Chapter 19

“You suck,” Marabelle said to herself as she showered, preparing for the dreaded benefit. Somewhere between cottage cheese and turkey sandwiches—with no mayo—she’d fallen in love. With the unattainable, notorious Nick Frasier. Even after all the self-lectures on avoiding that slippery slope of unrequited love, she hadn’t heeded her own warning. But as Nick didn’t feel the same, it would be a huge mistake to tell him.

Nope, her lips were sealed. For now, she had this great guy with an amazing ability to make others feel good, even cherished. No way would she ruin that by blurting “I love you.” Somehow Nick had crept under her radar and entrenched himself in her life and in her heart. Since she’d met him, he had supported, defended, rescued, fed, and cared for her more than anyone else she’d ever known. In only a few short weeks, he’d become a constant in her life. Lord knew he handled her mother better than she ever had. Edna couldn’t be more gaga over him. How could she ignore something that huge?

She smiled as she slathered lavender lotion on her legs, remembering their round of golf that afternoon. As much as Nick demonstrated his gentlemanly qualities, he was a fierce competitor first and foremost. He and her dad had traded long drives all afternoon, but Marabelle ruled the greens. Marabelle could putt the dimples off the golf ball, and her putter hadn’t let her down today. At first, Nick seemed surprised by her talent, but by the end of the round, he was her biggest fan.

Now, if only she could survive this evening.

Marabelle made a face at the matronly black cocktail dress her mother had insisted she wear. How could she get her head in the game wearing that boring dress? She wanted to look glamorous for Nick. Her gaze was drawn to the bronzy, sexy designer dress from her dad.

Gnawing her bottom lip, she glanced up as Nick knocked and entered her room.

Nick’s gorgeous frame filled out a custom-made tux. Light bounced off his onyx and gold studs, and his tan complexion made a stark contrast to his white tuxedo shirt. Marabelle mentally pouted. The perfect prince to her imperfect Cinderella.

“Please tell me that is not your idea of formal wear.” He indicated the oversized Clemson T-shirt she wore.

“No. But it doesn’t make any difference, because no matter what I wear, I’m never going to look like I belong with you. You belong in Hollywood!”

Nick chuckled. “Tinker Bell, you’re talking nonsense. Show me what you’re going to wear, and don’t let it be that ugly black dress, because between that and the T-shirt…I vote the T-shirt.”

“Okay. Ugly black dress is option one, or bronze dress is option two.” She motioned toward both dresses lying on her bed. “Guess which one my mother votes for.”

“Forget it. Wear the bronze thing. Show me the shoes.” She pulled out the gold Manolos from her dad. “Very nice.” Checking his Rolex, he said, “You have exactly thirty minutes to pull it together.”

“Yes, sir!” she said with a mock salute.

Nick deliberately checked his watch again. “Twenty-nine and a half. Don’t make me come back up here.”

“Out!” Marabelle hurled her shoe at him, only to hit the back of the door. He was already on the other side, laughing.

* * *

Nick waited behind the bar in the great room, savoring a tumbler of Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks. The weekend had turned out better than he’d anticipated. No doubt the family, particularly the mother, was certifiable, which explained Marabelle’s neuroses. But despite a few hurdles, he’d actually started to enjoy himself. He and Marabelle had worked as a team to keep everybody in line, because this weekend had had the makings of a train wreck.

This morning might go down as one of his best ever. He never knew giving pleasure could be so sweet. He loved exploring her body and planned to keep on doing it until this obsession faded, or Marty Hackman called off the dogs, and Nick could get unengaged and back to his normal life.

Then his mouth pressed into a grim line as he pictured his life before Marabelle. Grueling hours of meetings, media interviews, game films, and practices during the day. Shallow women, promotional parties, and meaningless sex at night. Nick had always been passionate about his life in the NFL, as a player and now as a coach. But his life outside of football could use overhauling. As much as it rubbed him raw, Marty was right. He needed to settle down and to step away from everything and remember what was important. And it wasn’t just a piece of ass. Nick cringed at all the bad press he’d garnered over failed relationships and dumped divas. He was not proud of those relationships or his own behavior. But with Marabelle, things were different. He was different. Yeah, they argued and fought and got in each other’s face, but in the end, they had each other’s back. His time with Marabelle had become his sanctuary. With her, he was able to unwind and forget about everything else.

She was important.

He stopped, his drink halfway to his mouth. Marabelle stood in the doorway, smiling at him. In that moment, his heart actually expanded, staggering him with the breadth of his feelings for her. If he didn’t know himself better, he would’ve thought this was love. He tamped down the flutter in his heart and ignored the tingly feeling spreading through his gut. Because this was temporary. Right? Oh hell.

His gaze slid from her sexy sandals, up around the bronzy fabric molded to her curves, to her breasts where the crisscross dress revealed way more than it covered.

Damn. He swallowed hard. Curls fell around her shoulders, with several strands gathered on top. His gaze landed on her full, glossy lips as her smile slightly dimmed at his scrutiny.

He returned his drink to the bar with a thud. Satisfaction spread through him better than any aged scotch. She was drop-dead gorgeous, and she was all his.

“Just in time.” He tapped the face of his watch. “Let’s go.”

Marabelle’s mouth gaped open. Nick kept moving as he herded her through the foyer toward the front door. She came to an abrupt halt, removing her elbow from his grasp.

“Is that it?” Brown eyes snapping.

“What?”

“Aren’t you going to say something?”

“I did. Let’s go.”

She rounded on him and exploded. “I’m going to give my mother a fatal heart attack at the biggest event of her life, wearing this dress with these shoes and my hair down, and all you can say is let’s go?”

Her chest heaved. He feared—more like hoped—her breasts would spill from the front of the dress. Please. He watched, fascinated. She stomped her foot.

Christ. Almost.

“Well?”

Nick peeled his gaze away from her world-class cleavage. What were they arguing about? Oh yeah. “I could say you look beautiful and sexy.”

She relaxed her stance.

He fingered one of her soft curls. “But you don’t want to hear that. I remember you telling me you didn’t want to draw attention to yourself. You magnanimously wanted all the attention to fall on me”—he ran his index finger along the slim column of her neck—“where it belongs,” he said with a crafty laugh.

Her eyes narrowed.

He bent and brushed her lips with a soft kiss. “You look amazing. If I see one guy look at you the way I am, I will break both his legs,” he murmured.

Marabelle’s full-wattage smile beamed back. “Good. My work is done here.”

“Are you wearing a bra?” He’d sure like to explore for himself but didn’t want to risk showing up late and ending up on Edna’s hit list.

“Can you see anything?” Marabelle peered down at the top of her dress.

“Are you?”

She checked her reflection in the mirror in the foyer. “You can’t see anything.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the jaw.

Damn. He was going to have to watch her like a hawk.

* * *

“Not so fast.” Marabelle snagged a second glass of champagne from a waiter passing through the crowd milling around outside the ballroom. She observed Nick, holding court with a group of men dying to rub elbows with a famous football player/coach and a few women dying to rub something else.

“Your Nick is very special,” her sister said. Phoebe wore a black strapless tulle cocktail dress and metallic silver heels, appearing cool and collected with her blond hair slicked back in a French twist. Phoebe epitomized tidy and elegant, something Marabelle hadn’t quite mastered.

“You could say that again.” Marabelle caught some older woman batting her big green eyes at Nick.

“Where’s Mother?” The last time she’d seen her, Ed had had to fan her face with the auction program to keep Edna from fainting over Marabelle’s dress.

“After Dad had her breathe into a paper bag, she went to check on the band. By the way, you look fabulous in that dress. And since Nick can’t keep his eyes off you, I think he agrees.” Marabelle glanced toward the stud in question and caught him smiling at something the older woman purred in his ear. He looked up at that precise moment and winked at her.

“You’re very brave. I don’t know if I could handle someone as handsome and famous as he is.”

“What do you mean?” Marabelle asked, surprised at her sister’s admission.

Phoebe shrugged her elegant shoulders. “All the men want to associate with him because of who he is, and all the women want a piece of him because of how he looks.” Phoebe leaned closer and whispered feverishly, “That’s Mimsy Peterson. She’s currently on her third husband and has slept with half the men in Atlanta. I wouldn’t trust her with my dog.”

Oh really? Just then, Mimsy made a big show of pressing her hand into Nick’s bicep. That did it. Marabelle lurched forward.

“Marabelle, don’t!” Phoebe reached for her but caught only thin air.

* * *

Nick looked up in time to see Marabelle push her way through the crowd with that bulldog look on her face. Not good. He quickly excused himself to head her off at the pass before she went postal and her mother never forgave her. Or him.

“What took you so long?” He smoothly veered her away from enemy territory.

“You attract them like flies. I can’t leave you alone for one second,” she huffed.

“Exactly. Now let’s make your mother ecstatic and drive up the bids on all the auction items.” Nick steered her away from trouble toward the silent auction tables and entered bids on most of the items being offered. He noticed Marabelle over by the jewelry display, admiring a David Yurman silver-and-gold cable bracelet with diamonds. When she moved on to the next table, he bumped the bid on the bracelet high enough to discourage other bidders.

“Yoo-hoo! There you are. I’ve got wonderful news.” Edna glided toward them, wearing an emerald-green ball gown and a triumphant smile. “The ladies on the committee have decided to hold a live auction for the dancing later. Like Gone With the Wind.”

Nick squeezed Marabelle’s hand as she and her sister exchanged looks.

“The men have to bid on the lady of their choice to dance with her.” Edna clapped her hands. “And all the money will go to Magnolia House.” Edna patted Marabelle’s arm. “Mimsy Peterson wants to add ‘ladies’ choice’ so—”

And then it happened.

Marabelle blurted, “Mother, Mimsy Peterson is a slut. She’s not getting within a ten-mile radius of Nick.”

A few feet away, conversations stopped, and someone started snickering. Big Edna looked as though she had swallowed a sweaty athletic sock. Phoebe stared wide-eyed, and Marabelle slapped her own hand over her mouth. Nick almost choked stifling his laugh.

Ed approached just in time. He looked from Marabelle’s shocked expression to Edna’s pale face.

“What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you.” Edna fumed. She motioned for Ed to lower his head and whispered in his ear. Poor Tinker Bell. She’d gone and done it now. Nick wrapped his arm around her waist and hugged her stiff form to his side.

Ed showed no surprise. “On this, Marabelle happens to be right. Mimsy Peterson is a slut. Nick, you’d be wise to stay away,” he said low enough for their ears only.

“Ed, you’re as bad as Marabelle. Do not encourage her outrageous behavior. And, Nick, if you don’t get her under control, I will hold you personally responsible.” Edna glared at him with a perfected evil eye. Nick appreciated its effectiveness. Edna grabbed Ed’s arm and marched toward the ballroom.

Nick dropped a kiss on Marabelle’s head. “Damn, honey. Now you’ve got your mother threatening me. What do you have to say for yourself?” She squared her shoulders in what he recognized as her stance of defiance.

“Just doing my job, Coach.”

He grinned. “Atta girl.”

* * *

Inside the ballroom, Marabelle and Nick wove their way through the decorated tables draped in cloths of varying shades of green moiré, with clusters of magnolias as centerpieces. The evening had barely begun, and Marabelle wanted nothing more than to go home, throw on her comfy sweats, and eat a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts. And when she said home, she meant Raleigh.

Marabelle knew this night would be a nightmare. And once again, she’d managed to embarrass herself. She didn’t care what her mother thought. But she didn’t want Nick laughing at her and looking at her as if she were some joke. Rounding the backs of gold ballroom chairs swagged with ribbon and more magnolias, they reached their assigned seats the same time as Phoebe and Tom.

“Mother has really outdone herself. Oh.” Phoebe hesitated, reading the place cards. “Mimsy Peterson is seated next to Nick and—”

Sweeping up the place cards, Marabelle said, “Over my dead body—”

“Excuse us, please.” Nick replaced the cards she’d grabbed up and hustled her toward the French doors leading out to the terrace.

“What are you doing?” She tried wrenching her arm free.

He closed the door and pulled her toward the railing away from the party. “Preventing you from making another scene and having the wrath of Edna come down on you. Again.”

So this was the thanks she got. “I suppose you’d rather have that black widow spider next to you, groping you under the table,” she snapped. “I was trying to protect you.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I think I can handle it.”

“But that’s my job.” And then it hit her like a gong to the head—Nick didn’t need her. Maybe he had enjoyed or even encouraged Mimsy’s come-on.

Marabelle silently counted to ten. “You’re right. I’ll stay out of your way.” Rigid with fury, she turned to leave, but Nick spun her around to face him.

“Listen, you need to exercise some self-control. Your actions affect other people. What do you think will happen if you change the seating arrangement and pick a fight with Muffy?”

“Mimsy.”

“Whatever. You go in there half-cocked, and your mother will never forgive you, not to mention half of Atlanta.”

The party’s muffled noises filtering through the French doors brought her back to reality.

More than embarrassed and wishing she’d never agreed to this charade, Marabelle lowered her head. “You’re right. Mother would kill me. I won’t make a scene.” She lifted her head and locked gazes with the man she loved but would never have. “But you’re on your own.” Quietly, she turned and went back inside the ballroom. This time Nick let her go.

* * *

The cool night breeze brushed past Nick, but he was too tied up in knots to appreciate it. He’d do anything not to return to the stuffy party. He leaned his arms on the stone railing overlooking the golf course. The smell of fresh-cut grass lingered in the air.

He knew Marabelle’s outbursts stemmed from jealousy and not from the game they were playing. He was flattered. What guy wouldn’t be? Marabelle didn’t do anything half-assed. No, she forged full steam ahead, bulldozing anything in her path. And he would give anything to have her unbridled passion directed at him in bed.

But when the fireworks died down, what then? He winced as he pictured her chocolate-brown eyes all hot and bitter. What next when the romance fizzled? His chest tightened at the thought. No way Marabelle would blast her hurt on Twitter or make false accusations. She made scenes, but only because she believed she was righting a wrong. Not because she was vindictive or out to get revenge.

Marabelle was protecting her heart. Suddenly Nick felt all of his thirty-eight years. A part of him couldn’t exactly blame her.

“It’s getting chilly out here.” Lost in his mental tirade, he hadn’t heard Phoebe approach. She stood, poised by his side, wrapped in a silver cover-up. “She gets to you, doesn’t she?” He lifted a brow, not giving anything away. Nick didn’t know whose side Phoebe was on: Marabelle’s or Edna’s. “Marabelle has always marched to the beat of a different drummer.”

“You can say that again.”

“Even when we were kids, Marabelle did things her way, no matter the consequences. I’ve always admired that about her.” Phoebe’s gaze drifted over the dark golf course. “Mother never understood her, and Marabelle refused to bend.” Her voice was solemn. “I used to wish I was more like her. Still do. She’s always so brave.

“When we were younger, this neighborhood kid used to bully me all the time.” She laughed. “He wanted my attention because he liked me, but at the time, I was terrified. One day he backed me up against the fence, because I wouldn’t let him walk me home, and threatened to steal my books and papers and rip them to shreds. Even back then, the thought of anything of mine not being perfect was horrifying,” she said deprecatingly. “Suddenly Marabelle bounded around the corner and knocked him to the ground.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Nick replied wryly.

“That boy was much bigger than she was, but Marabelle got in a few good licks before I had to pull her off.”

“Now I understand her insatiable desire to fight.”

Phoebe fiddled with her wrap. “Marabelle fights for the people she loves. You know, she even warned Tom when we were engaged that if he did anything to hurt me, he’d have to answer to her.”

That didn’t surprise Nick either, but he kept quiet.

“At the time, I was furious with her. But she did it because she loves me.” Phoebe’s eyes darted around the terrace as if she had revealed too much. “What I’m trying to say is, that’s why she’s protecting you. Marabelle thinks with her heart, not her head.”

Nick understood, but where did that leave him and Marabelle? Did they have what it took to survive the long haul?

Phoebe sighed. “We should go inside before we’re missed.” Looping her arm through his, they moved toward the doors. “Oh, before I forget”—Phoebe pierced him with her sharp blue eyes—“if you do anything to hurt her…you’ll have to answer to me.”

As threats go, it worked.

* * *

The live auction had begun, and Marabelle had become painfully aware that Nick had made no move to bid on her. She straightened in her seat, facing the dance floor, her back to the table, hoping she didn’t look like a loser. Would this evening ever end?

“Marabelle Fairchild! Come on down! You’ll be dancing the first set with one of Atlanta’s finest…Trey Stone,” the auctioneer boomed into the microphone.

And her night went straight to hell. What had she expected? She’d shamelessly flirted with him all through dinner to get back at Nick. She’d made her bed, and now she had to lie in it.

Marabelle and Trey found their place on the dance floor, when the auctioneer called out again. “And the highest bid for the evening goes to none other than the belle of the ball, Edna Fairchild. Ed, you’ve been outbid, my friend. By a much younger man.” The chattering ballroom grew quiet as the guests looked on with interest. “Edna, our famous guest from North Carolina has just bid twenty-five hundred dollars to dance the first set with you this evening.” Everyone oohed and aahed.

Marabelle whipped around in time to see her mother smiling and waving as Nick led her to the floor. Good Lord. Images of Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler flashed through her head. Edna actually curtsied just like Scarlett when she got to the center of the dance floor. Unbelievable. Just when Marabelle thought the night couldn’t get any suckier.

After the first set, the guests switched partners, and Marabelle danced with her dad, Peyton Carter, and even Tom, her brother-in-law. But not once with Nick.

On aching, crippled feet, she headed back to her seat for a rest. Manolo Blahniks were made to look great, not boogie the night away.

Phoebe plopped down next to her, moaning, “I can’t feel my toes. Why do we have to dance just as hard as the men, but in three-inch heels? Life is so unfair.”

“Try four-inch heels.” They both burst out laughing. Neither dared to remove their offending footwear, knowing Big Edna would admonish them for their inappropriate behavior. Phoebe snagged two champagne flutes from a passing waiter and handed one to Marabelle.

“A toast. To you and your adorable Nick.” Phoebe raised her glass, but Marabelle didn’t respond. “What’s the matter?”

Did she dare confide the truth to her sister?

“Nick is a wonderful guy, and you’re lucky to have found him,” Phoebe said in earnest.

“I guess. Right now, he’s a real jerkwad.”

Phoebe’s eyes flew open. “Why would you say that? He’s charming and absolutely dotes on you. Don’t ever take that for granted.”

“Yeah, well, so much for doting. He hasn’t once asked me to dance tonight,” she said as she sulked.

“Oh, Marabelle. He’s been graciously dancing with all the women, because everyone is so enamored with him. Give him a break. He even danced twice with Margie Carter.” Phoebe said “Margie Carter” all gravelly, mimicking Margie’s smoker’s voice. Marabelle couldn’t help but chuckle. “And he paid twenty-five hundred dollars to dance with Mother. We should’ve paid him!” The sisters snickered together.

“Now you’re making me feel sorry for him. Stop singing his praises. He loves having women swoon all over him.” Marabelle snorted in disgust.

“You have nothing to be jealous over. Nick adores you,” Phoebe said.

Marabelle straightened in her seat. “Who said I’m jealous? I don’t care who—”As the crowd parted, she zeroed in on a drunk Mimsy Peterson plastered to the front of Nick, swaying to the band’s rendition of “Sexual Healing” by Marvin Gaye.

“That bitch.”

Phoebe looked up, alarmed. “Marabelle, it’s not what you think,” she said, her tone doubtful.

“If she gets any closer, we’ll have to pry her off with the Jaws of Life.” Marabelle scooted to the edge of her seat, ready to pounce like a cat on an unsuspecting mouse.

Phoebe pressed her hand on her shoulder. “Stay. I’ll handle this.”

Marabelle’s gaze never wavered from her prey.

“Here. Drink this.” Phoebe handed her the remainder of her champagne. Gliding to where Nick and Mimsy were grinding it out on the dance floor, Phoebe tapped Mimsy on the shoulder. Marabelle couldn’t hear a thing over the music, but whatever Phoebe said must’ve been pretty powerful. Mimsy unglued herself from Nick’s front and scurried off like a rat. To his credit, Nick looked relieved. Phoebe finished the dance with him with the proper distance of six inches between them.

At least Phoebe won’t hit on him. But why hadn’t Nick asked her to dance? Marabelle watched in misery as Trey Stone weaved in her direction. Years of good manners drilled into her head would not allow her to say no, even if he seemed a little tipsy. And since she’d had nothing but sucky luck all night, the next song was a slow ballad. She furtively looked around and saw some woman old enough to be her grandmother hanging all over Nick.

Ugh. At least Trey was near her age. Trey pulled her in tight, and she almost moaned…in misery. Trey’s hands rested precariously close to the top of her bottom. Oh brother.

* * *

“Scotch on the rocks, please.” Nick had finally disengaged himself from some woman who reminded him of his old Aunt Hildy. She gave him the willies when she tried to cop a feel. Usually he could schmooze his way through an affair like this on autopilot, but tonight he was off his game, and it was all Marabelle’s fault. His eyes narrowed as she danced by with Trey Stone holding her close again. Oh, hell no.

Blood boiling, Nick was tired of watching that arrogant dickhead making the moves on Marabelle.

Knocking back his drink, he slammed the glass down on the bar and wove his way back through the crowd to retrieve what was his…Marabelle. Normally, he’d get stopped a half dozen times to talk football or sign something, but he had his game face on, and everyone cleared a wide path.

“Excuse me. You have something that belongs to me…my fiancée,” Nick said in his don’t-screw-with-me voice.

Both stared at him in shock. Dickhead recovered first.

“Look, Frasier, Marabelle and I are old friends,” Trey said in his snotty, entitled voice.

“Right. Now beat it,” he growled, plucking her from Trey’s clutches and dragging her off the dance floor, away from the crowd.

“N…Nick. What are you doing?” Marabelle said from between clenched teeth.

“Doing you a favor. Or do you prefer douchebags groping you all night?”

“Excuse me?”

“I told you what I’d do if some guy tried to make a move on you. That dickhead can’t keep his eyes off your breasts or his hands off your ass. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than beating the living shit out of him.”

“Are you kidding me? What about your fan club? Did they all go home for the night to soak their teeth? The young ones aren’t enough? Now you’re hitting on grannies?”

“You think I enjoyed them rubbing against me?”

Hurt and doubt passed over Marabelle’s face. “I didn’t see you saying no. You seemed to enjoy all that bumping and grinding with Mimsy. Everyone noticed,” she hissed.

Nick plowed his fingers through his hair, wanting to yank it all out. “Un-freakin’-believable. You’ve been in a royal snit all night, not even looking my way at dinner.”

“Me?” Marabelle snorted. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, you. While you were pouting, I had to endure everyone, down to a woman I could’ve sworn was a clone of my eighty-year-old Aunt Hildy.” He jabbed his finger at her face. “And you flirted with that dickhead and countless others.”

“Flirting? Now that’s rich. Coming from the infamous skirt chaser,” she mumbled.

He released a heavy sigh, rolling his shoulders. Why was he fighting with her? Sometimes it was smarter to drop back and punt, and this was one of those times.

“Tinker—”

“Don’t. Don’t call me Tinker Bell.” She crossed her arms. “You didn’t even bid on me to dance during the auction.” She gulped, her eyes swimming with tears.

Nick felt two inches tall. He’d never meant to hurt her. He’d rather eat Astroturf than make Marabelle cry. “Aw, honey.” He gathered her unyielding form close. “Don’t be mad about that. I wanted to flatter your mother and make her evening successful.” He tilted her sad face up with his finger. “Don’t cry, babe.” He caught a tear with the pad of his thumb as it slid down her cheek. “I only wanted to be with you tonight.”

With his arm anchored around her waist, he gently propelled her toward the dance floor. “What’re you doing?” Remaining stiff against his side, Marabelle sniffed, slanting him a suspicious look.

“Dancing with the prettiest woman here for the rest of the night.” Tucking her tight against his body, he wrapped his palm around her hand. The music was soft and low, and Nick swayed until the tension eased from her body and Marabelle snuggled against him, resting her cheek against his chest. Much better.

“Hey. We’re all meeting at the Stones’ for a late-night breakfast. You want to join us?” Phoebe asked, interrupting their slow dance.

“No. Thank you. I need to get some rest before hitting the road tomorrow.” Marabelle moved from the circle of his arms.

“We’ll miss you. I’ll be by in the morning to say good-bye.” Phoebe hugged her sister and whirled to leave, when Marabelle stopped her.

“Wait, what did you say to get rid of Mimsy earlier?”

A mischievous smile lit Phoebe’s face. “The truth. That I saw her husband heading into the ladies’ restroom after some young blond.”

“You didn’t!” Marabelle’s eyes rounded.

“She deserved a taste of her own medicine.”

Nick grinned at Phoebe, the perfect debutante gone rogue.

“Thanks. I don’t think I would’ve been that subtle,” Marabelle said.

“No shit,” Nick added.

Phoebe laughed. “Oh, in case you’re wondering, Mother raised more money this year than ever for Magnolia House. Thanks to Nick.” Phoebe gave him a wink. “Don’t forget to pick up your auction items on the way out.”

Nick didn’t need any further encouragement. He hustled Marabelle toward the entrance. “Meet me at the front while I settle up.” He couldn’t believe his stroke of luck: a few hours alone with Marabelle, and she was sober.

“Coach Frasier, we have all your wonderful purchases right here,” the eager volunteer said from behind the checkout table. “You got the—”

“Thanks. I’m just gonna write a check and include the twenty-five-hundred-dollar pledge for the dance.” He dug for his checkbook in his coat pocket. “Will that cover it?” He ripped the check from the register and pushed it across the table.

“Goodness! Yes, that will more than cover it. Thank you so much for your generosity.”

“Don’t mention it.” He started for the lobby.

“Uh, Coach Frasier!” He turned, his impatience clear. “Don’t forget your items.” The volunteer waved a green Magnolia House tote bag in the air.

“Christ.” He snatched the bag. “Thanks.”

“Wow. Do you have any idea what you have in this bag?” Marabelle rummaged through the tote as he pulled away from the clubhouse. Nick accelerated past the speed limit through the empty streets.

“No clue.”

She held up a certificate. “It says you’re the proud owner of an original commissioned portrait.”

“Just what I need.”

“Four days and two rounds of golf at Sea Island, Georgia. It’s beautiful there.”

“Good. You can plan the trip. Anything else?”

“Yeah, you have a full day of salon services at Miss Pitty Pat’s Salon.”

He snorted. “Yours.”

“And…you’re a proud member of the Fruit of the Month club!” Marabelle burst into hysterical laughter.

“Huh? I didn’t bid on that.”

“I kn…know. I did,” she said in between hoots.

He chuckled. “Gimme that.” He snatched the certificate and tossed it over his shoulder. “What else is in there? And you’d better not say implants or Botox treatments.”

“Hmmm, let’s see.” Marabelle held up a black velvet jewelry pouch. “What’s this?”

“Open it and find out.” She reached inside the pouch and pulled out a bracelet.

“Wow. The Yurman bracelet,” she breathed.

Nick parked in the Fairchilds’ driveway and turned off the car. He unlatched his seat belt. “Yeah?” The bracelet’s diamonds sparkled in the outdoor lights. Marabelle slipped it on her small wrist. “You like it?” he asked.

She nodded. “Sure. What’s not to like?”

“Good. Then my sister should love it, too.”

Her head snapped up. “Sister? But I thought—” Marabelle clamped her mouth shut, and pink infused her cheeks.

“Gotcha. That’s for the Fruit of the Month Club.” He laughed. “If you could see your face.” Pink turned to red, and she scowled. He cupped her chin. “You’re so transparent. It’s yours, Tinker Bell,” he said against her lips. I’m yours.