“Rose, hi. It’s Alice.” One of her favorite listeners. Alice called the show at least three times a week.
“Alice, welcome to the show. Do you know an alien?” Rose felt silly even saying the words.
“Oh, yes. My next-door neighbor is an alien, although you’d never know it by looking at him. He’s a carbon copy of Tim Allen, not as he looked in Home Improvement or The Santa Clause but in Last Man Standing.”
“Interesting, but what makes you think your neighbor is an alien?” Rose found she was a lot more sympathetic with her callers than she’d been before her accident. Adam, the alien, had changed her point of view. Even though the only aliens were in her caller’s imaginations, she could see now that other life forms must seem very real to them.
“I’ve studied the alien species extensively, and there are certain things to watch out for which are dead giveaways,” Alice said, warming to her subject. “Now mind you, there are several types of aliens, and not all of them are friendly. Fortunately, mine is a sweetheart.”
“How interesting. Please go on,” Rose said.
“Sure, Rose. My Harvey just appeared a few years ago and moved in next door. He wasn’t very sociable at first, but I won him over with my sugar cookies. Aliens love sugar, you know.” The pitch of Alice’s voice rose as her words gathered speed.
Rose was pretty sure this woman had a difficult time finding an audience.
“I’ve come to like my neighbor even though he is . . . different,” Alice explained. “Somehow, my TV gets better reception when he’s around, and that old Mrs. Toller’s pesky dog just up and disappeared. Aliens are cat people, you know. He helped me get my kitty, Baby, out of the tree, and now Baby loves him.”
Now if that wasn't a character reference, Rose didn't know what was. Alice’s call seemed to open the floodgates, and as the night wore on, the stories poured through.
Other callers weren't as fortunate as Alice. Some were frightened or angry and sure they were victims of spying extra-terrestrial beings. Tinfoil was a big part of their lives.
About half way through the show Rose’s headache reappeared. Not willing to risk dropping off to sleep in the middle of a conversation, she couldn't afford to take any prescription medication, and aspirin wasn’t helping. The last hour of her show crawled to a close, and she waited impatiently to sign off.
As she hit the switch for the hourly news, she swiveled her chair away from the computer board, and there was Irwin, just like always. In all the years they’d worked together, she’d never heard him open the door to the studio, but she could feel his presence as soon as he arrived.
Funny, that door squeaked whenever anyone else came into the room.
“How was your show tonight, Rose?” Irwin asked, just like he did every night. It never varied. He didn't ask about the wreck or how she felt, but if she hadn’t been up to doing her job, he’d have known, and he’d have helped. That’s what good friends were for.
“Kind of slow, but I got through it. How are you?” she asked, as she wiped up the desktop and the phone.
Irwin was already beside her, nudging her out of his way, antiseptic spray in one hand and a rag in the other. “Peachy,” he said, his rare crooked grin lighting his face.
She couldn’t contain an answering grin. “Is that another of your favorite words?”
“Number ten on my list.” He lined his pens up and squared the large yellow notebook with the edge of the desk. Everything had to be perfect before he did his magic transformation.
“I like it.” Rose watched Irwin place his cushion on the seat then climbed into the chair. With a flip of his wrist, he turned on the microphone. No matter how many times she’d watched Irwin become his alter ego, Randall Cunningham III, it never failed to amaze her.
She mouthed goodbye to Irwin, gave him a one-finger wave and then turned and slammed into Adam.
His warm hands wrapped around her waist, holding her steady as he lowered his head. His beard stubble softly scratched her cheek and his breath tickled her ear. "Ready?"
A shiver ran down her spine then back up to her scalp. “Oh, yes.” Her voice turned husky as his touch sent tingles scurrying across her skin. Her chest tightened, and her heart raced as she absorbed his heat.
She was on the verge of melting into his arms when he set her away. What the hell? She looked into his amused eyes, and a blush worked up her neck and spread across her cheeks. They were in the radio station with Irwin watching, and Adam was talking about giving her a ride home.
What had gotten into her? All Adam had to do was touch her, and she came out looking like a fool more times than not. She straightened and gathered what little dignity she had left. “Ready to go home?” she sputtered. “Yes.”
Rose tried to step back out of his arms, but he tightened his grip and held her hips against his. As he stared into her eyes, a slow smile spread across his face. “Let’s go home then.” He looked up at Irwin, gave him a nod then placed his hand on the small of her back and escorted her down the hall and out to the car.
-#-
Lillian spent the better part of the morning copying papers in Simon’s office and storing them in neat, colored folders. The courier arrived just as she finished, so she gave the files a quick double check, slipped them into a gold embossed red folder, and sent them off.
As she watched the messenger drive away, she couldn’t contain a self-satisfied smile. She’d purposely left out several important pieces of paperwork. If he wanted it all, Adam was going to have to come to her.
Her smile grew wider as she recalled the look he’d given her at their meeting. It spoke volumes. The spa treatment and new clothing had paid off in spades.
Only one thing bothered her. Why on earth wouldn’t Adam be excited to move into this fantastic house? It was the nicest home for hundreds of miles. Mr. Howell had insisted in the finest of everything, and it showed.
She’d ask Adam one more time and if he refused again, she was moving into the master bedroom. It was spectacular, with the raised mahogany bed and views of Trinidad Lake and Fisher’s Peak beyond. Located several miles southwest of Tullyville, it was situated by itself on top of a small hill.
Lillian folded her arms across her chest and looked around. I could get used to living like this.
With the messenger gone, she returned to the office. Time to implement the next step of the plan by checking out the address Adam had given as his residence. She’d googled the area but couldn’t find any motels. From the map, it seemed to be in a residential district.
She'd questioned Mr. Bailey about Adam, discretely of course, but she couldn't get much information from him. The lawyer was as tight lipped as a cop on a murder investigation.
He did let slip that Adam had been gone for years and hadn’t gotten along with his grandfather when he lived in Tullyville. Geez, she’d figured that much out for herself.
Adam had nearly radiated hostility at the mention of his grandfather’s name. Mr. Howell never confided his personal life to her, but he depended on her for his business dealings, and when people found out she worked for Old Moneybags, they couldn’t wait to gossip.
She knew he was working on some kind of project when he started buying small companies. She’d asked him once why he was buying such unprofitable firms. He’d told her if she didn’t like her job, she could pack and be gone by nightfall.
She was smart enough to keep her questions to herself after that.
She never did know why he bought the money pits, but he never made a move without a plan. He was a conniving old bastard, devious as a rattlesnake and a genius at getting what he wanted.
But she was smart too, and she’d learned from the best. Now she was in a contest with his grandson. If she worked this right, things could get very interesting—and lucrative.
Money had always been in short supply for Lillian. She’d worked two jobs all through high school and the day she graduated, she moved as far away from home as she could get on her minus
cule savings. She found a job waiting tables and audited accounting classes at the local community college at night. When Mr. Howell hired her, she’d known she was on her way to better things. Once she’d had a look at the richer side of life, like Scarlett O’Hara, she vowed to never be poor again.
She’d sacrificed a portion of her self-respect working for Mr. Howell. He was as bad tempered a person as she'd ever come across besides her daddy, but unlike her daddy, he paid well, and he didn’t use his fists.
It wouldn't be a sacrifice working with Adam. That blond hair, those amazing dark blue eyes and his kind personality, guaranteed good times. She hadn’t decided whether to dedicate her life to making him happy or to helping him fail and taking all the money for herself. That decision depended on how well he played the game.
-#-
It was two in the afternoon when Rose woke up, glad to finally be back on her regular schedule. Wandering down the hall to the kitchen, she was greeted by the sight of a great looking guy sitting at her table, messy piles of papers fanned out front of him. Not a normal happening in her life to date, but she could get used to the view.
“How long have you been up?” She leaned against the doorjamb, her arms folded across her chest, trying to control the hitch in her breathing brought on by the sight of Adam.
“Lillian sent these over at eleven-thirty this morning, and I've been working my way through them ever since.”
“So you haven't had more than a few hours of sleep in the last twenty-four, right?” she asked.
“I’m fine. I don’t need much sleep.” He shuffled through the papers. “Now where is that contract?”
“Doesn’t need sleep and a mind like a steel trap, a true renaissance man.” She snorted then held out her hand. “Let me see some of those.”
He didn't meet her eyes as he handed her a stack of papers.
Whatever she’d said still had him angry. She stared at his stiff posture. “Listen Adam, I'm so sorry. What do you want me to do? Beg? Cause I can do that. What I can't do is watch every word I say. I stick my foot in my mouth at least once a day. That's why I work at night, alone, talking to kooks.”
He still didn't look up.
She wandered across the kitchen, leaned back, bracing her butt against the counter, her fingers gripping the edge. “I'm not a politician. I'm a physicist. We're used to working with protons, not people.”
She babbled on, hoping to make him smile, but when she glanced up, he was staring at her, his brows knitted in confusion.
“What? What did I say now?”
“You're a physicist?”
“Well, kind of. Almost. Never mind about that,” she said, waving her hand as if to disperse the words into the air. Moving to the refrigerator, she pointed at the two pictures taped to the front. “Which one of these do you like? I’ve always thought I wanted a vintage fifties kitchen. I love the turquoise round top fridges and the black and white checked floors.”
“What’s that got to do with you being a physicist?” Adam asked.
“But then I saw this one with log beams, juniper cabinets and soap stone counter tops.” If she ignored the questions he was asking, he’d stop—maybe.
“And why are you working at a radio station in the middle of the night?” he asked.
Or maybe not, tenacious little bugger. Now that she'd opened up the Pandora’s box that was her life, she didn't know how to slam the lid shut again.
No one in Colorado knew anything about her studies or about her life before she came here. No one knew about her dad’s suicide. She’d kept pretty much to herself. No way was she going to risk the ridicule and anger again. She'd gotten used to being alone, and it wasn't so bad.
“I went to college for a while, and then I stopped. No big deal.”
-#-
Adam waited, but the words that had been flowing so freely from her mouth had dried up.
“So we both have secrets. Works for me.” He went back to studying the papers in front of him.
By five that evening they’d skimmed through all of the papers at least once, mostly in silence.
Rose pushed away from the table, clasping her hands over her head, rocking slowly from side to side in a full body stretch. Her eyes were closed, and she had a slight smile on her face.
Adam was studying a sheaf of papers when the movement caught his attention. The sight of her slim, lithe body crept through him like a shaken martini.
Rose collapsed into the chair then tapped her fingernail on one of the papers. “If this information is correct, it looks like the garage and the radio station are your best bets. Talk about overkill on employees. The garage actually has three mechanics, and they’re paying someone to pump gas. Who does that anymore?”
“Huh?” He was still absorbed in the stretch, in the strip of creamy skin she’d exposed between her tank top and the waistband of her jeans.
She tapped a fingernail on the paper in front of her again. “Focus, cowboy.”
Adam moved to stand behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. At each point where his hands met her skin, prickles of awareness crawled up his arms. Snatching them back like he’d been burned, he moved to stand a couple of steps away.
Rose looked at him then slowly reached up to put one hand on her shoulder where his had been. With a slight shake of her head, she looked away.
His brain was filled with the scent and feel of Rose. With difficulty, he forced his mind back to the subject at hand. Picking up the top sheet, he studied the page. She was right. “We need more advertisers at KTLY and different programming. I wish I knew people here. If we got local on-air personalities to man the dayshift, they might work for next to nothing--or maybe nothing but advertising. Maybe Lillian knows someone. I'll ask her.”
Rose leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Lillian?”
“She probably knows some of the business owners.” He laid the paper on the table and looked into her eyes. “Could you ask Eddie? I know he’s a jerk, but you never know.” For the first time in days a small smile curled around the corners of his mouth.
“I'll go out to the station early today and talk to him. I could take an extra show for a while.”
“No, you're doing more than enough for now. Could you put off talking to Eddie until tomorrow? I'd like you to come to the garage with me today. You know, to give me a second opinion.”
The great thing about living in a small town was they weren’t over five minutes from anywhere. Rose and Adam drove beneath a covered roof to the gas pumps, turned off the car and waited for the attendant. Just as Adam was about to leave the car to search for help, a young man ambled out.
“What can I get ya?” he asked in a slow drawl.
“Fill it up with regular, please.” The attendant wandered to the back of the car, put the nozzle in the tank, started the fuel running then disappeared. The tank filled and clicked off, but their help apparently thought his job was done.
Adam and Rose exchanged glances.
“I can’t understand why this place isn’t making any money,” Adam said, rolling his eyes in an uncharacteristic move. “The service is slow, the attendant rude and to top things off, he didn't even bother to ask if we needed our windshield washed.”
“On the other hand, this makes it easier to cut personnel,” Rose said as she unbuckled her seatbelt and climbed out.
Adam joined her as they peered through the wall of grungy windows that made up the front of the station.
“The service isn’t much, but this building looks like it was built in the mid-forties. With a little work, it could be a classic,” Adam said.
“A little work and a lot of elbow grease,” Rose said as she wiped a dirt streak off the glass with the cuff of her shirt. Dusty oilcans were stacked into a pyramid between yellowed advertisements taped to the glass.
To the side, Adam could see a two bay garage with one car and one mechanic who was actually working. He pulled the door open, held it for Rose,
and together they entered the grimy room.
Behind the counter, two men sat at a lop-sided table playing cards and drinking coffee.
The gas attendant hopped off the counter, looking from Adam to the men, worry evident in his expression. “Hey, Gene?” the attendant asked with a question in his voice.
“Not now, Tyler,” the card player on the left said. “I’m about to clean Shorty out of his next paycheck.”
Adam leaned his arms on the counter top and waited.
The boy looked at him and shrugged.
When no one seemed to notice, Adam cleared his throat.
The largest of the men glanced at them then back to his cards. “Just a minute, mister,” he said then raised the pot by two toothpicks.
“Who’s in charge here?” Adam asked.
“Gene, they got–” the attendant tried again.
The tubby man in overalls waved his hand without looking up from the game. “Tyler, make yourself scarce, and mister, we’re closed. Come back tomorrow.”
Adam and Rose looked at each other in amazement. When it became apparent they weren't going to get any attention, Adam slammed his hand on the countertop. All three men jumped then Gene scowled.
“Hey, I said we’re closed. You want your car fixed, give Tyler here your name and number, and leave the keys in it. Red will call you when it's done.”
“You’re not open?”
“Has that cowboy hat cut off the oxygen to your brain? Not open and closed is damn near the same thing around here,” Gene said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Sorry, the door was open and the open sign was in the window so I figured you were open. Stupid me,” Adam said as he strode around the counter. “I'm going to ask one more time. Who is in charge?”
“Hey, customers stay on the other side of that counter,” Gene said rising from the metal folding chair. “This area is for employees only.” He puffed out his chest and took a step toward Adam, his meaty hands fisted by his side.
“Gene, I think he wants to pay.”
Radio Rose (Change of Heart Cowboys Book 1) Page 9