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“It’s nothing. I got into it with Ricky Pinkerton about the proposed golf course for the resort and how it impacts my property.”
“So I hear. What a shame if you had to give up that dank, drafty barn.”
She bit back a laugh and tipped her face up to enjoy the warmth of the sunlight spilling in from the skylight high above. Her mother made no secret of her disdain for Sinclair’s housing choice. Mom wanted her closer—ideally in one of those nice, modern townhomes in the new development about five minutes away from their front door. Cheryl Smith prided herself on knowing what was going on with her girls, and now that Savannah was married and living in Atlanta, the spotlight of all her spare attention had nowhere to land except on her youngest daughter. Sinclair planned to evade that spotlight. “It’s not dank or drafty anymore. Dad changed the furnace filter and checked the vent system. I’m toasty.”
“Hmm. Maybe you’re warm on account of something besides a functioning furnace?”
Huh? “Um. I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But, in actuality, she was afraid she did. The Magnolia Grove grapevine was about to twist around her, and the more she tried to evade, the more likely she’d end up strangled by the damn thing. She hunched in her high, swiveling stool and braced for the inevitable.
“Really? I ran into Sheriff Kenner this morning at the grocery store.”
Shit. Resting her forearms on the drafting table, she leaned forward and hung her head in defeat. “Mom. I’m a grown woman. I’m not going to—”
“Apparently not so grown-up, seeing as how you haven’t outgrown having sex in a car at Tomochichi Lookout.”
“Jeez, Mom. I wasn’t having sex. I was just…” There was no good way to finish the sentence. “…talking.”
“Right. You talked so long the sun went down, and the windows steamed up, and one of you had to take off his shirt.”
Thank you, Sheriff Kenner. “Crap. Look at the time. I’ve got to go, Mom.”
“Nice try. You’re on a cell phone. Go wherever you need to go, I’ll just tag along. Now, back to the topic at hand. Shane Maguire. The same boy you danced with at the wedding. I didn’t realize you knew him so well.”
“I don’t.” She immediately winced. She didn’t want her mom to think she hooked up in cars with strangers. “I mean, not anymore. I know him from high school.”
“In that case, we ought to extend our hospitality to your old friend. Invite him to dinner Sunday evening.”
She winced again. Mom didn’t miss a beat. Her parents hosted dinner every Sunday, but she didn’t, as a rule, bring a guest. Definitely not a male guest, and she wasn’t going to start now, with Shane. For ten years, she’d managed to keep her parents in the dark about who had been 50 percent responsible for their unscheduled trip to Amsterdam the summer between her sophomore and junior year. Likewise, Shane didn’t have a clue about the mess he’d left her to clean up on her own. She planned to keep it that way. “Mom, he’s here for work. He’s got meetings with the city council, the resort developers, county emergency services, and whatnot. I’m sure he’s too busy to come to dinner.”
“But he’s not too busy to take a drive to the Lookout?”
“I don’t even know if I’ll see him before Sunday. I don’t know his schedule.” Absolutely true. He hadn’t specified a day for their next tour, and after the way she’d killed the messenger last night when he’d given her the heads-up about the water flow situation, he might not plan to. Cold, hollow disappointment dug into her chest at the thought. She pushed past the ache and concentrated on the annoying needles of guilt prickling the back of her neck. She owed him an apology…
“Well, invite him if you speak to him.”
…an apology that would not, under any circumstances, be delivered over Sunday dinner with her parents. Not if she had anything to say about it.
Chapter Seven
“Sinclair, honey, will you get that?”
Shane heard the politely disguised order over the fading chime of the doorbell. Seconds later footsteps echoed on hardwood as someone—presumably Sinclair—approached the front door. He shifted the bottle of wine he held to his left hand, kept the newspaper-wrapped bouquet of sunflowers in his right, and belatedly wondered if she knew her mother had invited him to dinner.
The gleaming, black-painted door swung open. Sinclair stood framed in the entryway, wearing a dark gray sweater dress that hugged her curves, a heart-shaped silver locket on a long chain, and a look of curiosity. The curiosity faded into blank-faced shock as she took him in, and then transformed into an expression he couldn’t readily identify, but looked a lot like horror.
Nope. She hadn’t known.
Obviously, Cheryl Smith appreciated the value of an ambush, and though she’d made him an unsuspecting accomplice, he had to respect the execution. He leaned against the doorjamb and held out the flowers.
Her glance drifted down to the cheerful yellow blossoms and then flicked back to him. “What is this?”
“They’re called flowers, Sinclair. Southern etiquette mandates bringing a gift for the hostess, and Miss Nettie at the flower market told me these are your mother’s favorite.”
Her eyes narrowed. Instead of gesturing him in, she stepped onto the front porch. “What are you doing here?”
“Your mother invited me to dinner,” he replied, using the same hushed tone she’d given him. Then he held up the bottle in his other hand. “I also brought wine. You look like you could use some.”
“Sinclair!” Mrs. Smith materialized behind her daughter, her pretty blue eyes sharp, and her smile even sharper. “You may live in a barn, but you weren’t raised in one. Invite our guest in.”
