It's In His Smile (A Red River Valley Novel Book 3) Page 7

  Talmadge came over and stood next to the ladder. “He whined and yelped all night.” The tone of his voice raised a notch like he was kind of desperate.

  Involuntarily, her gaze flitted to Lloyd. “Where’d he sleep?” She tried not to look at Talmadge. Tried to focus on the task of stripping an already well-stripped section of the beam. She scraped some more, the speed of her strokes increasing.

  “In the laundry room. It was too cold to put him outside. Plus I didn’t see a doghouse in Bea’s backyard.”

  Miranda blew out an exasperated breath. Men could be so dense.

  “He’s not an outside dog.” As if the bows and nail polish didn’t give that away. “He’s not used to sleeping alone. Let him in your bed.” She swallowed at her own statement.

  Talmadge stared at the dog, horror etched across his face. “Beg your pardon?”

  “He’s used to sleeping with Bea. So, let him sleep with you now.”

  “This dog is not sleeping in my bed. No one sleeps in my bed.”

  The tool slipped from Miranda’s hand. She grabbed for it, caught it, and steadied herself on the swaying ladder. Right. Not a lot of sleeping went on in Talmadge Oaks’s bed when someone besides him was in it. She knew that all too well.

  Her insides coiled so tight she thought she might spontaneously combust.

  Talmadge set Lloyd down and went to stand at the foot of the ladder. “You’re going to kill yourself on this sorry excuse for a ladder.” With his good hand, he gave it a small shake. It nearly toppled with her on it.

  “Hey!” She grabbed onto a rung. His steadying hand on the small of her back sent heat racing through her.

  At least it wasn’t on her ass this time.

  “I’m not going to let you fall. I just wanted to prove a point.” His warm palm molded against her back.

  “By killing me?”

  “Sorry, but what the hell are you doing on this shoddy old thing with tools in your hand? If you don’t kill yourself, you could easily lose some fingers, or a limb, or an eye.”

  She pulled off the safety goggles and propped them on top of her head. “That’s what these are for.”

  His gaze studied her eyes. Looked deep, then dropped to her lips.

  The tip of her tongue slipped out to wet them.

  “Plastic goggles aren’t going to do much good if you fall on top of an electric sander that’s going full speed.” He took the sander from the top shelf of the ladder and set it aside.

  “The remodel is behind schedule. I can do some of the projects myself. I’m not afraid of hard work.”

  “Shouldn’t your contractor be doing the heavy lifting? And if he’s a professional, he should have better equipment than this.” Talmadge gave the ladder a dismissive wave. “Where is he?”

  She hesitated. Good question. Not that it was any of Talmadge’s business, but a good question nonetheless. So good, in fact, that she’d been wondering that very thing ever since she handed Ben Smith several thousand dollars for roofing supplies. The next day he’d texted that he was sick with the flu and hadn’t shown up for work since.

  That was several days ago, and he’d stopped answering his cell. So, where was Mr. Smith?

  None. Of. Talmadge’s. Business. All he needed to know was that she was handing him her payments at the end of each month.

  Or not.

  So why did she feel it necessary to defend her choice to hire Ben Smith? Lots of people in town had used him. All of Red River’s silver-haired widows were happy with him. Couldn’t stop singing his praises, in fact. So Talmadge’s suspicious tone irked Miranda because maybe he was insinuating that she’d made a poor business decision. “Ben needed money to buy roofing materials, and then he got sick.” She hoped. She prayed that was true. “When he comes back, he’ll bring his equipment. In the meantime, I found these tools in the storage closet.”

  “In the meantime, get down off that death trap.” Talmadge’s statement was a demand.

  Or rather a command. He was commanding her!

  She wielded the paint scraper and started on the beam again. “I’ve got work to do.” She did not have to do what he said.

  “You can’t work if you’re hurt.”

  “You should know.” She pointed to his sling.

  They glared at each other.

  Without taking his eyes from hers, he reached for the scraper in her hand, tossed it on top of a pile of materials, and gave the ladder a small but firm shake. She lost her balance on the wobbling ladder and fell right into his arms. Well, arm.

  He used his good arm to catch her and held her flush against him with her legs dangling in the air. His look was firm, his minty breath caressing her cheeks.

  “Put. Me. Down.”

  He stared down at her with a smoky gaze. “Whatever you say.” His words came out more like a murmur, and the tickle of his breath raced down her neck all the way to her toes.

  Which curled.

  He let her slide down his hardened body, inch by glorious inch. And oh, heavens, if this were a contact sport, she’d trample every woman for miles to join the team. Her feet touched the ground, finally . . . unfortunately . . . and she stepped out of his arm.

  “Don’t get back on that thing.”

  This was her place, and she’d been taking care of herself and Jamie since before she hit puberty. She wasn’t going to be cowed by a man the way her mother always had. Now that Bea—the closest person to a role model Miranda had ever had—was gone, she’d damn sure help herself instead of relying on a man for anything.

  Because men never stayed around.

  One of his silky brows arched.

  She grabbed at her ponytail and twisted the end around an index finger. Studied the sawdust that she’d left on the entire length of his front, stark against his jet-black clothing. Served him right.

  She tried to feign a condescending tone. “Look, Mr. Oaks—”

  The silver-blue of his irises flared to a dusky purple.

  God, she loved purple.

  She glanced away for a nanosecond before trying to manufacture more indignation. “I know you’re used to commanding your employees, the press, adoring activist fans, and women from all tax brackets—”

  A muscle in his squared jaw tensed.

  “But I’m not your employee. I’m not an adoring fan.” Liar. She followed every one of his projects. Had for years. And the last two years, she’d made a weekly date at Bea’s to bring her laptop and read articles off the Internet because Bea’s vision was deteriorating. “And I’m certainly not a woman who wants . . .” You. She had to bite her lip to keep from blurting it. And suddenly her throat went very, very dry. Who turned up the thermostat in here, anyway? She could barely pay her bills as it stood.

  She wasn’t sure if it was the way he set his freshly shaved jaw, or the way one of his lush brows arched with just enough arrogance to make her teeth grind, but she snapped. This was her dream, not his. His dream had been fulfilled and was still waiting for him back in Washington. Even though he’d caught a tough break with Trinity Falls, his grandparents had made sure he got the education he needed to pursue his career.

  So why was he here interfering with the one and only chance she’d ever have to be something more than a waitress? To be in control of her future and take charge of her destiny.

  “I’m done taking orders from other people. I’m the boss in this place. The contract I signed says so. So go find someone else to order around.”

  An almost-smile slid onto his mouth. Without a word, he turned the ladder on its side and stomped on the hinge, which snapped like a twig.

  This time Miranda’s jaw really did fall open.

  He carried the ladder past the counter to the back door.

  “Get the door,” Talmadge said to Jamie, who scrambled to his feet to do Talmadge’s bidding.

  Miranda wanted to scream. Talmadge tossed the ladder outside against the trash Dumpster and walked back into the inn. He brushed his hand against his dusty c
lothes, then Jamie let the door slam shut again.

  “Better,” Talmadge said. “Now what were you saying, Ms. Cruz?”

  “That was the only ladder I had!”

  “Not saying much. I’ll bring you a better one from Bea’s. My grandfather’s work shed is still filled with equipment.”

  “But—” Miranda tried to slow her spinning mind. How dare he walk in here and . . . and . . . take charge.

  She looked at her brother for some familial support.

  Jamie stared at Talmadge, the admiration in her little brother’s eyes about as subtle as a neon sign in the middle of a power blackout.

  “Dude, that was awesome.” Jamie’s voice was an awe-inspired whisper. “No guy has ever brought Miranda to her knees.” Jamie turned pink and glanced at Miranda. “Uh, pardon the pun, sis.” He looked at Talmadge. “Who knew she’d let her new boyfriend boss her around.”

  Miranda and Talmadge’s heads swiveled toward Jamie. What did he just say?

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” she blurted at the exact same time Talmadge spoke up.

  “I’m not her boyfriend,” he said. Not quite as loudly as she did, but the firm authority in his voice was no less effective in conveying his distaste for the thought. Which galled her to the bone.

  “Sure you are.” Jamie grabbed his laptop and turned the screen to them. A picture of her and Talmadge, lips locked, bodies molded together, his hand groping her ass where her pants had split in two, stared back at them. “This just showed up on the Red River Rag.”

  Miranda’s eyes crashed shut. “Oh my God. This can’t be happening.”

  Talmadge’s tone turned confused. “What’s the Red River Rag?”

  “It’s a Tumblr blog about all of Red River’s gossip,” said Jamie.

  “I thought Tumblr was mostly porn?” Talmadge said. When Miranda shot him her very best disgusted look, he mumbled, “Not that I would know.”

  Miranda had tried to live clean. Tried not to earn the same bad rep as her mother. And she’d pulled it off spectacularly except for that one tiny indiscretion with Talmadge seven years, three months, and thirteen days ago. Miraculously, she’d been able to keep those few hours they’d spent in the inn’s honeymoon suite top secret, but now she was making headlines over an accidental rendezvous that involved her wardrobe malfunction, Talmadge’s hand, and both of their lips? At Bea’s wake!

  Oh, God. She was supposed to be building a reputation as Red River’s newest respectable proprietor.

  Jamie chuckled like it was funny, which it wasn’t in the least. “If Tumblr is mostly porn, then you two fit right in.” Jamie laughed harder.

  So not funny.

  “I’m going. Tokillyou,” Miranda said through gritted teeth.

  “Hey, it’s your ass going viral on the Internet, not mine.” Jamie held up both hands.

  “It will be in the most painful way possible. When you least expect it,” Miranda promised.

  “It’s not my fault you got caught on camera making out with someone famous.”

  Miranda’s jaw locked. “We were not making out,” she managed to grind out. Well. Damn. Yes they were. “Were we, Mr. Oaks?”

  He just shrugged, one corner of his mouth curling up. “We kinda were.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose.

  “Sick! My sister’s dating Talmadge Oaks. Wait till I put this on Instagram. I’ll have girls all over me.”

  “We’re not dating!” Miranda yelled. “And I swear to God if you put that anywhere or tell anybody, you will never be able to sire a child to carry on our family name.”

  She turned on Talmadge. “You have to do something to stop this. People in Red River will listen to you. I can’t have people thinking we’re . . . we’re . . .”

  Gah!

  She pointed to the door, steam virtually swirling from her ears. “Go. Now.”

  He flexed the hand on his injured arm and looked down at it. “I’ve got a couple of appointments. Lloyd will stay here while I’m gone.”

  It wasn’t a question. He wasn’t politely asking for a favor like normal people would. It was a command. She almost blurted no just to show him she really was the boss, but she did love the little dog.

  Talmadge trekked toward her, stopping a breath away. “I’ll be back later with a real ladder and some tools.” He placed the edge of his index finger under her chin and lifted her gaze to meet his. Mockery gleamed in his metallic eyes. “Sweetheart.”

  Chapter Six

  Talmadge found a parking spot along the curb in the middle of Red River’s historic business district and glanced at his watch. He was late for the reading of Bea’s will, but he doubted being a few minutes late in Red River would ruffle a lot of legal feathers. He was surprised Red River even had an attorney now.

  He picked at the sawdust that Miranda had just left all over him. Dirty clothes were a small price to pay for the feel of her sliding all the way down his body. He’d wanted to hold her there; the contrast of her soft curves against his work-hardened body had ignited a fire down below.

  He picked faster.

  The sawdust clung to his dress clothes like gum, so he finally gave up and got out of the old Ram truck. The door creaked when he slammed it.

  Wheeler Peak was magnificent any time of year, but particularly in the winter and spring when it was still clothed in white all the way to the bottom. He admired it for a second while a few cars tooled by, and then darted across the street to Angelique Barbetta-Holloway’s law office, which was above her husband’s Main Street medical practice.

  He climbed the stairs, rapped a knuckle against the open door, and peeked inside.

  “Please come in.” Angelique stood and welcomed him.

  “Nice to meet you.” Talmadge walked in and shook her hand over the desk.

  She waved him into a seat in front of her. The tasteful armchair barely fit his large frame, but he was used to it. So he adjusted himself at an angle.

  “You as well, Mr. Oaks.” Rumor had it she was as smart as she was beautiful and was fiercely in love with her new husband, Dr. Blake Holloway, with whom she was expecting a baby.

  And he’d gleaned every bit of that information by scrolling through the Red River Rag on his phone since he’d left the inn a few minutes ago. Wow. Anything a person wanted to know about Red River was on that blog. But it was the pictures of him and Miranda that kept drawing his attention. She seemed so perfect in his arms that a spark of pride had swelled in his chest, and a lump had formed in his throat. Something he hadn’t experienced when he saw his pictures with beautiful women in the celebrity mags.

  “Call me Talmadge.” He motioned to the specks of sawdust that covered most of his front. “I was helping a friend with a project.”

  Angelique shook her head, her black ponytail swishing around her shoulders. She waved toward an open door to his right where several cans of paint sat on the floor along with brushes, rolls of tape, and a few drop cloths. A half-assembled baby bed leaned against the far wall, and miscellaneous parts were strewn across the wood floor. “I totally understand.” She laughed. “The words ‘It’s one baby. How hard can it be?’ actually came out of my mouth when I found out I was expecting.”

  He smiled. Liked her already. “Congratulations, Mrs. Barbetta-Holloway.”

  “Call me Angelique. I rarely go by my last name, since I chose to hyphenate it. Entire wars can be fought in the time it takes to say the whole thing. Irritates my husband to death.” She smiled. “Which is why I did it.”

  She removed a file from a drawer and set it in front of her. Her silhouette was framed by the large picture window behind her. Talmadge studied the rich design of the classic crown molding that surrounded the window and lined the top of the walls.

  Besides running the inn, his grandfather had done carpentry work on the side. Talmadge had helped with some of the repair jobs in these apartments back in the day. Even then he imagined how beautiful the old buildings could be if transformed by someone with
a vision for them. The same kind of vision he had for Trinity Falls. Starting an entire green town from scratch had seemed like a brilliant idea until a few weeks ago.

  The hand on his injured arm involuntarily clenched and released.

  Scaling back to smaller, less ambitious jobs might be forced on him now. So might poverty, if Trinity Falls didn’t work out.

  “How are you holding up?” Angelique asked, the backdrop of a clear blue sky and a snow-blanketed Wheeler Peak making the situation seem more pleasant than it was.

  “I’m okay.” He used his fewer-words-are-best method of handling a conversation.

  When he didn’t elaborate, she got right to the point and opened the folder sitting in front of her.

  “I asked you here for the reading of Bea Oaks’s last will and testament.” Her voice was all professionalism.

  Talmadge nodded. Shouldn’t take long. Although his grandparents hadn’t been poor, they also weren’t people of significant means. Besides the old gingerbread house where he grew up, there might be a little life insurance money. He’d never asked. He’d been the one to send money home every month since he got his first job right out of college. But Bea gave most of it to charities, saying she had no debt and didn’t need more material things at her age. She’d even asked him to stop wiring money into her account at the Red River Community Bank.

  He hadn’t. How could he not send money home to the grandparents who had taken him in and raised him? What his grandparents chose to do with the money was up to them. If it made Bea happy to help others with it, then Talmadge was good with that. He understood that pull to give back. He’d spent his entire career doing the same. It was the reason he decided on the riskier path into green architecture instead of mainstream designs. It was his attempt to preserve instead of destroy. He’d destroyed too much early in his life.

  “You, Talmadge Oaks, are her only living survivor and beneficiary.”

  Scalding heat bit through his nerves.