Almost Had You Read online

  “I know the place,” Mercer says, brows raised. “That’s fantastic. Who knew the Ice Queen had a heart of gold?” He smirks. I don’t take offense to the nickname that was pinned on me sophomore year of high school. Then he tells me about a place in Cape Cod, next to his home base, that offers the same services, and tells me I should get in touch with them because they may be able to help me expand the services we offer. Mercer also said they may have some ideas on where I can find grants. Not only is it nice he’s offering to help me with my passion project, it’s hot beyond all measure. Draining my glass, Mercer reaches over the bar to grab the bottle and goes to refill my glass.

  I hold out my hand to stop him. “I agreed to one glass.”

  He gives me puppy dog eyes. A look completely out of place for Mercer Ballentine. He’s all hard planes and rugged handsome. He’s the opposite of the suited, coifed men I date. “I’m not worth two drinks?” he asks, batting his lashes. “I bought the entire bottle for you and I just got home from war. Two drinks seem the mannerly thing to do.”

  “The whole bottle for me, war hero?” I press a palm on my chest. Mercer’s eyes follow the movement and catch there. “I have to drive. I will take it with me for later when I get home if you bought it for me though.” I bat my lashes back at him, exaggerating. “Using the whole war hero thing softens me up, I guess.”

  He laughs. “That’s fair. I don’t like this stuff anyway.” Mercer pulls a face as he reaches for the bottle and cork, and puts it on the bar in front of me.

  “Now I’ll look like an alcoholic carrying this out to my car. It’s an open container.”

  Mercer shrugs. “I’ll walk you out and put it in the trunk for you.”

  I want to move into different territory—conversation that isn’t about myself. “Tell me about it. Your time overseas. Is it awful? Does the news get it right?”

  His gaze turns down to the worn-out wood bar, and his shoulders slump. “As awful as you’d imagine, ma’am.”

  “I’m sorry, that’s impolite of me to ask. I’m not sure what casual conversation looks like if we can’t talk about work. We talked about mine already.” I swallow hard.

  “We can talk about your work more,” he offers. “Or how about your dating life. All the bachelors you mentioned.”

  I laugh. “It’s just as awful as you’d imagine, sir.”

  “Sir, huh? I like that,” Mercer fires back, gaze mirthful—a palpable longing flashing across his features. “Tell me about it.”

  I cross my ankles on the other side and shake my head. Not what I want to talk about, but isn’t this better than forcing him to think of war? “I grew up here, you know that, obviously, but even I see how ludicrous the whole process of finding a suitable husband works down here. My mama lists off their career accomplishments like it’s supposed to make me weak in the knees for ‘em. She told me last week that a man she’s fixin’ me up with had good hair. Good hair, Mercer. That is a qualifier in her quest to seal my martial fate. It’s been this way for years and I don’t see any sign of it stopping.” I pause, debating how far I want to get into my personal circus. “Last year, I almost accepted a proposal from a nice businessman who lived in the city. It was our second date; we’d never even kissed! I knew he was gay within the first ten minutes of our first date.” I laugh, remembering the odd, telling conversation. “It would have gotten my parents off my back and I could protect his secret in favor of being able to live my life how I want.” It was more than tempting, most importantly, it would get me off my parents’ property. “A marriage based on love seems like a myth.”

  I clear my throat and signal for the bartender. When he stops in front of me, I ask him for a water. Mercer barrages me with questions because he is shocked by my honesty. I answer, trying to keep my tone light. Then he asks, “How many men have you dated, Clover?”

  “Since when?” I tease. “Since you left? Since I was deemed an eligible bachelorette?”

  He stares at me, his eyes wide. “That many?” He apologizes, explaining he doesn’t mean the question in an offensive way.

  “Dating doesn’t mean the same here as it does elsewhere, you know that, right? When I tell you I’ve dated over fifty men in the past four years, that doesn’t mean I’ve dated fifty men in the past four years.” I drink my water as quickly as is courteous because I know I need to leave here as soon as possible. My stomach is in knots and I don’t want to give my secrets away. Not to Mercer.

  He smirks, full lips pressing to one side. “It so happens I need dating advice from a pro. You might be the ticket,” Mercer drawls. “Willing to help a man out of practice?”

  “Oh? What kind of advice?” My heart drops from my chest to my feet. All in one fell swoop. This is why he asked me for a drink. He needs something. That’s the way it works in a small town so I shouldn’t be surprised. The sting is real.

  “There’s this woman I’m interested in,” Mercer says, glancing away then back to meet my gaze. I look where he was looking.

  I widen my eyes. “Oh, good heavens, is it Tannie? You want me to help you? She’s my best friend, but she’s all hung up and spun out over her ex, Joe.” I look away. “But you wouldn’t want to date her, would you? That’s not what you’re asking. You want a hookup. You’re leaving soon.” I steeple my fingertips on the bar. “You’re not the dating kind. You’ll hurt her.”

  “Are you finished concocting a whole scenario from start to finish yet?” he asks. “I don’t want a hookup.”

  I gasp. “You do want to date her?”

  He chuckles. “Seeing as it seems there are a few different definitions of that word, yes. Not Tannie, though.”

  “Oh,” I reply, adjusting my feet on the bar stool rung. “Who then?”

  “This other woman. She’s sort of a player, likes really expensive white wine, and has the best smile for five counties.”

  My stomach spins. “Only five counties?” I say.

  Mercer’s lips pull into a big grin. “Maybe six.” He drinks the rest of his wine and winces after he swallows. “She’s hard to read. I don’t know if she doesn’t want to date any men, or just the kind of men she’s dated up until now are awful.”

  My whole body buzzes. “Maybe she’ll know it when she sees it?”

  “She’s seen it. She’s known him her entire life. It would be complicated though because my job takes me away for long periods of time and her life is settled in another place far away from where I work.”

  I slam my hand on the bar. “Are you playing coy with me, Mercer Ballentine?”

  “Do I look like a man who plays coy?” He drags his tongue across the bottom of his front teeth. My gaze tracks the movement.

  “You look like a man who would do whatever it takes to get something he wants. Out with it then. I have to get on the road.”

  “Will you go out on a date with me?” He says it louder than he should have and it draws curious glares from patrons around the bar.

  I panic, trying to avoid eye contact. “I can’t. I’m not that type of woman.” I make sure my reply is just as loud so they hear my answer to his absurd question.

  “You’re already having a drink with me. This was our first date. Will you go on a second date with me? I should have phrased my question better,” Mercer says, his cheeks pink from the unwanted attention or from being shot down, I can’t be certain.

  “We are friends grabbing a drink,” I assert, standing from the bar stool. “Thank you for the drink. I’m glad that you’re home safely.”

  He stands, because it’s polite. “That’s it then? A drink and you’re leaving.”

  Breathing deeply for a couple beats, I brush the sides of my dress down. Mercer watches. I like that he watches. I need to ditch this place now. Lowly, so only he hears, I say, “You do not want to get mixed up with me right now. I’m not the woman you think I am.”

  He leans in, his lips grazing my ear as he bends to say, “I know. That’s exactly why I want you.”

  Str
aightening my back, I flash a polite grin when he leans back up to meet my eyes. “No, thank you.” My reply is completely monotone. I don’t believe it, why would he?

  Mercer shakes his head, small smile playing on his lips. “G’night, ma’am. Drive safely.” He grabs the wine on the bar top and hands it to me.

  My face turns red, I’m sure of it. “Walk me out and place the bottle in my trunk like you said you would.”

  His knowing laugh rings out victorious. For now.

  Chapter Three

  ___________________________________

  Clover

  IGNORING THE WHISPERS and stares as I make my way to the door is impossible. I saw Tannie whispering something to Sue-Ellen Kline. She’ll pay for that later. Even if she’s innocent. Mercer keeps a safe distance but opens the door for me. There’s no way his manners would slip for a bout of gossip. That’s one thing that’s similar to other men I’ve dated. They aren’t galaxies apart. Maybe just a light-year or two.

  “It’s a beautiful night,” Mercer says, sucking in a deep breath of the muggy night.

  I make a guttural, unladylike noise. “It’s hell on earth out here.”

  He chuckles as he follows me to my car. “I know a thing or two about hell on Earth ma’am, and this ain’t it. This is paradise.”

  Glancing over my shoulder I see Mercer holding his arms out wide, the dadgum wine bottle clutched in one hand grinning like a fool. “Put the wine bottle down,” I hiss, looking around the empty lot. “You look like Lucky Louie on a Saturday night.” Greenton’s favorite drunk always seems to get booze lucky on the weekends.

  Mercer leans against my car, one arm steadying his body when I open the driver’s side door. “Are you okay to drive?” he asks, eyes flicking up and down my body—as if that holds the answer to his question.

  “I’m fine. You know us Greenton women.”

  He offers a lopsided grin. “I do.”

  “Listen, Mercer—” I say, sliding into the car, ready to shoot him down again.

  He cuts me off. “Pop the trunk. I’ll put the wine in and you can be on your way.”

  A sudden realization hits. “Just give it here,” I say, reaching over and taking the bottle from him. I wedge it in my backseat. He can’t see what’s in my trunk. “I’m heading straight home anyway.” Another lie. They flow so easily these days.

  “You’re going to say you don’t want to go out with me again, and I’m not taking no for an answer,” Mercer says, his accent growing thicker by the second. “Let’s just get to the point where you agree. What do you say?”

  “Awful forward of you,” I reply, smoothing my hair. The scent of new car fills my nostrils—a welcome distraction from Mercer’s soap.

  He shrugs once and puts his other hand on the door of my car. Sighing, he says, “This place. There’s something about this place that makes me happy. I have three weeks to make the most of it.” I meet his gaze and it’s a mistake. All the things I’m trying to shove down, including rebuttals, get lost in the swirling haze of desire.

  Swallowing hard, I find myself. “I’m sorry, Mercer. I’m not the person to do that with.”

  “Who said anything about doing things?” He winks. I turn to look out my windshield and silence envelops me. “You are obviously searching for something. Why not give a look with me?”

  “The thing is, I know exactly who I am, Mercer. I am not some two-bit floozy who you can use and toss aside. I am Clover Wellsley. The mayor’s daughter.”

  Mercer leans away. “And here I was thinking you were your own person.” There’s a challenge blazing in his eyes. It makes my heart pound. “My mistake. Have a nice night, Clover Wellsley, mayor’s daughter.”

  Gripping my steering wheel, I take a deep breath. “We all can’t run around here doing whatever it is we feel like. There are repercussions for actions. Thank you for the wine, and the company, but I have to go now.” Polite yet firm. It works like a charm ninety percent of the time. The other ten is reserved for indignant, Southern rage.

  He tips his head, that infuriating cowboy gesture, and smiles wide. “Drive safe, ma’am.” Mercer closes my door. He doesn’t slam it. He’s a perfect gentleman. And he’s also right. Starting up my car, I watch him walk back into DR. Slamming my eyes shut, I yell out a cuss, “Oh, Sherlock!” I back out of my space and pull onto the road. I’m not going home, though. Not yet.

  Fixing my eyes on the route out of town, I drive toward it, minding the speed limit with my music louder than fifteen. I’m such a rebel. Why did he have to be the ninety percent? I’d feel better right now if I got to scream at someone.

  A sign.

  That’s what I asked for, what I’m waiting for. Mercer Ballentine could be that sign, right? In fact, he’s flashing brighter than anything I’ve seen my entire life. There are a few weird things I do when I’m trying to decide if something is a good idea. Making lists is one of those things. Very detailed and very neat lists with pros on one side and cons on the other. After nine minutes and fifteen seconds of making a mental list, I realize I’m hung up on things that don’t matter to me. The negative column is filled with things that matter to the life I was born into. To my parents. I’m painfully aware that my unhappiness and the unsettling feeling of not belonging is because of it.

  I don’t see the pickup truck pulling onto the main road because it’s coming from a hidden drive. As my thoughts wandered and I traveled out of town, my speed ratcheted up, and I don’t think I can stop in time. I’m plowing down the pavement toward the bumper when I chance a glance in my rearview at the bright headlights rushing toward me. Light. That’s all I see a moment before the car clips the back end of my car and sends me spinning into the easement, and then a tree.

  Panicking once my car comes to a stop, I see the car that hit me speeding off in the distance. He must have passed the truck that pulled out in front of me. I touch my chest, my head, my legs, and realize I am perfectly fine. Rolling my neck and surveying my surroundings, I start thanking God. Over and over at a manic pace. “I could have died,” I wail out, trying the handle of my door when steam begins to rise from my crunched-up hood that’s melded to a tree. “Farm truck. They’re going to kill me,” I whisper when the facts settle in.

  Another set of headlights beam into my face from my window that is now facing the road. “Great. Please don’t let it be a cop. Please don’t let it be Harry if it is a cop.” Clenching my teeth, I hold my breath. Harry is the Sheriff of Greenton and he’s in my daddy’s pocket. He will call him the second he sees it’s me. I need time to get myself out of this mess—to think. Squinting my eyes, I try my best to see through the darkness. It’s a white truck, not a cruiser. I let out a long, haggard breath. Just someone stopping to help, no doubt. Removing my heels, I push on my door with my feet until it unwillingly creaks open. Waving my arms as I step out of the car to signal, I am okay, but yes, I need help. Promptly, and without an ounce of grace, I slip in a gloppy mud puddle and fall face first. It rained like cats and dogs yesterday. It turns this place into a big swamp, and I’m today’s casualty.

  Leaning up and climbing to my knees, I’m a dark shade of horse manure. Two large figures hop out of the truck and jog toward me. It’s Mercer and Bentley, flashlights shining at me like I’m a deer about to get flayed.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I scream, wiping mud from my face, but only managing to apply more. “This is the sign?” I shout at the sky, shaking a fist. “This? Out of all things?”

  Mercer approaches first. “Are you hurt?”

  Southern ladies keep their cool in situations such as these. In all situations and occurrences actually, but the hysteria creeps in and replaces all of that. “Am I okay? That’s what you’re askin’? Look at me, Mercer Ballentine. Do I look okay? Turn off the trucking flashlight, I don’t want to go blind tonight, too!”

  He shakes his head. “No ma’am, you don’t look okay. Not one bit. We saw the accident. The car that didn’t stop. We saw you spinning
, and I have to say it’s a miracle you’re okay. Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Bentley is looking at me like I’m a rabid animal. Fair. It’s what I feel like right now. “I have medical training. I can help.” He holds one palm out, like he’s waiting for me to charge like a bull. The flashlight is aimed at my steaming car. There’s a weird smell that I assume is my poor car crying out for help.

  “I’m not hurt, but I’m not okay, Mercer.” He walks toward me, still holding out a hand. His face is stoic, serious. I change my tune. “I’m okay. I’m okay.” I repeat it one more time.

  Mercer tilts his head, inquisitively. “You said you’re not okay in the same breath you said you were okay.”

  This is the sign, right? I’m so sick of bottling it up. I’m running with it. “I’m not in a quilting club,” I blurt.

  Mercer widens his eyes, swallows hard and says, “Okay. You don’t need to know how to quilt anyway. Can’t machines do that these days?” They can, but that’s beside the point. He closes the distance between us, stepping into the mud puddle carefully. He takes my mud-caked hand in his and pulls me away from my car. Mercer uses his thumb to remove mud from my lip. His touch ignites an ache deep inside me. The signs keep coming.

  “I graduated from beauty school. Beauty school. I want to do hair. That’s been my dream my entire life. My parents think I’ve been in a quilting club all this time. Oh my goodness, I’ve been lying for so long I don’t know where my truths are anymore.” The tears come.

  Bentley is on the phone; I hear him calling someone to get my car towed. “Don’t call the cops, Bent! There’s an open bottle of wine in my car.” I suck in a deep breath. “I’m a fugitive. A wild fugitive who doesn’t belong here. I don’t belong.” My breaths come quicker and I inhale the thick smell of the dirt coating my body.