“Kind of like a baggage carousel at the airport.”
“Close enough. Will it work?”
He took another long look around the space, this time seeing the solid bones and clean traffic lines beneath all the fluff. “It should,” he said, stepping away from the scent of summer sun and back to flowers-in-the-hot-tub. “First things first. You’re going to need to spread out your speakers more, and raise them up off the ground level. Got a pen?”
“Here.” She fished one out of a pink coffee mug that sat next to the register and held it out.
Their fingers brushed when he took the pen, bringing a tingle, and her quick indrawn breath said she felt it, too. Ignoring it, Ty bent over the glass case full of froufrou and got to work.
• • •
An hour later, Ashley walked Ty to the door, not sure whether she wanted to throw her arms around him and profess her undying gratitude, or wrap her fingers around his neck and squeeze.
The wedding-singer-turned-cowboy-turned-potential-complication had proven to be darn near brilliant on top of everything else, at least when it came to set design. He thought like a concert planner, sketched like an engineer, and had turned her crazy-sounding ideas into something that might actually work. All while keeping a solid chunk of airspace between them and shutting down her attempts at being friendly.
Wasn’t like she had been creepy-stalker prying, either—at least not at first. It was just her usual new-customer stuff, some basic getting-to-know-you-isms designed to find some common ground, create a rapport. But “It must’ve been cool, being out on the road with a big band like Higgs and Hicks” had gotten a terse “Less than you’d think,” and “Is it nice being back at Mustang Ridge?” had yielded the gem, “Not bad.” Even her go-to “I’m still learning my way around Three Ridges. What’s your favorite place to grab a bite?” had been met with “Out of town.”
Clearly, he thought she deserved the attitude. She, on the other hand, wanted to shake him until his perfect teeth rattled, and hit him with a one-two of Get over yourself and It was just a couple of kisses. Sheesh! Let’s try sticking with gratitude, shall we? Thanks to him, she had a plan for the stage now, and it was a good one. Besides, it wasn’t like she wanted to be his best friend, or even his friend. She owed him one for the help, and if the payback was putting up with his crap tonight and avoiding him from here on out, she could do that.
Except that his big, masculine presence had her on edge, as did the skim of heat that kept wanting to run along her skin every time he moved and his worn jeans and plain T-shirt stretched across impressive muscles. That, plus the monosyllables, had turned it into a challenge that flipped her flirt button to ON.
She had started with “I could hook you up with some threads, you know. Just because you’re back working at Mustang Ridge doesn’t mean you have to dress straight out of the Sheplers catalog,” and when that got a grumble, she’d had a little fun with “You’d look just darling in Italian silk” and “Your coloring says autumn, but we could play with some spring colors, too. Lavender would be good.”
By the time they’d finished up, the grunts had given way to glares, but she didn’t think he was actually mad at her anymore. More like baffled, which she decided to consider an improvement.
Flipping the dead bolt, she pushed open the door. “Thanks again. And I’m serious. I don’t usually handle menswear”—try never, but he didn’t have to know that—“but I’d be willing to make an exception, seeing how you’re helping me out. Lavender silk. Think about it, okay?”
He stopped outside the three-foot perimeter he’d been maintaining between them, planting his boots on the wide boards of the wooden floor. Even at that distance, she had to tip her head up a little to look him in the eyes. He hooked a thumb in one pocket, making her think that if he’d been a sheriff with a six-shooter, he would’ve had his hand on the butt of his gun. But all he said was, “Not gonna happen. And thank Shelby. Me being here was her idea.”
Let him go. Enough is enough. She was on a roll, though, and perversely enjoying the game of wringing a response out of him. “The staging is going to be great.”
He tipped his head in acknowledgment.
“I’m surprised you didn’t design the emcee’s stand in the middle with a trapdoor and some spikes below. Maybe alligators.” She would be standing up there most of the night, after all.
“Rattlesnakes would be easier to get hold of.” One corner of his mouth kicked up. “Besides, I was going to talk to Ed about those plans privately.”
And then, darn it, he broke into a full-on grin.
The expression rearranged his face, turning the stern lines into character, the heavy judgment into a different sort of intensity. Her head spun, her insides clutched, and she was suddenly taken back eighteen months, to the moment she’d come waltzing up the aisle in a floaty, flirty bridesmaid dress—her first purchase at Another Fyne Thing, in fact—feeling like a million bucks. Then twice that when she and the guitarist had locked eyes, and he’d smiled at her like he’d been waiting for her all his life.
In other words, it was the kind of grin that could make a smart girl do really dumb things. And when you weren’t that smart to start with . . . Her palms went damp, her mouth dried out, and she did the only thing she could possibly do under the circumstances.
She stepped back and waved him out the door. “I’ll see you around.” Maybe. Probably not. She didn’t get up to Mustang Ridge much, and it didn’t sound like he was a fan of Three Ridges. And that was probably a good thing.
Settling his Stetson lower on his brow, he stepped through the door, breaching their unspoken perimeter and putting them up close and personal. His body heat touched the exposed skin of her face and throat, and his scent tingled in her nostrils, sharp and male. Then he was past her and out on the sidewalk, and she could breathe again.
She expected him to beeline for his truck. Instead, he paused and made a sour face, like he had just gotten a look at the purple Italian silk shirt she had been teasing him about. Except the expression wasn’t aimed at her this time—it was being fired at her little town, like it was the smallest, crappiest place he’d ever been stuck.
Her cute, funky, interesting little downtown. The one populated by cute, funky, interesting people who had welcomed her, befriended her, made her feel like she wasn’t an outsider anymore and like buying the shop wasn’t the Stupidest Idea Ever, because, hey, they had shops, they weren’t perfect, and they were doing okay.
The bristle was instinctive.
Let it go, she told herself. Gratitude, remember? “You should try the pizza place,” she suggested instead. “I don’t know what Gary’s secret ingredient might be, but his sauce rocks.”
He glanced back at her, expression unreadable. “I’ve been there. Been most places in town over the years, but I’m not interested in reconnecting. I’m just passing through.”
“You never know. You might decide you like it here.”
Again with the sour look up the block. “Doubtful.”
“There are some new places in town, you know. Otter’s Ice Cream is good, and the fish place.”
“Like I said, I’d rather take a ride outside of town.”
She told herself to let it go, but couldn’t. “Why?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “Afraid you’ll run into someone you’d rather not see?”
He stiffened and turned back suddenly, warning her that she had pushed him too far. Two long strides carried him back to her, had him looming. The air between them went suddenly hot, and not in a good way.
She would have backed up, but the doorway kept her in place.
“Sweetheart,” he growled, “you have no idea. Let’s keep it that way.” He glared down at her for a beat as if daring her to say something else. When she didn’t, he jammed his hat even lower on his brow and gave her a terse nod that said they had just agreed to somethi
ng, though she wasn’t sure exactly what.
Then he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving her in the doorway with her heart thudding in her chest and the sense that she had just brushed up against something far bigger and more dangerous than she had expected. Like dipping a hand in a koi pond and cutting her finger on the edge of a shark’s tooth.
Where had that come from? What had she missed just now?
Don’t care, she told herself, which was a lie. Like it or not, there were still sparks between her and Ty, still heat buzzing in her bloodstream from their encounter. It doesn’t matter, which was the truth—or it should be. Needed to be. Whatever was going on with him, it wasn’t her business, wasn’t hers to worry about. He wasn’t hers to worry about, especially when she didn’t want the others to know they had a past, however small.
Besides, she had vowed that when she got involved again—somewhere in the future, when she had everything else worked out—it wouldn’t be with another project guy. She was through with trying to fix men. She had a business to run, a fashion show to plan, and a new, better life to build. One that was hers alone.
Taking a deep breath, she retreated into the shop and double-locked the door. Then, facing the sales floor, she zeroed in on the changing area, which needed to be rearranged for the staging to fit in as planned. “Okay. Time to get back to work.”
That was what mattered, after all. Not a music-making cowboy who clearly wanted nothing to do with her.
6
The next morning, Hen rifled through Ty’s sketches, her eyes bright and interested behind a pair of smoky-blue John Lennon glasses. “Hey, cool. Are these for the fashion show?”
“That’s the theory,” Ashley said from over by the dressing rooms, where Froggy Lemp was trying on dresses for a big anniversary weekend in the city, complete with theater tickets and a fancy dinner out. To the scuffling noises going on in the curtained-off cube, where Froggy’s socks—one pink-toed, the other solid blue—were doing a little getting-into-a-dress dance, she called, “How’s it going in there?” She far preferred to talk to her customer than tell Hen about last night.
Especially when, in the light of day, she knew it had been mostly her fault. Sure, Ty was the one who had copped an attitude and got in her face with it, but she had pushed and poked and backed him into that corner when all he was doing was helping her. Not cool. So much for being a newer and better version of her same old self. She was more like a project in progress. A half-patterned dress with a couple of seams and lots of pencil marks.
“I know I picked this one out.” Froggy’s voice was beyond dubious. “It was so pretty on the hanger, but I wonder if it’s not a little too . . . I don’t know. Green?”
It’s not easy being green . . . “Come on out and let’s have a look in the mirror. Even if it’s not the one, we can take a look at what doesn’t work on you, and why.” Not that Ashley would have picked the calf-length sequined mermaid for the short, perky, fortysomething rancher’s wife, but she had learned that it wasn’t always about what she thought looked right. More often than not, if a customer felt beautiful in an outfit, she became beautiful in it.
As Froggy swept aside the curtain and stepped out, though, she was looking more worried than beautiful. And very green.
The Alyce Designs dress, with its ruffles on the straps and sequins encrusting the entire fitted body, had probably been a knockout at a prom back in the nineties, on some curvy teen built like an old pinup. Apple-shaped Froggy, though, looked more like a bright green disco ball, especially when she stepped into the mirrored alcove and they saw the effect from three sides.
She heaved a sigh. “I don’t just look like a drag queen. I look like I’m making fun of a drag queen.”
“It’s not the right shape for you,” Ashley said bracingly. “You’re leaner through the hips than the dress, and that’s giving you the illusion of some junk that you most definitely don’t carry in your trunk. And the straps are too long. If we shortened things up here”—she pinched one strap, lifting the built-in bra an inch or so—”and took in a handful of material down here”—with her other hand, she eliminated the trunk-junk—“things would look a whole lot different.”
Relief eased Froggy’s reflected image. “Oh! You’re right. Now I look more like a mermaid than a blinged-out watermelon.”
“But it’s still not the right dress for you,” Ashley said before she could be asked to confirm or deny either resemblance. Letting go of her insta-alterations, she nudged the other woman back toward the dressing room. “Do me a favor? Try the blue Dolce next. I’ve got a feeling about that one.”
While Froggy’s mismatched socks did the getting-out-of-a-dress dance behind the curtain, Ashley made a circuit of the store, nudging jeans into a neater stack, tweaking a couple of sleeves, and winding up at the register, where her assistant was still studying Ty’s sketches.
“Very nice.” Hen tapped a diagram of the central display. “What are you thinking of for here?”
Not letting herself remember Ty’s grin when he threatened rattlesnakes, Ashley said, “Some high-end pieces. Chanel, maybe, and a few of Della’s designs.” Not just because Della had founded Another Fyne Thing, but because her original designs rocked, and being her sole distributor had bumped the store’s online and in-person sales. “Plus shoes and accessories. I want to make the central pieces feel exclusive, like a buyer would be darn lucky to wear one.”
“Which she would, of course!” Hen traced the outline of the emcee stand, sans trapdoor. “Did Ed do the design work?”
It was a reasonable guess—Krista’s father had been quick to volunteer his help. Then again, so had pretty much everybody in the extended family, from Krista making plans to bring her female guests to the fashion show, to Jenny’s offering to do photos and videos.
From Wyatt, though . . . crickets.
Ashley shook her head. “Ed is going to help me build everything up to code, but these drawings came from another of their employees, who got press-ganged into helping.” She hesitated, told herself not to ask, then asked anyway. “Maybe you know him? Tyler Reed?”
Hen’s eyes brightened behind the John Lennons. “Of course I know Ty! He was here?”
“Ta-da!” Froggy whisked the curtain aside and made a grand entrance, looking like a million bucks in the blue tea-length dress. “What do you think?”
The interruption was probably a good thing.
“Now that’s more like it.” Ashley nodded her approval, making herself focus on their customer. Which wasn’t a hardship, as Froggy had suddenly transformed.
The dress was mid-eighties, but instead of the decade’s trademark shiny rayon, along with shoulder pads that would do a football player proud and puffed-up sleeves that needed big hair to balance them off, the fabric had a faint iridescent sheen and the cap sleeves were simple and unadorned. Better yet, the bodice had enough structure to give Froggy’s ample bosom a little lift and then nip in at her waist, and after hugging her shapely—and decidedly junk-free—derriere, the skirt flared away to brush just below her knees.
“I feel pretty.” Froggy did another skirt-flaring twirl. She let her head fall back and laughed as her dark, curly hair bobbed around her face, making her look every bit her age, but also youthful and energetic, and as if she wanted to grab onto life with both hands and take it dancing.
“You’re beautiful,” Ashley said. “Martin isn’t going to be able to take his eyes off you.” She grinned over at Hen, loving this moment.
After shooting her a double thumbs-up, Hen bustled down from the register, adding, “One of the nice things is that with this color blue, you can tweak the accessories to pull it from season to season. For summer, I’d go with an open-toed shoe in a jewel tone. Ruby, maybe, or green.” She headed for the shoe wall. “You’re, what, a seven? Seven and a half?”
Thirty minutes and almost five hundred dollars
later, once they tallied up the dress, shoes, clutch, wrap, and two scoop-neck shirts that had found their way into the pile, Ashley helped a delighted Froggy load the bags into her car.
“You’re the best!” The other woman turned back to give her a quick hug. “I’m so glad you took over the store when Della left. And I can’t wait for next Friday!” She patted her purse, where she had tucked her ticket. “Front row, here I come!”
Ashley waved as Froggy reversed out of her parking spot; then she turned back to the store, where Hen stood in the doorway. “Well. That was a good sale!” Not just because it had put money in the till, but because Froggy would spread the word—and when it came to a town like Three Ridges, buzz trumped advertising. “I need to get busy on those tickets.” She had hand-printed a version for Froggy, who had loved having hers custom-made with a #1 in the upper right corner, but if the word was going out, she needed to be prepared for a rush.
Fingers crossed.
“I’ll do the tickets if you tell me about Ty. I’d heard he was back at Mustang Ridge, but I didn’t figure on seeing him in town.” Hen wrinkled her nose. “Bad memories, you know.”
Ashley stilled. Oh, really? She told herself not to ask—not my business, staying out of it, don’t even like him that much. “What kind of memories?”
“Oh, right, you weren’t around for the drama, were you? He was engaged to a girl in town—a baker over at Betty’s. They were head over heels, the cutest couple you ever saw. It was a whirlwind romance, the two of them always holding hands and sitting on the same side of the booth. Something happened, though, and the next thing we knew, the wedding was off and Brandi was gone.” Hen snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”
Coming Home to Mustang Ridge Page 6