Baby, I'll Find You

by Jennifer Skully

  Then again, the alternative was running home to her old room in her mother’s house. No way would she do that.

  His gaze tracked her as she passed the front windows, opened the door, and stepped inside. The air was close, much warmer, and perfumed with the scent of grease, meat, and...peach air freshener?

  “What’s your name again?” he barked.

  “Jami Baylor.”

  He wasn’t tall, maybe a couple of inches over her five-seven, but he had bulk, thick muscles rippling across his chest and beneath the tattoos, as if his preferred workout was hauling hundred-pound cartons of frozen hamburger patties.

  He assessed her with beady eyes she feared might laser right into her head. “I’m Frank,” he announced.

  “Yes. I couldn’t help hearing.”

  “Frank Fetterman,” he added, glancing at the counter boy. “He’s only got two volumes. Unintelligible mutter or nerve-shattering shriek, but he’s a good kid, always on time, and he doesn’t spit on the burgers when no one’s looking.”

  “How would you know if you’re not looking?” she asked with all seriousness.

  Frank laughed, a deep sound from the well of his belly. “I’m going to like you. Get in here”—he reached out to grab her arm but dropped his hand short of touching her as if afraid he might accidentally crush a bone—“and give me your credentials ‘cause it doesn’t matter how good-looking you are if you can’t do the job.”

  She didn’t know if she should be offended or thank him for the compliment, so she simply took the chair he offered her in his tiny office. The desk barely fit in the room, and the top was littered with bills, torn envelopes, crumpled bits of paper, and an ancient computer. A small pot of oiled potpourri—peach-scented—burned by the side of the keyboard. Rather out of character for the man’s gravelly pitch and numerous tattoos.

  “You know how to use a Mac?” he asked.

  “Umm...” The question startled her. Who wouldn’t know how to use a Mac? “Yes.”

  “Good, ‘cause Macs don’t get the virus like a PC does. And I’m not changing over. So don’t even think about it. I’ve got an accounting package specifically for fast-food joints, but it’s kinda temperamental.”

  “I’m sure I can figure it out.”

  There was a strange little rumble under the desk, and Frank squirmed. No, he hadn’t. Really, he wouldn’t.

  “What’s your previous experience?” he wanted to know.

  “I was managed cost accounting for a manufacturing company in Silicon Valley.” She omitted any mention of the director job since it was totally irrelevant to Easy Cheesy.

  “For how long?”

  “Almost five years.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  “I got tired.” It almost came out as fired.

  He pondered a moment. “I can understand that.”

  “I thought I’d take some time to figure out what I really want to do with my life.” He’d already said he understood, so why was she still explaining?

  “How much money do you want?”

  She hadn’t thought about it. “Thirty-five an hour.” Very reasonable. In Silicon Valley, she’d get a lot more.

  His eyes shifted left, right, above her head. Then there was that rumble under the desk again. And Frank squirmed. “How about twenty-five?”

  “Is this full-time or part-time, do you think?”

  He tinkered with the computer keys. “Probably part-time after you get used to the system and all. My last girl used to take some of it home and input while she was watching the late-late show. She was a night owl.”

  “All right. Twenty-five is okay.” She was totally insane—and worth a lot more—but right now she didn’t care. Easy Cheesy bookkeeping was something to keep her busy. And it would give her a chance to figure out Colton Amory.

  “Done,” Frank said, slapping the desk.

  Well. That was shortest, weirdest interview she’d ever participated in.

  “When can you start?” Then he yipped. Or something under the desk yipped. Frank definitely had a bark, but did he actually bite?

  Pushing back his chair in what little space there was between the desk and the wall, he scrunched down to peer between his legs. “Ruby, will you stop that? Be a good girl for Daddy.”

  He had his daughter under there? Maybe Jami needed to up her price to a hundred an hour.

  He glanced up with only his eyes, the whites showing at the top. “I think she wants to meet you.”

  Jami had a momentary heart arrhythmia. So it wasn’t his daughter; she imagined an iguana or a python. Or even some hairy tarantula. What kind of pet would a man like Frank have?

  “Uh, sure, I’d be delighted.” Not exactly, but he was going to be her new boss, so she had to make nice.

  He smiled beatifically, and the whole Big Bad Wolf impression vanished. “Come on out, sweetie pie.” Then he leaned down to haul up whatever Ruby was.

  Oh my God. “She’s a poodle.”

  Frank set her on the desk, a tiny toy dog with a real poodle cut, puff balls of fur on her legs and tail, and a ruby-colored bow on the top of her head. She regarded Jami with deep brown doggie eyes. Jami could swear Ruby smiled. Or maybe she was baring her teeth.

  “Oh my God, her toe nails are painted.” Ruby nail polish, no less, to match the bow. Jami looked at Frank.

  Frank looked at her. Then he gazed down at Ruby with a syrupy expression of gooey-eyed love. “My little Ruby likes to look her best at all times.”

  Jami put a hand over mouth, to stifle either a gasp or hysterical laughter, she wasn’t sure which.

  “Don’t usually bring her in. The health department would fry my butt.”

  Jami zipped her lip. “I won’t say a word.

  With that, Frank lurched beneath the desk and pulled out a fluffy, ruby-colored dog basket. “Come here, my little queen.” Scooping up his darling Ruby, Frank set her basket on the few square inches of available floor space and plopped her inside. “Be good, and I’ll take you to the park when Cole gets back.”

  “Cole?” Jami echoed, for lack of anything else to say.

  Frank smiled, the oddest glint in his eye. “Our fry cook. I sent him out to get some duct tape for the vent. He’s a pussy cat.”

  “Compared to Ruby? Or to you?”

  Frank put a hand to his chest and mouthed, “Moi?”

  She didn’t have a clue what to make of Frank Fetterman. On the one hand, he looked like he could pound a man’s head into concrete. On the other, he was now cooing at Ruby, who’d curled into a ball and snuggled down into her basket.

  What Jami did know was that she’d better get out of here pronto before Colton Amory came back. Cole. The short version would take a little getting used to since she’d been thinking of him as Coltonamory, as if it were one word. At any rate, there’d be time enough to face him when she started the job.

  “Tomorrow then?” she said, rising to her feet.

  “I get here about nine, but we don’t open until ten.”

  “So if I get here at nine, you can give me a brief walk-through of the system?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “And I can use your office to do the work?”

  Frank spread his hands. “It’ll be all yours.”

  Ruby started snoring. Jami had heard somewhere that poodles had hair instead of fur, so maybe they didn’t shed. Whatever, the little tyke didn’t seem to be doing any damage to Easy Cheesy’s health code.

  Frank grabbed a pad from the desk, unerring despite the mess—she’d really have to neaten up a little in here—and tore off a sheet.

  “Application. Bring it back with you.”

  Jami folded it, slipped it inside her purse, then turned away after a last friendly smile.

  And plowed right into a hard chest.

  “What,” Colton Amory said, “are you doing here?”

  Busted.

  Chapter Seven

  “The new bookkeeper,” Frank said from like, oh, a mile or t
wo away.

  Her hair smelled too damn good. Cole had known she’d smell like heaven. He had the irresistible urge to nuzzle his nose into the silky strands, to wrap the soft curls around his finger and draw her closer.

  Cole stepped back. “Our new bookkeeper?”

  “My new bookkeeper.”

  Frank was giving him the eye, a look that clearly said do not screw this up for me. Their last bookkeeper had gotten behind on her inputting and threw out the invoices she hadn’t had time to enter. It had taken weeks to placate the vendors.

  Frank, despite his looks, was a silver-tongued devil, with both the ladies and the vendors, and not one had charged a late fee, not even interest.

  “Frank’s ad was in the Sunday paper, and I came right down to apply.” Then she smiled; a sneaky smile, the way he read it.

  They were playing him. He just hadn’t figured out how yet.

  Or maybe she was legit. Cole never questioned Frank’s hiring practices nor his selection. It was Frank’s show; all Cole had done was give him the money to buy the place.

  Ruby chose that moment to jump up from her bed and trot over to his boots. The dog loved his boots. Had to be the grease-soaked leather.

  The woman stuck out her hand. “My name’s Jami Baylor.”

  Cole jumped back a foot. He wasn’t about to touch her, and he already knew her name. He’d overheard it when she’d introduced herself to Andrea, and he didn’t like the way it continued to play around the edges of his mind. If he touched her, he was doomed. “Nice to meet you. Stay out of my way. We’ll get along fine,” all said without a breath in between. Then, finally, he could drag in a little air.

  Frank jutted his head forward on his neck and anchored Cole to the floor with a look of steel.

  “Cole’s not socialized yet,” he offered by way of explanation. “He’ll have better manners tomorrow.”

  “Duct tape.” Cole held out the bag while still staring at Jami. Had Frank hired her because she was gorgeous? Was he hot to get in her pants? Was he making the moves...

  Cole stopped himself right there. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “The natives are starting to stack up out there for the dinner rush. I better get to work. It was extremely nice to meet you,” he said to the atmosphere above her head.

  There, that was completely sociable.

  She’d shown up on his doorstep, then she’d followed him to his workplace. One thing was for sure, now he’d get a chance to figure her out. Up close and personal. Maybe she was a reporter for VH1 doing a story on whatever the hell happened to that one-hit wonder from way back when. Whatever her gig, he wasn’t playing it with her.

  Still, it was bugging him. What did the woman want? Worse, why did her scent haunt him long after the burgers sizzling on the grill should have killed his olfactory senses?

  * * * * *

  “Well, well, well, would ya ponder that for the next century?” Frank Fetterman said to Ruby, where she sat in her basket on the passenger seat. “Cole and the little lady set the sparks flying, they surely did.” He turned to his darling. “What do you think it means?”

  Ruby didn’t answer, but she blinked.

  Beneath a big black oak at the edge of Easy Cheesy’s lot, Frank sat in the cab of the battered Chevy truck he’d had since he turned twenty-one. Twenty-five years and his baby was still running. True, he’d put in a new engine and transmission, but he wouldn’t part with Nessie for nothing. She’d gotten him through troubled times. She’d let him sleep on her big bench seat when he didn’t have a home. She hadn’t even gotten pissed when he was high or dead drunk and barfing on her floorboards. Next to Ruby, who gave a hard-edged ugly old guy unconditional love, and Easy Cheesy, which gave him purpose and means, Nessie was the love of his life.

  The fact that he even had a life was due to Cole. He owed the man big time, not just the cash for Easy Cheesy, but his very life blood. So far, the only way he’d been able to pay Cole back was by keeping him breathing. Guilt was a nasty emotion. It got its hooks in a man and wouldn’t let go. Sort of like crack. Yeah, maybe that was the way to think of it. It impaired your judgment and ate away your soul. No matter what anyone else told you, no matter what you knew yourself, you just could not kick the habit. That was Cole. He had the guilt habit bad. After Stephie died, Cole was just a body going through the motions.

  Until yesterday, when he’d looked at the pretty lady who’d come to Andrea’s aid. It was the first spark of life Frank had seen in his best friend in seven years. And today? Well, well, well, Cole damn near looked as if he could pounce on Ms. Jami Baylor like a lion on a cute little lamb.

  Frank rubbed his hands together. He’d just have to see what he could do about creating a few more sparks between the two. He’d even have paid her an extra five bucks an hour just to get the job done, though thank God, he hadn’t needed to. Easy Cheesy couldn’t exactly afford more.

  But now he needed to let Ruby, the first love of his life, run free at the dog park for a few minutes. He started Nessie’s engine. “Let’s go, little lady.” He could have been talking to either Nessie or Ruby.

  And if that Doberman they encountered every damn time they went to the dog park so much as sniffed Ruby’s hind end, he’d roast it and its owner over an open firepit.

  Nobody messed with his little Ruby, not even another dog.

  * * * * *

  Easy Cheesy’s books were a mess, though that didn’t fully describe the horror facing Jami on the computer screen the next morning. The expense categories were all mixed up. Her predecessor had entered the oil for the fries into transportation, as if she thought it was motor oil for Frank’s truck. The bags of frozen French fries were categorized as business meals. Business meals were only fifty-percent tax deductible! Whereas French fries were cost of goods.

  “How long did you employ this woman?” she asked Frank, trying to keep the terror out of her voice.

  This morning, Monday and her first day on the job, they’d taken opposite sides of the desk, she in front of the computer and Frank squeezed into the extra chair. He leaned forward to peer at the monitor she’d turned slightly for his benefit. Ruby had been relegated to home-stay today.

  He shrugged at her question. “About six months.”

  Whew. “And before that, who did them?”

  “Mrs. Perdue. She did ’em right from the beginning. She came with Easy Cheesy when we...I bought it. Sweetest little old thing you’d ever wanna know. And damn, could she tell a dirty joke. Alas”—he raised his eyes heavenward for a brief moment—“she’s gone to meet her maker.”

  Jami could imagine the woman’s epitaph. We’ll surely miss her dirty jokes.

  At least the problem was limited to the current year. Jami would have hated to go back to Easy Cheesy’s tax preparer and make him re-file prior years. “Let me take a stab at things and see where we are.”

  Frank rose and half-stepped to get to the door. “Sure thing, pretty lady.”

  Jami wasn’t used to comments like that. In a business environment, men never made personal comments for fear they’d be construed as harassment, but Jami kind of liked Frank’s off-hand compliments. She was sure he didn’t mean a thing by them; he called Ruby his pretty little girl even when she wasn’t present. Hmm. Did that mean he was comparing her to a dog? First a cow, now a dog; she wasn’t sure whether that was a step up or a step down.

  There wasn’t much to the job that needed a degree in accounting. All that was required was attention to detail and looking over what had been done in years past by Mrs. Perdue. Obviously, Jami’s predecessor hadn’t bothered to investigate at all. Jami set about getting the new invoices into the system, before worrying about reclassifying.

  It was a nifty little program that printed checks, recorded cash receipts, classified expenses, and, if one used it to its full extent, there was order point and purchasing management, financial statements and exported data for tax reporting.

  Maybe it was an oddity with accountants, but learnin
g a new system, even something fairly unsophisticated, was fun. Jami liked numbers. She liked order. She was a freak and happily admitted to it.

  So happy, in fact, that she didn’t pay attention to what was going on outside the miniscule office. People arrived, exchanged hellos, machines turned on, noise filled up the atmosphere, and Jami realized she felt better than she had in two weeks. Maybe even years. Maybe seven years.

  She was in her element. It pointed out how much she’d missed accounting while she was in materials. Yes, being a director meant more money and a move up the ladder, but she’d never liked that job. She’d struggled through every day, and not just because of Dick Head. She loved spreadsheets and analyzing the meanings of numbers, and yes, dammit, finding that last hundred dollars in a bank reconciliation—there was that freak thing again. Yet today, in her little accounting world, she’d forgotten about Leo. And Colton, no, Cole Amory, for that matter.

  Until Frank returned and tossed a pile of cards on the desk.

  “Timecards,” he said.

  Oops. “I forgot to mention that I don’t do payroll.”

  “You don’t? But you said you were a manager.”

  “I was. In cost accounting.” Payroll had its own set of rules and regulations.

  He looked at her as if she were speaking another language.

  Jami tried to explain. “It’s like asking a gynecologist to do open heart surgery.”

  She still wasn’t sure Frank got it, but he smiled for her anyway, and said, “That’s fine. We’ve got a service.”

  She hadn’t gotten that far into the expenses to notice.

  Picking up the stack, he fanned them in his hand. “All you have to do is add them up and call in the hours for each employee. It’s gotta be done by—” He flipped his wrist and glanced at his massive watch. It probably told the time in every country and had a map of the world, too. “One o’clock,” he said, “if we want the checks first thing Wednesday morning. The phone number’s in the middle desk drawer.”