Sweet Talking Man. Liz Talley

did he? Well, since he’s failed to be a parent for the past five years and doesn’t even live in the state, his insight into the situation isn’t va—”

      At that moment the door swung open and there he was. Leif Lively himself...or, as Abigail had dubbed him, resident cuckoo bird. Okay, sexy cuckoo bird was a more accurate descriptor. The head of the art department at St. George’s Episcopal School had flaxen hair that fell to his shoulders, bright blue Nordic eyes, a chiseled jaw and a body that made half the women in town salivate. He probably could make the other half salivate, too, but some women had principles and sense.

      Like Abigail. She snapped her mouth closed and gave him her committee smile—the one that got things done.

      “Ah, my neighbors,” Leif said with a warm smile that touched those pretty eyes. “I don’t see any casseroles in hand so I’m guessing you’re not welcoming me to the neighborhood?”

      He said it like a joke. He knew, of course, that Abigail would be the last person to welcome him to Laurel Creek, the new subdivision that had opened behind her historic Laurel Woods Bed-and-Breakfast in the small Louisiana town of Magnolia Bend. Abigail had vehemently protested the development behind her place of business. Laurel Woods, a plantation that had been around since before the Civil War, had always been surrounded by lush woods. The solitary, serene location was a main selling point for Abigail’s business. But a planned patio community had taken away a third of the pines and hardwoods that lent peace to the bed-and-breakfast. Abigail hated the subdivision with every fiber of her being, but she hadn’t been able to stop Bartholomew Harvey from selling the acreage to a developer.

      She’d lost that battle, but she wasn’t conceding to the hotness standing in front of her.

      Wait. No. Not hotness.

      She refused to think of the local artist as a sexual being...even if he made it difficult not to.

      Chasing those thoughts felt too, well, dangerous.

      And just why were those thoughts even in her mind anyway? She’d encountered Leif many times at St. George’s and, though she appreciated his good looks and easy charm, she didn’t consider him a prospect for anything other than an art teacher. In his eyes she’d seen what he thought of her as she organized wrapping-paper drives and delivered muffins to the teachers’ lounge. Her dedication to being the PTA president amused him. He probably thought she was totally lame. Or at least she’d convinced herself that’s what he thought of her. Either way, this man was on the other end of the spectrum from her.

      “You’ve been living here for three or four months so I think the welcome period is over. I’m here on another matter entirely, Mr. Lively,” she said.

      “Call me Leif, and I’m just saying a casserole would have been delish,” he teased, padding barefoot down the freshly painted steps, stopping way too near her.

      He wore baggy cotton pants that gathered in at his waist. His bare torso belonged in an ad for suntan lotion, all bronze and free of chest hair. He looked like a man too comfortable in his own skin. Abigail swallowed, but refused to step back. “I thought you were a vegan anyway.”

      “Word gets around, huh? Well, vegans like casseroles,” he said with another smile, craning his head around her to spy Birdie standing stock-still on the walk. “Hey, Birdie.”

      Abigail glanced at her daughter. The child’s face was the color of the camellias blooming by the white picket fence. Good gravy.

      “Hi, Mr. Lively,” Birdie said.

      “So what can I do for you?” Leif asked.

      A naughty thought popped into Abigail’s mind. Really naughty. But she flicked it away and cleared her throat. “Birdie has something to say to you.”

      “Oh.” Leif’s gaze swept down Abigail’s body, taking in the clothes she’d donned for the open house held at St. George’s Episcopal School earlier that day. She’d aimed for professional but suspected she looked overly conservative. But who cared? Besides it was winter, for Christ’s sake. Leif needed to put on a shirt. What kind of man answered the door in such dishabille? Not any man she knew, that’s for sure.

      Abigail smoothed the wool slacks against her thighs before she could catch herself and turned toward her daughter with an arched eyebrow.

      Birdie just stood there, looking scared.

      “I hope you’re coming to tell me you want to take the art class I’m offering at the community college next semester,” Leif said, his eyebrows lifted expectantly. “I’m looking forward to having a talented artist in my class at school this semester, but it would be awesome to have you in the enrichment class, too, Birdie.”

      “Brigitte,” her daughter said.

      “Oh, of course. Brigitte, very French,” Leif said, with another sweet smile.

      Christ, why did he have to be so nice?

      “Uh, I’m thinking about taking the course. Uh, if my mom will let me.” Birdie turned pleading eyes on Abigail. Eyes that nearly swayed Abigail into scrapping the plan to make Birdie apologize. Abigail could always make up something about a dead branch on her property threatening Leif’s back fence.

      Wait. No.

      She’d told Birdie she had to apologize. Children needed consistency. Every mother knew that. Still something pinged in her heart. Maybe if she bent just a little, Birdie would toss a piece of sunshine she hid somewhere beneath that awful hoodie Abigail’s way. Maybe it would be a starting point to discuss why her daughter had spied on Leif in the first place. Obviously Birdie had questions about men, their differences and perhaps even—Abigail swallowed—sex.

      “Mom?” Birdie waited for her to speak.

      “We’ll talk about art class later,” Abigail said, giving Birdie the “go ahead” nod.

      “Uh, I’m here because, uh—” Birdie dug the toe of her sneaker against the concrete walk. “Well, you see, I used to like to climb trees. For sketching. Uh, Audubon once stayed at our house and, well, there are a lot of birds and stuff. I like to draw them and the best place to get a bird’s-eye view is the old sycamore out back.”

      Leif held up a fist. “Mad props to our boy John James Audubon. He’s one of a kind.”

      Birdie fist-bumped him. “Yeah, we have some originals. Two to be exact.”

      “You’re kidding. I’d love to see them.”

      “Come over anytime,” Birdie said.

      Abigail started to shake her head, then caught herself. To be stingy with the original John J. Audubon watercolors would not do. Abigail had always welcomed anyone who wanted to take a peek at the tufted crane and the brown pelican the famed woodsman had created almost two hundred years ago. Leif Lively was no exception just because something about him made her...

      Okay, fine. Abigail had a weird attraction to Leif that she’d never wanted to admit even to herself. When she dropped in at the school, she found her gaze hanging on him. And she hated herself for it. After all, she wasn’t one of those women who fluttered, starry-eyed over the handsome artist. She wasn’t like other room moms who cracked ribald jokes about Leif’s ass.

      Fawning wasn’t something she did. Ever.

      “I’d love to see the Audubon pieces,” Leif said with another smile at Birdie...and then at her. Christ, he smiled a lot. The Ryan Seacrest of Magnolia Bend.

      Abigail nodded. “Sure, drop by anytime and Birdie can show you.”

      “Anytime? I could come now. It’s about suppertime and I heard you’re a good cook.”

      “Are you hungry?” Abigail had been knitted together with a strong thread of Southern hospitality so guilt pecked at her for not welcoming Leif and the other Laurel Creek residents with banana bread or cookies. But she was not inviting him for supper. The thought made her feel too