Eventually. Maybe. Hopefully. Sigh.
“So what do you think?” Refocusing, Ashley gestured to the empty spot on the sales floor. “Do you miss the eighties?” Most of the acid-washed jeans and fluorescent sweaters had gone into storage, while the nicer pieces were temporarily racked in the break room.
“It’s like having our very own dance floor!” Humming something dreamy, Hen swept into the open space, opened her arms, and did a Sound of Music twirl. “Quick, we need music. And a disco ball!”
“Music I can do.” Ashley headed for the tuner they kept in the corner, cranking the volume just in time to hear Big & Rich implore her to save a horse by riding a cowboy. Raising her voice to carry over the music, she added, “We’ll have to see about the disco ball, though.”
Hen did a whole-body shimmy that looked like a holdover from her latest belly dancing class, and beamed. “Didn’t there used to be one in the bowling alley?”
“I’ll look into it.” Or at least put it on a list. “We also need to—” She broke off as the front door opened and the happy little bell jangled. “Welcome to— Gilly! Hi! I guess you got my message.”
The teen was still wearing the camouflage coat, but she had on the boots she’d bought the other day, along with a touch of lipstick that was way too orange for her complexion. She started to answer, shot a quick look at Hen, and dropped her eyes to her toes. “Um, yeah. So I guess you really meant to call me? That wasn’t, like, a mistake?”
“No way,” Ashley said firmly. “I’ve invited some of my favorite customers to model.” Including Froggy and Rose Skye. She wanted a range of shapes, sizes, and local faces. And given that several members of the Drama Club—including Gilly’s crush, Sean—had agreed to work at the event, she didn’t plan on letting the girl say no. “Will you do it?”
“Yes. I mean, I guess.” Gilly’s pause was both dubious and wistful. “Would I have to wear heels? I’m pretty bad at heels.”
“You don’t have to wear anything that makes you uncomfortable. Scout’s honor.” Ashley gestured to the try-on area. “Come on down. I set aside a couple of things to get us started.”
The teen made it down the three short steps to the sunken sitting area, but then stalled, eyeballing the garments currently occupying the COOL STUFF I’M GOING TO TRY ON peg as if afraid the purple Grecian gown might suddenly animate and try to strangle her.
“Trust me.” Ashley draped an arm across the hunched-in shoulders. “We’ll find something you love and can’t wait to show off.” She gave the camo collar a tug. “We’re going to have to talk about the jacket, though.”
Instead of the No way in hell look she had gotten last week, now she got a resigned nod. “I figured.” The girl stuck her hands in her pockets, though, pulling the garment tighter around her body. Tipping down her chin so her whacked-off hair obscured her face, she mumbled, “My brother left it at our old house the last time he visited. Right before he deployed.” A pause. “A couple of weeks later, the truck he was in ran over an IED. He was thrown clear, but he went back for his friends. He got two of them out before . . . well, you know.”
Ashley’s heart sank, though she had suspected something along those lines. She didn’t know, not really. Always before, she’d had a few degrees of separation from things like war and violence. Which made her lucky, she supposed. “I’m so sorry.” It sounded so inadequate, and no doubt the teen had heard it a thousand times before, but what else could she say?
“It sucks. Mom didn’t want to stay in the house anymore, so . . . well, anyway.” She moved away a couple of feet, hesitated, and then shrugged out of the jacket. Beneath the heavy layer, she was boy-straight through the waist, with thick arms, rounded shoulders, and a long, elegant neck that wore a ball-bearing chain holding a single dog tag. Draping the camo over her arm, she placed her free hand protectively below the lettering that spelled out J. DOLANS. “I like to pretend that Bubba’s here with me, like I can talk to him about everything that’s going on. Which is stupid, because it’s just a jacket.”
Though her throat had gone tight and scratchy with emotion, Ashley managed, “It’s more than that.” Far more. “We can work it into the show if you like.”
“Some days I want to leave it in my room,” Gilly said, like she hadn’t heard. “But then it’s like I’d be leaving him in there, alone and bored. And Bub hated being bored. So I pretend he’s looking over my shoulder and cracking jokes about the crap they serve for lunch, or how the trig teacher, Mrs. Merchison, needs to even up her bra straps.” Her shoulders moved restlessly. “Which is stupid, I know, because he’s not really there. He’s dead, and he’s not coming back.” She blinked away tears. When Ashley started forward, the teen held up a hand. “Don’t. Please. Just give me a second.”
Sweetheart, you can have whatever you need. Blinking back tears of her own, Ashley stared at the COOL THINGS hook, wondering if the Grecian dress would be too much of a one-eighty.
She had been thinking it would be fun to go over the top with the makeover, but now she wondered if that would make Gilly feel like her usual style was wrong. Clearing her throat, she said, “What if we stick with the military theme, but turn up the volume? There are some great jackets on the steampunk rack, and we could play around with some pants and high boots—that sort of thing.”
There was a pause, then a rustle, followed by the sound of boots on the hardwood, and Gilly came up beside her to gaze at the purple dress. “Would it be okay if I tried both? I think . . . Maybe it’d be okay if I wore something different, just for one night. My mom might like it.” The last part came out wistful, like the girl didn’t have a clue where she fit into the new world order.
Flashing back on those too-quiet years between when Wyatt left to rodeo full-time and send his winnings home, and when their mom had finally agreed to marry Jack, Ashley could relate. Maybe not all the way, but some. She gave the teen a gentle elbow bump. “You got it. In fact, I think that sounds perfect. The way I see it, you never get too old to play dress-up. You just get to a point where you need an excuse.” And maybe Gilly needed more of an excuse than most. “You ready to give this a try?”
“I guess . . . yes.” The rounded shoulders squared up a little. “Yes, I am.”
“Do you want to leave Bub’s jacket out here with me? Maybe over this chair?” Ashley patted a spindle-back. “There’s plenty for him to see, and you can practice coming out of the dressing room and giving a little twirl for your audience.”
Gilly’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m not making fun of you, I swear. I talk to my car all the time.” Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best example. Digging deeper, Ashley added, “Look, I’ve never lost anyone close to me, but I imagine it helps to feel like you can still talk to Bub, and that he’s answering the way he would have.” Who knew? Maybe it was a good way for the teen to hash out stuff with her subconscious. “As for the coat, we’ve all got our symbols and good-luck charms. Yours just happens to be a big-ass jacket that doesn’t for a second work with purple chiffon.”
The silence that followed probably wasn’t as endless as it felt. Until, gradually, Gilly’s lips curved and she dipped her head in a shallow nod. “Okay, thanks. Sorry. I get . . . you know. Twitchy.”
About how other people saw her, what they said about her. Yeah. Ashley knew how that went. “I don’t blame you.” But she held out a hand. “Pass it over and let’s get this show on the road.”
Slowly, and with a lingering brush of her fingers, the teen handed her the heavy jacket. Then she stepped back. “Okay. Where do you want me to start?”
Trust. Ashley felt it in the weight of the lined jacket, which was warm from stored-up body heat, and in the rare soft moment inside her brain, where it was suddenly quiet enough for her to hear a little whisper of Don’t screw this up. Gilly wasn’t her responsibility, and her problems were way out of Ashley’s wheelhouse. But she was new to
town, and Ashley knew what it felt like to live alone even though the house wasn’t empty.
Besides, she was a customer. And every customer deserved the fantasy.
“With the purple,” Ashley decided, seeing Gilly’s eyes linger on it. “Let’s see how it looks, and we’ll take it from there.”
She got a shy smile, followed by a fleeting moment of eye contact that made her feel like she’d just rung up a thousand-dollar sale. As Gilly disappeared into the changing cube, Hen shot Ashley a double thumbs-up from the other side of the room and mouthed, You rock!
Giving in to the temptation, Ashley did a little spin of her own in the cleared-out space at the center of the sales floor. She didn’t know if she was going to be able to make the second payment, or even pull off the fashion show. But right this instant, it felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be, doing what she was meant to do.
10
Monday night, Ty drove around the back of Ashley’s shop to the loading dock again, not wanting to stop on the sidewalk and do the Hey, what’s up? thing with the guy from the feed store or cross paths with one of the women Brandi had worked with at the bakery.
His ex was long gone, having cleaned out their shared apartment of everything but some large furniture and a few odds and ends in a way that hadn’t made a lick of sense. Who the hell left the sofa but stripped the covers off all the cushions? She had probably meant it to be symbolic, but he’d be damned if he got what she was going for. And seeing how she and her we’re-just-friends-now-I-swear ex had probably bounced on those cushions while Ty was working, he didn’t much miss the covers, or the couch. Good riddance, and all that.
Still, Three Ridges had its ghosts for him. He and Brandi had eaten at the pizza place on the corner most Fridays, hunkering together over a large sausage-and-pepper while they talked about their future without ever really nailing down the details, except when it came to the wedding. They had bought furniture at Kitty’s Kountry Kitsch and registered for a whole bunch of stuff that didn’t make any sense to him but had put a shine in his fiancée’s eyes. And he had done his time at the bakery, waiting for her to finish up for the night.
All in the days before things started going sour, of course. But still, the good times—and the life he had imagined—had carved echoes.
Fortunately, he and Brandi hadn’t ever been to Another Fyne Thing. He never would’ve thought he’d be grateful that Brandi had preferred her designer labels crisp and new, but he was glad not to have memories poking at him as he climbed out of his truck.
He was already questioning the impulse that had brought him back into town. Didn’t need any added complications.
The loading bay was closed, but the man-size door next to it was cracked open, and when he swung it further, music spilled out. Stepping through, he saw that the big space, which had been empty a few days ago, was jam-packed now. The newly built staging bumped shoulders with a worktable, and the walls were lined with leaned-up plywood cutouts of giant butterflies.
Ashley stood with her back to him and her hips bumping to the beat as she painted a slash of blue on a six-foot wingspan. She was wearing jeans and a faded pink sweatshirt with the hem and cuffs hacked off, and had her hair pulled back in a ponytail and flip-flops on her feet.
“If the seats sell out by next Fridee,” she sang, keeping to the tempo and missing most of the notes, “then this store and I are really meant to be!” She added a bump and grind that notched his body heat up a few degrees and tempted him to move in close.
Instead, reminding himself that he was there to help, not do anything stupid, he tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, Picasso. Looking good.”
• • •
“Aieeee!” Ashley dropped her paintbrush and spun around, yanking up her hands into fists to defend herself against the big . . . Oh, heck. She whooshed out a breath, adrenaline kicking into her system at the sight of amused eyes the color of dark molasses. “Ty! Ohmigod, you scared me. I wasn’t—”
“Expecting me. Yeah. I know. I’m hoping this will make up for it.” He held up a paint roller, complete with a fresh, fluffy green cover. “Ed mentioned you could use some help painting the stage.”
As she got a better look at him, her pulse bumped, and not because he had startled her. He was wearing battered jeans worn nearly through at the stress points, along with a dark green T-shirt that had seen better days. He smelled shower-fresh, though, and there were comb marks in his wavy hair.
He looked like a man who was ready to put in a few hours, and she was a woman who could use that kind of a man. She could appreciate him, she reminded herself through the thud of her pulse, even like having him around, without going over to the dark side of her DNA.
Stay casual. Keep it cool. Teasing, she said, “What, did Gran threaten to cut off your cookie supply if you didn’t put in a couple of hours? Remind me to thank her.”
“It was my idea this time.” His lopsided grin deepened, reaching his eyes. “Guess that means I’m part of the team. Do I get a T-shirt?”
“See anything you like on the sale rack? Some sequins, maybe, or a crop top? Sorry—the lavender silk hasn’t come in yet.” His chuckle did quivery things to her insides, but she told herself not to go there. Just give the man a gallon of paint and point him to the stage. Remember that whole deal about learning from your mistakes? “Seriously, though, thank you for coming all the way back out here. A million times thank you. I want to get at least the first coat done on the staging tonight, and it was looking like it was going to be a late one.”
“Especially when you’ve got butterflies to paint.” He moved up beside her to study the one she was working on, where she had worked subtle human silhouettes into the black of the insect’s body—a man and a woman, kissing. “Nice,” he said, his voice a warm rasp coming from entirely too close. “You’re going to make each one different?”
She tapped the copy of Butterflies of Wyoming she had gotten out of the library. “Different colors, species, you name it. Anything else would be boring.”
“Hidden pictures, too?”
It gave her a buzz that he saw it. “Some will have pictures, some words. I want people to see something new every time they look around the room.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem. Fair warning, though—if you want anything more than monochrome out of me, you’ll have to sketch it out. I’m a paint-by-numbers guy.”
I highly doubt that. She had heard him play, after all. Still, if he wanted paint-by-numbers, she could more than work with it. “Then the staging is yours. I want people to focus on the models and the clothes, so I’m going dark gray for the stage itself and lighter gray for the display.” She indicated four one-gallon cans stacked on the nearby workbench.
He leaned in, studied the cans. “Otherwise known as Dusky Charcoal and Lakeshore Mist?”
“Otherwise known as thank goodness Mrs. Applebee decided two-toned gray wasn’t nearly as sexy a bedroom color scheme as it had looked on whatever DIY show she was watching, and returned two cans of each.” She grinned. “Billy gave me a deal on them.”
“Dusky Charcoal and Lakeshore Mist it is.” As he reached across her to grab the first can, his arm brushed across hers, skin on skin.
Heat sizzled at the point of contact, the sparks all but visible. She sucked in a breath. He stilled. And suddenly there was a giant, rainbow-colored elephant in the room.
Attraction. Chemistry. Hormones. All the things that didn’t listen to logic or better sense.
Ignore it, she told herself. It doesn’t matter. But the sudden drum of her pulse said that it mattered far more than she wanted to admit. “Um,” she said.
Yeah, because that was brilliant.
He drew back, expression dark, though not with any of the annoyance, frustration, or judgment he had been aiming her way last week. Now the heat that pulsed between
them was something else entirely. Something more elemental, more compelling, and far more dangerous. “Sorry,” he said, his voice a low rasp that skimmed across her nerve endings like an electrified feather. “Guess that doesn’t count as keeping my distance.”
Was that a question? She couldn’t tell. “We’ll have to watch that. Seeing how we’re both coming off some hard knocks in the relationship department, and neither of us is looking for something serious.” She paused. “Right?”
His eyes shifted away. “I’ve got some irons in the fire, and don’t know where I’ll be this time next year. Probably moving on. So serious isn’t in the cards right now, likely won’t be for a while.”
It was dumb for that to bring a pang when she was in the same place—not because she was moving on, but because she was staying put. “Understood, which means we’ve got our answer. Neither of us is looking for something serious, and I don’t do casual.” At all. She lifted a shoulder. “I’m just not wired that way.”
His eyes met hers once more, searching for something. “That’s not a bad thing.” A pause. “So, then. What now?”
She yearned to toss her better sense in the trash and lean toward him. Instead, she nudged a gallon of Dusky Charcoal in his direction. “We paint.”
He hooked the wire handle and gave the can a liquid-sounding shake. “Bring on the gray-meets-gray.”
Sniffing in mock affront, she said, “That’s Dusky Charcoal meets Lakeshore Mist to you, buster.”
“Better than lavender.” His grin eased the tension in the air.
Some, anyway.
They spent the next few minutes getting their workspaces arranged—or, in her case, rearranged, as she shifted to the next plywood cutout in line and started sketching her concept, planning to bury the words Girl Power into the outer edge of the butterfly’s wings. Across the room, Ty levered open the first can, dumped the paint into the roller tray, and got to work, starting at the bottom of the staging and rolling his way up with smooth, even strokes that made his muscles bunch and flow. His hands were big and capable, his movements steady, making him look like he could go on for hours.
Coming Home to Mustang Ridge Page 10