both be working this morning. But Charity refused to install credit-card-accepting pumps in the only gas station in this part of the island, so Lacey had no choice.
Now that their daughters, cousins Grace and Gloria, had met Clay, it was only a matter of time until Lacey’s plans were public. Would there be pushback against leveling her grandparents’ ancient house to build a bed and breakfast? Probably. Definitely.
With Clay’s definition of “true success” still ringing in her ears—and his sexy scent still torturing her memory—Lacey squared her shoulders and entered the Super Min.
A bell tinkled with an old-fashioned preciousness asthe door opened, just as Charity shoved the cash-register drawer closed and dismissed a customer with a tight smile. The bell was the only thing “precious” about the Super Min or its owners.
“Well, it’s about time somebody got dressed up around here,” Charity remarked.
“Not exactly up, but dressed.” Lacey paused in the heavenly rush of cool air. “I have a meeting.”
A construction worker passed Lacey on his way out, giving her a once-over and zeroing in on her chest.
“I’ll meet with you,” he said with a wink.
So much for the “too professional” blouse Zoe had mocked and Lacey thought underplayed her boobs. Those suckers did not underplay easily.
Clay Walker was already a professional risk; she didn’t want to encourage a personal one as well. So she kept telling herself that if he got the job, if he proved himself to her, and if they had to work side by side for a year or more, she would just ignore the fact that he turned her into a quivering bowl of Jell-O.
“Bet I know who you’re meeting with.” Charity situated her bony backside on her stool, smug and cocky.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you did, Char.” There were two forms of news delivery on this island: the
Mimosa Gazette
and Charity Grambling. “Forty dollars of regular unleaded,” she said, holding out her money.
Charity took the cash and lifted partway off the stool to peer over the counter and get the full view of the white slacks Lacey had switched to when Zoe had called her other choice mom jeans.
“You’re going up to that mess in white pants?”
News
and
editorial.
“Yep.” Lacey met Charity’s judgmental gaze.
The door to the back office flipped open and Patience Vail, who only answered to the nickname Patti, ambled into the room.
“Lacey’s got a meeting,” Charity said, pressing way too much emphasis on the word. “With
someone
.”
Patti lifted her dark brows. “That same someone you were practically licking down at the Pelican last night?”
Oh, boy. This actually could be fun if it weren’t true. “There was no licking, Patti.” Lacey gave an obviously impatient look at the cash register. “You know, until you press that button, I can’t pump the gas.”
“I know.” Charity situated herself on the stool. “I gotta tell your mama, Lacey. You know that, don’t you?”
Lacey rolled her eyes and almost laughed at the warning, like she was a teenager caught shoplifting in the Super Min or something. “My mother’s up in New York at my brother’s place, Charity.”
“I know where she is. We’re Facebook friends.”
“Well, no need to report anything, Charity, because last time I checked, I was thirty-six years old.” About to be thirty-seven, but no need to give them that ammo.
Patti and Charity shared a look. “He isn’t,” they said simultaneously. “Bet he isn’t thirty yet.”
Now she couldn’t help laughing. “Did you girls get a picture? ’Cause then you can post that on Facebook, too.” She started to back away, but Charity’s inch-long crimson nails lingered over the computer key, holding Lacey captive. “Any minute now, Charity. I’m kind of in a hurry.”
But Patti put a hand on Charity’s arm, further stalling things. “Maybe she
is
the one.”
What one?
Charity considered the question, eyed Lacey
Now that their daughters, cousins Grace and Gloria, had met Clay, it was only a matter of time until Lacey’s plans were public. Would there be pushback against leveling her grandparents’ ancient house to build a bed and breakfast? Probably. Definitely.
With Clay’s definition of “true success” still ringing in her ears—and his sexy scent still torturing her memory—Lacey squared her shoulders and entered the Super Min.
A bell tinkled with an old-fashioned preciousness asthe door opened, just as Charity shoved the cash-register drawer closed and dismissed a customer with a tight smile. The bell was the only thing “precious” about the Super Min or its owners.
“Well, it’s about time somebody got dressed up around here,” Charity remarked.
“Not exactly up, but dressed.” Lacey paused in the heavenly rush of cool air. “I have a meeting.”
A construction worker passed Lacey on his way out, giving her a once-over and zeroing in on her chest.
“I’ll meet with you,” he said with a wink.
So much for the “too professional” blouse Zoe had mocked and Lacey thought underplayed her boobs. Those suckers did not underplay easily.
Clay Walker was already a professional risk; she didn’t want to encourage a personal one as well. So she kept telling herself that if he got the job, if he proved himself to her, and if they had to work side by side for a year or more, she would just ignore the fact that he turned her into a quivering bowl of Jell-O.
“Bet I know who you’re meeting with.” Charity situated her bony backside on her stool, smug and cocky.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you did, Char.” There were two forms of news delivery on this island: the
Mimosa Gazette
and Charity Grambling. “Forty dollars of regular unleaded,” she said, holding out her money.
Charity took the cash and lifted partway off the stool to peer over the counter and get the full view of the white slacks Lacey had switched to when Zoe had called her other choice mom jeans.
“You’re going up to that mess in white pants?”
News
and
editorial.
“Yep.” Lacey met Charity’s judgmental gaze.
The door to the back office flipped open and Patience Vail, who only answered to the nickname Patti, ambled into the room.
“Lacey’s got a meeting,” Charity said, pressing way too much emphasis on the word. “With
someone
.”
Patti lifted her dark brows. “That same someone you were practically licking down at the Pelican last night?”
Oh, boy. This actually could be fun if it weren’t true. “There was no licking, Patti.” Lacey gave an obviously impatient look at the cash register. “You know, until you press that button, I can’t pump the gas.”
“I know.” Charity situated herself on the stool. “I gotta tell your mama, Lacey. You know that, don’t you?”
Lacey rolled her eyes and almost laughed at the warning, like she was a teenager caught shoplifting in the Super Min or something. “My mother’s up in New York at my brother’s place, Charity.”
“I know where she is. We’re Facebook friends.”
“Well, no need to report anything, Charity, because last time I checked, I was thirty-six years old.” About to be thirty-seven, but no need to give them that ammo.
Patti and Charity shared a look. “He isn’t,” they said simultaneously. “Bet he isn’t thirty yet.”
Now she couldn’t help laughing. “Did you girls get a picture? ’Cause then you can post that on Facebook, too.” She started to back away, but Charity’s inch-long crimson nails lingered over the computer key, holding Lacey captive. “Any minute now, Charity. I’m kind of in a hurry.”
But Patti put a hand on Charity’s arm, further stalling things. “Maybe she
is
the one.”
What one?
Charity considered the question, eyed Lacey
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