Sealed With A Kiss. Mae Nunn

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СКАЧАТЬ Since it’s a subject I know a little something about, I intend to make a living selling them right here in the Elliott Building. By the way,” he paused, considering a new subject, “I’d like to talk to you about changing the name to the Kennesaw Building.”

      “How dare you.” Her azure eyes bulged.

      “I dare because it’s time to bring this town into the new millennium. Modernize. Move with the times, don’t you reckon?”

      “Are you quite finished?”

      “Honey, I’m just gettin’ started.” Sam smiled and looked her up and down. Instead of shrinking from his gaze, she stood taller and squared her shoulders beneath the solid black ensemble. He expected a battle and it seemed she wouldn’t disappoint.

      “Grandmother wanted us to come back here and do something to help the community. I can think of a hundred reasons why you’re wasting your time trying to sell motorcycles.”

      “Name three,” he challenged.

      “Well, first of all, nobody around here rides those things.”

      “Yet,” he countered. “And that’s because they don’t have a local dealer or service center. Once that objection is eliminated, you’re gonna see bikers everywhere.”

      Tara grimaced at the suggestion. “And secondly, you’ll never make any money at it. How are you going to afford all those greasy parts, let alone new stuff?”

      “I have connections.” He gave Tara a conspiratorial wink. “I happen to have a very successful contact in the business who can front me the stock as long as I can meet the, um, payment arrangements.”

      “And if you can’t?” Her forehead wrinkled with apparent concern.

      “I’d sooner not think about that.” He dismissed the subject with an exaggerated shudder. “Besides, I have a hunch Sam’s Cycles will be a hit.”

      “Well, a hunch is not sufficient reason to go into business. You need something sensible to draw customers.”

      “Like expensive antiques, huh? I reckon that’s just what we need to get this depressed economy back on track.”

      She held up a hand to slow his argument. “You made that point with me yesterday and I’ve reconsidered my original plans. Thanks to your comments there will be a variety of products in all price ranges. So, I guess I owe you one.”

      “That’s the understatement of the decade.”

      She ignored his jab. “I’m also going to sell a wide range of books and other reading materials, and there will be a modern coffee bar. I intend to have something for every level of spending.”

      “And you’ve done extensive market research to confirm that adding books and coffee will attract buyers by the score, I presume?” He enjoyed the flicker of annoyance in her stormy blue eyes.

      “You only ask that because you think you know the answer. However, I have years of study and experience in appraisal and sales. I’m studying the markup on the merchandise I expect to carry, I know what the folks around here can afford to spend and I have a marketing strategy to draw shoppers from other towns.”

      “Well, it’s nice to know my days as a teaching assistant weren’t completely wasted. Sounds like you didn’t spend all your time in Economics 101 daydreaming about being my bride.”

      He was never going to let her forget her uncharacteristically bold confession and the subsequent kiss. And, it seemed, he would use it against her.

      “If you intend to humiliate me at every turn, this has no chance of being a cooperative effort.”

      “If you’re waiting for an apology, don’t waste your time or mine. I have a lot to do in the next few weeks.” Sam dipped his head and resumed drawing on the large pad of graph paper, which lay atop his makeshift desk, a sheet of plywood balanced over two saw-horses.

      Tara’s eyes followed the movement of his thick mahogany mane as his head dropped forward. The devastating appeal of his clean-shaven profile was undermining her determination to remain calm. Against her better judgment, she admired the tanned arms stretched forward across the drawing. Her attention was drawn to the white paper where Sam was positioning windows and doors against a solid wall.

      “How about number three?” she asked.

      “What?” He glanced up, a puzzled expression in his eyes.

      “You told me to name three reasons. Don’t you want to hear number three?”

      The confusion left his face, replaced by a look of expectation. Sam sat tall on the stool he’d fashioned from concrete blocks, folded his arms and cocked his handsome head to one side as he waited.

      She had his full attention and no idea what to say next. “Even if you can sell a few motorcycles, it’s only a matter of time before you get bored with this place and want to leave again,” she blurted.

      The deep crease between his brows softened as he dropped his arms to his sides and indulged in a slow shoulder roll followed by a patronizing smile.

      “I can see where a city woman like you might think that,” Sam reasoned, “but there’s still plenty for me in Beardsly. But have you considered that folks might be a bit suspicious of your staying power?”

      “What’s that supposed to mean?” She bristled.

      “I was forced to relocate when my opportunity here dried up. But you had every advantage and every reason to stay. These folks may talk slow but their minds work just fine. They know the difference between being left behind and being dumped. I think they’ll give me another chance. You, however, might have some charred bridges to rebuild.”

      Sam’s insight was a punch to the solar plexus. Had she been a fool all these years, unconcerned about how the hometown folks would react to her refusal to visit? Suddenly she envisioned her grand opening with no one to sample her fancy cappuccino, no kind face to purchase her hardbound books, no supporters to guide well-heeled shoppers her way.

      She knew a thing or two about changing. She might have accepted her grandmother’s challenge without seeing all the relationship repairs that would be necessary but, thanks to Sam, the blindfold was off.

      She had a name for her store. Bridges to build.

      Literally.

      Five days after her loan application was accepted, Tara was still without funds. Buying on credit and scrimping to cover her few personal needs brought back memories of her early years in the city, years she’d sooner remember with distant nostalgia than with familiar clarity.

      Sam made building an exterior entrance for the second floor his top priority. By the end of today she would no longer need to bother him for passage upstairs. The thought of not seeing him at his homemade drafting table made her heart sink a bit. But it was just as well, since he goaded her at every turn.

      Sitting behind the scarred secretarial desk she’d picked up at a local thrift shop, Tara’s best sales voice echoed in the otherwise empty room.

      “Miss Frieda.” Tara tried to sound confident. СКАЧАТЬ