by Joanne Rock
“You seem to be involved in a lot more than antiques,” he observed, gesturing to the racks of vintage clothing dotting the store just outside the alcove where they sat across from one another.
“I have a wide variety of interests.” A quality she’d inherited from her mother.
“Everything from construction to retail.” He winked at her, but the charm felt a little too practiced.
She knew she was a cynic, but she had an odd feeling about this meeting. Why the added charm if he wasn’t flirting with her?
“Can you tell me what you’re looking for?” She folded her hands on the scarred wooden surface of the worktable, trying to keep the meeting on track.
“I’m the producer for a television show called Interstate Antiquer.” He slid a business card across the table with the logo of a show she recognized from one of the home improvement cable channels. “I’m on a scouting trip this week in central Tennessee, hoping to line up some stops for our host.”
Did that mean a big sale for her store? She was even more curious now and also grateful for the new barrier to her attraction for him. She couldn’t act on the attraction if they were working together.
“You need antiques for the show?” She tried to recall the format of the program but wasn’t sure if she’d seen it.
“We need stores to feature. We would film at least a full day’s worth of footage in Last Chance Vintage to give our viewers a chance to see you work with the customers and what kinds of things you sell or trade—”
“Is that why you were in the rain outside my store last night? As part of your scouting trip?” It reminded her of the telemarketing calls where the sales rep launched into a friendly chat as though you were old friends before identifying himself. “You drove through here to find antiques shops?”
Any flirtation she’d imagined on his part had been an illusion. He was here only on business. She should be grateful she didn’t need to worry about any romantic distraction—he would not test her willpower regarding handsome men. But irritation niggled.
“Last Chance Vintage was on my list of places to see. Yes.”
“Yet you didn’t mention it.” Was it too much to ask for people to be forthright about who they were and what they wanted? Even knowing that she was overreacting didn’t stop her from feeling...deceived. “I thought you were here on business.”
“I am here on business.” He reached into his folder and pulled out a piece of paper.
“Television is your business, not mine. I’m renovating the store while my sister is out of town, and I have to run daily operations, too. That doesn’t leave time for much else.” She scooped up her cell phone and stood. “Maybe when my sister returns, she could do it. She has more personal charm than me and I’m not really what you’d call viewer-friendly.”
“Wait.” Remy rose, as well, his lean height and well-tailored suit making her feel short and frumpy. “These spots are usually very good for a store’s bottom line, Erin. Did you want to check with your partner before you say no? She’s the one who brought your shop to our attention. And we can’t reschedule our whole central Tennessee spotlight until she returns.”
He handed her the piece of paper he’d withdrawn from the leather folder, and she recognized the Last Chance Vintage logo at the top of the letterhead. A note from Heather. No doubt her sister had worked hard to gain this kind of exposure.
Heather would kill her for turning down an opportunity like this just because Erin felt deceived that Remy Weldon hadn’t been forthright. Heather was always working on promo opportunities from the store, a part of the business Erin gave little attention.
“I don’t understand.” She stopped. Setting Heather’s letter aside, Erin folded her arms across her chest. “Why didn’t you tell me last night that you were in town to look at Last Chance Vintage for the show?”
“Two reasons.” He tipped one shoulder against the doorjamb, looking oddly at ease in spite of the hand-sewn floral aprons fluttering in the breeze from an oscillating fan nearby. “First, I don’t always advertise my business in case the store I’m researching turns out to be a glorified junk shop or the owners are difficult to work with.”
She supposed that made sense.
“And two, I was a road-weary zombie last night when I walked in here. I wasn’t thinking straight.” His smile returned, the one that made the cleft in his chin deepen. “I got distracted by the nail gun and figured we could just sort things out today.”
What was it about his Cajun accent that slid along her skin like a soothing touch?
“I don’t want to be on camera.” She had survived childhood as one of five children by learning never to be the center of attention. It was an MO that worked for her.
Her mom’s battles with bipolar issues had given her a big personality that overshadowed the rest of the household. For Erin, being the center of attention meant someone might notice her shortcomings, so she had always taken behind-the-scenes jobs in the family. The habit had rolled into the rest of her life. Heather kept things organized, Erin tried to help quietly on the sides and their youngest sister, Amy, had bailed on the family at the first opportunity, declaring herself an emancipated minor at seventeen and never looking back.
“So where’s Heather?” Remy peered around the shop as if she might walk out of a back room at any moment. “Maybe she can be the voice of the store on the show.”
“She’s on a buying trip. She won’t be back for four to six weeks.” Erin hated to let her sister down. She felt she’d been one disappointment after another to her family lately, starting with not showing up for that dinner with Mr. Right six months ago. She’d kept a low profile ever since, using store renovations as an excuse for skipping out on family events. “How soon will you want to film a spot?”
He frowned. “Normally, I’d have a longer lead time. But my host quit a few weeks ago and some of the spots pulled out when he did.”
“Meaning?”
“I just tentatively confirmed with a store in Franklin for next week. I could do the shoot with Last Chance Vintage right afterward. Maybe nine days from now?” He pulled out his phone as if to give her a date.
“No way,” she blurted. “I know Heather would love the promo, but not with the store still draped in plastic.” She was relieved, actually, because the renovation provided a concrete excuse for saying no, instead of being camera shy.
Or afraid her ex would see her on television and try to contact her.
“You’re sure?” Remy straightened, his fingers pausing over the screen on his phone.
“The store expansion isn’t complete. Plus, I just committed to holding a big Dress for Success event here. It’s an initiative to help make sure disadvantaged women have help putting together a wardrobe for job interviews and transitioning back to work,” she explained. “Which means I need to really focus on that instead of finishing the store renovations.”
“You can’t get me out of your hair fast enough, can you?” Grinning, Remy pocketed his phone and slid the leather folder under one arm. “I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed, Erin, because you’ve got a really unique place here. And we could have increased your clothing drive donations by about one hundred percent.” He extended his hand to shake hers. “But I respect your decision.”
Her mind still stuck on the “one hundred percent increase” remark, Erin held out her hand before she braced herself for Remy’s touch. The warm strength of a male hand wrapped around hers made a feminine instinct quicken inside her.
Damn him. She pulled her hand back quickly.
“Good luck with your show.” She was sure he’d find another store to take her place, although her pride in her business also forced her to admit that his second choice couldn’t possibly be as good. She’d worked hard to make Last Chance Vintage unique.
He nodded, still smiling. A handsome man who could surely find dozens of store owners who’d love to invite him into their place of business for a few days. Watching him walk awa
y, Erin wondered if she would be able to handle the guilt of knowing she’d just refused the best possible assistance for her Dress for Success event.
Double damn him.
* * *
REMY WASN’T THE kind of guy to gloat.
But he hadn’t gotten this far as a producer without knowing how to read people. And he was almost positive that Erin Finley wouldn’t let him drive away. He’d seen it in her eyes when he’d told her his show would have improved her chances of a successful clothing drive.
Erin showed the world a tough exterior with her overalls, nail guns and the inky-black dye job. But those pale blue eyes of hers were a window to a whole different woman inside.
“Wait.” She called to him just as he shoved open the front door, the welcome bell still chiming over his head.
And even though he wasn’t the kind of guy to gloat, he made sure to keep his features neutral before he turned, because he needed this too badly to screw it up now. He’d had wealth to spare at one point in his life, but he’d personally financed a manhunt and a reward for his wife’s killer. Between that and unloading their extravagant Louisiana home for well under market value simply to get rid of it, he wasn’t in the same place financially as he’d been a few years ago. Plus, with private-school bills for Sarah and college just around the corner, he couldn’t afford a failing show.
“Yes?” He hoped like hell Erin would say yes. Viewers were going to love her, and he needed that kind of ratings spike to keep the show afloat into next season. He still had two other successful shows to his credit, so he’d find a way to make things work personally. But a lot of other people counted on this show for their livelihood and he refused to let a good program fail just because his host walked away.
“You really think an appearance on Interstate Antiquer will boost the Dress for Success event that much?” She wore a long black ballerina skirt and a white T-shirt with a cartoon monkey on it.
How could he not smile at the thought of her—dressed like that—being so concerned about a clothing drive meant to put struggling women into professional business attire? She was made-for-TV perfection. He still knew what made for good TV, even if he hadn’t been flexing his creative muscle the past two years.
“I do.” He dropped his folder on the raised platform that held the store window display of an antique bicycle, vintage picnic basket and an assortment of mismatched dishes. “Shops that do this show get calls from all over the country about pieces in their stores—not just items we feature. Viewers see random stuff in the edge of the frame and decide they have to buy it.”
Erin nodded slowly. “That means I could sell a lot. How do you know people will donate a lot?”
“On one episode, we had a shop owner in a dated wheelchair who had some trouble navigating it around his inventory. He had three new chairs show up the next day and twelve more offers for upgrades by email within the week.” That show had been a turning point for Remy’s anger during his grieving for Liv. Seeing the outpouring of caring had restored some faith in humanity. “Wheelchairs are expensive and we never suggested the guy needed a new one in the show. Can you imagine the kind of support you’d get on a drive where we invite people to be involved?”
He watched her flip her phone from hand to hand, thinking it over, obviously still full of reservations. He was surprised that someone who seemed so sure of herself could be this nervous about being on television. In the era of selfies and YouTube, he didn’t meet many people who were afraid of the camera anymore.
“What about the repairs?” she asked. “Will you try not to show that my store is all torn up?” She stalked toward the front counter and eyed the heavy plastic dividing the current store from the space she was renovating.
“We can avoid shooting it if you want.” He followed her, telling himself he was only curious about what was behind the curtain. “But viewers aren’t interested in seeing perfect places or perfect people. They respond to what’s real. They relate better to people who work hard just like they do. Seeing the process of building the business can be a part of the appeal.”
“Is that so? That hardly explains why every other show on TV is about Hollywood wives or teenage billionaires.” She set her phone down on the front counter and ran her fingers over a basket of polished gemstones sitting by the register.
He picked up a smooth green gem. They were worry stones with sayings on them—luck, happiness, joy. As soon as his hand went in the basket, hers darted away.
“Erin, people don’t watch those shows to see Hollywood wives being happy and pampered, though, do they? They want to see catfights and back-talking kids. They want to see the reality behind the glamour.” His hand stalled on a stone that read “Wisdom” and fought the urge to pocket it.
He had the feeling spending more time with Erin would not be wise for him.
“There will be no catfights in my episode,” she announced, walking away from him toward the construction area. “I’m putting that in my contract.”
“I don’t imagine anyone would mess with you after they’ve seen you with a nail gun anyhow.” He followed her to the plastic sheeting. “But I’ll make a note of it just to be safe. Although you never know what might happen if two people are drop-dead set on getting the same item. Think about those wedding dress reality shows.”
“Will you be staying in town until the shooting begins for the Franklin store?” She pulled aside the curtain to show him the other half of Last Chance Vintage.
“It depends how fast I can bring on a third business to feature.” He whistled at the space she’d unveiled. “Wow.”
The adjoining room looked like a turn-of-the-century general store, the walls lined with open shelving, drawers and bins. A waist-high counter stood a few feet in front of the wall shelves, the dark wood polished to a high sheen. A rolling ladder leaned against one set of shelves. An antique sewing machine sat on a black tea cart and an ancient cash register was parked on one of the counters. A few cast-iron lanterns hung from rafters.
“Pretty cool, right?” Erin was the most relaxed he’d seen her all day. “This was the candy store when I was growing up. Well, I guess they sold cards and drugstore stuff, too. But all those shelves were full of candy jars.”
Her eyes sparkled at the memory, as if she had come alive. He could see what drove her work on the renovations. Maybe what drove the whole passion for antiques.
“Sounds like kid heaven.” He followed her across the polished hardwood floor that looked recently refinished. Or maybe it was just the scent of wood stain that still hung heavy in the air.
“We would spend half a Sunday afternoon debating how to best use fifty cents.” Smoothing a hand along a countertop, she spun to a sudden stop.
“We?” He paused right behind her, close enough that the top layer of her ballerina skirt brushed against his leg.
“My brothers and sisters and me.” She propped her elbows on the counter and watched him with a steady gaze.
“How many would that be?” He pulled open a shallow drawer under one of the countertops.
“Five in all. Two brothers, two sisters and me. But, er—here.” She popped open one of the bins on the front of a shelf, her shift back to neutral topics an obvious scramble away from anything personal. “I’m going to use some of these spots for the smaller architectural pieces—cabinetry hardware, vintage doorknobs, keys and switch plates. Modern home owners love stuff like that.”
They stood close together to look at the drawer, close enough for him to catch a hint of Erin’s fragrance. Amber... The realization distracted him from the conversation and took him back to Liv’s studio, where she had developed her own perfumes. Half the reason he’d bought that mammoth new house in the middle of nowhere had been to accommodate her plans to expand her business. She’d been so happy with the workspace in a separate building at the edge of the property...
“Remy?” Erin’s voice tugged him back to the present. “Everything okay?” She frowned at him. “I have
spinach stuck between my teeth, don’t I?”
Her comment surprised a laugh out of him, her easy diffusion of the moment a welcome relief even if it didn’t chase away the weird guilt that came with this heightened awareness of her. His own wife had once told him that a woman’s scent acted on a man’s sexual desires even when she was nowhere around, so it bugged the hell out of him that he couldn’t stir up a sense memory of Liv, although he could probably recite the damn chemical recipe.
“No spinach, I promise.” He needed to get out of this store. Away from Erin and a rogue attraction he didn’t want to feel. “Sorry. I just—ah—remembered I need to follow up with some stores tonight to try and nail down the third spot for my central Tennessee show.”
“Of course.” She tucked a stray dark hair behind one ear and swept toward the gap in the plastic divider, her black tulle skirt floating along with her. “You’ll be in touch to confirm the day and time you’ll want to shoot?” She dug under the front counter and produced a business card. “All my contact information is on here.”
“Great. I’ll have someone from the shooting crew call you to go over all the details.” He took the card, careful not to let his fingers brush hers. “I’m glad you’re going to do this, Erin. I hope it’s really good for business.”
“I’m not going to lie.” She straightened a few pillboxes on a display near the register. “I hope we get a ton of great clothes for women who need them.”
He wondered how she could be so blasé about the store’s bottom line but not enough to linger in her amber presence to ask about it. His gaze had returned to her mouth a few too many times in the past five minutes.
“Me, too.” Normally, at the close of a meeting like this, he’d shake hands and walk away. But she didn’t seem any more inclined to make contact than him. She was sticking close to the register.
