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Under the Autumn Sky
Liz Talley


College football coach Abram Dufrene won't risk destroying his career for anything. He's sacrificed too much to see his hard work and integrity go down in flames. So when an innocent but passionate encounter with a sexy stranger forces him to choose between business and pleasure, the decision should be simple.Too bad nothing about Louise "Lou" Boyd is simple. She's had him hooked since the second he met her. But she's the guardian of the athlete he's recruiting, which puts her off-limits. With all eyes on them, it's only right to keep his distance from Lou. Yet, for the first time, doing the "right" thing feels too wrong….







The rules of the game are changing

College football coach Abram Dufrene won’t risk destroying his career for anything. He’s sacrificed too much to see his hard work and integrity go down in flames. So when an innocent but passionate encounter with a sexy stranger forces him to choose between business and pleasure, the decision should be simple.

Too bad nothing about Louise “Lou” Boyd is simple. She’s had him hooked since the second he met her. But she’s the guardian of the athlete he’s recruiting, which puts her off-limits. With all eyes on them, it’s only right to keep his distance from Lou. Yet, for the first time, doing the “right” thing feels too wrong….


“I didn’t know you were Waylon’s guardian.”

Abram stared at her. “If you think about it, you’ll see I was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Don’t tell me what to think,” Lou said, somewhat peevishly. This was the worst possible situation. She’d finally met someone she could really like and he was completely off-limits.

“It’s policy at the college not to sweep anything under the rug.” He propped his hands on his hips. “I’ll give full disclosure, though it’s likely they will be in touch with you. Just tell them the truth.”

No way would she reveal how well they got to know each other. She didn’t think Abram would be willing to do so either. They met, they danced once and they shared a drink. Period. End of story.

Both she and the too-delicious-to-have-even-contemplated-in-the-first-place coach had screwed up…and the innocent might end up suffering because she wanted to play Cinderella.

Why had she even entertained a different ending for herself last night?

Hadn’t she learned nothing in life was easy?


Dear Reader,

As a Southern girl I learned early that if you can’t ignore ’em, you join them. The them referred to here are college football fans, and all across the nation on Saturdays you will find them throwing up tents, wearing their jerseys and firing up generators. In my neck of the woods, college football is a religion. You must worship at the purple-and-gold altar, make a burnt offering and drink the proverbial, ahem, beer. If you’re not with us…you’re tiger bait. Plain and simple. I cannot describe Saturday night in Tiger Stadium—the sheer intensity of over 90,000 fans under the influence of gumbo, bourbon and dreams of grandeur. It’s definitely something to see.

So when the idea of writing about a recruiting scandal struck me, I knew the best place to set the book. Of course, the college in this book is not Louisiana State University and there are no Bonnet Creek Owls. But if you dig deep enough, you’ll see the foundation for the story.

Want to see several thousand grown men gathered around the TV as if it’s the finale of The Bachelor? Tune in to ESPN on the first Tuesday of February—you may even see tears. College football is big business, and National Signing Day is the sorority rush of the sport and the perfect place to launch a story about want, desire and love under the lights.

Hope you enjoy Lou and Abram’s journey to love. And Geaux, Tigers!

Happy reading,

Liz Talley

PS—I love to hear from readers. You can reach me through my website, www.LizTalleyBooks.com (http://www.LizTalleyBooks.com).




Under the Autumn Sky

Liz Talley







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

From devouring the Harlequin Superromance novels on the shelf of her aunt’s used bookstore to swiping her grandmother’s medical romances, Liz Talley has always loved a good romance. So it was no surprise to anyone when she started writing a book one day while her infant napped. She soon found writing more exciting than scrubbing hardened cereal off the love seat. Underneath Liz’s baby-food-stained clothes, a dream stirred. She followed that dream, and after a foray into historical romance and a Golden Heart final, she started her first contemporary romance on the same day she met her editor. Coincidence? She prefers to call it fate.

Currently Liz lives in north Louisiana with her high-school sweetheart, two beautiful children and a passel of animals. Liz loves watching her boys play baseball, shopping for bargains and going out for lunch. When not writing contemporary romances for the Harlequin Superromance line, she can be found doing laundry, feeding kids or playing on Facebook.


This book is dedicated to the fans of college football everywhere for wearing the colors and loving the sport.

Special thanks go to Louisiana State University coach Sam Nader and his son Breaux for teaching me about the fascinating process of recruiting; to Coach Jerry Byrd for suffering my questions; and to my boys, Jake and Gabe, who make me proud every day.


Contents

Chapter One (#u75418cfb-2c86-5ee8-bc91-dc8c741c7c23)

Chapter Two (#ude0995ac-0b26-5cec-b5ac-c9523ad0c119)

Chapter Three (#u9ff5d432-4562-56aa-b334-d725ee7893aa)

Chapter Four (#u4291ad07-06d0-5fbb-adbf-48c3800540b9)

Chapter Five (#u21427b08-5d45-551b-81a5-0e01700d5b8a)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

April, 2011

ABRAM DUFRENE HADN’T wanted to cover Daryll Moreland’s recruiting area any more than he wanted to lick a donkey’s butt, but there was no choice in the matter. Louisiana University’s head football coach Leonard Holt’s word was law, so Abram sucked it up, grabbed a coffee and hit the road in his quest for the next best wide-out or bone-cruncher for the Panthers.

Pulling Abram from his old recruiting area covering Mississippi through Florida didn’t bother Coach Holt. He didn’t have a mother living west of Baton Rouge in the new recruiting area, did he? No, his mother was far, far away in his native state of Ohio. Didn’t Holt know Abram couldn’t pass his birthplace of Beau Soleil and not stop in? His mother had eyes and ears all over the state of Louisiana. Somehow she’d know and the guilt trip would start. Abram had never been able to get away with anything. His mother always found out.

Not that he was a momma’s boy or anything.

No, quite the opposite, but Picou Dufrene was like the hurricanes that often ravage the Louisiana coastline—she hit with a fury leaving a person standing among rubble blinking up at the sparkling sun wondering what the hell had happened. She killed with a smile…and an assload of guilt.

So he’d stopped by the home place, a near-to-crumbling Greek revival plantation several miles from I-10 between Lafayette and Baton Rouge, gulped down chicory coffee and some of the housekeeper Lucille’s buttermilk pie, and listened to his mother prattle about his brothers—and his sister, who’d recently been reconciled to the family after having spent years presumed dead. Sally was always part of the conversation.

“You are coming to my birthday dinner on Friday?” his mother had asked when they stepped out onto the veranda. It wasn’t a question. It was a reminder.

“Of course. I should be there.”

Picou’s blue eyes narrowed even as she smiled. Which was hard to do, but the woman mastered challenges. “Should?”

“Will,” he said, shuffling his travel schedule in his mind. He’d totally forgotten her 60th-ish birthday. His future sister-in-law, Annie, had sent him an email reminder last week, but he’d skimmed over it. Lots more in his inbox that needed attention.

“That’s my sweet Abram,” his mother said, giving him a kiss on the cheek goodbye, making him feel like he was a seven-year-old child. How did mothers always do that?

The side trip to Beau Soleil had put him off schedule by a good two hours, but as he neared the small town harboring the state’s best prospect at tight end, Abram’s focus shifted to his job. He was confident he could land this kid.

Yawning, Abram studied the straight dark highway ahead of him before switching off the heat and turning up Better than Ezra on the radio.

He was dog-tired.

The spring game had revealed the need to pad the roster at tight end, and as much as he needed rest from the marathon recruiting season and the grueling spring practice schedule, he knew he had work to do. Always work to do when one coached a top-tiered Division I football team. Even on vacation, he worked.

But it was what he wanted.

What he’d wanted since the day he’d hung up his own cleats—to coach at his alma mater.

So he shut up and put up, and did whatever it took to do his job and do it well. He was the youngest position coach on the University of Louisiana, Baton Rouge, staff and he was still hungry.

Which was why he was currently headed up Interstate 49 toward the small town of Bonnet Creek, a dot on the map, but current home of Waylon Boyd. Boyd was a big drink of water at six foot five inches, two hundred thirty-five pounds. Good hands, nice physicality and covered major ground on his runs. He reminded Abram of Jeremy Witten, so he’d kept his eye on Waylon ever since he’d seen tape on him last October.

When the boy had shown up for Junior Day on the ULBR campus, Abram had taken a special interest in the prospect. A nice 4.63 on the 40-yard dash combined with marked improvement on his quickness, meant Abram wanted Waylon on the Panthers’ roster come 2012. Tomorrow began the period in which he could make his first call to Waylon, but he never discounted the importance of contact with a recruit’s head coach. Some things were better done in person.

The exit to Ville Platte materialized in the vacant landscape, and Abram, stuck on the left of an eighteen-wheeler, blew by it.

Damn it.

He looked at the empty water bottle in the cup holder and groaned. Maybe he shouldn’t have drunk the entire thing on top of the coffee. He ignored his full bladder and charged forth. He’d take the next exit for Chicot State Park and head back toward Ville Platte, where he had a room for the night since there was no motel in Bonnet Creek. Sleepy Town Inn. He’d stayed in worse, he supposed, but he wasn’t looking forward to a lumpy bed and King of the Hill reruns. Maybe he could find a place to wet his whistle close by so he could wind down.

And like a wish bestowed, a large rambling honky-tonk appeared ahead of him on the right.

Rendezvous.

Normally he wasn’t spontaneous, but he had to take a leak. And a beer would help him sleep. He jerked the steering wheel, sending his big F250 into the gravel lot off the cedar-clad, tin-roofed building, taking the last spot.

Music spilled out into the cool air, raucous and inviting. This wasn’t a simple bar and grill where one sat alone watching an NBA game while nursing a longneck. No, this sounded like Ladies’ Night at a college bar. He glanced around. The lot was full for a Wednesday, filled with big trucks like his, many with camouflage accessories and most with ULBR license plate holders and decals.

Abram looked down at his purple sweater vest with the ULBR logo over the breast.

No freaking way.

He’d be swarmed by the ULBR faithful as soon as they saw the businesslike athletic department moniker on the breast of the sweater. They’d know he was part of the program, and after a less than impressive spring game shown on ESPNU, he’d not be able to find any anonymity in the out-of-the-way dive.

He pulled the sweater vest over his head, leaving his white oxford button-down, thankfully clean of logos. He squinted at himself in the rearview mirror and smoothed the light brown hair that stuck up from the static in the sweater. Not bad.

He climbed out, sliding his keys in the front pocket of his jeans and his wallet in the back.

One beer, then he’d be off to Ville Platte.

No harm in that.

* * *

LOU BOYD TRIPPED over a stone surrounding the sign proclaiming Rendezvous as Home of the Legendary Cooter Gilbeau, which she thought was quite a reach since Cooter had only been a percussionist for the Charlie Daniels Band for one year. But whatever. She guessed old Cooter was proud of his cowbell days. She frowned down at the red stilettos her friend insisted she borrow. Hell of a shoe to wear when walking through a loose-gravel parking lot.

“Hurry up, Louise,” Mary Belle Prudhomme called, swishing toward the broad steps of the honky-tonk in her own too-tight jeans and a skimpy top. “I told Bear I’d be here over an hour ago. He’s probably got some little slut in his lap already.”

“You mean other than you?” Brittney Wade, the bookkeeper for Forcet Construction drawled, stopping to wait on Lou. The more practical Brittney had planned the evening and volunteered to be the designated driver, which was good considering Lou felt woozy from the mojitos the girls had made for Lou’s twenty-seventh birthday gala. Lou celebrated the small victory in Mary Belle letting her take off the silly tiara the woman had bought her. The shoes were bad enough.

Mary Belle paused to flip Brittney off. Brit laughed. “Kidding. Just kidding.”

Lou made it up the wooden plank steps, blinking at the flashing beer signs and advertisements for bands playing the honky-tonk soon. She didn’t think this was such a good idea. Rendezvous wasn’t the kind of place she belonged in…or at least hadn’t for a long time. “It’s been fun already, girls. We don’t have to stay out all night. We have work tomorrow and Waylon and Lori have school tomorrow and—”

“Not another word,” Brenda Pierpont warned with one finger. “You’re twenty-seven years old and never go out. This is our treat. Don’t ruin it for us, ’kay?”

Lou gave the older woman who ran the construction office a pained smile.

“Okay, then,” Brenda said, smoothing her orangey hair back and the shirt over her poochy belly. Brenda had been the one who insisted Lou wear makeup tonight and had indulged her own desire to be the host of What Not to Wear by outfitting Lou in her daughter Jillian’s wardrobe, namely a too-tight T-shirt that was low-cut and blinged-out with colored sequins. Lou looked like a rainbow had vomited on her.

Lou tackled the last step, praying she’d mastered walking in the shoes that were already rubbing blisters. This was why she loved her steel-toed work boots. But she could do this. For her friends’ sake.

Mary Belle turned and swept her with her bright eyes. “You don’t look like Lou Boyd. No one is going to even recognize you. Get ready, baby, men are about to be on you like flies on cow shit.”

Lou winced. She’d let them kidnap her, and truss her up with tight clothes, makeup and dangly earrings—all with the ultimate intent of taking her to Rendezvous for Ladies’ Night to celebrate her birthday.

In all honesty, Lou would have rather eaten chocolate pudding and watched some Netflix, but her coworkers had gone to such trouble and seemed almost giddy about taking her out for fun. “I’m not looking for a man, Mary. Well, not for a while anyway. I can’t really date with two kids to—”

“Um, they’re in high school now, Lou. And they’re not your kids. You’re entitled to a life, so stop being a martyr. No one likes a martyr,” Brit said, jerking her head toward the entrance to the honky-tonk. “So get your ass in gear, Louise.”

Trapped. And she didn’t appreciate being criticized just because taking care of two teenagers didn’t lend itself to a carefree lifestyle. After all, she had to get her brother up for a Fellowship of Christian Athletes meeting tomorrow, and her day at the construction company started at 7:00 a.m. She had a family to tend to. No matter what Brit said.

There was reality and then there was Lou’s reality. The reality of no life. No love. Oh, sure, she’d tried. She’d dated, but no matter. No man wanted a woman with two kids to raise—even if they were her brother and sister.

Lou had learned long ago to wish differently didn’t do one damn bit of good. She wasn’t a martyr—just doing what had to be done by taking care of Waylon and Lori the only way she knew how. Fairness wasn’t up for consideration.

But she was here, shellacked with makeup and too tipsy to drive herself home. Might as well try to act her age. Which was younger than she felt. At the very least, she’d have a drink, watch Mary Belle act a fool over Bear Rodrigue, and then proclaim a headache. She could be home before—she looked at her watch—eleven o’clock easy.

Oh, come on, Lou. Let go a little. Flirt with being more than what you are for just one night.

Point made, voice in her head. “Okay. Ass in gear.”

Brenda pulled open the door to the bar. “In the words of Shania Twain, ‘let’s go, girls.’”

Lou smiled back. “Sure. No harm in that.”

* * *

ABRAM WATCHED THE BAND from his perch at the end of the bar. They were good, especially the drummer. Probably barely eighteen, but she could lay a lick.

The place rocked with rowdy rednecks and coonasses. He wasn’t much of a partier—tended to be a nose to grindstone sort—but he enjoyed watching others pass a good time. It was something easy to find in Louisiana. From Shreveport to New Orleans and every town in between, the natives liked a reason to get together and indulge in fun.

The patrons at Rendezvous were no exception. The dance floor was large, surrounded by tables with two bars anchoring each side of the stage. He’d chosen the bar closest to the bathrooms only because it was the first stool he’d spied after exiting the john. He nursed the icy Blue Moon and pretended to be an anthropologist studying the local wildlife.

His eyes moved over the crowd as they ebbed and flowed onto the dance floor. Several women tried catching his eye, but he looked past them, refusing to open himself to any conversation. Mostly, everyone left him alone, only occasionally eyeballing him curiously, before going about the business of getting drunk or getting lucky.

The door opened and four women entered.

The last one made him swallow. Hard.

Damn, she was gorgeous with straight blond hair, high full breasts and long, long legs. He watched as she crowded into the woman in front of her, who by his estimate was forty pounds too heavy to be wearing the clothes she wore. He watched the blonde—and so did almost every other man in the room.

If this were the ball, then Cinderella had just walked in.

He lifted his beer and took the last swig. He’d told himself he would leave when the bottle was empty. He glanced over at the bartender who’d raised himself onto the balls of his boots to get a look at the beauty. He raised his eyebrows and whistled in admiration.

“Can I get another one over here?” Abram called.

So much for an early night.

The bartender flung a towel over his shoulder. “Same?”

“Why not,” Abram said, moving his gaze back to the woman. He couldn’t find her, mostly because several rowdy-looking rednecks had blocked his view. Followed by a few more. Then a few more.

The bartender used a church key, cracking open the beer with a practiced motion, and setting it on the bar. “Wanna tab?”

Abram shook his head and placed a ten on the bar. “This will be my last. Keep the change.”

The man nodded his thanks. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?”

So he’d seen him notice Cinderella. Figured. Bartenders didn’t miss a thing. “Yeah. Is she your local beauty queen?”

“Ain’t never seen her in my life. Must be a stranger. Like you.”

There was a subtle question in the statement. An invitation to state his business. He ignored it. “Maybe I’ll buy her a drink.”

“Better get in line.”

The bartender went back to work, mostly because money was being waggled at him. Lots of thirsty customers at Rendezvous. And Abram went back to watching the beauty dodge the advances of the men surrounding her and her friends. She looked like a dog he’d once seen trapped by animal control. Caught and not happy about it.

“I haven’t seen you here before.” The voice came from his left. He turned to find one of the women who’d walked in with Cinderella. She looked kind of pissy. Definitely mad.

“First timer,” he said, toasting her with the fresh beer. “Can I buy you one?”

Her gaze was fastened on someone behind him. He turned and saw the man she was trying to burn a hole through with her poisonous eyes. He stood in line for Cinderella. She looked back at Abram. “Well, honey, you’re the best-looking man in this place. Think I’m gonna turn that down?”

He smiled.

She smiled in return, but it didn’t reach her blue eyes.

“I’m Mary,” she said, elbowing the man next to him off his stool. “Move, Eddie. Can’t you see I’m a lady and I need to sit down?”

“That’s stretchin’ it by a mile,” the man said, but he grinned fondly at the woman who settled her rather plump butt on the bar stool. “How’s it going, Mary Belle?”

“It’s goin’,” she said, motioning the bartender over. “Hey, Butch, get me an Abita amber and put it on this fellow’s tab.”

Butch glanced over. “He ain’t gotta tab.”

She looked at Abram, who pulled out his wallet. “So whatcha doing here? We don’t get too many visitors. You with Wildlife and Fisheries? Over at Chicot?”

“Nah,” he said, sliding a bill toward the bartender. “Just traveling through.”

“Oh.” She turned to look at her friend and her bevy of admirers, including the Wrangler-clad guy she’d shot daggers at earlier. “Well, then you’re perfect to do me a little favor, aren’t you?”

Alarm bells clanged. He started shaking his head.

She grabbed the elbow of his shirt. “It’s easy as long as you aren’t married. You ain’t married, are you? I didn’t see a ring, but some guys don’t wear ’em, you know.”

“I’m not married, but I’m about to head out.”

“Won’t take long. I just need you to pretend to be my friend’s date.”

“Date?”

“Yeah, Louise over there. I didn’t realize the ruckus she’d cause. She’s pretty.”

That was an understatement. The woman she pointed at wasn’t merely pretty. She was sensationally gorgeous. “So I see.”

“You and every other man. It’s her birthday and I wanted her to come out with us and have a little fun, you know? But damn ol’ Bear Rodrigue don’t even know I’m in the room. He’s standing over there by her like a rutting buck.” She turned her blue eyes back to him. “And he’s supposed to be ruttin’ me.”

He didn’t know why or how this woman had found him in the sea of people stomping around Rendezvous, but she had. With a plan in mind.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“Of course it is. You think she wants all those dumbass men tripping over themselves like that? She is clearly drowning in ’em. All you have to do is pretend to be her date. I’ll introduce you as my cousin. Come on.”

She pulled on his arm. Insistently.

He shook his head. “I’ve got to be going.”

She looked down at her watch. “Give me thirty minutes to help a stranger out. What’s your name?”

“Abram.” He sighed. Well, he’d wanted to buy Cinderella a drink, hadn’t he? This would be his chance. Plus, poor Mary Belle needed someone to help her, too. He rose, picking up his fresh beer, and allowed the crazy woman to pull him toward the center of Rendezvous’ universe for the moment.

Cinderella had pasted a fake smile on her gorgeous mouth. She nodded and darted desperate glances at her two remaining friends. Yeah, she needed some help.

He’d pretend to be her date for the next half hour.

Surely there was no harm in that.


CHAPTER TWO

LOU PEERED OVER the shoulder of Sid Lattier, which was easy to do since he barely came to her nose thanks to the four-inch heels she balanced in. She needed to be rescued and didn’t see the one person who could move these men out of her way. Mary Belle had disappeared into the thick of the crowd after seeing her man ogling Lou’s breasts.

Mary was pissed. Oh, she wasn’t mad at Lou, but Bear might as well stretch out his palms because his ass was about to be handed to him. Mary Belle didn’t shoot marbles.

“Excuse me, guys,” Lou said, stepping past a man she vaguely recalled spraying her house for bugs once. Or was he the guy who cleaned their ancient chimney? She wasn’t sure, but she didn’t plan to find out. “Hey, Brit, find a table?”

“You can sit with us,” Lloyd Day said, jabbing a thick finger at a tiny table where two guys with huge beer bellies ate peanuts out of a bowl. “Plenty of room.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Day. I’m here with my girlfriends.”

Brenda waved her toward a table in the back where Brit had dropped her purse. Lou tried to shuffle through the men, but they didn’t want to move. She truly felt like she was in some crazy movie. She knew these guys. She’d worked with half of them and they’d never treated her this way before. Her grandmother’s words came back to her. A little powder, a little paint, will make you what you ain’t.

“You look mighty good tonight, Lou,” Bear drawled, his pretty hazel eyes moving over her body.

“Thanks, Bear. That means a lot coming from Mary Belle’s boyfriend.” Lou frowned at him as he tried to give her a seductive smile. Lord, help him. It wasn’t going to work. Was he dumb as a brick? Wait, she shouldn’t answer that. She’d gone to high school with him and knew the answer.

“Boyfriend? I don’t know if I’d go as far to—”

“Here he is!” Mary Belle interrupted, dragging a man behind her. As if Lou needed another one. “He was waiting at the bar just like I told him to.”

Eight pairs of eyes turned toward the man standing behind Mary Belle.

He was easily six foot two or three with light brown hair cut military short. His eyes were a bemused soft green and his jaw was nice and lean. He moved with a loose-limbed elegance, like her brother. Like an athlete. His white oxford shirt was open at the throat and rolled up at the sleeves, giving him a sort of Abercrombie-ish look. Breezy and totally gorgeous.

“Who was where?” Bear asked, stiffening like an old dog guarding a bone.

“My cousin Abram. He’s Louise’s date tonight, so all you fellas can just back it on up now. She’s taken for the evening.”

“Date?” Lou chirped, looking around for Brenda as if the older woman could save her. She couldn’t have been party to setting Lou up on a blind date, could she? That would be, well, plain mean.

“What cousin is this?” Bear demanded, crossing his arms across his broad chest and once-overing the guy Mary Belle clutched.

“From Baton Rouge. On her daddy’s side,” the stranger said, nodding at Mary Belle. “She sometimes forgets about us over there.”

Mary Belle punched his arm. “Oh, you know we love you guys. See? Here’s Louise. Didn’t I tell you she’s the prettiest thing this side of the Mississippi?” She gestured to Lou as if she were a prized heifer.

Lou felt her hackles rise. What in the hell was Mary Belle thinking? “I don’t need—”

“Of course, you do.” The man answered for her, sliding his hand to her elbow and pulling her to his side. He leaned down, dropping his voice into her ear. She felt a bit shivery when the warmth of his breath caressed her neck. “I’ve driven all this way to meet you, Cinderella. Mary Belle said you’d be perfect for me and we should never argue with Mary Belle. At least let me buy you a drink.”

His touch was firm. And hot on her skin. She watched as he lifted a hand, Moses-style, and parted the men standing between them and the bar on the far side of the room. They stacked up to either side of them like obedient soldiers. If they had saluted, Lou wouldn’t have been surprised.

Like an idiot, she let him escort her around the perimeter of the dance floor toward the bar.

He pulled out a stool and gestured. She folded her arms and stood. “I’m not prepared for a date. I don’t know what Mary told you but this is not—”

“—a date,” he finished, a twinkle in his eyes. “I know. Though I must say when I saw you come in I thought the idea had merit, but I can see now you’re a stubborn sort of girl.”

Lou narrowed her eyes. “Stubborn?”

He smiled and sank onto another stool. “I’m guessing, but I’m pretty good at reading people. And it’s not an insult. Stubborn people are some of my favorite people.”

She uncrossed her arms. “Who are you? Mary Belle doesn’t have people in Baton Rouge.”

“That you know of.”

She tilted her head. “That I know of, but she talks about everyone in her family. Great-Aunt Velma who’s still canning tomatoes at age ninety-three. Her niece Kaley who won a twirling competition in Lafayette last week. And she’s never mentioned a hot cousin in Baton Rouge.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“For what?”

“The ‘hot’ compliment.”

Lou hadn’t realized she’d even loaned an adjective to him. Damn the mojitos. They’d made her fuzzy. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

He smirked in a pleasant way. “No take-backs.”

Lou shrugged, uncrossed her arms and used her foot to pull the empty stool to her. She sat down. “Seriously, who are you?”

He glanced at the bartender and lifted a finger. The man immediately appeared in front of him. “I need a drink for the lady.” He turned to her with a lifted eyebrow.

She shouldn’t have anything else. The clock over the bar read 10:15 p.m. She had maybe thirty more minutes before she could talk Brit into taking her back to Bonnet Creek and the patched-up ranch-style house on Turtle Bay Road. “Um, a rum and Coke.”

The bartender nodded and grabbed a highball and a bottle of Captain Morgan.

“My name truly is Abram and I actually live in Baton Rouge. However, I met Mary Belle about ten minutes ago. She slipped me a twenty to be your date.”

“She paid you?”

He laughed and something plinked in her tummy. He had a good laugh. Deep, rich and filling like a good piece of chocolate cake. “No. She twisted my arm a little, but I could see very plainly you needed rescuing.”

“I don’t need rescuing.” She nodded at the bartender and lifted the glass he’d set in front of her to her lips. He’d been generous with the spicy rum and it burned a hot trail down her throat. “I’ve been seeing after myself for quite a while. I certainly don’t need a man doing it for me.”

“Oh, you’re one of those women.” His eyes laughed at her and she saw he liked to tease.

“What women? Just because I don’t need a man—”

“I didn’t realize you were a feminist, but I’ll buy your drink anyway.”

She laughed. “I’m not a feminist. Much. And you’re a tease.”

At this he smiled again. She felt his smile. Like really felt his smile. “I’m not a tease. I like to deliver the goods, lady.”

She sobered. “I’m not taking deliveries.”

But even as she uttered the words, an idea formed in her mind. What if. What if.

He lifted his eyebrows. “Okay, no deliveries, but will you dance?”

She looked out at the dance floor, at the couples joining hands, wrapping arms around waists, swaying to the slower rhythm of a misty-eyed country song and a long-buried urge slammed her. “Sure.”

Lou downed the last of her drink, telling herself she needed liquid courage. She hadn’t been held in a man’s arms on the dance floor since her senior prom, and Ben Braud hadn’t qualified as a man at seventeen. She set the empty glass down and took Abram’s hand.

Ten steps later, he gathered her in his arms, leading her with a smooth glide around the worn boards. For a moment, Lou forgot to breathe. It was that wonderful.

“I don’t remember the last time I danced,” Abram murmured, meeting her gaze with a shadowed one of his own.

“I do,” she said. “April 16, 2003.”

He stiffened. “Seriously? You haven’t danced in almost ten years?”

“Well, I’ve danced around my kitchen. Does that count?”

He shook his head. “I’m feeling the pressure. We’ve got to make this count.”

He spun her away from him then reeled her back in, tugging her closer to his body, before sliding left then right. Her hair fanned out behind her as they whirled around the floor. She felt his hardness against the soft parts of her body, and all her good intentions for getting home early enough to watch the Iron Chef episode she’d DVR’d earlier in the week flew right out the front door of Rendezvous.

Then and there whirling around the dance floor in the arms of a mysterious stranger, Louise Kay Boyd thought about getting a little bit of what she’d not gotten the chance to do after her daddy crashed his plane into the Ouachita National Forest, leaving her and her siblings without parents. Her days of irresponsible, selfish, wanton behavior had disappeared before she’d had the chance to use even one of them. Gone was her freshman year at Ole Miss—cramming for tests, trying pot, drinking too much and going all the way with a Kappa Sig she’d met at a kegger. Gone were the days of little responsibility and lots of spare time. They’d vanished in a whirl of funeral preparation, a looming mortgage payment, and the tear-streaked faces of her six- and seven-year-old brother and sister.

So would it be wrong to grab a little bit back?

The drinks and this sexy stranger had unwittingly unleashed pinings no one could possibly know anything about.

She didn’t know him.

He didn’t know her.

So what would it hurt to pretend to be someone other than who she was?

She was already halfway there, looking like some honky-tonk angel. No, he’d called her Cinderella. A honky-tonk Cinderella. What would it hurt to pretend herself into a fantasy for a few hours? Maybe this was her time to cut loose. Maybe this was her time to lose the monkey riding on her back.

The song ended and the band launched into a rendition of an old Kenny Chesney song mixed with something that sounded like reggae. Abram stopped and looked down at her. “You wanna go again?”

She shook her head. “Let’s get another drink.”

He nodded and curved an arm around her waist, making her feel gooey inside. Like melting caramel. She sank a little bit into him And he tightened his hand on her hip, an almost caress. Her mind said Don’t. Do. This.

But her bratty, whiny, life’s-not-fair voice said, Get jiggy with it, sister. You’ve missed out on too much. You need this.

Abram slid a hand under her elbow as she dropped onto the scarred wooden stool. Definitely a caress. Definitely revving something in her blood she’d locked away ever since her last boyfriend had unhooked her bra and slid one hand down her panties the night before he told her he was seeing someone else. She decided to give whiny, not-fair inner voice some headway.

She smiled at him and felt his reaction. He didn’t flare his nostrils or anything like some of the heroes did in those novels she kept stacked by the bed, but he got the message in her smile.

Abram beckoned the bartender again. And again the man flew to do his bidding. A rum and Coke sat before her not two minutes later joined by an ice water for Abram. “He’s bustin’ his hump for you.”

“I’m tipping him more than twenty percent. I learned long ago to treat bartenders well.” He watched her as she raised the glass to her lips. She returned his measure. He really was too good-looking. Sweet temptation swirled around her and she wondered about what it would be like to taste him. Was he good at kissing? She stared at his lips as he lifted the glass of water and drank. Was drinking supposed to be sexy?

“Hey, how’s the date going?” Mary Belle poked at her back.

“Huh?”

“The date with my cousin here,” Mary Belle said, a devilish twinkle in her eye. Lou swung around. Brenda and Brit stood behind her.

“He’s not your cousin,” Lou said, sipping the cool drink, keeping one eye on her pretend date. “And our date is going fine.”

“Yeah, we saw you dancin’,” Mary Belle said, taking the drink from Lou’s hand and taking a sip. “Brenda thinks she has food poisoning or something, so she needs to go home.”

Lou looked at Brenda who bit her lip. She did look a little pale and sweaty. “Oh, no. Sure. Let’s go.”

Mary Belle pressed her back onto the stool. “No, you stay. I’ll come back for you in an hour or so.”

“You can’t. You’ve been drinking. A lot. So I’m going with Brit.”

“I’m good, I tell ya,” Mary Belle slurred.

“Uh, no. I don’t have a death wish.” Lou slid from the stool.

“I’ll be glad to give her a ride home. I’m fine to drive,” Abram said, winking at her friends. “I am, after all, her date.”

“Perfect!” Mary Belle said, glowing in a liquor-haze.

“That’s not necessary,” Lou said, giving Brenda a concerned look. “You think it was the fajita meat, Brenda? We all had that.”

Brenda made a face. “I don’t know, but I can’t stay. I’m so sorry, baby, ruining your birthday like this. I was going to teach you that new line dance.”

“We’ll live,” Brit said, giving Brenda a smile before looking hard at Abram. “How do we know we can trust you with our friend? You could be a serial killer for all we know.”

“I’m not a serial killer.”

“Like a serial killer would admit to being one.” Brit crossed her arms and studied him. “You’re good-looking, but one of those guys was good-looking, too. Which one? Um, Gacy?”

“Ted Bundy,” Abram said, taking another sip of water. He looked so cool, like nothing would faze him. Like he dealt with all kinds of crazy all day long. Maybe he was a psychiatrist. Or a postal worker.

“See? He knows his serial killers,” Brit said.

“I’m going with y’all,” Lou said, sliding from the stool. Time to end this charade. The dance was fun. The flirting even better. But reality always intruded, no matter what Lou wished. She’d left fairy tales behind long ago. “No worries.”

Mary Belle frowned. “You’re having fun, though. Just because Bear is a shit and Brenda’s faking, shouldn’t affect you. Stay with Abram. He looks like a stand-up guy. Dance. Drink. And don’t think about anything else.”

“I’m not faking,” Brenda huffed, but Lou wasn’t paying attention to any of her friends. Abram’s finger stroked her inner wrist. It caused loopy loops in her stomach.

“Stay with me, Cinderella. I’ll make sure you get home from the ball.” He gave her a Prince Charming grin, kind of lopsided like the one a small boy gives when he’s got a frog behind his back. The one where a girl knows she should run, but can’t possibly pick up her feet. That exact grin.

“Okay, as long as you don’t turn into a pumpkin at midnight.”

And that settled it.

For a few more hours, Lou was going to play the part of maid-turned-princess. And she wasn’t going to have regrets.

She looked back at her friends. “Thanks, friends, for making my birthday so much fun.”

She gave hugs all around and the ladies she worked with at the construction company took their leave. She spun toward her prince for the night. “So, what shall we do first?”

Abram didn’t say anything. Just looked at her for a few moments, his eyes bright but guarded. Then his eyes slid down to the red stilettos she’d hooked on the bottom of the stool. “Those don’t look like glass slippers.”

She pulled one free and wiggled it. “No, and they’re not too comfortable. I think I’d rather go barefoot.”

“A barefoot Cinderella?”

She laughed. “Suits me better.”

“Well, in that case, follow me.”

Lou watched him rise from the stool, all six foot whatever of chiseled, handsome male, and grabbed her half-finished drink. She needed courage because tonight she was Louise, Cinderella, whoever, as long as she was a girl who threw caution to the wind and grabbed fantasy tight to her.

And because she’d made up her mind. Tonight on her twenty-seventh birthday, she would lose her virginity to the handsome stranger with the green eyes and magic touch.


CHAPTER THREE

ABRAM TOOK LOUISE’S hand and led her through the throng of people carousing in the bar. He didn’t fail to miss the curious glances, and occasionally envious stares, tossed their way. He also didn’t fail to hear the voice in his head saying, Don’t do anything stupid, Coach.

It sounded like Coach Holt’s voice and should have stopped him cold, but, for once, he didn’t want to listen to anyone who would talk him out of something more with Louise.

So he’d taken the wrong exit and ended up with a cold beer and a hot woman? How was that anything other than incredibly lucky?

No harm. No foul. No problem.

“Where are we going?” she asked, as he pushed open the front door, whisking them into the cool night air.

“Just somewhere a bit more private.”

She stopped and looked around. “But we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

He glanced around. “I don’t plan well.”

She laughed and his balls tightened. He could suggest going back to the motel, but it didn’t seem right. Too fast. Too obvious. And she didn’t seem like that kind of girl. Even if she had a body made for sin and a face made for salvation.

She pointed behind him. “If I remember correctly, there’s a pier over there. It goes out to the lake. We could take a moonlit walk. That’s date-appropriate, right?”

“It’s perfect.”

They linked hands and started through the high grass toward the nearly hidden pier. Thick, tangled brush grew unchecked and he wondered how she knew the pier sat nearby. He pulled at some vines, clearing the path. The vines gave and he caught his breath. The length of the old wood jutted out onto Lake Chicot, opening to a brilliant star-studded velvet sky.

“It looks like it’s steady enough,” Louise said, testing the wooden stairs with one red high heel.

He placed his weight on the wood. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

Louise bent down, slid her shoes off and set them on the bottom step. Her unpolished toes wiggled as she flexed them. “Ah, feels good. Besides, I don’t want to end up in the water. Too cold tonight.”

For the first time since they’d slipped out of Rendezvous, he noticed the chill in the air. “It is cool. Are you okay with being out here?”

Louise gave him what he thought was an unpracticed siren’s smile. “As long as you keep me warm.”

His body tightened and he grew erect. Hell. It had been a while since he’d been with a woman. His on-again, off-again playmate Alison was currently in off mode and he rarely went to bars looking for temporary comfort. He spent most of his time in the athletic facility surrounded by men. And he never picked up chicks on the road. This was a first for him.

“I can handle that,” he heard himself say. Which surprised him because his body had obviously gone into auto sex pilot.

“Good.”

He curved an arm around her shoulders, dropping his hand to her waist, which he stroked lightly. She sank into him as they climbed the steps leading to a sky of stars. The lake smelled earthy and primal, and the sound of cicadas along with the gentle lap of the water struggled to be heard over the music spilling from the honky-tonk they’d left moments ago. Altogether, Abram couldn’t have designed a more romantic spot.

They didn’t speak. Merely strolled to the end of the pier and stared out at the black water.

Louise glanced up. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

He looked at her. “Yeah, you are.”

She jerked her gaze to him. Her eyes were a stormy blue, deep like the glittering stones his mother sometimes wore. He forgot the name of them, but they were just the color of Louise’s eyes.

He wanted to kiss her.

So he did.

Dipped his head and caught her pretty pink lips.

She sighed before turning into him. He felt her breasts rise as she pressed her soft flesh into his chest. Something struck inside him, flaring, heating. He slid a hand to cup her cheek, noting how smooth her skin was, tilting his head so he could deepen the kiss.

She accommodated him, opening her mouth, giving him a taste of the spicy rum she’d had earlier. She tasted like sheer heaven, sheer molten heaven.

He pulled back and studied her. “You taste good.”

She pressed a hand to her lips. “Do I?”

He pulled her down so they sat on the edge of the pier. She snuggled next to him, dropping her legs so they dangled next to his.

“This is like a fairy tale,” she said, glancing at him. The shadows had pulled back into the night, leaving her face luminescent in the moonlight. Her skin glowed against the ripeness of her lips, against the depths of her eyes. Her blond hair shone like a curtain on either side of her face. He was fairly certain he’d never seen a woman so delicate and lovely. “I feel like a fairy princess. It’s strange.”

“It probably sounds like a cheesy pickup line, but I think this is some crazy fate thing.”

“Fate disguised as magic,” she said.

“I took the wrong exit, you know.”

“What?”

“I missed my turn and took the exit for Chicot State Park thinking to wind my way back to Ville Platte. But I saw Rendezvous and decided to stop for a beer.”

“So fate brought me a Prince Charming. For one night only.”

“For one night only,” he repeated.

She took a breath, almost like a steadying breath. “Can we dance?”

“Out here?”

She nodded. “It’s been so long, and it was so nice to be held in your arms. We can hear the music from Cooter’s. Listen. It’s George Strait.”

He cocked an ear in the direction of the honky-tonk. “So it is.” He held out a hand with a questioning crook of an eyebrow.

She took his hand. Her reflective smile looked slightly sheepish, as if she knew they were acting silly. Okay, they were. But so the hell what?

She melted into his arms and under the night sky, he held her close, drawing in the silky scent of something flowery, and swayed to the faint sounds of the steel guitar. She fit him well, her head tucking under his chin, her breasts hitting him right at his solar plexus, her hips brushing the rising result of being so close.

She hummed along to the music, stroking her hands over his back, as if she knew that drove him crazy, taking him to the place he wanted to go, but was afraid to say aloud.

The song ended but still they swayed, their footfalls barely rising as they shuffled over the worn boards.

“My feet are cold,” she murmured into his shoulder.

He raised his head from where he’d been contemplating the delicateness of her ear. “We should go.”

“No,” she breathed. “I don’t want this to end. Not yet. It’s not midnight.”

He laughed. “Fine, but let’s go back. We can sit in my truck and I’ll put the heater on your toes.”

She shook her head. “I’d rather have cold toes. It’s too perfect here.”

He pulled her down, crossing his legs and settling her into his lap. She curled into him and he wrapped his arms around her. “I was right. You’re stubborn.”

Her laugh was light, but she didn’t respond to his comment. Just tucked her cold toes beneath the hem of her too-long jeans and settled against him. He could feel the beat of her heart, the rise of her breath, and was struck at how absolutely strange this moment was.

Who was this man cradling a woman he’d met an hour ago on an old rickety pier in the cool Louisiana night in a place he neither knew nor intended to find?

Not the man most would recognize as the unyielding Abram Dufrene.

She linked her arms behind his head and looked up at him. “Kiss me again?”

Why had he gone so long with his lips away from hers? Really. Should she have to ask?

He lowered his head and gave her what she asked for.

And did it so well, it left them both breathless.

“You are a good kisser,” she breathed, dotting small kisses on the scruff of his jaw. Each tiny brush of her lips inflamed him.

“Not bad yourself,” he muttered, running his hands down her back to her hip, stroking the curve through the denim. He really wanted to see her breasts. They were likely works of art, rounded, pink-tipped with angel kisses, so he started kissing his way down her neck, knowing his thoughts were absurdly poetic. This was what the night had created in him.

Louise’s head fell back, spreading her golden hair across his thigh. He groaned his approval as he reached her collarbone and tugged the fabric of her shirt aside to reveal a serviceable white bra.

It made him smile.

This woman, as lovely as she was, appreciated comfort. He didn’t need the allure of lace, not when what lay beneath was much more valuable. He tugged the strap, but nothing popped free. He tugged again. Same result.

“Here,” she said, wiggling and reaching behind her back. One grunt and the bra fell loose.

“Thanks,” he said, returning to his pillaging. He slid the neck of the blouse aside and was rewarded with a perfect plump pink-tipped breast. He wasted no time laying claim to it, and noted self-satisfactorily her hiss of pleasure when he closed his mouth over her hard nipple.

For a moment, he simply nuzzled her, sucking her into his mouth while stroking her into a fever. She unfurled her long legs, turned and wrapped them around his waist, allowing her bottom to cradle his erection, giving sweet friction to them both. He groaned and lifted his head from her breast and looked down at her cradled in his arms, cold toes forgotten, eyes closed, breathing like she’d finished a wind sprint.

“We can’t do this,” he said, sinking his head down to rest at the top of her breast.

She jerked, opened her eyes and struggled to lift her head. “Why not?”

“We’re strangers.”

“So?”

He shook his head. He knew most men wouldn’t have stopped, but something prodded him. His upbringing. His common sense. The fact he didn’t have a condom.

“So you’re okay with just one night?” He tried to sound playful. Most women wanted dinner, movies, talk of swapping keys before a willingness to fade away into a memory. He’d never in all his thirty-one years had a one-night stand. Not even in college. “No woman wants that.”

“This woman does.”

* * *

AND SHE MEANT IT.

She’d gone far too long without having the real deal. It was beyond time to uncork the champagne of her sexuality. In fact she was approaching epic spinsterhood. She needed to get laid and what better way to do that than with a handsome, sexy, no-strings-attached stranger?

He wouldn’t meet her eyes at the grocery store and then turn away.

He wouldn’t show up on her doorstep with flowers and a DVD she had no interest in watching.

He wouldn’t marry one of her friends and cause her to have one of those I-know-what-your-husband-looks-like-naked moments.

It was perfect.

A gift from fate. For one night only.

“I’m serious. I don’t expect anything other than this little magic moment.” She licked her lips as insurance. The romance books beside her bed seemed to indicate that licking her lips would inflame a man beyond reason.

He shook his head. “This is crazy.”

“You don’t want me?” She knew he did. Could feel the evidence against her bottom. She glanced down, caught the time in the glow of the waxing moon. 11:13 p.m. She had less than an hour. Okay, she had more than an hour, but for the sake of the whole magic fate thing, she’d rather it be tonight. On her birthday. With him.

“Of course I want you,” he said. “Too much.”

“Then shut up and kiss me,” she said, hooking his neck and bringing him down so she could kiss him.

His lips met hers and her pulse went wild.

This was what she’d been missing, not counting that time with Bud Hargon when he’d prematurely ejaculated before getting the job done or the time when she’d layered her bed with rose petals and had just gotten naked with Cole Lanier when Waylon had come in with a busted lip, wailing like a banshee.

Until tonight, Louise Boyd had been a virgin.

But she wasn’t missing another opportunity for deflowering.

“I don’t have a condom, Louise,” Abram said, nibbling her lower lip. “But we can please each other in other ways.”

She shook her head. “No, I want the real deal. The whole shebang. That’s what I need. That’s what it’s gotta be.”

He stilled. “You make it sound like—”

He lifted his head and searched her gaze. Something dawned on him. He understood. “For crap’s sake, Louise, you’re not telling me you’re a—you’re a—virgin?”

She didn’t blink. Was that really any of his business? No. It was hers. And when he said it out loud like that it made her feel pathetic. “You make it sound like a crime.”

He lifted her off him, setting her onto the cold wood of the pier. “It’s not a crime. It’s sort of surprising, and it’s not something I…I think you should…”

He closed his mouth. Then he swallowed. She could see quite clearly he had no clue what to say. It should have been sweet, endearing even, but it just pissed her off. It’s not like she hadn’t tried all this before. She had. But it hadn’t worked.

“What? I should save it for someone special? Is that what you were going to say? My future husband maybe?”

He blinked.

“Well, it’s not special. It’s a burden. You don’t need to know the particulars, but I’m not a freak. I couldn’t date for many years because of stuff going on in my life, and when I could date again, well, things never progressed. For heaven’s sake, I’m a twenty-seven-year-old, decent-looking woman. I should be able to get laid.”

She shoved herself up, rising more like a winged harpy than a fairy princess. Frustration made her dangerously angry.

Abram sat there looking like a fish that had landed on the pier. If he had started flopping and gasping, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

“Louise,” he said, climbing to his knees. “I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t think anything. I just don’t—”

“Don’t trouble yourself to screw me. It’s no big deal. I can go another three years without a date. By then I’ll be thirty. Hey, maybe I could hire someone. A gigolo to service me. Won’t that be novel?”

He stood and grabbed her arms, giving her a shake. His charming grin was gone, as was likely his erection. He looked annoyed. “If you really want me to get the job done, let’s go. I’ll stop by the gas station, grab a box of condoms, and we’ll head to my motel room in Ville Platte. I’ll screw you until your head bangs against the headboard. Maybe we can keep the other motel guests awake all night. Then I’ll leave in the morning after I shower. Sound romantic enough for you?”

She wanted to hit him. Tears formed in her eyes, and that pissed her off even more. She looked around at their magic, romantic spot that wasn’t even remotely beautiful anymore. Dead plants floated on the surface and spiderwebs clung to the railing. A mosquito bit her on the neck. She slapped at it.

He shook his head before lifting a finger and wiping away a tear that must have escaped. “You don’t deserve that, Louise. Some stranger, some crappy-ass hotel room. I’m not saying you need champagne and strawberries, but don’t give it up to me, baby. You’re worth more than that. Give yourself to someone who cares about you. A guy who’s not a random stranger.”

She brushed his hand away. “Don’t worry. I won’t force you.”

And then she slid past him, feeling like crap. Feeling worse than crap. She’d let him in on her most embarrassing secret. He’d seen her desperation and longing, and though he hadn’t flung it in her face, he hadn’t done anything to help her with it.

“Louise,” he called after her. “Stop. I don’t want to leave it this way.”

She didn’t stop. Kept going. She couldn’t have stopped if she tried. The liquor she’d gulped down to give her boldness, churned in her stomach along with what was left of her pride. She reached the end of the pier and grabbed her shoes, not bothering to put them on even though the damp grass made her toes numb with cold.

She would get someone to give her a ride.

If she had to, she’d call Waylon and have him come get her.

She stomped up the hill, hearing Abram coming behind her. But she didn’t turn around. Kept moving toward the light of Rendezvous, toward the merriment. The loud music. The normalcy of the real world.

Abram grabbed her elbow. “Hey, wait a minute.”

She turned. “Look. I want to forget about this. Okay?”

He didn’t say anything.

“I don’t know you. You don’t know me. We were two strangers who became nothing more to each other than…strangers.”

“I hurt you.”

“You don’t have enough power to hurt me because you don’t mean anything to me. All you are is a missed opportunity to get this monkey off my back.”

“Damn,” he breathed, shaking his head. “You don’t hold back.”

“I’m being truthful. You’re a nice guy, doing a nice thing for a desperate chick. Saving me from myself and all that. Don’t feel guilty and don’t lose sleep over me.”

He shook his head again. “Come on, Louise, I didn’t want things to end like this. Tonight was good. I enjoyed meeting you.”

She inclined her head and gave him a sad smile. “I guess it wouldn’t have been so bad being your honky-tonk Cinderella if I hadn’t gone and made a fool of myself.”

He lightly touched her cheek. “You didn’t make a fool of yourself. Let me take you home.”

“No, I can get a ride. I’m sort of embarrassed and feeling emotional right now. It would be too uncomfortable for us both. Enjoy your stay in Ville Platte. It was nice meeting you.”

She didn’t wait any longer.

She turned and walked out of his life, thinking she was doubly glad he was a stranger. After all, what girl would want to live out the embarrassment of seeing a guy who didn’t want to sleep with her, or rather couldn’t, around town all the time?

It would be brutal.

She climbed the porch swinging her shoes and trying to come up with a plan for getting home. Her pride hurt too much to slip the vampy come-hither shoes on, so she set them near the railing and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. She’d call Waylon. He was likely up playing war games on the computer anyway.

“Louise, stop being stubborn and let me drive you home.”

She looked at the time on her phone. 12:00 a.m. “Too late. The fairy tale is over.”


CHAPTER FOUR

ABRAM HAD WOKEN with a headache that had nothing to do with the 1.5 beers he’d drunk last night, and everything to do with the mildew present in the damp carpet around the air conditioner in the motel room.

The motel hadn’t been the worst he’d stayed in, but it wasn’t a night at the Four Seasons. Not that he frequented the Four Seasons often. Holiday Inns and Courtyard Marriotts were his home away from home when out on the road.

This one had no continental breakfast. He wasn’t a fan of rubber eggs anyhow, so he’d found a Waffle House with a smart-aleck waitress, decent coffee and a small-town crowd, then tried not to think about the woman he’d hurt the night before.

He hadn’t been wrong in redirecting Louise’s intent on shedding her virginity, but it still felt like a bad deal. He’d dinged her pride and there was no telling the ramifications of his nonaction.

But he couldn’t dwell on it. Louise would be a faded memory in little over a week, even if her innocence and beauty had struck a chord in him. She’d fall in love someday and find the right guy to hold her and love her.

Something jerked in his gut at the thought of her in another man’s arms, but he ignored it. It was like missing the numbers on the lottery by two numbers. Regret. But what could a guy do?

Move on.

Today he started his recruitment of the top prospect on the athletic department’s tight end list. The Panthers needed Waylon Boyd, and Abram aimed to land the boy—starting with his high school coach.

The diner moved around him, blue-collar sorts with white utility trucks parked outside along with older women and men reading the newspaper. Clinking forks, clattering dishes, and the low hum of conversation. This place suited him fine. Real people. Real jobs.

He caught an older gentleman reading the sports section of the Opelousas paper glancing at him. Finally, on the fourth or fifth glance, Abram nodded.

The man narrowed his eyes. “You by any chance with the ULBR program?”

Abram wore an ULBR windbreaker, but that meant little. Almost everyone in Louisiana had something ULBR in his or her closet. “Yep, I’m with the program.”

The man cracked a smile, stood and offered a hand. “I’m Tom Forcet. Forcet Construction. I’m godfather to one of your prospects—Waylon Boyd.”

Abram stood and took the man’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Forcet.”

“Tom, please.”

“I’m actually here to meet with Coach Landry about Waylon. Always good to run into a friend of his.”

“Good kid. That’s the most important thing. Raised right. His late father was my college roommate. Wish he could have seen what Waylon’s become. Of course, Lou’s done a fine job with him.”

Abram hadn’t had much time to look over Sam Moreland’s notes on Waylon. He knew the kid’s parents had been killed in a plane crash about nine years ago. Rather than place the kids in foster care, an older sibling had stepped up to care for them. “Character counts. His talent is evident on the field, but we pay close attention to kids with good values who will reflect well on our program.”

“Dang right,” the man said, wiping his mouth with a napkin from an adjoining table. “Waylon’s the complete package. Does odd jobs around the construction site for me from time to time. Course Lou works for me so makes it easy to keep an eye on the boy. I’ll let you get back to your breakfast. Eggs aren’t good cold. Good to meet you.”

Abram nodded and reciprocated the acknowledgment. Then he sat down to his breakfast, pulling the folder on Waylon Jennings Boyd and spreading it in front of him. Most of the information had been purchased from a reputable recruiting service but also contained comments from the Bonnet Creek coach—height, weight, times in the 40, bench weight, etc. There was a small section noting his personal information—basically address, contact information and name of guardian.

Louise Boyd.

Huh.

Surely, it wasn’t the same person he’d danced with last night? The same woman he’d kissed and held in his arms. And nearly had sex with.

The disturbing feeling sliding into the pit of his stomach had nothing to do with the eggs and waffle he’d gulped down. Louise. Not a common name, was it?

He thought hard. She’d said she’d remained a virgin because of circumstances. Or something like that. Raising a younger brother and sister would definitely squash dating. Not to mention working full-time to support a family.

He glanced back at the file. No age given for the guardian.

Tom Forcet had told him Lou worked at the construction company, but he couldn’t imagine the beautiful woman he’d met the night before working something as difficult as construction. And being called Lou. Maybe she did the books or something?

Either way, if Lou Boyd was his honky-tonk Cinderella, he’d unknowingly committed a recruiting violation—and not just the slap on the wrist kind. This was the kind that could blow up into a scandal. Opposing fan bases and the press that catered to their neuroses were hungry for dirty tidbits like a coach messing around with a recruit’s sister, mother or cousin. If someone found out he and Louise Boyd had nearly done the dirty deed on a dock on Lake Chicot, there’d be shit hitting a fan. Really messy.

But maybe he worried for no good reason.

He took a sip of cold coffee. It tasted oddly of ashes. Or maybe it tasted like unemployment.

“Check, please.”

* * *

“LORI, I CANNOT LEAVE work to bring you the essay. If I don’t move this dirt, they can’t frame up for the concrete, and Manuel will be all over my butt. We’ve finally had enough dry days to make progress. Sorry. You’ll have to take a lower letter grade.”

“Lou, please. You don’t understand. Mrs. Rupple will not knock it down one letter grade, but two. Please. Just on your break.” Lori’s voice had dropped to a plaintive low whine. It was one she used often. Too often.

Lou pushed her gloved hand against the gear of the front-end loader, knocking the loose knob back and forth. “You’re a big girl, Lori. You say you’re old enough for a license or working at Forcet, but want me to bring your forgotten—”

“Pleeeease! I barely have an A in her class. I’ll wash dishes for a whole week.”

“No.”

“Lou, I’m begging you. Begging.”

Lou pulled off her heavy gloves and tossed them on the dashboard of the large piece of equipment. “Fine, but you have to wash the dishes and do the laundry.”

“Thank you, Lou. I mean it. You’re the best.”

Lou pressed the button on her cell phone and sighed. “Sure I am.”

So much for sticking to her guns this go-around. It was the seventh time this year Lou had taken her lunch by running home, grabbing something Lori had forgotten, and then speeding back to the school to deliver her sister from the horrible repercussion of leaving behind her practice uniform or the flash drive holding her PowerPoint presentation. Lori was a lovable, absentminded goofball with an angel’s face. And a pretty big heart. What else was Lou to do?

“Manuel,” she called across the worksite.

The project manager jerked his head up. “Yo?”

“Taking my lunch early.”

“Lori again?”

She gave him the same look she’d given him the other six times that year. “I won’t be long. Then I’ll get that dirt moved and in place so you can start the framing after lunch.”

“Go.”

She walked toward the vehicle that had once been her father’s shining joy, a 2003 Tundra pickup. The silver truck now held a dent in the bumper, courtesy of Waylon’s first attempt at parallel parking, and a huge scrape along one side from a hit-and-run when she’d gone to the Opelousas Home Depot. But it ran well thanks to her second cousin Reeves who owned Taylor Auto and insisted on giving the truck a free tune-up every year. Reeves took care of what little he could for her, but Lou did her own oil changes. She had to draw the line somewhere.

After banging her work boots against the front tire and taking off the bandana she wore to keep the baby-fine hair that escaped her braid out of her eyes, she climbed inside the cab. She saw one of the guys frown at her, and resisted the urge to give him a specific finger wave. That guy didn’t like her much anyway. He was old school. Women belonged at home, folding underwear and stirring peas on the stove. Didn’t matter that Lou could handle her heavy equipment like the finest surgeon. Some men were just shortsighted.

Forcet Construction mostly worked the region north of Opelousas, but they built all over Evangeline Parish, even dipping down to Acadia Parish at times. Today they were working the foundation for yet another credit union in Ville Platte, so her hometown of Bonnet Creek lay twelve miles away. Just far enough so that Lou would have to eat on the way back and also far enough to give her plenty of time to think.

Exactly what she needed. More time to think about what a colossal idiot she was.

No.

Lou refused to let her thoughts travel back to the night before. To the embarrassment of throwing herself at a perfect stranger. What had she been thinking? Or better phrased—what had she been drinking? Because her stupid actions had to be blamed on the strong mojitos. She wasn’t a drinker. Couldn’t handle the woozy, giggly euphoria that had wrapped her up and made her think naughty impossible thoughts. Yes. Blame it on the booze.

Stop it, Lou. Stop thinking about Abram. The moonlight. The fact you can’t get a guy to do the deed.

As she turned into the drive of the house she’d been raised in, she made the same promise she’d made five times earlier that morning. No more thinking about last night.

She grabbed the paper, hidden beneath a yearbook on Lori’s unmade bed, and hightailed it to Bonnet Creek High School, which sat only a mile away. She pulled into the visitor spot and killed the engine.

She didn’t want to run into Coach Landry.

The man was driving her crazy about hiring someone to make a professional highlight reel of Waylon’s best plays. Like she had the money for that.

Waylon was an incredibly talented athlete, and if college coaches couldn’t see that on the amateur reel she’d pieced together with her own two hands for Coach Landry, then they were stupid. She wasn’t hiring a professional service to film him next year. It was an enormous waste of money.

But David Landry was a force to be reckoned with, and with a four-star, blue-chip recruit on his team, he’d taken too personal of an interest.

“Hey, Lou. Lori forgot something again, didn’t she?” Helen Barham ran Bonnet Creek High School from the sleek modern desk of the front office. Helen had once been in the garden club with Lou’s mother and she was exceedingly competent, if unyielding. The woman had never married nor had children, so she tsked every time Lou brought in her sister’s forgotten homework. She was a little hypocritical and gossipy, but many in the small town were. “You know she’s—”

“—never going to learn?” Lou finished for her with a wry smile. “I know. I suck at parenting.”

Helen wagged a finger. “I’ve seen worse, Lou-Lou.”

“I think she’s in Mr. Smith’s English class right now,” Lou said, darting a glance out the door of the office and pretending she didn’t hear her father’s old nickname for her trickle so casually out of Helen’s mouth. Hearing it made her sad. “Coach Landry’s not around, is he?”

The man was notorious for prowling the school hallways, and Lou really didn’t want to deal with him today. Really didn’t.

“He has some college coach in with him.” Helen pointed to her in-basket. “Just leave Lori’s assignment with me and I’ll page her to the office.”

Lou handed the paper off and slipped back out the door. She waved at Mr. Edwards, the custodian whose son played on the football team with Waylon, and nodded at a couple of students who hurried by clutching papers in hand.

She’d just pushed the front door of the school open when she caught sight of the stranger she was never supposed to see again down the hall to her left.

What the hell?

The door came back and nearly nailed her in the nose. She stepped back and watched Abram shake Coach Landry’s hand. He wore khaki pants and a purple windbreaker. She was nearly certain ULBR Athletics was appliquéd on the breast even though she was too far away to read the actual letters.

He was a coach.

For ULBR.

His reason for being in Bonnet Creek was her brother.

Hot shame coursed through her body, followed quickly by the desire to flatten the man’s nose. He knew who she was—that’s why he’d stopped last night. He led her down the merry primrose path, using his charm, his extraordinary good looks to put her at disadvantage, possibly even as leverage, to land her brother, but reining himself in before committing the ultimate in douche-baggery.

What a slimy bastard.

Her boots turned toward the coaches before she could think better of it.

“Hey,” she called out, her voice echoing in the hallway.

Both men turned—David with a wide crocodile smile; Abram Whatever His Last Name Was with an “oh shit” lift of his eyebrows.

“Lou, glad you’re here. This is—”

She spun toward Abram. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Well, hello to you, too, Louise.”

“Lou, now let’s watch the language here,” Coach Landry said, waving his hand as if he were stroking the back of a horse. “This here’s an informal visit—”

She blocked Coach Landry’s voice out. Rage choked her. “You—you—ought to be ashamed of yourself. You knew who I was.”

“Not until this morning when I ran into Mr. Forcet and then looked at Waylon’s file. I inherited this recruiting area from Coach Moreland several weeks ago when he left for the offensive coordinating job with Ohio State. I had no clue who you were.”

“Bullsh—” She swallowed the curse even though she wanted to nail him to the brick wall with a volley of creative language. She worked at a construction company. She knew combinations a sailor didn’t. “I’ve heard about how you recruiting guys work. Crawling all over the place, popping up in grocery stores or churches looking to sway recruits or their families. It’s despicable. And to try to use me? I can’t—”

“Use you? You watch too much TV or something?” Abram interrupted, his green eyes turning a cold emerald. “This isn’t a conspiracy. Get real.”

Coach Landry ping-ponged his head between the two of them, before broadening his gaze to the area around them. “Maybe we better hold this conversation in my office. For, you know, privacy.”

“Sis?” She heard Waylon’s voice then and noticed several other students in the hall. Classes were about to change.

She spun toward her brother who was flanked by his girlfriend, Morgan, and his friend Mason. He looked like Goliath next to two Davids. “Go to class, Way. This doesn’t involve you.”

“Coach?”

Lou pointed a finger at her brother. “You do what I say, Waylon Boyd.”

“Chill, Lou. You’re acting crazy, making me look like a punk in front of the school.” Both his friends looked off, obviously uncomfortable with the situation.

Abram’s voice was low, but made of steel. “This is your sister, and she doesn’t deserve disrespect.”

Waylon’s eyes clouded and he looked at Lou. Then back at Abram, before allowing his eyes to dip down to the logo on the shirt. She saw the dawning in his eyes. “Sorry, Lou. Sir.”

Abram nodded. She did nothing. Her brother shifted on his size-13 feet. “What’s going on?”

Coach Landry stepped in front of her and Abram. “Your sister’s right, Way. Go on to class. I’ll talk to you this afternoon after conditioning.”

“Let’s let the kids move on. Coach Dufrene? Lou?” Landry stepped back and motioned towards his office.

Lou didn’t want to have this discussion right now, but she also didn’t want to have it out in the hall.

The bell rang, making the decision for her. She walked into Landry’s office. Abram followed.

Coach Landry closed the door. “What in the Sam Hill is going on?”

For a moment she and Abram stared at one another. She didn’t know how to feel. Never thought she’d see him again. Never thought he could have been using her to get close to her brother. He caved first and turned his gaze on Coach Landry.

“It’s not complicated. Last night I stopped at a local bar, mostly to use the john, but then I grabbed a beer. Ended up running into Waylon’s sister, but I had no idea Louise was even related to him. We danced and had a beer together. Nothing more.”

She looked at the stapler sitting on David’s desk, avoiding Abram’s eyes. Refusing to show how much more their meeting could have meant.

“It was an unintentional off-campus contact. I think Miss Boyd thinks it was intentional, but that’s as far from the truth as it gets. I didn’t even know his guardian’s name until this morning when I talked to her employer at the Waffle House.”

David sank into his worn desk chair. “Ah, hell.”

She licked her lips. “I don’t like to feel manipulated.”

“How in the hell is this manipulation, Louise? What? You think I found out your schedule and stalked you? That’s really not how recruiting works regardless of what you may have heard.” Abram’s voice held anger. “This is my career, and I wouldn’t risk that for a random stranger. You think that’s the way we operate at ULBR?”

She gave him a blank stare. She didn’t know what to believe but it all seemed too much of a fluke to sit right with her. The man she’d tried to give her virginity to the night before was the coach sent to recruit her brother. It seemed too pat. She knew the lengths schools went to in going after prospects. She read the papers. Watched ESPN. Those bastards manipulated everyone surrounding the prospect, using Facebook, Twitter, casual meet-ups as ways to sway a kid toward their school. So why not seduction? “I’m not sure what your intent was, but I’m going to report this incident to the NCAA.”

Coach Landry held up a hand. “Now wait a minute, Lou. Take a few moments to calm down before you decide anything. This is very important. Division I schools are under a lot of scrutiny these days, and we don’t want to do anything to jeopardize Waylon. We also don’t want to falsely accuse Coach Dufrene of misconduct.”

The anger rampaging inside her abated a bit. David was right. This incident could affect Waylon. Not her. No need to smudge anything. Yet. “Fine. I don’t have time for this today anyhow. I have a job to get back to, and I’m already late.”

Abram stared at her. “Louise, I didn’t know you were Waylon’s guardian. If you think about it, you’ll see I was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Don’t tell me what to think.”

Abram shrugged his big, delicious shoulders, and for a moment hot regret flooded her, a sort of longing for what might have been if it had been the right place and the right time.

Waylon’s high school coach spread his hands. “We need to keep Waylon out in front of this. The incidental contact can be reported. It’s not something that needs to be swept under the rug. Hell, it’s a small state. I run into people unexpectedly all the time, so these things happen.”

“It’s policy at ULBR not to sweep anything under the rug, Coach,” Abram said, propping his hands on his hips. With that simple action, Lou felt the balance shift in the room. “As soon as I leave, I’ll report the incident to Coach Holt and the compliance department. I don’t think anything further will be required, Miss Boyd. If compliance or the NCAA get in touch with you, tell the truth.”

But not the whole truth, she thought. No way would she reveal how well they got to know each other. She didn’t think Abram would be willing to do so, either. They met, they danced once and they shared a drink. Period. End of story.

“Fine,” she said, turning the doorknob. “I’ve got to go. That dirt won’t move itself.”

“Later, Lou,” David said.

“Louise?”

She hesitated, the door only slightly ajar.

“Had I known, I would never have continued the contact. I’ll likely be the coach recruiting Waylon, and I hope you won’t hold this incident against me. I truly have the best interests of your brother and the reputation of my institution in the forefront here. Don’t doubt that.”

She nodded and walked out.

What else could she do?

Both she and the too-delicious-to-have-even-contemplated-in-the-first-place coach had screwed up—and the innocent might end up suffering because she wanted to play Cinderella.

Something ached in her chest, a sort of regret for what would not be. Not that she’d entertained ideas about the man who’d made her feel enchanting as they danced beneath the moonlight. She’d known he was passing through, but the regret was for having the moment in the first place.

Did she think anything could have been different?

She was who she was, and she’d figured out many years ago her situation wouldn’t change until Waylon and Lori claimed lives of their own. Since their parents had died, she’d tried to keep Waylon and Lori’s interests above hers. Not because she was a crazed martyr, but because they were all she had left. All she had to ensure something good would result from her temporarily giving up her dreams. She needed them to be safe and happy. Needed them to succeed. Because if they could get out of Bonnet Creek and reach their goals, then so could she.

Maybe it was selfish.

But she needed Waylon to go to college, to get a full ride. She needed Lori to do well on her SAT, to get her own free ride. She needed to see her sacrifice pay off. Really needed to know all those nights she baked cookies for snack day, turned down dates to attend school plays and called out spelling words had been worthwhile.

Okay, yeah. It was definitely selfish.

But it didn’t change the fact her future lay in Lori and Waylon succeeding.

And not in pursuing crazy romantic fantasies like a twelve-year-old, starstruck girl.


CHAPTER FIVE

PICOU DUFRENE BLEW out the candles and everyone seated around the gleaming dining room table gave an obligatory clap.

“Happy 65th birthday, Mom,” Abram said from his place at the end of the table. He’d intentionally sat away from his sister because trying to carry on a conversation with Sally was more uncomfortable than hemorrhoids.

Not that he’d ever had hemorrhoids. But he could imagine.

Sally had come back into their lives only five months before and the transition hadn’t been easy. They all walked around each other like mines were planted beneath Beau Soleil’s polished floors and body parts might fly at any moment.

“Thank you,” Picou said, plucking a candle from the cake Lucille had made from scratch and sucking the frosting off. “Delicious, Lucille, as always.”

Lucille sat next to his mother, like a round, black cherub, smiling at the compliment. She’d been at Beau Soleil for as long as Abram could remember, and she was the best friend Picou had. Scratch that, Lucille was family.

“I know what you like, Picou. Real buttercream frosting just like my Aunt Lula Mae used to make for the governor, and that man wasn’t half the person you are. You more deservin’ than that ol’ rat.”

His mother laughed, and everyone else smiled. Abram’s brother Nate and his wife Annie took the cake to the antique sideboard and started slicing generous pieces onto Picou’s Royal Doulton wedding china, adding the sterling forks to each plate. The sterling had belonged to Picou’s mother. All things at Beau Soleil were useful and priceless—the Old South way.

Sally sat quietly, her big eyes taking in the atypical family dinner. His younger sister wasn’t accustomed to their ways since she’d been taken when she was three years old by the family gardener. Sal Comeaux and his partner, who was due for parole in a few months, had concocted a kidnapping scheme that went afoul. They’d taken Della, now known as Sally, and left a ransom note in the Dufrene sugar mill. Sal was supposed to kill Della, but somehow couldn’t bring himself to do so. He’d taken the child to his grandmother, a tough old Bayou woman, and passed her off as family before he himself disappeared. The Dufrenes had spent twenty-four years believing Della to be dead.

She might have stayed unknown to them if the woman who’d raised her, Enola Cheramie, hadn’t fallen ill. Failing kidneys led to Sally being tested, a careless remark about blood markers had led to questions, and an inquiry at the Lafourche Sheriff’s office had led to a file being placed on his brother Nate’s desk.

Nate had worked with the St. Martin Parish detective unit for over ten years, and when he’d received the file on Sally Cheramie, he had known they’d finally gotten a lead on Della’s disappearance. It had almost been too much to hope for, but Nate said when he saw Sally Cheramie for the first time, he knew he’d found his sister.

Sally had her twin brother Darby’s eyes—uniquely violet-blue—and mirrored the young Picou in her wedding portraits. But physical similarities only went so far. Sally wouldn’t open up to them and the gulf between her and the family never seemed to shrink.

“I certainly wish Darby could be here,” Picou sighed, patting Sally’s hand. Sally swallowed and Abram could see she wanted to move her hand. The girl they’d once called Della was like a cat in a room of rockers when she was among the Dufrenes. “He’ll be home before too long, and he can’t wait to see you.”

Nate turned from the sideboard and glanced at his sister.

Sally tried to smile. “It’ll be nice to meet him finally. Well, I suppose it’s more like see him again. When does he resign his commission?”

She spoke with a heavy accent—a distinct dialect spoken by the people inhabiting the bayou south of Cutoff, Louisiana. With a slender frame, long dark hair and bright blue eyes, Sally drew people to her with quiet, unassuming beauty. The woman who raised her had pushed her to excel in school so she might leave the bayou and spread her wings. Sally had used the education she’d gained at ULL to become a teacher, and currently taught second grade in the school she’d once attended in Galliano. She hadn’t stretched her wings very wide, and instead clung to the community and the still-ill Enola Cheramie.

He wondered if she would ever accept being the long-lost Della Dufrene.

“Do you not remember Darby at all, Sally?” Annie asked, setting a dessert plate in front of Abram. He looked at the huge piece of cake. He’d be doing an extra mile tomorrow morning for this indulgence. He picked up the fork.

Sally frowned. “Not really, though I must have missed him when I was little. I called my blankie Dobby.”

Abram listened with half an ear after that. What lay ahead for him had his stomach twisting. He couldn’t put to bed all that had passed earlier that week—not with an early morning meeting with compliance and the director of recruiting on Monday. Afterward, he’d face Coach Holt before the man headed out to Bristol to film a commercial for ESPN. Abram didn’t want to see the disappointment in his mentor’s eyes.

After having a brush with the NCAA over the use of a shady recruiting service and allegations of “pay for players,” the powers-that-be at ULBR were gun-shy about any other incidents popping up within the program. Small things could be dealt with. They happened. But a newsworthy splash like a sex scandal would do lasting damage and jeopardize the reputation of a program, not to mention cost things like scholarships and bowl games. And all Abram had intended for himself, all his dreams of one day becoming a head coach of a Division I team, would come crashing down around him.

Abram wished it would all go away. Wished he could undo missing the damn exit and stopping for a beer. Wished he’d told Mary Belle an emphatic no when she’d asked him to pretend to be Louise’s date.

But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

Or at least that’s what Lucille had always told him when he wished for cookies, something fun to do or better grades on his report card.

Lucille winked at him. He’d always had a special bond with the Dufrene family housekeeper. There was a woman who “got” him. And a woman who’d fed him, counseled him and swatted him on his backside when he got too uppity.

“Abram, you’re quiet as a sinner in church tonight. Hellcat run away with your tongue?” Lucille’s gap-toothed smile prodded him to enter the fray. Hellcat was the ragged-ear tom that appeared last month yowling for a bowl of scraps and saucer of milk every night. No one seemed to own Hellcat. Couldn’t catch him long enough to mark him with ownership.

“Sorry. Lots on my mind. The job.”

“Saw the spring game. Matt Vincent has some work to do. Missed more receivers than he hit.” Nate slapped another piece of cake on his own plate. “Damn, this is better than sex, Lucille.”

Lucille looked at Annie. “You must be doing something wrong, child.”

Annie nearly choked on her coffee.

Picou laughed, Lucille cackled and even Sally looked mildly amused.

“Behave, Lucille. She hasn’t married me yet and I don’t want you scaring her off with your uncouth ways.” Nate grinned, sliding his eyes to his fiancée. She lifted an eyebrow and Abram felt the love between the two of them. Nice to see Nate happy.

Nate looked back at Abram, refusing to let him fade into the background. When it came to his family Abram had always liked the background. If he stayed quiet long enough, sometimes they forgot about him. Suited a lone wolf like him just fine. Or at least most of the time. “So, what’s up with Vincent?”

Abram shrugged. “Ask Monty. He’s the quarterback coach.”

“Yeah, I’ll get him on the horn. I have him on speed dial,” Nate drawled as Annie elbowed him. “Aren’t you an offensive coach? Shouldn’t you know?”

“You didn’t hear? I’m the water boy.”

“Come on, boys, let’s not start,” Picou warned, her fork clattering on the china.

Abram snapped his mouth closed and tried to figure some way to get out of there early. His mother was to open gifts after dinner. Abram never knew what to give her, so he’d purchased a gift certificate from a Baton Rouge salon. Standard son gift—not creative, but useful.

“When are we opening gifts?” Annie asked, nudging Nate again. His soon-to-be sister-in-law was perky, fit and pretty with brown curly hair and clear gray eyes. She was a former FBI agent and had met Nate while on an assignment in Bayou Bridge. Five months ago, after finding Della, they’d formed a partnership in a private investigations firm specializing in unsolved murders. Using grants and Nate’s savings, they’d hit the ground running, solving a case in Alexandria that had put them in the spotlight and brought more business their way.

Annie had been good for his brother if the smiles were any indication. Before Annie, Nate had rarely smiled. After Annie, he sometimes resembled a blooming idiot.

“Let’s go into Picou’s sitting room,” Lucille suggested, scooting her chair back and grunting as she rose. “You come on with me, Miss Sally girl. I found something of yours the other day when I was cleaning out the cabinets in there.”

Lucille didn’t wait on Sally. She waddled out and expected everyone to follow. Like sheep they moved their chairs back.

“Hold on,” Nate mumbled, shoving the last bite into his mouth.

The sitting room was like every room in the house, filled with posh antiques that had been well used. The fabrics on the chairs and window had been expensive and well maintained, if not out of style by fifteen or twenty years. Family pictures squatted between costly oils and original sculptures. The carpet on the floor was a threadbare Aubusson.

Sally perched on the end of the couch, holding a worn-out-looking pacifier, presumably Lucille’s great find. She picked up a gift wrapped in floral paper with a large fluffy-looking bow. “This is from me.”

Picou sat in her normal overstuffed armchair and took the gift. Love shone in her eyes when she looked at Sally. “It’s wrapped so pretty.”

Sally rubbed the material of her skirt between her fingers and gave up a smile.

Picou opened the gift while everyone found a comfortable spot. His mother lifted the lid. “Oh, my.”

“What is it?” Lucille craned her head, and Abram noticed her wig was on crooked.

“Look.” Picou picked up a small painted canvas and held it aloft. It portrayed a sunset on the swamps and was rather well done. His mother looked at Sally. “Did you do this?”

Sally nodded. “I dabble around with painting every once and while. I thought it suited you.”

Picou wiped tears from her cheeks with hands that bore more rings than necessary. His mother liked drama, wearing caftans, crazy feathers and ribbons in her soft gray hair and ornamenting herself like a palm reader at the state fair. She should have looked ridiculous. Okay, sometimes she did look a bit kooky, but it suited her. “Thank you, dear. I shall always treasure it.”

Sally kept fiddling with her hem but managed another smile.

Annie handed Picou another small gift. “From us.”

Abram could tell it was a gift certificate. He hoped they hadn’t bought one to a spa. Rain on his parade, and all that. Nate constantly one-upped him on gift-giving.

Picou pulled the red ribbon from the polka-dotted box. “This will make a good hair bow.” She tucked it beneath her thigh.

Abram felt excitement radiating off Nate and Annie as Picou lifted the lid. Maybe they’d gotten her a trip? If they did, he’d be pissed. He’d once mentioned sending her on a cruise, and Nate had freaked over the expense. If Nate went and trumped everyone with a trip somewhere, he’d—

“A grandmother’s brag book?” His mother’s eyebrows knitted together as she lifted the pink-and-blue photo book from the tissue paper. She flipped the book open and stared at a grainy-looking black picture. Two or three seconds tripped by.

“Oh, my God!” Picou reared back against the chair, her eyes wide, her mouth open. “Is that—is that—”

Annie started giggling and Nate just smiled.

His mother stared with wonder at the picture in front of the book. “Are you telling me I’m going to be a grandmother?”

Nate nodded.

Annie collapsed in laughter.

Picou shrieked.

Lucille clapped.

Annie and Nate had given his mother the gift she’d always wanted. Progeny. A stupid manicure and pedicure seemed like a booby prize compared to a baby. Like winning a five-dollar raffle ticket after winning a jackpot of over a million.

He looked at his sister, who for once wore a genuine smile. “I think we lost on the gifts.”

Sally laughed. “I think you’re right.”

* * *

LOU STARED AT the flashing lights in the driveway refusing to believe what she was seeing.

Officer Harvey Coe climbed from the driver’s side and then opened the back door of the car. Waylon, head down, emerged.

“Evening, Lou,” Harvey said, walking toward where she stood on the porch. “Hated to be bringing Waylon home this way, but I thought it might be best. He and a few boys were drinking beer down at the Sav-A-Lot parking lot, busting bottles, and such. One of the windows of the store got broke. Thought about arresting them, but being this is boys being boys, I gave ’em a warning and called Mr. Davenport about the window.”

Waylon refused to look at her. He seemed to be studying the ragged pansies she’d planted that fall, and since she knew he had very little interest in botany, she knew he was afraid of her. He should be. Fury chomped away inside her. How dare he do something so infantile? So stupid?

“Well, this is such a nice surprise,” Lou drawled, swatting away the moths dancing around the porch light before crossing her arms, mostly to keep from knocking her stupid brother in the head. “And here I was thinking my younger brother was at a friend’s house working on his research paper. Silly me.”

She looked at Harvey who looked at Waylon who kept his gaze on the pansies. Silence lay on them like January snow.

“Well, the boys are gonna have to pay for that window. Davenport said he’d get a bill to all the parents, and you, too. Sorry about this, Lou.”

“Thanks, Harvey. Waylon will be calling Mr. Davenport to apologize, and he’ll take care of that bill.” Or she’d ride Waylon’s ass until the middle of next summer. Or until he stopped his irresponsible behavior.

Harvey turned to Waylon. “Look at me, son.”

Waylon lifted his head and stuck out his chin. Lou had seen that posturing before—scared little boy trying to be a man. Waylon’s brown hair gleamed almost red in the low porch light and she noticed he needed a haircut.

The policeman pointed a sausage finger at him. “You need to keep your nose clean. I better not hear about you messin’ around with that Holland boy again. He’s trouble, you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Waylon said, shifting in his new Nike workout shoes. He sounded respectful, but Lou saw the rebellion in his eyes. She knew he’d been hanging out with Willie Holland’s boy for the last two weeks and couldn’t understand the fascination with the high school dropout. This was not good. Cy Holland worked at his father’s garage and rode Harleys on the weekend to biker bars all over the state. Cy was eighteen, tough and often in trouble with the Bonnet Creek and Ville Platte police departments.

“Go in the house, Way,” Lou said, her voice quiet but firm. Inside she still shook with rage, but she wasn’t going to show it to either of the two males crowding her driveway.

Her brother surged past, his unused backpack sliding off his shoulder as he pushed into the house.

“Thanks again, Harv.”

Harvey turned to her. “I know things have been tough on you, Lou, but you’re gonna have to keep a tight leash on that boy. He’s at an age where he’s gonna test you and everybody he comes up against. He’s got a lot riding on his shoulders. Better talk some sense into him. Maybe talk to Coach, too.”

Lou bristled. Waylon was a good kid, no matter what Harvey implied. Sure, he’d been ill-tempered and difficult lately, but it wasn’t something she couldn’t handle, and she didn’t need David Landry inserting himself even more into Waylon’s life. As it was, he spent too much time hanging around the coach’s office and sometimes at the Landry house. “Again, I appreciate your doing this. I’ll take care of it from here.”

“Night,” Harvey nodded and walked toward the cruiser still flashing its lights. She winced as her neighbor popped her gray head out the kitchen door and stared at the departing police car. The nosy old woman would have something to gossip about over coffee the next morning.

Lou walked into the house and shut the door.

It was 10:15 p.m. Nearly forty-five minutes past Waylon’s school-night curfew.

Lori appeared in the hallway, clad in an old T-shirt and pajama pants. “What’s going on?”

Lou shook her head, swallowing her aggravation. “Nothing to worry about. You finish that geometry assignment?”

“Yeah, but I had to call someone for help on that last problem. Hey, is Way okay?” Lori’s curls bobbed as she glanced at the closed bedroom door behind her. Her sister had light brown hair, blue eyes and a sweet disposition, and though Lori often sniped with her older brother, she worshipped him.

Lou shook her head, locked the front door and set the security system. “Not if I kill him for being stupid.”

“What happened?” Her sister sank onto the worn sofa and grabbed a quilted throw pillow. “You need to talk about it, Lou? Can I help you with anything?”

“No, but will you double-check you have all your homework packed up so I don’t have to bring anything to you tomorrow?” Lori had turned fifteen last month, and since then, had tried to maintain a very adult-like demeanor. She asked to set up the bills online, used her babysitting money for a few groceries and jockeyed to become Lou’s sounding board on everything from work to dealing with their wayward brother. In one way it was amusing, in another almost a relief to have another person to lean on, even if it was an absentminded fifteen-year-old. “He’s under a lot of pressure and looking for a way to blow off steam. No need to worry. Everything’s fine.”

Lori picked at the stitches on the pillow. “Things are going to change. I heard about that ULBR coach being at school this morning. Waylon’s a good player and everyone’s going to want him to go to their school. I don’t want him to leave, Lou.”

“Well,” Lou said, picking up a throw blanket, folding it and tucking it away in the hollow ottoman. She also picked up a few soda cans and gum wrappers, tidying the house as was her habit every night before she went to bed. “I can understand not wanting things to change, but that’s how life is. It moves whether we want it to or not. But we have to remember, these programs wanting your brother is a good thing. Most guys only dream about what Waylon has.”

“What if I don’t want it anymore?”

Lou turned around to see her brother standing in the hall doorway, both hands braced against the door frame. He looked big…and sort of sad. “You no longer want to play football?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I’m tired of it. Maybe I’m sick of being the school’s hero—everybody watching me, examining my grades, timing my runs. Maybe I want to be normal.”

Lou tossed the matching throw pillow onto the couch next to her sister—maybe a little harder than necessary. “Well, normal isn’t going out drinking and destroying other people’s property. It’s not lying to your family. Or failing American history tests. None of those things you’re doing are normal, Way.”

“Whatever,” he said, walking past her toward the kitchen.

So he was going to give her attitude after coming home in a cop car? No freaking way was he getting away with acting like a shit. Lou followed him into the kitchen. “What is your problem, Waylon? You’re close to getting everything you wanted and you’re trying to throw it away.”

He opened the refrigerator, pulled out the milk and took a swig straight from the carton because he knew it ticked her off. “Nothing’s wrong, and you don’t know what I want. No one ever asked me what I want. Maybe I don’t want to play football in college. I may not even go to college.”

“The hell you aren’t.” Lou walked over and plucked the carton from his hand. “And stop drinking from the carton. It’s gross.”

“You can’t make me go to college, and you can’t make me play football. I spend day and night lifting weights, doing cardio and running drills. That doesn’t leave me time for anything else except homework and bed. Think I want to live that way? With no fun in my life?”

Lou tilted her head. “Oh, so you want to have fun?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Well, then, let’s have fun.” She spun toward the purse she’d set on the kitchen desk and yanked it up. “Here, I’ll give you a twenty and you run to the Handi-mart for beer. Hey, Lori, put on music and call some friends. I’ll score the pot so we can all get high and drunk and trash the house Mom and Dad worked so hard to build. I’ll probably lose my job, but you two can drop out of school to work at a fast-food joint. We’ll just party until we lose the house and have to live in Dad’s truck. Come on, guys, it’ll be fun. Waylon needs fun.”

“I don’t like beer,” Lori said, appearing in the doorway, looking nervous. “I personally think fun is overrated.”

Waylon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sounds good to me.”

“It would. You don’t have the sense God gave a goat.” Lou jerked the fridge open and shoved the milk carton back on its shelf. She actually thought about grabbing a wooden spoon from kitchen tool canister and spanking Waylon’s butt for being such a turd. How dare he casually toss away the gift he’d been given? How dare he try to ruin everything they’d been working toward?

What gave him the freakin’ right to rip away all their dreams just because he felt a little pressure? The kid had no idea what pressure was.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped back, bumping up against the cabinets she and Lori had painted last summer. Okay, Lou. Stay calm. Don’t lose your temper. This is what parents everywhere do every day. Be the adult.

“You don’t need the sense God gave a goat to man the fries at the Pit Stop.” Waylon leaned against the fridge and gave her a long stare. She wished she could decipher his intent like she once could. Maybe he was being contrary, pressing her buttons for the hell of it. He crossed his arms, mimicking her, and she noted he’d grown nearly as big as the refrigerator he cleaned out daily, but his eyes looked scared.

“In all seriousness, Waylon, I understand. It’s spring, you’ll be seventeen next month and life hasn’t been easy for any of us since you starting getting all this attention.” She paused and tried to summon the calm demeanor her father had always maintained with her when she flipped out as a teenager. She needed to make Waylon feel she was on his side. “But you have to use that spongy matter between your ears when it comes to your future.”

“Things feel too heavy. I can’t handle all this shit, Lou.”

She started to correct his language, but the anguish in his voice had her figuratively biting her tongue. “You do have a say-so in your life, Way. If you don’t want to play football in college, fine. I can live with you never picking up a football again…but can you?”

His hazel eyes shifted away from her as the impact of her words crashed into him. “No, I love when I’m on the field, just me and the guy I gotta beat. But this whole recruiting thing has me feeling out of control already.”

She nodded. It had her feeling the same way, especially after the incident with Abram Dufrene and the realization the process was only going to get more intense. College recruiting was a science and her brother was on several programs’ radars. That meant soon there would not be just letters in the mailbox and invitations to specialty camps, but there would be visits, evaluations, weekly phone calls and immense emotional warfare waged on them all. Several years ago, the thought of Waylon being courted by the largest football programs in the nation sounded exciting. Now it felt like another layer, heavy on them, one more thing to yank their chains and deliver conflict in their lives. “I know. It’s going to be wonderful, and it’s going to be horrible, but that doesn’t take away the fact you are something special and have an opportunity to become something spectacular.”

He just looked at her. “That doesn’t really help.”

“Well, how about one night a week, we make a point to sit down and have dinner together? No phones, no friends, no last-minute activities. Lately we’ve all been going in different directions and need time to regroup. Mom and Dad used to make sure we sat down and talked at least once a week over dinner, so maybe we should start that tradition again.”

“Can we order pizza?” Lori asked.

“You don’t like my special spaghetti sauce?”

“No offense, Lou, but your talents don’t lie in the kitchen.” Waylon finally cracked a smile, revealing the boy he’d always been—a charming, easygoing prankster. Here was the brother she’d been looking for over the last few weeks.

Thank God, because Waylon was really starting to scare her. If he didn’t want to play football, he wouldn’t get a scholarship. Lou hadn’t thought of a contingency plan, but she’d be damned if she had to put off college for herself any longer than she had to. It was going to be bad enough being a twenty-nine-year-old freshman.

She banked her fear and rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll spring for pizza once a week, starting tomorrow night.”

Waylon disappeared, and she heard Lori call out a good-night. Lou wiped crumbs off the counter and loaded the dishwasher, hoping her plan worked. Years ago, the complication of raising her siblings lay in last-minute runs to get posterboard or wanting a certain kind of cool shirt. Now her brother and sister were at the stage where their actions affected the rest of their lives.

Not easy being a pseudo parent when you hadn’t signed up for it in the first place.

As Lou flicked the fluorescent light off above the sink, it hit her that she hadn’t even addressed the broken window and drinking problem. Nor had she talked about Cy Holland and his less-than-savory influence.




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