Small Town Girl

by Rice, Patricia

  He really needed to sit down and examine his head after that insight.

  He flipped on the overhead light switch and studied the effects of the new paint and paneling. The half-century-old chrome dinette tables and pink vinyl chairs looked exotic against the turquoise and pewter. Even the tin cans looked as if they belonged. He probably needed recessed lights, but the sun would provide extra illumination if he took down the curtains. Jo was right. They had to go. Shutters would look cool.

  “I take it the weekend was rough?” he called as he examined the still bare walls.

  “I will survive!” she sang, strolling out from the restroom with mop and bucket in hand. At sight of him, she grinned and did a disco dance step that involved a back bend with the mop and splashing water from the bucket.

  “I don’t think John Travolta used buckets,” Flint informed her, fighting the happy surge of music she inspired. He really shouldn’t encourage her dramatics. He couldn’t afford to lose more plates.

  “But I’m prettier.” She emptied the water into the sink and got out the ammonia. “The place was too busy to clean up. Sorry.”

  “Sorry? Busy sounds good. Or was it all dollar bill receipts again?” He checked the cash register. It was nicely full compared to a week day.

  Jo smelled of roses this morning. His head spun from just walking past her. That was the one drawback of having a brilliant waitress—a permanent hard-on.

  “We had a few good tables. I marked up muffin prices for the tourists.” She flashed him a wicked grin. “I want that espresso machine, so I figured I’d earn it for you.”

  Hell, for the thrill of that grin, he’d buy the machine, if he could only afford it. “Do you think your sister can bake muffins more often?” He counted the cash, with the back of his brain buzzing with contradictory thoughts.

  With her amazing talent, Jo belonged in Nashville. He could help her escape this hole into the big world. His insides cramped at the thought, which proved it was a good idea. She needed to be out of his life before their physical attraction burned through all his good intentions. But where in hell would his business be without her?

  “Or should I reimburse her more to encourage her?” he continued, trying not to think too hard without caffeine.

  “You’re asking me? She’s my sister. I’ll tell you to pay her more.”

  “But you want an espresso machine,” he reminded her.

  “There is that.” She pulled off her rubber gloves and studied him.

  Flint pretended he didn’t notice. She really wasn’t beautiful in a perfect beauty-queen sort of way. Her eyes were too far apart, her nose took a wrong turn at the end, and her mouth spread across half her face when she smiled. But her cheerful disposition radiated beauty, and her figure could launch a thousand ships.

  Even though she wore her rumpled hair in two ponytails this morning—one over top of the other—she still looked as if she’d just climbed out of bed. A curl beside her ear swayed tauntingly when she leaned against the sink. Unless he found a way of sending her to Nashville, he really was going to have to look for a new apron for her. He was trying not to imagine what she was wearing—or not wearing—beneath that bulky bib. He saw only bare brown throat, turquoise earrings, and collarbones.

  “I’ll talk to Amy,” she was saying intelligently while he salivated. “Maybe you can get a good discount on flour and sugar if you buy by quantity, so she can make a better profit. But the kids keep her pretty busy, and muffins won’t buy appliances.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Flint gave up counting money and leaned against the counter, wondering if he’d get her out of his system if he kissed her. “I’m thinking of buying an oven on credit and opening for dinner to pay for it. But I need to find more help if I do.”

  As he’d hoped, Jo’s expressive face lit as if illuminated by fireworks. Her lush lips sprawled, revealing a slightly crooked tooth in otherwise pearly-white perfection. He was so focused on kissing those rose lips that he hardly heard her words.

  “You are pure genius! I know a cook I can steal from Mack’s Steakhouse, and teenagers can work evenings. Just weekends to start?”

  Flint reluctantly shook off his fantasy of Jo’s tongue down his throat. Or in his ear. Or anywhere else on him. Apparently he hadn’t outgrown his adolescent fixation on wild women. “Yeah. I can’t imagine too many locals stopping by during the week for dinner.”

  “But during the festival—maybe by August we could stay open every night? There are tourists up here all week when the festival is open.” She watched him eagerly with those big green eyes that made a man feel as if he were seven feet tall.

  “The festival?” he asked, stupidly, apparently still under her spell.

  “The MusicFest,” she explained with an excited gesture that nearly knocked a sugar bowl flying. “We have local and out of town musicians playing every day and in the evenings on the weekend. It’s like a big carnival. We hold it at the school because they have parking. We hire a huge tent, but if the weather turns ugly, we can usually squeeze into the cafeteria. It’s not as big as the ones in Asheville or anything. We don’t have enough room and we can’t afford big names. But if we can get enough regional groups, we can draw their fans from as far away as Charlotte and Knoxville.”

  She’d mentioned the festival before. Flint didn’t think he’d comprehended that it was a music festival. He supposed if it was just local groups, it wouldn’t be a problem. He could stay here, sell coffee to the tourists, and resist temptation. His hand ached like hell after the beating it had taken scrambling around on rocks this weekend. He didn’t need any more reminders of why he’d given up music.

  Before he could formulate any reply, Jo bulldozed right on.

  “If we could get a real name group,” she said with such excitement that she was practically dancing, “we could pack the house. The extra crowd would pay for your oven, and the town might start making money so we could have an even bigger event next year.”

  Alarm flickered through him. Flint wanted to hold his hand up and stop her before she went any further, but he was frozen to the floor.

  “You could help us,” she crowed, just as he’d feared.

  “Uh uh. I’m not doing the music scene anymore. Go find another sucker for this scheme.” With an arrow straight through his heart, he stalked away.

  Now he remembered why he didn’t want wild women—they were never satisfied.

  Twelve

  Stunned by Flint’s abrupt refusal when she’d thought they were finally understanding each other, Jo didn’t immediately charge after him and demand explanations. Maybe she should have waited until he’d had his coffee before hitting him up with new ideas.

  The morning rush started after that, and by then, it was too late to divert whatever was eating at him. Flint didn’t emerge from his office.

  What was this deal with pretending he was a decent human being one minute and then acting like she’d shot him in the pants the next?

  As the morning wore on and she fielded inquiries in his absence about Flint’s parents and his kids and his plans for the café, Jo built up a slow head of steam.

  “Do you think Flint’s boys will start school here come fall?” Sally asked over her morning cup of decaf.

  “I don’t know,” Jo answered curtly. “Why don’t you go ask him?”

  “I only asked because Mrs. Clinton was so nice in church yesterday,” Sally said, looking a little hurt at Jo’s tone. “I thought maybe I could help them out some.”

  “Well, you just go back there and tell Mr. High-and-Mighty Clinton that. I’m sure he’ll be properly appreciative.”

  By the end of morning rush, she’d heard all about how Flint had sat with Sally in church and his parents had invited her over for Sunday brunch. Well, that was just fine. Sally had a good job at the school. If Sally married, she could support a family if her husband’s job went belly-up because there was no damned business in this damned town because certain people wouldn’t get off th
eir royal asses to—

  The front door slammed open in a flash of sunlight. “Hey, Jo!” Slim entered with a thump of boot heels across the wooden floor. He wore a dinged-up cowboy hat over his lank brown hair, even though he was an electrician who had never sat on a horse. “I heard the committee’s talking about getting Randy down here as a headliner at the festival!”

  “Well, then you better get the hanging tree ready because after I deball him, I’m carving him up for Halloween.” That was all she needed. RJ Ratfink Plagiarist back here because a certain no-account guitar picker couldn’t get off his duff to help. She threw a bagel into the toaster and turned around to see everyone staring at her.

  “What? Didn’t you ever want to cut a fathead down to size?” She adjusted her original dickhead down so as not to burn Sally’s ears any more this morning.

  “Don’t be such a girl,” Slim said in disgust. “Randy knows people in Nashville. He could bring us lots of publicity. Just because the two of you had a little spat—”

  “There’s nothing little about this spat. If you don’t mind getting screwed by the pissant, then you go ahead and say howdy if he shows up.” Jo pulled the butcher knife out of a drawer and rummaged for the sharpening file. “But I’d advise you to keep him out of my line of sight.”

  It had occurred to her late one night that if she’d had her fair share of Randy’s advance, her mama wouldn’t be cutting back on medicine and worrying about insurance. She didn’t want to carve his ass as much as she’d like to carve out his bank account.

  “Hey, Jo, you could write a song about him,” Hoss called from his seat at the counter. “Call it ‘You’re So Lame.’”

  Laughter erupted at this attempt to defuse her fury, and several of the wits attempted to top Hoss’s title with their own versions.

  She ought to tell the whole town what Randy—RJ—Peters had done to her, but Elise had said to lie low until they had a case. Elise wanted to gather evidence before the record company got wind of it. Jo preferred openness, but if keeping quiet meant she had a chance of getting paid, she’d chew her tongue.

  “All right, you clowns. You’re all so funny, we ought to have us a song-writing competition,” she yelled into a lull in the hullabaloo. “The best song calling Randy an asshole gets to play on stage at the MusicFest.”

  They voted down calling Randy names—that would be rude to an invited guest. But the idea of a song-writing contest took wing. Before Jo knew it, her temper had settled, and she was in the midst of the discussion.

  Apparently coming out of his little snit—or snagged by curiosity at their laughter—Flint strolled out of his office looking like six feet of bad and dangerous in his tight jeans and navy, tailored shirt. The back of his dark hair brushed his collar, and he hadn’t shaved this morning. If he’d smile, Jo figured she would suffer a meltdown, but she could be in-your-face with the best of him if he snarled.

  “Hey, Flint, I heard tell you’re a songwriter. You want to judge in our songwriting contest?” Slim yelled, apparently still high on the idea of Nashville record producers showing up at their crummy little music show.

  Jo crossed her arms noncommittally when Flint turned to her for explanation.

  “You got a contest for who can write the worst song?” he asked, pouring the dregs of the coffee pot into a mug and taking a swig.

  “That would about sum it up,” George Bob said. “These clowns couldn’t write a song if their lives depended on it. Jo would win, hands down.”

  “Why, I do thank you, Georgie,” Jo purred. “It’s nice to get a little appreciation around here occasionally.”

  “Uh oh, men, I know that tone.” Hoss stood up and laid his money on the counter. “Better clear out before hell opens its gates.”

  “That’s cause you’re pussywhipped, Hoss,” Dave told him.

  But Jo noticed Dave got up and laid his money out as well. “Have a nice day, boys,” she called sweetly.

  Flint just stood there, arms folded, sipping his coffee, watching his customers scatter.

  “You think about that contest, man,” Slim called, pulling his long hair from his face with a rubber band and heading out. “Maybe get Jo some competition up here.”

  “Your boys were so sweet, Mr. Clinton,” Sally said shyly, coming to the counter to pay her bill. “I hope to see them in church next Sunday.”

  “So do I,” Flint said without inflection, letting Jo handle the register.

  Jo wanted to elbow him. How was she supposed to concentrate with all that masculine muscle blocking the narrow aisle? Maybe if she took a bite out of him…

  “Heard you used to play a little,” Herb from the antique store said, handing over his money as Sally slipped out. “Any chance we’ll hear you at the MusicFest?”

  “Not a chance,” Flint replied.

  Jo noticed his knuckles whiten on the handle of the mug as he said it. Sometimes, she needed a baseball bat taken to her head to wake her up.

  She waited until the last customer trailed out, and she had the dishwasher operating, before turning back to him. Flint had finished his coffee and was measuring the front window, finally removing his sexy carcass from underfoot.

  “Shutters,” she said. “Gray ones.”

  “Not hot pink?” He snapped his measuring tape back in its case, then moved on to the bare wall to examine it.

  “Baby pink, to go with the tables, but I figured you’d veto that. Rose, to go with the plates, maybe, but that’s kind of girly.”

  Jo waited until Flint turned his steely eyes her way before hitting him up with her theory. “You’ve got one major chip on your shoulder, Mr. Flint. Want to talk about it or let me guess?”

  “Guess, by all means.” He returned to measuring the turquoise wall.

  “You won’t help with the festival or the contest. You won’t play for an audience. You act like a surly bear anytime anyone mentions music. Gee, you’d think you’d given up the one thing you love most because your hand hurts.”

  “You know, you’re free to look for a job elsewhere anytime,” he suggested, sticking the tape case in his back pocket and stalking toward her.

  “You’re damned right I am.” She started counting out the bank deposit.

  She tried not to look at him, tried not to see the pain behind his tough attitude, but she came from a family of pain. She knew hurt way down deep inside her, and it resonated with the anger and hurt in him. “Look, I’m sorry if I’m buttin’ in where I don’t belong—”

  “Then don’t,” he snapped from closer than she’d realized.

  She glanced up in time to note the hot flare in his eyes and to catch her breath before his mouth came down on hers. Hard.

  His kiss was every bit as hot as she remembered. And there wasn’t anything wrong with his hands when they clasped her bare waist and dragged her up against his hard body. She nearly swallowed her tongue and his in surprise, but she got into his face-sucking real fast. She grabbed his shirt and yanked until the kiss turned into a nuclear meltdown.

  That’s when he dropped her like a hot potato and stepped away. “Don’t interfere, Joella,” he warned. “I’m walking on the edge already. Give me the deposit. I’ll head on down to the supply store.”

  Flint stoically endured Jo’s hundred-watt glare. He deserved her anger, but he hadn’t been able to resist shutting her mouth the way he’d been wanting to since the first time. Blond tendrils curled around her face from the steam of the dishwasher. She seemed so very young without her face paint. And off-limits. He really had to get his head straight.

  He grabbed the deposit bag before he grabbed what he shouldn’t. “I’m doing as much as I can, Joella. You’ll just have to run the rest of the town without me.”

  She didn’t throw anything at his head as he left, so he hoped he stood a chance of still having a waitress by the time he got back. He wouldn’t blame her for walking.

  He was deathly afraid that Joella was the reason the café was still in operation. It sure wa
sn’t Charlie’s lackadaisical efforts. Jo was the one who added the banter and laughter and encouraged the small town discussion that led to ideas and progress.

  He’d heard everything they’d said in there this morning. Not being part of the discussion had given him new perspective. Jo ought to be mayor, if she didn’t say every damned thing that came into her wicked head. He’d kissed her for the laughter as much as to get his need for her out of his system. His lips still smoldered, so he didn’t think that idea had worked out real well.

  He snorted as he remembered her attack on RJ. Maybe he ought to be a part of the festival if only to be on the front lines when she lit into him.

  But he just couldn’t afford to let the music into his life again. Or Joella. His sons came first, over anything else. He had to push all temptation aside.

  But if he helped Jo find her place in the musical world, she’d leave him and his coffee shop to run straight to hell without her. Rock-and-hard-place time.

  ***

  “Flint bought the stove, Ames!” Jo crowed over the phone on Wednesday afternoon. “They’re delivering it Friday. It has a grill and two ovens and it’s the most gorgeous piece of equipment in the world.”

  Amy glanced at her own mirrored black oven that was currently blinking midnight. If she checked her reflection, she knew she’d see tear stains. “That’s nice, Jo,” she murmured, crumpling the stationery in her hand.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?” Jo asked through the receiver. “I thought the kids would be in for their naps. I can talk later.”

  “No, no, this is fine. I’m glad Flint is sprucing the place up. We’ll have to come in and see the new stove.” Desperately, she steered the conversation in a different direction. “How did you like that big city lawyer he hired? Is she really going to work for you or just snow you in favor of Flint?”

  “Elise DuBois,” Jo said. “She is one fine lady, I’m here to tell you. I can’t hardly believe it, but she’s been all over Slim and the gang, collecting evidence. She really thinks I might have a case. Her mama used to be a lawyer when women just didn’t do that. They’ve marched in protests together. She’s not snowing anyone.”