Chapter 3 #2
“Starting now.” Sarah stepped on the gas to pass the truck she’d been following, in a new hurry to get to Tennessee and hit the reset button on her life that had gone off the rails. “If Dad yells at me for making this trip, I’m going to tell him I’m dropping out of school.”
Her friend gasped. “You wouldn’t.”
Sarah pulled back in the right-hand lane and locked in a cruising speed faster than she’d been driving before.
“School has been a waste of my time for two years straight. I absolutely would.” Besides, she was scared of returning to Miami, where a letter had found its way into her mailbox from the man she hated most in the world.
She shuddered and hoped her dad would make everything okay again.
“Be careful,” Mathilda whispered into the phone. “I mean it.”
Sarah downed the last of the energy drink just as she crossed the Tennessee state line, wondering how it would taste with vodka. Not while driving obviously. But later, maybe.
She needed something to forget about that letter burning a hole in her purse and running for hours hadn’t come close to making her forget.
“Will do,” Sarah lied just before she disconnected the call and turned up the radio again.
This time, she had no intention of being careful.
“Eventually, I want to do caramel with ombré highlights.” Erin pointed to a picture in a magazine while her favorite stylist, Trish, worked on her hair at The Strand salon the next morning.
The salon opened early on Tuesdays, making it easy for her to change her hair color before she needed to be at Last Chance Vintage.
She wasn’t the only one who appreciated the extended hours.
Daisy Spencer—soon to be her brother Mack’s grandmother-in-law—was seated at the manicure booth getting a gel coat of bright pink on her toes.
Her boyfriend, Harlan, read the paper in the waiting area.
Erin sighed. Mrs. Spencer navigated the dating world better at eighty-plus years old than Erin ever had.
“That will look fantastic on you.” Trish nodded while she skimmed the blow-dryer over a section of Erin’s hair, smoothing the newly bronzed strands around a fat round brush.
“But I think this color is pretty hot, too. Or maybe I’m just glad you let me pull out that black.
How long have I been telling you that color is too strong for your features? ”
“Six months.” Not that she’d been counting the days since the guy who’d lied to her with every breath had turned her into the kind of person she’d never wanted to be. “Ever since I came back to Heartache.”
“So what made you finally change your mind?” Trish turned down the setting on the dryer as she began working on the front of Erin’s hair.
“That clothing drive I told you about?” She had already posted flyers in the salon and asked Trish to mention it to her clients. “I’m going to get some television publicity for it and I didn’t want to look like—you know—super scary.”
Personally, Erin thought she’d rocked the black hair, but her whole style lately screamed “don’t mess with me,” and she wasn’t going to risk it costing her any clothes donations. She was committed, both feet in, to making this thing a success.
Trish frowned as she shut off the dryer and set it aside. “I was hoping the new color might have something to do with a certain gorgeous someone I saw leaving your store after hours yesterday.”
Remy.
Just thinking about him stirred a mixed bag of feelings that she wanted no part of—curiosity, suspicion, undeniable attraction.
“Definitely not, but—” She was about to say more and then decided the less said the better.
“But?” Trish twirled Erin’s chair around and handed her a small mirror so she could see the back of her hair.
“But that was the producer for the TV show Interstate Antiquer. Last Chance Vintage is going to be featured on it. He said they will cover the clothing drive so I’ll increase my donations.” And the way Remy looked at her didn’t have a damn thing to do with her hair color.
Something unspoken, but definite, had passed between them while she’d been showing him the space she was renovating. A look, maybe. She hadn’t imagined that moment of mutual awareness any more than she’d imagined Remy’s reaction.
He hadn’t been able to leave fast enough.
“So you’ll be working with him?” Trish met her eyes in the mirror.
“No. It sounds like I’ll be working with a production crew that makes the actual episodes—a show host, a couple of camera people.” She had the impression Remy wouldn’t be back in Heartache if he could avoid it. Something about his hasty retreat almost made her wonder if he was married.
An honorable guy would walk away fast if he felt a stray attraction to someone else, right? She wanted to believe that, but that was about as far as she’d come in getting past the Patrick ordeal—an acknowledgment that she still held out hope for some marriages.
She just didn’t hold out much for herself.
“That is so exciting.” Trish beamed as she admired Erin’s hair. “You’ll look fantastic on television. And this will be so good for Heartache.”
Standing, Erin checked her watch and noticed she was a few minutes late opening the store. Digging out her wallet, she called goodbye to Mrs. Spencer and Harlan, then followed Trish to the checkout register.
“It will be great to rake in lots of clothes. I’m really excited about the chance to help out women who—” had been cheated on by two-timing bastards “—need an extra hand.”
“Yes, well for that reason, too.” Trish rang up the cost of the services. “But I meant this will also be good for the rest of us. A nationally broadcast show with your adorable store featured? It’s going to put Heartache on the map for tourists. Your sister must be turning cartwheels.”
Something about the way she said it made Erin stop.
“I don’t think it’s a show with that much reach.” Interstate Antiquer was geared toward a niche audience.
“Are you kidding me?” Trish ran Erin’s credit card and printed the receipt. “I’ve watched it, and I don’t know anything about antiques. People tune in for the slice of small-town life to get a feel for a place. It’ll definitely bring tourism to town. Your father would have loved this, Erin.”
Erin’s father had passed away eighteen months ago.
He had been the mayor of Heartache for over a decade, helping to bring the town out of a recession.
The Finley name was practically synonymous with Heartache.
While Erin was proud of her town, she didn’t want any part of expanding tourism and bringing lots of outsiders in.
She was a behind-the-scenes woman, for one thing.
And for another? She liked things here the way they were—Heartache was a place that still felt a little isolated from the rest of the world. It didn’t even have an airport. That time she’d planned to bring Patrick to town with her they’d had tickets to fly into Nashville.
“We’ll see,” Erin said finally, when she realized Trish had been waiting for some kind of response. She took her receipt and jammed it into her purse, wondering if she’d made a huge mistake by saying yes to Remy.
“Hey, isn’t that your producer friend now?” Trish pointed out the window where they could see the front of Last Chance Vintage. Where Remy Weldon stood, back against the glass storefront, cell phone pressed to his ear.
The fluttery feeling that started in Erin’s chest would have been exciting if she was sixteen. Right now, it felt ominous. She took a deep breath.
“Guess I’d better open the store.” Erin scrawled a quick signature on the receipt.
“You said it.” Trish’s eyes remained fixed on Remy. “Go get him, tiger.”
Erin shook her head. “Seriously. Not interested, Trish, but thank you for the great hair.”
Her friend winked at her.
Main Street held only a handful of local businesses.
Her shop. The sandwich place. The Strand.
There was a gas station farther down, and a pizza parlor.
Then at the corner, she could just see Lucky’s Grocer and the village square.
She liked it this way and she didn’t want to see four new fast-food chains pop up if tourism increased.
“Looking for me?” Erin called as she crossed the street.
Remy tilted his head sideways as he tucked his phone into his pocket. “I don’t know. Is that you?”
“Of course. I don’t look that different.” Her heart beat too fast and she didn’t want to talk about her appearance. “Figured I’d better spruce up the locks if I’m going on television. Don’t want to embarrass my mom.”
Remy leaned a shoulder into the doorjamb, far too close to where she needed to insert the key in the dead bolt. But then, he seemed distracted by her hair.
“What was wrong with your color?” His eyes wandered over her in a way that seemed more like a professional assessment than a personal inventory.
That is, until his gaze reached breast level. It would have been laughable at how fast his chin shot up except that he seemed…pained. Feeling that she’d witnessed some private part of him, she turned her attention to the lock.
Remy stepped back to give her room, taking all his lean good looks and masculinity a few inches away.
“Black wasn’t my natural color.” She let herself in and he followed slowly, closing the door as the bell jingled.
She flipped on the lights. “See that photo of Heather and me?” She pointed to a shot her mother had taken of them on the front porch when they were about nine and ten years old, sharing a bowl of raspberries and wearing matching blue dresses.
“That shade of red is my color. Heather still looks exactly the same, by the way.”
“That’s a great picture.”
“My mom has always been good with a camera.” It was one way Erin had been able to relate to her mother since Diana saw the world differently through the lens, where her perceptions weren’t quite as frenetic.
Erin fired up the computer and turned on some music.
“I’m surprised you’re here. I thought for sure I’d seen the last of you yesterday after you sprinted out the door. ”
“About that—” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his sleek dark trousers.
His white silk T-shirt probably meant it was a casual day for him, but since he wore it with a gray jacket, he still looked extraordinarily well put together.
“I wanted to apologize. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately and—” He shook his head as if he wasn’t sure where to go with that next.
“It’s no big deal,” she said, leaping into the conversational void to save him, or possibly herself. She didn’t need to hear anything overly personal about Remy. “I can imagine it must be difficult traveling away from home so often.”
Her eyes went surreptitiously to his left hand, bare of a wedding ring. Was it her imagination, or could she see a hint of a tan line there?
“That’s no excuse for bad business.” He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “I figured I’d deliver this personally so I could apologize. This is the contract and some information about how we film and what to expect.”
“Nice.” She reached for the papers, grateful for the counter between them. “I will look it over tonight.”
There was something incredibly appealing about his jaw, which sported a few days’ growth of beard, scruffy enough to keep him from being movie-star handsome. She wondered how many women threw themselves at him in his line of work.
“Erin.” He didn’t let go of the papers, his eyes locked on hers. Confusing the hell out of her.
What was this push-pull game he was playing and not just with the contract?
The bell on the shop door rang, the entrance banging open as a crying teen stepped inside the store. Erin and Remy jumped apart. Erin was about to ask the girl what was wrong, but the young woman’s green eyes landed on Remy.
“Daddy!” she wailed, rushing toward him. “Where have you been?”