Trust in Me (2 page)

A tiny pucker formed between her eyebrows as she frowned. She shifted her weight and fingered the string-like strap of her purse. "No mistake. I'd...like to apply for the cashier's job if.." She hesitated and tucked a feathery wisp of gold hair behind her ear. "If it's still available."

Kevin scratched the day's stubble on his cheek. "Why?"

The blonde blinked as if startled by his question. The knit in her brow deepened, and she readjusted her purse strap.

Her fidgeting contradicted the calm confidence she'd first shown. He wished he knew how to put her at ease. He'd felt out of place plenty of times in his life and empathized with her discomfort.

"Because...I need a job." Her tone said that much should have been obvious. What wasn't obvious was why a woman with her class and obvious means would want to work at Lowery's. It didn't make sense.

A flurry of ideas swirled through his brain as he tried to work through this paradox. For an obviously wealthy, pampered beauty to be in a blue collar store like this, something had to be wrong. Was she a battered wife running from her husband? Just the suggestion of that tensed his muscles with protectiveness and silent rage.

But if that was the case, why not go to the police for help? He detected a degree of doubt, or of fear, darkening her gold eyes, and her apprehension pinched his gut.

Maybe she was a sorority girl from the University, here on a dare. That seemed more likely, though she appeared past college age.

College age? Heck,
he
was still working his way through college, one night class at a time, and he was almost thirty.

He glanced at the John Deere clock. Five minutes until closing time. He wanted to say no. He didn't need a prissy, tempting,
rich
cashier around the store reminding him of what he'd lost with Robin and what was out of his reach.

But, dang it, he needed a cashier!

"Follow me. I'll get you an application, Miss..."

"Albritton. Claire Albritton."

"Right. Miss Albritton. Can I get you anything to drink?"

She flashed a warm smile that made her eyes sparkle. And Kevin's lungs seized
. Gorgeous.

"No, thank you."

Forcing himself to breathe, he led her to the store office and scooped a stack of newspapers off a torn vinyl chair so she could sit. After pulling an application out of the files, he sank onto the desk chair, which squeaked as he rolled toward her to hand her the form and a pen.

Claire sat in the chair he'd cleared then pivoted toward the counter where the day-old coffee sizzled in the bottom of the pot. While she began filling out the form, Kevin inhaled deeply, and over the scorched odor of caramelized brew, he caught another whiff of her fresh floral scent. He searched his memory for the familiar fragrance.

Summertime. His mother's garden. Roses.

Claire smelled like roses.

Kevin slumped back in his chair, which screeched another request for oil, and propped a foot on the opposite knee. From his slouch, he studied her as she scratched her information on the application.

Claire perched on the edge of the chair, her back straight, knees together, ankles crossed. Prim. Proper. Other than the wisp she'd tucked behind her ear, not a strand of her gold hair looked out of place. She even held the pen with a ladylike grip, her pinkie extended as if she were drinking tea. The epitome of refined elegance.

Another self-conscious flutter tumbled through him, and Kevin eased his foot back to the floor. He sat up straight, pulled his shoulders back, and finger-combed his hair.

Ribbit
, a voice in his head taunted.

He frowned as he watched her diligently perusing every line of the form. She was serious. The princess actually wanted to work at a hardware store.

What was wrong with this picture?

***

Claire folded her hands in her lap, her fingers squeezed together so tightly her knuckles blanched. The store manager—Kevin, he'd said to call him—reviewed her application with a solemn expression. A muscle in his jaw ticked as he studied her information, and her stomach performed a back flip.

She'd been nuts to come in here thinking he'd ever hire her. She didn't know the first thing about hardware and couldn't tell a wrench from a socket to save her life. And then there was her lack of work experience. Why had she wasted the nice man's time?

Because her only other option was to go home with her tail tucked between her legs and admit she couldn't take care of herself. She'd have to accept the decisions her father had made about her future, acknowledge she was dependent on her father's income, and marry the unfaithful jerk her father had hand-picked,
paid
to be her husband.

Never.

Even if she had doubts about how she'd survive on her own, she'd never go back to the doting, naive, dependent wimp she'd allowed herself to become after twenty-four years under her father's dominance.

Even if she starved. Even if she lived in a hovel. Even if the idea of working in a hardware store intimidated her more than her first debutante ball. She would prove herself capable of taking care of herself, earning her own money, choosing her own life. And she'd never give her heart to another sweet-talking, manipulative man again.

To think that she'd trusted Blaine. Actually believed he loved her. Yet, all the while, he'd been cheating on her. With her father's full knowledge and consent!

"You haven't listed a home address. Have you recently moved to town?"

Claire dug her fingernails into her palms and shuddered with quiet rage. She'd show them. She was no toy they could exploit for their own devices with no regard for her feelings. She would not let them—

"Hello? Miss Albritton?"

With a gasp, Claire jerked her attention to the man across from her. The hardware store manager studied her with a puzzled expression.

"Are you okay, ma'am?" He set her application aside, and his dark brown eyes narrowed on her with clear concern.

She drew a steadying breath. "I'm fine. Sorry. What did you ask?"

"Your address. You left the space blank."

"I just moved here from Asheville, and I'm still in the process of finding a place to stay." Claire opened her purse and pulled out several scraps of paper. "When I leave here, I'll follow up on these 'roommate needed' ads I found on the bulletin board on campus."

"Mm." He nodded and eyed the papers. "Mind if I take a look? I might be able to steer you toward the best choices."

When he held out his hand for the ads, she hesitated. She didn't want or
need
his help. Finding her own place to live was her first hurdle to establishing her independence, something she had to do for herself. "Ah, no. I'll—"

He caught the edge of the folded sheets and gave them a gentle tug. What was she supposed to do? Get in a tug-of-war with him over the ads? That seemed altogether childish and unladylike. Her mother would never be so undignified.

She closed her eyes and battled down her spurt of irritation. He was just trying to be nice.

Her composure back in place, she regarded the manager—Kevin—as he scanned the ads. His chestnut hair was in need of a trim and lay in tousled disarray, as if windblown or well-ruffled by restless hands.

He wasn't especially handsome. Certainly not the type who made a girl look twice. Not that he was bad looking exactly. Just...ordinary. Approachable. Yes, that was it. He had a gentle warmth about him that was appealing.

He rubbed his shadowed jaw, and she glanced at his hands. You could tell a lot about a man from his hands, her grandmother used to say. Kevin's were work-roughened, but his fingertips were blunt and well-groomed. His hands looked strong, capable. She followed the path of his fingers as he stroked his chin, deep in thought. An odd shiver shimmied over her skin.

Claire shifted her weight, growing uncomfortable with the rigid posture her upbringing urged her to maintain. Or was it the odd track her thoughts had wandered that gave her the prickly sensation all over?

"Are you allergic to cats?" Kevin asked, bringing her out of her reverie.

"Well, no. Why?"

"’Cause this lady—" He held up one of the ads. "Has about twenty at last count. Several dogs too."

Claire raised one eyebrow. "Twenty?"

"Yep. And chickens. And I think she still has the goat."

A ripple of laughter bubbled from her. "You're teasing."

He grinned. "Nope. She comes in here a couple times a month to stock up on food for all her beasts. I doubt she's looking for a roommate so much as help with her zoo."

Claire yanked the sheet from his hand and balled it up. "One down."

She turned toward the trashcan in the corner and shot the wad toward it. It swooshed in.

Kevin cocked his head. "Hey, nice shot."

"Thanks."

He pulled out another ad and showed it to her. "With this one, the Leslie mentioned is a guy, not a girl. If you don't mind sharing an apartment with a big hairy guy who considers the Three Stooges Hollywood's finest hour—"

"Ugh!" She snatched that sheet from him, too, and wadded it. This time she missed the trashcan.

Kevin balled up the next ad and gave it to her. "Try again. Two out of three."

"Hey, but I might follow up on this ad!" She started to smooth out the sheet. His hand closed over hers to stop her.

"Um, trust me. You don't want to."

"I don't? Really?"

"Really, really don't."

"Oh." A pang of disappointment rippled through her. That was her last prospect for a place to live. The cost of the motel where she was staying was eating up her savings quickly. So what did she do now?

She met his deep brown gaze and felt the stir of something in her chest like curtains fluttering in the breeze. She grew acutely aware of his warm, callused hand covering hers. Her skin came alive, tingling sensations shooting from the place he touched her and coalescing in her core. With a shiver, Claire slipped her hand from under his, away from the intimate contact.

Kevin glanced at his hand, now resting on her knee, and a red flush stained his cheeks. He jerked his arm back and spun his chair toward the desk. Clearing his throat, he picked up her application again. "Look, Miss Albritton, I don't think this is going to work out."

Her heart lurched. He couldn't turn her down! He just couldn't! There were no other jobs available in town she was even remotely qualified for. "But why?"

"You're just not..."

"Qualified. I know. But I'm a fast learner. And although I don't have much work experience—well, none really—except teaching tennis to kids at the country club while I was in high school. But I've worked on lots of projects for the Garden Club and the Organizing Committee for Debutante Club made me their treasurer. And I helped in the concession stand at the charity polo match last year, so I have experience with a cash register."

Kevin's face grew increasingly pale as she prattled. "Polo?"

Claire clapped a hand over her mouth and flopped back in her chair, everything she'd learned about proper posture abandoned. What did posture matter now that she'd blurted out her meager work history like some desperate ninny?

Kevin was silent for a long time, studying her with a peculiar quirk in his brow.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to blather on like that. It's just...I really want this job. I
need
this job."

His gaze darkened and honed in on her. "Why?"

Because my father doesn't think I can do it.

To her horror, she felt tears burn the back of her throat, rising inside her. She pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting them back. She couldn't tell him all the reasons why having a job, earning her own income, meant so much to her and her pride, but she had to tell him
something
. "Because I'm starting my master's degree at Harrison University in the fall, and I have to pay tuition and rent. Eating would be nice, too." She gave him a weak smile. "It's important to me that I be self-sufficient, though...I'd rather not go into the why of it."

She saw the uncertainty in his eyes and felt her best chance for freedom from her father's control slipping away.

Now the tears did rise. They blossomed in her eyes and pearled on her cheeks. She dug in her purse for a tissue, spilling her lipstick and a pack of breath mints on the floor.

The tube of lipstick rolled across the worn carpet and bumped Kevin's foot. He stooped and picked it up, peeking at the label. "Here. You dropped your
Kissable Pink
."

She sniffed and held out her hand. "Thanks."

He dropped it in her hand as if afraid to touch her.

She couldn't blame him. She'd made quite a spectacle of herself between her tears and her outburst of flustered rambling. She wouldn't blame him if he shooed her out of the office and locked the door. He didn't need a novice working for him. A desperate, inexperienced, coddled crybaby.

Not finding a tissue in her purse, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve. She stood and straightened her skirt, edging toward the door. "I'll get out of your hair now. Thank you for your time."

She had her hand on the doorknob when Kevin's calm voice stopped her. "Why didn't you put your cash register experience on the application?"

Tipping her head toward him, she frowned. "Pardon?"

"The concession stand at the polo match. You do have experience with a cash register. Hot dogs, jig saws—what difference does it make what you're ringing up?" Reaching in a desk drawer, he extracted a box of tissues and held them out to her.

Claire took one, gave Kevin a puzzled look, then blew her nose. "You can't seriously—"

"This says you majored in British Literature at Duke." He tapped the application with his pen.

What was he doing? She furrowed a deeper knit in her brow. "Yes."

"And you are starting at Harrison University this fall to earn your Masters in Modern American Lit."

"Mr. Fuller—"

"Kevin...please."

She shook her head. "I don't understand."

"What's to understand? I need a cashier. You need a job. You may be overqualified, but I'm willing to give it a shot if you are."