Christie Ridgway - Can't Fight This Feeling

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 always been open for the fair-weather seasons only. Despite that, Angelica had thought she might have a few more weeks in room 4. Now they told her she could have her spot with the reasonable rates for just a few more days. The owners wanted to get to their second home in Phoenix as soon as possible.

Which meant Angelica needed a new place to live and another job to pay for it. Other rentals in the mountains were more expensive.

The village of Blue Arrow Lake was composed of fancy boutiques and lovely restaurants, but she’d struck out finding work in any of them. It was an in-between time. Not the summer when people came up to play in the sunshine and not the winter when they came for the snow. Still, as she walked to her car parked on a side street, the buttery color of the fall sunshine was buoying. The air smelled clean with just a touch of nuttiness from the drying leaves and grasses. The cool nip to the air was bracing.

As if to reward her rising mood, she saw a help-wanted sign posted in the window of a small building. Over the door was another that read Maids by Mac.

While she didn’t have retail experience and had never worked in a restaurant, she’d gone ahead and asked about jobs anyway. It seemed she might have a better shot at a business that was actually advertising for workers. And perhaps cleaning wasn’t something that required a wealth of prior professional experience.

Of course working as a maid might not be a coveted career choice, but Angelica was desperate enough to squelch any hesitation and hurry for the door. The knob turned and it swung soundlessly, allowing her to enter a small office space. Behind a counter was a desk with a computer and phone. A filing cabinet sat in one corner. A half-open closet door revealed shelves neatly stocked with cleaning supplies. No one was in the space, but another door was open at the rear that revealed a tiny courtyard. There she saw the back of a woman as well as a bistro table on which two coffees were set. The woman was talking to someone, but Angelica could only see a pair of long legs in jeans from where she stood.

Unsure whether to call out or just wait to be noticed, Angelica hesitated. The slender woman had hair as dark as her own, though shoulder length. She was dressed in jeans, boots and a thin, slouchy sweater in pale blue.

“You seem more grouchy than usual,” the woman was telling the other person in the courtyard. “What’s up?”

The human attached to the legs—a man—grunted in reply.

Maybe the woman sensed Angelica then because she suddenly looked around. “Oh!” She had eyes the same icy blue as her sweater. “There’s someone here. Just a minute,” she called out. Then to the grouchy man, “Don’t go anywhere, honey.”

And it was a familiar voice that responded. “Not moving. I have to make some calls.” Brett Walker’s voice.

Brett Walker here ! Several days had passed since their contact in the hardware store and she wasn’t thrilled to run into him again. But Angelica couldn’t exactly retreat, now that the woman was coming toward her, wearing a welcoming expression.

Wait, Angelica thought, her stomach starting to jitter. The brunette had called Brett “honey,” and he wasn’t the kind of man to whom you threw out casual endearments. Could it be...was it possible... Might this woman be Brett’s wife ?

She felt a flush climb up her throat. What if all this time she’d been mooning over a married man? Maybe every night he’d gone home to this pretty woman with her warm smile and arresting eyes and laughed about Angelica’s obvious crush.