His Southern Sweetheart

“The auction chick worked with Natalia.”

“Oh, her producer?”

“Field producer,” Nate said with authority, now that he’d learned more about the reality television world.

Cookie crumbs fell from Stephen’s beard when he pressed his lips together. “Hmm,” he hummed. “You guys are getting close.”

“She’s prickly, but I’m getting through to her. I’m going to help her get her grandmother’s place fixed up. You ought to meet her.”

“The girl or the grandmother?”

“The grandmother. She’s pricklier than Caridad. And her attitude...” Nate went on. “Last night she threw her dessert at me, and this is after I agreed with Emily about her coming to Saturday’s wedding.”

“The grandmother?”

Nate shook his head, his eyes half closed. “What?”

“Who are you taking to the wedding?”

“Amelia,” Nate replied, a breath away from adding, “Duh.”

“You know what all this sounds like to me, Nate?”

“What?”

“Sounds complicated,” Stephen commented with a raised brow.

* * *

Stephen’s words resonated in Nate’s head the whole drive back to Four Points General. He didn’t understand how things were complicated. Amelia blamed him for the destruction of her life and he felt the need to set things right for her. Without a job or probably now any income, she needed to establish her life in Southwood. Whatever had happened here for her, he was sure could be fixed.

The smell of antiseptic snapped Nate out of his daze. A candy striper greeted him at the front desk after he walked in through the sliding glass doors. “Hi, I was here a little while ago with my, uh, friend, Amelia Marlow. She’s here visiting her grandmother.”

“They’re in the cafeteria.” The young girl pointed in the opposite direction from the waiting room. “If you need me to walk you down, I’m more than willing.”

Nate offered a wink to the girl, who couldn’t be much older than Kimber. “I’ve got this, thanks.”

The soles of his tan Timberlands squeaked against the linoleum floor. At least the yellow caution sign near a bucket made him aware of the need to slow his pace. He did so and began walking to the beat of his heart—quick. Why did his heart skip a beat with the anticipation of seeing Amelia again?

The soft laugh he’d heard her make floated into the corridor. Nate wondered what her grandmother had said to cause such a genuine sound. An image popped into his head of the two of them sitting on the porch in one of the rocking chairs, sipping on some iced tea and Amelia laughing at something witty he’d say. Light spilled into the hallway at the entrance. The smells of stale coffee mixed with some probably unsalted chicken breasts and plain rice filtered in the air. The closer he got, the more the scent of the food overpowered that of the cleaning materials.

He stopped at the entrance, letting his eyes find the Marlow party. People—patients and doctors—filled the large room. The tables were square and colorful in shades of pale turquoise, pink, green and yellow. In the back of the room, a line formed in front of a dinging cash register. The laughter sounded off and Nate narrowed his glance toward the back of the room. Amelia faced the doorway. Her hand clutched her pearls and her head dipped back at whatever someone was saying to her. The sun shone against her dark hair and haloed her head like an angel’s.

“Damn, you clean up good.”

Nate had been so caught up on Amelia, he hadn’t noticed Helen Marlow being wheeled up to him by a girl favoring Amelia in looks. Amelia had mentioned she came to the auction with a cousin. Because she met him backstage, Nate never met the relative face-to-face. The similarities were uncanny. This must be her.

“Grandmamma,” the girl who wasn’t Amelia scolded, giving a shake to the rubber handles of the arms of the wheelchair. “Don’t embarrass the man.”

Pressing his hand on his chest, Nate glanced down to inspect his attire—denims and a fresh white V-neck T-shirt. “Don’t be too hard on her. This is a step up from what I wore earlier.”

“Well, on her behalf, I’m sorry.” She leaned forward and extended her hand. “Please to meet you, Mr. Reyes, I’m Cayla Marlow-Beaumont.”

Helen Marlow rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth with the same sound he’d heard Kimber produce whenever irritated. “She’s Cay Beaumont. I don’t understand why you young women have to hyphenate your names.”

Tight-lipped, Cay Marlow-Beaumont patted her grandmother’s shoulder. “Because we want to preserve the prestigious Marlow name.”

“Whatever.”