Sweet Talkin' Lover by Tracey Livesay

Author:Tracey Livesay
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-12-29T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

The pounding of her feet against the pavement in a rhythmic fashion sent a rush of peace through Caila. She shook out her hands, and rolled her shoulders, each step taking her closer to the zone.

She’d needed to do this; she hadn’t run since she’d gotten to Bradleton. Maybe that was part of the problem, the reason she constantly felt off-kilter, like trying to stand on sand while wearing stilettos. Running was how she cleared her mind, how she focused her thoughts and her intentions. After five miles she was always stronger, more decisive, and more accomplished. She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed those emotions until she’d awakened this morning after the homecoming game feeling listless, incompetent, and unsure of herself.

And it was all his fault.

If Nic had been here, she’d be laughing her ass off. “Rookie mistake, Caila. You know better. Be clear on the terms.”

She’d thought she was. She’d believed the attraction was mutual. But she’d been embarrassed and made to look like a joke, and it was nothing less than she deserved.

She’d gone against her own beliefs. She never mixed business with pleasure, and her reason for being here was all business. In fact, it was arguably the most important piece of business in her life.

Instead of questioning the motive behind his invitations, she’d once again surrendered to the bedeviling emotions plaguing her in the past couple of months. Forget common sense, years of experience and logic. She’d chosen to believe a personal involvement with Wyatt wouldn’t affect her mission.

And, though it now galled her to admit it, she’d had her own agenda.

If the football game was as big a draw as everyone claimed, she’d be surrounded by the very people she’d need to observe. And if she happened to see or overhear anything she could use to support Endurance’s decision to break their contract with the plant . . .

A win-win situation for her.

But she hadn’t been smart, and worse, she hadn’t been clever. The moment he’d casually introduced her to Smitty, who’d casually begun talking about the generations of his family working at the plant, she’d felt like a first-class idiot. And not first class as in bigger-seats-separated-from-coach-by-a-curtain. Oh no. She’d rated as a luxurious-privately-enclosed-suite-with-double-bed nitwit!

It’d been a genius move. This time, he’d played her.

And she didn’t like that fucking feeling one bit.

Irritation with her own shortsightedness fueled her as she continued beyond Sinclair House’s neighborhood and on to another with large residences, immaculate lawns, and big trees. These homes were newer than the ones near her B&B, but they still retained the Southern colonial style, with two or three stories, a rectangular design, and a central front door. The addition of shutters, columns, or porches added some variation, but it was clear this was a traditional, well-established neighborhood.

No one who worked at the plant could afford to live here. Maybe that explained the absence of open hostility she experienced. She’d moved from the sidewalk to the street—to avoid colliding with mothers pushing

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