by Meg Benjamin
Deirdre stood in the doorway, studying her shop. Her shop. She fought down the little bubble of elation that formed in her chest. She was still a long way from being ready to open. But she’d come a long way already.
The paper overalls she’d worn to paint had made her sweat. Her hair, stuffed into an oversized painter’s cap that kept sliding down her forehead, itched. She was dirty, paint-smudged, and she probably smelled, but she didn’t give a damn. The shop—her shop—was shaping up nicely.
Chico pushed the roller across the ceiling one more time, covering the final strip of dingy gray with white primer. Deirdre figured she’d let it dry for the rest of the afternoon before she pulled the tarps off the floor. She’d paint the shelves and floor next week.
She squinted up at the shadowed ceiling. Maybe when she got a little money ahead, she’d install pressed tin. It would fit with the architecture and the room had probably had a tin ceiling once upon a time. For now, the primer would have to be enough. It was so far up nobody could see it clearly anyway.
She heard a step behind her and turned to see Tom walking up the sidewalk from the Faro. He paused in the doorway beside her, whistling. “Wow. Hard to believe a coat of paint could make that much difference.”
Deirdre licked her lips. It was the first time she’d seen him since last night. Thanks to Craig’s visit this morning, she hadn’t really thought about that kiss for the past couple of hours. Until now. Suddenly she felt as if she’d swallowed a flock of luna moths.
“It’s just primer. I’ve got a nice creamy brown picked out for the walls, sort of mocha. And then the floor and the shelves will be chocolate. Kind of a theme. You know, chocolate and coffee.” She was babbling, but it was better than standing there tongue-tied, which seemed to be her other option.
Tom reached down and pushed her cap off her forehead, freeing a lock of hair as he did. “Looks great so far.”
Deirdre wasn’t sure how he could tell, given that he was looking at her instead of the room.
“Hey man,” Chico called from the stepladder in the corner. “Put on some overalls and grab a roller. We still got half a wall to do.”
Tom grabbed a set of overalls from the back room, pulling them over his jeans and T-shirt. “Glad to oblige.”
Deirdre took another breath and told her hammering heart to calm down. She had to work with the man, and that meant trying to get back on something approaching a normal footing. She grabbed her own brush and went back to painting the strip of wall that ran along the top of the baseboards.
A couple of hours later they were more or less done. The paint smell was so strong that Deirdre retreated to the back room. She thought about opening some windows, but then decided against it. Open windows would be an invitation for someone to try a little breaking and entering. Potential burglars couldn’t get into the Faro from the shop, but they might not know that.
Chico pulled off the coveralls he was using. They didn’t snap across his chest, and they left significant parts of his arms and legs uncovered, but he didn’t seem worried about it. He tossed them in the corner. “When you want to put the paint over the primer?”
“This week sometime—after the primer dries. I might be able to get part of a wall done between the lunch and dinner shifts, or before lunch if I get up early enough.”
Chico snorted. “I’ll help you out in the afternoon. No getting up early, though.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
But he was already gone, striding out the back door toward the door to the kitchen.
Leaving her alone in the shop with Tom.
“Come on,” he said. “Let me buy you dinner. Someplace better than here.”
“Dinner?” Deirdre blinked at him. “Don’t you have to tend bar?”
“Not on Sunday. No customers to speak of. Harry covers it. He’s got Mondays off.” He tossed the coverall next to Chico’s. “Where did you get these? Did they come with the paint?”
“Sort of. Mrs. Grandview over at the hardware store let me have them for a couple of bucks. She said nobody wanted them because they tore too easily.”
Tom’s eyes drifted toward Chico’s overall which was already splitting at every visible seam. “I can see her point. Dinner?”
Deirdre glanced down at her hands. “I’m really filthy.”
Tom gave her a long, assessing look, long enough to make her toes curl. “So come next door and wash up. We can go over to the Coffee Corral. Believe me, Al Brosius won’t care how you look.”
Washing up in the kitchen of the Faro wasn’t the easiest thing she’d ever done, particularly since she had a feeling Leon was checking her for wet T-shirt cling. Fortunately for her peace of mind, she’d managed to clean her face and hands without slopping too much on the rest of her body. Deirdre had a feeling her hair looked as if it had been jammed under a cap all afternoon, but she also had a feeling that sticking her head under the kitchen faucet would not be the best way to deal with the problem. Particularly since it would probably result in just the kind of view Leon was hoping for.
Tom gave Leon a narrow-eyed glance as he came into the kitchen. “You can take off. Looks like the dishes are all done now. Go sweep the main room.”
Leon gave her one more look, maybe hoping she’d doused herself since the last time he’d looked at her five seconds before, and then headed out the kitchen door.
“Here. I raided some more of Ferguson’s stock. Figured we could both use something that didn’t smell like sweat and paint.” Tom tossed her a T-shirt then pulled his own T-shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor at his feet.
Deirdre took a deep breath and told herself to calm down. She’d seen a man’s naked chest before. Craig had displayed his every chance he got.
But somehow Craig’s chest hadn’t been so…nice. Tom’s muscles were hard and flat, not bulging like Craig’s, as if they’d been inflated shortly before he entered the room. His skin was slightly pale, but still warm, dusted with fine golden hair. He wore a silver medal on a chain around his neck that nestled in the center of his chest, catching the light.
Tom pulled on the clean T-shirt, and she almost groaned in disappointment.
Get a grip, Deirdre. She picked up the dark blue T-shirt from the prep table where he’d dropped it. On the front, two obese referees seemed involved in a fight to the death. “Fourteenth Annual Labor Day Soccer Tournament and Beer Fest,” the letters read. Deirdre sighed. She’d seen worse—in fact, she’d worn worse within the last week. “I’ll change and meet you out front.”
Tom stood where he was for a moment, then grinned. “Yes ma’am. I’ll give you some space.” He turned and walked back through the swinging door, out into the main room again.
Deirdre stared down at the T-shirt, telling herself she wasn’t disappointed in the least.
Chapter Thirteen
Tom glanced around the Coffee Corral, trying to assess the amount of business they were doing on a Sunday night. Good, but not spectacular. People who came to the Corral were usually local. It wasn’t on Main and it served neither goat cheese nor pork rinds, which put it sort of in the middle of the road for Konigsburg. The owner and cook, Al Brosius, raised an eyebrow when he saw Tom and Deirdre heading for the counter to place their orders. “Scoping out the competition, Ames?”
“Looking to get fed, Al.” Tom gave him an easy smile. Al wasn’t as much of a tight-ass as Tolly Berenger at the Silver Spur, but he still had his reasons for not wanting Tom to move into the Konigsburg restaurant trade. “Besides, the Faro and the Corral draw different crowds. Believe me, you don’t want my frat boys.”
Al shook his head. “Nah, but I’d take a few of your blue-hairs. Send me the overflow next time, okay?”
“You got it.” He turned to Deirdre. “What’ll you have?”
She was chewing on that delectable lower lip again as she studied the menu posted above the counter. Tom carefully studied the menu himself so he wouldn’t watch her. Getting a hard-on in th
e middle of the Coffee Corral was not on his agenda.
“I guess I’d like the Corral Burger with fries.” She gave Al one of those smiles of hers, simultaneously innocent and sultry. “Could I get a salad, too?”
Al grinned back at her, his dark eyes much friendlier than they’d been when he’d looked at Tom. “A beautiful woman who eats. Will wonders never cease?”
Deirdre’s cheeks turned a faint pink. “I’m really hungry. And it smells wonderful in here.” She gazed up at Al from beneath her lush dark lashes, the naughty librarian sprung to life.
Tom studied Al’s menu for all he was worth. Apparently, Deirdre’s lower lip wasn’t the only thing that sent his body into overdrive.
After he’d placed his own order for fried catfish and coleslaw, Tom guided her to a booth near the back. He didn’t think they’d run into anybody they knew at the Corral, but he had no idea where Dempsey was hanging out when he wasn’t making threats at the Faro. And he wanted some time for a personal conversation.
All afternoon he’d been trying to figure out how much to tell her, and how to phrase it. Guess what? Your billionaire daddy wants me to fire you and throw you out of the shop was accurate but wasn’t likely to earn him any points for sensitivity. Still, however he phrased it, he knew he needed to tell her something about what was going on—to at least warn her about what her father was apparently planning. Who knew what else the old man might have in mind?
Dempsey’s parting shot still echoed in his mind. You’ll wish you’d taken it. Even allowing for the fact that Dempsey was a self-dramatizing asshole, he didn’t much like the sound of that. Particularly since he figured Deirdre had a good chance of being hurt in the fallout of whatever dumbshit thing Dempsey was planning to do, probably on her father’s orders.
She nibbled on a leaf from the salad Al had handed her before they’d left the counter. “Would you like some of this? It’s really good.” A drop of oil glistened on her pouty lower lip.
Jesus, would you just forget the freakin’ lower lip?
“That’s okay. Have at it.” Tom stared down at his iced tea. “I met a friend of yours this afternoon.”
Deirdre half-raised her gaze to his as she bit down on a tomato. “Who was that?”
“Said his name was Craig Dempsey.”
Her forehead furrowed in what looked like real confusion. “Craig? Why would Craig come to see you?”
“So he is a friend?” Tom hated to admit it, but he’d been sort of hoping she’d stare at him blankly, and the whole thing would turn out to be a hoax.
Deirdre shrugged. “Not a friend really. More like a business associate. A former business associate, that is. What did he want?”
“It’s more what he didn’t want.” Tom sighed, looking up into those indigo eyes again. “He wanted to steal the lease for the shop out from under you, to rent the shop for himself. Or rather he wanted to do that for your father.”
“My father.” Deirdre lowered her fork slowly to her plate.
“That’s what he said.” All of a sudden, he wished he’d waited until after they’d finished dinner. He had a feeling she might not be eating much more.
“Did you…” She paused, staring down at her salad. “When he asked, did you—”
“It’s your shop. I’m not going to rent it to somebody else when you’ve put all that work into it. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
She closed her eyes, briefly, blowing out a breath. “Sorry. For a moment there, I thought you might have given him what he asked for. Believe me, he would have paid you. Probably a lot.”
“It’s not about the money.” Tom managed a faint grin. “Well, not entirely. The Faro’s doing okay, and you’re doing a good job, Deirdre. I’ll help you out if I can.”
“Thank you.”
Those indigo pools had him again. If he didn’t find something else to talk about, ASAP, he’d end up saying something not only stupid but possibly dangerous to his health, given that the Toleffsons seemed to be taking a personal interest in Deirdre’s future. “What’s your father like?”
She speared another cherry tomato, grimacing. “He’s a businessman. A very successful one. He’s used to running things. And people.”
“What about your mom?”
“My mom died when I was eleven. Cancer.”
“So your father raised you?”
“More or less.” She sighed, running her fork through a pool of dressing in the bottom of her salad bowl. “Mostly less. I spent most of my time after Mom died in boarding school. In the summer I went to camp, and sometimes I got to stay with my Aunt Reba and Uncle Billy here in Konigsburg. Docia too. I saw Daddy every month or so when he was in town. And we’d spend the holidays together.”
“Not exactly hands-on.”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t so bad. He let me know what he expected, and then he left me alone. Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“Well, I didn’t always get to make my own decisions. Like I wanted to major in art history for a while at college, and he told me flat out it was a waste of time and money, and that he wouldn’t pay for it. So I ended up majoring in business.”
Tom frowned. “Did you want to major in business?”
“Not at first.” She moved her fork back and forth in the dressing again, carving a small zigzag. “Once I got into it, I enjoyed it, though. And I was really good at it. I ended up going on for my MBA.”
“That must have pleased him.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Her mouth twisted slightly. “I guess it really did—at some level anyway. But he told me classroom learning was nothing compared to real life. And then he gave me a job.”
“So he helped you out.” He felt like he was tiptoeing through a china shop. Blindfolded.
“In a sense, yes. He didn’t really pay any attention to what I had to say, though, once I was working there. He had all these other people who’d worked for him forever, so I guess he felt like he didn’t need to. My opinion wasn’t worth much compared to theirs. And he wanted me to marry Craig.”
His gut clenched. “You were going to marry Craig?”
“I think Craig thought so. I’m pretty sure Daddy did.” Her eyes took on a faraway glint.
“What about you?”
She shook her head slowly. “Not so much.”
Tom exhaled. “And that’s why you left?”
Deirdre shook her head again, her mouth tight. “It’s complicated.”
Before he could ask her to uncomplicate it for him, Al’s wife, Carol, arrived with a tray full of food. She gave Tom a narrow-eyed look. “Clem’s cooking not good enough for you?”
“Clem’s off in the evenings. And I like Al’s catfish.” He lifted his platter of fish and fries off her tray, while she placed a huge bowl of coleslaw alongside it.
Carol smiled at Deirdre. “You’re Docia’s cousin, right? The one from Houston who’s waiting tables for this shifty-eyed character? I’m Carol Brosius. Pleased to have you here.”
Deirdre’s smile made him ready to forgive Carol for the “shifty-eyed” comment. “I’m Deirdre. It’s good to be here.”
“So are you really happy being Tom’s barmaid? Because we could use another waitress, you know.” Carol gave him a quick grin to let him know she was kidding. Sort of.
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
“Ah well, never hurts to ask.” Carol glanced around the table with a practiced eye. “Okay. I’ll bring you some more tea in a minute. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Tom stared after her, reminding himself that sending Deirdre to wait tables at the Coffee Corral wouldn’t make her any less vulnerable to her father and her erstwhile boyfriend. He speared a piece of catfish off his plate and took a quick bite.
Deirdre picked up a French fry and dragged it through some of the leftover salad dressing. “So what about your family?”
He regarded her warily. “What about them?”
“Where did you grow up? Br
others and sisters at home? Parents still living? That kind of thing.”
He bit through a hush-puppy, trying to decide how much to share. The Ames family legacy. Not the kind of thing he usually talked about. And obviously a long way from her life among the Texas billionaires. “I’m from Kansas City. The ’burbs on the Missouri side. My dad took off when I was in grade school. My mom raised us, only she worked waiting tables at Jack’s Stacks, so she wasn’t home that much. We moved around a lot—apartments mostly. I’ve got an older brother and a younger sister. I haven’t seen either of them in five or six years. In Burton’s case, largely by choice. In Minnie’s case, probably because we didn’t have much to say to each other.”
“And your mom?”
“Living in Florida last I heard. She got remarried a few years ago and moved down there.”
Deirdre’s forehead was furrowed. “She didn’t keep in touch with you?”
Tom sighed, feeling faintly defensive. Hell, it wasn’t like his life was all that unusual. Just sort of…basic. “Look Deirdre, not all families keep tabs on each other. We had a tough time growing up. My mom did the best she could, but I don’t think she was all that happy to be stuck with a three kids and no child support. She kept us clothed and fed and at school, but that was about it. The three of us grew up and got out, and so did she.”
“But it sounds sort of…bleak.”
He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “It wasn’t that bad. Taught me some important stuff.”
“Such as?”
“Such as not expecting anybody to give me anything. Learning to depend on myself. Thanks to my family, I learned to take care of myself and not look for somebody else to rescue me.”
“Still…” She looked like she’d like to say more, but after a moment she concentrated on her burger instead.
Tom’s shoulders began to relax. Talking about his family wasn’t his favorite occupation, but at least those discussions never lasted long, given that there wasn’t much to say. At least she didn’t act like she was horrified to be spending time with a Midwestern redneck. He speared another good-sized bite of catfish.