Second Chances (Nugget Romance 3)

by Stacy Finz

  She opened the door just enough to pop her head inside. “Hi. I brought my mom. Is it okay if we come in?”

  A dog started barking and Colin yelled, “Quiet, Max.”

  He turned off the iPod and tried to finger comb his thick, shaggy hair. “Come on in. He’s friendly.”

  “I didn’t know you had a dog,” Harlee said, crouching down to pet Max, who sat at her feet, swinging his tail.

  “Uh . . . He’s new. I found him at a job site. So far, no one’s come forward to claim him.” He tugged the dog by his collar to a spot near the cast-iron stove. “Lie down, boy.” Max did a few turns and plopped down on a corduroy doggy bed that looked brand-new.

  With the fire going, the room felt thirty degrees warmer than it did outside. Colin had clearly shed some layers. A ski jacket dangled from a hook and a thick sweater hung over a chair, leaving him to work in a pair of cargo pants and a snug, long-sleeved waffle-weave T-shirt that stretched across his broad chest. Harlee had always known Colin was fit. But until now, she’d never realized just how ripped Grizzly Adams was. Besides truly impressive shoulders and washboard abs, his arms bulged with muscles.

  He caught her gaping and self-consciously brushed away specks of sawdust. She introduced her mom, who’d been too busy browsing through the furniture to notice that her daughter was having a moment. An OMG-my-neighbor-is-hot moment.

  Colin turned his attention to Leigh. “Nice to meet you.”

  She glided over to where he was standing and gave him a big hug. Harlee would’ve liked to have caught Colin’s stunned expression on camera.

  “Thank you for being such a wonderful neighbor to my daughter. Harlee told me how helpful you’ve been. Harvey and I wanted her to move home when she lost her job. But she insisted on coming here to the mountains.”

  Thanks, Mom.

  Besides Darla, Harlee didn’t need the whole town knowing that she’d gotten canned from the paper. News in these parts traveled faster than an avalanche. By tomorrow, all of Nugget would know she was a loser.

  Colin seemed to sense that Leigh had given away more than she should have, because he looked at Harlee with those caramel brown eyes as if to say, “Hey, it happens to the best of us. Don’t sweat it. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Your furniture is absolutely exquisite,” Leigh continued, examining a row of rocking chairs. “And your house . . . Harlee says you built it yourself.”

  “Would you like to see the inside?” Colin asked, and you could’ve knocked Harlee over with a feather. Other than the generous—yet slightly bizarre—shower offer, he’d never invited her in.

  “I would love to,” Leigh gushed.

  They followed him through the back door into the mudroom, a generous space off the kitchen with built-it cubbies and racks that held snow boots, cross-country skis, and fishing equipment. The kitchen was equally impressive with inset cabinets and stone countertops.

  As he guided them into the dining room, Leigh oohed and aahed over a pine sideboard and a massive trestle table Colin had built.

  “Do you entertain a lot?” Leigh asked.

  “Nah.” He let his gaze fall to the floor.

  “With such an amazing place like this, you should show it off.”

  “Mom”—Harlee nudged—“let’s see the rest of the house.”

  Colin flashed her a faint smile, which she took for gratitude, and led them into the great room. The homey scent of wood smoke filled the air. The stone fireplace was so big that Harlee could stand up in it. She noticed there was another dog bed in front of the hearth and earlier had spied stoneware crocks in the kitchen for food and water. Lucky Max had found a good home.

  Harlee ran her hand over the interior walls—massive hand-hewn logs, dovetailed at the corners. When they walked into the entryway, she stared agog at the winding staircase. “You did this?”

  “I had some help from my stepsister’s husband. He’s a master carpenter.”

  “And the beautiful paint colors. Did you pick those, Colin?” Leigh asked.

  “That was Fiona . . . my stepsister,” he said, and Harlee heard affection in his voice. She had a feeling that Fiona was important to him. “She’s a sculptor with a good sense for color. Me, I would’ve painted everything white.”

  Leigh laughed. “It’s a very special home, Colin. Just spectacular.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Did Harlee tell you about my store?”

  He looked at Harlee for guidance.

  “No, Mom. I didn’t tell him.”

  “It’s just a small home interiors shop where I sell everything from soaps to linens. And I’d love to carry a couple of your pieces—maybe one of the rockers and one of the smaller farm tables. You do have a seller’s permit, don’t you?” She waved her hand through the air. “If not, we can figure a way to get around it.”

  “I do,” he blurted.

  “Excellent. Then let’s step back into your shop and make a deal.”

  Chapter 5

  Darla sat at a makeshift desk at the back of her father’s barbershop applying her press-on nails, embellishing each one with a smiley face. Why? She didn’t know. It wasn’t like she had a whole lot to smile about. Other than a couple of kid haircuts and a wash and blowout, business was in the toilet.

  She stuck the last nail to her pinky and just for the hell of it painted it with a frownie. She should’ve done them all that way. The bell over the door chimed and about the best-looking man she’d ever seen came strutting in.

  “Owen around?”

  “No. He’s fishing. But I’m his daughter, Darla, and I do hair.”

  “Yeah? He won’t think I’m cheating on him if I let you trim me up?” He turned his face from left to right in the mirror, stroking his scruff.

  “Nope.” Darla smiled. “My dad’s trying to retire.”

  “Owen?” The man blew a raspberry. “What’ll the Nugget Mafia do without him?”

  Darla knew that was the nickname of the band of old farts who hung out in the barbershop. One of them was her dad’s best friend and Nugget’s mayor, Dink Caruthers. “They’ll probably hang out at the bowling alley.”

  “Nah. They’ll hang out at my gas station, haranguing me night and day.”

  She laughed. “So you’re the rich guy who bought the Nugget Gas and Go and designs custom motorcycles?” Owen had told her all about him. Her dad constantly bragged that he’d taken “the boy” under his wing and showed him how to run a business.

  “That would be me.” He stuck out his hand. “Griffin Parks at your service.”

  “So you want me to crisp up your lines?” It would screw up her nails, but finally a real client.

  “Sure.” He climbed into the leather barber chair that Owen had been doing haircuts in since before Darla was born. “Just clean me up.”

  “Come over to the shampoo bowl.”

  “Owen never shampoos me.”

  “Well, today you’re getting the works.” She was a stylist, not a barber. No way was she giving him a dry cut.

  Griffin followed her to the sink and let her wash his hair. “That feels great,” he said as Darla massaged his scalp.

  She’d stocked the barbershop with premium salon shampoos and had plans to sell all kinds of styling products. There wasn’t any place in Nugget to buy quality hair-care items and she figured she could make bank selling them out of the barbershop. But so far that had been as much of a bust as her career as a stylist.

  Darla pumped a dollop of conditioner into the palm of her hand and rubbed it through Griffin’s sandy blond hair. “You bought Sierra Heights too, didn’t you?”

  Nugget had fought the luxury planned community tooth and nail, fearing that it would turn the town, which was filled mostly with ranchers and railroad workers, into Lake Tahoe. The developers had won, only to wind up bankrupt. Word had it that Griffin purchased the development for half its value.

  “You know anyone who wants to buy a house?”

  Yeah, me.

>   Living with her dad at twenty-seven wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind when she’d moved here. But until business picked up at the barbershop, she was thankful to have the free rent.

  “No one I know could afford one of those gargantuan homes,” she said.

  “I know what you mean. I’m doing a big open house next weekend. Come on by and bring your friends. At least the place’ll look crowded. We might even convince the city folk that the homes are selling like hotcakes.”

  “Are sales that bad?” Darla turned on the sprayer, waited until the water turned warm, and rinsed Griffin’s hair.

  “Too soon to tell. We just got the models spiffed up and the sales office up and running. I’ve got high hopes.”

  Darla wrapped a towel around his head and directed him to get back in the barber’s chair. He had a great head of hair and she was looking forward to giving it a little more shape. As skilled a barber as Owen was, he hadn’t kept up on modern styles. Darla swished a cape around him and clipped away.

  “Owen always wants to shave off my whiskers,” Griffin said. “But I like my whiskers.”

  She put her hand on his shoulder to reassure him. “Don’t worry. I’ll just even them out.”

  “You think he’ll really retire?” Griffin started to turn around in the chair, but Darla held him still.

  “He’ll probably stay on a few days a week. But he’s sixty-three and deserves a break. Part of the reason I came here is because I thought he’d work himself into the grave without help.”

  “So,” Griffin asked, “how’s it working out so far?”

  “The truth, not so good. People seem reluctant to give me a chance.”

  Griffin watched her through the mirror. “Give it time. This town has issues with change. But they eventually come around. When I first got here, your dad accused me of being a drug dealer.”

  “Get out.” She laughed, and then asked, “Are you?”

  “Actually, I’m a high-end hooker.”

  Darla laughed again, enjoying his personality as much as his looks. “Do you have a girlfriend, Griffin Parks?”

  He was quiet for a few minutes, and Darla wondered if he thought she was trying to pick up on him, because she wasn’t. That would be completely unprofessional.

  “Yes and no,” Griffin finally said. “We’re supposed to be taking space and seeing people if we want to. She doesn’t even live here anymore.”

  “But?” Darla continued snipping Griffin’s hair.

  “I don’t really want to see anyone but her.”

  “So why don’t you tell her that?” Darla thought men for the most part were idiots.

  “I have to stick to the bargain—at least for a year,” he said, and she wanted to ask why they’d made such a ridiculous bargain, but figured she didn’t know him well enough yet.

  “How ’bout you? You seeing anyone?”

  “Nope,” she said.

  Griffin chuckled. “Not a lot to choose from here in Nugget—at least not in our age bracket.”

  “Maybe we should get a singles group together to go bowling,” Darla suggested. “I’ll bring my friend Harlee.”

  “With a name like Harlee, I like her already.” According to Owen, Griffin was a motorcycle fanatic.

  Darla took out the clippers to clean up Griffin’s whiskers when Wyatt walked in the door. He must’ve been on duty because he wore his police uniform. As soon as he noticed Griffin in the chair, Wyatt scowled.

  “I see you’re busy,” he said in a clipped tone. “I’ll come back another time.”

  “I’m almost done, Wyatt, if you want to wait.”

  But he’d already sailed through the door. Darla shook her head.

  “I guess he was in a hurry,” Griffin said. “When do you want to do this bowling thing? Because I’ve got to tell you, I love your old man and the rest of the mafia. I love playing pinochle with them. But I need to get with some people my own age before I start driving an Oldsmobile and watching Gunsmoke reruns.”

  “Let me talk to Harlee and we’ll come up with a night.”

  If circumstances were different, Wyatt would be invited into their group since he fit their demographic. But if circumstances were different, Darla would be married to the jerk.

  “This cannot be happening,” Harlee yelled into the darkness.

  She’d just gotten cozy in her flannel pj’s, turned on the computer to do some cyber-sleuthing for a client, and run a little background check on her eccentric neighbor just for the fun of it. Because who knew? Maybe Colin Burke was a high-profile business titan who’d given up fame and fortune to make furniture and couldn’t go to dinner with her for fear someone might recognize him.

  Yeah, right.

  That’s when the lights started to flicker off and the rest of the power went dead. Which meant no heat.

  Now she’d have to go outside in the snow to check the circuit box. Her mom had left on Sunday afternoon, missing the storm by less than twenty-four hours. Harlee wished she was still here. Being alone in the pitch-black woods gave her the creeps. She came down the steep loft stairs on her butt, afraid she’d fall down and break her neck. In the front hall, she found her boots, struggled to put them on in the dark, grabbed her jacket, and felt her way into the garage, where she’d left the flashlight. After fumbling around, she found the Maglite next to the hot-water heater, clicked it on, and went in search of the breaker panel.

  Although she’d seen her father come out here many times, she hadn’t exactly paid attention to what he did with the switches. As an experiment she slid one breaker off and on again. Nothing happened. She tried a few others to no avail, warming her hands inside her pockets to keep them from turning to ice. Once they no longer felt numb, she flicked all the switches at once. Still nothing.

  Crap. It was a real outage. She went back inside the house, shaking the snow from her jacket, planning to build a fire, when the phone rang.

  “You okay?” Colin’s voice came reassuringly across the line.

  “Did you lose your power too?” she asked.

  “Yeah, but I have a backup generator. How ’bout you?”

  “Uh . . . not that I know of,” Harlee said. “I’m surprised the phone’s still working.”

  “It probably won’t for long. What are you doing for heat?”

  “I was just about to—” Damn.

  “Harlee, what’s wrong?”

  “My flashlight just went out.” She opened up the Maglite and wacked the batteries, but it still didn’t work.

  “I’ll come over and get you.” He hung up before she could tell him to stay home, where it was safe and warm.

  She could’ve made do, even lit a fire in the dark, but she’d be happy for the company. With the wind howling and the tall pines swaying like they could snap in half, the storm was a little scary. On the couch, she wrapped herself in a throw blanket and waited for his truck lights to stream through her front window.

  When she heard the rumble of an engine come down the hill, Harlee opened the door. With the plow attached to Colin’s truck he cleared the driveway, parked in front, and jumped out of the cab as Max came bounding into the house.

  “Hey, boy.” Harlee grabbed the dog around the neck and gave him a kiss on the head.

  “You ready to go?” Colin asked, flashing his big-beam flashlight and eyeing her pajamas. She still had on her snow boots.

  “We’re going to your place?” She’d assumed he would come build her fire, sit for a while, and go home.

  “I have power. You don’t.”

  “Okay.” It made sense. “Let me borrow your light to pack a few things.”

  He and Max made themselves at home on her couch while she went into the bedroom. She emerged fifteen minutes later with a satchel and cosmetics case.

  He cocked his brows.

  “What?” she said defensively. “I have a nighttime regimen.”

  “Does that include a coat?” He continued to goggle at her pajamas. She checked to make sure a
button hadn’t come undone.

  “I’ll get it,” she said, leaving her bags in the entryway while she grabbed the jacket she’d hung in the mudroom after jiggering with the circuit box, and locked the back door.

  When she came back, he’d already loaded her luggage into the truck along with Max. He helped her into the passenger seat and they slowly drove to his house, clearing snow as they went.

  “This is quite a storm,” she said.

  “This is nothing. Just a little autumn snow.” He looked over at her and squinted. “I’ve been wondering this whole time, are those pink flamingos?”

  She looked down at her flannel bottoms. “Yeah. So? What’s wrong with them?”

  “Nothing.” But even in the dim light of the truck she could tell he was smirking.

  “What do you sleep in that’s so great?”

  “Not pink flamingos,” he said, pressing the remote stuck to his visor to open the garage door.

  Max shot out of the truck, did his business and came trotting back in. Colin closed the garage and carried Harlee’s bags inside the house, switching on the light. Nice. It was toasty, too.

  He led her down a hallway into a spacious guest room with a rag rug, a big log bed, and a down comforter that looked so soft and comfy it would be a pleasure to crawl into.

  “This is beautiful,” she said. “Better than a hotel.”

  “You warm enough?”

  “Mm-hmm. Are you going to bed now?”

  He shrugged. “I might watch some TV.”

  “You mind if I join you?” It seemed too early to go sleep.

  “No,” he said, and Harlee couldn’t tell whether he was just being polite or if he wanted her company. The guy was such a damned enigma and possibly the most socially inept person she’d ever met. She still didn’t know why he wouldn’t go to dinner with her. What did he think? She’d jump him on the way to the restaurant?

  At least she didn’t have to worry about him making a pass at her.

  “I’ll be right out.” She wanted to clean up a bit. “The bathroom?”

  “Right in there.” He pointed to a door that she had assumed was a closet. Wow, an en suite setup. It really was like a hotel.