Sweet Talking Man. Liz Talley

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СКАЧАТЬ turned to her, excitement pirouetting in her eyes. “This is going to be perfect.”

      That, right there, was why.

      Birdie looking at her the same way she’d looked at her when she learned to ride her bike—that was the main reason she’d agreed to the mother-daughter art class.

      That, and the fact that the classes were a Christmas present from her mother, Fancy. Her mother had given her a talking-to as they took down the Beauchamp family Christmas tree several weeks ago.

      “Why the art lessons, Mom?” Abigail had asked.

      “Because you need to do something to connect with Birdie. And that means doing something she wants to do, not what you want to do. Organizing her closet with pink bins and polka-dotted shelf paper is not fun for Birdie.”

      “I can’t draw to save my life, Mom,” Abigail had complained while nestling antique glass ornaments in bubble wrap. She’d enjoyed organizing Birdie’s closet. She’d even downloaded current music for her iPad, docking it so they could rearrange to some new jams. Birdie had given her a look that could peel paint. So, yeah, she guessed it was safe to say her daughter hadn’t enjoyed the closet revamp dance party.

      “Your life is not in danger. Just the relationship you have with your daughter. Remember the camping trip we took when you were about Birdie’s age?”

      Abigail thought to when she was in Girl Scouts and her poor mother had tried to start a fire and chipped her recently manicured nails on the flint. “Okay. Point made.”

      Fancy had given her the “good girl” smile she’d been using to manipulate Abigail all her life, and just like that—snap! Abigail and Birdie were signed up for Leif Lively’s introductory art class at the Southeastern Louisiana University Annex.

      “Let’s get a seat up front,” Birdie said now, motioning for Abigail to hurry up.

      “I’m more of a middle-of-the-classroom kind of girl.” Anyone who had graduated from St. George’s with Abigail would know that was the fib of the century. Abigail loved sitting up front and being teacher’s pet. But being that close to luscious Leif Lively filled her belly with crickets.

      Abigail had no clue why.

      The guy was strange.

      He smelled like the vegetarian café her friend had taken her to in Baton Rouge. Like herbs and incense. And he paraded around in all states of undress. Once she’d seen him doing some kind of strange dance with swords in his front yard. He also played bongo drums on his front porch, just like Matthew McConaughey.

      And he was sexy, just like Matthew McConaughey.

      For the past month, Abigail had been having erotic dreams about Leif. In one they’d been twined in silken cords like circus acrobats, clinging to the peach-colored swaths of fabric as they arched and twisted...totally naked. She’d woken up covered in sweat and so turned on that she’d almost reached for the vibrator she kept locked in a box in her bedside table. But if she went there, she knew she’d never go back. All her fantasies from then on would be about the hot blond guy who lived less than a football field away from her.

      Yet despite that restraint, she couldn’t stop thinking about Leif naked. Her mind was as rebellious as her daughter.

      “I want to be up front,” Birdie said, petulance surfing her tone.

      “Fine,” Abigail breathed, finally stepping over the threshold. She spotted Leif talking to an older woman with big hoop earrings, bright red lipstick and dyed-blond hair piled on top of her head like a haystack. He appeared to be listening attentively.

      As she and Birdie wound through the tables, Leif glanced in their direction, his Nordic eyes widening when they stopped at the long table in front.

      “Hey, Mr. Lively,” Birdie said, brightly.

      Oh, God. Ever since the apology last month, Birdie forgot to be brooding each time Leif’s name came up in conversation. The child had even tried to invite him to the Beauchamp family Christmas Eve extravaganza. Luckily, Leif hadn’t been in town. The last thing Abigail needed was someone picking up on her attraction to him. Her cousin Hilda would have noticed for sure, which was why Abigail had balked when Hilda had approached her about volunteering for the art festival. The Beauchamps were such a tight-knit bunch they might as well have been high-thread-count bedsheets. Hiding anything from family was impossible.

      “Hey, Birdie,” Leif said, holding up a finger to the older woman he’d been speaking with. She shot Birdie a look of aggravation before pasting a smile on her face.

      Birdie set her drawing pad and pencil case on the table. “I brought my mom.”

      Leif’s gaze strayed to Abigail’s. “So I see.”

      “And I have a new drawing pad and pencils. Fancy and Pops got them for me for Christmas.”

      Abigail hadn’t heard Birdie string two sentences together since the girl had decided to go all Joan Jett on her. But in Leif’s presence, Birdie was...effervescent. Abigail found it slightly embarrassing. Leif seemed to understand and kept his warm smile on Birdie.

      “And what about your mother?”

      Birdie glanced at her. “My mother?”

      “Does she have a new pad and pencils?”

      “Nope,” Abigail said, waving a pad half-filled with Birdie’s drawings. “I’m starting with a used pad and pencils.”

      Leif’s smile reached his eyes. “I’m surprised to see you here, but I’m glad you came.”

      If only.

      Warmth dripped into Abigail’s belly before she could strike the naughtiness from her head. What was wrong with her? Daydreaming about a guy like Leif? He was too different, too earthy and holistic and—

      He had the best smile in three parishes. He had a slight dimple in his left cheek and eyes the color of a fall sky. His jaw had a blockish quality, while his lips were sensuous. How Abigail knew they were sensuous, she wasn’t sure, but she was certain he could kiss her up one side of a wall and down the other. And make her beg for more.

      “I didn’t have a choice. My mother gave us the lessons for Christmas.” Abigail pulled out a chair next to an older African-American woman who was knitting a baby blanket while watching them with hawk eyes.

      Birdie’s thunderous expression told Abigail she’d screwed up again.

      “So the college wouldn’t give you the money back, huh?”

      Abigail smiled. “Nope. You’re stuck with me.”

      “Well, your daughter has to have gotten her talent from somewhere.”

      Birdie bloomed pink. “I get it from my dad. He’s a musician. Don’t you play guitar, Mr. Lively?”

      “In this class, I’m Leif. Save the mister stuff for school. And, yeah, I play guitar, ukulele and—”

      “Drums,” Abigail added.

      His СКАЧАТЬ