car and head for parts unknown.” Bertie crossed her arms over her impressive chest and glared up at him. Keith barely knew her, but he recognized the mulish tilt of her chin, and he figured he’d better start talking if he wanted answers.
He closed his eyes and inhaled the crisp evening air. It was mid-March, the sun had gone down and the temperatures had dropped into the fifties. The cold pierced the gray henley sweater he wore over his long-sleeve cotton T-shirt and he fought the urge to shiver. He still hadn’t acclimated to the cooler climate, even though most considered the Carolinas mild. Keith had lived among the palm trees and salty breezes of the Atlantic Ocean for years. Anything in the fifties was considered freakin’ cold in Miami.
He rubbed his hands together and said, “Look, can we go somewhere and maybe grab a cup of coffee? I want to sort this whole thing out. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”
Bertie’s sea-green eyes narrowed. Keith fought the urge to grin. She may look like Betty Boop, but he had a feeling she was no dummy. “No more cheap shots. What do you say?”
“Well…”
“Come on. I’m freezing my ass off out here.” He held the passenger door open. Bertie hesitated, peering up at him as if he bullied small children and stole their lunch money. She gave a curt nod before hiking herself up into the leather bucket seat. He caught a brief glimpse of a very fine ass encased in a pair of tight jeans. He was in hell.
Keith drove the short distance from Aunt Francesca’s neighborhood, where statelier, wealthier homes graced acre lots in Harmony, to the corner of Main and Oakwood, near the center of town. He parked in the side lot to what looked to be the local watering hole. The Dogwood Bar & Grill had small-town charm, with its gabled roof and covered porch entrance. Hunter-green shutters and window boxes with blooming yellow flowers decorated the front. He strolled with Bertie up the paved walkway lined with several dogwood trees waiting for their blooms. His hand pushed the bronze handle on the wavy-glass front door, which obscured the interior, and ushered Bertie through. Once Keith stepped over the threshold, he stopped dead in his tracks.
His head snapped back in stunned surprise. The “quaint” bar was bursting with a kaleidoscope of color. Straight ahead, aqua blue and green bell jar lamps hung over the dark brown wooden bar with chrome barstools covered in zebra-striped vinyl. Diners sat at old, plank pine tables on painted, ladder-back chairs in bright orange, pink, and lavender. And people jammed the booths, sitting on green and yellow Dalmatian-spotted vinyl, drinking out of aqua-colored mason jars. Chicken wire pendant lights illuminated each booth with colorful crystals and old-timey lightbulbs. The floor created a wave-like pattern in speckled orange, green, and blue terrazzo that led to a point directly in front of a wooden stage. A small local country band played in front of a pink and silver hexagon-patterned backdrop.
“Goddamn. What blind person decorated this place? It looks like someone tripping on drugs opened a bunch of paint cans and went spider-monkey crazy,” Keith said.
“Ummph,” he grunted as Bertie’s elbow connected hard with his ribs in a swift jab.
“I did, you big, stupid oaf!” She glared up at him then stormed off, leaving him standing in the small, purple-painted entrance all alone.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Aunt Francesca wanted this color-blind, acid-dropping decorator working on his house?
Like bloody hell.
He watched Bertie and her fine ass weave her way toward the bar like she owned the place. Customers called out her name and she waved, stopping to speak with a few. Her thick, shiny hair bounced around her shoulders, and her tight jeans caught the attention of some of the guys. Keith witnessed more than a few heads swiveling in her direction. His mouth tightened into a grim line.
When she reached the end of the bar,
He closed his eyes and inhaled the crisp evening air. It was mid-March, the sun had gone down and the temperatures had dropped into the fifties. The cold pierced the gray henley sweater he wore over his long-sleeve cotton T-shirt and he fought the urge to shiver. He still hadn’t acclimated to the cooler climate, even though most considered the Carolinas mild. Keith had lived among the palm trees and salty breezes of the Atlantic Ocean for years. Anything in the fifties was considered freakin’ cold in Miami.
He rubbed his hands together and said, “Look, can we go somewhere and maybe grab a cup of coffee? I want to sort this whole thing out. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”
Bertie’s sea-green eyes narrowed. Keith fought the urge to grin. She may look like Betty Boop, but he had a feeling she was no dummy. “No more cheap shots. What do you say?”
“Well…”
“Come on. I’m freezing my ass off out here.” He held the passenger door open. Bertie hesitated, peering up at him as if he bullied small children and stole their lunch money. She gave a curt nod before hiking herself up into the leather bucket seat. He caught a brief glimpse of a very fine ass encased in a pair of tight jeans. He was in hell.
Keith drove the short distance from Aunt Francesca’s neighborhood, where statelier, wealthier homes graced acre lots in Harmony, to the corner of Main and Oakwood, near the center of town. He parked in the side lot to what looked to be the local watering hole. The Dogwood Bar & Grill had small-town charm, with its gabled roof and covered porch entrance. Hunter-green shutters and window boxes with blooming yellow flowers decorated the front. He strolled with Bertie up the paved walkway lined with several dogwood trees waiting for their blooms. His hand pushed the bronze handle on the wavy-glass front door, which obscured the interior, and ushered Bertie through. Once Keith stepped over the threshold, he stopped dead in his tracks.
His head snapped back in stunned surprise. The “quaint” bar was bursting with a kaleidoscope of color. Straight ahead, aqua blue and green bell jar lamps hung over the dark brown wooden bar with chrome barstools covered in zebra-striped vinyl. Diners sat at old, plank pine tables on painted, ladder-back chairs in bright orange, pink, and lavender. And people jammed the booths, sitting on green and yellow Dalmatian-spotted vinyl, drinking out of aqua-colored mason jars. Chicken wire pendant lights illuminated each booth with colorful crystals and old-timey lightbulbs. The floor created a wave-like pattern in speckled orange, green, and blue terrazzo that led to a point directly in front of a wooden stage. A small local country band played in front of a pink and silver hexagon-patterned backdrop.
“Goddamn. What blind person decorated this place? It looks like someone tripping on drugs opened a bunch of paint cans and went spider-monkey crazy,” Keith said.
“Ummph,” he grunted as Bertie’s elbow connected hard with his ribs in a swift jab.
“I did, you big, stupid oaf!” She glared up at him then stormed off, leaving him standing in the small, purple-painted entrance all alone.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Aunt Francesca wanted this color-blind, acid-dropping decorator working on his house?
Like bloody hell.
He watched Bertie and her fine ass weave her way toward the bar like she owned the place. Customers called out her name and she waved, stopping to speak with a few. Her thick, shiny hair bounced around her shoulders, and her tight jeans caught the attention of some of the guys. Keith witnessed more than a few heads swiveling in her direction. His mouth tightened into a grim line.
When she reached the end of the bar,
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