“She’s putting all her energy into establishing her business,” Arlene said with an approving nod. “Besides, she’s only lived here for a short time. Can be hard to tell the players—who’s married, who’s not—without a program.”
“Exactly why I gave her a list.”
“What kind of list?” Beck asked with trepidation.
“Five worthy bachelors within a ten-mile radius. Naturally, you came in number one.”
Try as he might, Beck couldn’t quite suppress a groan.
“You didn’t.” Of course, she did, he thought as Mrs. Redtree’s lips curved into a self-satisfied smile. “Not every man wants a wife.”
“Who said anything about marriage? Sawyer needs some fun. As do you. Kick up your heels while you can and stop living like a monk.”
Not a monk, Beck grumbled to himself then suppressed a sigh. Close, he supposed, but not quite. Ah, the joys of living in a small town. Everyone knew your business, including the state of your sex life.
Arlene sent Beck a sympathetic smile before shifting the car into gear.
“We need to go, Mom. Don’t want to be late for the Take Back Our Lakes luncheon.”
“One of my pet charities. Important to give back to the community.” Mrs. Redtree seemed satisfied when Beck nodded his agreement but had a few more pieces of advice. “Ask Sawyer out. Hit the sheets if the mood is right. A healthy sex life is good for the circulation—and the complexion. Now, run along. I have things to do. And Beck?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Don’t forget to use a condom.”
Shaking his head, chuckling, rolling his eyes—all seemed appropriate—Beck slammed the car door. He adored Mrs. Redtree, admired her strong personality and sharp mind. But he was glad business kept him so busy he rarely had the pleasure of her company.
Crossing the street, Beck waved as his name was called out. He nodded toward friends and smiled when a child around the age of six broke free from his mother and tried to use his leg as a Jungle Gym. Kids loved him. The citizens of Eatonville felt the same and with a few notable exceptions—one annoying asshole by the name of Floyd Carp came to mind.
The love affair was mutual.
Not so long ago, Beck had a front-row seat to what the world had to offer. On tour as the opening act for the biggest rock band in the world, singing and playing with his best friends, he traveled from one end of the globe to the other. Six continents, countless cities.
In twelve short months, Beck acquired a bit of polish and a touch of sophistication. Even learned how to order a decent bottle of wine without feeling like a complete fraud. If things with Razor’s Edge had taken a different, less disastrous turn, he might be a different person, living a different life filled with fancy cars, expensive hotel suites, and adoring fans.
However, even before the band imploded, he had a personal epiphany. In his mind, his heart, his soul, Beck Kramer would always be a small-town boy. Though he returned with his tail tucked between his legs, he knew without a doubt, he was where he belonged.
Kramer Construction was Beck’s focus, not music, not fame. He and his mother ran the company to make money—they weren’t fools. But when they could, they championed other local businesses.
Hale Nursery was the perfect example. Beck needed a full-time landscaper, someone he could recommend to his clients without hesitation. If everything worked out, Sawyer Hale would return the favor.
Beck thought of Mrs. Redtree as he opened the yellow door, a small bell announcing his entrance. He was too busy with work, too focused on expanding Kramer Construction, to divert any of his precious time to a woman. Anything more than a professional, quid pro quo relationship with Sawyer Hale was out of the question.
“May I help you?” A young woman wearing a neon-blue t-shirt stretched over a protruding baby bump greeted Beck with a wide, welcoming smile. Before he could answer, her gaze narrowed slightly. “Have we met?”
Stunning, with skin the color of rich caramel, amber eyes, and long silky, straight-as-an-arrow, black hair held back by a flowered barrette, Beck knew she was someone he wouldn’t easily forget.
“I’d remember.” He grinned. “Believe me.”
“Are you flirting?” A look of amused pleasure lit her face. She patted her stomach. “Been awhile. Wait until I tell Sharon, eight months along, ankles the size of cantaloupes, and I can still turn a handsome man’s head. I’m Talia, by the way.”
Talia’s ankles looked fine to Beck, but what did he know about pregnant women? Little to nothing.
“Beck Kramer. Who’s Sharon? Your sister?”
“Wife.” As Talia shook his hand, a glint entered her eyes as if a light switch flipped on in her brain. “Of course. The rock star.”
“Ex.” Beck’s lips quirked into a self-deprecating smile. “Though I’m not sure my brief brush with fame ever put me in the star category.”
“I watched a few YouTube videos. Trust me, you qualified.” Talia waggled her eyebrows. “Yummy. Nothing sexier than a sweaty drummer.”
“Now who’s flirting?” Beck accused.
“Guilty.” Laughing, Talia crossed her arms. “I was—am—a big fan.”
Years after Razor’s Edge played their last concert, long since they spoke their last heated words, Beck continued to meet fans in unexpected places.
By now, the band should have been nothing more than a one-line footnote in music history—listed under what might have been. Yet, Talia, neither a friend nor family member, was proof of the group’s inexplicable staying power.
A little adoration he could handle, even enjoy; his musician’s ego hadn’t disappeared altogether. What he dreaded were the inevitable questions. Questions he refused to answer except in the privacy of his own mind
Why did the group break up? Hell if he knew. Do you stay in touch with your old bandmates? No. And they don’t stay in touch with me. Then the final question. The one that royally pissed him off.
What’s Jaxon Cross, massively successful rock god, really like? Fantastic musician. Brilliant songwriter. The biggest son of a bitch to ever walk the face of the planet.
Prepared to dance around Talia’s curiosity, Beck waited, but to his surprise—his relief—she left the questions unasked.
“My guess is you didn’t come into the store to reminisce about your Razor’s Edge days.”
When Beck gave a non-committed shrug, Talia chuckled. Then, she wiped the smile from her face, straightening her shoulders.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Professional is fine, but don’t get carried away.” He grinned back. “The name is Beck.”
“Beck.” She nodded. “Not Beckett?”
Only one person ever called him by his full name. Another memory, but unlike so many involving Kane Harrison, a good one.
“Just Beck,” he said. “Is the owner around? I have a business proposition.”
“Sawyer is outside.” Talia nodded toward the back of the store. “Through the open door then hang a left.” She bit her bright-red bottom lip. “Any chance you might want something a little more personal? She’s single and unattached.”
Without a word, Beck leveled a look at her, one he learned from his mother always guaranteed to make the recipient squirm. Talia shuffled her feet, color blooming in her cheeks. Without another word, she pointed toward the back door.
Matchmakers lurked in every corner, Beck realized as he made his way past a display of blooming azalea bushes. Twice in one day, someone tried to push him in the direction of Sawyer Hale. Three if he counted his mother, but she sent him for business, not pleasure. His steps faulted. Unless…
No. Beck refused to believe Sandy Kramer, the most honest person he knew, would sink to the level of romantic subterfuge. If she wanted him to date Sawyer, she would come right out and tell him.
Satisfied his mother hadn’t hopped on the improve Beck Kramer’s love life bandwagon, he walked through the open
door to the lot behind the store.
Filled with mulch, fertilizer, organic compost, and dozens of other items designed to make the home gardener’s life easier, the neatly stacked bags were conveniently located near the back alley for easy pick-up and delivery.
Impressive, Beck decided. The assortment was wide and varied but not unwieldy. One of the reasons he decided to visit the nursery unannounced rather than call for an appointment was to get an idea of how Sawyer Hale ran her business.
So far, so good.
In the shadow of the building, Beck watched—and listened—as a woman he assumed to be the owner appeared with a bag slung over one shoulder, humming a song. At least, he thought the cacophony of mangled notes coming from her mouth was a song. His offended ears weren’t completely sure.
The fact Sawyer couldn’t find the right key to save her life didn’t dampen her enthusiasm. If anything, the curvy brunette seemed to revel in her cringe-worthy rendition of a melody recognizable only to her.
Beck tugged on his lobe, hoping to relieve the stabbing pain as she hit—or rather missed—a series of high notes. When Sawyer added a wiggle to her walk, his gaze landed on her hips. Very nice. She might be tone deaf, but the woman had rhythm.
Unfortunate singing voice aside, Sawyer Hale was a beautiful woman. Not his usual type—Beck gravitated toward leggy blondes—but anyone with a set of eyes would appreciate the mysterious combination of genetics that turned mere flesh and bone into glossy dark hair, killer cheekbones, and a butt that would make a holy man reconsider his vows.
Beck’s wayward thoughts came to a screeching halt when he remembered where he was and why he came, mentally kicking himself for breaking his written-in-stone rule: enjoy a woman’s unique beauty, discreetly, but don’t ogle.
The one saving grace of his slip, Sawyer hadn’t noticed; she was too busy stacking bags with admirable efficiency and entertaining herself with questionable talent.
Beck skirted a display of potting soil. He was about to alert Sawyer of his presence before approaching when a series of events—and one careless skateboarder—conspired to make their meeting one neither would forget.
“Ms. Hale?” When she didn’t answer, Beck raised his voice above hers. “Ms. Hale!”
Sawyer, reaching for another bag, stopped mid-hum and glanced over her shoulder. Whatever she was about to say—accompanied by a smile warm enough to melt several tons of ice—was interrupted by a careening streak of black and orange zipping through the maze of gardening supplies. It tottered left, wobbled right, then knocked her straight onto her very fine ass.
Adding insult to Sawyer’s injury, the bag in her hands seemed to take on a life all its own. Jumping, twirling, it landed on her head with a thud, splitting open and sending the contents everywhere.
But mostly onto Sawyer, from head to toe.
Beck raced to make certain she was okay without letting himself forget about the person responsible for Sawyer’s dilemma.
“Archie Fields, don’t move a muscle,” he warned the young man who, left to his own devices, would have hightailed it for the hills. Without looking back, he reminded the skateboarder, “I know where you live. And I know your mother.”
At the threat of maternal retribution delivered in Beck’s patented take no shit growl, Archie’s thin shoulders slumped in defeat. He wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
Satisfied the perpetrator was under wraps, he crouched next to Sawyer, a concerned frown creasing his forehead.
“Are you okay? Anything hurt?”
“Only my pride,” she sputtered, grimaced, and spat.
Relieved and certain she wasn’t ready to see the humor in the situation, Beck hid his grin.
“Need a hand?”
“I have chicken manure up my nose and in my mouth. So, what I need, is a shower. And a couple gallons of mouthwash.”
“Can’t help there,” Beck said. “But my hand is still available.”
Sawyer held up her fertilizer-coated palms.
“Sure you want to touch me?”
A loaded question if Beck ever heard one.
“I’m sure.”
“If you don’t mind smelling like a chicken’s backside…” She shrugged. “What the hell.”
CHAPTER FOUR
♫~♫~♫
BECK TOOK SAWYER’S hand and helped her to her feet. He didn’t know if the husky quality of her voice was natural or due to her current, shit-covered situation. Either way, he liked the sound.
Not tall, nor short, he imagined if they were dancing, the top of her head would fit nicely under his chin. An odd thought since she wasn’t his type, and she smelled like the wrong end of a barnyard. Yet, when she smiled, teeth pearly white surrounded by manure-caked lips, and laughed knowing she was the punchline, his stomach did a slow roll.
Beck recognized lust, but the sensation in his gut, while familiar, was somehow more. Not sure what to think, he dropped her hand and took two steps back.
Sawyer brushed at the front of her shirt, grimaced, and gave up when she only managed to grind the mess deeper. With a shrug, she turned her gaze back to him.
“Do you have a name? Or should I just call you Sir Galahad?”
“Do you need a knight in shining armor?”
“I can take care of myself.” Taking a handkerchief from her back pocket, Sawyer swiped at her face, examined the cloth, and sighed. “Some men just won’t get the message.”
“Beck Kramer’s the name.” He met her gaze straight on. “Believe me, I’m nobody’s hero.”
Sawyer tipped her head to one side as though intrigued by his disclaimer.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Kramer?” Arms raised, she turned in a slow circle. “If you need fertilizer, you can see we carry only the highest quality.”
“Maybe another time. I wanted to talk business, something beneficial to us both.”
“Beneficial is good,” she said. “Unfortunately, our discussion will have to wait until I clean up myself and my store.”
“Take your shower, then meet me for drinks—if you don’t have plans.”
“I don’t, but…” Contemplating his invitation, Sawyer bit her lip, gagged, and spat out several bits of manure. “Sheesh, the stuff is never-ending.”
“Five o’clock work for you?” When she hesitated, Beck pushed his advantage. “Rollie’s Tavern. They have the best onion rings in the state.”
“Best anywhere.” Sawyer reached for a broom. “Drinks and business. Nothing more. Except for onion rings.”
“Deal.” Beck took the broom. “Grab your shower. I’ll take care of the mess.”
Prepared for an argument, he was surprised when Sawyer capitulated.
“I’m no fool,” she explained. “You want to wade through the crap, be my guest.”
“Not me.” Like Sawyer, Beck was no fool. “Archie! Get your backside over here.”
Head down, the gangly teenager shuffled over. Beck relieved him of the skateboard and shoved the broom into the boy's hands.
“I’ll hold onto your transportation until after practice tomorrow.”
“Geez, Beck. I’ll look like a nerd hoofing it to school.”
“Nothing wrong with nerds.” Beck tucked the board under his arm. “And stop whining. You did the crime, now you have to do the time.”
“Yes, Beck,” Archie sighed.
“Sweep every inch of floor, not just the part with the spilled fertilizer. But first, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“Sorry I knocked you over, Ms. Hale.”
“And?” Beck urged.
“I…” Archie frowned.
“Promise never again to ride your skateboard in or around Ms. Hale’s store. Or anyone else’s.”
“Right.” Archie’s brow cleared. “What Beck said. I promise. Honest. Just the setup is like the perfect obstacle course, you know?”
“Hard to resist?” Sawyer gave the boy an understanding s
mile.
“Impossible,” Archie sighed, his expression earnest. “But I will from now on.”
As they walked away, Sawyer glanced over her shoulder.
“He’ll do the job,” Beck said. “Like any kid, Archie can be a bit thoughtless, lost in his own world. Just needs a firm hand and a push in the right direction.”
“I’ll make sure Talia keeps an eye on him and gives him a cupcake before he leaves.”
Beck followed Sawyer into her office, his taste buds leaping to attention.
“You have cupcakes?”
Chuckling, Sawyer nodded toward the corner table.
“Chocolate with mocha cream cheese frosting. Help yourself.”
Never one to turn down free food, Beck raised the cake to his nose, breathed in, took a bite, and let out a happy sigh.
“Gorman’s Bakery?”
“Made them myself.”
“So good.” He swallowed. “You could go pro.”
“Maybe in another life.” Sawyer took her keys from the desk drawer. “The nursery takes up all of my working hours. Baking is my hobby. Or my distraction when I can’t sleep.”
“Why can’t you sleep?” Beck asked.
“Occasionally, I suffer from overactive brain syndrome.” Sawyer shrugged.
Taking out his own handkerchief, Beck brushed off her nose and each cheek. Sawyer seemed bemused by the move, not protesting when he moved to her mouth. However, when he lingered on her lower lip—without design—she pulled away, shaking her head.
“Let’s lay down the rules so there won’t be any misunderstandings. Drinks and business. Nothing more.”
Beck wanted to explain, to reassure Sawyer of his honorable intentions. He was the nice guy, the one people called, day or night, in an emergency. Everyone in town would vouch for him. But damn, the woman had an unexpected—unsettling—effect on his libido, chicken shit and all.
Sawyer slipped past him and into the hall. Beck, determined not to scare her away, grabbed another cupcake and jogged after her.
The woman was fast on her feet, he thought, catching up as she slid into the seat of her shiny red vintage Ford pickup truck.
ALMOST BLUE Page 5
