Can't Fight This Feeling

CHAPTER TWO

AT BLUE ARROW LAKE’S Hallett Hardware, Angelica stood at the rear, stocking lightbulbs, her tension unwinding with every minute she arranged the cardboard boxes on the shelves. Working at her part-time job was one of the few things that made her feel at peace these days. She’d taken the job before the financial disaster as a lark to help out her friend Glory Hallett when the other woman had lost an employee.

There was something soothing about unpacking cartons. The task was defined. It had purpose. A customer would come in, needing a 40-watt candelabra bulb, and she’d know exactly where to direct them. Better, she could convince them that the more expensive energy-efficient halogen bulb would be the best choice. Yes, more expensive in the short-term, but in the long run a smarter selection for both economic and environmental reasons.

She supposed some people would laugh themselves sick at the idea of Angelica Rodriguez—she of fancy boarding schools and an expensive women’s college—enjoying work at a hardware store, but it was the first time she’d ever actually earned a paycheck.

Well, there was the modeling she’d done as a youngster, which had paid ridiculously well, but those gigs had been arranged by her mother, and she’d been so self-conscious as she grew older that when she turned twelve the photographer’s assistant had started giving her mojitos before a shoot. The hangovers had been hell, so she’d started packing on the pounds until she’d lost her shot at a modeling career.

Turned out she never grew tall enough anyway.

The smell of rum and doughnuts still made her nauseous, though.

“What’s that face for?”

Angelica swung around to see Glory coming down the aisle.

“What did that indoor floodlight ever do to you?”

Angelica smiled at her friend. They were opposites in practically everything. While she was tallish—though not tall enough for worldwide fame and European runways—Glory was petite. Angelica’s long, brunette hair and dark eyes were nothing like Glory’s short blond feathers and big blues. Until now, Angelica had led a fairly useless life, while Glory had been working at the family hardware store since she was old enough to push a broom and weigh a brown paper bag of nails. They’d struck up a conversation when she’d come browsing at the store one rainy spring weekend and just...clicked. Upon her return for her summer stay, she’d revisited the store and over one coffee and then a lunch, a friendship had fully formed. “The bulb is innocent. I was just mulling over my life.”

Glory frowned. “What’s happened now?”

“Nothing new.”

“Did you get your clothes?”

Angelica nodded. “Last night.” She decided against mentioning her run-in with Brett Walker. Glory didn’t know about that silly crush she’d suffered, and there was no reason to tell her now. Away from the house where he landscaped on a weekly basis—she had no idea whether the authorities would have him continue the service—she’d likely never see him again.

Because if I find out differently, there’ll be hell to pay.

It had been a macho-man parting shot, that’s all. He wouldn’t care enough to find out any more about her or her situation. His complete disinterest all summer had made that abundantly clear.

“I wish you’d come live with me,” Glory said.

“No, no. You have that adorable one-bedroom cottage that is perfect for you...but not you and me. I’ve got that room at the Bluebird. They have reasonable weekly rental rates.”

If you had more money coming in.

She didn’t say that, but perhaps Glory could read minds. “I wish I could offer you more hours,” she said.

“Please.” Angelica touched her friend’s arm. “I’m grateful for what I have. I’m here in the mountains, far from the limelight of the financial press.”

“They’ll be looking for you, you think?”

“Probably. Yes. I was warned about it by the lawyers, anyway.” There was precedent for the families of fraudsters being hounded. Daddy, how could you? she thought now. Reporters—and those he’d swindled—would want to know the answer to that question, too, and she didn’t have one. At his insistence, after college she’d gone back to their home in LA, where she’d been a hostess for his business soirees for a couple of years. But as time went on, he’d become increasingly reclusive.

He’d never shared the why of that or the what for. The man had never made it a secret that he’d wanted a boy and that her gender was a great disappointment to him. Though she’d excused it as a cultural and generational thing, they’d never been close.

He’d been her dad, though. And she’d been dutiful, always seeking his approval, she saw now, instead of her own brand of happiness.

Glory picked out another package from the carton and stared down at it. “No word from your mom, either?”

“Not one. Likely traveling around Europe or Asia with Hubby Number Four.” Angelica watched her friend frown, knowing that she’d find this baffling, too. While Glory was an only child like Angelica, her parents were still married to each other and lived in relative contentment in their beloved mountains.

Which were becoming beloved to Angelica, as well. “I’m happy to be here,” she told Glory again. “It’s going to be okay for me.” As soon as she managed to build a new life.

“I—” But what her friend was about to say was interrupted by the sound of the bell on the door. “We’ll talk later,” she said, and headed toward the front of the store.

Angelica hoped not. Hashing and rehashing the particulars of her sucky current situation would only pierce the bubble of peace she’d found in Hallett’s. During her shift, she wanted the most difficult thing she tackled to be the box of misplaced goods that required reshelving.

In the distance, she heard Glory greeting the customer. “Good morning,” she said, in her friendly, I-know-you voice. “How’s it going, Brett?”

Angelica froze. Brett? Brett Walker? The deep-voiced response told her that it was indeed him. Why? Shouldn’t he be somewhere with his truck, working? She took a peek at the slice of front window she could see, and the sun was still shining. Perfect weather for him to be out on the job, away from here. Away from her.

Because, darn it, she couldn’t seem to keep her feet rooted to the floor. Instead, they were creeping closer to him, her traitorous eyes wanting to get a glimpse of him. Shielding herself behind a rotating display of work gloves, she peered through the leather-and-fabric fingers.

Did he have to be so ruggedly good-looking? In the height of summer, he’d worn long shorts and work boots. A T-shirt that he’d often take off as he pushed the mower, allowing her to see the muscles in his back flexing. His arms were roped with muscle and more than once she’d stood at a window, hidden behind a curtain kind of like how she was hiding now, just to watch his pumped biceps and flexing forearms.

Those were covered now. Today a plaid shirt was buttoned over his torso and a worn pair of jeans encased his long legs. Hugged his most excellent butt. He ran a hand over his hair as he talked to Glory, a gesture she’d seen him make a dozen times. It always made her curious, that habitual movement, because his hair was shorn short enough that it never appeared disordered. The stuff was brown, but tipped in gold, highlights that a woman would pay a mint for in a salon, but that only needed his constant exposure to the sun.

Then there were those intriguing scars that only served to make him more sexy. More male.

Still ogling, Angelica tuned into what Glory was now saying. “That’s right. I know those clippers are in from the sharpener’s. They’re in the back room somewhere. Hold on a second and I’ll find them.”

Angelica had to bite her lip to stop from volunteering for the task. Not only could she put her hands on them immediately—she’d designated a space in the storeroom for items delivered from the man who did the work—but Glory was hopeless when let loose in that area. She moved perfectly ordered items around, reshuffled organized paperwork and generally made a mess.

As Brett waited, the bell sounded again, signifying another customer.

Argh! Usually, with Glory occupied elsewhere, she’d be hurrying forward to help the person. But that would give her away to Brett, and she really wasn’t up to a second confrontation with him in two days.

She was too busy to deal with her ridiculous response to him.

He murmured something, greeting the newcomer, she supposed. A local, she guessed, since the hardware store was hardly the midweek hot spot for the town’s wealthy visitors. Drumming her fingers on the skirt of the sturdy, butcher-style apron she wore over her clothes, she wondered how long she could let the latest customer go without service.

Already, her conscience was pinching at her. Then it got worse. “Where’s Angel?” an elderly man enquired.

“Angel?” Brett repeated. “You mean Glory?”

He’d make that assumption, Angelica thought, because he didn’t know the name that Mr. Bowman used for her. C’mon, Glory. She sent out vibes toward the back room. Get out here with Brett’s tool!

With him safely on his way, she could help the customer asking for her.

“No,” Mr. Bowman said. “Angel. That dark-haired girl who works here. She’s my color muse.”

The dear, Angelica thought. One of her favorite parts of the job was keeping the display of paint chips organized. She loved playing with the colors and imagining them on walls, on furniture, covering the trim outside a house. Mr. Bowman had found her there one day and she’d helped him pick choices to freshen the interior of his home.

“Bob...” Brett cleared his throat. “I really don’t think there’s any Angel—”

“Of course there is. This is one of the days she works.” His voice rose. “Angel? Angel!”

The jig’s up, girl, she told herself, squaring her shoulders. “I’m here, Mr. Bowman. Do you want to meet in the paint section?”

“Certainly,” the old man called back.

Angelica let out a breath. Maybe, while she was busy with Mr. Bowman, Brett would collect his tool and carry on his day. They’d never have to come face-to-face.

She gave all her attention to the older gentleman, who loved the shade they’d picked for his office and now wanted something to brighten the kitchen. They picked several tagboard swatches that he would bring home for his wife’s ultimate approval. Before he went on his way, she kissed his cheek and he beamed at her. Then he wandered toward the front door.

Angelica, breathing easy, turned in the direction of the lightbulb shelves. Her face almost mashed into Brett’s plaid shirt as he came around a corner. She skittered back.

His gaze ran over her, from her jeans and low-heeled boots, to the apron covering her long-sleeved tee. She’d written her name in block letters on the beige twill in blue permanent marker. It was situated in the vicinity of her collarbone, so there was no reason for her breasts to respond as if he was staring at them. She crossed her arms over her chest.

“You actually work here.”

“I’m helping out.”

“That’s your name on the apron, Angel. Some of it, anyway.”

“Angelica wouldn’t fit.”

“Huh.” He was still staring at her. “I guess I now have a new appreciation of having a short name.”

“Even better for you, two of the five letters in yours are the same.”

His brows rose. “Yeah. Made it so even a mountain yokel like me could learn to write it.”

She glared at him. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, you didn’t.” There was a speculative light in his gray eyes. Against his tanned face, they looked almost like clear water. “What are you doing working here, Angelica?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She loved the store and the hours she spent here gave her more job satisfaction, she suspected, than any career in high finance ever could.

“It’s not your kind of place.” He glanced around, his gaze roaming over the bins of nails and the spools of chain in various gauges. “A woman like you...”

The word spoiled went unspoken. So did good-for-nothing. One time she’d overheard him talking to his sister, and he’d referred to Angelica as a useless piece of fluff. Out loud.

She should despise him.

“Don’t you know...” she started sweetly. “Oh, but you wouldn’t, so let me explain. Some of us, you know, we elite, we have a program.”

“Oh, yeah?” His eyes narrowed and now he crossed his arms over his chest. “What kind of program?”

“Kind of like...like scouting.”

He barked out a laugh. “Yeah, how’s that work exactly?”

“We earn badges for doing things the common folk do.”

“Badges.” He sneered the word. And though of course he couldn’t possibly believe her, she continued in a haughty tone.

“Yes. Badges. For learning to boil water. Or helping out an elderly man. Or earning a paycheck for an honest day’s work.”

And with that she swept off. It wasn’t a flounce. Only a rich, spoiled girl would do that, and the woman who was now Angelica Rodriguez was so far from that, it wasn’t even funny.

* * *

THE PROPRIETORS OF THE Bluebird Motel had decided to close for the season early. The small rooms weren’t properly winterized, so it had always been open for the fair-weather seasons only. Despite that, Angelica had thought she might have a few more weeks in room 4. Now they told her she could have her spot with the reasonable rates for just a few more days. The owners wanted to get to their second home in Phoenix as soon as possible.

Which meant Angelica needed a new place to live and another job to pay for it. Other rentals in the mountains were more expensive.

The village of Blue Arrow Lake was composed of fancy boutiques and lovely restaurants, but she’d struck out finding work in any of them. It was an in-between time. Not the summer when people came up to play in the sunshine and not the winter when they came for the snow. Still, as she walked to her car parked on a side street, the buttery color of the fall sunshine was buoying. The air smelled clean with just a touch of nuttiness from the drying leaves and grasses. The cool nip to the air was bracing.

As if to reward her rising mood, she saw a help-wanted sign posted in the window of a small building. Over the door was another that read Maids by Mac.

While she didn’t have retail experience and had never worked in a restaurant, she’d gone ahead and asked about jobs anyway. It seemed she might have a better shot at a business that was actually advertising for workers. And perhaps cleaning wasn’t something that required a wealth of prior professional experience.

Of course working as a maid might not be a coveted career choice, but Angelica was desperate enough to squelch any hesitation and hurry for the door. The knob turned and it swung soundlessly, allowing her to enter a small office space. Behind a counter was a desk with a computer and phone. A filing cabinet sat in one corner. A half-open closet door revealed shelves neatly stocked with cleaning supplies. No one was in the space, but another door was open at the rear that revealed a tiny courtyard. There she saw the back of a woman as well as a bistro table on which two coffees were set. The woman was talking to someone, but Angelica could only see a pair of long legs in jeans from where she stood.

Unsure whether to call out or just wait to be noticed, Angelica hesitated. The slender woman had hair as dark as her own, though shoulder length. She was dressed in jeans, boots and a thin, slouchy sweater in pale blue.

“You seem more grouchy than usual,” the woman was telling the other person in the courtyard. “What’s up?”

The human attached to the legs—a man—grunted in reply.

Maybe the woman sensed Angelica then because she suddenly looked around. “Oh!” She had eyes the same icy blue as her sweater. “There’s someone here. Just a minute,” she called out. Then to the grouchy man, “Don’t go anywhere, honey.”

And it was a familiar voice that responded. “Not moving. I have to make some calls.” Brett Walker’s voice.

Brett Walker here! Several days had passed since their contact in the hardware store and she wasn’t thrilled to run into him again. But Angelica couldn’t exactly retreat, now that the woman was coming toward her, wearing a welcoming expression.

Wait, Angelica thought, her stomach starting to jitter. The brunette had called Brett “honey,” and he wasn’t the kind of man to whom you threw out casual endearments. Could it be...was it possible... Might this woman be Brett’s wife?

She felt a flush climb up her throat. What if all this time she’d been mooning over a married man? Maybe every night he’d gone home to this pretty woman with her warm smile and arresting eyes and laughed about Angelica’s obvious crush.

“Can I help you?”

Her gaze shifted to the woman’s left ring finger. No wedding band. She knew Brett didn’t wear one either, but if these two worked with their hands it was conceivable they left their rings at home. She should have pumped Glory for information on the landscaper. Oh, why hadn’t she pumped Glory?

“Miss?” the woman prompted again, her smile fading to a puzzled expression.

Embarrassment coursed through Angelica once more. She had to think up some excuse! With Brett—unmarried or not—nearby, she didn’t want to beg for a job application. It would be mortifying for him to find out she was nearly broke. He didn’t have a high opinion of her as it was, so she didn’t want to add the term wastrel to the list of labels he applied to her.

Her gaze jumped around the room and landed on a plaque hanging on the wall. She gestured toward it. “I’m visiting the local businesses that are part of the Mountain Historical Society,” she said, improvising like mad. Though she actually was a volunteer for the group, so it wasn’t such a stretch, she decided. “I wanted to thank you in person for your past support and give you a report on the overwhelming success of our recent auction.”