One Hot Summer by Melissa Cutler

of his hips as he moved—and stuck his hand out for Alfalfa, er, Petey, to shake. Remedy might have hummed, just a little, in the back of her throat, at the fine view Micah gave her by leaning over the counter.
    When he turned in Remedy’s direction, she sank behind her menu. Despite her efforts, she felt his eyes on her as he walked to a table across the room from where she sat. He took a chair facing her, and when she dared raise her head to look at him straight on she watched a smile touch his lips as he used his tongue to shift a toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. Stupid toothpick, always drawing her attention to his mouth like that.
    She raised her menu to block him out again.
    â€œYou’re still holding your menu. Barbara hasn’t taken your order yet?” That deep drawl, on top of everything else about his look tonight, was too much. How was this guy even real?
    Remedy summoned her courage and lowered her menu to the table. “I was starting to believe Barbara is a figment of Petey’s imagination.”
    Micah absentmindedly picked up his butter knife, then tapped the edge against the table. “Good guess. But I’m thinking that she probably took one look at your ID badge and headed in the opposite direction. A lot of folks around here aren’t big fans of Briscoe Ranch.”
    Remedy’s hand went to her chest, her fingers closing around the ID badge clipped to her shirt collar and that she’d been unaware of until he’d mentioned it. She tore it off and stuffed it in her purse.
    So Barbara was real and she wasn’t a fan of Briscoe Ranch, which didn’t make any sense but matched the muted hostility Remedy had felt from other Dulcet citizens—and from Micah—since the moment she’d arrived in town.
    Before she could think better of the idea, she pushed out of her chair, grabbed her purse, and stomped to Micah’s table. He didn’t bother sitting up straighter and his bemused expression never wavered.
    She dropped her purse on the table, then sat in the chair across from his. “I don’t get it.”
    â€œGet what?”
    â€œWhy the people of Dulcet wouldn’t be fans of Briscoe Ranch. The resort brings in tons of revenue and tourists all year long. Not to mention how many townspeople it employs. You’d think they’d be grateful for the extra business the resort brings in.”
    With a flicker of his eyebrows, he took his toothpick out and tossed it on the table, then tipped his chair back onto two legs. “Here’s a tip. Don’t ever launch into corporate justification that begins with ‘you’d think they’d be grateful.’”
    â€œBut—”
    He slammed the chair legs back to the floor. “You want to survive in this town or not?”
    She locked eyes with him. “I do. Badly.”
    His hard glare softened, but he didn’t look away, so she didn’t, either. Such long lashes he had. She’d noticed that at the wedding reception the previous weekend. Long lashes framing dark, soulful eyes set in a perfect, rugged face. If only he wasn’t such a righteous alpha jerk—the thorn in her side, the perfect descriptor that Alex used.
    â€œAll right,” Micah said. “I’ll answer your question. The shops in town that cater to the tourists are doing well, for the most part, but all those tourists you mentioned have transformed our main street into a series of trinket shops and tourist diners, which has divided the town into those who are drinking the resort’s Kool-Aid and those who aren’t so impressed with having their home invaded by a steady stream of entitled snobs.” He busied himself lining it up perfectly with the fork and spoon. “And then there’s the faction of people who will never forget that Briscoe Ranch was indirectly responsible for the worst fire this part of Texas has ever seen.”
    Something about