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“We’ll pick you up at six.”
“Just tell me where we’re going and I’ll meet you.”
“But I don’t know that yet. We’ll just pick you up. Six o’clock?”
Mandy closed her eyes, counted to three, and then exhaled. “Sure.”
His grandmother gave him precise directions on how to get from her house on north Bramble, to the Wright Salon on the corner of Church and Second.
Tyler didn’t have the heart to tell her he knew exactly where the salon was, because he’d been there earlier. And so, instead, he followed his grandmother’s instructions, and pulled up in front of the salon, thinking perhaps Mandy was only now getting off work, but when she emerged from the house, she didn’t come through the front door, but a side walkway, and she was wearing a black wool coat that reached her calves, black gloves, and black heels.
“Where are we going for dinner again?” he asked his grandmother as Amanda made her way toward the car.
“Rocco’s. I love their ravioli.”
“Is it a formal place?”
“No.” And then she smiled as she caught sight of Amanda. “Oh, doesn’t she look lovely? Mandy is always so stylish.”
Tyler suppressed a sigh and climbed out of the car, not sure whether he was wildly underdressed or Amanda was wildly overdressed. All he knew for certain was that the prospect of having dinner with Amanda and his grandmother was making him nervous, and nothing made him nervous. At the office, he had a reputation for having nerves of steel.
Amanda approached him, her smile slightly mocking. “Hello.”
He closed the distance between them, and extended a hand. “Ty Justice.”
She arched a beautifully winged brow. “Ty, is it? Not Tyler?”
“My family calls me Tyler. My friends call me Ty.”
“Amanda Wright,” she answered, putting her gloved hand in his. “Only my family and close friends calls me Mandy.”
It was a not so subtle reminder that he was not a friend.
His fingers closed around hers, his grip firm, firm enough to make her look up into his face. “It’s nice to meet you, Amanda,” he said gravely. “I’ve heard a great deal about you from my grandmother.”
“I tried hard to get out of this dinner,” she said quietly.
“I know. I was there when she was speaking to you. She’s very attached to you.”
“Which you don’t approve of.” When he didn’t immediately respond she shook her head. “Let’s just get through the evening.”
“Agreed.”
Rocco’s was just another block south on Church, the Italian restaurant tucked into the ground floor of an old brick building next door to the church.
Inside Rocco’s, Amanda removed her black wool coat, revealing a peach plaid dress with black cap sleeves and a narrow black belt cinched around her waist. The bodice of the dress was fitted with tiny peach buttons from the waist to the neat Mandarin style collar, while the skirt was full, hitting just below her knee.
It might be thirty degrees outside, and late February, but Amanda looked like a breath of spring.
Her long golden blonde hair was down, curling over her shoulders like a 1940s actress, while small black button earrings matched the cap sleeves on her dress.
“Is that a vintage dress?” he asked her as they were seated at the big corner booth. Purple plastic grapes hung in generous clusters from the arbor ceiling, while murals of Tuscany covered the pale yellow walls. “Or new, to appear vintage?”
“It’s a new dress, my sister’s design. Charity and I make a lot of our clothes,” she answered as she settled into the booth, next to Bette.
Bette reached over to pat Amanda’s hand. “Mandy and Charity are extremely talented seamstresses. If Mandy wasn’t such a good hair stylist, I’d tell her to open her own dressmaking shop.”
Tyler looked at Amanda and she shrugged. “Our family didn’t have a lot of money. We did all of our shopping at second-hand stores. Knowing how to reinvent thrift store clothes saved face, and stretched a miniscule budget.”
“And knowing how to cleverly adapt the house, turning it into your salon and home is another example of your money smarts,” Bette said.
“You live in the back of the salon?” he asked her.
“Above,” she corrected. “The upstairs is my lair.” Her generous mouth curved, a dimple fluttering in her cheek, the dimple a tease.
His chest tightened. His body hardened. How could he desire someone he wasn’t sure he even liked?
No, that wasn’t fair. He liked her. But he wasn’t sure he should like her.
That was the problem.
“How many rooms are upstairs?” he asked, trying not to focus on Mandy’s soft lips, or the way her golden hair brushed her cheek making her look like a siren from a 1940s film.
“There were three tiny bedrooms and a bathroom, but I took down the wall between the two smaller bedrooms, turned it into a living room with a mini kitchen. It’s on the cozy side, but perfect for my needs,” she answered.
“You should see it,” Bette enthused. “It’s just delightful. Vintage and yet chic and modern. I’m so proud of everything she’s achieved.”
Tyler didn’t miss how Amanda reached over and gave Gram’s arm a little squeeze. “Thanks, Bette, but I had a lot of help with the house. You helped me—”
“Not much.”
“No, you did, and then Charity helped me make the slip covers and drapes, and Sadie supplied all the furniture, and helped me pull it together.”
“Sadie is a genius,” Gram said nodding.
“Have you met her, yet?” Mandy asked him, her wide blue eyes locking with his.
His grandmother had blue eyes, light blue like water, but Amanda’s reminded him of the Texas bluebonnet, intensely blue, and utterly captivating.
“She has a shop on Main Street,” Amanda continued, as if her information was exactly the sort of thing he’d want to know. “The Montana Rose. She calls herself a shabby chic shop, but it’s so much more than that. She has an amazing design aesthetic.”
“And a new husband,” Gram added. “She married Rory Douglas and it was supposed to be a small wedding but everyone in Marietta came. People were so happy for them.” Her eyes suddenly watered. “I was so happy for them.” She sniffled and reached for her napkin to dab her eyes, drying the moisture.
Tyler looked from Amanda to his grandmother and back again, feeling not just like an outsider, but a cynic. His grandmother was sentimental, yes, but to cry about a wedding?
“And why did everyone turn out for this particular wedding?” he asked, trying to indulge his grandmother even while fighting to hide his irritation. What kind of town was Marietta that everyone was excited about a wedding?
“Well, Rory is a Douglas.”
“The acting family? Kirk, Michael, etcetera?” he replied.
“No. The Douglases of Paradise Valley. A local ranching family.”
“I’m sorry, they don’t mean anything to me,” he answered.
His grandmother’s jaw firmed. “Well, your father knew them. He went to school with Rory’s father, and played sports, although to be fair, your father was a much better athlete—”
“Gram, I don’t know them.”
“They had a tragedy at their ranch. It’s why the community cares so much about Rory, Quinn, and McKenna. Marietta loves and protects its own.”
“Well, Bette, to be fair, the town loves and protects some of its own.”
Tyler heard the mocking note in Mandy’s voice and he turned his attention to her, focusing on the set of her jaw and the press of her lips. She suddenly didn’t look as vivid and luminous as she had a few minutes ago. “Not everyone is equally embraced here?”
There was a flicker in her expression, a tiny tightening at her eyes, but before she could speak, his grandmother did. “Mandy has worked very hard for her success. I couldn’t be prouder of her.”
“Enough about me,” Amanda answered, her faintl
y ironic smile returning. “Let’s think about dinner. I hope you’re both hungry, because I’m starving!”
Two hours later, dinner was over and Amanda was climbing the stars to her upstairs apartment, wondering how someone as small and nonintimidating as Bette could have strong-armed Amanda into agreeing to take Tyler out with her friends for drinks after work tomorrow, even though Amanda’s friends didn’t do drinks on Wednesdays.
When Amanda had tried to say something of that nature, Bette dismissed her with a wave. “You do get together, don’t you?”
“We do different things. Play pool or Yahtzee or cards—”
“Tyler likes all of those things. He’s a bit of a card shark, too,” his grandmother answered, “not that he’ll admit it.”
Amanda glanced at Tyler, giving him the chance to object, but he just shrugged. “It’d be great to meet your friends.”
And so Amanda was stuck, and as she unlocked her front door, she told herself she didn’t hate him, but she certainly wasn’t happy to spend another evening with him, particularly not so soon.
She didn’t hate him, she thought, locking the door behind her and turning on the hall lights, because he wasn’t crass or arrogant or obnoxious. He was just…well, him. Smart, successful, attractive.
He looked like a romance cover model, carried himself like a professional athlete, and apparently was one of the most successful game developers in America today. Most women would love him. They’d say he was the complete package, and an amazing catch, and Amanda might even have been one of them, but that would have been before she knew he was Bette’s grandson.
