The Reasons to Stay (Harlequin Superromance) Page 3

  When the ice water arrived, Priss drank half of it at once, then winced as the brain freeze hit. Her stomach growled at the smell of grilling bacon. She tried to relax and let the AC and lunch-crowd conversation wash over her. Sipping more slowly, she noticed a bulletin board below the menu, with a sign at the top, The Grove Groove. She stood and walked over to read. Among the local real estate agents’ business cards were flyers for a lost llama, babysitting services, and a “gently used” Western saddle. She flipped up and read a thank-you card from a local little-league team to the drugstore’s owner, for his sponsorship. An index card at the very bottom caught her eye.

  Furnished Apartment for Rent.

  See Adam Preston for details.

  You know you’re in a small town when they don’t include a phone number. She walked back and sat, just as the girl set down Priss’s BLT.

  “You want mustard?”

  “Sure. But, can you tell me who Adam Preston is, and how I contact him about that apartment?”

  The girl walked a few steps and drew a soda from a tall, old-fashioned dispenser. “He’s the boss I told you about. The pharmacist.” Snap, snap.

  Priss craned her neck to the pharmacy counter in the back.

  “He’ll be back after lunch.” The girl set the curvy glass in front of Priss and plunked a bottle of mustard next to it. “The apartment is upstairs.” She looked at the ceiling. “He’s up there now actually.”

  “Oh, cool.” It wouldn’t hurt to get some insider information. “My name is Priss, by the way. I’m moving to Widow’s Grove for a while.”

  The girl’s attention sharpened, as if Priss had just moved out of the generic customer category. “I’m Sin, as in S-I-N.” Snap, snap. “Actually, it’s Hyacinth. I shorten it to irritate my mother. That’ll teach her for naming me after a stupid flower.”

  Her smile displayed further rebellion—a huge cubic zirconia was set in her front tooth.

  “I can relate. My name came from my mother’s massive crush on Elvis.”

  “That old fat guy?” Snap. Snap. Snap. “That blows.”

  “Tell me about it. What can you tell me about the apartment, or the pharmacist? I really need a place near town.”

  The girl named a modest rent amount, then considered her next words as she scooped ice cream into a banana-split boat. “Adam is okay. He’s kinda hot, for an old guy.”

  That wasn’t the kind of information she was looking for. “I mean—”

  “Except he’s got a major stick up his butt.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s anal. Seriously, terminally, anal. The guy needs to dispense himself a chill pill.” She walked to the other end of the counter to deliver the split to a guy in a business suit, leaving Priss to try to reconcile those two facts and how to use them for leverage. If that apartment was presentable, she really needed to rent it.

  * * *

  ADAM TOOK THE last dish from the dishwasher and put it in the cabinet. “Mom, I’ve got to get back to work.” He grabbed a sponge and wiped the sandwich crumbs from the counter. “You’ve got your phone with you in case you need anything, right?”

  “Yes, dear.” His mother rose from the kitchen chair, clutched her walker and squeaked her way to her favorite antique wing-back chair in the living room.

  When the microwave dinged, he took out the cup of tea and carried it to her. He’d wanted to move her into the apartment that had the view of Hollister, but she insisted on saving the nicer view for a “paying customer.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.” She pulled a soft throw onto her lap. “When I’m off this walker and back on my own pins you won’t need to coddle me anymore.”

  “No worries, Mom. I’m just downstairs.” He walked to the door, wondering how many prescriptions had piled up and how Sin was coping with the lunch crowd.

  “Adam.”

  He pulled the door open and turned back to her. “Yeah, Mom?”

  “Don’t forget, if someone wants to rent the other apartment, I get final say, right?”

  “Of course. But I call screening privileges. They’ll be living right across the hall and you’re too trusting.” He closed the door and walked down the stairs that ended in a vestibule; one door led into the store, one led to the alley behind it. He unlocked the door to the store and walked in.

  He glanced up front, to the soda fountain. Sin lifted a thumb to let him know all was well then waved him over. Walking up the nearest aisle, he stopped to help old Mrs. Baylor with a suppository recommendation before moving on.

  I’ve got to do something about Sin. She didn’t look like a ’60s soda jerk—she looked more like Cyndi Lauper at a Halloween party. But how could he approach the situation without hurting her feelings? He’d been through a string of failed hires before Sin, and in spite of her looks he’d come to rely on her. She ran the soda fountain well and he could trust her. The locals were used to her looks. Maybe just a different color uniform would help—one that complemented her hair.

  Snap, snap. “Boss, this lady wants to talk to you.”

  He was going to have to talk to her about chewing that gum. Again. He turned to the lady on the last stool.

  Scratch that. A girl.

  She had a slim build and wore a knee-length skirt that showed off long, muscled dancer’s calves, crossed at the ankle. But it was her face that caught and held him—huge green eyes set in a pretty heart-shaped face. Her brown hair was short and spiked with a widow’s peak. She sat looking at him with a small nervous smile.

  Time slowed and sound faded.

  God, she’s enchanting. Even though he was sure he’d never used that word before, it fit. He felt enchanted.

  He extended a hand. “Adam Preston.”

  She gave him a firm, no-nonsense shake. “Priscilla Hart. I’m interested in the apartment you have for rent.”

  She must have read the skepticism in his expression, because she sighed. “I’m twenty-nine—plenty old enough.”

  Not for what I was imagining.

  “Well, all right. Why don’t you follow me? I have an application and background authorization for you to fill out.”

  There was a line at the prescription counter so he sat her at the consulting window with the forms and got to work.

  Fifteen minutes later he’d dealt with the line. The dropped-off scripts could wait. His prospective tenant sat tapping her fingers on the counter. He walked over and picked up the forms. “An interim office manager. Colorado, huh? I don’t see a phone number for your previous landlord. I’ll need that.”

  “I need to tell him I’m leaving first.” She fussed with the strap of her purse.

  She was businesslike and put-together. But after the epic fail of his last tenant, he knew that appearances were deceiving. He frowned.

  “You can check. I pay my taxes, am a registered voter and don’t have so much as a moving violation.”

  “But according to this, you don’t have a job in Widow’s Grove.”

  “Yet. You’ll see from my credit check that I have enough money in the bank to cover a deposit, first and last month’s rent.”

  “But if you can’t pay down the road, eviction is a real hassle.”

  “Look.” She stood and slung the oversize purse on her shoulder. “I’m trying to rent an apartment. I am not signing up to guard the president or run the Federal Reserve. Check out my references, then let me know. My cell number is on the fifth form from the bottom.” She looked at him as if he were a juicy wad of gum on her shoe. “Do you think you could trust me enough to at least show me this apartment? I’ll give you time to hide the silver first, if you want.”

  He had to smile at her, all puffed up and huffy. “Actually, you kind of would be guarding the president. Follow me.” He locked the metal door t
o the drug area then led the way through the door to the stairs. But instead of taking them, he inserted the key to call the elevator.

  At the top, he walked to the door to the right and searched his ring for the correct key. “I used to live in the other apartment.” He nodded to the door on his left. “But my mother recently broke her hip. Her house is a two-story with a walk-up porch so it wasn’t working for her. I was going to move her in here and sell her house but she insisted I move into the house instead.”

  He found the correct key, opened the door, then stepped back so she could enter. She walked across the oak floor to look through the windows to Hollister. “Great view.” Her voice echoed off the high ceilings.

  He stayed by the door as she wandered into the kitchen, the bathroom and lastly, the large bedroom, her heels tap-tap-tapping across the wood floor. Generations of Preston-used furniture made the apartment feel cozy.

  This apartment was the mirror image of the one across the hall. Growing up, his father had always rented them. It was a good source of additional revenue for the drugstore’s start-up, and later the rents had paid Adam’s tuition to UCSD.

  “I think it’s great. I’d like to rent it. Providing, of course, I meet your requirements.”

  “Okay, well, let me take you across the hall to meet my mother. My requirements take a backseat to hers.”

  “What does your mother have to do with this?”

  “You’d be living right across the hall from her. That means she gets first right of refusal.”

  He watched her throat move as she swallowed. She squared her shoulders and walked out ahead of him. He crossed the hall and knocked on his mom’s door.

  “Come in.”

  He opened the door. “Mom? Do you have a minute to meet a possible tenant?”

  “Certainly, bring them in.”

  “This is Priscilla Hart, an office manager, most recently from Colorado.”

  The girl—woman—walked past him to where his mother sat, reading a thick book. “Ms. Preston. It’s nice to meet you. Your son told me about your recent accident. I’m sorry.”

  His mom put aside the book. “To hear him talk, I’m a fragile invalid. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

  “You’re reading Atlas Shrugged!”

  The delight in her voice brought his head up.

  “That’s one of my favorite books of all time.”

  His mother’s eyes lit up. “Oh? What is it you like about it?”

  Priss may not have recognized his mom’s “professor voice,” but Adam did.

  “Her theory of rational self-interest and belief in the power of an individual.” At his mother’s wave, the girl sank onto the sofa. “I’ve learned a lot from that book.”

  His mother had tried for years to get him interested in philosophy, but he’d fallen asleep ten pages into that doorstop of a book. Sports Illustrated was more his style. “You read that stuff?”

  Priss looked up, yet somehow managed to look down her nose at him. “Are you one of those men who think you have to have a college degree to be intelligent?”

  “I never said that. Did I say that?”

  With a smug smile, his mother watched him twist on the hook.

  “Priscilla, if you have some time, I’d love to discuss this book with you.”

  Priss nodded.

  “Would you mind making us some tea, Priscilla?” His mother gave a small head shake when he started to move.

  Priss popped up. His mother explained where to find things in the kitchen.

  Once she was in the other room, his mother said, “She’s the one.”

  “I haven’t run her background check. She could be a convicted felon for all I know. She might steal the silver—”

  “My silver is all at the house.”

  “Or murder you in your sleep. You just like her because she likes that Rand woman.”

  “You’re wrong. I like her because she ruffles your oh-so-neat feathers.” Her smile held secrets. “And frankly, son, your feathers could use a good ruffling.”

  * * *

  PRISS PUSHED THROUGH the door from the stairwell into Hollister Drugs, heading out for another day of job hunting. She loved her new digs. She enjoyed sitting in the overstuffed chair by the window, watching the town wake up, pedestrians shifting from a trickle to a stream as the shops opened. She liked the evenings, too. The lights winked out as the town settled in for sleep. Now if she could only get as lucky in the job market.

  At least she could show that do-gooder, Ms. Barnes, that she had a decent place for Nacho to live in. Her credit check and references had come back sterling, so the uptight druggist couldn’t find an excuse not to rent to her. But she had no doubt that he’d tried.

  She glanced to the prescription counter. Head down, Adam focused on something he was writing while speaking in an undertone to an ancient lady in a Sunday dress and orthopedic shoes. That first day, all Priss had seen was a double-breasted white coat and a wall of upper middle-class attitude. But the past few days she’d caught glimpses of more.

  His tanned profile looked chiseled from granite. A sable curl escaped his perfectly gelled hair, falling onto his forehead. Underneath the Mr. Sphincter was a fine-looking man. That weird combination of handsome and uptight increasingly intrigued her. It seemed she kind of liked weird.

  “And how is Annie doing, Ms. Talcott?” Adam looked up; his soft brown eyes held concern. “Has she gotten settled in Atlanta?”

  The old lady beamed. “Oh, yes. Can you believe? She’s expecting again!” The woman set her industrial-strength purse on the counter, unclasped the catch and pulled out her wallet, flipping open a huge accordion photo holder. “Have I showed you my great-grandtwins lately?”

  “How old are they now?” Adam’s fond smile displayed a killer chin dimple.

  Their voices faded as she strode to the front of the store. He really appeared to care about that lady’s family. Hell, he even took the time to look at photos.

  No doubt about it. Adam Preston was a Nice Guy.

  And therefore, suspect.

  Four hours later, Priss returned home. She pulled into her space, shut down the engine and waited for Mona to stop wheezing. She’d looked for work at every business in Widow’s Grove that her skills could possibly stretch to fit—and a few they wouldn’t.

  The clock was ticking. Nacho had been in the not-so-caring hands of the county for two weeks now. Every night, a herd of sharp-hooved nightmares thundered through her sleep, all starring Nacho, with the boy being neglected, being bullied—and worse.

  She shook her head, shoving her past to the back of her mind for another day.

  * * *

  IT WAS ONLY midmorning on Friday and she was already tired, discouraged and in need of coffee. She’d picked through the meager want ads in the local paper and had been to every business on Hollister. She was beginning to get a whiff of failure on the wind that grew stronger each day.

  Today. I’m not quitting until I find a job today.

  Throwing her shoulders back, she put on her interview smile, snatched her purse from the floorboard, and stepped out of the convertible. She’d abandoned her heels after that first day. Dressy flats might not show off her legs as well but they hurt less. She strode as fast as her pencil skirt allowed toward the red-and-white-trimmed building. The sign next to the door read The Farmhouse Café.

  How hard could waitressing be? After all, her mother had done it for years so it had to be a piece of cake.

  A cowbell clanked against the glass door when she stepped onto an oak floor, silvered with use. Empty red vinyl booths marched along the windows to a corner where a potbellied stove squatted. Grizzled men in overalls drank coffee in a booth against the back wall. The place was midmorning-deserted.

  A Formica
-topped bar faced her. A pale-blonde woman sat sipping coffee on the only occupied stool, a motorcycle helmet and leather jacket on the stool beside her. A big-haired blonde stood on the other side of the bar, in a tightly fitted white pantsuit that advertised Monroe-like curves. She’d borrowed Marilyn’s lipstick, too. Her Cupid’s-bow mouth was a slash of crimson.

  The waitress said something to the girl at the bar, then looked up. “Hey, sweetie. Welcome to the Farmhouse.”

  Priss walked over and extended a hand to Marilyn. “Hello. My name is Priss Hart. I was wondering if you needed any help with your bookkeeping. I’m—”

  The blonde patron choked on her coffee. She grabbed a napkin and coughed into it while the waitress patted her back. When the biker chick could speak, she said, “You must not be from around here. Jess is the math whiz of the universe. She does the bookkeeping in her very best dreams.”

  “Stow it, Sam.” Jess shook Priss’s hand. “I’m Jesse Jurgen. That sexy hunk in the kitchen is my husband, Carl.”

  A Nordic giant filled the serving window, waving a spatula in greeting.

  Priss nodded to him, then took a breath and pushed the reluctant words past her teeth. “Could you use a waitress, maybe?”

  “Sorry, dear, it’s just Carl and me.”

  Hope and relief whooshed out on her breath. She’d have to try Santa Maria, or Solvang. More gas, more commute time. More alone time for Nacho.

  Shit.

  “You look done in, hon. Have a seat.” Jesse turned and lifted a metal carafe from a warming tray. “Want some coffee?”

  Priss dropped onto the red vinyl-clad stool next to the biker chick. “I’d love a cup. Thanks.”

  Jesse poured. “You drink that. It’ll buck you up. I’ll be right back.” She walked from behind the bar to refill the farmers’ cups at the back booth.

  “I’m Sam Pinelli.” The slim woman next to her eyed Priss from over her coffee cup. “You don’t know anything about the building trade, do you?”

  “I wish.”

  “My husband has an auto repair and tow shop...”

  Priss shook her head.