Georgia Meets Her Groom. Elizabeth Bevarly

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      Evan met Jack’s gaze levelly, but no apology was forthcoming.

      “Now,” Georgia told the boy.

      “Sorry.” Evan spat it out without an ounce of contrition.

      “Don’t worry about it,” Jack told him, certain the admonition was completely unnecessary. Evan didn’t seem the type who was likely to lose any sleep over his transgressions.

      Georgia shook her head at both of them, as if trying to figure out what she’d done to deserve being saddled with two such men in one lifetime. “You want coffee?” she asked the room at large.

      “Yeah,” both men chorused as one.

      She nodded, and when she went to pick up Jack’s mug, he remembered that he hadn’t even touched his coffee yet. “Just top mine off,” he told her.

      She looked down at the full mug. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Fine.”

      “I’ll take mine back to my room,” Evan told her, his gaze still fixed on Jack. “I have an exam tomorrow, and I have to work tonight. So I need to spend the afternoon studying.”

      “Fine,” Georgia reiterated, her vocabulary now fully reduced to single-syllable words.

      “On second thought,” Jack told her, still watching Evan, “don’t bother topping me off. I need to get going.”

      From the corner of his eye he saw her whip around to stare at him. “But I thought—”

      “I have a dinner date, and I need to get back to the hotel to shower and change before I go.”

      He had deliberately chosen the word date instead of the word appointment—which would have been much more accurate—because he specifically wanted to give Georgia the wrong impression. Although he knew it was childish, he wanted to get back at her for having a son, even if his retaliation was lame and unfounded. And evidently his ruse had worked, because when he glanced over at her again, she looked stricken and hurt.

      “Okay,” she muttered. “No problem. Maybe we can get together for lunch tomorrow.”

      He shook his head. “I’m pretty booked up for the duration of my visit.”

      “But you said you wanted to—”

      “I’m going to be busy.” He cut her off.

      When he turned to retrieve his jacket, his gaze inevitably fell on Evan, and he realized immediately that Georgia’s son understood exactly what had just passed between the two adults. Oh, he might not have known the particulars of the situation, but Evan was obviously smart enough to see it for what it was, and he glared murderously at Jack as a result.

      And, really, Jack couldn’t blame him. If someone—some interloper from the past—had just gone out of his way to hurt the woman he loved, Jack would feel pretty homicidal, too. Good thing he didn’t love Georgia, he told himself. At least, not like that.

      “Where are you staying?” he heard her ask as he jammed his arms into the sleeves of his jacket.

      “At The Bluffs,” he told her.

      The Bluffs was the local nickname for The Carlisle Inn, a historic cliffside resort overlooking the Atlantic, a hotel that drew only the wealthiest, most elite vacationers. It was where Jack had worked as a busboy when he and Georgia were teenagers.

      “Oh, great,” Evan said. “Then I guess I’ll be seeing more than enough of you.”

      “Evan...” Georgia said, her voice laced with warning.

      Jack narrowed his eyes at the boy, but Georgia was the one to enlighten him. “Evan works at The Bluffs,” she said softly. “As a busboy.”

      Jack nodded, but kept his gaze trained on Georgia’s son. “I’ll try to stay out of your way.”

      “Yeah, you do that.”

      Georgia took a few steps forward to stand between them, shaking her head once again at both men. But instead of commenting on the animosity burning up the air between them, she only instructed Evan to take his coffee back to his room and hit the books. As he moved to follow her instructions, she turned to Jack.

      “We need to get together again before you leave town,” she told him. “How long will you be here?”

      “I’m not sure. A week. Maybe two. But like I said, I’ll be—”

      “You won’t be that busy,” she interrupted him.

      He turned to watch Evan’s retreating back, knowing there was little chance the boy wasn’t eavesdropping on every word the two of them uttered. “All right,” he said. “Maybe we can do lunch tomorrow.”

      “Fine,” Georgia told him. “I’ll even make it easy on you. I’ll meet you at The Bluffs, all right?”

      “I’ll be in the lobby at noon.”

      “I’ll see you then.”

      What had started off barely an hour ago as a warm, wonderful welcoming had dissolved quickly into an anxious, awful antagonism. Jack knew when it had happened—the moment Georgia’s son had walked into the house. But he didn’t know why. And he didn’t know what to do to put things back to rights. Geo was correct about one thing, though—the two of them needed to get together again before Jack left Carlisle, and for more than just lunch. What she didn’t know was the real reason why.

      “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he told her, not knowing what else to say.

      And before Georgia could answer him, he crossed quickly to the door and made his way back out into the cold.

      

      Jack had concluded his dinner with Adrian an hour earlier and was poring over the Lavender file in his hotel suite when a knock sounded at the door. Expecting it to be room service delivering the industrial-sized pot of coffee he was going to need for the work he had ahead of him that night, he left the scattered papers where they lay on the table, tossed his reading glasses down on top of them and rose to answer the summons.

      So The Bluffs hadn’t changed the service uniform at all in the twenty-plus years since Jack had worn one himself, he noted when he pulled the door open and frowned at the kid standing on the other side. But where he himself had always grudgingly followed the rules and kept his hair short, Evan—was his last name Lavender, too?—had simply gathered his long tresses at his nape with a rubber band. And while Jack had always given in and worn the requisite—and very dorky—black patent leather oxfords with the black pants, white jacket and bazillion brass buttons, Georgia’s son wore ratty black hightops.

      “Your shoes aren’t regulation,” he said to the boy by way of a greeting.

      Evan thrust his chin up in what Jack supposed was meant to be a threatening posture. Funny, though, how it just made the kid looked scared somehow. “You gonna report me?” he challenged.

      “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Jack retorted. “It would give you yet another reason to dislike me.”

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