Just a Little White Lie(37)
And the Gulf Coast fiasco. What if he found out she had been involved in that? He ran his fingers through his hair. He had lots of questions and no answers.
His insides felt like they had when he’d covered his tamales in habañero sauce. How had he gotten into this mess? And how did he get out of it?
His phone rang. Thirty seconds into the call, he decided he hadn’t hit rock-bottom yet. Things could still get worse. And had.
Chapter Twelve
Lucinda Darling, socialite and entrepreneur, hadn’t washed many dishes in her life. Lucy, runaway bride, seemed to be making a career of it. Dirty dishes dumped haphazardly in the sink didn’t seem to faze Jake in the least. They drove her to insanity. She liked neat. Clean. Organized. So, figuratively and literally, she rolled up her sleeves and washed the knife and plate he had used for his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich along with his half-empty coffee cup.
The sharp rap on the front door startled a quick squeal from her. She jerked, sloshing water onto her gauzy top. A top meant for tropical beaches and lazy days, not housework. Another visitor. Oh, joy! The second rap was immediate, more insistent. She could hardly wait to see who this was! Had she really thought life in a small town would be boring? How wrong could one person be?
Laughing at herself, she dried her hands on a daisy-splattered dishtowel that was a definite candidate for the ragbag and tugged open the door. She stood frozen, one hand on the door knob, the other in midair.
She’d heard people talk about having all the blood drain from them, of feeling ready to keel over, and always thought them melodramatic. She’d been wrong. So wrong. Again. Because right at this moment, she understood the feeling perfectly. Every drop of blood in her veins seemed to knock the others out of the way in the rush to exit her body.
Donald Kimball. On Jake’s front porch.
Emotions pummeled her. Shock. Disbelief. Dismay. Revulsion.
Her ex-fiancé, meticulous as always, wore a charcoal suit, a crisply pressed white shirt, with a gray-and-red-banded tie. And an expression as dark as any storm cloud Lucinda had ever seen.
Without invitation he pressed past her into the living room, his gaze taking in every minute detail. Seeing it through his eyes, she recognized how shabby the couch looked with its faded maroon pillows. A picture hung crookedly beside Jake’s beloved flat-screen TV. A half-empty glass of sweet tea sat on the 1950s-style end table by the recliner.
Home. More than anywhere she’d ever been.
And she knew without a doubt that Donald would dis it. That he’d verbally belittle and ridicule it.
He didn’t disappoint.
“You’ve really hit rock-bottom, Lucinda. This place isn’t fit for a dog.” The toe of his shiny wingtip kicked at a sun-streaked, hand-braided throw rug. “Get your things. I’d like to make the Georgia/Florida line before we stop for the night.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” His blue eyes impaled her. “Despite all this…” He waved dismissively, indicating the room, the house, the situation. “Despite all the press and gossip, I’m willing to pick up where we were. Marry you. We can issue a press release—”
She took a step back. “You jerk! You pompous donkey! Donald, read my lips.” She pointed at them. “We’re through. There is no you and me.”
“Of course there is.”
Her mouth dropped open. What had she been thinking to get mixed up with this arrogant stuffed shirt? “I am not going back with you. I’m not even walking across the street with you. I have a few vacation days left, and I’m taking them. You can tell my father I’ll be home next week. Not before. And it won’t be to walk down the aisle with you.”
Donald glowered at her, his complexion mottled. “You’re being childish.”
“Childish?” She fought for control. Felt it slipping, dug in and held on by her fingernails. Her voice remained calm, quiet. “Is that what you call not putting up with my fiancé being unfaithful—in church—on our wedding day?”
He didn’t once break eye contact. “I intend to marry you, Lucinda. If you refuse, understand that I will sue you for breach of contract.”
“You have got to be kidding!”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” He tipped his head. “Who actually saw Becca and me do anything inappropriate?”
“Her dress was on backward when she came outside,”
“Not my problem she can’t dress herself. I’m not her keeper. Anyway, she’ll swear she was with one of the groomsmen—all friends of mine, if you get my drift.”
“You’re despicable.”