Small Town Girl (16 page)

The front door slammed open in a flash of sunlight. "Hey, Jo!" Slim entered with a thump of boot heels across the wooden floor. He wore a dinged-up cowboy hat over his lank brown hair, even though he was an electrician who had never sat on a horse. "I heard the committee's talking about getting Randy down here as a headliner at the festival!"

"Well, then, you better get the hanging tree ready because after I deball him, I'm carving him up for Halloween." That was all she needed,
RJ
Ratfink Plagiarist back here because a certain no-account guitar picker couldn't get off his duff to help. She threw a bagel into the toaster and turned around to see everyone staring at her.

"What? Didn't you ever want to cut a fathead down to size?" She adjusted her original
dickhead
down so as not to burn Sally's ears any more this morning.

"Don't be such a girl," Slim said in disgust. "Randy knows people in Nashville. He could bring us lots of publicity. Just because the two of you had a little spat—"

"There's nothing
little
about this spat. If you don't mind getting screwed by the pissant, then you go ahead and say howdy if he shows up." Jo pulled the butcher knife out of a drawer and rummaged for the sharpening file. "But I'd advise you to keep him out of my line of sight."

It had occurred to her late one night that if she'd had her fair share of Randy's advance, her mama wouldn't be cutting back on medicine and worrying about insurance. She didn't want to carve his ass as much as she'd like to carve out his bank account.

"Hey, Jo, you could write a song about him," Hoss called from his seat at the counter. "Call it 'You're So Lame.' "

Laughter erupted at this attempt to defuse her fury, and several of the wits attempted to top Hoss's title with their own versions.

She ought to tell the whole town what Randy—RJ—Peters had done to her, but Elise had said to lie low until they had a case. She wanted to gather evidence before the record company got wind of it. Jo preferred openness, but if keeping quiet meant she had a chance of getting paid, she'd chew her tongue.

"All right, you clowns. You're all so funny, we ought to have us a songwriting competition," she yelled into a lull in the hullabaloo. "The best song calling Randy an asshole gets to play onstage at the MusicFest."

They voted down calling Randy names—that would be rude to an invited guest. But the idea of a songwriting contest took wing. Before Jo knew it, her temper had settled, and she was in the midst of the discussion.

Apparently coming out of his little snit—or snagged by curiosity at their laughter—Flint strolled out of his office looking like six feet of bad and dangerous in his tight jeans and navy, tailored shirt. The back of his dark hair brushed his collar, and he hadn't shaved this morning. If he'd smile, Jo figured she would suffer a meltdown, but she could be in-your-face with the best of him if he snarled.

"Hey, Flint, I heard tell you're a songwriter. You want to judge in our songwriting contest?" Slim yelled, apparently still high on the idea of Nashville record producers showing up at their crummy little music show.

Jo crossed her arms noncommittally when Flint turned to her for explanation.

"You got a contest for who can write the worst song?" he asked, pouring the dregs of the coffeepot into a mug and taking a swig.

"That would about sum it up," George Bob said. "These clowns couldn't write a song if their lives depended on it. Jo would win, hands down."

"Why, I do thank you, Georgie," Jo purred. "It's nice to get a little appreciation around here occasionally."

"Uh-oh, men, I know that tone." Hoss stood up and laid his money on the counter. "Better clear out before hell opens its gates."

"That's cause you're pussy-whipped, Hoss," Dave told him.

But Jo noticed Dave got up and laid his money out as well. "Have a nice day, boys," she called sweetly.

Flint just stood there, arms folded, sipping his coffee, watching his customers scatter.

"You think about that contest, man," Slim called, pulling his long hair from his face with a rubber band and heading out. "Maybe get Jo some competition up here."

"Your boys were so sweet, Mr. Clinton," Sally said shyly, coming to the counter to pay her bill. "I hope to see them in church next Sunday."

"So do I," Flint said without inflection, letting Jo handle the register.

Jo wanted to elbow him. How was she supposed to concentrate with all that masculine muscle blocking the narrow aisle? Maybe if she took a bite out of him…

"Heard you used to play a little," Herb from the antique store said, handing over his money as Sally slipped out. "Any chance we'll hear you at the MusicFest?"

"Not a chance," Flint replied.

Jo noticed his knuckles whiten on the handle of the mug as he said it. Sometimes, she needed a baseball bat taken to her head to wake her up.

She waited until the last customer trailed out, and she had the dishwasher operating, before turning back to him. Flint had finished his coffee and was measuring the front window, finally removing his sexy carcass from underfoot.

"Shutters," she said. "Gray ones."

"Not hot pink?" He snapped his measuring tape back in its case, then moved on to the bare wall to examine it.

"Baby pink, to go with the tables, but I figured you'd veto that. Rose, to go with the plates, maybe, but that's kind of girly."

Jo waited until Flint turned his steely eyes her way before hitting him up with her theory. "You've got one major chip on your shoulder, Mr. Flint. Want to talk about it or let me guess?"

"Guess, by all means." He returned to measuring the turquoise wall.

"You won't help with the festival or the contest. You won't play for an audience. You act like a surly bear anytime anyone mentions music. Gee, you'd think you'd given up the one thing you love most because your hand hurts."

"You know, you're free to look for a job elsewhere anytime," he suggested, sticking the tape case in his back pocket and stalking toward her.

"You're damned right I am." She started counting out the bank deposit.

She tried not to look at him, tried not to see the pain behind his tough attitude, but she came from a family of pain. She knew hurt way down deep inside her, and it resonated with the anger and hurt in him. "Look, I'm sorry if I'm buttin' in where I don't belong—"

"Then don't," he snapped from closer than she'd realized.

She glanced up in time to note the hot flare in his eyes and to catch her breath before his mouth came down on hers. Hard.

His kiss was every bit as hot as she remembered. And there wasn't anything wrong with his hands when they clasped her bare waist and dragged her up against his hard body. She nearly swallowed her tongue and his in surprise, but she got into his face-sucking real fast. She grabbed his shirt and yanked until the kiss turned into a nuclear meltdown.

That's when he dropped her like a hot potato and stepped away. "Don't interfere, Joella," he warned. "I'm walking on the edge already. Give me the deposit. I'll head on down to the supply store."

Flint stoically endured Jo's hundred-watt glare. He deserved her anger, but he hadn't been able to resist shutting her mouth the way he'd been wanting to since the first time. Blond tendrils curled around her face from the steam of the dishwasher. She seemed so very young without her face paint. And off-limits. He really had to get his head straight.

He grabbed the deposit bag before he grabbed what he shouldn't. "I'm doing as much as I can, Joella. You'll just have to run the rest of the town without me."

She didn't throw anything at his head as he left, so he hoped he stood a chance of still having a waitress by the time he got back. He wouldn't blame her for walking.

He was deathly afraid that Joella was the reason the cafe was still in operation. It sure wasn't Charlie's lackadaisical efforts. Jo was the one who added the banter and laughter and encouraged the small-town discussion that led to ideas and progress.

He'd heard everything they'd said in there this morning. Not being part of the discussion had given him new perspective. Jo ought to be mayor, if she didn't say every damned thing that came into her wicked head. He'd kissed her for the laughter as much as to get his need for her out of his system. His lips still smoldered, so he didn't think that idea had worked out real well.

He snorted as he remembered her attack on RJ. Maybe he ought to be a part of the festival if only to be on the front lines when she lit into him.

But he just couldn't afford to let the music into his life again. Or Joella. His sons came first, over anything else. He had to push all temptation aside.

But if he helped Jo find her place in the musical world, she'd leave him and his coffee shop to run straight to hell without her. Rock-and-hard-place time.

"Flint bought the stove, Ames!" Jo crowed over the phone on Wednesday afternoon. "They're delivering it Friday. It has a grill and two ovens and it's the most gorgeous piece of equipment in the world."

Amy glanced at her own mirrored black oven that was currently blinking midnight. If she checked her reflection, she knew she'd see tearstains. "That's nice, Jo," she murmured, crumpling the stationery in her hand.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?" Jo asked through the receiver. "I thought the kids would be in for their naps. I can talk later."

"No, no, this is fine. I'm glad Flint is sprucing the place up. We'll have to come in and see the new stove." Desperately, she steered the conversation in a different direction. "How did you like that big-city lawyer he hired? Is she really going to work for you or just snow you in favor of Flint?"

"Elise DuBois," Jo said. "She is one fine lady, I'm here to tell you. I can't hardly believe it, but she's been all over Slim and the gang, collecting
evidence
. She really thinks I might have a case. Her mama used to be a lawyer when women just didn't do that. They've marched in protests together. She's not snowing anyone."

"Is that all she does, fight record companies? That can't be much of a business." Amy smoothed the letter on the kitchen desk where she kept her recipe books. She could hear Louisa singing to herself in the bedroom. The kids would want to get up soon.

"No, Elise is a contract lawyer, but from the way she talks, I think she likes taking cases that work men over. You know Hank Barlow, the singer who divorced his wife of fifteen years and brought in some hot babe when his album went gold?" Jo didn't wait for Amy to answer. "Well, Elise is the attorney for his wife. She sued him for breach of contract on some real estate. Mrs. Barlow now owns the mansion and the Ferrari. Elise is one badass attorney."

"That's nice," Amy murmured as Josh started hollering "Mommy!" at the top of his lungs. "I'd like to meet her. Listen, I gotta go. See you tomorrow, then?"

Hanging up after Joella's farewells, Amy neatly folded the stationery from the legal firm of Fritz and Fitzpatrick and tucked it into her
Southern Living
cookbook.

She should never have opened Evan's mail. That was wrong of her.

But she'd thought it was a bill, she reminded herself as she took the stairs up to her children. Evan's children. The beautiful toddlers who doted on the dad who was never home.

The dad who had just received a letter from an attorney that started out, As
we discussed earlier, the following are our standard recommended procedures for clients preparing for a divorce
…

A lightbulb in the staircase chandelier popped as she walked under it.

The heavy rain of the last two days reduced tourist traffic to a trickle. Flint had used the time to work around the shop—avoiding Jo behind the counter—but he was praying the rain let up for the weekend for his kids' sake. It was Friday and the rain still came down.

"You have to see this, Mama." Jo ushered her mother out of the downpour. "Amy, leave the muffins on the counter and come look."

He watched as Jo mother-henned her entire family, including the kids, into the closed cafe. He wished she'd warned him that they were coming. He hadn't met her mother before. He was still greasy from ripping out the old grill. He wiped off his filthy hands with a towel and tried not to admire his hired help too blatantly.

Despite the bad weather, the back-room show was still on, and Jo had apparently fixed up for it. She'd wrapped her gold hair into some kind of twist that dangled little curls to the high neck of her formfitting top. The midnight blue knit had no shoulders to speak of, so he could see she had no bathing-suit-strap marks marring that gorgeous tan. Her blue denim miniskirt possessed a modest flare, but there was nothing modest about those shapely tanned legs and flirty heeled shoes. He really needed to open a liquor bar and put Jo behind it. He wouldn't even have to fill the glasses. Men would pay to stand and stare.

And he'd have to live in a cold shower. His hand itched to catch her elbow and draw her close so he could kiss that sweet-smelling spot behind her ear.

"Mama, this here is Flynn Clinton." She gestured at Flint as if he were part of the equipment and helped her mother onto a stool. "Flint, this is my mama, Marie Sanderson. You've met Amy and the kids. We've come to admire the new stove."

Apparently, the stove had evened out that angry kiss. She hadn't said one word about it since, although he'd caught her speculative glances a couple of times. A man could grow to appreciate a woman who kept her mouth shut after he'd made an ass of himself.

Her enthusiasm was catching. You'd think she'd never seen a new stove before. She'd polished the stainless steel until he was afraid to cook anything on it. "Welcome, ma'am. Pleased to meet you," he responded according to the etiquette of his youth. "Jo's been helping me update the place a little. She's good at it."

Marie Sanderson was the type he called a lean, mean fighting machine, with a lined, weathered face that spoke of years of cigarettes and hard living. But she'd raised two strong daughters by herself, so he had to give her respect.

He suspected Jo had inherited her yellow hair from her mother, but Marie's was crew-cut short. He could get an entire song of worry and woe out of the tired lines in her high-boned face. If he was writing songs anymore, which he wasn't.