brushing a hand through hair that had frizzed with the heat of the day.
Clay looked up at her, his mouth curling into a lazy grin. “I’m good at scratching an itch.”
She didn’t think he was talking about Jonas.
Holy hell.
“Uh, I better get going,” she said, pressing her hands against her shorts again. She knew she looked rattled. Hell, she was rattled. Not because Clay Caldwell had pretty much started flirting with her, but because she had a sudden inclination to roll over.
And that was unacceptable. And stupid. And dangerous.
All things Daphne Witt had never been.
CHAPTER TWO
Dear Miss O’Hara,
I love the way you described the sun setting on Caddo Lake. Guess that’s what authors do, huh? I’ve always thought it was like God finger painted an ending to the day. Soothes me. You say you have a place on the lake? Must be nice to get away for a few days when you want. I’m sure it’s easier to write your stories when you feel at peace. We have a small lake on the vineyard property that I sometimes visit to fish or just connect with myself. You know we have a house that people can rent. Of course, I prefer the bed and breakfast since french roast coffee is steps away, but we rent that house out fairly often. If you ever want to plan a writer’s retreat, it’s a good option. We host lots of writers. They like the quiet and the wine. Ha. I’m not giving up on getting you to come speak. As the only male chairperson for PTSA, I’ve promised to deliver big on Book Week. You’re my ace in the hole . . . if you’d just say yes to me.
Don’t make me tell the world Dixie Doodle is really a hound named Jonas.
Best,
Evan
Ellery Witt stared at the blinking cursor and wondered if she should confess her crime.
Which technically wasn’t a crime. Just a deception.
After all, pretending to be her mother was expected of her as Daphne’s assistant. She pretended to be her mother on social media, on blog posts, even on one phone interview when her mother had a killer migraine and couldn’t reschedule. Being Dee Dee O’Hara, the creator (and owner) of Dixie Doodle a Southern Belle Poodle was ironically something Ellery was good at.
That’s what a degree in fashion design got a girl—pretending to be someone else. And working on the floor of Selber’s department store for minimum wage.
And that’s what rubbed her ego until it was a tender blister. She’d done everything she was supposed to do in college. Yeah, she did the sorority thing, even becoming Rush Chair, but she’d skipped going to keggers in order to get her design projects perfect down to the last itty-bitty detail. She’d participated in every showcase, gone the extra mile, sat on committees she didn’t want to all so she could get a leg up. And . . . nothing.
She could admit that putting all her eggs in one basket had been a mistake. She hadn’t pursued internships with any other companies like she should have because she had been so certain J.J. Krause would hire her. When she’d Skyped in for her interview with the design company, she’d been shocked to find that Jaclyn Joy Krause herself was conducting the interview. Ellery’d had a sizzling, connective energy with the up-and-coming darling of the fashion world—they’d even finished each other’s sentences. J.J. had all but told her she’d be flying Ellery to Milan for the next show as her intern. But then J.J. had gone with a total poser famous for his epic cocktail parties and snarky blog posts. The guy had visited Italy a few times, and suddenly he had his thumb on the pulse of European fashion? Please. The dude was from Minnesota. Ellery had been crushed when J.J.’s assistant had called to get her address so they could send her a conciliatory last-season clutch.
All her hard work hadn’t amounted to beans. She should have gone to the parties and written dumb Snapchat stories about ugly shoes. Maybe then she’d be working for a designer instead of selling ladies daywear on the floor of the local department store and being her mother’s minion.
And she wouldn’t be so scared that everything she wanted would never be hers. Because that was what she felt—frightened that she couldn’t do what she’d always said she would do. Everyone expected her to succeed, to be the best, to wear the right clothes, marry the right man,