Bagging groceries at the store? Running a vacuum in the hall at the Angel’s Nest? Directing traffic at the stoplight?”
She smiled. “Nah, I just have the two jobs. Covers my mortgage and the basics. And my mortgage is barely anything, especially by California standards.”
She pulled up in front of Ernie’s Garage as she said that.
He managed to shoulder open the door, unfold his body with a modicum of grace and get out of her car.
He leaned into the driver’s side window.
“Well, thanks for showing me that place. You gonna be able to get that plant out on your own?”
“Oh, yeah. I can just slide it onto a rolling chair and push it up to my front porch.”
He stared at her, bemused. She said this as if she did it all the time.
“So I can tell my boss you’ll move right into that house?” She gave him a bright, winsome smile.
He snorted. “You can tell him I’m a complete, hopeless diva. Or whatever the male equivalent of that is. You know how actors are, after all.”
That was pure sarcasm, but this only made her grin, which only made him like her more, because he was perverse.
“I honestly can’t blame you about the house,” she sympathized.
He could tell it was true. Her sympathy was balm.
“So, Britt, you’re clearly a compassionate woman. Have pity. Are you really going to consign me to the purgatory of the Angel’s Nest? Those angels are judging me.”
“If you behave yourself, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Darlin’, I’m still hoping you’ll give me a reason to misbehave.”
She tilted her head. “Boy, it’s like a faucet, isn’t it, J. T.? The charm?”
“It’s like a faucet, isn’t it, Britt? The prickly rejoinders?”
She paused.
“ ‘Prickly . . . rejoinders’?” she quoted.
With great, slow, wondering, savoring pleasure.
Amusement lit up her whole face.
Damn, but he liked this woman. She was maddening .
“I know a lot of other words you might be interested in, Britt Langley. I’d be happy to whisper them to you right now.”
“I know a two-letter word you ought to look up, J. T.”
She didn’t sound or even look angry. She was smiling, and she’d swatted that back to him like a tennis pro. There was an accomplished flirt in there somewhere underneath all the thorns.
She did, however, sound firm.
He’d never had so much fun being thoroughly blown off.
“I have to get going,” she said. “Gary will get in touch with you if something opens up.”
J. T. sighed deeply and with great resignation.
She laughed at his suffering and drove away with a wave.
CHAPTER 6
H e walked into the garage, smiling in a way no man who’d just been resoundingly rejected ought to smile, and inhaled with pleasure the good, masculine motor-oil-and-gasoline perfume of the garage.
A big gray-haired guy sporting a really high quality mustache and a significant belly was waiting for his own truck, which was getting its oil changed. The two of them gazed up at their vehicles on the rack as if in moral support.
He turned and saw J. T. “You must be that Hollywood fella.”
“So I am. You’re that Misty Cat fella.”
“So I am. Glenn Harwood. Me and my wife, Sherrie, we own the place.”
“J. T. McCord.” J. T. shook Glenn’s outthrust hand.
“This your truck?” Glenn gestured upward at J. T.’s old Dodge Ram.
“Yep.”
“Had her for some time, eh?” Glenn diagnosed.
“Since she was born, you might say. She breaks, I fix her.”
Glenn chuckled. “A truck’s a commitment. Not just a commodity.”
“Agreed.”
They stood in silence a moment longer.
“Was that our Britt dropped you off?” Glenn said, almost idly.
“Our?” Interesting choice of words.
“Oh, we kind of think of our employees that way, me and Sherrie. A bit like family.”
“Family, huh? Even that glowering guy behind the grill?”
“Oh, sure. Nice kid, Giorgio, underneath it all. Talented cook.”
Sure he is , J. T. thought. Nice like a snakebite is
She smiled. “Nah, I just have the two jobs. Covers my mortgage and the basics. And my mortgage is barely anything, especially by California standards.”
She pulled up in front of Ernie’s Garage as she said that.
He managed to shoulder open the door, unfold his body with a modicum of grace and get out of her car.
He leaned into the driver’s side window.
“Well, thanks for showing me that place. You gonna be able to get that plant out on your own?”
“Oh, yeah. I can just slide it onto a rolling chair and push it up to my front porch.”
He stared at her, bemused. She said this as if she did it all the time.
“So I can tell my boss you’ll move right into that house?” She gave him a bright, winsome smile.
He snorted. “You can tell him I’m a complete, hopeless diva. Or whatever the male equivalent of that is. You know how actors are, after all.”
That was pure sarcasm, but this only made her grin, which only made him like her more, because he was perverse.
“I honestly can’t blame you about the house,” she sympathized.
He could tell it was true. Her sympathy was balm.
“So, Britt, you’re clearly a compassionate woman. Have pity. Are you really going to consign me to the purgatory of the Angel’s Nest? Those angels are judging me.”
“If you behave yourself, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Darlin’, I’m still hoping you’ll give me a reason to misbehave.”
She tilted her head. “Boy, it’s like a faucet, isn’t it, J. T.? The charm?”
“It’s like a faucet, isn’t it, Britt? The prickly rejoinders?”
She paused.
“ ‘Prickly . . . rejoinders’?” she quoted.
With great, slow, wondering, savoring pleasure.
Amusement lit up her whole face.
Damn, but he liked this woman. She was maddening .
“I know a lot of other words you might be interested in, Britt Langley. I’d be happy to whisper them to you right now.”
“I know a two-letter word you ought to look up, J. T.”
She didn’t sound or even look angry. She was smiling, and she’d swatted that back to him like a tennis pro. There was an accomplished flirt in there somewhere underneath all the thorns.
She did, however, sound firm.
He’d never had so much fun being thoroughly blown off.
“I have to get going,” she said. “Gary will get in touch with you if something opens up.”
J. T. sighed deeply and with great resignation.
She laughed at his suffering and drove away with a wave.
CHAPTER 6
H e walked into the garage, smiling in a way no man who’d just been resoundingly rejected ought to smile, and inhaled with pleasure the good, masculine motor-oil-and-gasoline perfume of the garage.
A big gray-haired guy sporting a really high quality mustache and a significant belly was waiting for his own truck, which was getting its oil changed. The two of them gazed up at their vehicles on the rack as if in moral support.
He turned and saw J. T. “You must be that Hollywood fella.”
“So I am. You’re that Misty Cat fella.”
“So I am. Glenn Harwood. Me and my wife, Sherrie, we own the place.”
“J. T. McCord.” J. T. shook Glenn’s outthrust hand.
“This your truck?” Glenn gestured upward at J. T.’s old Dodge Ram.
“Yep.”
“Had her for some time, eh?” Glenn diagnosed.
“Since she was born, you might say. She breaks, I fix her.”
Glenn chuckled. “A truck’s a commitment. Not just a commodity.”
“Agreed.”
They stood in silence a moment longer.
“Was that our Britt dropped you off?” Glenn said, almost idly.
“Our?” Interesting choice of words.
“Oh, we kind of think of our employees that way, me and Sherrie. A bit like family.”
“Family, huh? Even that glowering guy behind the grill?”
“Oh, sure. Nice kid, Giorgio, underneath it all. Talented cook.”
Sure he is , J. T. thought. Nice like a snakebite is
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