The Sweetest September. Liz Talley

the room and the adjoining door gave a view of an enormous claw-foot tub.

      Shelby eyed her bag sitting at the end of the bed. “Well, thank you.”

      John stared at her, his face impassive.

      “You can go. I’ll be fine. Your sister seems capable of handling most anything.”

      At this he snorted. “My parents should have named her Colonel so people would know what to expect when they find themselves facedown in the mud with tank marks on their back.”

      “It would be hard for a girl to go through life with the name Colonel. She’d never find a personalized key chain or snow globe,” Shelby cracked, wanting him to go away, wanting him to stay so she wouldn’t feel so alone.

      His flash-bang smile surprised her. “That’s the girl I remember from Boots.”

      “Yeah, I have a good sense of humor when I’m not hormonal, on the verge of tears or cracking up...though I bet you wish you had never answered that knock-knock joke at the bar.”

      “It was funny.”

      “Yeah,” she said, walking toward the bed and sinking onto the plush comforter. “So...”

      “I’m writing down my number.” He picked up the notepad by the phone. “If you need anything...”

      “I won’t.” She hadn’t wanted anything from him in the first place. Her plan had been so simple—tell him about the child and fly back to Seattle. Okay, she hadn’t wanted to fly back to Seattle and face the music with her family...over turkey no less. She’d imagined the scenario several times over the long flight to Louisiana. “Pass the green bean casserole. Oh, and by the way, I’m pregnant.”

      How fun was that?

      Spotlight on her as she enacted the next installment of “Shelby the Eternal Screwup”—a yearly special airing near the holidays when family members were apt to ask things like “How are you?” And since Shelby prided herself on being honest and relishing the jolt on the faces of her brother, sister and assorted cousins, the answer was always shocking.

      “How are you, Shelby?”

      “Good, David. I lost my virginity to Dad’s junior partner, who swore he loved me and would marry me when his wife died. How are you?”

      Yeah. That’s pretty much how it went. Come to think of it, saying, “I’m pregnant by a man I met at a back-road honky-tonk” sounded tame by comparison. Maybe dropping that doozy over the white-chocolate-cranberry cheesecake wouldn’t be so bad.

      “Look, Shelby, I know we’re veritable strangers.”

      “Veritable?”

      “Virtual?”

      “We know each other carnally. That’s pretty much it.”

      He lifted both his eyebrows. “And that’s all it took.”

      “Touché,” she said.

      “My point is that I’m here for you. You aren’t alone.”

      Shelby ran her hand over the fine needlework of the velvet lumbar pillow. “It’s been a tough afternoon, and you’ve been pretty damn decent.”

      He spread his hands. “What else could I do?”

      “You could have done a lot of things that weren’t as nice as what you did. I dropped a tornado on you and you didn’t hide in a cellar.”

      “I don’t have a cellar. This is Louisiana.”

      Shelby smiled and took time to study him in the golden light of the room. Despite the grimness shadowing his eyes, John Beauchamp was a fine specimen of a man. No pretty boy, he had a ruggedness that called to mind Clint Eastwood in his younger days. Brows that easily gathered into perplexity, a hard jaw that spoke of stubbornness and a sensual mouth that, though often drawn into a line, could curve into a wicked smile.

      She remembered his scent, remembered the way his muscled chest felt beneath her fingertips, the way he’d kissed her...like a man starved.

      Now that she knew he’d lost his wife over a year ago, she understood the desperation in his kiss, recognized the same need throbbing inside her. After Darby dumped her, her ego had been fragile and she’d been ripe for the plucking...or ripe for the—well, she wasn’t going there. Suffice it to say, she’d been just as desperate as John to feel the touch of another person.

      “Time to process all of this would be nice,” he said. “So, I’ll let you rest and say good night.”

      She nodded because she still struggled to believe her whole life had been turned on its ear. In six and a half months she’d become a mother...if she didn’t lose the pregnancy. Process? Not a bad idea.

      “Good night, John,” she said.

      For a moment he looked uncertain, like he wondered if he should extend his hand or offer a hug or something.

      Luckily, a knock at the door interrupted the awkwardness, and Abigail hurtled inside, balancing a tray, which she sat on the desk.

      “I hope it’s enough,” John’s sister said, arranging the silverware on the napkin. A single yellow chrysanthemum brightened the tray holding a sandwich, fruit and a slice of pecan pie.

      “It’s perfect. Thank you,” Shelby said, rising.

      “Don’t get up,” John said, lifting the tray and crossing the room, setting it on the bedside table.

      “I could have done that,” Abigail said, eyeing her brother with an odd expression.

      “I’ll see you tomorrow,” John said, glancing down to where Shelby sat, one foot hooked beneath her.

      “You’re in the middle of harvest.” Abigail looked as if she’d been tossed in a lake. “You can’t come here tomorrow.”

      “I’m not too busy for a friend,” he said.

      “Who are you?” Abigail asked.

      “A man not that busy.”

      “Hmm,” John’s sister muttered before turning to Shelby. “Let me know if you need anything. Extra toiletries are in the bathroom. You wouldn’t believe how many people forget basics.”

      “Thank you,” Shelby called as Abigail headed toward the door.

      John waited until his sister disappeared. “What about clothes...a, uh, nightgown?”

      Shelby pointed to the plastic bag. “That’s why I asked if you’d stop at the store. I nabbed a few things including an oversize shirt to sleep in along with a toothbrush. I can manage.”

      “If you’ll give me your hotel info, I’ll send someone to Baton Rouge to gather your things.”

      “Don’t bother. Things are scattered all over the room, and I really don’t want a stranger packing my personal items. I can climb out of bed long enough to do that.”

      “I’ll drive you, then,” he said.

      “No. Just send my rental car over. Besides you looked pretty busy in your fields. Abigail seemed to indicate—”

      “I’ll be here at noon,” he interrupted, tone firm. “Besides I need to stop in Baton Rouge for a part Homer needs.”

      John Beauchamp was a driven man. Easy for her to recognize since she’d been around driven people all her life. Her entire family was listed under the definition in the Merriam-Webster’s dictionary.

      “If you insist,” she said.

      “I do. Good night, Shelby.”

      “’Night.” The door closed with a soft snick and Shelby fell back on the bed.

      Jesus.

      At that moment, she wanted someone,