Can't Fight This Feeling. Christie Ridgway
it going, Brett?”
Angelica froze. Brett? Brett Walker? The deep-voiced response told her that it was indeed him. Why? Shouldn’t he be somewhere with his truck, working? She took a peek at the slice of front window she could see, and the sun was still shining. Perfect weather for him to be out on the job, away from here. Away from her.
Because, darn it, she couldn’t seem to keep her feet rooted to the floor. Instead, they were creeping closer to him, her traitorous eyes wanting to get a glimpse of him. Shielding herself behind a rotating display of work gloves, she peered through the leather-and-fabric fingers.
Did he have to be so ruggedly good-looking? In the height of summer, he’d worn long shorts and work boots. A T-shirt that he’d often take off as he pushed the mower, allowing her to see the muscles in his back flexing. His arms were roped with muscle and more than once she’d stood at a window, hidden behind a curtain kind of like how she was hiding now, just to watch his pumped biceps and flexing forearms.
Those were covered now. Today a plaid shirt was buttoned over his torso and a worn pair of jeans encased his long legs. Hugged his most excellent butt. He ran a hand over his hair as he talked to Glory, a gesture she’d seen him make a dozen times. It always made her curious, that habitual movement, because his hair was shorn short enough that it never appeared disordered. The stuff was brown, but tipped in gold, highlights that a woman would pay a mint for in a salon, but that only needed his constant exposure to the sun.
Then there were those intriguing scars that only served to make him more sexy. More male.
Still ogling, Angelica tuned into what Glory was now saying. “That’s right. I know those clippers are in from the sharpener’s. They’re in the back room somewhere. Hold on a second and I’ll find them.”
Angelica had to bite her lip to stop from volunteering for the task. Not only could she put her hands on them immediately—she’d designated a space in the storeroom for items delivered from the man who did the work—but Glory was hopeless when let loose in that area. She moved perfectly ordered items around, reshuffled organized paperwork and generally made a mess.
As Brett waited, the bell sounded again, signifying another customer.
Argh! Usually, with Glory occupied elsewhere, she’d be hurrying forward to help the person. But that would give her away to Brett, and she really wasn’t up to a second confrontation with him in two days.
She was too busy to deal with her ridiculous response to him.
He murmured something, greeting the newcomer, she supposed. A local, she guessed, since the hardware store was hardly the midweek hot spot for the town’s wealthy visitors. Drumming her fingers on the skirt of the sturdy, butcher-style apron she wore over her clothes, she wondered how long she could let the latest customer go without service.
Already, her conscience was pinching at her. Then it got worse. “Where’s Angel?” an elderly man enquired.
“Angel?” Brett repeated. “You mean Glory?”
He’d make that assumption, Angelica thought, because he didn’t know the name that Mr. Bowman used for her. C’mon, Glory. She sent out vibes toward the back room. Get out here with Brett’s tool!
With him safely on his way, she could help the customer asking for her.
“No,” Mr. Bowman said. “Angel. That dark-haired girl who works here. She’s my color muse.”
The dear, Angelica thought. One of her favorite parts of the job was keeping the display of paint chips organized. She loved playing with the colors and imagining them on walls, on furniture, covering the trim outside a house. Mr. Bowman had found her there one day and she’d helped him pick choices to freshen the interior of his home.
“Bob...” Brett cleared his throat. “I really don’t think there’s any Angel—”
“Of course there is. This is one of the days she works.” His voice rose. “Angel? Angel!”
The jig’s up, girl, she told herself, squaring her shoulders. “I’m here, Mr. Bowman. Do you want to meet in the paint section?”
“Certainly,” the old man called back.
Angelica let out a breath. Maybe, while she was busy with Mr. Bowman, Brett would collect his tool and carry on his day. They’d never have to come face-to-face.
She gave all her attention to the older gentleman, who loved the shade they’d picked for his office and now wanted something to brighten the kitchen. They picked several tagboard swatches that he would bring home for his wife’s ultimate approval. Before he went on his way, she kissed his cheek and he beamed at her. Then he wandered toward the front door.
Angelica, breathing easy, turned in the direction of the lightbulb shelves. Her face almost mashed into Brett’s plaid shirt as he came around a corner. She skittered back.
His gaze ran over her, from her jeans and low-heeled boots, to the apron covering her long-sleeved tee. She’d written her name in block letters on the beige twill in blue permanent marker. It was situated in the vicinity of her collarbone, so there was no reason for her breasts to respond as if he was staring at them. She crossed her arms over her chest.
“You actually work here.”
“I’m helping out.”
“That’s your name on the apron, Angel. Some of it, anyway.”
“Angelica wouldn’t fit.”
“Huh.” He was still staring at her. “I guess I now have a new appreciation of having a short name.”
“Even better for you, two of the five letters in yours are the same.”
His brows rose. “Yeah. Made it so even a mountain yokel like me could learn to write it.”
She glared at him. “I didn’t say that.”
“No, you didn’t.” There was a speculative light in his gray eyes. Against his tanned face, they looked almost like clear water. “What are you doing working here, Angelica?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She loved the store and the hours she spent here gave her more job satisfaction, she suspected, than any career in high finance ever could.
“It’s not your kind of place.” He glanced around, his gaze roaming over the bins of nails and the spools of chain in various gauges. “A woman like you...”
The word spoiled went unspoken. So did good-for-nothing. One time she’d overheard him talking to his sister, and he’d referred to Angelica as a useless piece of fluff. Out loud.
She should despise him.
“Don’t you know...” she started sweetly. “Oh, but you wouldn’t, so let me explain. Some of us, you know, we elite, we have a program.”
“Oh, yeah?” His eyes narrowed and now he crossed his arms over his chest. “What kind of program?”
“Kind of like...like scouting.”
He barked out a laugh. “Yeah, how’s that work exactly?”
“We earn badges for doing things the common folk do.”
“Badges.” He sneered the word. And though of course he couldn’t possibly believe her, she continued in a haughty tone.
“Yes. Badges. For learning to boil water. Or helping out an elderly man. Or earning a paycheck for an honest day’s work.”
And with that she swept off. It wasn’t a flounce. Only a rich, spoiled girl would do that, and the woman who was now Angelica Rodriguez was so far from that, it wasn’t even funny.
* * *
THE PROPRIETORS OF THE Bluebird Motel had decided to close for the season early. The small rooms weren’t properly winterized, so it had