Lucky Charmed Read online

  She cringed. “Don’t say his name.”

  “Oh, seriously, Mom, he’s not Voldemort.”

  “Once upon a time, he was worse.” She stood up, grunting from the effort.

  So much for avoiding the melodrama.

  I couldn’t go down this path right now. Not ten minutes after seeing him, smelling him, feeling his hands on my skin. I couldn’t talk about him. Maybe he was Voldemort.

  “He ruined our family. He had you all wound up on leaving here and joining the circus,” she said, her hands flailing.

  “Carnival,” I corrected. “And I never said I was doing that.”

  Our plans never made it that far, but if Sully had asked, I would have walked on my hands and barked if that would have kept us together.

  “You were leaving,” she said defensively.

  “I was leaving anyway,” I said, probably a little too harshly. “All I ever wanted to do was leave. Hell, you wanted me to!”

  “For college!”

  “Well, between you and Dean, you both got what you wanted, didn’t you?” I snapped. “I went away to school, then came back forever, attached to this place with a fucking bungee cord.”

  “Watch your mouth,” she said under her breath.

  “You even had that wanderlust as a little girl,” Larry piped in, as if we’d been chatting about vacation plans. “I remember you always drawing me maps of the imaginary places you wanted to go. You’d pin scarves to your clothes and tell people you were a gypsy.”

  I stared at him for a moment, blinking a couple of times to catch up to the spin. He winked at me, and I realized he wasn’t being crazy or senile; he was trying to change the subject and cool the collective jets.

  I chuckled. “I remember that too, Larry. My friends wanted to be models and actresses. I was much more realistic.” I smiled. “Except that I’m still here.” I walked to a cabinet I knew too well, opened it, and pulled out this year’s ledger. “For now.”

  “For now?” Mom piped up. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “I’m going on vacation.”

  She rolled her eyes. Literally. Like a preteen. “Oh, this vacation of yours. Really, Carmen? I mean, you’ve been to Mexico, France, and Jamaica. Actual vacations a lot of people would kill for.”

  I gave her a matter-of-fact look. “Yes.”

  “And now you are renting a car for some ridiculous reason,” she said. “And driving for weeks to no place in particular, coming back at some point, and calling that a vacation?”

  I nodded and shrugged.

  “Yes. Absolutely,” I said. “The best kind ever.”

  “How?” she asked, shaking her head.

  I leaned in. “Because it’ll be an adventure. And I may love it so much, I’ll put a sign on the car that says ‘Attorney On Wheels’ and travel the states.” Okay, I couldn’t really do that, but God, it sounded good.

  She didn’t agree, she just looked at me in horror. My mother never got it. She never got me. She certainly should, given her penchant for needing new jobs and getting so easily bored with the everyday, but it never panned out that way. She could not wrap her head around my need to get out. To experience life. Real life. And not from a tour bus. This road trip vacay had been itching in my blood for some time, and it was finally going to happen. No plans. No reservations. Just get in my car and go. Or—not my car. The convertible I was renting. Because—awesome.

  “That’s dumb, that’s what that is,” she countered. “How would you do work?”

  “Just like I do now,” I lied. “Everything’s online. Everything is done using an iPad and a stylus. Totally doable.”

  Mom shook her head. “It’s reckless. God only knows where you’ll end up, and no one will even know where to look to find your body.”

  “I have GPS on my phone,” I said.

  She gave me a look. “And if your phone dies, too?”

  I shrugged. “I guess the police will have to work a little harder.”

  My mother opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of Tylenol. “You give me a headache, you know that?”

  “Sorry,” I said, holding up the ledger and turning to go. “This will be the year, y’all. The year we put this shit online. I’ll get these back to you by the end of the week.”

  “The end of the week?” she said. “Larry said it normally takes you two days.”

  “No rush,” Larry said, holding up his hands.

  “All that stress on my plate,” I said to her, turning. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Six o’clock!” she called out as I closed the door.

  Chapter Three

  It was like some sort of secret society newsletter went out.

  The Gig is Up! Carmen Knows About Sully!

  In one day, suddenly I was getting Facebook messages, e-mails; people were stopping me at the courthouse to ask my thoughts. Where were all these concerned citizens yesterday? Where was all this unrest and distrust for someone who “snuck in under the radar and fooled everyone” a week or so ago?

  “How is Mayor Crestwell with this new turn of events?” one particularly nosy paralegal whispered to me in the elevator.

  I stared at her until she blinked away, scurrying off at the second floor.

  So much for everything going away with the carnival. And how was the mayor doing, indeed. Had he kept it from me, too? Or was he on the no-tell list as well? I had to assume I would find out in due time, and I needed to try not to stress about being in the spotlight again. God, I hated spotlights.

  I had a lunch appointment with an old client at the Blue Banana Grille, and I decided to head there early and score some extra food before he got there. I was friggin’ starving and didn’t want to look like a ravenous pig. I wanted to choose the diced chicken chef salad and not drool on anything else. Look like someone who cared about health and good eating habits instead of revealing my love for junk and devouring a hamburger and fries.

  My mouth watered when I opened the door to the Blue Banana, and I instantly knew I didn’t care one fried pickle about what ravenous looked like and that I had a plate of chili cheese fries in my very, very near future. Then maybe the salad. Or not.

  Not that chili cheese fries were junk. Especially not at the Blue Banana. Not since Lanie’s husband Nick took over as head chef. He made everything taste gourmet. Nick was off having lots of sex in Vegas at the moment, but he’d trained Dave-the-fry-cook in all his dishes before leaving, so hopefully it would still be awesome.

  I spotted Allie and waved at her. Allie Greene grew up in the trailer park, too, working in her dad’s eclectic little diner till she took it over. Allie was one of those girls in high school that never quite caught a break. Her mom died, then she ended up pregnant at seventeen from a guy who bailed. Allie was always a little bit of a bad-ass, but being a single mom at seventeen enhanced that gene. And now she ran the best establishment in town.

  “Hey Carmen,” Allie said, waving off the waitress to seat me herself. “Just you?”

  “For two,” I said. “Meeting a client—” My words were cut off as my gaze landed on Sully. Sitting at the counter, he forked chicken fried steak into his mouth and licked gravy from his lips. Next to him, plucking at French fries, sat Kia, a girl I’d once seen put her foot behind her head. While standing. “—for lunch,” I finished.

  Damn it. My town. My grocery store. My diner. How the hell was I ever going to function like this, seeing him every damn place I went? Them? Did she come with him for this? Were they—?

  Oh man, I needed medication.

  Allie turned to follow my gaze and gave a small knowing smile. “I assume you’d like a table as far away as possible?”

  God bless her.

  “Yes please,” I said, swallowing hard. She remembered, and not in the mocking way that many others did.

  The door opened, and I heard a familiar voice that instantly put me on edge. Allie flushed as she smiled past me, and I knew it was about more than my ex-husband walking in. Bash was with h
im. Sebastian Anderson.

  I gave her a little grin before Dean could take that ability away.

  Bash owned Anderson Apiary, the only major profitable bee vomit factory in town. I know that sounded a bit negative. But Bash was good at what he did. I might not understand the fascination or like the product, but I understood good business. Even if he weren’t an old friend from a million years ago, I’d respect him for his hardcore approach to his work.

  Allie, though… I always suspected she secretly had it bad for Bash Anderson since way back when. And they were lifelong friends, so I just didn’t get it. I glanced over to Mr. Chicken-Fried-Steak-and-Sex at the counter. My stomach tightened as he wiped his mouth and sat back, one arm thrown over the back of Kia’s chair, his eyes on me.

  “Mr. Mayor. Bash. I’ll be right back, guys,” Allie said, averting her eyes when Bash’s gaze settled on her.

  Bash watched her walk away with a rare serious look on his face. I turned to follow Allie to my table, sneaking another glance at Sully. I swallowed hard. Fuck him. Allie had the better plan even if she had no reason for it. Just keep walking away.

  “Carmen.”

  Dean’s voice came from behind me, his tone sharp with the edge I used to despise when we were married. The one that told me where to shit and how to do it. It was only fractionally better than the whiny kiss-ass one he adopted to reel me back in when I started to rebel.

  My jaw twitched.

  Rolling my shoulders to prepare for battle, I turned slowly, pasting a polite smile on my face. Sully was still back there. I felt him.

  “Dean.”

  “Did you know about this?” he asked, his light eyes flashing.

  I was already tired. “About what?”

  “You know what,” he said, a little too loudly. “Your old boyfriend.” He pointed at the counter as if I’d brought Sully here and deposited him like a toy. “Sitting up at the bar.”

  It took everything in my power not to look past Dean. My heart slammed against my ribs at the scene he was making, but I would not look Sully’s way and somehow indirectly involve him.

  I chuckled to hide the bristling. “Did I know he was here? No.”

  “The pond project,” Dean said through his teeth. “Did you know about that?”

  “The gazebo project? Are you working on that?” I responded.

  He blinked as I threw off his ranting rhythm.

  “Of course.”

  I nodded. Of course.

  “Did I know about the whole Bailey’s Pond thing?” I asked, crossing my arms. “Of course I did. Who hasn’t? But I had no idea it was Lucky Hart until yesterday.” I leaned forward. “My own mother didn’t tell me for weeks, so if you’re going to rant about a day, you’re preaching to the—”

  “He falsified—”

  “No, he didn’t.” I was irritated as shit at being forced to defend the man.

  Dean narrowed his eyes to little slits, making him look like an alien. “How do you know what I was going to say?”

  “Because I’ve already heard it,” I said. “It’s their company’s legal name.”

  His jaw was working so fast, it looked like he was chewing gum.

  “Do you know what that’s going to do to our industry here?” Dean asked.

  “What?” I was genuinely confused.

  He took a breath and let it out slowly, as if he needed to dumb it down for me. I felt all those little muscle fibers in my neck grabbing hold of each other, getting ready to tie some knots.

  “Leveling all that untouched flora around the pond will directly affect our bee population,” he said. “I know you don’t care about honey, but this town does, and—”

  “Hang on,” Bash said, walking up behind him. “No one cares more about the bees than I do, and I’m actually for the project.”

  Dean stared at Bash as if he’d just run over his dog.

  “How can you be for it?”

  “Because I’ve researched it, talked to people, talked to Sully,” Bash said. “His plans include apiary kiosks, sales in all the stores, and I’m actually opening a sales presence of my own out there.” He grinned proudly. “My first extension.”

  “Congrats!” I said.

  “Thanks,” he said with a wink. “And the bees’ll be fine, Dean.”

  “You aren’t worried about bees,” I said, watching Dean grope for something else. “This has been in the planning for months. Your city council voted it in. Your buddy Alan was spouting about it before the festival last month. You didn’t have a problem with any of it until the name was attached it.”

  “Please,” Dean snarled. “I could give a shit about Sully Hart.”

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Oh, fuck me.

  Sully. Now standing next to Dean with a satisfied smile, eye-to-eye with him once Dean turned around. Only three feet from me, and something in my body knew that. I felt every inch. Dean saw it when he looked back at me, and by his expression, he looked like he could have thrown Sully through the nearest window and not even broken a sweat.

  “Guys,” I said, glancing around, wary of the crowd watching the show unfold. Where was Kia? My neck went hot when an old client of mine smiled empathetically and then looked away.

  “This doesn’t involve you, Hart,” Dean said. “Mind your own business. From what I’ve heard, you have enough crap in your own house. Leave Charmed to Charmed.”

  Sully’s expression was carefree, but his body was spring-loaded and tight, probably expecting Dean to sucker punch him.

  “I heard my name, so that kind of throws things into the my business hat,” Sully said quietly. “But you digging around in mine must mean you like me.” It was full of snark, but his eyes weren’t laughing as he crossed his arms.

  It was somewhat of a concession: taking his hands out of the running, disarming himself, giving a little without backing down. I didn’t know if Dean would see it that way, though. He only saw red at the moment.

  “Boy, you don’t want to play with me right now.” Dean took a step forward.

  Bash jumped between them and put his hand on Dean’s chest, but Sully didn’t even twitch. It was like watching two bulls preen and then fight to the death. I was stressed, I was embarrassed, and I’d had enough.

  “Dean, go find a seat and sit down,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Have you heard what kind of crapshoot his family runs?” Dean said. “He can’t control his own brother’s operations, that’s why he’s here. He bailed. And we want that in charge of a major tourist attraction?”

  Sully’s jaw tightened, but that was the only reaction.

  “Sully, if you’re done, please leave,” I said.

  He looked shocked, even more so than Dean. His eyebrows furrowed.

  “I came over here to help you,” he said.

  “I don’t need your help.” My eyes started to burn. I saw something flash in his. Pain? Anger? “I didn’t ask for it. I’ve been handling my ex’s idiocy just fine for years, and I don’t need you strutting over here so the two of you can swing things around. I have a life and a job and a client coming to meet me in about thirty seconds.”

  I sucked in air and contemplated duct tape. I was hot and so mortified that once again my life was on everyone’s radar. And probably cell phones. “On second thought, y’all stay here and act like fools. I’ll meet him somewhere else. I don’t care about your bee drama or honey or parks or any of it. As far as I’m concerned, the little shits can all be kidnapped at gun point and sold for bee porn.”

  Bash bit back a laugh as he turned around, and I pushed past all of them to intercept my lunch date at the door.

  “They’re full,” I said. “How does Rojo’s sound?”

  * * *

  Rojo’s was a Mexican restaurant a few blocks over, famous for excellent margaritas and homemade salsa. As much as the day so far was screaming for tequila, I had too many things to do to hit that up this early. Including possibly swinging a hammer
. Then again, maybe a drink was the better plan.

  Monte Bradford and I both had sweet tea.

  Monte had played football for the Charmed Memorial High School’s varsity team, the Mighty Charmers. (The name strikes terror, doesn’t it? I guess it was either that or the Honey Bees, and that worked better for the drill team.) He was that guy. The high school/college star who thought he could do no wrong. Pro scouts were stalking him right and left. Problem was, he was great as long as he was the shiniest star, but put him in a pack of gold stars and he disappeared. He rode the bench for two seasons with the Dolphins, quitting after loud-mouthing it about being shafted.

  Yeah. He was that guy. Fast forward about eight or nine years, and now he was a big, muscled man with an equally big ego, a soft middle, thinning hair, and way too many glory-day stories to count.

  Monte had gotten enough of a signing bonus to afford a good financial planner, and then hit it big in the stock market, letting him live the fancy life he thought he deserved. Two ex-wives and a big house on the other side of the Bailey’s Pond (that he kept—both times) were evidently deserved. The last time I’d represented him, he was convinced that wife number two was cheating on him. (She was. With wife number one.) When I explained that I was a lawyer and not a private investigator (or a stalker), he threw money at me until I agreed to hire a PI and then serve her divorce papers.

  The time before that, he sued a laundry delivery service for ruining a nine-hundred-dollar pair of slacks.

  My thoughts at the time? What man is so damn high maintenance that he buys nine-hundred-dollar pants?

  This is why law will never be my passion. Because there is always a Monte.

  While Monte headed to the bathroom, I devoured half the basket of chips. I’d already worried enough about food consumption before the dick-swinging began, now I was pissed off and past caring. Let Monte think I was a pig. It wasn’t any worse than what the rest of the town would be talking about.

  Like I needed to give this never-forget-a-damn-thing town more fuel.

  “Hey,” Monte said, sliding into the booth across from me. It wasn’t sunny out, but he had sunglasses perched on top of his head anyway. Probably to disguise the balding.