His Uptown Girl

“Maybe so, but we have to keep what is best for Blakely in mind.”

Margaret sniffed. “I always keep what’s best for Blakely in mind, Eleanor. It takes a village.”

What should have sounded reasonable sounded snide. Margaret liked to be thought a strong Christian woman, a philanthropist, a most judicious person, but beneath her well-moisturized skin was a despot, tripping on her own power and determined to organize the world according to her wishes. Eleanor had learned long ago Margaret got what she wanted.

“I have to go now, Margaret. Pansy has her hands full.”

“Really? I heard you had little business these days. The antiques market isn’t what it used to be,” Margaret said, feigning camaraderie but driving her barbs in all the same. “I’ll give Blakely a call. Bye.”

Eleanor didn’t bother saying goodbye. Just clicked the button to disconnect.

“How’s the devil incarnate?” Pansy asked from the doorway.

“Still alive,” Eleanor said, grabbing her keys. She needed a drink and then maybe a walk down the back of the Target store to shop off the bargain end caps. Retail therapy and booze cured anything. “Can you close for me today? After last night and dealing with family, I need a—”

“Afternoon in bed with a hot guy?” her friend teased.

The image of Dez Batiste popped into Eleanor’s mind. Good gravy, she was deranged to think about the hunky pianist.

But was deranged such a bad thing anymore?

Last night while lying in bed, she had mulled over Dez’s words about seeing life from a new angle, and had decided that she would burst out of her safe box built of tasteful linens and blouses that covered her from throat to waist. Of course midnight decrees looked different in the light of day.

“So order him up,” Eleanor cracked with a smile. “Until then, I’ll console myself with vodka and extra olives.”

* * *

DEZ HAD SPENT the entire morning and half the afternoon working on the tile in the bathrooms, stopping only because he’d run out of black tile. Which was just as well since his stomach growled with the intensity of a wolverine.

Dropping the boxes of alabaster tiles he’d need to return on the bar, Dez brushed off his shirt and searched for his cell phone. Across the street a flash of color caught his eye so he moved toward the newly installed thick-paned glass. Never before had he looked for movement across the street.

But then again never before had he known a beautiful woman that ran an antiques store across from him.

Eleanor Theriot had been on his mind for the past twenty-four hours, and he couldn’t figure out why.

Sure, she was beautiful.

But not his usual type.

In fact, she was about as far from his usual type as possible. His type wore hoodies, motorcycle boots and big earrings. He liked dark, overblown beauties who drank straight from the beer bottle, wanting a good time and little else. Erin had been the grown-up version of this party girl—spoiled, sexy and three years younger than he. She’d been his match, or so he’d thought, until things crumbled beyond repair. He was man enough to shoulder the blame for the demise of their relationship because he never should have tried to hide from himself.

Opening the door, Dez found the flash of color was indeed Eleanor, clad in black pants, a bright green cardigan and high-heeled boots. “Eleanor.”

She turned, her purse over her shoulder, keys in hand.

“Wait up.” He didn’t know why he’d opened the door and called out. Couldn’t think of a good reason to stop her from wherever she was heading other than he wanted to see her...maybe touch her. He definitely wanted to taste her.

Turning, he spied his phone, grabbed it and locked the door before jogging across the street. “Where you headed?”

“For a double martini.”

“That bad of a day?”

“It’s always a bad day when I have to deal with my former mother-in-law.”

“If you’re drinking, I’ll join you,” he said.

She paused as if thinking about it. “Not sure I should be seen consorting with the enemy.”

“Is that what I am?”

She shrugged. “Well, I am the president of the Magazine Merchants Association, and there has been opposition to the nightclub.”

“But the association can’t stop me from opening.”

“True, but we don’t have to like it.”

Did that mean they would cause trouble? He couldn’t see Eleanor clasping a torch and leading villagers armed with pitchforks to the club door. “No, you don’t.”

“Ah, well. I’m heading to the Bulldog.”

“Should I be the designated driver?” He held up his keys.

She shook her head, looking a little trapped. Maybe he shouldn’t press her, but something in him wanted to spend more time with her, wanted to figure out why the attraction was so strong.

Dez put his hand on the passenger door. “It’s smart to know your enemy better, right? So let’s see, I already know you’re divorced and civic-minded.”

She clicked her key fob and the Volvo SUV chirped to life. “Civic-minded? Yes. Divorced? No.”

“Wait, you’re still married?” His hand fell from the door handle.

“No.” She gestured he should climb into the passenger’s seat, waving at the strange dude who owned the stationery shop. “See, I’m already busted.”

He hesitated to open the car door because he drew the line at messing around with married women. Once he’d slept with a barfly he hadn’t known was engaged and it had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

She gazed across the top of the car at him. “You do know I’m widowed?”

“Was I supposed to?”

Pressing her lips together, she shook her head. “My husband was Skeeter Theriot.”

“Skeeter? You don’t look like a Skeeter’s wife.”

“He was a New Orleans Theriot. Actually he was running for the U.S. House of Representatives when his mistress killed him and then herself. You didn’t see it in the papers...for, like, weeks on end?”

For a moment he could only stand and stare. How did one respond to an admission like that? “I don’t pay attention to politics much. Sorry.”

She stood still as a puddle, her face unreadable. “I am, too.”