Small Town Girl (15 page)

"Like hell," she said without animosity. "I'll stick to singing from the pews." It was an old argument, and Dave didn't hang around to pursue it.

The memory of her humiliating experience in Atlanta had burned away any lingering urge to show off her voice. She'd hoped songwriting would be an alternative, but Randy had cured her of that foolishness, too. Men were more interested in her looks than her brains, it seemed, probably because her brains didn't add up to a pair of double D's.

She wouldn't touch the MusicFest, but she was letting Flint and his talk of lawsuits raise her hopes—again. Someone ought to just shoot her.

The sums the lawyer had talked about would more than make up for her mother's expiring unemployment, and pay for insurance as well, if and when Joella found any evidence.

She knew Flint was worried he'd lose the cafe. It kind of made working around him like walking on thin ice over hot coals. She hated to quit her job now though, just when things were getting interesting.

The noisy clang of cymbals and drums rang out from the back room. Flint kept a guitar in his office, but Jo had never seen him play it. She waited to hear the famous bass riff she'd studied on the Barn Boys CD, but the clamor continued without it.

Seeing Flint's parents glance at their watches, Jo hurried over with some of Amy's muffins and coffee. "Here you are. The muffins are fresh from my sister's oven. Flint ordered this coffee special from Hawaii. You'll have to tell us how you like it."

"We really must be going, dear—"

"It's not yet one," Floyd interrupted his wife. "The soup was excellent, Miss Sanderson."

She was starting to see where Flint had learned his charm. She'd dismissed Floyd as a nonentity lurking in his demanding wife's shadow, but apparently he was wise enough to choose his fights. He didn't look like a strong man. His thinning hair had faded to a mouse brown. But he wasn't bad looking, and his smile and the glint in his eye flashed some of Flint's appeal.

"I thank you, sir. Flint hasn't been here two weeks yet, and he's already started to turn the place around. You must be proud of him."

Martha maintained a stony silence. Floyd cleared his throat and sought a reply that wouldn't offend either of them. "Flint has always got what he wanted."

"But maybe he hasn't always got what he
needs
." Hearing the shouts of the boys returning, Jo slipped away, leaving the parental figures to work that one out.

She ought to be ashamed of herself, interfering in the life of a man far more experienced than she, but she smiled to herself as Flint emerged from the back looking a little less grim. Beside him, his young Goth chattered excitedly about drums, and his older boy aimed straight for the doughnut case as if he were at home.

When Flint glanced her way, Jo winked. His sexy smile of appreciation would have to be her reward for suffering the torments of the damned ever since that dance the night they'd met. She'd been sleeping with the windows open to cool off her dreams.

Flynn Clinton had everything she'd ever wanted and would never have, including two parents who loved him, his own business, and a career in music. It was cold comfort watching the black sheep return to the family fold.

Aching in every muscle, clenching and unclenching his hand to keep it from seizing up, Flint walked up Main Street from the lower parking lot feeling as old as his sons thought him. He'd thought he was in pretty good shape, but after spending an afternoon climbing mountains so his kids could rappel off a cliff, he might never walk straight again.

The church bench hadn't helped. He didn't know how long it had been since he'd graced the insides of a church, but he hadn't remembered the pews as that
hard
.

At least he'd introduced his mother to a woman of whom she'd approved. She'd extolled the virtues of churchgoing women like Sally for so long that Flint had developed a distinct distaste for the poor girl. He hadn't bothered mentioning that the only reason Joella hadn't been in church was that she was covering his ass at the cafe. He had the feeling the icy absence of Jo's name meant disapproval.

Jo might be another glamour girl like Melinda, but that didn't prevent him from looking forward to her outrageous attire and tart tongue. As much as he'd like to be immune to her looks, she added a little extra spice to his newly staid life. He was pretty damned sure he couldn't run the place without her, not for a long while.

His step halted as he passed the hardware store and spotted Myrtle. The pig was sporting a yellow straw bonnet on her purple head, neatly secured with a red bow, with her purple ears sticking through slits in the brim.

Despite his objection to silly purple swine blocking the sidewalk, Flint grinned. The pig hat had all the earmarks of a Joella tale. Through the heavy draperies on the front window, he could tell the lights were on inside the cafe, so she must be here ahead of him.

Eager to hear the hat story, he shoved open the door. Overall, it had been a decent weekend. The boys had relaxed around him out on the rocks. He'd taught them a thing or two about their video game. He'd promised them white-water rafting next time they came, and they'd seemed interested. He needed to find some way to thank Jo for—

"
I can't do this anymore
!" a soaring soprano screamed as only a soprano can. "
I never want to see you again
!"

Flint winced, held the door to his shoulder like a shield, and waited for glass to shatter. When it didn't, he peered around the edge. The chorus of a seventies disco song broke out instead of flying plates, and he nearly collapsed in relief. She was extrapolating again. He'd have to warn her about stealing other people's music.

He recognized the irony.

His heartbeat returned to normal, forcing him to realize that the thought of Jo's quitting had paralyzed him. He didn't want to envision days on end in this place without Jo's laughter to brighten the mood and her creative impulses and quick wit to lighten the day—even if she was turning the place into a tea shop.

He really needed to sit down and examine his head after that insight.

He flipped on the overhead light switch and studied the effects of the new paint and paneling. The half-century-old chrome dinette tables and pink vinyl chairs looked exotic against the turquoise and pewter. Even the tin cans looked as if they belonged. He probably needed recessed lights, but the sun would provide extra illumination if he took down the curtains. Jo was right. They had to go. Shutters would look cool.

"I take it the weekend was rough?" he called as he examined the still bare walls.

"
I will survive
!" she sang, strolling out from the rest-room with mop and bucket in hand. At the sight of him, she grinned and did a disco dance step that involved a back bend with the mop and splashing water from the bucket.

"I don't think John Travolta used buckets," Flint informed her, fighting the happy surge of music she inspired. He really shouldn't encourage her dramatics. He couldn't afford to lose more plates.

"But I'm prettier," She emptied the water into the sink and got out the ammonia. "The place was too busy to clean up. Sorry."

"Sorry?
Busy
sounds good. Or was it all dollar-bill receipts again?" He checked the cash register. It was nicely full compared to a weekday.

Jo smelled of roses this morning. His head spun from just walking past her. That was the one drawback of having a brilliant waitress—a permanent hard-on.

"We had a few good tables. I marked up muffin prices for the tourists." She flashed him a wicked grin. "I want that espresso machine, so I figured I'd earn it for you."

Hell, for the thrill of that grin, he'd buy the machine, if he could only afford it. "Do you think your sister can make muffins more often?" He counted the cash, with the back of his brain buzzing with contradictory thoughts.

With her amazing talent, Jo belonged in Nashville. He could help her escape this hole into the big world. His insides cramped at the thought, which proved it was a good idea. She needed to be out of his life before their physical attraction burned through all his good intentions. But where in hell would his business be without her?

"Or should I reimburse her more to encourage her?" he continued, trying not to think too hard without caffeine.

"You're asking me? She's my sister. I'll tell you to pay her more."

"But you want an espresso machine," he reminded her.

"There is that." She pulled off her rubber gloves and studied him.

Flint pretended he didn't notice. She really wasn't beautiful in a perfect beauty-queen sort of way. Her eyes were too far apart, her nose took a wrong turn at the end, and her mouth spread across half her face when she smiled. But her cheerful disposition radiated beauty, and her figure could launch a thousand ships.

Even though she wore her rumpled hair in two pony-tails this morning—one over top of the other—she still looked as if she'd just climbed out of bed. A curl beside her ear swayed tauntingly when she leaned against the sink. Unless he found a way of sending her to Nashville, he really was going to have to look for a new apron for her. He was trying not to imagine what she was wearing—or not wearing—beneath that bulky bib. He saw only bare brown throat, turquoise earrings, and collarbones.

"I'll talk to Amy," she was saying intelligently while he salivated. "Maybe you can get a good discount on flour and sugar if you buy by quantity, so she can make a better profit. But the kids keep her pretty busy, and muffins won't buy appliances."

"Yeah, I know." Flint gave up counting money and leaned against the counter, wondering if he'd get her out of his system if he kissed her. "I'm thinking of buying an oven on credit and opening for dinner to pay for it. But I need to find more help if I do."

As he'd hoped, Jo's expressive face lit as if illuminated by fireworks. Her lush lips sprawled, revealing a slightly crooked tooth in otherwise pearly-white perfection. He was so focused on kissing those rose lips that he hardly heard her words.

"You are pure genius! I know a cook I can steal from Mack's Steakhouse, and teenagers can work evenings. Just weekends to start?"

Flint reluctantly shook off his fantasy of Jo's tongue down his throat. Or in his ear. Or anywhere else on him. Apparently he hadn't outgrown his adolescent fixation on wild women. "Yeah. I can't imagine too many locals stopping by during the week for dinner."

"But during the festival—maybe by August we could stay open every night? There are tourists up here all week when the festival is open." She watched him eagerly with those big green eyes that made a man feel as if he were seven feet tall.

"The festival?" he asked stupidly, apparently still under her spell.

"The MusicFest," she explained with an excited gesture that nearly knocked a sugar bowl flying. "We have local and out-of-town musicians playing every day and in the evenings on the weekend. It's like a big carnival. We hold it at the school because they have parking. We hire a huge tent, but if the weather turns ugly, we can usually squeeze into the cafeteria. It's not as big as the ones in Asheville or anything. We don't have enough room and we can't afford big names. But if we can get enough regional groups, we can draw their fans from as far away as Charlotte and Knoxville."

She'd mentioned the festival before. Flint didn't think he'd comprehended that it was a music festival. He supposed if it was just local groups, it wouldn't be a problem. He could stay here, sell coffee to the tourists, and resist temptation. His hand ached like hell after the beating it had taken scrambling around on rocks this weekend. He didn't need any more reminders of why he'd given up music.

Before he could formulate any reply, Jo bulldozed right on.

"If we could get a real name group," she said with such excitement that she was practically dancing, "we could pack the house. The extra crowd would pay for your oven, and the town might start making money so we could have an even bigger event next year."

Alarm flickered through him. Flint wanted to hold his hand up and stop her before she went any further, but he was frozen to the floor.

"You could help us," she crowed, just as he'd feared.

"Uh-uh. I'm not doing the music scene anymore. Go find another sucker for this scheme." With an arrow straight through his heart, he stalked away.

Now he remembered why he didn't want wild women—they were never satisfied.

Chapter Twelve

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Stunned by Flint's abrupt refusal when she'd thought they were finally understanding each other, Jo didn't immediately charge after him and demand explanations. Maybe she should have waited until he'd had his coffee before hitting him up with new ideas.

The morning rush started after that, and by then, it was too late to divert whatever was eating at him. Flint didn't emerge from his office.

What was this deal with pretending he was a decent human being one minute and then acting as if she'd shot him in the pants the next?

As the morning wore on and she fielded inquiries in his absence about Flint's parents and his kids and his plans for the cafe, Jo built up a slow head of steam.

"Do you think Flint's boys will start school here come fall?" Sally asked over her morning cup of decaf.

"I don't know," Jo answered curtly. "Why don't you go ask him?"

"I only asked because Mrs. Clinton was so nice in church yesterday," Sally said, looking a little hurt at Jo's tone. "I thought maybe I could help them out some."

"Well, you just go back there and tell Mr. High-and-Mighty Clinton that. I'm sure he'll be properly appreciative."

By the end of morning rush, Jo'd heard all about how Flint had sat with Sally in church and his parents had invited her over for Sunday brunch. Well, that was just fine. Sally had a good job at the school. If Sally married, she could support a family if her husband's job went belly-up because there was no damned business in this damned town because certain people wouldn't get off their royal asses to—