She could have had a date tonight—she wasn’t that far gone—but letting Mark Phillips squire her around when she had no interest had seeped into the category of wrong. She was tired—bone weary, give me some bourbon and put me to bed tired. That kind of tired is what happened when, by day, you spiffed up houses for people who wanted it done before the holidays, and by night, you were Richie Sambora. She wouldn’t want to go to this party even if Brantley Kincaid wasn’t expected. But he was.

Hell and double hell.

Not that Brantley mattered anymore. Hadn’t in a long time, but, if he had to see her, it would have been nice to have looked her best. It was a matter of pride. But he’d seen her first in ratty old clothes and second dressed like a 1980s Richie Sambora.

At least now she looked pretty good. They had gone to Missy’s right after their performance to wash the gel out of their hair and dress for the party. She’d paid way too much for her dress, not unusual when shopping with Missy, but it was flattering—something that never ceased to amaze her. The burnt orange silk shirtwaist dress had a wide belt and left her arms and knees bare—not cocktail attire, but not suitable for work either.

Ahead of her, Harris and Missy walked hand-in-hand, both tall, blond, tanned, and athletic.

“Didn’t mean to run off and leave you,” Harris called from the door, where he and Missy had paused.

“I’m dawdling,” Lucy said and hurried to catch up.

Aside from the party committee, they were some of the first to arrive. The food was out but the band was still setting up. Laura Cochran handed them each a list of the items in the silent auction and a bid number. “Show over?” she asked.

“If it’s not, it’s close,” Missy said. “But we left after our act. We had to go to my house and make Jon and Richie go away.”

“Where do you think our table is?” Lucy asked because sitting was what she intended to do and right now.

Missy looked over the white covered tables around the room. “Over by the wall. Good job, Lanie.”

Harris let out a delighted laugh. “I am sure you instructed her exactly where you wanted to sit.”

“I might have mentioned something about near the bar and a good distance from the band, preferably against the wall.”

“Where is Lanie?” Lucy asked, as she settled into her chair.

“She will be downstairs working the silent auction,” Missy said, studying her list of items. “Tolly, Nathan, and Luke won’t be here until the show’s over. Hmmm . . . they have an electric train in the auction. That might be worth looking at.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Harris rolled his eyes. “It’s not enough that we spent a fortune on Bon Jovi props.”

“But we had the best ones,” Missy said. “We were the best.”

“Without a doubt.” Harris picked up Missy’s hand and kissed her wrist. “Always.” Lucy’s stomach turned over. Oh, to have someone look at her like that. Just once. No, once wouldn’t be enough. Once never was. Once was worse than never.

“I’m going to look at the auction stuff and check on that train. Lucy, you want to come?”

“No.” And she didn’t. She’d donated four hours of free design consultation and Aunt Annelle had given a chair from the shop. As far as she was concerned, her contribution to the auction was complete. “I want to sit right here and revel in the fact that I don’t have to throw my head back and pretend to bellow.”

Missy rose and Harris followed suit. “I’m going to get a beer. Wine, ladies?”

“Sure,” Missy said.

“Wild Turkey 101,” Lucy said. “Straight.”

Lucy closed her eyes. Oh, to be able to sleep. To be able to be away from here. Usually, she liked these people, liked these events. It was part of the charm of having a home in a small town. She didn’t like to think that she was letting the impending arrival of Brantley Kincaid ruin it for her. Why should it? If she didn’t live in his hometown, she probably wouldn’t even think about him anymore.

The band began to warm up with “Mustang Sally.” Where was Harris with her bourbon? That song always made her want to drink. Not that she needed alcohol to face Brantley. It had been a long time ago.

“Mr. Sambora, I presume?”

Lucy opened her eyes. And there he was, smiling like he always did and no one else could. If he’d been beautiful this afternoon in his white polo shirt and blue jeans, he was now Adonis in Brooks Brothers. Or Brooks Brothers coming undone since his tie was a little looser than it had probably started out. Blue blazer, khaki pants, blue oxford shirt that fit like it had been made for him—because it surely had. The burnished silver buttons on his blazer bore a monogram, but not Brantley’s. They were at least four generations old. Lucy didn’t have such things but she knew about them.

He sidled up to her, tall, broad shouldered, and lean hipped. His thick straight hair looked like moonbeams and sunshine had had a fight, but moonbeams had won. The result was pale blond with enough gold undertones hanging around to make it look warm. Gorgeous hair, and he had enough to toss. That color would have cost a fortune in a salon but Lucy knew it came from the same place he got his tan—the great outdoors. The cut was a different matter. Clearly, he had a stylist who knew how to make straight hair look alive. His driver license would say his eyes were brown, but they were as far from that as they were from blue. Clear dark amber was what they were. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see a prehistoric insect trapped there. He had a firm jaw, white teeth, and was clean-shaven. Lucy hated that stubbly male model look—though Brantley Kincaid could have been a model. Always could have been, even before he grew his man’s body and lost the boy softness in his face.

Sparkle! Say something smart! Save your pride! she told herself. He was waiting for an answer.

“Yeah, well.” Oh, brilliant! She ran her hand through her hair. “I think I washed Mr. Sambora down the drain.”

He slid into the chair next to hers. Great. She could feel the heat of his leg against hers.

“So how did you come to be Mr. Sambora instead of Mr. Bon Jovi?”

He was kidding, right? Missy be anything less than the star attraction? “Well, Missy is blonde and I am dark. And I’ve been singing backup all my life.”

“There’s nothing backup about you.” He set a plastic Publix bag between them.

“You didn’t have to bring food,” Lucy said. “I think they’re having crab dip.”

“Yeah.” He looked toward the buffet. “Chicken fingers, pickled shrimp, meatballs. The menu never changes.” He opened the bag. “That’s how I knew they wouldn’t have any of this.” He reached into the bag and set in front of her a rich glossy chocolate cake decorated with chocolate curls, strawberries, and nuts.

“It’s a cake,” she said. More brilliance. Why had Brantley Kincaid brought a cake to the Merritt Country Club? Was Rita May here after all? Was it her birthday? Though Rita May had probably never had a bite of cake in her life—at least that’s how she’d looked in the last music video Lucy had seen her in.

“Indeed.” He winked and turned to look around the room. He waved and called to one of the club staff. “Miss Mavis!”

A woman of about sixty with a blazer and clipboard instead of an apron and a water pitcher smiled and moved toward them. “Brantley Kincaid. You just never know when trouble’s going to turn up, do you?”

He rose, gave her a hug, and turned to Lucy. “Lucy Mead, Miss Mavis saved me from myself more than once during the summers my dad made me caddy here to pay my car insurance.”

“Hardly hit a lick at a snake the whole time.”

“Miss Mavis, you wound me! But I want to ask you a little favor.”

“Didn’t you always?”

“Does the club still have that set of silver knives and forks that old Mrs. Rogers left in her will?”

“Unless somebody stole it since I polished it last week.”

“I need a fork.”

Miss Mavis shook her head. “There are forks on the buffet.”

“Yes,” Brantley said. “I can see that. There are. But they are stainless steel forks—not nearly good enough for Lucy Mead.” He laid his hand on Lucy’s cheek. She wanted to jerk away but she was paralyzed for so many reasons that she couldn’t even work out which was chief among them. “You see, Miss Mavis, Lucy put on a performance tonight that all of Merritt will remember. She needs to eat this cake with a silver fork. I want her to have it.”

Cake! He had brought the cake for her. She couldn’t eat cake!

“Brantley,” Miss Mavis said, “you know we only use that silver for small parties in the executive dining room. Even if there was enough of it, it would not come out for big parties like this.”

“I know. And I understand why. The top dogs in this town need to feel like they, and only they, get to use it.” The rich cultured tone of his voice did not match his chosen quirky vernacular, but it was natural sounding and charming, like it had always been. “But I submit to you, Miss Mavis, that unless it is you, there is no one more elite than Lucy Mead. And I don’t need it all. I just need one fork. One. Little. Fork. One.” He leaned toward the older woman and smiled a little wider with each word. Lucy felt like she was in some crazy surreal dream. Had she gone to sleep and dreamed that Brantley turned up with a cake and started demanding silver forks? Or fork. One. All he needed was one.

Miss Mavis gave a huge sigh. “You’ll get it back to me?”

“In better condition that it ever was, for having graced the lips of Lucy Mead.”

As she sighed again and trotted off, Brantley sat down again.