Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights) Read online

  Southern Hospitality

  Amie Louellen

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2015 by Amy Lillard.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-8997-6

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8997-3

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-8998-4

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8998-0

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © iStockphoto.com/Lise Gagne

  To my mother-in-law, Lynne Jones. For loving Elvis and providing such inspiration for this story.

  Rest in peace with the King!

  Acknowledgments

  This book was such a long time in the making that I have more than a few people to thank.

  Thanks to my long ago critique group who helped me form the idea into something that made sense. Love you—Leslie, Hillary, Donna, Renee, Dick, Michele, Sheryl, and Sonnie. I couldn’t have done this without you!

  I also owe a big thanks to Mary Sue Seymour of The Seymour Agency who read this book and saw its potential. Thanks for all your help and guidance over the years.

  More recently my gratitude goes out to my agent Julie Gwinn for countless “read throughs” and rewrites. You mean the world to me!

  Thanks to Kelly Moran, my critique partner, for helping me polish this story into a gem. I appreciate all your help and suggestions.

  To Sarah Grimm, my writing bestie. Thanks for always being there even when you had your own plots twists to figure out, deadlines to meet, and family to care for. You’re the best!

  And as always, thanks to Stacey Barbalace, my assistant, my friend, my Carl. Thanks for keeping me on track, sane, and focused. But most of all, thanks for always being here to cheer me on. Love ya, babe!

  And to the team here at Crimson Romance, thanks for taking a chance on Roxanne and Malcom. Your support means so much!

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  About Amie Louellen

  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  Also Available

  Prologue

  “I was beginning to get worried.”

  Roxanne Ackerman slapped a hand over her pounding heart as her editor stepped from the shadows. “Newland Tran, you scared the life out of me. What are you doing hiding out here?”

  “I wasn’t hiding. I was waiting to talk to you.”

  “Ever think about calling?” She shoved her key into the front door. “I have a phone, you know.”

  “I didn’t want to call in case you were still at the mayor’s dinner. How’d it go, by the way?” He followed her inside without waiting for an invitation. Roxanne supposed after two and a half years of working together such familiarity was expected. She just hoped he didn’t read any more than that into it.

  “I didn’t get thrown in jail.” She smiled as she tossed her purse onto her dining room table. The black sequined bag landed on top of a pile of unpaid bills. She really should get to those.

  “Always a plus.” Newland folded his tall frame onto her second-hand couch and shook his head. His rear sank down into the cushions. And down. And a little more. Until his knees and his chin were almost on the same level. “Honestly, Roxanne, you make enough money, why don’t you get some decent furniture?”

  “Really?” she asked. “I just got back from the social event of the season and all you want to talk about is my furniture?”

  “Right,” he said, shifting in his seat but seemingly more uncomfortable for the move. “Did you get anything?”

  She shook her head. “Nah, they threw me out before I could get any juicy tidbits, but I did manage to snap off a picture or two.” She tossed him the miniature camera, then slipped out of her heels.

  “Stellar,” he said with a grin of his own. He pocketed the SD card and pitched the camera back to her.

  “I need to uh … ” She gestured to the front of her gold taffeta dress. It was about the ugliest garment she had ever seen, but it served its purpose. Well, at least it made her seem dressed up enough to get into swanky soirees like the mayor of Chicago’s fancy-schmancy dinner party.

  “Go ahead,” he said with a quick flick of his wrist. “I’ll wait.”

  “You know I have to drive to Memphis tonight.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And I still have to pack.” She made a quick mental note to get her dress shoes from under the table and put them in her suitcase.

  “Speaking of … ” He pulled a regular old paper map from the inside breast pocket of his sport coat and tossed it to her. Only he would wear a blazer over a Pink Floyd concert T-shirt. Dressing for Success the Newland Tran way.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Since you won’t use GPS like a normal person.”

  So she hated GPS. Was that a crime? Despite the app’s popularity, she found it inaccurate and annoying. But she wasn’t falling for the bait. Not tonight. She was already tired and had a long drive ahead of her. Instead of replying, she turned on her heel and made her way down the hall to her bedroom.

  What could he want to talk to her about? Surely not this next assignment. There wasn’t that much to it. Go to Memphis and blend in with a bunch of crazed Elvis fans as they flocked to Graceland and celebrated the anniversary of his death. She could do that in her sleep.

  She let out a small sigh as she reached behind her for the back zipper to her dress. She had seen a trick online that used a paperclip and a pair of old stockings to zip a dress, but there were no instructions on how to get one off.

  Roxanne twisted around to the other side to no avail. With an aggravated growl, she marched back into the living room. “Can you help me?”

  Newland’s eyes grew wide, and he visibly swallowed before pushing himself to his feet. “Turn around.” His voice cracked on the last syllable.

  “Are you coming down with something? I’ve got some Vitamin C drops in the kitchen.” There was too much going on at the paper for him to get sick now. He had his own story to cover this weekend.

  “I’m fine.” He didn’t sound fine.

  “Are you leaving tonight?” she asked as he pulled the zipper down. “Because if you are, you can take those drops with you. I won’t need them.” She reached around to grasp the zipper pull, her fingers colliding wit
h his. “Got it,” she said as he spun her around, gathered her into his arms, and pressed his nose into the curve of her neck.

  “Newland! What’s the matter with you?” She tried to pull her arms out from his hold, but he had them pinned to her sides and almost behind her. The good news was he had trapped her dress as well.

  “Oh, Roxanne, I didn’t want to ask you like this, but—” He took a step back and dropped to one knee.

  Without him there to hold it up, her dress slipped, exposing the lacy edge of her black bra.

  She hastily pulled at her dress with one hand and grabbed his elbow with the other. She did her best to pull him to his feet, but failed miserably. “What are you doing down there?”

  “I’m proposing.”

  Her hands stilled and dropped to her sides, useless. But she recovered quickly as the bodice of her dress slithered south once again. “You’re what?”

  He flipped open a ring box, the light catching the diamond nestled on the bed of burgundy velvet. Where had that come from?

  “When you first came to work for me, I knew then that I loved you, but it was too soon after Pierce and”—he waved his hand around as if he could grasp the right words to describe her divorce and ex-husband from the air—“everything. But it’s been almost three years. And I want to make you my wife.”

  Roxanne’s jaw dropped open. Newland was a bit eccentric, yes, but never in a million years had she dreamed he’d do something like this. “I don’t know what to say,” she whispered.

  “Say yes.” He reached for her left hand, but she snatched it back under the guise of needing it to hold up her dress.

  “I—I can’t.” She shook her head, the sprigs of her hair brushing her bare shoulders.

  “Of course you can.”

  “Then I don’t want to.”

  A flash of hurt blazed across his face. “You don’t?”

  Roxanne turned her gaze to the ceiling as if all the answers were written there. “Would you get up so I can talk to you?”

  Newland rose to his feet albeit reluctantly and reached for her hand once again.

  “And would you stop that.” She would have rather turned him down, say when she was, um, maybe, fully dressed, but that didn’t seem to be in her options for the day. “I can’t marry you, Newland.” She hitched up her dress once more.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  He nodded.

  “Then both.” She hated hurting him. He had become such a friend to her over the last couple of years. But that’s all he was, a friend. He didn’t set her blood on fire or make her girly parts sing for attention. Her first marriage had been a dud, and she wasn’t settling again.

  “We were meant to be together.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Newland. But I don’t love you that way.”

  “I can take care of you.”

  If she’d had her hands free she would have wrapped her arms around him and given him a great big hug. As it was, she needed them to keep her dress in its almost proper place. “I can take care of myself,” she said quietly.

  His chin raised a notch, and Roxanne recognized the stubborn look for what it was. Determination was better by far than hurt. “I hope so.” He gave a stern nod. “Because one day you’re going to need me and I won’t be there when you call.”

  With those words still lingering in the air, he slammed out of her apartment.

  Roxanne sighed. It was going to be one long trip to Memphis.

  Chapter One

  Roxanne stepped from the restrooms at the side of the small gas station as a brand new, midnight blue Cadillac sped away from the ancient gasoline pumps. Its motion stirred up the red dust that coated everything in Western Tennessee, including the rusted tin of the service station roof and the old hound dog napping in front of it. Roxanne waved a hand in front of her face in a futile attempt to clear the air, then pulled at the back of her Cubbies jersey where it stuck to her skin. It wasn’t even nine o’clock in the morning, and it was hotter than hell. Thank goodness this was just a four-day trip. Between the heat and the dust she didn’t think she could stand any longer than that.

  She made her way to the front end of her car and eyed it with dismay. White smoke still billowed from under Mabel’s hood. Roxanne had hoped that after a short trip to the potty there wouldn’t be quite as much smoke. So much for that. The ’64-1/2 Mustang wasn’t in the best shape, and the trunk only stayed closed about fifty percent of the time, but she had never broken down on Roxanne like this. Roxanne had thought there would be no problem with driving the car to Memphis and back.

  Mabel was more like a member of the family than a mere mode of transportation. She and her brother Jonas had pooled their money together and bought the car as a seventeenth birthday present for themselves. Even then Mabel had been worse for the wear. Roxanne had inherited Mabel for herself when fall classes started at Minnesota State. Jonas had gone to Northwestern to study psychology, and their father had bought him a new car for the trip. Mabel had become Roxanne’s car. She’d even kept the classic when she was married to Pierce, tucked back from harm in the garage, collecting dust until Roxanne needed her again, the day she walked out.

  Expelling an exasperated breath, she hooked her fingers under the hood, then snatched them back with a shake as the tender flesh met scorching metal. Gingerly, she found the release and propped opened the hood.

  The white smoked poured from Mabel’s engine as Roxanne turned to contemplate the building whose facilities she’d just used. Cecil’s Gas and Stop, the peeling red paint on the sign announced. Roxanne shook her head. She had taken a doozy of a wrong turn somewhere. That’s what she got for driving all night without a break. She should be in Memphis right now.

  She gazed down the lonely, two lane road as the Caddy disappeared from view. The sign she’d passed a couple of miles ago declared this jewel of the South to be Jefferson County, but she had the strangest feeling she was in …

  “Help you?”

  At the simple country voice, Roxanne jumped, nearly tripping over the toes of her Doc Marten combat boots.

  Despite the heat, the long sleeved, industrial blue shirt was buttoned up to his neck. A striped engineer’s cap sat upon his head and a wad of chewing tobacco distorted one cheek. When he leaned down to peer at the engine, she noticed the mandatory pink grease rag in the back pocket of his stained Dickies.

  Mayberry. She was in friggin’ Mayberry.

  “Yes—” She glanced at the red and white patch on his chest as he straightened—“Arely. I think my car overheated.”

  “I think yore right,” he said, then held up an old milk jug. “I brought you out some water.”

  Roxanne eyed the grease stained, lidless jug. “For the car?” she asked with a wince.

  “Yep.”

  Roxanne exhaled in relief. “By all means,” she said with a sweep of her hand.

  Arely used his pink rag to remove the cap, then poured the water into the radiator.

  Surely that’s all Mabel needed—a drink and time to cool down. “Do you have a map?” she asked the attendant.

  Arely straightened, then eyed her suspiciously. “You a Yankee?”

  Change Mayberry to hell. She had taken a wrong turn an ended up in hell. That explained the temperature. “I suppose I am.”

  He removed his cap and scratched his balding head.

  “Do you have a map?” Roxanne asked again.

  Arely replaced his cap, then adjusted it a couple of times before answering. “Of what?”

  “Tennessee?” she asked hopefully.

  Arely spat, then switched the tobacco to the other cheek. “Nope.”

  “No?”

  “Nope.” He spat again.

  “You don’t have a map of your own state?”

  “Well, I never much planned on goin’ no place.”

  “O-kay,” Roxanne said, certain that Arely was a quart low of brain fluid. “Is there any place in t
own with a map?”

  “I reckon they have one over at the high school.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I bet they’d let you look at it too, beings you asked nice-like and all.”

  Make that two quarts.

  “You don’t understand,” Roxanne explained. “I want to buy it.”

  “Well, now I cain’t say for sure they’d sell it what with the kids nowadays needin’ an education and all.”

  Roxanne sighed. Maybe she shouldn’t have used her map to mop up the orange soda she’d spilled early this morning. Yeah, that was about the worst idea she’d had all week. But she was tired and not thinking and still a bit overwhelmed with Newland’s unexpected proposal. But it was done and now the orange stained, sticky mess no longer resembled the Volunteer state. At least the color was right.

  “Memphis,” she tried again. “Can you tell me how to get to Memphis?”

  “Well now,” he started in that slow southern way that set her fast-paced Chicago teeth on edge. “Take this road here back out of the county the way you come. Then about a quarter of a mile as the crow flies this side of the river, turn back as if you was goin’ on into Missouri—”

  “As the crow flies?”

  “Yep. Then about a mile or so down the road there’s a big post oak—”

  “That’s okay.” Roxanne nodded indulgently. “I’ll find it. Thanks.” Surely she couldn’t be more than a couple of hours from the civilization of Memphis. Though at this point she’d settle for any city.

  Smoke no longer poured from her car, so she slammed down the hood. She smiled and nodded to the man, then climbed into the well-traveled Ford.

  With a salute to Arely, she turned the key, ready to see the last of this town. Mabel sputtered, wheezed, and spit—then died.

  T-riffic, she must have burst another radiator hose. She tried the key one more time, but Mabel refused to sputter, much less spit, or even wheeze. Roxanne got out and slammed the door. Damn car.

  Arely lifted the hood again and poked around the engine.

  “What’s wrong with it?” she asked.