Small Town Girl (12 page)

"You know I'll babysit anytime you want to go in and help him out." Jo did her best not to show her skeptical side to Amy. She'd just remove Evan's balls if he hurt her sister. Despite her petite size, Amy had been the bulwark who had shielded Jo throughout their dysfunctional childhood. Amy deserved fairy-tale happiness.

"Next week?" Flint shouted, unaware of all ears in the place turned in his direction. "Yeah, sure, that's fine."

"He doesn't look fine," Jo observed, watching her macho boss run his hand over his thick hair, tousling it nicely. "You'd better run to his rescue, Sally. Something tells me he's gonna need help with a couple of hellions."

"Oh, no, I couldn't do that," Sally whispered. "That would be too forward. Maybe he could bring them to Sunday school."

Jo snorted. "Want to bet they're chips off the old block? I don't think Sunday school will hold them."

"Hey, Jo, where's my doughnut?" a customer at the counter called.

"I keep it right next to my heart, Hoss." She sashayed over to the big man and leaned over his shoulder to fill his cup. "You really want me to go back there to get stampeded for a doughnut?" She shot a look at Flint, who had thrown his cell phone on the stove but still stalked back and forth looking like last night's storm.

She'd invited him into her apartment last night when the clouds had opened. Instead of coming in, Flint had sat there with the rain pelting his broad shoulders, staring at the thunderbolts crossing the sky. "What's that old church song?" he'd asked as she'd taken refuge behind the screen door. "I got to walk that lonesome valley all by myself?"

She'd almost wept as he'd walked down the stairs in the pouring rain looking as miserable as a man could be. If she wasn't so immune to men these days, she'd have run after him, thrown her arms around him, and dragged him back to her bed.

That would have been disaster for both of them.

She knew the solution to misery, though. Unable to tolerate his restless pacing a second longer, Jo walked around the counter and shoved a spatula at him. "Number one wants scrambled eggs. Henry will want more toast in a minute. I'm taking a girl break."

She left him standing there with his hands full and his mouth open as she ran back to the restroom. Flint wasn't the only one who couldn't sit still. She'd scarcely slept a wink last night. She was just about to bust out of her skin in anticipation and anxiety thinking of Randy and her stolen songs. It was time to apply both their excess energies to something useful. Pity it was Saturday and they couldn't call lawyers.

Behind closed doors, she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and punched up a number. "Hey, Dave? This is Jo. You still have that paint on sale?"

At his affirmative, she took a deep breath. "How much longer?"

"Until you talk your boss into remodeling?" he guessed.

Dave's recognition of her ability to talk anyone into anything lifted her spirits. She did have a knack for doing what was best for people, if they'd just let her meddle a little. Flint might be a bit more difficult than most, but she needed a challenge.

With something more productive to do than worry about lying, cheating scoundrels and sexy, hurting hunks, Jo returned to the cafe with a big grin.

"What?" Flint asked with suspicion at seeing her expression. He handed the spatula back to her and reached for the coffee beans.

"What what?" She flapped her lashes and scooped eggs on a plate. "I didn't say anything."

"Watch it when she gets that shit-eater grin on her face," George Bob warned from the counter. "We got stuck with the pigs last time she looked like that."

"Do I need to tie her down and stuff her in a closet until she gets over it?" Flint asked in a surly tone, although the corner of his mouth curled in a hint of a grin.

"The women would go looking for her," Hoss said. "The trouble with this town is that the women run it. I don't know when we let them get so out of hand."

"When you started keeping your brains in your jeans," Jo retorted. "Those pigs are
good
for the town. We've already had a reporter up here from Charlotte to see them. Once that story gets out, we'll have lots of people up here, spending money."

With a fresh batch of coffee cooking, Flint slid a plate of toast to Hoss, glanced around to see that all his other customers had been served, then leaned his hip against the counter and crossed his arms. "People will come up here just to see purple pigs?"

Jo hurriedly refilled more cups rather than admire her boss's muscled biceps in his short-sleeved shirt. Even when he was looking at her with suspicion, her heart performed a drum solo. She needed to get laid real bad if she was contemplating, even for a moment, a volatile man like Flynn Clinton. He was way over her simple head.

"Some of those pigs were painted by famous artists. We have more talent up here in these hills than just country bumpkins, you realize. Present company excluded of course. George Bob and Hoss are bumpkins." She slid them each a doughnut as she said it. She'd traded insults with these guys since grade school.

"Yeah, well, I don't see any pigs in an art gallery, and I don't see rich tourists coming up here to admire any," Flint challenged her with logic instead of insults.

"Negativity," she admonished, flashing him a high-voltage smile that knocked some of his attitude askew. She liked how all his muscles tightened when he was forced to look her way. "With that mind-set, it's a wonder you ever get a girl."

"It doesn't take a mind to get a girl," he growled.

She had his number now. He put on the grouchy bear act to make her back off. She winked, and he had to wipe his grin away with the back of his hand.

"Maybe not," she countered, "but it takes a mind to get a woman." Now that the subject was safely off her, Joella redirected it. "Are your kids coming up to visit?" She returned to buttering toast.

"Yeah, only because my parents promised to take them rock climbing. Know any good rocks?"

"If they ain't ever been climbing, better take them down to Chimney Rock," Hoss advised, standing up with his doughnut-to-go and leaving his money on the counter. "If they want white-water rafting, I'm your boy. Just give me a call."

"I'll do that, thanks." Flint put the bills in the register and Jo's tip in her jar. "Chimney Rock will be busy on a weekend, won't it?"

"Yup, but Hoss is right. Unless they know what they're doing, rock climbing is hazardous, and the rescue squad has started charging to save idiots." Seizing her opportunity, Jo offered him a seductive smile. "What will you trade me if I find your kids a bona fide rock-climbing expert to show them the ropes?"

"Trade?" he asked with a lift of his eyebrows that did wonders for her pulse rate.

"Yeah. What are your kids worth to you? A new paint job in here, maybe?"

Flint studied Jo's saucy grin and wished he were a mind reader. He was damn glad she covered her front with that ugly apron because just watching her from behind all morning had burned out his last brain cell. She had on a little blue, knit halter top and white short shorts beneath that thing, and even with his eyes closed, all he could see were long, shapely brown legs.

How much were his kids worth? He'd trade the whole cafe for them, but he didn't need to give Joella that bargaining chip. "I reckon I can find a rock climber on my own," he said confidently.

He'd learned enough about his waitress this past week to figure she could find the best climber in the mountains faster than he could drum up a rank amateur, but he didn't want to make this too easy. She already had him over a barrel, and he wasn't liking the position.

"Reckon you might," she agreed. "But he's likely to be busy on weekends unless you ask him right."

"And you know the right way to ask?" Flint was aware that half the coffee shop was listening, and he was wondering why in hell he'd thought it would be a good idea to operate gossip central.

"Just give her the paint job," George Bob urged, pulling out his billfold. "Jo knows every man on this mountain and each of their weak spots. Everyone knows if you want something done, Jo knows how to do it."

She blinked demurely, but watching her out of the corner of his eye, Flint could see that big grin she'd worn earlier. He hadn't just bought gossip central. He'd acquired the local database, troublemaker, and sex goddess along with it.

And he couldn't fire her. He'd have to learn to work with temptation so she wouldn't sue him. He'd remembered that saint's name last night. Job. Except Job wasn't a saint either, just a poor beleaguered businessman that God decided to pick on. Like him.

"What color and how much?" he asked grumpily, to keep her from being too sure of herself.

"Yellow and purple and all of it," she said so promptly that he knew she'd been planning this for a long time.

"Tan and brown and only the two walls by the booths," he countered. He couldn't remember why he'd though mud ugly was so wonderful as a kid, but he'd be damned if he'd paint his shop
yellow
.

"Oh, ugh, why don't you just paint it with sludge? How about the color of the pretty persimmon and sunflower plates?" She pulled the dishes out to show him.

"You want to turn this into a tea shop?" Flint shouted. Since the whole place was listening by now, he might as well get his point across. He wasn't turning into his daddy and becoming a rug under any woman's feet.

"How about a creamy white for the wainscoting, and Jo could put up rose curtains?" one of the women suggested.

Wainscoting
? What in hell was that? Sounded like something that went in castles.

"How about we leave it just the way it is?" a disgruntled male customer asked. "If this was good enough for our daddies, it's good enough for us."

Flint almost agreed to yellow and purple after that. He had the sudden urge to offer his kids something
better
than his daddy had.

He studied the battered brown paneling—wainscoting?—and beige walls with faded sepia photographs from the 1950s that had rested so fondly in his memory. His tastes must have matured a lot since childhood. Everything in here was mud brown, except the pink and gray tables and chairs. Even the floor was brown. He
liked
brown, but he could see where the joint could use a little updating.

"I don't want to have to wash walls every night," he told his audience, although he directed the protest at Jo.

"Stainless steel equipment, pewter paneling, and eggplant walls," she threw back.

"Eggplant?" he asked in outrage. "What kind of color is that? And pewter paneling? That's just plain crazy. Did you grow up in a circus?"

"Pretty much," she agreed brightly. "And they have pewter-colored paneling down at the supply house. It's supposed to go in kitchens with stainless steel."

"Eggplant's too dark," a woman argued. "Use the turquoise from the Fiestaware. That will fit in with your fifties pink."

"I can't afford stainless steel appliances!" Flint objected.

"Not yet," Jo agreed, "but when we start bringing in more money, you'll be all fixed up and ready for them."

Now he knew how a snowball felt rolling down a mountainside in a blizzard.

"If you're a member of the Chamber, you can get a discount at the supply store on the paneling," someone called.

Suggestions flew after that, but Flint had pretty much tired of decorating. He glared at Jo. He just about believed her claim to have grown up in a circus. She was a performer par none, and she belonged on the stage. She flirted him another mind-melting grin that made him want to back her up against the stove and kiss the smirk off her face.

But he was already picturing stainless steel in here. A dishwasher that didn't maim his feet. A place his boys could be proud of. One that would make money—

"New paneling, and blue paint," he agreed with a feeling that he'd just been manipulated. "And you'll call the rock-climber teacher?"

"You got it, boss man." Returning to impale an order on the spike by the grill, Jo stood on the toes of her athletic shoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Her lips seared a brand he'd carry all day. He nearly passed out from the testosterone overload from her magnolia scent. "Are you calling that lawyer of yours on Monday, partner?" she purred.

"First thing," he agreed grimly. He could survive one more lawyer. He wasn't certain he could survive another of Jo's steamy kisses. His jeans had grown too tight to walk in. How in
hell
could he work beside this country Madonna for the rest of his life without wanting to get into her pants?

Monday afternoon, Jo pulled the blind down on the door and set the closed sign in the window with a sigh of relief. The weekend had been more hectic than usual. She'd like to believe it was the
Observer
article on the pigs, but school was out.

"I think every kid in town came by to pat Myrtle." She shoved a loose strand of hair behind her ear and began to stack the chairs on the tables.

Standing at the register counting out the deposit, Flint looked gloomy. "Yeah, and to fill up chairs at a buck apiece for soft drinks. I'm working my ass off for dollar bills."

"Hate to tell you this, honey, but next weekend you really will be working your ass off. I worked this weekend because the shop was closed Monday and Tuesday. But there are laws against me working eight hours a day, seven days a week, without overtime. So I hope you weren't planning on rock climbing with the kids."

Alarm replaced the gloom as Flint glanced up. "I was. And to church. That's the whole point of having them here."

"You didn't plan this out real well, did you? I can take off tomorrow and Wednesday and come in this weekend, if you want, but I usually take the nursery at church on Sundays. Charlie liked working weekends."

He shoved the cash in the bank bag and came over to help her swing chairs onto tables. "I'm not Charlie. I'm gonna have to hire help."

"You can't afford help at a dollar a seat." She was good at grasping what was eating at people. "Charlie had this place paid for, but you've got to make payments. What happens to you if I sue Randy?"