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“Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m actually getting to meet you. This is so crazy. You know, a part of me didn’t entirely believe Ivy when she said that you were friends and you were coming to visit. I mean, you’re the Sexiest Man Alive, why would you be in Rosewood? And really, it was an excellent choice. You are even more handsome in person and wow . . . you smell good.” Her hands flew to cover her mouth as her face turned redder than her hair. “Did I say that out loud?”
Ivy smirked. “Let’s go inside.”
Malcolm smiled. He was used to women reacting to him this way. Happy to fulfill their fantasies by being the charming, smooth dreamboat they wanted, he said it was the least he could do for a fan. “I’ll buy you a drink, Pepper,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulder to escort her inside and sending her into near hysterics. They gave a wave to Emmett behind the bar before finding a booth in the corner.
Malcolm slid in beside Pepper. “I’m going to sit with you, doll.” His voice was like a soothing lullaby, rhythmic and sultry. Most women were putty in his hands, and Pepper was no exception. “I love redheads and I’m getting a little tired of Ivy here. She’s all wrapped up in some football player instead of me. Can you believe it?”
Pepper slowly shook her head, her entire focus on him. Ivy might as well not even be there.
Emmett came by and took their drink orders, putting a bowl of pretzels on the table. Ivy waited until after he brought the drinks to talk to Pepper about why they were here.
“Pepper,” she asked, “did you see a reporter at the dance Saturday night?”
Pepper furrowed her brow and thoughtfully munched on a pretzel. “I didn’t notice a reporter. What does he look like?”
“He’s in his forties, average height, dark blond hair on the longer side. A goatee.” Ivy pulled out her phone and searched for a picture of Nash. “This is him.”
“Yeah, I did see that guy,” Pepper said with a nod. “He was dancing with Cheryl Buckman.”
Ivy was rusty on some of the people in town. That woman’s name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t put a face or context to it. “Who’s that?”
“You know Cheryl,” Pepper insisted. “She’s run her father’s ice cream parlor on the square ever since high school.”
A picture of the woman started forming in Ivy’s mind. The woman gave Ivy two cherries on top every time she went in for a sundae. She was sweet, older, exactly the kind that Nash would go after. “Is she single?”
“Chronically,” Pepper said. “She’s in her forties and never married. She spends all her time taking care of her elderly parents and running that shop.”
“So didn’t you think it was weird that you didn’t recognize the man she was dancing with?”
“Yes, which is why I remembered, but there were quite a few people at the dance who came from out of town. Brian said his cousins from Anniston got tickets, so I
didn’t expect to know everyone. I didn’t give it a lot of thought. He didn’t seem suspicious, and I was more interested in my date. So, what exactly did this guy do? You said he was a reporter?”
Ivy took a sip of her rum and Diet Coke and nodded. “He snuck into the dance to get pictures of Blake and me together. There’s one of us kissing that’s all over the Internet.”
“Oh no. Poor Cheryl. She may not even know this guy just used her to get close to you. He’d better hope Mr. Buckman doesn’t find out about this.”
“Why’s that?” Ivy asked.
A devious smile crossed Pepper’s face. “Because . . . Mr. Buckman was a decorated sniper in Korea and Vietnam. He still teaches marksmanship at the Scout camp during the summer. I saw him at the fair this weekend playing that shooting game. He might be old, but he’s still a damn fine shot. And a protective daddy,” she added ominously.
Nash waited impatiently in the alley behind Whittaker’s Restaurant. Paparazzi weren’t exactly welcome anywhere, and the people who were willing to wheel and deal with reporters never wanted to be seen with them. As such, his line of work had led him to a lot of unsavory locations over the years. The alleys in Rosewood were pretty nice, nowhere near his worst rendezvous spot.
He’d done a little digging at the Rosewood Library and found Lydia’s phone number. He’d called her last night, and as expected, she’d agreed to meet him today, cash in hand. She didn’t want those photos leaking to the press, or worse, to Blake Chamberlain.
As usual, the broad was making him wait. She was ten minutes late.
Finally, the back door of the restaurant opened and she slipped outside. Her blond hair was pulled back into a tight bun, her petite curves hidden beneath the buttoned white tunic of an executive chef.
She looked up and down the alley, scanning for anyone nearby, and when she was satisfied finally spoke to him. “So, where are the pictures?”
At that, Nash chuckled. This wasn’t his first rodeo. “Where’s the money?”
Lydia pulled a thick envelope out of her pocket and held it up. Nash nodded and pulled out the manila envelope with the photos.
“Shall we trade?” he asked.
“All the copies of the photos are in the envelope? The negatives? Everything.”
