Making It Right

by Kathy Altman

  “Thank you, hon.” Pink Lips Lady took a dainty sip and beamed her approval. “Welcome to Castle Creek. We’re the Catlett sisters.”

  “Thank you. I thought you two might be related.” She smiled politely against a wince as the customer behind them sighed loudly. Then the penny dropped. “Oh. You’re the co-mayors.”

  “Mayor Hazel at your service.” Pink Lips Lady raised her glass. “I had big plans for this place, you know.”

  “But it’s a lot cheaper to come up with a clever new cocktail than it is to install a stripper pole.” With a double wink, Blue Lips Lady accepted her credit card back from Kerry. “I’m June. So nice to meet you, dear heart. Your table decorations are adorable. Listen, we’re having a fund-raiser for the community center next month. You’ll lend us your artistry, won’t you? Wonderful. We’ll be in touch.” To her sister she said, “Now let’s get out of the way of these poor thirsty people.”

  More clapping. The Catletts took it well, managing a pair of elegant, good-natured curtsies despite balancing drinks and oversize handbags as they made their way to a table.

  Wide-eyed, Kerry watched them go. Apparently she’d just been recruited for a decorating committee.

  With a bemused smile, she turned her attention to the next person in line.

  Kerry couldn’t pour drinks fast enough, which meant Ruthie was stuck taking orders as well as cooking them up. The poor woman pushed in and out of the swinging doors to the kitchen so often and so fast, they had no need of the overhead fans—Ruthie kept the air circulating all on her own. She did manage to take a break every now and then, to linger at the pool table and flirt with her boyfriend. Burke Yancey was a tall, lean man with shaggy, near-black hair who liked his beer.

  A little too much. Kerry frowned. Probably time to cut him off. He was starting to list to the side.

  A while later, as she guzzled a quick glass of water, she spotted Dylan just inside the door, wearing jeans, a too-big sweatshirt, and his faded yellow high-tops. He dropped his backpack and scratched his head as he surveyed the mostly female crowd. None of whom had shown any interest in the real Mitzi, which warmed Kerry’s chest with a sweet swell of sisterhood.

  Though Snoozy’s pet did deserve credit for inspiring the bar’s first specialty cocktail.

  Kerry stopped pulling a draft long enough to give Dylan a wave. He caught her eye, frowned and kept both hands in his pockets.

  Uh-oh. Bad day at school?

  Ruthie burst out of the kitchen, face flushed, frilly blue apron hanging off one shoulder, the bun holding her bright red hair off her face askew. The moment she saw Dylan, she clutched his skinny arm and hauled him into the kitchen.

  Kerry sighed. So much for recruiting the kid to help prep garnishes.

  For the next twenty minutes, she served drinks nonstop. Snoozy’s male regulars had made themselves scarce, which made her wonder how long it would take them to start lobbying for a Men’s Night.

  Dylan pushed through the kitchen doors, slid onto the nearest stool and thumped his elbows onto the bar. He’d pulled his red hair back into a short ponytail at his neck and his freckles shone with sweat. In case Kerry hadn’t managed to divine his mood, he heaved a lung-unloading sigh.

  She scooted the tub of dirty glasses down to the end of the bar, closer to the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  His response shocked her. Not.

  “Ruthie talk you into washing dishes?”

  “I don’t mind.” He shot her a crafty glance. “She said you’d pay extra.”

  She nodded. Thank goodness for tips. “Is it school? Having trouble with one of your classes?”

  “No. Well, yes, but...no.”

  “Would you like me to make you a drink and we can talk about it? Bartenders are great listeners.”

  “What kind of drink?”

  “How about a cran-dandy cooler? That’s basically ginger ale mixed with four fruit juices.”

  “Whatever,” he muttered.

  “I’m going to take this to the back and let Ruthie have some dinner. Then I’ll be out to fix your drink. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Five minutes later, she presented Dylan his mocktail. He took a cautious sip and nodded. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Without another word, he pushed his glass to the side, leaned over and grabbed his backpack. While Kerry poured a pitcher of beer for two of the handful of men who’d braved Ladies’ Night, Dylan set out a textbook, a notebook, a pencil, an eraser and his cell phone. She finished the sale, replenished her garnish tray and refilled her ice bin, all while watching Dylan grimace and write and erase and grimace some more.

  She cleared away his empty glass. “How you doing?”

  “It’s too noisy in here.”

  Kerry scanned the room. The crowd had thinned, which explained why the music seemed louder. A pop country beat kept the energy high as customers emptied their glasses and plates. Several women and a few men surrounded the pool table, doing more trash-talking than playing. Another group watched a reality show on the television that usually broadcasted national sports. Surprisingly, the men weren’t complaining.

  She stuck her head into the kitchen to request an order of fries for her and a sandwich for Dylan. Ruthie lifted a spatula in acknowledgment but never lifted her head.

  Kerry rubbed her eyebrow. She’d have to find a way to get into Ruthie’s good graces. Kicking her boyfriend out of the bar was probably not the best way to go about it, so hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

  “We need to talk.”

  The deep, familiar voice shot starch into her muscles. Her breathing roughened as she turned her back to the swinging doors. Dylan must have heard the word she muttered under her breath because his eyes went wide.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  EYEING A GRIM-FACED GIL, Kerry snatched up a towel and started wiping her hands, just to give them something to do. It had to be a good thing, didn’t it, that he’d shown up at the bar, and before closing time? He wouldn’t chew her out in public. Gil was too reserved to do something like that, and anyway, he wouldn’t do anything to hurt Snoozy’s sales.

  As he nodded a greeting at Dylan, Kerry studied him. He didn’t look like he was out for blood. He did look good. With his hunter-green Henley, clean-shaven jaw and careless hair, he looked very good. He also looked like he hadn’t gotten any more sleep than she had.

  She moved behind the bar, grateful for the physical and professional barrier. She kept going, all the way down to the cash register, where they’d be out of earshot of Dylan. After pulling a draft, she set it on the bar, then snatched up her towel/security blanket again.

  Gil tapped the mug. “What’s this for?”

  “A bribe. Maybe you could reconsider that truce.”

  She stretched across the counter and plucked a ten out of her tip jar. “Don’t worry. I’m paying for it.”

  “I came to apologize. This isn’t your fault, but I acted like it was.”

  She froze. “That’s generous, but untrue. If I’d told you who I was, we’d never have slept together.”

  “But we did, and that decision was as much mine as yours.” He watched her ring up his beer and deposit the change back in the tip jar. “If we’re going to make this work, we have to come together.” The tips of his ears reddened. “Work together. But here’s the thing.”

  Her head shot up. “Are you involved with someone?”

  “No,” he said indignantly.

  She had no right to the warm rush of relief that eased the cramping in her chest. “See how easy it is to jump to conclusions?”

  He ignored that. “Your dad is a good friend of mine. He doesn’t trust you. He does trust me. You start working at my store and he won’t trust either one of us.”

&
nbsp; “After he finds out why you hired me, distrust will be the last thing we’ll need to worry about.”

  When Gil adjusted his glasses, she hid a smile. Surely he knew her father’s bark was worse than his bite?

  “We should tell him together,” he said. “It shouldn’t be all on you.”

  Oh. He’d been worried for her. Her ponytail felt suddenly too tight, and she reached back to adjust it. “Does this mean you’re offering me a job, after all?”

  He glanced around. The bar had begun to empty. “We can iron out the details later,” he said finally. “Thing is, I can’t afford an employee. Especially now, with...extra expenses.” He glanced at her stomach. “But those suggestions you gave me about rearranging my displays did make a difference over the last few weeks. And what you’re doing here seems to be working. Help me out a few hours a day, provide some more retail advice and the profits should cover your wages, maybe leave us with some extra.” He wrapped his hand around his mug, though he had yet to take a sip. “Maybe we could start a fund. You know. For college.”

  Her breath caught. “That’s a lovely thought. Count me in. But I can work more than two hours a day.”

  “I don’t see how, when you’re putting in so many hours here. At some point your health and the health of the baby will mean more to you than earning a few dollars toward your debt.”

  She couldn’t look away as he lifted the beer to his mouth. The onset of a full-body flush had her scooting closer to the ice well. “We don’t know much about each other,” she said, “but I can already tell your love of logic is going to bug the hell out of me.”

  She grabbed a rag and a spray bottle full of vinegar-and-water solution. Turned away and busied herself cleaning the mirror at the back of the bar.

  One minute he’s doubting he’s the baby’s father and the next he’s talking college fund. This was all so hard to take in, and she didn’t even feel pregnant.

  When Gil lowered his mug, she caught his eye in the mirror. “I should tell you that when Snoozy gets back, I plan to ask him to consider keeping me on. I know more about tending bar than selling power tools, and the tips are decent.”

  “Makes sense,” he said. “But keep in mind that working at the hardware store means automatic day care.”

  Carefully she set the spray bottle down before turning to face him. “You mean you?”

  “Whichever one of us isn’t waiting on a customer. Surely I can figure out how to change a diaper.” He cleared his throat. “I would appreciate your help getting my store back into the black. But that help has to be the legal kind.”

  Kerry’s chest actually throbbed from the impact of his words. “I understand,” she managed.

  “And no more snark about rat poison.”

  She nodded once. “Thank you, by the way.”

  “For believing you?” His lips tightened. “I do want that blood test.”

  “Understood. But no, I meant for not trying to talk me out of keeping the baby.”

  He opened his mouth, closed it, picked up his beer for another healthy swig.

  Kerry turned back to the mirror and barely resisted sticking out her tongue at her own reflection.

  She was pathetic. She and her lovesick-teen reaction to his killer smile and kind face, those black-rimmed glasses that gave him a naughty professor vibe any woman would find irresistible.

  Damn it.

  Here she was, so far in the hole she’d practically tunneled all the way through to the Indian Ocean, with an unexpected pregnancy, a father who wanted nothing to do with her and a temporary job that would barely cover the needs of a newborn, let alone thousands of dollars of debt.

  Yet she couldn’t stop having sex dreams about a man who considered her as appealing as a case of typhoid fever.

  With a vicious squirt of cleaner, she blurred his reflection and moved on to the next section without rubbing the spray away. Behind her Gil guzzled the remainder of his beer.

  The sound of paper ripping brought their heads around. Dylan balled up a scrap from his notebook and threw it behind the bar. Kerry picked it up and tossed it into the trash.

  “I’m fine,” Dylan snapped before she could ask. He snatched up his pencil again, and she held up her hands to show him she’d keep her distance.

  Ruthie popped out of the kitchen. She set a plate mounded with fries and what looked like a turkey sandwich in front of Dylan, produced a bottle of ketchup and plunked it down beside his plate.

  “I know you’re being run ragged tonight,” Kerry said to Ruthie. “Thanks for hanging in there.”

  “I can’t quit.” Ruthie shoved a hank of hair behind her ear. “Not until the pool game’s over, anyway. I bet twenty dollars on Burke.”

  Kerry flinched. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  Someone called Ruthie’s name and she scurried away without responding.

  Crap. If Burke wasn’t leaning over the pool table, he was loitering outside the kitchen doors, waiting for Ruthie and the occasional plate of leftovers. Maybe Kerry needed to start providing the couple with a better caliber of leftovers because if Ruthie quit Snoozy’s, no one in Castle Creek would ever talk to Kerry again.

  She tipped her head at Gil. “Are we done? I need to start cleaning if I’m going to send Ruthie home early tonight.”

  “And close up yourself?”

  “You do it six nights out of seven.”

  * * *

  WHEN SHE PURSED her lips at him, Gil’s head went light and he pressed his ribs against the bar to steady himself. Maybe it was the word nights, or maybe it was the phrase “do it,” but something had him suddenly desperate for another handful of Kerry Endicott. He didn’t even care what he ended up palming. Her neck, her shoulders, her ass—okay, maybe he did care, because her breasts were frickin’ amazing—but the urge to touch her was so strong, his arms started to shake.

  This despite the scowl twisting her features.

  You are unbelievable. She’d cheated so many people, including her own father, and Gil found that a turn-on? What was wrong with him?

  Yeah, she’d paid the price. That didn’t mean she was suddenly an honest person.

  And she was pregnant. With his child. Except...he couldn’t make her any more pregnant, could he?

  Unless she wasn’t.

  “Did you make a doctor’s appointment?”

  She glanced around before answering. “Eight o’clock Thursday morning. You’re welcome to come, if you’d like to hear the results for yourself. The doctor could administer the paternity test while you’re there.”

  “Wouldn’t that be awkward?”

  “Not as awkward as you trying to decide if I’m making it all up.”

  “I hate this stuff!” Dylan slammed his textbook closed and jabbed once at the cover with his mechanical pencil. Snap. The tip broke. He stared down at the pencil, suddenly aware of people watching, his freckles drowning in a sea of red.

  Gil felt for the kid. Being the center of attention because you did something right was bad enough. Being the center of attention because you acted like a jerk was a full-on nightmare.

  He tipped his head in Dylan’s direction. “What’s he working on?”

  “Math,” she said, and her face cleared. “Do you think you could help?”

  He said yes only for Dylan’s sake.

  Two minutes later, Gil slid onto the stool next to Dylan and handed him a tall glass.

  Dylan peered doubtfully down at the contents. “What is this?”

  “Iced tea and lemonade. It’s called an Arnold Palmer, after the golfer.”

  Dylan shrugged, then sipped. “Not bad.” He cut a glance Kerry’s way. “That was kind of a girly drink she gave me before.”

  Gil hid a smile. “She tells me you’re Mitzi’s wrangler.”r />
  “Nah. I just keep her cage clean and stuff.”

  “That’s pretty brave. I know a lot of guys who wouldn’t take money to step foot in that pen. Me included.”

  Dylan’s thin chest swelled. “It’s not that big a deal. And there’s always someone around to help if she ever did decide to attack.”

  Gil didn’t have to fake a shudder. While Dylan fought a grin—though he didn’t put up much of a fight—Gil tapped his notebook. “So, what’re you wrangling with here?”

  The grin evaporated. “Quadratic equations.”

  “Cool.”

  “These problems aren’t cool. They’re impossible.”

  “Maybe think of them as challenging instead. And what’s life without a challenge?” Gil couldn’t help glancing at Kerry, who was pouring Crown Royal into a cocktail shaker. He winced. Whatever else she planned to mix in there, it was a waste of good whiskey.

  “I don’t need a challenge,” Dylan grumbled. “I need a passing grade.”

  Gil’s fingers tingled at the prospect of putting pencil to paper. “Maybe I can help.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I like math.” When Dylan scoffed, Gil bristled. “You know what math is, right?”

  “What?”

  “The only subject that counts.” When Dylan made a puking sound, Gil chuckled. “Seriously, though. Chicks dig guys who do math.”

  “Get real.”

  “Let me put it this way. Guys who do math become things like game designers and robotics engineers and fighter pilots. Jobs like that pay pretty damned well, which means the guys who do them can afford things like nice apartments and fast cars. Make sense?”

  Dylan returned Gil’s knuckle bump. “Totally.”

  “So we’re going to knock this out?”

  Dylan nodded once and pulled his notebook close again. What seemed like only minutes later but was probably closer to an hour, the teen put down his pencil and sat back. “I need another drink.”

  “So do I.” Gil stretched and glanced around. In the hour or so they’d been at it, maybe half the patrons had cleared out. He had his own stuff to get home to, but no way was he leaving this kid in the lurch. Dylan was smart, but he had a long way to go to catch up to the text. And final exams were right around the corner.