Regardless of what she wanted, his arms unwound. The kiss was ending.
Brit sighed and opened her eyes.
There was a wariness in Joe’s eyes. He was having doubts. That must have been one of those accidentally-on-purpose kisses Regina had told her about, the ones between two people caught up in a moment, two people who were only ever supposed to be friends.
Best remember that.
“Moving on,” Brit said crisply, her gaze dropping to her feet because she couldn’t feel her toes. “Hands down, that was a better way to seal a deal than a handshake.” She risked a glance at Joe before she turned back uphill.
His gaze hardened.
Good. She couldn’t stand it if he apologized for kissing her.
Brit reached the top of the bank and headed for her pickup, pausing only to dump the few rocks Sam had collected on the pile they’d started.
“Where are you going? I thought we were taking Sam shopping.”
“I need to go home and change.” She needed distance and the reaffirmation that she was Brittany Lambridge, ugly duckling. To hope for more than that was the path that led to broken hearts.
Or in this case, the crushing of a hard-boiled egg.
* * *
BRIT RETURNED TO the Messina Family Garage waiting room an hour later, armor suitably in place. Long jeans, a favorite light blue sweater, a touch more makeup.
“Nope,” she said when she saw Sam in a dry pair of coveralls. “We’re shopping for a woman. You need to dress like one.”
Sam ran back upstairs without argument, leaving Brit alone with Mr. Fantastic Kisser.
“How’re you doing?” Brit asked on autopilot, followed by a blushing blurt of “I mean, with Sam and the whole transition to womanhood. Not about the...”
Joe’s mouth quirked up on one side. “I’m fine. Firing on all cylinders.”
“Try being the egg sometime,” Brit mumbled.
Sam skipped back downstairs wearing blue jeans, a simple red T-shirt and a hoodie, which she zipped up to her chin. She ran past Brit and flung open the door. “Shotgun.”
Joe gestured that Brit should follow her out the door.
Brit couldn’t help but feel that a trap had been sprung. “My father had one rule in his truck. Adults don’t ride in the center seat.” He would have made a special rule barring her sitting next to fantastic kissers.
“Your dad only had one rule?”
Brit glared at Joe over her shoulder.
“One of my rules is to respect the call of shotgun,” he said.
She should feel flattered that Joe didn’t mind sitting next to her. And she was flattered to the point her cheeks were burning. She didn’t plan on kissing him again or letting him know he flustered her. And yet, she wasn’t off to a very good start.
“Hurry,” Sam called from the open passenger door. She’d left her ball cap inside. Her dark hair lifted on the breeze, revealing uneven, choppy bangs.
Brit’s fingers itched for her scissors.
“You’re still going to do my hair later?” Sam didn’t succeed in keeping the worry from her voice. Or maybe she wasn’t trying to.
“Of course. I promised and I like to keep my word.” Brit just might do more than curl and style. She might try a blunt wedge that softened the sharpness of Sam’s little chin.
Brit climbed into the old pickup and slid across the cloth seat into the middle. Joe swung up next to her, a lock of thick hair falling over his forehead.
Brit stopped thinking about Sam’s hair.
But her fingers didn’t stop itching.
* * *
THREE BRAS, TWO coffees and one hot chocolate later, Joe sat on the couch in the living room watching Brittany and Sam talk hair at the kitchen table.
Sam was in seventh heaven. Her body insecurities were temporarily taken care of and her hair issues about to be resolved.
Since their kiss, Brittany hadn’t been the same. She’d skittered away from his casual touch at the small of her back while he was trying to guide her through crowds at the store. She’d blushed whenever he caught her looking at him. And she’d edged as far away from Joe as she could get in the truck. Hence him sitting as far away from her as he possibly could in the apartment. He wanted to show some respect and give her space.
That wasn’t true. Joe wanted to wrap his arms around Brittany and kiss her again. He wanted to hear her sigh and feel her snuggle close. But he’d start with showing her respect and giving her space.
Sam sat in a kitchen chair, swinging her feet happily.
Brittany stood behind Sam, finger combing his daughter’s dark, shoulder-length locks. “Has your father been cutting your hair?”
“No,” Sam snorted.
Brittany spared Joe a glance.
Joe shook his head.
More finger combing ensued. Joe’d like some finger combing, too. He scratched his head.
“Do you have a favorite celebrity?” Brit asked Sam. “One with hair you wish you had? Or do you have a magazine photo of a hairstyle you like?”
“Why do you ask?” Sam said slowly, lacking her usual enthusiasm.
Joe’s Dad Radar went on red alert.
“I want to know how to curl your hair so you like it.” Brittany locked eyes on Joe, but not with an invitation for another kiss. She looked at him the way she had in the mirror at Phil’s.
This time, Joe had more of an inkling as to Brittany’s lingo.
Raised brows and wide eyes: pay attention.
Gaze cutting to Sam: something’s not right here.
Significant gaze to Sam’s hair and her fingers holding up Sam’s bangs. Sam’s uneven bangs: your daughter cut her own hair.
Apparently, skill with a socket wrench didn’t necessarily translate to skill with a pair of scissors.
“I have a picture that I like,” Sam said slowly. “I don’t think she’s famous.”
“A picture would help.” Brit patted Sam’s shoulder.
Sam walked to her room, pausing in the doorway to glance back at Brittany, and then she closed the door behind her.
What? Joe mouthed.
Brittany shrugged.
Joe knew what they were both thinking: guilty.
But of what?
Despite the tattered drapes, the afternoon sun filled the living room with almost-too-warm natural light. They’d need better curtains in another few weeks to keep the place cool.
Sam emerged carrying some kind of thin book. She laid it on the table and opened it to a page with a bent corner. “This one.” She snuck a glimpse at Brittany before pointing to another picture. Her shoulders were curled in as if knowing she’d done wrong. “She shows it straight and then with curls.”
“Where’d you get that?” Joe came into the kitchen. He couldn’t remember buying her a magazine or book in months.
“Dad.” Sam slammed it shut and hid it behind her back. “This is girl business.”
“Sam.” The warning in his voice bounced off the bare walls.
Brittany touched his arm once before turning her attention to his daughter. “Sam has something to tell you about that book. And then if you say it’s okay, I’m going to style her hair the way she wants it.”
Sam froze.
“Tell the truth to your dad and if he says it’s okay, I’ll cut and curl your hair like in the picture.” Brittany’s smile was brittle. “Fair trade.”
Sam frowned, except her frown looked like it could crumple at any time into tears.
“We don’t barter,” Joe reminded them. His Dad Radar was pinging all kinds of alarms.
“This is between Sam and me. And apologies will be involved.” Brittany nodded. “Isn’t that right, Sam?”
There were slow nods and the
re were slow nods, but Sam’s nod was so slow it almost didn’t qualify as an action. “I borrowed this book from Phil’s.”
Joe closed his eyes, counting to ten. “Borrowed implies permission. Did you ask Brittany?”
“No.” Her voice was so soft, Joe almost wasn’t sure she’d said anything.
But Sam didn’t need to say anything. Guilt was written all over her face in cry-me-a-river pink.
“There will be no more girl time today,” Joe said evenly. “Messinas don’t steal.” Or lie. Or betray those they loved.
“I’m sorry. But, Dad...” Sam trailed off. She turned to Brittany. “We had a deal.”
“Dads trump deals. I told you it was up to him.”
“You tricked me.” Sam smacked the book on the table and ran to her room, slamming the door behind her.
It was hard to believe that only a few weeks ago, a slammed Messina door was most likely caused by the wind.
Joe picked up the book. It was filled with different hairstyles for different lengths. He handed it to Brittany. “We’ll make an appointment to have her hair cut.” Joe managed to control the volume on that statement. “After she serves her sentence.”
Brittany repacked the tools of her trade. “She didn’t try to hide the truth once I confronted her.”
He shook his head. “You dangled some bait.”
“There were extenuating circumstances—her hormones, the move.”
“She stole your book.”
“And she came clean. I’ve had lots of clients steal hair books and never say a word.” Brittany gathered her cases. “That says a lot about her character.”
Joe was too angry to be proud.
* * *
THE DOOR BETWEEN the service bays and waiting room banged open Monday morning.
“Joe! You have a customer!” Irwin shouted the way guys did when their team won on the last play of the big game.
Brittany stood on the customer side of the service desk in blue coveralls, her orange-tipped hair captured in a ponytail threaded through a rhinestone-studded black ball cap. There was a tentative twinkle in her eye as she said, “I tried to tell him I have an appointment.”
Joe almost smiled. It was the twinkle, more tempting than a Saturday night milk shake. After a weekend spent with a mulish daughter, he could use something as lighthearted as a twinkle.
Joe had been tweaking the timing on the party bus. He set his tools on the workbench, wiped his hands and turned off the engine.
“I can check her in.” Irwin had his hands on the door frame and his butt on the door, as if it was a great effort to hold it open. “Just tell me what to do.”
“Move out of the way.” Joe waved him off.
“Donut, miss?” Rex held out his bakery bag.
“Cookie?” Brittany opened up her bakery box.
The two exchanged smiles.
Irwin scuttled back to his seat, staring at Brittany as if considering replacing Rose in his fantasy motorcycle ride.
The only way Joe was letting Brittany ride on the back of a motorcycle was if he was driving. The open road. Her arms around him. Sounded pretty darn good.
Except, she was looking everywhere but at him. That twinkle had been for Irwin’s enthusiasm at a customer, not him.
Trying not to think about kisses or soft hair, Joe handed Brittany a clipboard with a work order. “Name, address and phone number. Year, make and model of the truck.”
Brit filled out the paperwork, blocking Joe’s view of Irwin. “How’s Sam?” she said under her breath, making it hard not to remember their kiss.
“She wore a skirt to school and no zippered hoodie.” Brad Hendricks wasn’t going to be mistaking her for a boy today. “She also apologized again for taking the book.”
“Nice.” Brit put an appointment card on the counter as casually as if she was in Rex’s gin game and couldn’t make a play.
Joe read the card. “Tuesday at three thirty?”
Irwin gasped. “Oh, he’s good. He’s got a date already.”
Joe leaned around Brittany and fixed Irwin with a hard stare. “I know her.” I’ve kissed her. “I do not have superpowers with women.”
Brittany mumbled something that sounded like I’ll be the judge of that. And then she said in a normal volume, “It’s an appointment for Sam in case she’s no longer grounded. I was rearranging my schedule for this week and thought of her.”
Softy. She’d probably thought two days at school with bad hair was punishment enough for taking something that didn’t belong to her.
Joe was a softy, too. “We’ll take this one, thanks. And pay for the service.” He stuck the card on the bulletin board with a pushpin. Sam would be thrilled. “I can reach you at this number?” His mouth went dry thinking of all the reasons he could call—haircuts, dinner, helping scavenge the river bed for rocks.
“You don’t need to call me. I’ll be working along the river for about an hour.” She smiled. “I’m still planning to take the grille, but I want to wait until I’ve got my workspace set up. Is Sunday okay?”
“Sure.” In the whirlwind of bra shopping after their kiss, he’d forgotten he’d promised the BMW’s grille to her. He felt uneasy. He didn’t want her to take it until he knew he had the legal right to give it to her.
The sheriff was supposed to be free Tuesday afternoon. That left him plenty of time to back out if it wasn’t Messina property.
Brittany headed toward the door, stopping to deposit the bakery box in front of the coffeepot. “Complimentary coffee? Is that new?”
“Yeah,” Joe said. “Someone told me customers like free stuff.”
“We do.” Irwin nodded.
* * *
AFTER BRIT SETTLED up her bill with Joe, he followed her to her truck.
While he’d changed her oil, she’d collected rocks and crawled around the Volkswagen trying to figure out how to separate the body from the chassis. She was dirty and sweaty, while Joe didn’t have so much as a spot of grease on him.
“Something about you confounds me.” He pitched his voice low as if he didn’t want his office sidekicks to hear.
“Just one thing, Heroic Joe?”
He shot her a glance that let her know it was more than one thing. “You’ve been here awhile now and you haven’t created anything. At least, nothing you’ve told me about.”
She no longer worried about stained coveralls. She worried about her private insecurities, secrets only Reggie was aware of. “I’ve styled hair.”
“Does that count?” The morning sun made his hair look like she’d put a blue streak in it.
Brit clutched her keys. “I can’t exactly say I’m not in the mood to work on hair when a client comes in.”
“So you haven’t been in the mood.” His gaze pierced hers, searching for the truth.
They’d reached her car. She didn’t move to leave, to escape, to keep her secret.
“I was wondering if I could watch the next time you create a mermaid.”
“Watch?” Her stomach fell. To her knees. To her toes. Followed by her keys. “Me?” she squeaked.
The corner of his mouth quirked upward. He bent to pick up her key chain. “I’m curious about the cutting and shaping of metal. Welding it to a supporting frame. I bet Sam would be interested, too.”
“I don’t sell tickets.” Immediately, Brit wanted to take the words back. She sounded cold, like Leona.
He stopped almost smiling.
She was going to have to tell him. She could feel the truth pressing against the back of her throat. “Because I...I can’t.” The words were bitter and loud. Oh, so loud. She wanted to cover her ears.
“Brittany?” Joe didn’t hand over her keys.
“I can’t do it. The mermaid sculptures. I
made Keira for Dad, before he died.” The words tumbled free, tangled with emotion. “He was on forced bed rest, but he’d sit up a few hours a day while I worked. And now he’s gone and I can’t... He brought out the best in me. Ever since, I’ve got nothing. I can do nothing but rocks and driveway gates. I’m not creative. I used to look at car parts and junk and see things. I used to hear a piece of metal sing what it wanted to be. And now...and now...I barely hear a whisper.”
Those eyes. They sharpened like icicles hanging from delicate tree branches. “You. Not creative? That’s a crock.” He took Brittany’s arm, towing her to a spot where she could see the BMW. “You wouldn’t have fought me for the grille if you didn’t hear it sing to you.”
“It’s just a driveway ornament. I’m not an artist.” The words slashed their way out, branding her for the worst kind of liar.
“Is that your sister talking? Because that doesn’t sound like you.”
It was her. It was the deep, dark, doubting core of her.
“Aren’t you the woman who defended the value of art and labeled herself an upcycle artist? Aren’t you the woman who risked her life because she couldn’t live without an old bicycle stuck in the river? Aren’t you the woman who dyes her hair unusual colors?” Joe took hold of her chin, forcing her to look into his stormy eyes. “That doesn’t sound like a woman doing arts and crafts in her spare time. That sounds like a devoted artist to me.”
Brit heard his words, absorbed their meaning, tried to rally and believe, but she’d spent months doubting. “Do you think so?” she whispered.
“You’re second-guessing yourself because your dad died.” His touch turned gentle, a thumb stroke across her cheek. “It’s easy to lose your way when things are hard. It’s easy to doubt and belittle your talent. It takes courage to pack up and make a change, to leap out without a safety net.” He pointed to the reddish-brown shell of a Volkswagen. “When you brought out your sketchbook there was passion in your eyes. It lit up your entire face. And I thought, wow, she’s the real deal. Only an artist would get excited about building something with rocks.” His hands settled on her shoulders at the base of her neck. Her keys hung from his ring finger, dangling within reach like his arguments.
Marrying the Single Dad Page 19
