But after they’d done the deed, Kit broke up with her. Oh, he did it in a gentle, “it’s not you, it’s me” manner. Essentially, he felt they didn’t need to wait on each other and needed the freedom to pursue their own lives. Yeah. He was sorry, but it was time they move on. Tennyson hadn’t expected it to hurt so much, but it had. And, like, he couldn’t have done that before they’d spent the entire break together having sex that violated her purity vow?
When she went back to NYC after the holidays, she made a new vow to herself—she was done with old things. Kit had been right about one thing—time to move on. She started accepting party invites, tried some things she shouldn’t, and ended up in bed with a few guys she should have never slept with. She tried like hell to forget who she’d been and find a new Tennyson, one who was modern, sophisticated, and never going back to Shreveport.
Yet now here she was, looking at Melanie, accepting that her only child would be marrying her ex–best friend’s daughter. Thirty years ago both women would have been ecstatic to know their offspring would marry. Today, not so much.
“I know it’s not funny or ideal, but our two kids are in love, Melly,” she said, finally responding to Melanie’s statement.
“Don’t call me Melly. You don’t get to call me that anymore. After what you did to me—to my family—you don’t get to act like we’re friends. We’re not. And never will be.” Melanie dropped the cigarette and ground it out with her sensible kitten heel. Then she stooped, picked up the butt, and shoved it under a potted plant.
Tennyson bit her lip because, again, that was so Melanie. Of course she hid anything bad she did. That was her way. Always toeing the line. Always the status quo. Never going after what she really wanted.
Except that one time. When she went after Kit. And got him.
“Fine.” Tennyson took a drag, not really liking the way the tar burned her lungs but not willing to smoke less than what Melanie had. “I will call you Melanie, or would you rather me call you Mrs. Layton?”
The look Melanie shot her was withering. “I don’t care. Just clean up your dog’s mess.”
Then the woman who she’d thought would always be her bestie spun on her heel and went back to her friends and family, leaving Tennyson to finish her smoke and somehow clean up dog shit without a scoop, shovel, or paper towel. Such was the story of her life.
An hour later when Tennyson pulled away from the Laytons’ perfectly tasteful house, she desperately needed a drink. She’d endured the remainder of the party, talking to Coco, who was about as interesting a person as Tennyson had ever met. Coco had been a Rockette back in the day and married an investment banker who’d come home to manage his family’s estate. She spoke three languages and owned a Picasso. She also hinted that she was into swinging, which was admirable for a septuagenarian. No one else approached Tennyson, but she received a lot of guarded looks. Especially from Anne Brevard, Melanie’s mother. The tiny Japanese woman had watched her all night, her gaze obsidian chips of sheer hate.
Well, ol’ Annie had good cause, she supposed.
Tennyson had never liked Melanie’s mother—she was cold, critical, and used her money to buy advantage for her daughters, but what Tennyson had done to her and to Mel’s family had been wrong. Still, it wasn’t like Anne hadn’t deserved what she’d gotten. She had. But it shouldn’t have been done out of revenge or spite.
When she pulled into her driveway, she was surprised to find a Toyota 4Runner sitting in the drive. Perhaps one of Emma’s or Andrew’s friends? The kids would probably be home much later. She overheard them planning to go out and have drinks after the party.
She passed the darkened car, weaving her cute red Mercedes coupe into the garage, immediately closing the garage door before she climbed out of her locked car. Living in the city had made her cautious. Not to mention the raccoon break-in from a month ago had revived the doubt of living in a house alone. Prada popped her head out of Tennyson’s bag as if to say we’re here? The little dog gave a yippy yawn and pawed the side of the bag.
“Okay, out you come,” she said, lifting the puppy once the garage door settled against the slab and climbing out. When she entered the house, she deactivated the alarm and set Prada on the floor, hoping the dog wouldn’t do her business before she had a chance to take her outside.
Just as she set her purse on the counter, the doorbell rang.
She shouldn’t be as nervous as she felt. Perhaps it was because the whole night had been unsettling. When she’d dressed to kill earlier, she’d been determined to take the high road, play the charming mother of the groom, and work the room as only she could do when her mind was right. And things had been good until she saw Kit with Charlotte, and her “cheating” antennae rose a few inches. Then once she’d shown her boobs to the room and watched the cake crash to the floor, she’d gone into survival mode.
Clacking to the door, she peeped through the hole, very aware that if a murderer were on the other side, he’d shoot through the door and kill her. Common ploy in action films. Use the peephole advantage.
But on the other side of the door stood Officer Rhett.
Tennyson fluffed her hair and opened the door. “Officer Rhett.”
“Hi, Mrs. . . . uh. Or is it Miss?” he asked, his face so serious. She wondered how a man could always look so grave. And then she remembered the one time he’d smiled. It was almost orgasmic. And now Officer Yummy stood on her front porch, wearing his uniform very well.
“It’s Tennyson, remember?” she said, opening the door wider. Prada toddled toward them. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He looked discomfited. “I’m off duty.”
She looked out at his car. “So I see.”
“I thought I would check on you. I told you I would. Remember?”
Something sweet bloomed inside her as she realized his “I’ll check on you” was the same ploy she’d used when she called him about the “dangerous” black bag the pool guy had left behind. Hot Cop had wanted to see her.
“Oh, well, that’s awfully nice of you. Would you like to come in? I just got home. Maybe you could check for rabid raccoons?” She smiled to show she was joking. She’d been keeping her windows firmly locked.
“I don’t have . . . I mean, I was just stopping by . . .” He seemed unsure how to play the fact he’d come by. She liked his uncertainty. It was endearing. And somehow hotter.
“Since you’re off duty, how about a drink? A beer?”
He narrowed his eyes as if he were considering what that would mean. “That’s not necessary.”
“I know it’s not necessary, dutiful public servant. Still, you’ve been so patient with me. Surely, I owe you something,” she said, stepping back, knowing full well her words were suggestive and liking the way that made her feel.
“I guess a drink wouldn’t hurt,” he said, stepping inside.
She tried not to huff him because that might scare him. Instead she let her gaze wander over the body brushing against her own. Joseph was a big guy, all muscle, but not absurdly so. Just in the way that made women wonder what his uniform shirt hid from view. Okay, and maybe the pants, too. His hair was too short. She bet it curled a little when it was longer, making him look softer, more approachable. That was probably why he kept it short. His pretty eyes were wary and his jaw somewhat scruffy. Uniform shirt tucked tight into pants that could have been tighter. Lord, he’d make a fine-ass motorcycle cop. She’d keep that fantasy in her head because it was a good one.