She was the purest beauty, but not the common kind / she had a way about her that made you feel alive. \[lady antebellum]/
She ain't no southern girl that gets in a tizzy when her hair falls out of its perfectly constructed curls. For one thing, her hair ain't blonde either. It's kinda this chocolate color that has these mahogany strokes in it and the first time he touches it, he's got one hand tangled all up in it and it feels like silk. But it really isn't the first thing that he ever noticed about her.
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When he first meets her, she marches in all rough and tumble, honey eyes blazing with fury because for gawd sake's can't you just stop hogging all of the electricity from the fuse box. And her nightgown barely covers her slim bronze legs, hitting mid thigh (and hell yeah he notices that), arms akimbo on her hips as she stands there and shoots him down. He thinks it is pretty cute that she is just a hitch over five feet with half of her height covered by wellie boots and her sarcasm tattooed on her tart cherry mouth.
"That smile may work on all the girls at the church social, but it ain't gonna work on me." And with that retort, she flounces out of his living room, slamming the porch screen door, knowing that he is watching her leave.
It's the way she says it with such conviction that makes him want to know if he could actually crack her. She's not going to take his shit. She doesn't have to play hard to get because she actually is hard to get.
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She's stalking around the plantation road with a box of white wine [whine] in that same little stitch of fabric riding appealingly up her legs, cardigan slipping through the Bama breeze and she looks a right mess down there in the dirt as he pulls to a halt beside her. Leaning out the window, his trademark church social swoon worthy smile crooks across his lips.
"Nice first day. Everyone knows old man J memorized the eye chart."
"Don't you have some cows to tip, Wadeee?"
"I'd offer to give you a ride, but I don't want ya getting' any ideas."
And then bam, she's in the car with her tart cherry (not so tart, he reckons) mouth on his and her hips pressed on his lap and he's got one hand in that wreck of silk chocolate hair and the other groping against her bronze shoulder and well, he's not exactly the kind of guy to kiss and tell, now is he?
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"Hey Doc, heard you're going to be in town for a while. If you need a cup of sugar, anything, I'm right next door."
He doesn't miss the way her lips twitch upwards when the insult comes flyin' out of his trap. And he also doesn't miss Lavon's careful eyes on the two of them as he leans closer and she draws her body a bit more forward as well. It's not like he cares that she's going to be here for long, not really or anything.
And no, it's not like he gave her a cute lil' hook either.
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She looks downright adorable in that little white tank top and bandanna. Not entirely sure why he perceives that because she has that look on her face like she's about to beat the hell outta him. He's kicking back with his feet up and in she comes strolling along (he does not give two shits about why she stops to talk to George Tucker, nope he does not) demanding where the hell the float is and why his lazy ass hasn't started anything.
"I remember how capable you are with those hands of yours."
He watches her grimace and tell him off again, hands on her hips with her almighty powerful doctor face and tries not to laugh as she yanks a hand through her [chocolate silk] hair and slaps a hand upon her [slim bronze] thighs in disgust.
"All we did was kiss. The only thing I did with my hand was go why am I so stupid?"
He smirks and tells her he's going to get some paint (going to get something to take his mind off chocolate silk hair and slim bronze thighs and a not so tart cherry mouth) and heads home.
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The silence lasts about 2 hours before she figures out that she has been hoodwinked and she slams his freakin' screen porch door once again. He's got his guitar in his lap and a beer by his side as he scans her from the toes up as she begins yet another torrent of streams of New York gibberish.
"I need the people to think that I fit into this town or I can't get patients and I will lose the practice and ruin my dead father's legacy, not to mention the fellowship I have worked for my entire life. It may sound-"
And that is all that she gets out because during this little temper tantrum he's watching her honey eyes and her bronze skin and her chocolate hair and her cherry mouth and he kinda can't help himself. His hand on the swift curve of her hip and the other cradling her neck and her hands on his abdomen and they're so tiny and hellishly hot that he loses track of what he is doing until she cuts it and stamps her fingers on his chest, breaking the kiss. (He swears to himself up and down that he does it to get her to shut the hell.)
"What are you doing?"
"You were freaking out. I thought I'd snap you out of it with my generic beer breath." He grins at her and she just freezes, pulling a few fingers over her now flawed lips looking a bit sheepish. Ducking his head and tossing a plaid shirt over his shoulder, he starts for the door before realizing that she ain't moving.
"What are you gaping at? We got a float to build, don't we? C'mon girl." And he pushes open the screen porch door that she likes slamming so much, enjoying the fact that he renders her speechless and stationary. She can't very well be in control all the time.
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Every southern woman knows about football. They understand the reverence associated with a Sunday afternoon and a couple of beers and a plate of chicken wings at the Rammer Jammer. This woman is not from the south; therefore, she has no appreciation of such things. But damn it all if she don't look good in that jersey and daisy dukes.
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(He certainly has not been over blowing the electricity in the morning to meet her in her nightgown at the fuse box. And he's going to deny it if you suggest it.)
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"Hey there Doc, ever notice when I'm around sparks fly?"
"If you like that, wait till you see my taser."
His anything but church social appropriate grins crooks across his face once again, and he dares her not to respond in kind. Her [chocolate silk] hair and [slim bronze] thighs and [not so tart] cherry mouth all on wide open display and she doesn't disappoint, lets the right side tick up a notch only noticeable if you were watching very carefully (not that he is or anythin').
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He is going to start a count of the number of times that she asks for his help (even though she promises up and down and all around that she certainly, nope, doesn't need it).
It is roughly around the eighth or so time when he drives her to the Hooper House and watches her scamper around out front before asking her what they're doing there. Another wheedle out of her and a signature eye roll and he is placing a worn boot in front of another one and pushing open the door to the Hooper House. She's all timid, walking behind him and stepping lightly and he wonders why she wears heels when they are in the country and consistently driving down dirt roads. (He ain't complaining, but if she wants to fit it, them ankle breakers ain't gonna help.)
Telling her to look for a copperhead, he bends down and comes level with a shred of rope and flings it back in her face as she plummets into a pile of dusty pillows and rises with two blood red holes in her left hand. Shit.
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Like a not so knight in plaid and flannel, he carries her with ease to her office, arguing with her the whole way about her hand. He doesn't regret to notice how simply she fits in his arms or how quickly she goes to hold onto his shoulders or how she doesn't turn her head away when he locks his hazel eyes with her honey ones. And if he isn't mistaken, she isn't unnerved by it either. In fact, it seems she welcomes it, welcomes him, welcome being pushed out of her boundaries.
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He doesn't care if she can't cook because he can.
(She does look mighty cute in that apron though.)
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"Women want a romantic gesture."
"Careful. Could be a trick."
Shelley's suggestion is not why he goes to the farmer's market and spends a meticulous amount of time choosing the bell peppers and tomatoes and okra and shrimps and freshet black beans and dirty rice. It is not why he steals Lavon's gumbo pot and fills it with Uncle Moe's recipe. It is not why he places it in the contest under her name even though he is pretty sure that at least three people saw him write it in with his own chicken scratch.
It ain't flowers or anything, but he's pretty sure that it was the best thing he could have done when he sees her shock with the second place ribbon around her neck.
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Lavon is the only one that knows he made the gumbo. He knows the instant that she marches up and thanks him for the help that he didn't give her. Watching and intercepting the moment, he plops down onto Lavon's shoulder and interrupts with a snarky comment, making sure to brush his hand upon hers before strutting away.
It is only back at the main house that he is caught red handed by the mayor and denies the act of kindness with every fiber of truth in his morally degraded system. Zoe Hart does not need his help and if the mayor doesn't believe that, well then he can ask her himself.
(What he doesn't catch is the satisfaction on Mr. Mayor's face as he exits back to the gate house. Maybe he isn't the only one that thinks him and Zoe are complimentin' each other after all.)
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Not that he thinks he and Zoe Hart are complimentin' each other or anything. And he's going to deny it if you suggest it.