Sugar Beth couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “A job? You’re offering me a job?”
“I’m desperate, and at least you read.” Jewel set a stack of books on the counter near the register. “Meredith quit without giving me notice. One phone call from an old lover, and she was on her way to Jackson.”
It had been evident at Colin’s dinner party that Meredith was more than an employee, and Jewel’s offhandedness didn’t fool her. “I’m sorry. Not about the job; I couldn’t be happier. But a broken heart isn’t any fun.”
Jewel shrugged her small, graceful shoulders. “I’ll get over it. We weren’t right for each other. We both knew it. But we were lonely, and, let’s face it, the pickin’s are slim in Parrish for girls who like girls.”
Sugar Beth had to say it. “You understand, don’t you, that hiring me could hurt your business?”
Jewel smiled for the first time since Sugar Beth had walked into the store. “Are you kidding? After what I saw on Saturday night, customers are going to line up just to get inside and torture you.”
Unfortunately, she was probably right. Still, Sugar Beth accepted the job.
On her way back to Mockingbird Lane, she told herself this would make everything so much simpler. It wasn’t good for her to be around Colin so much. She flipped on the radio and hummed along with Lucinda Williams as she sung a needy-woman song, but that didn’t help shut down her thoughts. She had to stop overdramatizing and put things in perspective. Yesterday had been nothing more than a hot fudge sundae. She’d gone without one too long, so the craving had built up until she hadn’t been able to think about anything else. But now that she’d given in and eaten her fill, she wouldn’t need another for a long time.
She turned the volume louder. She should be thinking about how she could get into the attic instead of about hot fudge sundaes. Jewel wanted her to start the day after tomorrow, which meant she had to accomplish her goal right away. Her stomach grew queasy at the thought.
When she returned, she found the door to Colin’s office shut, but she couldn’t hear his keyboard clicking. She was beginning to realize that the writing life would be a lot more glamorous if writers didn’t actually have to write. Ryan’s coffee mug sat in the sink. Sugar Beth didn’t like the pain she’d seen on his face, and fair or not, she blamed Winnie for it. What kind of spineless woman ran out on her husband just because an old girlfriend showed up?
A movement outside distracted her. She gazed through the sunroom windows and saw a workman digging at the far end of the backyard. As far as she knew, no one was scheduled to—
Her eyes widened. She shot to the door, bolted across the yard, and came to a dead stop next to him. He propped a wrist on the handle of his shovel and regarded her with his customary hauteur. She held up her hand. “For the love of God, don’t say anything until my heart starts pumping again.”
“Perhaps you should put your head between your knees.”
“I was only teasing when I told everyone you had a drug problem. If I’d thought for one minute . . .”
“You will let me know when you’re done caterwauling, won’t you?”
He wore the raunchiest pair of Levi’s she’d ever seen—threadbare in the right knee, a hole in the butt—an equally ratty gray T-shirt, worn work gloves, and scuffed, dirt-encrusted brown work boots, one of which had a knot holding the shoelace together. An honest-to-God smudge ran up alongside that gorgeous honker of a nose. And he’d never looked more irresistible. She scowled. “Even your hair’s a mess.”
“I’m sure a quick trip to my stylist will set it right again.” He pushed the shovel back into the ground.
“I’m not kidding, Colin. If the Armani people see you like this, you’re going to get blacklisted.”
“Horrors.”
She wanted to drag him into the pecans, wrap her arms around his neck, and make love with him until they were both senseless. So much for one hot fudge sundae being enough to satisfy her.
Dark patches of sweat stained his T-shirt, and the muscles bunched in his arms as he drove the shovel in again. He tossed a square of turf into the wheelbarrow at his side. He was digging some kind of trench. Or maybe a shallow grave . . .
He knew she was curious, but he kept digging for a while before he condescended to explain. “I’ve decided to build a stone wall. Something low that defines the property. It’s warmed up enough to get started.”
“Does this have anything to do with how quiet your computer’s been lately?”
“I’ve been thinking about doing this for a while,” he said with a trace of defensiveness. He pointed toward the west, where the property dipped toward a small ravine. “I’m going to build some terracing back there. I want everything to conform to the landscape. Then I’ll extend the wall up the sides of the property.”
“It’s going to be a lot of work.”
“I can do it at my own pace.”
Although the front of Frenchman’s Bride had been exquisitely landscaped, no one had ever paid much attention to the back. He dug up more turf. There was something about a man with a shovel, and the sweat on his neck might as well have been chocolate sauce. It wasn’t fair. Brains and brawn should be two separate categories, not bundled into one irresistible package. She needed to pull herself together before she went after him with a spoon. But where to start?
“I have to get into the attic. I heard something scampering around up there while I was in your bathroom.”
“I haven’t heard anything.”
“If you’d been upstairs you would have.”
He stopped what he was doing and propped both hands on the shovel to study her. “You’ve been trying to get into the attic ever since you started working for me.”
“I’m a housekeeper. It’s part of my job.”
“You’re not that good a housekeeper.”
Time to make her getaway. “Fine. If you want squirrels nesting over your head, I’m sure I don’t care.” She flipped her hair and turned away. Unfortunately, she wasn’t fast enough because he threw down his shovel and stepped in front of her.
“This new book has distracted me more than I thought, or I’d have caught on faster. You think your painting’s in the attic.”
Her stomach sank.
“All those stories you’ve come up with . . . Squirrels, looking for dishes. They were excuses.”
She tried to see a way out, but every exit was blocked, so she stuck her nose in the air. “Call it what you like.”
“Why didn’t you just come out and ask me?”
She tried to think of a polite way to explain that she didn’t trust him not to claim the painting for himself. He was a smart man. Let him figure it out.
Except he didn’t.
The bridge of his nose furrowed. He cocked his head and waited. Right then, she had one of those blinding realizations that told her she’d made a gross miscalculation. She tried to save the situation.
“It occurred to me that you might . . . The house is yours, after all, and . . .” Her voice faded. She licked her lips.
Another few seconds passed before he finally got it, and then outrage took possession of his dirty, elegant face. “You thought I’d take the painting from you?”
Her reasoning had been sound. Surely he could see that. “You do own the house. And I didn’t have enough money to hire a lawyer to figure out what my rights were.”
“You thought I’d take your painting.” It was no longer a question but a cold, hard accusation.
“We were enemies,” she pointed out.
But she’d offended his honor, and he was having none of it. He leaned down and snatched up the shovel.
“I’m sorry,” she said as he rammed it back into the ground with enough force to sever a spinal column. “Really. A miscalculation on my part.”
“This conversation is over.”
“A gross miscalculation. Come on, Colin. I really need your help. Show me how to get into the attic.”
Another clump of turf flew into the wheelbarrow. “What if your painting’s there? Aren’t you afraid I’ll steal it?”