Dirty Scoundrel(7)

I glance over at the counter, and Natalie's counting postcards, and then  making notes in a ledger. She hasn't bothered to look up at us. Her  expression is blank, and I don't know if it's because of that monster of  a mom that just left, or because she realizes it's me. Maybe she just  doesn't give a shit at all if she's driving customers off.

Doesn't matter. I'm not leaving until I've had my say. I've been bottling this up for weeks now, ever since Eddie's funeral.

Actually, I guess I've been bottling this since the night she told me I was dirt beneath her feet.

That's fine. All of this is fine. Cold, emotionless Natalie is the one I  can deal with. I rub the R on my knuckles one more time and step  forward, my jaw set.
         

     



 


Natalie

Fat bitch. The words roll around in my head, ruining what little good  mood I had. I'm used to the customers being cranky when they're told  they can't meet Chap Weston. I've been argued with plenty over that one,  but "fat bitch" is a new one. It's not like I owed her an explanation,  either. My dad's having a bad dementia day, sorry. He can't sit with you  so your kids can crawl all over his eighty-seven-year-old lap for a  crappy photo.

Sad thing is, my dad would sit with them. He loves having his photo  taken and loves meeting fans. It's just that today, he wouldn't know  where he was or who anyone is, and I don't like for that sort of thing  to get out to the public. Pride is everything to my dad. If his name was  ever "sullied" in his eyes, it would destroy him. I've always been very  conscious of that.

And, well, damn. I'm not that fat, I don't think. At least, I hope not. I  mentally stab a fork into the rude woman's face. Of course she'd had to  say that in front of other customers. Figures. I've ignored them for  long enough, trying to compose myself. Nothing else I can do about it,  so I glance up from the ledger where I'm pretending to take inventory  and paste on my "customer service" smile. "Welcome to . . ."

The words die in my throat.

I know that guy standing in front of me. It doesn't matter that he's got  a big bushy beard, or that his hair's overgrown and sticking out from  underneath a ratty baseball cap. Doesn't matter that he's wearing an  equally ratty T-shirt, and it sure doesn't matter that I haven't seen  him in seven years.

I'd know Clay Price anywhere.

My heart pounds at the sight of him.

God, he looks good. His shoulders are broader than ever, and even though  he's scruffy with that beard, he's got a tan and his eyes are that same  intense green they ever were. I can't stop staring at him as he takes a  step toward the little counter. What's he doing back here? I'd heard  that he'd left our small hometown a few days after I'd dumped him and  he'd never returned.

But here he is, looking delicious and so close I can touch him.

And . . . a customer just called me "fat bitch" in front of him. Oh god.

I can feel my face heating with shame. I've packed on a few pounds since  high school, when I struggled with constant diets thanks to my  overbearing stepmothers. I've decided that I prefer eating to starving,  but as he gazes at me, I wish I was still that skinny size-two instead  of a size eighteen. "C-Clay," I stammer out. "Oh my god." I glance  behind him, and there's a dark-haired, dark-eyed guy about the same age  with a bored look on his face. One of his brothers, maybe, judging by  the way he holds himself. "I didn't know you were in town."

"Driving through." His voice is as sultry and slow as I remember, and I  can feel parts of me warming up that haven't felt warm since he left.  "Surprised you're still in town."

Him and me both. But I guess he doesn't know what happened after he  left. "Yeah," I say lamely. A thousand excuses spring to mind, but all  that screams through my head is the fact that I never texted him.

Never, never. He still thinks I hate him. That I never wanted to marry  him. That I was fine with him walking away. I want to scream at the  awfulness of it.

"Heard this place was a museum."

"Yeah." I grab a postcard from the turnstile, my hands shaking, and hold  it out to him. "Want to buy an admission ticket? They're five dollars.  Or a cookie? Oatmeal-walnut."

He just stares at me with that intense gaze. I feel like an idiot. I'm  offering him cookies and a ticket to view my dad's furniture. He must  think I'm insane.

But he's polite enough. Clay glances around, then back at me. "Nah. Just  wanted to come by and see if it was true you were here."

My mouth goes dry and I lower the postcard. I'm not sure what that  means. "If I'm here?" I echo, confused. "You were looking for me?"

Clay nods, and then glances at his hand. He rubs his knuckles absently.  "Seem to recall you saying you were gonna leave for Stanford."

Oh god. I remember that. Funny how it seems so long ago. He hasn't  forgotten, though. My stomach gives a queasy little lurch. "Long story."

"I'll bet." He studies me for a long moment, and then a hint of a smile  curves his mouth. It's not his regular smile, with its wide,  white-teeth-displaying mischievousness. This one is something else, and  it throws me for a loop. So much that I almost miss what he's saying.  "I'll be back tomorrow with a proposal for you, if you're interested."         

     



 

And before I can ask what that means, he turns and walks back out of the gift shop.





Chapter Four



Clay

"You didn't ask her?" Knox states, giving me a curious look as we head back to the limo. "Why not?"

"Need a night," I tell him. I rub my knuckles, over and over again. I  don't feel ruthless. Hard to feel ruthless when she looks so pretty and  soft and vulnerable. Fuck, now in addition to my regular dreams about  Nat, I'm going to be dreaming about fucking those big tits of hers.  Seeing her again was the best and worst thing that has ever happened to  me.

She didn't look like I expected. Gift shop didn't, either. The whole  placed reeked of desperation and of someone that's been forgotten, and  that's not something I associated with Nat. I remember her from high  school, quiet and aloof in the crowd, always dressed in demure designer  sweaters and wearing elegant jewelry, like she was going to a garden  party instead of class.

And I remember how much she liked kissin'.

Somehow if I'd have seen her with two kids hanging off her skirts and as  the trophy wife of some small-town lawyer, that'd been all right by me.  I could have offered my shitty deal and been done with her. If she'd  have accepted it, I'd have known right then that she wasn't the person I  remembered. And if she didn't, well, it'd be done one way or another.

Maybe that's why I didn't say anything.

Because I'm not ready to give up on my dream of Natalie Weston. She  shouldn't say yes to the deal I'm going to offer. If she does, I'll know  Nat's changed and I can use her and get her out of my head.

That's what being ruthless is all about: using someone until I'm done with them.

It's what she did to me seven years ago, after all. She was fine with me  as a boyfriend until Stanford came on the scene, and then she decided  she was too good for me.

Who's too good for who now, I wonder?



Natalie

I stare after his wide shoulders as he leaves, and it's not until the  doorbell jingles to signify that someone's left that I race to one of  the windows and peer out, watching as he exits. He's casually talking to  his brother, and as I watch, they get into a waiting limo.

A limo. Holy shit. Where did that come from?

What did he mean by a proposal for me?

Like . . . a wedding proposal? My heart thumps wildly. Surely not. He  must have meant something else. If it was a wedding proposal, would he  have acted so weird about it? Maybe it was business . . . but what could  Clay want with my dad's museum?

"Jenny!" my father bellows from upstairs.

Shit. I reach under the counter and pull out the sign I have made for  such occasions, setting it on the counter. Be right back-we're on the  honor system! If you purchase something, please leave your cash in the  jar. Not that anyone ever does, but I still have hope for humanity. It's  not ideal, but there's no one that can watch the store but me. And  there's no one that can take care of dad but me. Since I can't be in two  places at once . . . it'll have to do.

That done, I race to the back stairs and head up them as fast as my wobbling legs will carry me-

-Right into another warm puddle on the floor. My dad stands in the  upstairs hallway, the back of his robe soaked. "Jenny?" he asks again.  "Where's that damn cat?"



My father has a pretty rotten day. His dementia is worse today than  usual, and when he gets done looking for the cat, he spends a few hours  crying over the loss of my mother, Janelle. It's heartbreaking to hear  his sobs, because sometimes his memories resurface and feel fresh and  new. He's crying like she just died yesterday instead of twenty years  ago, and it rips me apart. I'm torn between staying at his bedside and  racing downstairs to watch over the gift shop. It's a harrowing day, but  I can eventually flip the CLOSED sign and turn the lights off. By that  time, Dad's asleep, I'm mentally worn to shreds, and I'm too tired to  fix myself dinner. Instead, I just snag a couple of the oatmeal-walnut  cookies that didn't sell and head upstairs to my room, my phone in hand.