Nights Under the Tennessee Stars

She held her breath.

“Fair enough,” Heather said finally, and surprised the hell out of Erin by picking up her suitcase. “Austin, Texas, here I come.”

When Heather swished out the door, the welcome bell ringing in her absence, Erin slumped against the front counter. She was too mentally exhausted to celebrate that she’d ousted her sister before Heather’s wise eyes had seen through the Goth-girl hair and the sledgehammer-wielding nights to the truth that Erin was still a broken mess and not really over a lying scumbag she should hate with a passion.

How long would it take for her brain to get the message Patrick’s wife had delivered so succinctly six months ago? He was the antithesis of everything Erin hoped for in a man. But some days, it was hard to reconcile that image of him with the guy she’d fallen for, possibly because she’d never confronted him about it, had purposely avoided any interaction with him ever again. She’d never gotten to see his expression as she called him on his lies, never gotten the chance to see the charming facade fall away.

Maybe that would have helped her to hate him more.

Okay, she actually hated him quite a bit.

And that was the whole problem. She wanted desperately not to care.

Until then, she would simply keep moving forward, building her new life here and hoping that by walling out the rest of the world, she’d finally find some peace.

* * *

REMY WELDON HAD never seen fog like this. It had come from out of nowhere in the past two hours, causing his visibility to shrink. It looked as though someone had dumped a few metric tons of wet cotton balls along the back roads of central Tennessee. In theory, he was scouting locations for one of his shows that was floundering in ratings—Interstate Antiquer. But since he couldn’t see what street he was on, he didn’t hold out hope he’d see much of the shop he’d been searching for, Last Chance Vintage.

In his six years as a TV producer, he’d never had a show plummet in viewership so fast, but then, he’d never had a successful show’s host walk away midseason to make a documentary on a turn-of-the-century American painter. As if that film project would lift the guy’s career more than Remy’s show? Either way, Remy was at his wit’s end trying to patch together the rest of the contracted shows with guest hosts while doing the heavy lifting himself on everything from location scouting to script development.

Everything sucked. Much like the thick gray fog that cloaked the headlights on his crappy rental car. Much like life since his wife had died two years ago and he’d relocated from Louisiana to Miami to escape the memories. There seemed to be no end to gray fog and suck-age.

“Arriving at destination,” his GPS informed him with obnoxious cheeriness, her electronic voice sounding smug at having landed him in a downpour thick with rain, fog and inky darkness.

If he was truly near Last Chance Vintage—one of ten businesses he planned to scout this trip—there was no sign of it outside the car window. Then again, he could barely see the road in front of him as he braked to a stop, the headlights picking up a drain in the street where water rushed from all sides. He must be near a curb.

Shutting off the engine, Remy sat for a minute, letting the stress of the drive slide off his shoulders. He’d been away from his home in Miami for three days already—long enough to be apart from his adopted daughter. Liv’s daughter. His first priority should be—and was—taking care of Sarah until she finished high school and started college. But since her mom had died, he’d struggled with being overprotective to the point of overbearing. He was trying to return to a more regular travel schedule even though being away from his daughter made him uneasy after what had happened to his wife.

In fact, if he thought about it too long—knowing full well Sarah was staying with extremely responsible friends of the family—he stood a very real chance of a panic attack while sitting on the side of the road.

She was safe. She was safe. She was safe...

The mantra didn’t work as fast as Remy needed it to, memories of his wife’s death—while home alone—returning too fast for him to block them out. Two years wasn’t too long to grieve. Not when Liv’s death had been Remy’s fault. He hadn’t been home when two drifters had shown up, targeting their home for easy-to-pawn goods and cash. They’d known about the house thanks to a shared jail cell with Sarah’s biological father, Brandon, who was doing time at a medium-security facility for some kind of hacking crime. The guy had bragged that his ex-girlfriend had struck it rich when she had married, spilling details about the new house Remy had built in Lafayette, Louisiana.

The weight on his chest increased, the air in his lungs leaving in a rush of breath and fear.

Feeling along the passenger seat in the darkened car interior, he found his cell phone and punched in the speed dial code for his daughter. He’d be all right once he heard her voice. God, let her be okay...

Dialing. The device showed it was dialing. And dialing.

Then the call screen disappeared and returned to his home page. Remy punched in her number again. Only to repeat the process.

How far away from civilization was he that he couldn’t grab a cell signal? The delay did zero for the onslaught of panic. He snatched up his phone and keys and shoved open the car door, heading out into the rain. A stupid idea. Except he needed to get in touch with Sarah. Now.

Torrents of water streamed from the sky, soaking him instantly. The street was a rushing river, filling his shoes and plastering the hem of his pants legs to his ankles.

He was a dumbass. This fear was irrational. And so real he didn’t give a shit. Maybe he’d get a better signal if he got out of the rain.

Crossing the street, he could make out the shape of buildings—red brick and clapboard side by side. A few awnings shielded him from some of the rain, but not enough that he trusted using his phone without ruining it. He cursed the rain, his luck and the growing fear in his chest. He picked up his pace and sloshed along the cobblestones, hoping to see a pay phone. Talk about an antique... What were the chances he’d find one?

Thwack! Thwack!

A series of sharp sounds cut through the rumble of the deluge. Thwack! Thwack!

He tracked the noise to his left and saw a dull glow from a glass storefront with a bicycle in the front window. Last Chance Vintage was painted in purple-and-red-striped letters. Relieved to finally find the place after hours of looking, he tried to remember what he’d read about it. His notes had said the business was owned by sisters, but he didn’t recall much more than that. Probably two old maids with blue hair and double-stranded pearls.

Thwack! Thwack!

The sound definitely came from inside, and judging by the light emanating behind an opaque sheet of plastic near the register, he guessed a construction crew was doing some work after hours. He lifted his fist to bang on the door with one hand while he pushed the brass doorbell with the other. Whoever was making that racket inside might not hear otherwise—

Shadows moved behind the plastic sheet, but Remy’s eye was already on the corded phone on the counter right near a cash register circa 1920. When the sheet moved, a woman emerged in overalls and safety goggles, carrying a bright orange nail gun. No doubt that accounted for the noise.

Remy lifted a hand in a sorry excuse for a wave. He hoped he didn’t scare her away. He probably looked like an intruder. His throat closed up tight as the young woman pulled off the safety goggles and strode toward the door. He half wished she wouldn’t let him in—what the hell was she thinking opening the door to a total stranger after hours?—but he needed to call Sarah. Some days were worse than others since Liv’s death and this was turning out to be one of the worst ones.

It was difficult traveling away from home.

The door opened and the woman stood back to admit him. The scent of wood shavings and stain was heavy in the warm interior air.

“Can I help you?” She fixed him with knockout blue eyes, the soft color a surprise feminine detail next to the baggy jean overalls and shapeless dark tee underneath. Her jet-black hair was purposefully shaded and cut in a razor-sharp line just above her shoulders.

Definitely not an old maid.

“I can’t get a cell signal out here.” Remy didn’t cross the threshold despite the open door.

His wife had been murdered during a home robbery while he was away from home for work. Seeing this total stranger, this vulnerable stranger, open the door to him was messing with his head.

“Come in!” The woman waved him forward impatiently. “You’re getting rain all over the floor.”

“I can give you the number,” he offered, his feet feeling as if they were stuck in concrete. “You could make the call for me, if you’d feel more comfortable having me wait outside—”

“I am most comfortable not having the hardwood ruined.” She stepped forward to grab the door and gestured emphatically for him to come inside.

He forced his feet to move, grateful to get out of the rain.

She shoved the door closed and toed the welcome mat closer to him. “Here. I’ll get you a towel and you can use the phone.” She rummaged in a basket beneath one of the display shelves and retrieved a couple of rumpled terry cloth rags. “I’m Erin Finley, by the way. One of the owners. You must be from out of town?”

“Remy Weldon, from Miami.” He mopped off his face and hands, knowing the rest of him was a lost cause. “Sorry to bother you—”

“It’s no bother.” She was already grabbing the phone and yanking free some extra cord so she could bring it to him while he stood on the mat. “I’m glad I could help. It’s a small-town thing, you know? Be nice to strangers and all that.”

She shrugged a shoulder as if it was no big deal, and something about the gesture hinted at the feminine curves beneath the overalls, catching him off guard. He hadn’t noticed women in anything but the most detached way in a long time.

Dropping the heavy, old-fashioned phone into his hands, Erin gave him a fleeting smile.

Remy swallowed hard, his thoughts all over the place. The anxiety in the car had spiraled into worries about a total stranger opening the door to him, and now this surprise awareness of her. He gripped the phone tighter.

“I didn’t mean to stand outside and let the rain in for so long,” he said finally, his brain clearly short-circuiting. “I—ah—didn’t think...”

And then no words freaking came. Remy Weldon, who’d built a career on his ability to get funding for any show and sweet-talk talent into any role, gaped like a fish out of water.

Not that Erin seemed to notice. She was too busy running a hand over the wooden molding on the front of the checkout counter. Pressing a thumb over one raised spot, she lifted her nail gun to the wood and—thwack!—put the trim back into place.

She looked at him. “I figure it’s safe enough to let a stranger inside when I’m the one carrying the air nail framer with enough compression power to staple your hands to the wall.” Her mouth stretched into a smile that he bet some guys would find intimidating. “That is, if I needed to.”

“Awesome. Good thinking.” He liked Erin immediately. Not only because she thought about a weapon to bring to the door, but also because she didn’t seem to notice the fits and starts of his speech that had plagued him the past two years. Bad enough to be caught thinking about his wife in the middle of a meeting and have everyone’s expression turn embarrassed, impatient or—worse—pitying. But then, to stumble over his own words or realize he’d lost his place in the conversation completely? He hated that.

Dialing his daughter’s phone number, Remy already felt his heart rate slowing. Some of the weight stopped crushing his chest.

“Daddy?” Sarah sounded surprised. “It’s late.”

He checked his watch and realized it was midnight. Crap.

“Sorry.” He lowered his voice even though Erin was halfway across the store, her fingers traveling over more molding around a set of bay windows. “I didn’t realize how late it was and I had trouble getting a call out in a storm. Everything okay there?”

His daughter’s exasperated sigh sounded more like a growl. With teens, the intonation of a sigh could be all you had to decode a mood sometimes.

“Fine. Everything is fine as always, and you can’t call in the middle of the night to check on me or you might wake up Mr. and Mrs. Stedder— Unless you’re calling to invite me on your scouting trip?”

She sounded so hopeful Remy hated to say no. She’d been asking that a lot lately. Why did his work travel suddenly interest her? She’d resented it mightily when he had stayed home for over a year after Liv’s death, needing to keep tabs on their daughter. Going back to work hadn’t been easy.

“Not this time, Sarah. And I thought you had a big field trip with some kids from school this week?” He wasn’t home as much as he’d like to be, but he tried to pay attention to her school activities.

“Right. Whatever. Dad, I’m tired of being at the Stedders all the time. I could help you—”

“Tomorrow, okay?” He didn’t want to get into a disagreement now, not after how worried he’d been. He just needed his life to feel normal again tonight.

“Tomorrow? While I’m on an overnight field trip?”

“When you get home.” He wished he could get on a flight home. Now. “I promise.”

Disconnecting the call, he hoped Sarah understood. She’d been through so much.

He’d love to surprise her and show up in Miami by the time she was back from the field trip. Except he hadn’t scouted jack squat for locations unless Erin Finley could be talked into a spot.

The nail-gun-wielding store proprietor would be a great guest. Everything about the store was perfect, too, except he didn’t see many antiques besides those used as decor.

He set the store’s phone on a shelf—a shelf that used a tarnished silver cake stand to display an assortment of brooches from cameos to cubic zirconia cartoon cats. The store seemed to be a hybrid consignment shop where used and new items rubbed elbows comfortably. On second glance, he realized the “shelf” was actually a repurposed plantation shutter.

He definitely wanted to discuss the show with Erin, but dripping wet on her floor at midnight didn’t seem like the best way to make a pitch.

“Thank you,” he called over to her.

“All done?” She finished driving a few more nails into a piece of trim around a window casing and then strode over.

“Yes. Guess I need to try and find a hotel.” He turned back toward the glass door and stared into the darkness. “Sounds as though it might be slowing down.”

“Wishful thinking. And you might have to head back to Franklin for a hotel. Heartache just has a bed-and-breakfast, but Tansy Whittaker might not answer the door at this hour if you don’t have a reservation.” Erin carefully switched the safety on her nail gun and set the tool on a peeling green apothecary cabinet. “She told me she runs a white-noise machine at night because it masks the sound of the most, er, enthusiastic newlyweds’ vacations.”

“Right.” He wondered vaguely if she was flirting with him. No. The risqué reference was just normal conversation. “That makes me all the more grateful you heard when I knocked.”

“I don’t like surprises anymore.” Her voice had an edge to it as she leaned down to reach for something alongside him, her sudden proximity bringing the scent of her perfume and freshly cut lumber. She had a tattoo of a bluebird at the top of her spine just below her hairline. “Here.”

He looked at what she had handed him. A plain black umbrella. His gaze moved to the wrought iron stand near the door where two other umbrellas remained.

“Thanks, but I don’t want to take yours—”

“You’re a tough man to help, you know that?” She rested a hand on one hip and surveyed him through narrowed eyes. “All of those umbrellas have been there for at least a year, so I assure you, no one will be back to claim it now.”

“Then...thank you.” He tucked it under his arm. He didn’t have trouble accepting help. Much. “I might try the local place first, but I appreciate the tip about Franklin. Would you have time to meet tomorrow? I actually might be in the market for some specialty antiques.”

He liked to play it safe when interviewing prospective guests for a show. That way, if something didn’t pan out or they didn’t have the right temperament for television, there were no hard feelings afterward. But damn...if he could firm things up with Erin’s place and two more dealers, he could justify the trip and head home.

“Sure. Stop by anytime. If you want to block out some uninterrupted time, though, we’ll have to meet after five. We close early tomorrow, but I’m the only one here until then.”

“Great. Five sounds good.” He had made business appointments hundreds of times in his line of work. But this one felt oddly personal. Partly because Erin didn’t know the real purpose of his visit and might assume he simply wanted an excuse to see her again. But maybe also because they were alone at midnight with the steady hum of rain drowning out the rest of the world.

“Until then, safe travels, Remy Weldon.” Erin stuck a hand out to save him from his stupid line of thinking.

Right. This was business and he was just overtired. He took her hand and shook it. A brief, warm contact that was there and then gone.

“Thanks for everything.” He really did owe her big-time. If there was any way that Interstate Antiquer could put her store on the map and improve her business, he planned to make that happen. He owed her that much for her kindness.

But as he turned to head out into the storm—a black umbrella now sheltering his head—he wasn’t thinking much about her business. Instead, he saw cornflower blue eyes and the wry smile of a sharp, self-possessed woman who didn’t play games.

It made him uneasy to think he wasn’t going to put her out of his mind anytime soon.

CHAPTER TWO

THE STORE WAS surprisingly busy the next day, keeping Erin on her toes all morning and well into the afternoon. She hardly had time to think about her visitor from the previous night, which was just as well since Remy Weldon had occupied far too much mental real estate the night before.

Just when she thought she’d beaten her libido into permanent submission, a compelling stranger had to enter her store with a cleft in his chin and a trace of a sexy Cajun accent. She told herself he was just a test of her new powers of restraint—a six-foot-plus hazel-eyed handsome man dropped into her path just so she could prove to herself she’d learned her lesson about attraction to men from out of town. But it unsettled her that a shared smile could make her pulse flutter.

“Miss?” a woman called from behind one of the dressing room curtains shortly before closing time. “Could I get your opinion on an outfit?”

Erin was only too glad to shove thoughts of Remy to the farthest reaches of her mind.

“Be right there.” She excused herself from another customer—a thrifty local who came in mostly to barter and browse—and hurried over to the middle of three curtained dressing areas. “Should I come in or do you want to step out?”

“If you could come in.” The curtain was swept partially aside and Erin noted the woman’s thin hands and worn nail polish.

A tiny size two at most, the customer had been in the store for about twenty minutes and had spent a long time searching through the clearance rack. Erin saw now that she had five items on hangers while a too-big dress slouched on her trim frame. From her worn shoes and scuffed bag, Erin guessed maybe she was an overworked mom looking for a bargain outfit to spruce up her wardrobe, but Erin tried not to make too many assumptions about clients. Sometimes the ones who dressed the most humbly or spent their money the most carefully were the secret millionaires.

“Would you like me to look for some smaller sizes?” Erin offered.

“There aren’t any.” The woman bit her lip. “Not on the clearance rack, anyway.”

Something about the dark worry in her eyes made Erin wonder what the dress was for.

“We’re having a dress sale, though. Thirty percent off—”

“It’s not enough to make anything else affordable.” She shook her head and turned to face herself in the mirror. She pinched a handful of fabric at her waist to pull the blue cotton jersey tighter to her body. “But I sew well enough. I can take this in.”

“Oh.” Erin tried to picture the simple shirtwaist dress with a few adjustments. “If you can do that and maybe trim the bodice a little—”

“Do you think it’s right for a job interview?” Worry lines creased her forehead.

“For what kind of job?” Erin tried to keep one ear tuned to the sales floor in case anyone else needed her help. At least she didn’t have to worry about theft since Heartache was a safe small town where the local police spent more time directing traffic at church functions than they did solving crimes.

“Finleys’—the home building supply store— advertised for a bookkeeper.”

Erin smiled. “That’s my brother’s store. It will be Scott or his wife, Bethany, who interviews you.” Her smile faded as she remembered why they probably needed a bookkeeper. Their marriage had been teetering on the verge of divorce this year. Bethany normally handled the books. “I think this will be a great dress for an interview, although if you have a jacket—”

“I don’t have a jacket.” The woman’s voice was tight as she shook her head, a limp strand of pale blond hair sliding loose from the tight ponytail. “I can’t afford more than the dress. This is a lot to spend on a job I might not get.”

“You definitely don’t need a jacket,” Erin blurted, sensing she’d touched a nerve. “I think you could style this a lot of ways—”

Her customer slumped onto the small wooden stool in one corner of the dressing room. “I don’t even have shoes to go with this. Or a bag.” She covered her face with both hands and shook her head. “Don’t mind me. I didn’t mean to have a meltdown in your nice store.”

“It’s okay.” Erin’s heart went out to the woman, whatever her story. Erin had been blessed. She had never had those kinds of financial worries, and she hated to think she had neighbors who fought battles like that. “Can I get you a tissue or—”

“No!” Her head lifted, and although there were tears on her cheeks, her eyes blazed with a fresh determination. “God, no. I am not crying over my rat bastard ex-boyfriend who took everything when he ditched his son and me to screw his home-wrecking whore of a secretary.”

She swiped her face fiercely to get rid of all trace of moisture while Erin reeled from her words. Even six months after finding out she’d accidentally cheated with a married father of two, the accusation of “home-wrecking whore” jabbed her chest as sharply as if it had been meant for her. Kind of like this woman had peeked into Erin’s personal ghost closet.

“I—” Her voice faltered. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m sorry to live it.” She stood abruptly, brushing over the skirt of the dress with her hands. “And I didn’t mean to make myself at home in the dress when I haven’t even bought it. It’s lovely, but maybe I’d better think it over before I buy anything.”

Erin wanted to help the woman even more than she’d wanted to assist Remy Weldon the night before. She’d given Remy a helping hand out of common courtesy. But the need to give something back to this woman went deeper than that—a personal need to soothe over some of the guilt in her heart.

“The store is actually hosting a big Dress for Success event later this month,” Erin lied, unsure about the name, but remembering an article describing an organization that provided professional attire to disadvantaged women. She’d thought about doing something similar in the past but had gotten busy with renovations. “I’ve been collecting clothes for it for weeks.”