Marrying The Single Dad. Melinda Curtis

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      Regina didn’t seem the type to have a dark past. Her sister, on the other hand... He’d bet she and that wrench of hers were trouble.

      “Do you have fifty dollars now?” Sam said in a voice that was far too businesslike for a kid. She widened her eyes and her smile, having been taught how to work a crowd by one of the best crooks in the family tree. “I can sell the grille to you.”

      “Samantha Ellen,” Joe said sharply. Sometimes his daughter was too big for her coveralls.

      Regina stared at Sam as if working through a complicated math problem.

      “It’s my property, too.” Sam jutted her delicate chin. “It’s the Messina Family Garage.”

      “Samantha?” Regina’s gaze flicked up to Joe’s hesitantly.

      What was there to be hesitant about?

      “Samantha,” Regina said again, firmly this time as she looked Sam in the eye. “You can ask Brit about the grille. She buys junk like I buy new clothes. All the time.” With a tug at her gray sweatshirt—which hadn’t been made for sweating—Regina took her coffee and left.

      “I remember you now,” the mayor said to Joe. “I was confused because all the Messina boys had long hair, drove fast and had a penchant for getting into scrapes.”

      “All in the past,” Joe assured him. Vince had a decent job on an oil rig in the Gulf Coast, Gabe was overseas with the military and Turo was behind bars.

      “You still have long hair.” The woman with purplish-gray curls didn’t sound reproachful. She sounded flirty. “I bet women love that rebellious scowl of yours.”

      “Eunice,” the blonde behind the counter scolded. She was in her twenties with a friendly face that was naggingly familiar.

      “Nine times out of ten,” the former fire chief said in a loud voice, suggesting either a need for hearing aids or a grudge against accidental arsonists, “long hair and getting into scrapes go hand in hand.”

      “Hey,” said the tie-dyed-T-shirt-wearing mayor as he flicked his long gray ponytail. “I resemble that remark.”

      While the fire chief apologized, Joe spied his reflection and overgrown hair in the glass bakery case. He knew he needed a haircut, but it’d been at the low end of his budget priorities.

      “Ignore them.” The woman behind the counter grinned. “They’re...a conservative bunch. But harmless.” Her bright smile, short blond hair and lack of a history with the Messinas should have soothed him. “I’m Tracy. I think...you went to school...with my older brother. Will Jackson?”

      So much for a lack of shared history.

      “I remember Will,” Joe said tightly. Mr. Golden Boy. Mr. All-American. Mr. Could-Do-No-Wrong.

      “Now, Will,” the former fire chief boomed. “There was a boy who turned out right.”

      Joe’s shoulders locked as tight as the old BMW’s carburetor was sure to be. He’d been hoping for a new start. For anonymity. Maybe some leftover goodwill from the past. The Messinas hadn’t been all bad...had they?

      Samantha took his hand. “My dad turned out all right.” So young to be his fiercest supporter.

      What did it say that she also defended Uncle Turo?

      Joe had to do right by her. He was doing right by her. He’d make the citizens in Harmony Valley see he was reformed.

      Look on the bright side, Athena would have said. A new start.

      Don’t apologize for who you are, Uncle Turo would have said. Stand tall.

      So he had long hair? At least it wasn’t winter and Joe wasn’t wearing his black leather jacket. And he hadn’t ridden into town on a Harley. Wouldn’t that have played to type?

      On the other hand...

      He brushed his fingers through his hair. A haircut to show the conventional crowd he was respectable wouldn’t hurt. The barbershop was down the street, and Phil Lambridge used to cut his hair. At least he had until Joe took Leona Lambridge’s new Cadillac for a midnight joyride on a dare from Vince and got caught.

       CHAPTER THREE

      “DON’T CHANGE ANOTHER THING.”

      Brit pulled her head out of the supply cabinet filled with sixty years of barbershop supplies. She stared at Grandpa Phil, at his sweet lined face and his short-sleeve, wrinkled white button-down. He looked as outdated as the decades-old box of men’s hair color in her hand.

      That will not be me fifty years from now.

      “I’m not changing anything.” Brit added the box of hair color to the already full trash can. “I’m cleaning.”

      “Something’s changed.” Grandpa Phil’s hands shook as he held the open newspaper, but they didn’t shake with anger. His hands always trembled nowadays. “You hung an old bicycle on my wall. What will you dig out of the trash next? A pair of worn sneakers?”

      “It’s called upcycling. Repurposing things that have been thrown away. People like it. I like it.” She may be a beautician by trade, but in her heart she was an artist. An artist who’d been commissioned for her work.

      “People don’t like change,” Grandpa Phil said, raising his newspaper higher so she couldn’t see his face.

      “Meaning you? Or your customers?” Few as they might be. “Or perhaps those retired friends of yours who like to gossip and play checkers all day at Martin’s Bakery?”

      “I’ll have you know that playing checkers keeps me mentally sharp.” Phil turned a page and rattled the newspaper. “I’m sharper than the reporter who wrote this article on local crime in Cloverdale. He said they arrested a catfish.”

      Brit didn’t bother explaining the social-media term that referred to taking on a false persona to scam someone. The fact that the reporter was accurate would only make Grandpa more upset. And given that Brit wasn’t exactly in a Zen mood, she didn’t need him wound up, too.

      “Now, don’t change anything else or you can go live with your grandmother like Regina did.”

      Brit contained a shudder. Grandmother Leona was the Captain Bligh of Harmony Valley. She ran a tight ship and just being around her made Brit want to mutiny.

      When Reggie announced she needed a break from corporate America and was moving to Harmony Valley to run a B and B—Leona’s B and B—Brit had been happy for her. And truth be told, she’d also been a tad envious. Had Brit taken a running leap toward her dreams of being an artist? Nope. There’d been too many excuses—Dad’s death, bills, the price of scrap and metal—and too much doubt—she’d talked through the logistics of almost every project with Dad. Could she create her art without him?

      If she wasn’t careful, she was going to be eighty and her СКАЧАТЬ