Page 34 of Close Match
Montague
It wasn’t just a pickup line. I feel like I’ve been in the position of watching her walk away from me, but I can’t quite remember where or when. There’s something about the confidence in her stride, I muse as I follow her a few feet down K Street. The tilt of her head as she pauses to slip her phone out to check something on it before tucking it back into a small shoulder bag. Then my heart stops when I see her duck under the distinctive awning of Georgia Browns. She steps aside as the door’s held open for her.
I hold back, lest she thinks I’m deliberately following her. My heart is thumping in my chest as my mind begins to make connections. Long mahogany hair. Dimples in the corners of her mouth when her lips curved a few moments ago. Ev has both of those. What would be the chances the woman I just asked out could be Lynn Brogan?
Inside, the bronze branches crawl their way around the restaurant like the live oaks found in the rich history of Savannah’s low country. The carpet is a subtle gray green, giving the feeling of being draped in the Spanish moss that wraps the oaks year-round. The lighting is encased in the restaurant’s signature honeybee color, a tribute to the state of Georgia’s official insect designated as such in 1975. The restaurant is a work of art; not to mention its delicious food, which is why Ev, Mom, and I make it a point to come here as often as we can.
Since the crowd from the White House hasn’t let out for lunch yet, it’s easy enough for me to spot them. Ev lifts his hand in acknowledgment. I’m debating whether I should quietly shift around her when she decides for me. Squaring her shoulders, she approaches the maître d’. “Excuse me. My name is Lynn Brogan. I’m supposed to be joining Mr. Parrish for lunch this afternoon.”
Before he can open his mouth, I cup her elbow. Startled, she turns. “You!” She tries to yank her arm away, but I tighten my fingers slightly.
“I’ll be happy to escort you to your table. I had no idea who you… Ev’s been waiting a long time to meet you,” I finish lamely.
“Ev? Who are you talking about?” Her eyes dart to the left, and she’s ready to bolt. She starts jerking her arm back and forth in my hand. “Lynn, stop,” I order.
“How do you know my name?” she whispers, frightened.
“My name is Montague Parrish, though everyone but my mother calls me Monty.” The color starts to leech from her face. “Rhett’s full name is Everett.”
Horror washes over her features. “Do you mean to tell me my half-brother just tried to hit on me?”
“No. I’m merely your stepbrother.”
“Oh, well, that’s so much better.” She runs her free hand through her hair, sending it into complete disarray before the thick strands fall back into place perfectly. “Were you following me?” she demands.
“Not really,” I hedge.
This time I let her take the step back. “Care to explain?”
“Did I technically walk behind you from the hotel to here because we’re also staying at the Hamilton? Yes. Was I deliberately following you? No.” Her indignation deflates at that. A stain blushes her pale cheeks, and she looks away.
“I apologize. I…” Letting go of her elbow, I reach up and give her arm a quick squeeze before letting it go. “Listen, would it help you to know he’s as nervous as you are?” I don’t feel like I’m betraying Ev by sharing that. One look at the table and she’ll know that for herself.
“Honestly? Yes, it does. Thank you.” She closes her eyes for one heartbeat, two, before opening them. “Lynn Brogan.” She extends her hand.
“Monty Parrish.” I glance over her shoulder at the maître d’ and give him a jerk of my head, dismissing him. He discreetly moves away. “May I escort you to meet your father and my mother?”
The panicked look that had receded from her face comes rushing back. “Your mother’s here too? Why would Rhett do this to me?”
“I think he had some idea that meeting all of us at once might be easier on you.”
“Yeah, well, a little warning next time,” she mutters adorably.
I cock my head to the side. “Is there going to be a next time? Are you a genetic phenom who has three sets of parents?”
Lynn hauls off and smacks me in the arm before realizing what she did. “Oh. My. God. I am so sorry. Did I hurt you?”
I grin. “You need a drink if you think a little thing like you can hurt me.” I hold out my arm for hers.
Tucking her fingers beneath my elbow, she mutters, “I don’t drink alcohol. But a rocking Shirley Temple sounds great right about now.”
I halt our progression around the bar. “Seriously? You don’t drink?”
“No. I don’t even really like food cooked with alcohol.”
Interesting. “Okay. I’d ask about any sauces you’re unfamiliar with, but most of the food here is just amazing low-country Southern cooking.”
Lynn shakes her head. “I’ve eaten here before and I still don’t know what that means.”
