The Bachelor's Brighton Valley Bride (Return to Brighton Valley)

by Judy Duarte - The Bachelor's Brighton Valley Bride (Return to Brighton Valley)

  “Doesn’t the nurse have an ice pack?” she asked the caller.

  Clay took another bite of the cookie and listened to the one-sided conversation, trying to figure out what was more important than this woman’s future employment—which was growing shakier by the second.

  “Well, Mrs. Paxton, I’m a bit more concerned with my son getting beat up by Conner Doyle, who I believe is a bully, than I am about Conner having to rewrite his essay on the rain-forest biome because he didn’t save the document in the computer lab.”

  Bully? The once-delicious cookie turned to chalk in Clay’s mouth. It hadn’t been that long ago that a certain football jock had made his adolescent life hell.

  “Well, if the document was saved, then...uh...Well, wasn’t it password protected?...Uh-huh...I see.” After a beat, she said, “I’m sure Tyler didn’t hack into anything.”

  Hack? Now, that word sparked a rather magical memory. Years ago, Clay had used his skill in technology to fight back against the bigger and tougher kids at school, and it had worked like a charm.

  “Suspended? Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”

  It sounded like the boy—her son—was in trouble.

  “Is Conner being suspended, too?” Those brown eyes widened, and she tightened her grip on the receiver. “What do you mean, ‘not at this time’? Actually, don’t answer that. Don’t do anything. I’ll be right there.”

  After disconnecting the call, she waved at Clay, indicating that he should follow her toward the back office.

  People didn’t order Clay to do anything, and while every fiber in his being wanted to balk, he trailed behind her as she strode to a desk and yanked open the lower drawer.

  She appeared to be in full mama-tigress mode, preparing to protect her cub. Clay couldn’t help but be a bit envious of the lucky kid. His own mother had never gone to battle for him. Of course, he couldn’t hold that against her. She’d had her own struggles to deal with, and more often than not, Clay had needed to take care of her.

  “Listen, Mr...” The redhead paused and glanced up from where she’d stooped over, her eyes wide, her lips parted.

  Apparently, she hadn’t paid a bit of attention when he’d told her his name.

  “Johnson,” he said, repeating the alias he’d come up with. “Peyton Johnson. And you’re...?”

  “Megan Adams.” She reached for a black purse that had seen better days, then kicked the desk drawer shut. “I’m so sorry to do this to you, Mr. Johnson. But since you work for Zorba’s anyway, would you mind covering the shop for me for a couple of minutes? I have to run to the middle school. It’s just down the street, so I’ll be right back.”

  Her keys were in her hand and she was heading out the back door before Clay could voice either an objection or an agreement.

  As he heard a car backing out of the parking spot in the alley, he turned to look at the cluttered desk piled with coffee-stained work invoices and an open green ledger.

  While stunned and annoyed that the woman had just left him in the back office with all the pricey equipment and access to confidential business information, he decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Instead he’d take the opportunity to get a peek at what was really going on with the store, although he had a pretty good idea already.

  He still didn’t know anything about the woman other than her name, but if her behavior at the front counter and the disarray of this desk were any indication, he knew she didn’t have the work ethic that Geekon Enterprises expected from those on their payroll.

  And it didn’t matter how sultry her eyes were—or that his hands itched to touch her abundant red hair.

  Nor did it matter that she made a damn good cookie.

  Business came first, and Clay had to do what was best for the store—even if that meant firing the first employee he’d met.

  * * *

  Megan could have died when the handsome dark-haired stranger had come into the shop and introduced himself as the accounting specialist the corporate office had sent to get their store in order—or to spy on them, depending on how you wanted to look at things.

  The truth was, the shop desperately needed his help. But they didn’t need him reporting back to corporate and getting her and her boss fired.

  When Don Carpenter first hired Megan to help out in the store a few months back, the job had been a godsend. And despite the fact that she knew very little about computers—and not much more about bookkeeping—it hadn’t taken long for her to realize the store was in big trouble.

  Don was a wonderful older man, a kindhearted boss and a loving husband, but she feared that his worry about his wife had caused him to become scattered lately. He’d also been so busy looking after her and taking her to appointments that he’d gotten behind on his work. And to top it all off, he was intent upon doing things the “old way” and had been resistant to converting to a new, electronic accounting system.

  Megan tried to do what she could to help, but the store was going under, and she wasn’t sure if she could turn things around on her own. Sadly, poor Don couldn’t afford to lose his job right now, especially with his wife still undergoing chemotherapy. So Megan had brought in Tyler to assist him with some of the easier repair work. And while her twelve-year-old son had been helpful at times, he was also causing her more stress lately.

  She glanced at the sulky boy hunched into the front seat beside her. His lip was split, and he hadn’t said a word since she’d blasted into his principal’s office and exchanged some heated words with the woman—and with Conner Doyle’s parents.

  She hated being a tattletale or fighting Tyler’s battles for him, but it was unfair for her son to get suspended for retaliating the only way he knew how.

  Conner had been picking on Tyler ever since they’d moved to Brighton Valley last summer, and the bullying had only gotten worse. She’d sensed a change in her son during the school year. The sweet, fun-loving boy had grown quieter each day, withdrawing into books and technology and other solitary activities. It concerned her because it was something she couldn’t relate to, and she feared losing the connection they’d always had.

  She stole another glance at Tyler, noting his red hair, his thin frame. In many ways, he’d taken after her side of the family in looks. She had no idea where he’d inherited his amazing intellect. She’d never been a great student, and her ex-husband, Todd Redding, who’d been athletic and quick on his feet, had excelled far better on the football field than he had in the classroom.

  To make matters worse—and no doubt compounding what Tyler might be going through now—Todd had never wanted much to do with his nonathletic, bookish son, even before he’d abandoned the family. And that was one reason Megan had taken back her maiden name when they were divorced. Another was to distance herself from the terrible financial situation Todd had left her in.

  When she stopped at the intersection near the town square, she reached over and tousled her son’s red hair. “I love you no matter what, Ty. And I want you to know that when you’re ready to talk about what happened, I’ll be here to listen.”

  He didn’t respond, yet he didn’t move away from her caressing hand, either.

  She pulled her old Civic into the parking spot in the back alley behind Zorba’s and shut off the ignition, her thoughts still desperately groping for a solution. And while she wasn’t sure what to do to help her son, she couldn’t very well leave Mr. Johnson alone to poke around the store more than she already had. But she’d had no other choice. Had he not been there, she would have locked up and left an “out to lunch” sign on the front door.

  Megan glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror, wishing she had some lip gloss and mascara.

  And why was that? She hadn’t gone out of her way to look attractive for anyone since before her divorce. Of course, there’d never been any ext
ra money for frivolities like makeup or new clothes. Besides, the last thing she needed was for a man to show any interest in her.

  So why was she now so concerned with how she looked for Mr. Big-Shot Accountant?

  “Did Mr. Carpenter leave that MacBook for me to adjust?” Tyler asked as he hopped out of the car and headed toward the back entrance.

  Oh, no! She’d forgotten to tell Tyler that Mr. Johnson was here. And for that reason, he couldn’t do any more of the repairs—at least, not during business hours.

  She unlatched her seat belt and hustled out of the car, trying to intercept the boy before he made it inside.

  “Whoa,” Tyler said before she could stop him. “Who are you?”

  Mr. Johnson, who’d been seated at Don Carpenter’s desk, spun the chair toward the door as they entered.

  Had he gotten better-looking while she’d been gone? Or had she just been too distracted on the phone to notice that his eyes were an amazing shade of blue, that he had a square-cut jaw, that his lips were full and sensuous?

  “I’m Peyton Johnson.” He stood and extended his hand to Tyler. “I work for Zorba the Geek.”

  While Megan hadn’t paid too much attention to his facial features before, she definitely noted them now, especially the way his blue eyes narrowed in on her as he said, “And now will somebody be so kind as to tell me who you two are?”

  Oh, no. Hadn’t she introduced herself when he’d arrived? Her memory replayed the sequence of events between when he’d entered the shop and when she’d dashed out. As the conversation, at least most of it, played back to her, she could have sworn she’d told him her name. But maybe she hadn’t.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m Megan Adams. I help Mr. Carpenter here in the back office. This is my son, Tyler. He got in trouble at school today, and I’m afraid dealing with all of that made me a little flustered. I’m not normally like this.”

  Peyton’s intent stare sent a nervous flutter through her, threatening to scatter her thoughts to the winds, so she averted her eyes from his face, her gaze slipping down to the open black collar that exposed a sliver of dark chest hair.

  “So,” Mr. Johnson said, reining in her thoughts from the slight sexual diversion they’d taken, “what exactly do you do here at Zorba the Geek? Are you a computer tech?”

  “Ha!” Laughter came from the boy behind her, but before she could turn and shush him, he added, “Mom wouldn’t know a gigabyte from an integrated circuit.”

  Peyton’s brows rose, and he looked over Megan’s head, which wasn’t all that hard for him to do, since she stood only five foot two. “And you do?”

  “Of course I do. Take this Geekon hard drive right here.” Tyler pointed to one of the black boxes disassembled on an empty workstation against the wall. “This model uses a digital integrated circuit.” He went on to talk about logic gates and signals and values of ones and zeroes, all of which went over Megan’s head. “See, all the Geekon series use digital ICs.”

  “What do you think of the Geekon series?” Peyton asked the usually quiet boy, who hadn’t said more than three sentences to her all week.

  Tyler perked up and launched into a full discourse on the uses of microprocessors and transistors and everything else that caused Megan to tune him out.

  “So basically,” Tyler said, “straight out of the box, Geekon computers are the best you can buy. But they’re not the best that can be made.”

  “Tyler, Mr. Johnson works for Zorba the Geek, which is part of Geekon Enterprises, remember?” Megan left the rest unsaid, hoping that her normally introverted son knew better than to insult the product that was responsible for providing her paycheck.

  The boy lovingly patted the black hard drive on the table. “Then I’m sure Mr. Johnson would want to see what I can do with this baby to make it run even better.”

  Oh, jeez.

  “You know what, Tyler? I certainly would like to see that. But I’m here from the accounting department. Maybe when I get finished here, I can call some buddies who run the manufacturing department and set you up with someone who designs this stuff for a living.”

  “Sweet!”

  Well, at least one person was excited about Mr. Johnson being there.

  When Peyton returned to Mr. Carpenter’s desk, he looked at it as if he wanted to pick up the whole thing, mounds of paperwork and all, and throw it in the Dumpster out back.

  Shoot. Who could blame him? Whenever Megan tried to tackle the piles of old invoices that had been stacked up months before she’d even started working here, she felt like tossing it all out herself. She didn’t even know where to start sorting out the jumbled mess.

  “I don’t even know where to start,” Peyton said.

  Great, he was an accountant and a mind reader.

  “Things have gotten a wee bit backed up since Mrs. Carpenter got sick,” she admitted.

  Of course, in a matter of days—maybe even hours—Mr. Johnson was going to figure it out on his own. But in the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt to try and make the corporate lapdog see that they were all doing their best and that none of them should lose their jobs.

  “Do you have a game plan for how long you’ll be in town?” she asked, hoping he’d say it would be for only a few hours.

  “As long as it takes. The corporate office got me a room at the Night Owl.”

  The motel was right off the highway and near the Stagecoach Inn, a local honky-tonk. Neither seemed to be the kind of place that would appeal to a man like Peyton Johnson, although that was mere speculation on her part—and quite frankly, it was none of her business or her concern.

  “Too bad you can’t stay in the apartment upstairs,” Tyler said. “It would make it a lot closer for you.”

  The boy’s suggestion took the wind right out of her, making it impossible to respond, let alone object.

  “It’s got a bed and stuff up there,” Tyler added. “And it’s also got a TV and a kitchen.”

  “Is it vacant?” Peyton asked.

  “Yeah,” Tyler said.

  Megan’s stomach tightened. How did she go about keeping the boy quiet? “The company has made arrangements for Mr. Johnson to stay at a motel, Tyler. I’m sure they’ve already made a deposit. And if not, there’s probably a cancellation fee. Besides, there’s not much to do in downtown Brighton Valley in the evenings. But at the Night Owl, he’d be so much closer to Wexler and all the bigger-city amenities he’s probably used to.”

  She offered a smile, hoping she’d squelched her son’s impromptu suggestion before Peyton got any ideas. It was bad enough that he was going to be spending the next day or so looking over their old accounting system and seeing how bad things had gotten. But having him spending nights here, too?

  “You know,” Peyton said, “I think I’ll give the office a call. It would be a lot more convenient to just stay here. And if I can get my job done sooner, I’ll be saving the company money in the long run. They’ll surely see the savings there.”

  As Peyton pulled out his cell phone and prepared to dial, Megan’s heart sank. She’d hoped that she could lock him out of the shop each evening, knowing that she’d be present whenever he uncovered the problems facing the store—and that she could explain and maybe soften the blow.

  But how could she do that if he had access to the office when she wasn’t around to protect Mr. Carpenter?

  She wanted to snatch the cell phone out of his hands, but she’d been raised better than that. So she stood there pretending to smile gamely, feeling absolutely powerless and at her wit’s end as she shot a glance at the one man who had the ability to turn her life upside down once again.

  It had taken her three long years after the divorce to put her life back to rights again, and she was finally seeing some light at the end of a very dark financial tunnel. Then in walked Peyton Johnson, who
had the ability to jerk the rug out from under her and shake up all she’d fought so hard to build.

  But she was up for the challenge. There was no way she’d stand by and let another man dash her dreams again without putting up a fight.

  Chapter Two

  Clay pulled out his cell and called Zoe, his executive assistant, who knew where he was and what he was up to.

  “This is Peyton Johnson. I’m at the Brighton Valley store, and it’s come to my attention that there’s an apartment over the shop. I’m not sure how that will pencil out for the corporate bean counters, but it would sure be more convenient if I could just stay there. That motel you reserved for me is clear across town.”

  “You own the building,” Zoe told Clay. “I don’t have to clear anything—”

  “You’ve got that right, ma’am. So would you mind checking into that for me?”

  “I...uh...” Zoe paused. “So this phone call is just for show?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And all I’m really supposed to do is listen while you speak?”

  “That would be the case. Yes.”

  “Very clever. I’ll have to add an extra line to my job description. The executive assistant must be bilingual in both English and in reading the boss’s cryptic telephone conversations.”

  “Something tells me that could come in handy, especially while I’m in Brighton Valley.”

  “Then I’m on it. Looks like you’re in luck, Clay— I mean Peyton. I can assure you, or rather everyone at the Brighton Valley store, that corporate will approve of anything you suggest.”

  “It certainly would be in their best interests to do so.” Clay smiled. “Thanks, Zoe. Then I’ll just wait for you to check into that. How soon do you think you can call back?”

  “Would five minutes be a believable response time?”

  “That works for me.”

  “All right, then. You got it, boss. Clock is ticking.”

  Before Clay could hang up, he spotted Megan pushing her son away from the computer workstation and shoving the worn green backpack into his arms. Then she pointed at the counter in the front of the shop.