“You got it,” Bethany chirps. “He’s hot. Is he like… an old flame?” she whispers.
“What?”
“The guy!” she laughs. “I didn’t imagine the stud in the boxers. So, is he hotter in person? I bet he is.”
“Yes. Too hot for his own good,” I deadpan staring him right in the eyes over the top of my cellphone. Bethany giggles, I hang up. Sy nods his satisfaction, grinning like he did when we were teenagers. It does funny things to me.
Tread carefully, Self-Preservation whispers and she’s right. I will need to keep my head on straight during this short reunion—this opportunity at closure while doing a good deed as Optimism said. I have no plans of falling in love with Sylas Broussard again. I still don’t forgive him for what happened back then.
Negativity has duct tape sealing her mouth shut but her quirked up brows say plenty on her behalf.
Wal-Mart.
Hell has frozen over and pigs now fly because clad in Wal-Mart clothing head to toe, including cute little sandals, Sy and I are now going to dinner at a local place he swears has the absolute best ribs. Yes, I said the sandals are cute. Actually so is the clothing. Soft denim shorts with a frayed hem and a flowing top that I had not expected to like at all. The designer clothes in my apartment back home are weeping but the big box store was the only place nearby with clothing to get me by until Sy takes me back to Palmetto Grove tomorrow for my car and suitcase. I can’t say I care about luxury threads at the moment, not when Sylas is temporarily back in my life for an encore performance. For the most part I’m enjoying this little getaway.
Mrs. Oppenheim was a lovely old lady who beamed when she saw Sylas then promptly frowned at me. Still, diplomatic Raegan Potter in place I shook her hand and declared her plantation style home as being the most beautiful house I had ever seen. That was enough to win her approval it seemed because she immediately took me on a tour of the sprawling property. Sylas unloaded bag after bag of red mulch from his truck while taking sly glances my direction. The action was reciprocal. Watching his lean, muscular body working is a sight. He worked for over an hour; sweat inching in drops down his temple, over his throat, lower to his chest. He stacked the bags of mulch and potting soil neatly in the garden shed and Sy promised her he would return and we would sort out her flowerbeds for the rapidly approaching fall season.
“So who did you say we’re meeting for dinner?” I ask as I slide into the vinyl-upholstered booth first, followed by Sylas. His thick leg rests against mine beneath the table and giddy butterflies inside bat their wings with gusto. Am I really here with Sy?
“Eugene Yoder and Dale Hayden. Gene does the books for me and since you agreed to help, I figured you should meet the money man,” he explains. “And Dale is a hand. I met him about a year ago.” Sy squints his eyes, thinking. “He’s a mechanic by trade but he’s a jack of all trades so I pay him to help me out with the fleet.” He shrugs his big shoulders and flips over a paper menu, jabbing his finger at a menu item. “These. You gotta get these ribs.” Just then the bell over the door to the restaurant clangs a pathetic sound that falls flat. A man with thinning russet hair walks toward our table showcasing a kind smile. I note his slight limp and absently wonder what caused it. He’s nowhere near old, middle aged perhaps but certainly not old enough to walk with a cane due to old age. Dressed in blue jeans and an LSU Tigers tee shirt he dips his head toward me. “Dale! Good to see ya buddy.” Sy gets to his feet and slaps Dale on the back. “Dale, this is Rae, Rae, this is Dale.”
“Wow, she is beautiful,” Dale says in a soft voice looking from me to Sy, then back to me. “Heard a lot about you miss. Happy to finally meet you. I’s afraid Sy was tellin’ me fish stories when he’d be talkin’ about you,” Dale says extending his hand. Sy snorts.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Dale.”
The bell above the diner chimes again and I look over to see an older man, with silver hair, dressed in neatly pressed slacks and a polo shirt. He smiles on approach extending his hand to Sy and Dale before turning his eyes my way. “I’m Gene Yoder. It’s a pleasure,” he says with a smile that doesn’t quite seem sincere.
“Raegan Potter,” I say, shaking his hand.
“Yes, I know who you are,” he’s still smiling but his eyes pinch at the edges making his wrinkles deepen for a moment. “I’ve seen you on cable news and whatnot,” he explains.
“Yes, of course.”
“Sylas tells me you’re going to be assisting with the first annual fundraiser banquet?”
“That’s the rumor,” I assert while looking him squarely in the eyes. He only nods with his insincere smile still tugging at his features.
“Let me get y’all a drink,” Dale says and Sy nods. Eugene Yoder stands beside Dale. “I’ll go with you,” he says. Sylas asks for a beer and I stick to water. It’s unlikely there is cabernet here at Sheryl’s Rib Shack. Dale limps slowly to the bar with Gene at his side and they wait for our drinks.
I want very badly to question Sylas about Eugene Yoder but I decide I had better not rock the boat unnecessarily. Still, I recognize someone from my side of the tracks anywhere. I’d bet he is no stranger to American politics. I make a note in my phone reminding me to check into his background when I have a moment alone.
“So you talk about me?” I change the subject and bump my shoulder against Sylas’ while I look around the table for utensils rolled in something resembling a napkin.
“Only when we were telling scary stories on boring fishing trips,” he shrugs. “Good material,” he nods. It makes me laugh a deep, shoulder-shaking laugh, and it feels glorious.
“Where are the forks and knives in this place,” I ask through a bewildered grin as I move things around on the tabletop.
“This place is a novelty. You don’t need forks and knives,” he chuckles. “These are your utensils darlin’,” he says holding his hands up and wiggling his fingers back and forth. He was trying to be funny but hearing that endearment rolling off his tongue is a sharp knife cutting through the amiable atmosphere. It’s a trigger.
“Don’t call me that, please,” I warn quietly, averting me eyes to my lap and keeping them pinned there.
Sylas pauses, in my peripheral field of vision I see him looking my direction. I can feel the weight of his regard. “What in the world is wrong with saying darlin’? Too country for you now, darlin’?” He’s only playing around with me, I know that, but Anxiety has perked up and has begun pacing in a circle with her arms crossed and pinched expression on her face. Sylas tries to tip my chin upward to face him but I jerk away. “What’s wrong?” he demands.
“Just don’t call me that,” I clip a little too loudly. Sylas’s head snaps back only a hair’s breadth but his eyes are scrutinizing, asking questions he must by now know I won’t answer. Dale, and Gene walk up to the table just in time for my outburst. They deposit the drinks on the table and slide into the other side of the booth, both of them looking from me to Sy then back again. “Sorry,” I mumble and try to smile as I pull my water closer to me and busy my hands with squeezing the lemon slice perched on the rim of the glass.