Hot in Hellcat Canyon by Julie Anne Long Page A

nice.
    “Yeah, thought I recognized that car of hers,” Glenn said. “Damn thing is held together with chewing gum and paper clips and string, practically. Wonder when the last time she changed her oil was? Women and their cars.” Glenn gave his head a long-suffering shake. “I have two daughters. Two boys, too. One’s a surgeon at the hospital in Black Oak. But that Britt has some smarts, though, I’ll hand that to her.”
    J. T. thought about Britt and that poor, sad ficus. “Something tells me she’s good about stuff like oil. I had in mind renting a house in Hellcat Canyon for a time, since I’ll be filming near town. The house I saw today wasn’t quite right, however. Britt was kind enough to drop me off here.”
    Glenn grunted an assent. “House has to fit a man. Like a truck.”
    This might in fact be true. J. T. didn’t know. He hadn’t lived in any single place that felt like home since he’d left Tennessee, and he hadn’t thought it mattered. Thanks to what Britt had said today about Rosemary, he now knew his notion of home was lodged in him like an old bullet: it was blue-eyed Mary’s, shirts drying on a line, green everywhere your eye fell, living things rustling about in the trees and brush. An old pain that couldn’t be reached or removed.
    He felt a sudden irrational surge of envy for the guy standing next to him. Glenn Harwood knew what home was.
    “Yep,” was all he said.
    They were quiet again as someone in the garage clanged some metal part good and hard.
    J. T. had the distinct sense that Glenn was working up to something.
    “She’s a good girl, Britt. A real sweetheart with a wit on her. Everyone here likes her. She keeps a bit to herself, though. Like something spooked her once.”
    It was admirably subtle.
    But J. T. was pretty sure this was Glenn’s way of warning this Hollywood Casanova to not be cavalier with Britt.
    If not to stay away completely.
    He instantly seesawed between being amused at the guy’s nerve and sizzlingly angry at the insinuation.
    Glenn didn’t know him at all.
    But then, only a few people really did. But there was a trail of photos and articles implying things about him, not all of which were wrong, and J. T. had to admit he would draw the very same conclusions about himself if he saw the photos.
    He went absolutely silent and rigid for a moment. But one of the advantages of being just a little older was that he thought now before he spoke and good sense more often than not elbowed aside his ego.
    He was the interloper here in Hellcat Canyon, after all. He’d had to prove things to people his entire life. Why stop now? he thought ironically.
    He guessed, in the end, he was glad someone cared enough about Britt to issue a warning.
    “I kind of got that sense, too,” he said carefully.
    It wasn’t really reassurance, but something told him that Glenn was no dummy.
    They didn’t look at each other.
    Glenn just gave a short nod.
    Spooked . An interesting choice of word. But the more J. T. thought about it, the more it kind of fit. Because . . . how had she put it? Why would she only “want the basics”? In his experience, people like that were made—through some kind of experience—not born.
    When he’d asked her whether she’d learned anything the hard way . . .
    Well, no person with a heart would have asked her a single other question after seeing her expression.
    Britt Langley might be hiding something. But hiding didn’t come naturally to her.
    Her eyes gave her away.
    They watched their respective trucks for a little moment of silence.
    “Film crew in the area will mean more customers at the Misty Cat,” Glenn mused.
    “Yep. I’ll make sure they know about it, too.”
    They were guys, and they didn’t really need to say any more than that. Glenn’s satisfaction with this turn of events was palpable, and J. T. was a businessman, too.
    “I believe I met one of your daughters and your granddaughter—outside the flower shop. Cute