by MK Meredith
“I don’t think it would work out quite like that, Sage. Clovis and her fellow leopards, aka Foxy Ladies of St. Helena, are all on Snapchat and Instagram, and God help us all, a new geriatric dating sight called Kindling. It’s supposed to be all the heat but none of the assholes. They don’t got time for that.” She shuddered.
“It would work out exactly like that, and you know it. As it is, half the people in this town stroll the sidewalks barely missing the lampposts because their noses are nostril-deep in their cell phones. This world’s going to Hell in a handbasket.”
Harper rolled her eyes and walked over to the desk. Cocking her head to the side, she turned the comic Sage was working on so it faced her. “First of all, you sound like you need to join Granny Clovis and her leopards talking like that. And second...” She dropped her voice to the one that had accused Sage numerous times of stealing her favorite pair of earrings whenever they spent the night together at Grandie’s, “What the hell is this?”
Pulling her shoulders back, Sage gave a stiff shake of her head. “Surely, I have no idea what you’re talking about. This is simply a new comic concept I’m working on.”
“It has a gorilla stomping through the Sentinel building with the name tag ‘Edward’ on his chest. That’s not very subtle.”
Sage opened her mouth to defend herself, but snapped it shut. The next few days had been planned out so perfectly, that was, until she found out her too-sexy knight in shining armor was unforgivably tarnished. During the board meeting, she’d tried to offer ideas on a proposed growth agenda, insight on advertising that she’d gleaned from Harper, and even offered her own janitorial volunteer services to help offset some of the cost until the Sentinel was on solid ground again.
But all the damn silver-tops just stared at her as if they wondered who invited her to the meeting, and Mr. L.A. had joined them with his damn square jaw and take-your-dress-off eyes. She wasn’t stupid, the paper needed to make some changes, but if they thought digitizing the very thing that glued the community together was the answer, they were all seriously blinded by their own self-important bullshit.
Finishing out the drawing to her satisfaction, she examined it from a few different angles, then held it up for Harper to look at. “Good. I wouldn’t want the big, dumb animal to get confused.”
Harper put her arm around Sage’s shoulders. It was both supportive and judgemental at the same time. “You know…they say you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”
“I don’t want to catch any damn flies.”
“But what about finding your long-time-coming love match in St. Helena?”
Sage lifted one corner of her lip in a scowl. “Well, it certainly won’t be with Mr. Parker Edwards. I can’t abide ignorance.” She flicked her hand at the rows of glass windows that made up her office wall. “I’ll just have to keep my eyes peeled for the right fire-boy.”
Harper sucked in a breath. “Dayummmmm.”
Both ladies straightened, then leaned over the desk as far as they could. There, on the patch of groomed lawn between the station and the paper, was a firetruck getting a sponge bath.
By six of St. Helena’s finest.
They were overgrown with mounds of muscle that certainly would need a good evening rubbing, and fine-chiseled features that made Sage’s lips curl into a smile with all the dream potential. She grinned. “I just need to get me one of those.”
Harper’s nod was slow and slack-jawed. “Now, I know why you don’t want the paper to digitize...with this view, ‘hot off the presses’ has a whole new meaning.”
# # #
Parker clenched his jaw to keep from saying what he really wanted to his grandfather, deciding to begin with the one word that couldn’t cause him any trouble. “Grandfather.”
“Mr. Edwards, for God’s sake. We’re at work, not the county fair.”
Parker wouldn’t be surprised if his teeth crushed under the tension radiating from his jaw. No one else was even in the damn conference room, or at the paper, for that matter. The day’s edition had been printed the evening before and sat ready to go. The decline of the St. Helena Sentinel had nothing to do with the work ethic of its employees.
It was six o’clock Friday morning.
And business hours weren’t until eight.
But to his grandfather, business never stopped, never paused, and never ended. For anything.
Period.
So, he was there to work, which meant Parker had to be as well.
“Mr. Edwards.” He enunciated his name slowly. “I understand the board feels it’s necessary that I research the town with Miss Mathews, but I’m confident that I can handle it on my own.”
His grandfather tossed the paper he was looking over onto the long, oval table, then folded his hands in front of him. “Well, apparently they aren’t.”
“I didn’t see it that way at all. I feel they think they’re helping, but she’ll just get in the way.”
His grandfather pushed up from the table. “You do understand that you aren’t here because of me, but because of the board’s misguided loyalty to myself and Horace. I would have gone in another direction. Used someone completely clear of the family.”
The shame that always accompanied Parker’s conversations with his grandfather crawled up his back, vertebra by vertebra. “I’m sure you would have. Putting family first has never been your priority.”
Consistent with his grandfather’s true form, he gathered all of his self-righteous rage behind his blue eyes, but kept his face serene. “You will follow the board’s wishes and that’s final. One problem. One misstep. That’s all I need to suggest we find another consultant.” The only clues he was upset were the slight shake in his deep voice, the intensity pushing from his gaze, and years of being on the receiving end of his verbal lashings.
Parker snapped the back of his patent leather Italian dress shoes together and saluted the old man. “Sir, yes, sir.” Sometimes, he wondered why he even tried. He was so much like his father, there was no way his grandfather would ever really see him as anything but a constant reminder of the old man’s failings. And if Banon James Edwards I felt like he was failing, he made everyone around him pay.
Not waiting to be dismissed, Parker grabbed one of the papers from a stack on the table and headed down to the large front lobby to take advantage of the early-morning silence. It didn’t have the privacy of an office but it was about as far from the conference room as he could get. He worked on refining his strategy of data-gathering to ensure the recommendations he made at the end of next week were not only spot-on, but inspired—both satisfying to the people of Tiny Town and the board members’ budget constraints.
The sun continued to climb and, finally, he pushed back from his laptop to stretch, resting his arms along the back of the sofa. The Friday edition of the Sentinel rested next to him on the pewter, herringbone-patterned cushion. He eyed the paper as if it were the cause of all his problems. Let’s see what Tiny Town has to offer. Spreading the paper on the coffee table before him, he devoured each page.
The usual nuptials and deaths were listed, but so were birthdays. There was no crime to speak of, unless you counted a truck-napping that was actually just a prank from one of the Baudouin boys against one of the De Luca boys over something that had to do with an alpaca. What the hell?
Parker chuckled as he read through the story. He and his brother were friendly. They spoke on holidays, birthdays, and any time they had to sign documents pertaining to the Edwards empires, but they weren’t friends. The idea of it all was a bit over-the-top, making him yearn for the sequin-dipped sidewalks, dirty mansions, and compromised dreams of L.A.
But then, Sage’s hopeful smile popped into his head, and he had to shake her out.
This whole town seemed to be drunk on romance and fat on love.
He flipped the paper over to the back, finding the day’s comic along the top edge.
“Sonofabitch!”
Shoving his lapto
p into his bag, he grabbed the damn paper like it was a cobra ready to strike. Dropping the bag strap over his shoulder, he marched out of his new glass house.
Thanks to the local events section, he knew exactly where to find the little brat.
Down the sidewalk and around the corner was as far as he had to go. The St. Helena Fire Station was having a pancake breakfast to raise funds, and one Sage Mathews was running the griddle.
With the front doors wide open, he could already hear the laughter and merriment brought on by too much sugar downed with too much caffeine. He worked his way through the crowd until he found the legs he was looking for visible behind a tall buffet table set with three portable griddles. Sage ran through the lines of pancakes like she was flipping cards at a poker table.
“Can I help you?” His field of view was suddenly blocked by a man similar in build, with the name tag “Baudouin”. But where Parker’s size was grown fiber by fiber at the gym, this guy’s appeared to be from saving the people of Tiny Town, if his St. Helena’s Fire Station casuals were any indication.
“No, man. I’m just here to have a word with Miss Mathews.”
The guy grabbed his shoulder and steered him toward the opposite side of the large, open room. “The names Adam, I’m Harper’s husband. I hear you’ve met.”
The feisty bright-colored sprite could be seen loading pancakes onto pink and red paper plates next to Sage. He nodded. “I have.”
“Look, I only want to help, and I’m telling you…the last thing you want to do is go talk to Sage...” He waved toward Parker’s face. “With that I wanna kill someone or something look on your ugly mug when she has her girls all around her.”
Parker studied the guy for a beat, noting both his humor and sincerity, then dipped his chin. “I appreciate it, but I also feel like if I give that woman an inch, she’ll take a mile.” Then, with a handshake and a thank you, he set off toward the sweet smell of pancake batter and the telltale scent of newspaper ink.
“You’re right, and she’ll hang you with it.” Adam laughed but didn’t try to warn him off again.
Parker understood. They were a small town, their wives were friends, they all had Sunday dinners together and kid’s birthday parties, but he wasn’t from here. So, the last thing he was worried about was a bunch of pretty women. That thought completed itself as he stepped up to the buffet table, and he faced the cousins. Another woman—who looked more like Sage’s cousin with her long, dark hair than Harper did—joined them. How the hell did one little town have so many hotties in such a small square mile?
These fine specimens would make the ladies in L.A. run to check their make-up and change their clothes three more times before being seen in the same room.
“Miss Mathews, we have a problem.” He slapped the paper onto the table, noting that it would not be going back with him. Not now, when it was surely caked in batter splatter.
Sage’s eyes barely flicked toward the paper, then locked on his, and the friendly energy from yesterday was replaced by a laser-focused chocolate ray of dislike. “We most certainly do, Mr. Edwards. So, why don’t you do us a favor? Since you’re so good at fixing things, why don’t you take care of our problem and get your backstabbing ass out of our fire station?” She finished on a sweet note of sarcastic respect.
He shoved his finger onto the gorilla’s chest. “What the hell kind of game are you playing with this comic?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s a comic, Mr. Edwards.”
He hated how she said “Mr. Edwards.” It sounded too damn much like how he said it when he was speaking to his grandfather.
Wiping her hands on a pink towel that read, if it’s too hot in the kitchen, call St. Helena’s Fire Department, she leaned over the table with a very distracting display of cleavage peaking from the top edge of her apron, her tone all but dripping over the pancakes, “A comic strip’s purpose is to tell an amusing story. Big, dumb animals are amusing.”
He looked over the drawing’s big, goofy-faced gorilla with the name tag “Edward” on his chest, smashing the newspaper building. There was no mistaking the story she was telling. His grandfather would have a stroke. It was all the man needed to get Parker fired.
“You need to knock off the childish tactics. We’re supposed to be working together, in fact, you welcomed me with open arms yesterday.” Even to his own ears, his tone was rising from accusing to a hint of demanding. He cleared his throat.
The last thing he needed was Banon I on his ass because of Tiny Town’s color-by-number comic. “Look...” He stepped forward. “Take your coloring book—”
“No, sweet thing. You look.” The other woman who’d joined Sage and Harper stepped in front of him. Had he been paying attention earlier, he’d have noted both the biker jacket and the warning look in her eyes. But he certainly noticed now. “This is a family affair, and you’re not invited. Sage isn’t stuck holding your hand around town until tomorrow.”
“Family affair? From the looks of it, the whole town is here.”
“Exactly.” She stepped close, almost nose to nose. “And I’m warning you, one wrong move...” She flicked a butter knife at his crotch, and he died a little inside. “And you’ll be leaving on a higher note than you came in. I raise alpacas and, by now, ridding the world of one mere man would be child’s play.”
His balls shrunk faster than the time a hot blonde—with both an ass and rack competing for number one—talked him into taking a polar ice plunge. He tried to retreat as far as possible away from the weapon. Butter knife or not, balls and blades were never meant to meet.
“Frankie, stop.” Harper laughed, not even trying to hide her amusement for the sake of politeness.
Parker skimmed his eyes over Sage from the top of the hair piled high on her head, to the fire in her eyes, and on down to the Ugg slipper boots on her feet, liking what he saw a helluva lot more than he should—his dick never did have a lick of sense—and pointed to the paper.
“You’re only making my decision easier.”
Chapter 3
The next morning, Sage gave a sharp nod of determination, then walked toward Parker with a smile on her face, a plan in her heart, and a strategy in her head. She’d spent the night gleefully replaying the look of horror on his face when Frankie had threatened his precious with a butter knife. She should feel bad, but should didn’t always lead to did. Especially when he was messing with her newspaper and calling her comic a coloring book. Her teeth ground tight, and she wiggled her jaw a bit to force it to relax.
If only he could see the importance of Grandpa Horace’s vision. It was more than just the news. It was a way of life, a part of the happily ever after she was determined to find, and Parker was trying to destroy it all before it had a chance to begin.
But she’d open his eyes.
And what incredible eyes they were.
As she approached Mr. L.A., her legs threatened to give out. St. Helena boasted a lifestyle of work to play in a community that was really good at slipping on a pair of shit-kickers to hang a sign or fix a fence, so she didn’t see many suits around her circles. Though, she had when she’d lived in the city and never thought much about it.
But now, the desire to give a low, slow whistle that was all meat-market and no class made her lips tremble. Pressing them together, she resisted—barely. One thing was for certain, she hadn’t known what she was missing when a suit was filled out. Parker Edwards in dress slacks that formed to his muscular thighs like a hug, and a pressed shirt that showed off his muscles more than concealed them, made her seriously consider if she’d ever seen a real man before.
Well, no doubt, he fit the bill. She’d always been told that men were animals, and Parker happened to be the big, dumb gorilla type. At least, that’s what she liked to tell herself to ease the not-so-subtle quiver in her stomach.
Because holy hell in one of Deidre Potter’s floral handbaskets, the man gave St. Helena’s finest a run for their money—and this town was full of
hot men.
She cleared her throat. “Truce?”
His jaw flexed a few times as he assessed her from head to toe, making her skinny jeans feel a little too skinny, and her dark brown sweater less roomy than she’d remembered.
“I wasn’t the one at war.”
She fell in step next to him as they made their way toward the large, open green space across from the community park. “You want to destroy my grandfather’s legacy.” Her words were quiet but firm.
He grabbed her arm and turned her toward him, sending a little thrill straight to her middle. “I don’t. I want to save it. Turning small newspapers around is my specialty, and I’m damn good at it. I don’t understand why this is such a big deal. The point is to keep the paper alive. You can draw anywhere. It’s not like it’s your livelihood. My job is.”
Not her livelihood? He didn’t understand anything. But the passion in his voice was unexpected, almost as much as the cowlick at the part that was stubbornly sticking in the opposite direction from the rest of his hair. Her fingers itched to fix it and, at the same time, she tried to figure out who he was trying to convince. The assertive tone in his voice spoke of something much larger than her opinion.
Shoving her hands behind her back to both remove the heat from his hand and keep her from touching his hair like the weirdo she was trying so hard not to be, she argued, “But, the St. Helena Sentinel creates family, it unites us.”
“And that won’t change.”
Iridescent dream bubbles floated about her head and popped one at a time. Because yes, it would change. All of it. Her positon as the cartoonist for the paper, making a home in St. Helena, and her grand idea of ever finding a man to look at her like Adam looked at Harper seemed more like a cruel joke than a possibility at this point.
Words piled against her closed lips like rocks in an avalanche, but she swallowed them down. Arguing would do nothing but make them late for the Vino Pairing Picnic that Frankie Baudouin DeLuca was throwing to launch her newest wine. She’d blown past wanting to be a vintner into being one of the most sought-after vineyards in the world, but she and her husband, Nate, always put the town first. The wine started and ended with St. Helena. Just like family.
