Up in Flames (Rosemary Beach 13)

“Don’t sass me with that gorgeous fucking mouth.” His voice was laced with a warning and temptation all at once.

I should have come back at him with more sass than he could handle, but I wasn’t sure if it was safe to do that. And in an odd way, I wanted to please him. So I nodded and replied. “Yes, sir.”

Before I could be disgusted with myself over my submissive response, he began caressing the thigh he’d probably bruised. “That’s better,” he whispered, then leaned in to claim my mouth in a kiss. Right there in front of the whole damn place. Well, we were kind of hidden, but Greg the server could walk up at any time to witness our make-out session.

He broke the kiss just as quickly as he had initiated it and leaned back, his hand still on my thigh as if he owned it and wanted to remind me of it.

A tall, lanky guy with bright orange hair and lots of freckles appeared. It must be Greg. He seemed to be flushed red, and I wondered if he had attempted to approach us seconds before when our lips had been passionately locked. He wouldn’t look me in the eye, so I was guessing that was the case. I hoped so, because otherwise, it would be a shame if his skin was always so red. He already had all those freckles and that horrible orange hair. A good stylist could fix that and give him more of an auburn color that would at least make the freckles less offensive.

“Good evening. My name is Greg, and I’ll be your server tonight. What can I get you to drink?” He sounded nervous.

“A bottle of 1990 Chave Hermitage,” Gannon ordered, as if sure that this place would have such an unknown French wine in the States. It also happened to be my favorite red wine.

Greg went about filling our water glasses while I stared at Gannon, trying to decide if this was a joke. “Yes, sir,” Greg responded, and he walked away.

“Did you just order a bottle of Hermitage in a restaurant in a casino?” I asked, trying to decide if I might have misheard him.

Gannon looked down at me and smirked. “Yes.” Of course, that was all he was going to say.

“That’s a French red wine that happens to be my favorite but you can’t find it easily in the States and definitely not at a restaurant like this. You ordered a vintage Hermitage.”

He looked annoyed, and his hand tightened on my thigh.

When he did this, I knew I’d stepped over the line he kept invisibly drawn before us. Something that should annoy me but didn’t. I liked the idea of the line taunting me to cross it.

“I don’t need a wine lesson. I’m aware of what I ordered. Damn high-maintenance woman,” he finished with an exasperated mutter.

“Did you just call me high-maintenance?” I asked, straightening my posture and shooting him a glare that was definitely crossing his line.

He turned back to me after taking a sip of his water and almost laughed. “Yes, sweetheart, I did. You are the most high-maintenance woman I’ve ever met.”

That didn’t sound good at all. But he was probably correct in that assumption. I was terribly high-maintenance. Still, it was rude for him to say that. “That’s rude,” I told him.

“As are you, my dear.”

I had opened my mouth to say something brilliantly sassy when the server appeared with the wine. I was a little more than excited that they had the Hermitage. I found it hard to believe that Gannon had just randomly chosen my favorite wine. It wasn’t an easy guess. “How did you know this was my favorite?” I asked.

“Because I care,” he said simply, and then began to order our first course without consulting me. I was relieved to hear that it was tuna tartare, so I didn’t complain. But a part of me wanted to. Just because.

Between quips and small talk, I got very little out of Gannon. He, however, found out that I lived in Rosemary Beach, that my father was the rock legend Kiro Manning, and that I had two siblings from Kiro, neither of whom had much to do with me, one sibling from my mother whom I was very close to, and a nephew I adored.

Somehow he had managed to keep me talking while evading all questions directed at him. Stubborn man.

Major

This was quite possibly the dumbest thing I’d ever done, but I was drunk and pissed off. I wasn’t walking my ass to Mexico. Hell the fuck no. Who in their right mind thought I was that stupid? Fuck that shit. I was going where I wanted to go.

Right after I dropped off this little note to Nan. I stumbled up her front steps and unlocked her door using the code I knew by heart, then disabled her alarm. Once it was safe to enter, I glanced down at my black clothing, grinning at my breaking-and-entering gear. I’d thought this shit through. Over eight shots of tequila.

Right there on her kitchen counter, I placed a note. It was simple and not as fancy as those colored envelopes Cope had given me to give her. This one wouldn’t have any lovely love sonnets or whatever the hell were in them. Nope . . . this one would have the truth. What she needed to know.

Because damn if she wasn’t innocent. She was too superficial and worried about her next manicure and trip to Paris to be in with a criminal. That wasn’t Nan. If Cope didn’t see that yet, then he wasn’t as great as everyone thought he was. He needed work.

The thing was, I didn’t think he believed that Nan was involved with anything. He’d been watching her as she ate, slept, watched the fucking TV, showered, and whatever the hell else she did for two months. He knew she was innocent. Why he was determined to prove otherwise I wasn’t sure. But she needed to know it.

I looked around her house one last time and felt a twinge of sadness. I’d miss Nan. I’d miss the fun times we did have before it all went to shit. Maybe she might have been the one for me. Maybe if I’d loved her when she had wanted me to, she would have changed my life. But I hadn’t, and now she was out of my reach.