Silk Stalkings by Diane Vallere Page A

muddy field. Dirt was dried and caked on his shirt and jeans. In contrast, his hands were clean, as though they were the only body part to see a bar of soap all day. One by one the dirty man picked up a shot glass and a lemon and handed it to someone behind him in a similar state of grunge.
    â€œThis place is going to be out of control in an hour,” said a voice from behind the bar.
    I turned to look for the voice and saw nobody. “Down,” said the voice. I looked down and saw Duke in his wheelchair.
    â€œSorry. It’s dark in here and I wasn’t thinking—”
    â€œNo worries. I get a lot of that. Makes it easy to sneak back here when I need to refill the pretzel jar in my office. Can I get you ladies something to drink?”
    I glanced at the row of beers on tap, unsure how Duke would manage to tap them if we were to order one. Before I could work it all out in my head, Genevieve leaned forward. “Do you have anything bubbly back there?”
    â€œYou’re the French girl, right?”
    â€œI’m not really French. I’m just drawn that way.” She giggled.
    â€œYou’re cute. Poly, you should bring this one around more.”
    â€œI’ll see what I can do.”
    Duke rolled his chair to a small wine cooler and pulledout a bottle of champagne. “Hope you don’t mind. It’s made in California.”
    â€œSo was I,” she said without missing a beat.
    Duke popped the bottle, the sound only temporarily piercing the low-level noise. He poured the contents into two wineglasses—I assumed he didn’t have champagne coupes or flutes lying around—and handed one to each of us. A cheer went up from the dirty men, followed by the sound of shot glasses being slammed onto tables.
    â€œFlorists,” he said with a shake of his head. “They come into town every year when this pageant takes place. Commandeer the greenhouse on Mr. Halliwell’s property. Next thing you know, the whole town turns orange.”
    â€œTangorli,” I said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s not the color of orange, it’s the color of Tangorli fruit. Right?”
    â€œBetween us, I don’t know how anybody can tell the difference.”
    In the background, I heard a glass break. Duke excused himself and rolled out from behind the bar. I sipped at my champagne and relaxed for the first time in days.
    â€œHe sure knows how to throw a happy hour,” Genevieve said.
    â€œHis only problem is that his current clientele is going to keep him from getting a new clientele.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” she asked.
    â€œLook around. Not counting us, what do you see?”
    She spun her bar stool 180 degrees so she was facing the interior of the bar. “Lots and lots of men. Big men. Dirty men. Loud men.” She spun herself back. “There’s a lot of flannel in here,” she added.
    â€œIf you wanted to go out for a drink, would you come here?”
    â€œWe
are
here.”
    â€œWithout me.”
    â€œI’m not the type to go out to a bar drinking by myself. Neither are you. For women, drinking is social.”
    An idea tickled the back of my mind. “Genevieve, you’re a genius. You know that?” I raised my glass to hers and clinked it. After taking a sip, I grabbed a couple of cocktail napkins and a pen and scribbled
fabric store—happy hour—craft project
. If I could build off what I saw in this room but draw in my target audience, I’d have something pretty unique!
    Genevieve excused herself to the restroom and I scribbled more notes on my napkin. Duke returned. “You’re not stealing my secrets, are you?”
    â€œOnly the good ones.”
    He called to the bartender and gestured for him to refill our glasses and pour one for himself.
    â€œSo, are you still going to judge the pageant?” I asked. “I know Nolene asked you to be a judge, but with Harvey Halliwell being