Jo’s face read suspicion. “Didn’t take you for the type to have flowers in the kitchen.”
I handed Daisy a fifty. “Guess you don’t have me pegged after all.”
“Or are you going to take them to your Flexion groupies?” Jo asked. “They’re awfully chipper this morning. And I’m pretty sure the one in the middle will take her shirt off if you ask nice.”
Her family eyed us warily.
Said groupies bounced behind me.
“I thought I’d give them to Salma. Pay her back for the three loaves of zucchini bread she left on my porch yesterday. Think she’d like the pink ones?”
Dottie picked a yellow and white bouquet. “These are her favorites. That’s awfully thoughtful of you, Mr. Stone. Isn’t it, girls?”
Two of them mumbled agreement. Jo just scowled.
I took my change, then my goods. And then I said to Jo, “Anything to make a lady smile.”
She snorted a laugh.
I smirked, sharing a look with Dottie. “See?”
Daisy rolled her lips to stop herself from laughing, but Poppy didn’t even try to hide her amusement. Jo’s scowl deepened.
“You ladies have a good day, now. Hope it’s a success.”
“You too,” Dottie parroted, her manners bred into her too deep to deny.
And I turned for my booth, walking away with my head high. The Flexion groupies turned their attention on me, and I realized that the middle one would take off her shirt. I might not even need to ask, let alone nicely.
“Hello, ladies. I think there was some confusion about what today’s booth was going to be. Thank you for setting up. You’re free to go.”
They frowned. Well, the middle one pouted, but all three were disappointed.
“What do you mean?” Lefty said.
“We drove all the way from Austin,” Righty whined.
“Are we still getting paid?” Middle asked.
“Yes, you’ll still get paid, and I’ll make sure you get a little extra for the trouble.”
Lefty held up her T-shirt cannon. “Should we leave these here?”
Middle gave me a coquettish look. “Are you sure you want all of us to leave?”
“Yes, leave the cannons, and yes, I’m sure.”
With more pouting, they grumbled around to the back of the booth where their purses were, occasionally looking in my direction, mumbling and giggling. I made myself busy moving things around the table without purpose so I could effectively ignore them. But when they said their goodbyes, I thumbed through my cash to pay them, handing them an extra fifty with the suggestion they swing by the Blum’s table to buy themselves flowers.
And as her mother sold the poor girls some flowers, Jo and I waged a silent battle across a grassy aisle that she had no idea she was going to lose.
5
TNT
JO
I’d almost forgotten all about Grant Stone as I strummed my guitar next to my cousin, Presley, up on the town hall stage.
The Blums had been a Lindenbach staple at town hall dances for near two hundred years—Blums were born with an instrument in hand and sang like larks. My ancestors would pile their seven kids in a wagon and head into town every Saturday night to entertain, and though the weekly dance tradition died down in the 60s, we still put on a show from May through September, for old times’ sake.
Daisy played the fiddle on the other side of Presley, Poppy played a little trap set behind us, and Mama, who couldn’t carry a tune to save her life, played the stand-up bass.
Most of us could play all the instruments—other than the fiddle, that was all Daisy—but Poppy preferred to bang on the drums, and since it was difficult to sing and play the violin, I was the one who typically fronted the band. But when Presley came to town, we put a guitar in her hand and shoved her in front of the microphone, figuring the town would appreciate us mixing things up.
The dance floor hopped in front of us, full of people two-stepping to the honky tonk we preferred. You wouldn’t find any Kenny Chesney here—we were all Patsy Cline and Hank Williams and the like, with a little bluegrass thrown in for good measure.
Watching everyone happy and dancing cleared my mind of Grant Stone after a full day of staring at his stupid face at the market. As thankful as I’d been that he’d sent the cheerleaders packing, I wondered if it wouldn’t have been better to watch them than have to ignore the icy gaze of the asshole who wanted what was under our land. My family didn’t see him as that much of a threat—we’d declined and figured that was that. But he wasn’t going to let it go. He’d said so himself.
Of course, they thought I was just being prickly. And I was, but not just for the sake of it. He was dangerous, and I didn’t quite understand how I was the only one who saw it.
I knew this so well, in fact, that when he walked into the building, every nerve in my body shifted in his direction.
He was wearing khakis again, though nothing like people around here wore. No, his were tailored to fit him perfectly, the leg slim without being skinny, fitted without being tight, accentuating the lines of his thighs—which were substantial enough to note—and the curves of his ass—which was a marvel Michelangelo would have committed to marble. His button-down shirt was fresh, though, and cuffed at his elbows, revealing unholy forearms. The fabric of his shirt clung to his shoulders, broad chest, and rolling biceps without looking like it was too small for him but somehow still tight enough that, should he have to shake hands with another alpha male, it’d shred to pieces.
Those cool eyes found me as quickly as I’d found his, which was less surprising, as I was on an actual stage with a guitar in my hand, but I felt their weight all the same.
When the Loretta Lynn song Presley had been singing ended, the dancing paused for a round of clapping. Thirty seconds ago, I wouldn’t have minded taking my turn on the microphone. But as Presley took a bow and stepped back, nodding for me to go ahead, dread gripped me by the guts. I must have shown it too because a smile flickered on Stone’s face as he came to a stop at the edge of the crowd and folded his arms expectantly.
So I threw on the bravado I used as armor so often and stepped up to sing, wishing he hadn’t walked in before this particular song.
Poppy called the one, two, three, and we played the opening, my sisters and Presley doo-woppa-dooing in harmony to kick off “Dynamite” by Brenda Lee, looking everywhere but at Stone as the dance floor bopped, and I sang about the magic of infatuation and how its spell turned every kiss into an addiction. Brenda was subtle enough about it, wishing for dynamite kisses and getting knocked out. About TNT and chain reactions and making history, what with, you know. The dynamite.
I decided I’d preferred to blow Stone up. Knock him out. And not with a kiss, but actual gunpowder and a fuse and a push handle box like Wile E. Coyote favored.
By the time the song ended, I was smiling. Partly at the impossibly happy beat, but mostly at musings of my new nemesis with dynamite up his ass.
I thought—as I had many times over the past couple of days—about the origin of my deep loathing for a man I didn’t even know. Maybe it was what he represented—wealth, excess, privilege, soulless corporations, greed. Maybe it was that Flexion hadn’t taken no for an answer, sending their golden boy to do what the last lackey couldn’t. Or maybe it was just that he was foreign to me. I couldn’t fathom the life he lived any easier than he could fathom mine.