Sweet Talking Man. Liz Talley

about the upcoming Laurel Woods Art Festival. The chairman of the festival, Hilda Brunet, had contacted him weeks ago and asked him to serve on the committee. Being an artist of slight renown had its pros and cons. This wasn’t necessarily a pro because he wasn’t the committee type. Yet having some of his work featured in a few galleries across the Southwest and being named an up-and-comer in Objet d’Art magazine apparently made him desirable as head of judging. The Golden Magnolia art prize once meant a great deal in the Southern artistic community. The town was hoping to resurrect the festival and the prestige of the award. Hilda had beamed at him when she asked him to be part of the team to put the Laurel Woods Art Festival back on the map. What could he say?

      Telling Hilda no didn’t seem to be an option.

      Yeah, he guessed he had a problem with telling women no.

      But surely saying yes to being on the committee wouldn’t land him a face full of buttercream frosting.

      “Good night, Mr. Lively.” Abigail waved, placing a hand on Birdie’s shoulder, which the girl immediately brushed away.

      “Night,” he called, turning to the house he’d leased four months ago. The clean lines and blank canvas of the cottage had appealed to him, and the lap pool in the backyard and nice stretch of zoysia grass for practicing tai chi had sold him. He closed the door and entered the living area he’d furnished with an overstuffed sofa and huge beanbag chairs. The soft carpet beneath his feet had come from his mother’s last residence. The walls were covered with huge canvases, some done by his mother and others by friends. The incense he’d lit after Marcie’s fit in order to clear the bad karma had burned away, leaving a pungent, earthy scent.

      He scooped up a crumb that he’d missed during cake cleanup.

      Not exactly the way he’d planned to spend Sunday evening, but then again, what in life came when expected?

      Certainly not a marauding drunken bride.

      Or an attractive neighbor with a disapproving stare.

      Or a twelve-year-old voyeur.

      Long ago Leif had learned to roll with the punches, a requirement for the son of a renowned artist, for a kid with no father, for a man with no ties.

      Yes, he embraced the unexpected as the poetry of life.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      Six weeks later

      ABIGAIL STOOD OUTSIDE the college classroom next to Birdie and read the sign next to the door. Introduction to Drawing. Leif Lively.

      What in the hell had she been thinking?

      She couldn’t draw a straight line. Or a circle. She’d never even mastered one of those stars everyone could draw, though she had managed to render the brick wall with Ziggy peeking over it. That image had graced every notebook cover in middle school.

      Birdie turned to her, excitement pirouetting in her eyes. “This is going to be perfect.”

      That, right there, was why.

      Birdie looking at her the same way she’d looked at her when she learned to ride her bike—that was the main reason she’d agreed to the mother-daughter art class.

      That, and the fact that the classes were a Christmas present from her mother, Fancy. Her mother had given her a talking-to as they took down the Beauchamp family Christmas tree several weeks ago.

      “Why the art lessons, Mom?” Abigail had asked.

      “Because you need to do something to connect with Birdie. And that means doing something she wants to do, not what you want to do. Organizing her closet with pink bins and polka-dotted shelf paper is not fun for Birdie.”

      “I can’t draw to save my life, Mom,” Abigail had complained while nestling antique glass ornaments in bubble wrap. She’d enjoyed organizing Birdie’s closet. She’d even downloaded current music for her iPad, docking it so they could rearrange to some new jams. Birdie had given her a look that could peel paint. So, yeah, she guessed it was safe to say her daughter hadn’t enjoyed the closet revamp dance party.

      “Your life is not in danger. Just the relationship you have with your daughter. Remember the camping trip we took when you were about Birdie’s age?”

      Abigail thought to when she was in Girl Scouts and her poor mother had tried to start a fire and chipped her recently manicured nails on the flint. “Okay. Point made.”

      Fancy had given her the “good girl” smile she’d been using to manipulate Abigail all her life, and just like that—snap! Abigail and Birdie were signed up for Leif Lively’s introductory art class at the Southeastern Louisiana University Annex.

      “Let’s get a seat up front,” Birdie said now, motioning for Abigail to hurry up.

      “I’m more of a middle-of-the-classroom kind of girl.” Anyone who had graduated from St. George’s with Abigail would know that was the fib of the century. Abigail loved sitting up front and being teacher’s pet. But being that close to luscious Leif Lively filled her belly with crickets.

      Abigail had no clue why.

      The guy was strange.

      He smelled like the vegetarian café her friend had taken her to in Baton Rouge. Like herbs and incense. And he paraded around in all states of undress. Once she’d seen him doing some kind of strange dance with swords in his front yard. He also played bongo drums on his front porch, just like Matthew McConaughey.

      And he was sexy, just like Matthew McConaughey.

      For the past month, Abigail had been having erotic dreams about Leif. In one they’d been twined in silken cords like circus acrobats, clinging to the peach-colored swaths of fabric as they arched and twisted...totally naked. She’d woken up covered in sweat and so turned on that she’d almost reached for the vibrator she kept locked in a box in her bedside table. But if she went there, she knew she’d never go back. All her fantasies from then on would be about the hot blond guy who lived less than a football field away from her.

      Yet despite that restraint, she couldn’t stop thinking about Leif naked. Her mind was as rebellious as her daughter.

      “I want to be up front,” Birdie said, petulance surfing her tone.

      “Fine,” Abigail breathed, finally stepping over the threshold. She spotted Leif talking to an older woman with big hoop earrings, bright red lipstick and dyed-blond hair piled on top of her head like a haystack. He appeared to be listening attentively.

      As she and Birdie wound through the tables, Leif glanced in their direction, his Nordic eyes widening when they stopped at the long table in front.

      “Hey, Mr. Lively,” Birdie said, brightly.

      Oh, God. Ever since the apology last month, Birdie forgot to be brooding each time Leif’s name came up in conversation. The child had even tried to invite him to the Beauchamp family Christmas Eve extravaganza. Luckily, Leif hadn’t been in town. The last thing Abigail needed was someone picking up on her attraction to him. Her cousin Hilda would have noticed for sure, which was why Abigail had balked when Hilda had approached her about volunteering for the art festival. The Beauchamps were such a tight-knit bunch they might as well have been high-thread-count bedsheets. Hiding anything from family was impossible.

      “Hey, Birdie,” Leif said, holding up a finger to the older woman he’d been speaking with. She shot Birdie a look of aggravation before pasting a smile on her face.

      Birdie set her drawing pad and pencil case on the table. “I brought my mom.”

      Leif’s gaze strayed to Abigail’s. “So I see.”

      “And I have a new drawing pad and pencils. Fancy and Pops got them for me for Christmas.”

      Abigail hadn’t heard Birdie string two sentences together