Caught Up in the Touch: Sweet Home Alabama Read online

  Scott wiped down the bar, the lemony fresh scent of cleaner filling the air. The boy’s arm flexed. Thin silvery streaks marred the tan of his biceps. Stretch marks? Logan made a closer examination of his lineman. As the football team’s strength and conditioning coach, Logan paid attention to which boys had yet to hit puberty and which could handle the extra reps and weight that came with unleashed testosterone.

  Scott had been gangly and knock-kneed last spring. Now suddenly he had gained a man’s muscles, and a few inches in height. His dad Ben, a former Falcon linebacker who’d played for Alabama, had probably pushed some crazy workout regimen on the kid. Lord save him from well-meaning helicopter parents living vicariously through their offspring.

  “What have you been doing this summer, Scott? You’ve gained some bulk.”

  Instead of flexing and showing off, Scott pulled the sleeve of his short-sleeve broadcloth shirt down. “Lifting some in the garage and running is all.”

  Before Logan could ask more about his lifting routine, the back door swung open and Brian, his bartender-manager, strode through. A crate of highball glasses tinkled with his every step.

  Logan greeted him with tipped chin. “I’m going to head home to shower. I don’t want to turn anyone’s stomach. Everything set for the dinner opening?”

  “You know it, boss. Everything’s good to go now our stove crisis has been averted. The new menu is going over well with the staff and the customers.” Brian grinned and unloaded glasses from behind the bar. It was Saturday and the dinner crowd would be heavy. Weekends attracted diners from bigger cities who came for the quaint atmosphere.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Brian returned to the kitchen, and Scott scuttled behind. The rattle of bottles and the clang of a dolly broke the too-brief silence. The man backed the dolly to the edge of the bar and shot Logan a grin. “Damn, what’s up, buddy? Haven’t seen you for a coon’s age.”

  Logan forced a smile for his old high-school friend. “Good to see you, Justin. Didn’t know you delivered for Tom.”

  “First week.” He pulled a box of top shelf liquor off the dolly. “You want me to unpack it?”

  “Slide the boxes behind the bar. Brian or I will stock them. Thanks.”

  Justin emptied the dolly, but instead of leaving, he draped an arm over the top. “Dude, big party tonight in Wayne’s garage. Why don’t you come? It’ll be like old times.”

  The nostalgic edge in Justin’s voice turned Logan’s stomach. Hanging out in friends’ basements or garages drinking himself to oblivion, smoking weed, doing the occasional line of coke had been the norm in high school. Those were days Logan didn’t care to relive.

  Instead of advising Justin to grow up and get a life, he only said, “Got to work tonight.”

  Justin’s smile was guileless. “That’s right. I forgot you’re a famous chef now.”

  The spread in Southern Living had benefited the whole town and put Adaline’s on the map. Out-of-towners meant increased tourism dollars for everyone. Logan had gone from being the town fuck-up to one of its saviors. The irony never failed to amuse him.

  Yet for all his recent success, someone always brought up his past. The drifting, the drugs, the drinking. Usually in a “look how far you’ve come” sort of speech, but sometimes given in a “we’re waiting for you to screw the pooch again” tone. He loved Falcon, but the offhand, sometimes teasing remarks pissed him off and made him feel boxed in. He hid it all behind a smile.

  “Catch you later.” Justin waved over his head on his way through the kitchen door with the empty dolly.

  Logan was alone. His smile faded, and he turned on the stool, leaning back and resting his elbows against the mahogany bar. Blessed cool air poured out of the ceiling vent and offered some relief. A quick wash in the river had helped cut the grime of two weeks living in the woods, but he’d gotten dirty and sweaty again fixing the temperamental high-end stove.

  The calm before patrons showed up never failed to incite a bittersweet sadness for the restaurant’s namesake, his grandmother Ada Wilde. Portraits and quotes from her favorite Southern writers covered the walls. He let his eyes drift shut, memories of Ada scrolling.

  Sunlight flashed. The heavy wooden front door clanged. He slit his eyes open. A woman stood in the doorway, pulling off big round sunglasses and looking around.

  His gaze drifted down her body. A floaty, sleeveless, pale-pink top and a tight gray pencil skirt. Long, gorgeous legs teetered in black heels, but she was too skinny and severe for his taste. Although, who was he kidding, he’d be up for just about anything.

  He’d been going through a dry spell. No, an extreme drought. Since opening Adaline’s, he didn’t have the time for a relationship, and one-night stands required too much energy. He had become responsible and boring. Ada would be so proud.

  The woman approached the bar, her walk swishy and sexy as hell. His gaze was glued to her legs the whole time. They really were outstanding. She cleared her throat, and his gaze shot up. He’d obviously been in the woods for too long. Heat burned up the back of his neck.

  Diamond studs played peekaboo in dark brownish-red hair hanging like silk curtains to her chin; her bangs cut a straight line above finely arched eyebrows. She looked . . . expensive.

  “Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for the owner of this establishment.”

  He’d half-expected a Russian accent and for her name to be Natasha. Her sweet, throaty drawl had him blinking a few times in silence and staring like the village idiot.

  A hitch snagged her words, and she spoke slowly as if he really were the village idiot. “Is his office in the back? Perhaps, I’ll check—” She took a step backward and to the side, glancing toward the swinging kitchen door.

  “He’s not back there.” Logan ran a hand down his beard and pulled at his chin hair.

  “How do you know?”

  “Just do.

  The woman tucked a piece of hair behind an ear, the curled tip a point against the fair skin of her jaw. A smattering of freckles formed faint constellations over the bridge of her nose. She shifted on her heels, and his gaze darted down again. Fucking gorgeous.

  “Will he be in this evening for dinner hours? I need to speak with him.”

  His guard went up. He’d attracted a few women lately who had read the Southern Living article and decided it was open season on single restaurateurs. The writer they’d sent had been young, pretty, flirtatious. He’d dialed back the charm and kept everything professional. Hadn’t helped. A fair amount of embarrassment at her fawning descriptions of him had tempered the excitement at getting free advertising in a major publication. Logan had never imagined chef groupies existed, but all kinds of weird inhabited the world.

  “About a job?” he asked.

  The tiniest of smiles flared, lighting the stoniness of her demeanor with a very non-Natasha-like charm. “Yes, about a job.”

  “He’s not hiring.”

  “And how would you know? Are you the manager?” It was her turn to examine him from head to toe. If her dismissive sniff was any indication, his work boots, grease-lined jeans with a rip at one knee, and formerly white T-shirt didn’t impress.

  “I’m . . . the handyman.” Not a complete lie. He was very handy. He grinned, and a furrow appeared right between her eyes.

  “I’d like to leave Mr. Wilde a message.” She rummaged around in a compact black tote hanging from her shoulder, muttering the word “pen” half a dozen times.

  “He’ll be in by”—Logan checked his watch—“five, if you want to come back.”

  “Are you certain? He hasn’t returned my calls.”

  And with good reason. His phone was buried somewhere in the mud of the Tuckalachee River. The call about the defunct stove had come through Dalt’s phone. “Positive. Why don’t you leave your name and number with me?”

  She stared straight into his eyes as if gauging his intentions, and harrumphed. “I’ll be back to speak with him.”

  She ga
thered her black leather bag close and walked out, the brief flash of Alabama sunlight blinding him for an instant.

  2

  What backwoods mountain had that dude been living on? He looked about a month overdue for a shower. It was a pity too, because under the grime he wasn’t an ogre. And he had his teeth. In fact, contrary to the stereotypes, they were straight and white, but maybe it was an illusion of the dim bar and his dark, unkempt beard.

  Jessica checked her watch. What the heck was she supposed to do in this mosquito-sized town for until dinner? She refused to hang out at the Walmart. The heat exacerbated the headache that had been brewing since Birmingham.

  The AC in her car had gone on the fritz, going in and out and not keeping things as chill as she liked. She loved her Audi, bought with her own money right out of business school. Sleek, black, expensive—at least it would have been if she hadn’t found a deal on the used car. Unlike Caroline, Jessica had refused her father’s generous gifts of cars and house down payments, knowing his offers came at a steep price. Her sister had gained a mansion and a Mercedes but had given up any pretense of independence.

  Although, she couldn’t criticize, considering she was in podunk Alabama following her father’s orders like a brain-washed minion. Cars and houses hadn’t tempted Jessica, so her father had just found another lever to ensure her compliance.

  She tossed her bag on the passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel, the black leather, which looked buttery soft, cooking her like a foil wrapped potato. The sweat trickling down the back of her neck would probably sizzle on the seat. She started the car, and an anemic burst of cool air chugged out of the vent. She turned the AC to max, but the air seemed to get warmer.

  She reversed out of the parking spot, but before she could shift into drive, the temperature gauge blinked red and the car sputtered off. She turned the key over and back, pumping the gas pedal a few times. Nothing. An unwelcome helplessness set her knees into a tremble. She tried again. The battery clicked, but the engine didn’t crank.

  Her mind swirled until the tsking, logical side of her brain gained control. With the advent of smartphones, help was only a few taps away. She would call AAA. They would send a truck and tow her car to the nearest garage. Then she could call a taxi. Simple. She sighed. As long as she had a plan, she could control the panic tramping around her belly.

  The car turned suffocating, the hot air constricting her lungs. She cracked the driver’s door, but the slight breeze coming off the tarry parking lot didn’t provide much relief. She riffled through her bag and came up with her phone. A tiny message in the corner of her screen sent ripples of unease through her stomach. No Service.

  Were these people Quakers or something? No cell phone service? How did they communicate? Smoke signals? Her mouth was as dry as a cottonball. Next logical step would be to head back inside and plead for help. A shadow crossed her body the same time a hard rap on the car roof made her bobble the phone to the floorboard.

  “Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to startle you. Are you having car problems?” Mountain Man rested his forearms over the top of her door. His wrists were thick, his hands huge. The black under his fingernails was a workingman’s polish, and fresh red scratches zagged over the back of his hands. As he repositioned the frayed blue and white baseball cap shadowing his eyes, the muscles along his forearm jumped. Dark brown hair flipped into almost curls around the edges.

  The sunlight emphasized the thinness of his cotton shirt, one shoulder seam pulling apart across the broad expanse of his torso. His masculinity wove around her, at once disconcerting, yet easing her illogical, escalating panic.

  “My car won’t start.” God, she hated the little-girl, tinny sound of her voice. She cleared her throat and tried again, forcing a practiced steel into her words. “It’s been acting funny since I hit Birmingham.”

  Mountain Man assessed the parking space she’d pulled out of and pushed the brim of his hat up a couple of inches with his forefinger. He squatted, and she slid out of the car to watch. He swiped his fingers through a puddle on the blacktop and rubbed. Then he smelled his fingers. He turned toward her, still in a squat. “Looks like a coolant leak. Your AC been working?”

  “Not well. And, my temperature gauge flashed red just before the engine died.”

  “Pop the hood, and let me take a gander.”

  She pulled the lever on the dashboard and joined him at the front of the car “Are you a mechanic?”

  “I’m a handyman, remember?” Again, he graced her with a panty-melting grin before leaning over the engine compartment to jiggle hoses.

  His scent filtered through the humidity to her. Not the stench of unwashed male she expected. Underlying the clean sweat and grease was a mystery that hooked her closer, until she was leaning over the hood too, close to his shoulder. The one with the ripping seam. She swallowed, her throat tight as if a noose was drawing closed. Usually, panic accompanied the feeling, but not this time. This time a covey of birds beat their wings in her stomach in a bid for freedom.

  He turned toward her, one hand on the edge of her raised hood. His eyes were brown, but not a plain brown or even a deep, intensive one, but an electric brown with sparks of gold. They danced over her face. His voice came out gruff, almost a whisper. “I understand your problem.”

  She massaged the taut cords of her neck. For a heartbeat, she wondered if he referred to her or her car. Hope lilted her question. “You do?”

  “Yep. One of your hoses cracked. Probably due to the heat.”

  She swayed on her heels and dropped her face, pretending to study the hulk of metal and plastic under her hood. No matter her degrees and successes, sometimes she was a complete and total idiot. Like now. This redneck mountain man could never understand her. Her hair swished forward, strands sticking to her cheeks, hiding her face. “Can you fix it?”

  He left her standing over the puzzle of her engine. He hadn’t even offered to call a tow truck. She felt oddly abandoned.

  He stopped at an old blue and white Ford pickup parked in the shadow of a huge oak tree. Instead of climbing in and driving off with a grin and a wave, he flipped open a white, metal utility box in the truck bed. Clanging metal accompanied his search. He made a satisfied exclamation before trotting back toward her. “Duct tape. I always keep a roll handy. You mind hanging on to my hat?”

  Without giving her a chance to answer, he pushed the ball cap into her hands, dropped to lay on the ground, and scooched under her car. With his knees bent, his legs stuck out from under the bumper.

  An embroidered flying falcon on the side of his cap had lost half of its thread, and she picked at the fraying brim. She shuffled her feet apart and flapped her blouse to catch the slight breeze ruffling her hair. The occasional rip of tape punctuated the unidentifiable song he hummed.

  His shimmy reversed itself, and he emerged with new brown stains on the front of his shirt and a glossy smear along his cheekbone. He rubbed his fingers along the edge of his shirt dirtying it further, and ran the back of his wrist over his forehead, wiping away a rivulet of sweat.

  “You’ve got some grease on your cheek.” She pointed like a three-year-old.

  He brought the edge of his T-shirt to his face and scrubbed it clean. At least she assumed that’s what he was doing, because she couldn’t tear her gaze away from his torso.

  Michael, the boyfriend she’d broken up with six months earlier, had kept his chest waxed to show off the contours he worked hard for in the gym. Mountain Man did not wax. Curly brownish hair trailed from his partially revealed pecs straight into the waistband of the gray boxer briefs peeking over the waistband of his jeans. And, for all the time her ex-boyfriend had put in at the gym, he had never built the solid, thick muscles of the man standing close enough to touch.

  Mountain Man didn’t lift weights for an hour then push papers around a desk for the rest of the day. Maybe he chopped wood or moved bales of hay or broke horses. She’d watched a documentary on real-life working
cowboys one sleepless night and had unusually erotic-laced dreams when she’d finally drifted off.

  “Do you ride a horse?” Wait a holy-rolling second . . . had she said that aloud?

  His shirt dropped, breaking the trancelike state induced by his abs. “A horse? No, I mostly get around in a truck.” His laughter rumbled through her, but instead of embarrassing her, she choked off a teenaged giggle. What was wrong with her?

  “My schedule’s crazy,” he added. “I’d love a dog, but I’m gone too much.”

  Did that mean no wife or live-in girlfriend? What did it matter? She was about to drive off and never see him again. “Thanks for fixing my car, I guess I’ll be—”

  “Hold up, now.” His ringless left hand came up between them. Relief shot through her body. “It ain’t fixed. It’s patched. And I can’t say for sure that the overheating hasn’t caused more serious damage. Where’re you staying?”

  “I’ve got a hotel reservation in Tuscaloosa. It’s the . . .” She grabbed her phone from the front seat to pull up the details from her email. She muttered a curse and tossed the phone back in her purse.

  “No service? Only one carrier operates in Falcon.” He bared his teeth and shook his head. “I can’t, in good conscience, let you drive to Tuscaloosa, especially with no phone service.”

  “I wouldn’t make it?”

  “You might. Then again, you might overheat and blow your entire engine block. It’s all two-lane roads and not much but fields between here and there. How long is your business in Falcon going to take?”

  She ran her fingertips under her bangs to press at the center of her forehead. The throb had roared back with a vengeance. “I was counting on no more than a week. Hopefully less.”

  Mountain Man scrubbed at the patch of hair sprouting below his bottom lip. His mouth was pinched tight, and he seemed to be assessing her anew.

  “A friend of mine is opening a bed and breakfast soon. There’s no reason to be driving back and forth between Falcon and Tuscaloosa. You can be her first customer, have the place to yourself. It’s walking distance to downtown. Shopping, food, entertainment.” His lips quirked. “Well, entertainment might be overstating things a bit, but the first football game is only a couple of weeks away. It’s quite the spectacle. Not to be missed. What do you say?”