but not today.
Hancock House looked fabulous, but the problems with the two-hundred-plus-year-old building weren’t cosmetic. Outdated plumbing and electrical systems, termite damage, and mold in the attic from a chronically leaking roof made her think of a hundred-year-old woman with osteoporosis. One wrong move and the entire thing could come crashing down.
Her family’s homeplace was once a bustling farm and the center of Hancock County. On holidays, huge family gatherings had spilled onto the lawn. Her ancient, wrinkled, funny-smelling great-grandmother had owned the house then. Curtains stayed shut, plastic covered the couches, and lamps were considered too modern. The house had been dark, dusty, and creepy.
She and her cousins would scare the dickens out of each other by pretending to be the ghosts out of stories they’d heard all their lives. Even today, Lilliana didn’t like to get up at night without turning a light on. The clanging and groaning of pipes took on a more sinister feel in the dark.
At first, inheriting the monstrosity from her father had seemed a godsend. She’d struggled in New York City after completing art school, working as a bartender at night and painting during the day. She couldn’t afford to sleep, which was hard to come by anyway in the small apartment she shared with two other girls. But now she felt like Sisyphus, with Hancock House playing the part of her boulder.
A hint of Carl’s nicotine clung to her hair, wrinkling her nose. She’d never smoked cigarettes, even as an excuse to take extra breaks as a bartender. But marijuana was a different story. Call it peer pressure or experimentation or youthful rebellion, but she’d smoked her fair share of pot in art school, occasionally indulging even after she’d left campus life behind. It had bee
n a staple of most parties in her social circles in New York.
Fighting the temptation to curl up under the covers for a good cry, she crawled to the head of the bed and pulled an old-fashioned cigar box from the drawer in her nightstand. She slid her fingers under the false bottom and searched for her stash. The last time she’d indulged was after her father’s funeral, huddled in this same room after her family and her friends and the lawyers had gone.
Holding the hand-rolled joint between her thumb and forefinger, she estimated three or four draws would grant her the serenity she needed to call Alec Grayson and cancel tomorrow’s inspection. His self-important attitude would be easier to handle if she was mellow, and the temptation to bait him as she was wont to do on occasion wouldn’t be as strong.
Stepping onto the grandiose balcony outside her bedroom, she squatted down so no neighbors could see and lit the end. She pulled in a lungful and coughed, out of practice. After a smaller puff, her stomach quieted and her headache began to abate. The green leaves of the magnolia tree at eye level turned glossier, and the sky bluer.
The sun was warm and soothing. She splayed her legs out and leaned against the balcony rails, sending pieces of stonework pebbling to the porch stairs directly below her. The sweet scent of the magnolias clashed with the pot.
“Adult and professional” should be her motto dealing with humorless, stoic Alec Grayson. Yet, around him, she reverted to the immature scorned teenager of a decade earlier.
White streaked from the magnolia tree toward the front of the house, offering a welcome distraction. Her cat. Well, not hers exactly. It had adopted the dank hollow under her porch. She’d named it Ghost.
Taking two more long drags, she stubbed the tiny remnant out with finality. Marijuana was a crutch, and one she wouldn’t use again. Anyway, if she put out a feeler to buy more, her aunt Esmerelda would someone hear about it and be at her door with Preacher Higgs to stage an intervention. Or maybe an exorcism.
Cast out the evil spirits. She giggled as she stood and stretched, feeling loose and relaxed.
As soon as she completed the half-finished commissioned portrait waiting in her workroom, she’d have the money to hire a real electrician. Then, she’d rub Alec Grayson’s nose in the perfection of the wiring. In the meantime, she had a cat to tame. Today was the day she was going to catch it. She was feeling lucky.
Grabbing a can of tuna from the pantry, she pulled the tabbed top off and, as quietly as possible, headed out the back door and around to the porch. The October day held the remains of summer’s heat, but with fall’s decorative colors. It would be one of the last days for bare feet and shorts.
“Here, kitty, kitty. Come on out, Ghost. I have a can of yumminess for you.” She crawled between the bushes.
Yellow eyes glowed through the rotting wooden lattice. She kept her movements slow even as her heart kicked into a higher gear and her singsong voice took on an urgency. “Come on kitty. I have a treat.”
Ghost came toward her, but on its haunches, defensive and distrustful. Its fur was dirty and matted. Lilliana didn’t move her body, only extended her offering of tuna, crooning nonsense.
A vehicle rumbled down her street. The cat’s ears pricked up, and it vanished into the darkness. That was closest the cat had let her come. Crawling farther into the bushes, she slipped the can through a broken slat of the lattice.
A vehicle door slammed, sounding close enough to be in her driveway. Shoes crunched on gravel. She shimmied backward, praying her shorts weren’t riding as low as Carl’s had been. A throat cleared, freezing her.
“Ms. Hancock?” The deep rumbly voice made her want to follow Ghost under the porch, spiders be damned.
She looked over her shoulder. Between a pair of dark brown work boots and khakis was a white truck stamped with Grayson Construction on the door in bold, black, unfrilly letters. What were Alec Grayson’s long legs and truck doing here?
She let her gaze wander north. It was a long way up to where Alec stared down at her, the bright sun making it look like he wore a lopsided halo. Could pot go bad? Was this the start of a hallucination?
She discarded the thought. Any hallucination her brain produced would have Alec on his knees begging for her forgiveness. And naked. Definitely naked. Lilliana squeezed her eyes shut but only her imagination had already conjured the image and wallpapered her subconscious with it.
She muttered, “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” His deep voice rumbled all grumpy and sexy with a hint of defensiveness.
“Nothing. I was talking to my cat.” Her short-shorts–covered ass was still in the air. She popped to her feet, brushing fallen leaves and dirt from her knees.
Her ancient T-shirt’s stretched-out neck fell off one shoulder. She adjusted it only to have it slide off the opposite one. She’d had every intention to wear a pant suit and her grandmother’s string of pearls the next time she and Alec were scheduled to meet.
Alec took her in from head to toe. No smile marred his unimpressed face. The sleeves of his plaid button-down were rolled up his forearms, and every time he tapped his paper-covered clipboard against his thigh, his arm muscle jumped. The effect was hypnotizing.
She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and let it escape slowly. The rhythmic tapping stopped, breaking her trance. Her gaze shot up to his. She imagined herself shrinking to the size of a ladybug. Then she could fly away home. A giggle slipped out.
Damn, she’d forgotten how irreverent she became after smoking pot. This man could make things difficult for her, and all she could do was laugh. “What are you doing here?”
“We have an appointment. Don’t you remember?” His deep voice came out clipped and fast. More like a Yankee than a born-and-bred Alabamian. He had spent two years playing football in Philadelphia. Although, she’d spent five years in New York City and never shook her drawl.
“Our appointment is tomorrow. Thursday, the fourth.”
“You have it half right. Our appointment is today. Wednesday, the fourth.”
Her mind rolled slowly around the problem. She couldn’t say with certainty she hadn’t screwed up the day. When she was painting, time became irrelevant, her days running together. She didn’t feel sharp enough to engage in the war of wits their encounters inevitably degenerated into.
Unless her heretofore-absent fairy godmother appeared, pulled a wand out of her ass, and waved it around, she would never pass an inspection today. She needed more time.
“Actually, it’s funny—” She laughed, but he didn’t break into anything resembling an answering smile. Her laughter trailed off, birdsong filling the awkward silence. She cleared her throat before continuing. “I was going to call in a little bit and cancel.”
His dark-brown brows cut nearly straight lines over his hazel eyes. Taken together with his prominent nose, thin lips, and strong wide jaw, he wasn’t handsome in a male-model sense, but he was blatantly male. The type of man who was supremely capable and good at anything he put his hands to.
Good at anything he put his hands to. The unfortunate wording went on repeat in her head. One of his large, broad hands removed the pen from behind his ear and jotted a note on the clipboard. His nails were clean and short, but a couple of nicks and older, white scars peppered the back of his hand.
A fluttery, warm sensation settled in her lower belly. Not the first time nerves and attraction collided like atoms in a fusion experiment when she was near him. Her response was usually to amp up her attitude, but being high was putting a real damper on her usual defenses against him. Inconvenient since she had vowed to hate him forever and ever.
Not that he had a clue why she was antagonistic toward him. The first time their paths had crossed after her return from New York, the realization he didn’t even remember her had reopened old wounds.
Their one-night stand loomed large in her memory. She’d been a virgin, and he’d been the star quarterback. Knowing she’d been insignificant and unmemorable to him had sharpene
d her tongue and strengthened her grudge. The fact he held the power to reject her plans for the B&B rankled.
“Can I come in and get started?” The corners of his lips hitched upward. It was less smile and more a warning before a predator devours its prey.
She swallowed and clasped her hands together behind her back. “I would prefer to reschedule.”
“I already initiated the inspection in the county computer system.” He tilted his head and slid a pen behind his ear. Cut short on the sides, his hair was longer on top and combed to one side in a straight thick wave. He looked like the preppy version of kick-ass marine.
“Can’t we please reschedule? There might be one or two teeny-tiny issues I still need to address.” Her voice had taken on a plaintive tone. She hated asking anyone for help, but especially him.
“I can always enter a provisional report if I find something that needs fixin’. That way you’ll know exactly what you need to do to pass on our reschedule.” A sympathy-infused drawl replaced his earlier Yankee-like impatience.
Dangit, that was . . . unexpectedly nice of him. Yet she hesitated with ingrained suspicion where he was concerned. “Okay. I suppose that would actually be helpful.”
He turned back to his truck and hauled a tool bag over his shoulder. The discordant tink of metal against metal sounded with his every step. She brushed her hands over the back of her shorts and wondered if she had time to change out of her frumpy paint-splattered T-shirt and into her kick-ass pant suit and pearls.