Just a Little White Lie(47)
She grinned, instantly liking Marsha. “Yes. Italian and handmade. But satin rather than leather.”
Marsha sighed. “Take a lot of tip money to pay for them, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, it would,” Lucinda replied honestly.
Marsha elbowed her. “Well, between you, me and the bedpost, that Donald Kimball looked like a pantywaist. You’re better off with a real man.”
“A man like Jake?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Marsha said. “His kisses are so hot, they’ll peel the paint right off the side of a barn.”
Jake rolled his eyes, and she dug an order pad out of her pocket. “What’ll ya have?”
They ordered, and she sauntered off in the direction of the bar.
“Bring us a bowl of pretzels too, would you?” Jake called after her.
Without turning around, she waved an acknowledging hand.
“So, Jake.” Lucinda studied him. “Guess you took Miss Marsha for a test drive, huh? She seems to be pretty familiar with your skills in, ah, certain areas.”
He laid his head against the back of the booth. “Nah. But she and Wanda Sue were pretty tight in high school, so—” He spread his hands.
“Ah, I see. A little girl talk. A few shared secrets.”
Their drinks arrived. Jake clinked his glass against hers and leaned back. “Something like that.”
The band wound up their song, the final notes drifting into the air. Jake looked over at her and grinned. He opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the drummer on stage.
“Hey, Jake,” he hollered. “Shorty needs a break. Why don’t you come on up and fill in?”
“You play?” Lucinda asked. “Or sing?”
Jake looked sheepish. “A little of both.” Then he turned his attention to the band. “Not tonight, guys.”
She prodded him with her fingers. “Go ahead. Go do your thing. Give Shorty a break. I’d love to hear this.”
He raised a brow. “You sure?”
“Absolutely.” She picked up her glass of white wine, toasted him and took a sip. “Go get ’em, tiger.”
“Okay.” He stood and walked to the stage.
Actually, it was more of a swagger. He knew she was watching, and boy, was he laying it on thick.
Her mouth dropped open when Jake took Shorty’s guitar. “Shorty” had to be six foot eight and three hundred pounds.
Marsha walked by.
“That’s Shorty?” Lucinda asked.
“Yep. Smart-mouthed friends named him that in junior high. He always was a little on the tall side.”
“A little?”
“He’s a real sweet thing.” Marsha paused, glass in hand to stare at the stage.
No, Lucinda amended. She was staring at Shorty, longing written all over her face.
“Does he know?”
“Know what?” Marsha cracked her gum.
“That you’ve got a thing for him.”
Marsha’s mouth drooped, but she didn’t miss a beat. “Nope. I’m just one of the guys to him.”
Lucinda thought about Marsha’s earlier comment, that it would take a lot of tips to buy satin wedding shoes. She thought about how hard Marsha worked for those tips. How hard the shrimpers in the Gulf worked to make payments to her father. How easy her whole life had been.
Perhaps it was time she paid back a little.
“Maybe we can change that.”
Marsha sent her a bemused smile as she walked away to deliver a round of beers to the table in the back, and Lucinda turned her attention to the stage.
Jake sat on the edge of a stool, undid his cuffs and rolled his shirtsleeves halfway up, exposing golden-tanned arms, his sensible watch glinting under the stage lights. Sexy. The man was flat-out sexy.
He started strumming the guitar, warming up. The band picked up the melody. He stepped up to the mic, found her eyes with his, and she was lost.
The words to Keith Urban’s “You Look Good in My Shirt” flowed over, around, and into her. A knock-out punch.
When the last chord died away, he spoke right to her. “That was for you, sugar.” He nodded in her direction. “Y’all, my fiancée, Lucy Darling.”
A lot of hoots and hollers followed, a lot of good-natured teasing. She smiled, but her brain was numb. This whole charade had been for his grandmother’s benefit. So why was he announcing it to the whole town?
The week was whizzing by. Then what would he do? What would she do?
Oh God! She felt—too much. Entirely too much.
Jake had absolutely melted her with that song. Words, she told herself. Just words. Yet she felt more, so much more with Jake than she ever had with Donald. With any man.
What would it be like to have him touch her? Kiss her? To lie naked in bed with him?