by Judy Duarte - The Bachelor's Brighton Valley Bride (Return to Brighton Valley)
Lisa relayed the boy’s response better than Clay had expected her to.
“Mr. Hochstein wants to know who’s looking for him,” the girl said.
“BigPokerMama213. There’s a tournament tomorrow with a twenty-dollar buy-in.”
As the girl repeated the message over the telephone, Clay wondered if they’d somehow broken some kind of law—besides the child labor law.
Did it matter that the kids weren’t actually working or on the payroll? But what about participating in gambling?
He was also a little taken aback by Tyler’s skill at fixing the computer, considering his age. He’d heard of the international betting virus that had a lot of software techs scrambling to immunize their systems from the havoc it could wreak. And this little boy—who’d just been suspended from the last two days of seventh grade—seemed to think that he’d single-handedly conquered the virus.
Clay would have to check it out, but if the boy had actually done that, technological interest and amazement took precedence over customer service.
“How’d you figure out how to fix that virus?” he asked.
As Tyler explained the process in depth, Clay realized the kid was onto something. But before he could respond, a creak sounded through the ceiling above. Apparently, Megan was upstairs in the apartment.
“I’d like to talk more about that,” Clay said. “But go ahead and finish what you’re doing.”
Curious as to what Megan might be up to—or what she might be hiding—he left the kids in the shop and headed toward the stairway that led to the apartment.
Deciding to catch her in the act of ditching work or whatever she might be up to, he quietly slipped upstairs and entered the living room, which held a floral love-seat sofa, coffee table and small television set. Everything looked as if it had just been wiped down, and the rug bore fresh vacuum lines.
The small kitchen was tidy and the little table and chairs held a burning candle that smelled like vanilla.
Classic-rock music wafted from the bedroom, so Clay made his way in that direction. When he reached the doorway, he spotted Megan bent over the bed, tucking the sheets into perfectly creased hospital corners. But the bedding wasn’t anywhere near as intriguing as the view of Megan’s lovely backside, her denim-clad hips swaying in tempo to the Fleetwood Mac song on the bedside clock radio.
Clay shoved his hands in his pockets, leaned against the doorjamb and continued to watch her mesmerizing movements, hoping Stevie Nicks never stopped singing.
Over the music, a boy’s voice called out, “Whoops! Caw caaaaw. Caw caaaaw.”
At the kid’s lousy bird call, Megan froze, then slowly turned and caught Clay watching her from the doorway.
From the flush on her cheeks and the panic in her eyes, he figured that she’d just been belatedly warned of his approach.
* * *
By the way Peyton was gawking at her, Megan couldn’t tell if he was annoyed at her for leaving her post at the store or if he was surprised to find her preparing the apartment for him. Either way, she straightened just as her children screeched into the bedroom doorway.
They gathered next to Peyton, with Tyler still making “caw caaaaw” sounds until Lisa gave him a little shove to quiet him.
It must have been blatantly obvious to the man that the kids had been trying to warn her of his presence, which embarrassed her all the more.
“What’s going on?” Peyton asked.
“I was trying to freshen up the apartment. I had no idea you’d planned to stay here, and it wasn’t ready.”
“Is cleaning and scrubbing in your job description?” he asked.
Who’d he think he was? Her boss? She stiffened, then placed her hands on her hips. “I’m not going to apologize for being thoughtful or for showing a bit of small-town hospitality.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound unappreciative. It’s just that...” He blew out a sigh, then raked a hand through his hair. “Well, let’s just say that this day hasn’t gone the way I’d expected it to.”
Then that made two of them. Megan released a sigh of her own. “It’s been a little out of the ordinary for me, too.”
As the silence stretched between them, she took the opportunity to send the kids downstairs and to tell them to get their things together. Surely it had to be getting close to five o’clock.
As soon as she was alone with Peyton, she said, “Don meant to be here today, but that didn’t work out. I came in to help him on my day off, but some childcare issues cropped up, which isn’t the norm.”
“I understand.”
Did he? She hoped so. She also hoped that he didn’t realize she’d been stretching the truth when she implied the kids weren’t always here in the afternoons. She tried her best to keep them busy in after-school activities, but more often than not, especially with Tyler, one or both of her children ended up spending time at the shop—and in the apartment.
They stood like that for a moment, sizing each other up in some kind of face-off.
With the bed behind her and his masculine frame leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed in a tense yet sexy pose... Well, he wasn’t exactly blocking her escape route, but that was the problem. She didn’t feel like running off, and she really ought to. Because what she found most troubling was the way her heart rate was zipping along at an arousing pace, setting her hormones on high alert and sending her thoughts drifting in a direction they had no business veering.
Peyton Johnson was a handsome man, and while he was dressed casually, something about him flashed City Boy in neon lights.
Still, she found him attractive. But being attracted to a man wasn’t the same thing as being interested in him. And she definitely was not interested.
Besides, even if she were on the lookout for a husband—or even a romantic interest—it certainly wouldn’t be a corporate yes-man who didn’t even reside anywhere near the same town in which she lived.
After her divorce, she’d left Houston and put down roots in Brighton Valley, where she’d finally been able to give her kids the kind of home she’d always wanted them to have—something she’d never been able to create for them while she’d been married to their father.
Breaking eye contact, she glanced at her watch. “It’s nearly five o’clock. Time for me to lock up the shop and go home.”
As she made her way to the bedroom doorway, Peyton stepped aside and let her pass. As he did so, she caught a whiff of his cologne, something musky and exotic that sent her blood racing, her hormones reeling and her heart thumping.
She had no idea what brand of aftershave he used—or what stores would carry something so...
Well, she had no way of knowing if it was costly, but she’d pay a pretty penny to buy it as a gift for her man—if she had a man and the pennies to spare. She’d never smelled the like.
Maybe it wasn’t just the scent alone. Maybe it was the way it blended with the pheromones he gave off. She didn’t know for sure.
But as intoxicating and alluring as she’d found it to be, that only made her want to steer clear of the man the best that she could.
Because she’d come to distrust her choices when it came to men and sexual attraction. And something told her that Peyton Johnson, like his scent, would linger with a woman long after he left town—a life-changing, heartbreaking memory a woman wasn’t likely to forget.
Chapter Four
The following morning, after dropping Lisa off at school, Megan pulled into her regular parking space in the alley behind the shop.
She needed to deliver this morning’s fresh batch of peach-crumble muffins to Caroline at the diner before starting work. So she took the linen-covered basket out of her backseat and grabbed the oversize breakfast burrito she’d wrapped in foil. Then she locked the car.
As she made h
er way toward the back entrance of the diner, she risked an upward glance at the apartment over Zorba’s. The shutters were closed. Peyton was most likely still asleep, which meant he’d probably been up late last night snooping through all their files.
She’d stayed up most of the night, too, but her time had been spent in the kitchen, baking and preparing more jams and preserves for the farmers’ market held in town square on the third Sunday of each month. She’d hoped her work would be a diversion for her worries, but she hadn’t been able to keep her thoughts from straying to the sexy and suspicious stranger who’d kept her second-guessing everything he did or said.
Did he have another agenda besides helping them get the new accounting system up and running?
Could he be trusted to do only that particular job and not run back to corporate with reports of how bad things actually were at the Brighton Valley store?
She lifted the basket containing the fruits of her labor, rested it on one hip and strode into the diner through the open back door.
Caroline, who’d been a friend of Megan’s late grandmother, sat at the butcher-block counter, making notes and ordering supplies. Annie, the cook, was busy frying eggs and flipping pancakes, while Sally hollered out breakfast orders through the open window between the front of the restaurant and the kitchen.
After Megan had divorced Todd and moved home to live with her mom, Caroline had suggested that Megan sell some of the extra peaches and plums that grew in the family orchard at the farmers’ market. Since she’d been left in dire financial straits thanks to Todd’s wild and reckless spending habits, she’d jumped on the idea of earning some extra money.
To liven up the boring displays of fruit, she’d set out a few jars of the jellies and preserves she’d canned, along with a few muffins.
As a child and the only girl in the family, she’d spent the summers on Gram’s farm, where she’d learned to cook and bake, memorizing all her grandmother’s recipes, especially the preserves, which had won Gram many a blue ribbon at the county fair each year. Still, she’d been surprised when her preserves had sold out well before the peaches and plums had.
Caroline had been shopping for produce for her restaurant that day and had told Megan that some people didn’t have the patience or skill to make things from scratch anymore. They’d rather buy the ready-made product than mess up their own kitchens. Then Caroline had purchased the rest of the peaches left on the table and handed them back to Megan, commissioning her to make some more muffins and preserves and asking her to bring them into the diner on Monday morning.
Although Caroline shared Megan’s love for cooking, her husband was now retired and she’d been trying to cut back on her own hours at the diner, as well. So having some of the bakery items Megan made would allow the older woman to spend more time in the mornings with her husband, Sam.
Megan’s wallet had certainly benefited from the arrangement. But it hadn’t been enough, especially since she’d wanted to get a tutor for Lisa, something her parents hadn’t been able to afford for her. And since Todd had left the state nearly three years ago after making only a couple of child-support payments, life had still been a bit of a struggle. But then, hadn’t it always been?
That was why she’d taken the job at Zorba’s. It had allowed her to supplement her income and provide health insurance for her and her kids.
“I hope you brought in more of the peach-jalapeño jam,” Caroline told her when she set the basket down on the counter. “We have the Rotary meeting here tomorrow. And Mayor Mendez always eats about ten of my biscuits and at least a jar of that jam all by himself.”
“I only have one jar left, so if he runs out, he’ll have to pour some of your famous sausage gravy over his biscuits. I was going to make a double batch yesterday, but Don called me in at the last minute to cover for him while he took Cindy to the doctor. And from there, my whole day went downhill.”
Megan went on to fill in her friend about Tyler’s suspension and the arrival of Peyton Johnson from the Geekon headquarters.
“Yep, I heard all about him,” Caroline said.
“Already?”
Caroline used her thumb to point toward Sally.
Megan shouldn’t have been surprised. Sally was a sweetheart, but she also talked up a storm and knew everything there was to know about Brighton Valley, its residents and its visitors.
“Sally said he stopped in for an early dinner. He was real sweet, although a bit on the shy side, and ate like he hadn’t had a good home-cooked meal in ages. Then he paid for the Franco sisters’ dinner and left a very generous tip.”
“Did Sally mention that the guy could also get Don and me in trouble with the corporate office, which would ruin all our lives?” Megan knew she was being a bit dramatic, but just because Peyton was a hungry man who’d paid for two elderly women’s dinners, didn’t mean he wasn’t also a snooping corporate suit trying to find out what she’d kept under wraps for the past few months.
“Nope. But she did mention that he was extremely good-looking. ‘Handsome as sin,’ I believe was the phrase she used. And she hasn’t called a man that since that Burt Reynolds look-alike passed through town last summer.”
Megan wasn’t ready to concede to any of Peyton Johnson’s good qualities just yet. Even the physical ones. But she did have to admit that they’d been evident right from the start—not that she’d allow herself to be swayed by them.
She doubted Peyton knew what small-town life was even like. Sure, he might have been nice to a hardworking and friendly waitress. And so what if he’d picked up the dinner tab for two elderly sisters who were living on a very limited income?
The fact remained that his loafers were brand-spanking new. He was obviously a city boy born and bred, and she couldn’t wait for him to go right back to wherever he’d come from.
“I’ll try to get you some more preserves by Monday,” she said as she headed to the door. She had to get to Zorba’s before Don arrived so she could help finesse the meeting between the two men and help smooth things over if necessary.
She already had the breakfast burrito to take to Don, but right before she stepped out the back door of the diner, she turned and went back to the basket to grab a muffin for Peyton.
After the mess he’d walked into yesterday, she might need to sweeten up the quiet but calculated corporate big shot.
* * *
Clay had barely lifted his head off the pillow when a car door slammed outside in the alley below.
He reached for the nightstand and felt around for his trademark black-framed glasses before remembering that he’d brought only contact lenses with him. So he squinted at the bedside clock. Eight-thirty? Already?
Man, he could use a double shot of caffeine after the late night he’d had. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair, still not used to the shorter length.
Today was going to be even more grueling than yesterday, especially if he had to deal with any disgruntled customers, as well as inept employees—and maybe even a child or two.
So far the only promising things the Brighton Valley shop had to offer the corporate office, which they wouldn’t appreciate, were Tyler’s debugging skills and Megan’s cookies and homey touches in the apartment.
Megan.
In spite of his negative first impression of her as an employee, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking of her in the bedroom, blushing like a coed while she’d hustled her kids home.
After she’d gone downstairs and left the store, he’d continued to stand in the middle of the small apartment, listening to the radio station play classic-rock music until the commercial break. And even then, it had been several minutes before his brain had been able to shift gears so that he could function well enough to get some work done.
Why had the woman thrown him so off course?
He never got tong
ue-tied around the fairer sex. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. But he certainly hadn’t been at a loss for words around them in the past seven years. Not since he’d single-handedly invented what the media had termed “a computer for the generations” and established a multibillion-dollar industry with his GeekMart and Zorba chains.
Still, he hadn’t been this uncomfortable around a woman since he’d been in high school.
Maybe that was what it was about Megan. She reminded him of the pretty girls who’d only dated football players and had never given a guy like him the time of day.
Was that why he’d found himself attracted to her? And why he hadn’t been able to get any work done until after dark, when he’d had to finally force himself to push the thoughts of the sexy single mom out of his mind?
Last night, he’d just started to make a little headway when around midnight he’d stumbled across a magazine in a drawer in Don Carpenter’s desk that could have been his undoing.
At the time, he’d been looking for at least ten invoices that should have been accompanying just as many computers that had been tagged for repairs. But when he’d pulled open the old wooden drawer, he’d spotted a familiar picture—or parts of it, anyway. He’d had to move a battered floppy-disk drive and a moldy doughnut off the cover of the magazine to see the entire image, but he’d definitely recognized his own shoulder-length hair and black-framed glasses.
He shouldn’t have been surprised to see the image of a successful man staring back at him, but being stuck in Brighton Valley made him feel like an eighteen-year-old again. And seeing himself on the magazine cover had served to remind him of how far he’d come.
Once he’d realized what he’d spotted, he’d thrown out the doughnut and pulled the year-old issue of Software Weekly from the drawer. The last thing he needed was for someone to see the photo and read the interview he’d grudgingly agreed to. He might be clean-shaven and wearing contact lenses now, but it wouldn’t take a brain surgeon to realize that Clay Jenkins and Peyton Johnson were one and the same.
