CHAPTER ONE
Addison
Scandal Erupts as Captain Du Pont Left in the Lurch at Church
—Charleston Courier
When I woke up this morning, I didn’t plan on crashing a wedding.
But here I am.
In leather pants and a faded T-shirt, I didn’t even bother dressing up, which is drawing censorious raised eyebrows from the Charleston upper crust. There they are in their pressed pastels and bow ties, neatly divided into two sides of the aisle. Golden blondes on the left. Deep, rich brunettes to the right. Not a head of midnight-black hair among them.
None like mine.
Defiance rears back inside me and I toss that mane of inherited black hair now, letting it whip and settle around my shoulders. Perhaps it’s the move that causes an older woman in the back row to recognize me—finally. Or recognize my mother, rather. I’ve grown up a lot since leaving this town, and since I own a mirror, I’m aware of the resemblance.
Green eyes, resting bitch face, stubborn chin, indecent curves.
I’m a Potts girl, head to toe.
Looking as if she’s seen a ghost, the woman fingers her pearls and leans over to start a gossip wildfire, no doubt. My mouth curls into a pleased smile and I go back to observing the congregation. Everyone is seated and waiting for the bride to walk down the aisle, except for me. I’m standing in the far back corner, cloaked in shadows. Appropriate, considering my cousin, Naomi, is getting married this afternoon and no one in my family was invited.
What family? You’re the only one left now.
An invisible fist grinds into my chest and I push off the wall, intending to duck out for a breath of fresh air. No way I’m going to lose my composure in front of these people. Especially the blonde side of the room. When I turn to leave, however…that’s when I see him.
Once, during a hurricane, I made the mistake of leaving my apartment in Brooklyn for a gallon of milk. Cereal makes up ninety percent of my diet, so I was desperate and tired of eating fistfuls of dry Cheerios. I didn’t make it two steps out of the building when a hundred-mile-an-hour wind swept my feet out from under me, landing me on my back with a view of the dark thunderheads above. I still went and bought the milk, because I am a stubborn piece of work, but I remember that feeling of utter shock. The confirmation that forces more powerful than my iron will exist, just waiting to knock me on my butt.
That’s how I feel when I see the groom. Naomi’s groom.
My throat resists my attempts to swallow, coating itself in mud. Palms sweaty, pulse clamoring, knees buckling—yes, buckling—I fall back against the back wall of the church. I turn to find a full back row of blonde heads watching me and I lift my chin, commanding myself to pull it together. What in God’s name is wrong with me?
As if induced by magic, my gaze lifts to the groom once more. He’s not the cookie-cutter trust fund boy I was expecting. No, he’s…compelling. Hands clasped behind his back, he’s the authority in the room without moving a single muscle. He must be six foot five, based on the way he towers over the groomsmen, and the breadth of his muscular chest is somehow fierce. Braced and ready for action. He has a thick head of tobacco hair, face shaven but already battling a beard. His blatant masculinity isn’t what robs me of the ability to stand, though.
It’s his eyes. For all this man’s obvious power, they’re heartbreakingly kind.
When I read the wedding announcement online, I scoffed at the description of Naomi’s fiancé. I rush to recall it now. Elijah Montgomery DuPont. Citadel graduate. Served three tours overseas with the army. What else? There was something…else.
Oh. Right. Elijah is the son of Charleston’s longest-sitting mayor. Plans to follow in his father’s footsteps. Imminently. Would I expect anything less in a husband for impossibly polished, former pageant girl Naomi? Granted I haven’t seen her sailing through town since we were teenagers, Naomi in her private school getup, me in ripped jeans and Salvation Army specials. I remember well, though. I remember the way her gaze skimmed over me and shut down, the whispers to her friends. Her mother. Her mother is the one…
I release a shaky laugh under my breath when I realize…I’m jealous of Naomi. Right now in this moment. Actually jealous over this man I’ve never met, who can’t possibly be as kind as his eyes suggest. I don’t even like kind men. Even as I tell myself that, I squint, trying to make out the color of those eyes. When I realize what I’m doing, I shake myself and turn to leave the church through a side exit. As much I wanted to shake up the proceedings and remind these people my side of the family existed, I can’t stay now. The irony of me returning home only to develop this weird, instantaneous attraction for my cousin’s fiancé is way too much.
Tomorrow, I will probably forget all about him. This afternoon will feel like a dream or a hallucination. But for right now I…I don’t think I can watch him get married.
Steeped in disbelief, I press the handle of the exit down. Turning to take one last, stupid look over my shoulder, I pause when I see a woman jogging up the aisle. She’s not the bride, but in that teal, ruffled nightmare of a dress, she screams bridesmaid. Her face is white as a sheet, a bouquet of flowers limp at one side, a folded note in the opposite hand. I take my fingers off the door handle, noting that everyone around me has started to murmur amongst themselves. What is going on?
The groom inclines his head, leaning down so the harried bridesmaid can reach his ear. Finished speaking, she hands him the note, closing her eyes as he unfolds and reads it. He’s very still. Something is definitely wrong, but he seems more concerned about the bridesmaid’s obvious upset, even patting her on the shoulder with a steady hand as he reads. Gentle giant.
I flinch at my own thoughts. They simply cannot be coming from me. Men are meant to be pleasant diversions from time to time. They all want one thing and I take a twisted pleasure in proving that. Proving I don’t want anything more, either, and sending them on their way. Reminding myself of how I operate doesn’t help now, though. As the groom—Elijah’s—face turns more and more grave, I grow restless. I want everyone to stop whispering.
Finally, the bridesmaid turns and leaves the way she came, sniffling into her forearm. Elijah tucks the note into his pocket and faces the congregation alone, appearing almost thoughtful. No one is whispering now. They’re all made of stone, waiting to see what the robust military man in the tuxedo will say. “I’m very sorry you all came out on a Sunday. It would appear…no one is getting married today, after all,” he drawls, his deep voice resonating with southern gentility. At his announcement, there are gasps from every corner of the aisle, women fanning themselves with almost fanatical fervor. Camera flashes go off. Elijah isn’t immune to the sudden activity. Or the fact that he’s just been jilted. No, he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, a forced, wry smile playing around his lips. “I hope your wedding gifts came with a good refund policy.”
His attempt at a joke is met with a smatter of uncomfortable laughter, but mostly silence. I think. It’s hard to hear anything over the wrenching in my breastbone. Yeah, I didn’t want to watch him marry my cousin for some weird reason. But there’s zero satisfaction in watching him get left at the altar. None. I’ve never seen someone look more alone in my life.
I watch as Elijah turns to his groomsmen and rolls a shoulder, his eyes averted. And in that tiny slice of time, I know exactly what he’s going to do. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll marvel over how easily I read Elijah in a room full of people who should know him better than me. But for now, I don’t waste time slipping out the side exit, getting swallowed up in warm March wind and the scent of salt air. I weave through the parked cars to find my ancient Honda, breathing in time with my steps.
Moments later, I watch from my idle at the curb as Elijah strides out of the church, then comes to a dead stop. He looks straight ahead at nothing, the powerful cords of his neck standing out in the hazy, southern afternoon sun. Heartbroken? Angry? I can’t tell a single thing, except that he wants to escape. Now. But before I apply my foot to the gas, I give myself a mental slap in the face. A cold, hard reality check.
Rich, powerful, handsome. Unattainable. This is the same kind of man my mother fell for. Fell hard. Everyone inside that church remembers how that ended, too. It tore apart two halves of a family, leaving one side to flourish in their wealth and the other to fall from grace.
Elijah Montgomery DuPont, the next mayor of Charleston, heir to southern immortality might have been left behind by his bride today, but someday soon? There will be another one.
She won’t be a Potts girl. She will never, ever be me.
It costs me a surprising effort, but I paste on my most dazzling smile and pull up to the curb at the bottom of the church steps. By now, guests have begun filling the church doorways, slinking out one by one in the distance behind Elijah.
When I roll down the passenger side window, I get Elijah’s attention all to myself for the first time and it hits me like that gale, hurricane wind—only nine times stronger. He’s so inviting up close. A man who could double as a human shield. Or a furnace. He’s just radiating warmth and capabilities, like he’s someone to depend on. Oh God. I’m losing my freaking mind.
Sucking in a breath, I open the glove compartment and fish out the bottle of Grey Goose vodka, waving it at the jilted groom. “It’s half empty, but you’re welcome to it.”
I was right about his eyes. That’s my only coherent thought as he ducks into my Honda and straightens, his head resting against the ceiling. His gaze is made of the finest chocolate and just as fulfilling as it lands on me, grateful and weary. “Thank you, ma’am.”
His thick burr rocks me down to the soles of my feet, making me think of cuddling. Cuddling. An activity I’ve never performed a day in my life. Hoping my shock isn’t showing on my face, I twist open the bottle and hand it over. “All dressed up and nowhere to go?”
Humorless laughter leaves him in a slow rumble. “Something like that.”
“I’m so sorry about what happened,” I whisper, without thinking. “No one deserves that.”
He cuts me a look, obviously just realizing I witnessed his humiliation. He becomes aware of more than that, though. Until right this second, I don’t think he was really seeing me. I was just a blurry figure in a car. An escape hatch. Now, his attention travels down to my leather-clad thighs, before shooting back up to my face, alertness inching into his expression. “Who are you?”
“That’s a long story.” I tip the bottle up to his mouth. “For now, I’m Addison. And if you want to avoid the sympathy coming down the steps, I’m your girl.”
Without turning to look at the church, he twists the bottle on his knee. “How so?”
“There are probably very few places you can hide in this town, am I right?”
Weary brown eyes focus back on me. “Yes.”
So much weight and meaning packed into a single word. “I have a place. You can lay low for a little while.”
His body language is still grateful, but hesitant now. “I mean no disrespect, Addison. I’m not assuming a damn thing, either, you understand.” He waits for my nod. “But if you’re thinking of offering me more than a place to lay low, I’m not sure I’m in the right frame of mind for it. Wouldn’t be fair to you.”
Just the suggestion of sex with this man makes me slippery between my legs. Which is pathetic considering he’s just turned me down—not that I was offering. Still. What did I think? I would pull up in my old as hell, chipped paint steed and sweep him away like an avenging cowgirl? The man is reeling from being jilted. Any romantic notions I have that are coming to life against my will need to be put to rest. Immediately. Not so easy to do when I like him more with every genuine word that comes out of his mouth.
Ignoring the clang of doom in the back of my head, I pull away from the curb. “That’s pretty noble of you. Most people wouldn’t be concerned with fairness after something so shitty happened to them.”
“Shitty things happen to people all the time,” he answers, his tone conversational. Not in the least bit preachy. “It’s no excuse to be selfish.”
“No, I guess not.” I barely manage to sound human after hearing him say selfish in relation to sex. Is that how he’d be with me beneath him, if we went to bed this afternoon? Rough and selfish and—Lord. I need to get a hold of myself, right now. Even if he was in the right mind frame for sex…Naomi is his type. Girls with a pedigree. Not a girl who was born out of wedlock and spends her life scraping by, week to week. I would be nothing more than a quick itch-scratcher.
That mental kick in the pants is exactly what I need. I know all too well what becomes of a woman who lets herself be a man’s scratching post. “I’m not offering you anything but room-temperature Grey Goose and a place to watch television for a while.” I take a turn onto the avenue, before flicking him a teasing look down my nose. “You think I want a man who got left out on the curb like yesterday’s recycling?”
When Elijah throws back his head and laughs; the sound sends an appreciative shiver down my spine. Ignore it. “Something told me to get into this car.” His big shoulders are still shaking. “I’m glad I listened.” I pull to a red light, startled when he takes my hand off the wheel, holding it in his warm grip. His head tilts, his brown eyes bursting with character. A torturously handsome, kind-hearted rake with an actual sense of humor. “Friends?”
Feeling as though I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, I roll a shoulder. “I’m reserving judgment.”
His laughter defeats me this time and as I coast through the light, I smile.