Christie Ridgway - Can't Fight This Feeling

Turned out she never grew tall enough anyway.

The smell of rum and doughnuts still made her nauseous, though.

“What’s that face for?”

Angelica swung around to see Glory coming down the aisle.

“What did that indoor floodlight ever do to you?”

Angelica smiled at her friend. They were opposites in practically everything. While she was tallish—though not tall enough for worldwide fame and European runways—Glory was petite. Angelica’s long, brunette hair and dark eyes were nothing like Glory’s short blond feathers and big blues. Until now, Angelica had led a fairly useless life, while Glory had been working at the family hardware store since she was old enough to push a broom and weigh a brown paper bag of nails. They’d struck up a conversation when she’d come browsing at the store one rainy spring weekend and just...clicked. Upon her return for her summer stay, she’d revisited the store and over one coffee and then a lunch, a friendship had fully formed. “The bulb is innocent. I was just mulling over my life.”

Glory frowned. “What’s happened now?”

“Nothing new.”

“Did you get your clothes?”

Angelica nodded. “Last night.” She decided against mentioning her run-in with Brett Walker. Glory didn’t know about that silly crush she’d suffered, and there was no reason to tell her now. Away from the house where he landscaped on a weekly basis—she had no idea whether the authorities would have him continue the service—she’d likely never see him again.

Because if I find out differently, there’ll be hell to pay.

It had been a macho-man parting shot, that’s all. He wouldn’t care enough to find out any more about her or her situation. His complete disinterest all summer had made that abundantly clear.

“I wish you’d come live with me,” Glory said.

“No, no. You have that adorable one-bedroom cottage that is perfect for you...but not you and me. I’ve got that room at the Bluebird. They have reasonable weekly rental rates.”

If you had more money coming in.

She didn’t say that, but perhaps Glory could read minds. “I wish I could offer you more hours,” she said.

“Please.” Angelica touched her friend’s arm. “I’m grateful for what I have. I’m here in the mountains, far from the limelight of the financial press.”

“They’ll be looking for you, you think?”

“Probably. Yes. I was warned about it by the lawyers, anyway.” There was precedent for the families of fraudsters being hounded. Daddy, how could you? she thought now. Reporters—and those he’d swindled—would want to know the answer to that question, too, and she didn’t have one. At his insistence, after college she’d gone back to their home in LA, where she’d been a hostess for his business soirees for a couple of years. But as time went on, he’d become increasingly reclusive.

He’d never shared the why of that or the what for. The man had never made it a secret that he’d wanted a boy and that her gender was a great disappointment to him. Though she’d excused it as a cultural and generational thing, they’d never been close.

He’d been her dad, though. And she’d been dutiful, always seeking his approval, she saw now, instead of her own brand of happiness.

Glory picked out another package from the carton and stared down at it. “No word from your mom, either?”

“Not one. Likely traveling around Europe or Asia with Hubby Number Four.” Angelica watched her friend frown, knowing that she’d find this baffling, too. While Glory was an only child like Angelica, her parents were still married to each other and lived in relative contentment in their beloved mountains.

Which were becoming beloved to Angelica, as well. “I’m happy to be here,” she told Glory again. “It’s going to be okay for me.” As soon as she managed to build a new life.

“I—” But what her friend was about to say was interrupted by the sound of the bell on the door. “We’ll talk later,” she said, and headed toward the front of the store.

Angelica hoped not. Hashing and rehashing the particulars of her sucky current situation would only pierce the bubble of peace she’d found in Hallett’s. During her shift, she wanted the most difficult thing she tackled to be the box of misplaced goods that required reshelving.

In the distance, she heard Glory greeting the customer. “Good morning,” she said, in her friendly, I-know-you voice. “How’s 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!