“Now you’ve got four to pick from.”
“That’s some choice,” she murmured.
“Well, I’m off,” Sarah said, gathering up her things. “Like panties on prom night.”
Libby chuckled softly. “I’ll try the biscuit recipe tonight and see how the cheese variation turns out.”
“You could try bits of sausage or bacon as a variation, too.”
Libby turned back to the window. “Fine. Bacon sounds good.” She heard the front door close; her gaze was firmly fixed on the man who lived next door. Clayton Marbury the third. He’d been Trey for as along as Libby could remember, the only son of Clayton and Helene Marbury. At one time, the Marburys had owned the bank, the general store, a string of gas stations, two car dealerships, the newspaper and half the commercial properties on Center Street. The Parrish family had owned the other half, a fact that only added fuel to the conflict over which family was the most powerful in Belfort.
Had any other single, handsome man moved in next door, Libby might have been happy. After all, it had been five years since the humiliation of her last boyfriend’s infidelity, five years since she’d had a serious relationship with a man. But Trey Marbury? Every instinct told her to stay away.
Libby closed her eyes, then slipped her hands beneath her hair and lifted the pale blond strands off her neck. This heat wave was setting her nerves on edge. And the fact that she was almost a month late with her newest cookbook wasn’t helping matters. In another week, she’d begin taping the next season of Southern Comforts, the PBS cooking show she’d been doing for the past two years. The book had to be printed and ready to ship when the first show aired in January, or she’d lose sales and viewers.
“So get to work,” Libby muttered, letting her hair drop back onto her shoulders. “And stop thinking about the past. You were a silly lovesick girl living out a fantasy that was never supposed to be real. And he was nothing more than a one-night stand.” She took a last look out the window and then froze, her fingers clutching the lace of the curtain.
Trey Marbury was no longer cutting the grass. He now stood in the side yard chatting with Sarah Cantrell! Libby’s mouth dropped open as she watched her best friend flirt with the enemy. They seemed to be caught up in a lively exchange, laughing and joking with each other. When Sarah reached out and brushed her hand along Trey’s biceps, Libby ground her teeth. “Traitor,” she muttered beneath her breath.
Libby’s fingers twitched as she tried to imagine the sensation of touching him…smooth skin, slicked with sweat, hard muscle rippling beneath. She hadn’t touched a man in so long that she’d nearly forgotten what it felt like to run her palms over long limbs, to sink against a male body and to be enveloped in a strong embrace. He was tall, well over six feet, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist—not a trace of the boy was left in him.
Why had he always fascinated her so? From the time she’d first known who Trey Marbury was, her parents had warned her against him. There’d be no socializing with the enemy. It wasn’t difficult, considering she and Trey ran with different crowds—Trey with the popular kids, and Libby with those who preferred the library to football games and Saturday night dances.
It wasn’t until she began noticing the opposite sex that Libby realized how dangerous Trey really was. Just looking at him made her think of things that her mother had warned her about—meeting boys beneath the bleachers before school, kissing in the balcony at the movie theater, doing unspeakable things in the back seats of cars. Whenever Libby had thought about these things, the boy in her head had always been Trey and the girl he’d chosen to seduce had been her.
As she peered through the window, an unbidden rush of jealousy and a warm flood of desire collided deep inside of her. Desperate to know what Sarah and Trey were talking about, Libby tried to read their lips. But the attempt brought only frustration. She’d need to get closer. If she just wandered out to the veranda to water her hanging baskets, she might be able to overhear their conversation.
Libby grabbed her watering can from beside the back door and tiptoed to the side veranda, but all she could hear was the indistinct murmur of voices—and laughter, lots of laughter. Sarah had always been more comfortable around men, but this was ridiculous! This wasn’t just a friendly conversation anymore—Sarah was flirting!
She’d have to get closer. Drawing a deep breath, she headed toward the steps and then crept along the line of azalea bushes that created a hedge between the two properties. The voices got louder and when she finally settled between two rose bushes, she could hear everything Sarah was saying.
“I’m sure she’ll stop by soon,” Sarah said. “She’s been very busy, what with the book and the show. She starts taping the new season in the next few weeks. Have you ever seen her show?”
“I can’t say that I have,” Trey replied. “I’ve been living in Chicago.”
“Oh, we’re on the PBS station in Chicago.”
“You’re on the show, too?” Trey asked.
“No, I produce the show. And I help Libby edit her cookbooks and test her recipes.”
A rustling in the azaleas drew Libby’s attention away from the conversation. She nearly screamed when a wet nose poked through a hole in the bushes. Libby gave the golden retriever a gentle shove and wriggled back a few inches.
“Is that your dog?” Sarah asked. “You better not let him in Libby’s yard. She is pathological about her roses. Her grandma planted those roses years ago and Libby treats them like her children.”
Trey whistled softly. “Come here, Beau. Come on, boy. He’s been chasing squirrels all day. You can take the dog out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the dog.”
“Go,” Libby whispered, waving her hand in the dog’s face. “Get out of here, you mangy mutt!” But Beau took her frantic movements as encouragement and he leapt through the bushes and knocked Libby flat on her back. Libby flailed her arms as the dog stood above her and licked her face with his cold tongue, his muddy paws planted firmly on her chest. Libby closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands.
When the dog finally stopped, she risked a look up to find both Trey and Sarah staring down at her. An amused grin quirked Trey’s lips.
He chuckled softly. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Lisbeth Parrish.”
“I—I have to go now,” Sarah said, forcing a smile. “I’ve got recipes to type. I’ll call you later, Lib. Nice seeing you again, Trey. Y’all take care now.”
“Oh, we will be talking,” Libby muttered, pushing up on her elbows and brushing her hair out of her eyes.
Trey grinned, his arms crossed over his bare chest. “I was wondering when you were going to stop by and welcome me to the neighborhood.” He held out his hand to her, but Libby slapped it away, humiliated that she’d been caught spying on him.
“Is that any way to welcome me to the neighborhood? Where’s my chicken casserole and my pineapple upside-down cake?”
Libby struggled to get to her feet, the roses scratching at her arms and face. He found this all so amusing. Probably as amusing as he’d found her letter, full of flowery prose and professions of love. “I only bake casseroles for people I’m happy to see.”
“Lisbeth, I expected a much more hospitable welcome.”
Biting back a curse, Libby brushed the mud off her cotton sundress. “I may have to tolerate your presence next door, but I don’t have to like it, Clayton. You’re a Marbury and I’m a Parrish. What do you expect from me beyond hostility?”
Trey frowned and for a moment, Libby regretted her sharp words. This was not the way she wanted to begin, but he seemed to delight in her embarrassment. He took a step toward her and she backed away, but he managed to capture her chin.
“Stay still.”