Awakening Beauty. Amy J. Fetzer
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week of his wedding. Literally just hours before people were getting on planes to come witness the event. He’d been at a party that some friends were giving them when he heard Clarice say to one of her bridesmaids that she could “put up with anything, even him, for McKay money.” Tyler had ended his engagement in the middle of the party, taken back his grandmother’s ring and left on his honeymoon trip, alone. It still hadn’t been easy coming back to gossip. And he hadn’t told a soul what had happened except his best man—his brother Kyle—and his parents. They had a right to know the truth, but no one else.
He hadn’t cared what Clarice had told anyone. He’d heard enough of her lies to last an eternity, and he wasn’t rising to the bait to defend himself, either. As far as he was concerned, the door was closed on that part of his life. He wasn’t about to repeat the mistake by opening it again. Ever.
“It’s been nearly three years, Tyler.”
“Who’s counting? I’m enjoying myself, Mom, so leave it alone,” he said, then kissed the top of her head and was out the door before she had a chance to hunt him down and reopen the wound.
And just the reminder of that staggering humiliation told him he couldn’t trust his own judgment. Especially when his heart was in for the ride.
Lane curled up in an overstuffed chair, setting the teacup on the end table and wrapping herself in an afghan she didn’t really need. It was a process, she thought, preparing for a ritual evening of reading. Tea, blanket, soft lights and music. The scent of cinnamon cookies on the plate beside her teacup from the bakery next door. Simple pleasures.
She’d never had rituals before moving to Bradford. Never thought she wanted them, never thought how lonely she was, only how alone she wanted to be. In her old life she’d be getting ready for a late dinner and the theater. And turning away from flashbulbs, and microphones shoved in her face.
She shivered and pulled the afghan closer. Her apartment, above the bookshop, had four rooms with a small kitchen. Another kitchen was still downstairs, and she’d had its old breakfast area retooled for moments just like this. A place out of the store traffic where her customers could curl up and read for a bit, chat with friends, discuss a new book.
A small sound broke the silence.
She glanced over her shoulder toward her bedroom. “Hello, Ramses. Too wet outside to prowl?”
The coal-black cat purred, prancing toward her, then paused to rub his cheek against her foot. Satisfied that Lane knew he was gracing her with his presence, the cat lowered his bulk on the braided rug.
The phone rang, startling her. She blinked at it, thinking it might be her father calling to badger her again. At last she answered it.
“Hello, Lane.”
Tyler McKay. He was the last person she’d expected to call. “This is a private number. How did you get it? I should sue the phone company.”
“Can’t. I got your number from Diana Ashbury.”
“I’ll have to overcharge her for the next batch of books she buys.”
He laughed.
“What do you want, Mr. McKay?”
“First, for you to call me Tyler.”
“Will that make you go away?”
“Can’t bet on it. I’m calling to ask if you’ll help with some community service.”
“And what service might that be?”
“The children’s pageant.”
“Oh, no.” Lane shook her head as if he could see her. “I’ve never worked with children. Besides, I have no talent to contribute.”
“Come on, you can swing a hammer.”
“You mean at an actual nail?”
He laughed softly, it was an intimate sound, and for a second she wondered if he was in bed. “I love it when you talk tools.”
“You’re pathetic.” But the smile she wore was starting to hurt.
“What are you wearing?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you wear those ugly boots in your house?”
“No, they’re sitting on the back steps standing guard against the fashion police. They’re outlaws, you know.”
His chuckle melted through her blood, and she curled more deeply into the chair.
“Let me guess—you’re wearing flannel up to your throat.”
Lane looked down at the satin chemise and matching blood-red robe. “Yes, with little flowers on it and a pink bow. And they’re footie pajamas too. Now the point of this conversation is…?”
“Curiosity.”
“It killed the cat.” Ramses whined at her feet. “Sorry.”
“Are you talking to me?”
“No, to my cat, Ramses.”
“Why Ramses?”
“Because the Pharaohs worshipped cats and they have never let us forget it.”
His laughter was a quick short burst that made her smile.
“A woman with cats and flannel living alone has potential for a lonely life, Lane.”
“I guess I’m doomed, then. Should I break out the doilies?”
He chuckled again and Lane felt the sound coat her. “Not quite yet.”
“Why do you care?” she asked.
“You’re too sexy to be locked away.”
She blinked, looking down at her cat and mouthing “Sexy?” Only Tyler McKay would think combat boots and long drab skirts were meant to entice a man when they were meant to play down her looks and hide her identity.
“Do you need glasses?”
“I see fine…and I like what I see.”
She felt herself flush with excitement. “Good night.”
“No, it’s good night, Tyler,” he said patiently. “Say it. It won’t make you go up in flames.”
Feeling playful, she said in her sexiest throaty voice, “Good night, Tyler,” then hung up.
Torture goes both ways, she thought, and knew that would probably get her into the very trouble she was trying to avoid. Just the same, her insides were tickled, and she realized he was on some quest to learn more about her. While she was flattered beyond belief, she couldn’t let him that close.
If anyone learned who she really was, her neat little life would be over.
Lane glanced up as a customer came through the door. She recognized the designer suit—the Italian-milled fabric, the exceptional fit—before the woman in her recognized the man wearing it.
Okay, she was impressed, and she had to swallow to keep her jaw from dropping to the counter. Tyler McKay could have been one of her runway models at her design shows, he looked that good. A thought she was definitely keeping to herself.
“Is this proof you work for a living, or are you playing dress-up?” she said, gesturing at the suit. His crisp white shirt, she could tell, was an exquisite silk-and-cotton blend, and her fingers almost itched to inspect the seams and facings.
“I’m between appointments.”
He stopped at the counter, and Lane remembered the sound of his voice late last night. Soft and deep, wrapping around her and dragging her down. After the call, she couldn’t even concentrate on her book.
“What are you doing here again?”
“I