“Claire—”
The ringing phone was as welcome as a stay of execution.
“CJ’s Hobbies. How may I help you?”
“What are your Saturday hours? We’re coming in from out of state.”
“Ten to Six through December 23rd.”
“And do you know when the Adena display opens?”
She cocked an eyebrow at James and put the call on speaker. She used her public speaking voice, the one that carried across the meeting hall.
“I’m so sorry. The new Adena management decided not to continue the holiday trains as they were a waste of money. I’m trying to find a new home for them, but it may not be until the end of December. I know what a disappointment this is. At the very least, you’re welcome to visit the store. I’ll have the holiday décor up by next weekend. In the meantime, I suggest you contact Adena’s acting president to voice your opinion on the decision.” She rattled off the number from memory. “Thanks for Choo-choosing CJ’s.”
The weight of James’ stare pushed against her body, but she was an expert in resistance training. Sometimes a job required crazy contortions in order to actualize her vision. She met his gaze and rocked back on her heels, daring him to say something. Since the cancellation, she’d told anyone who asked about the holiday trains to call his direct office line, once Ryan provided her with the number. From what she heard through the rumor mill, a number of her loyal customers had lodged a complaint. It gave her a small sense of satisfaction, but she doubted it would do any good.
He refused to look away. She wasn’t sure what she hated more. The way the left side of his mouth crept up into a cock-eyed grin, or the way she wanted to lick it away. Thank goodness for the counter in front of her. She gripped the edge and drummed her fingers on the wood top. It should hold her up if her knees gave way.
“So I have you to blame for overwhelming the phone lines?” His voice sent shivers down her spine in a way that would be oh so pleasant if he weren’t such an idiot.
“No. You brought this on yourself. Can I help you with a purchase or are you wasting floor space, being unproductive in a place of business?”
“Don’t be like this, please?” He reached across the counter and touched her arm. Her traitorous body refused to flinch. With great effort, she convinced her legs to back away and break the connection.
“Like what?”
“Angry.”
She harrumphed, picking up the electrostatic cloth she used for dusting.
“It wasn’t personal. How could it be? You surprised me in my office simply by being you. Clearly, the decision was made before the meeting. The first time I saw you in the diner you said something about needing muscle. I remember because it was so strange and because you and your laugh were so beautiful. You must have known something.”
He thought she was beautiful. No-one called her that. Cute, quirky, and adorkable, yes. But beautiful implied something else, a depth that had nothing to do with what she wore or how she colored her hair. She had thought his eyes beautiful until she discovered the lack of soul behind them. She stared at the dust cloth, much safer than looking up and sinking into a trap.
“I figured there would be layoffs and people needing a paycheck. And, gee, surprise, there are. No one, except maybe Walter, thought the trains wouldn’t run on time.”
“Breaking the contract was strictly a business decision based on numerical evidence.”
“You’re an outsider, exiled to fly-over country. You obviously don’t understand that business is personal in a town like this.” She wiped a nonexistent smudge on the register. They could have been interlopers together, at least for a few months.
He caught her hand, covering it with his, reminding her of how well they fit together that night at his place. She looked up and their gazes locked.
“I miss you.”
She could have said the same thing, but she didn’t, and she wouldn’t. Her body might miss him, but he’d brought too much instability to town and to her life. Her fingers twitched and curled toward the foreign fingertips resting on her palm. Previously unfocused energy coursed through her and sought an outlet. His touch completed some sort of strange internal circuit, but he was the wrong track.
“So? I miss the bubble-gum that came with baseball cards, but it isn’t coming back.” She pulled away, turning her back on him.
“Can’t we keep work, at work, behind office doors, and us as something entirely separate—”
“No.” Looking at him would weaken her resolve. She fussed with perfectly organized shelves to keep busy. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do in my place of work and since you think work and play can be separate, you should get out of here if you’re not buying.”
His sigh reached her ears. She listened to his foot falls, each farther away than the last. The bells jingled, but the door failed to emit its customary squeak.
“At the very least, will you call off your dogs?”
She turned. “What dogs?”
“You know. Ask those people to stop egging my house, messing with my car and above all the flaming bags of poop.”
She chuckled in spite of herself. “Not my style, but classic.”
“I waste all this time cleaning – which is a lousy way to spend time. If I can’t spend time watching sunsets with you, I’d rather get this job done and get the hell out of town since it’s pretty clear I’m not welcome. Ask them to stop? Please?”
Not welcome. He had to use that phrase in that particular tone, a mix of defiance and defeat. The engine in her brain steamed past echoes. Age four: turned away from the preschool she loved because Mom’s checks were no longer welcomed. Age five: cast out of two or three houses, the blow-up mattresses in
