Marrying The Single Dad. Melinda Curtis

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СКАЧАТЬ efforts? “Upcycle artist,” she muttered, although based on the iceman’s smirk, the damage was already done.

      “I’m Joe Messina. That’s Sam.” Joe didn’t come forward to meet Reggie. He didn’t even remove his hands from his hips. He held his frown and his ground, not being the type to shake hands with trespassers or fawn over beautiful women.

      Couldn’t Reggie see that?

      Apparently not. Reggie cast a confused look over her shoulder. Being the twin who’d gotten all the good bone structure, Reggie wasn’t used to being overlooked, trespassing or not.

      A breeze blew the wild grass and Joe’s unruly hair. The wind swirled and tugged and then, when neither Joe nor the grass bent, it died out.

      Brit’s hopes of free materials for the gate ornament she’d been commissioned to create nearly died along with the breeze. Nearly. “This grille is doing nothing for you. It’s just sitting here.”

      “I’m not parting the car out.” Joe stepped around Reggie to better glare at Brit.

      “Here it comes,” the boy said quietly, rubbing at the unruly hair at his neck.

      “I’m going to get that car running and sell it.” The determination in Joe’s words would have had Brit believing him if it hadn’t been for the age of Joe’s clothing and the dismissive tone of the boy’s comment.

      She turned to the forty-year-old BMW. The faded paint and oxidized patina were nearly a work of art in themselves. But the tires had sunk into the soft dirt so deeply the sedan sat on its axles; the wheel wells were rusted nearly clear through; and the interior looked as if something furry had taken up residence. “Have you gotten a good look at this car? You’ll need several years and several miracles to restore it.” Brit swallowed her pride and lifted her voice. “I’ll give you fifty bucks for the front grille.”

      His jaw worked. He half glanced at the boy and then back to her. “Do you have the cash on you?”

      Knowing the answer, Reggie headed toward Brit’s small beat-up gray truck.

      Brit barely had fifty dollars in her bank account, which was one reason she’d moved to Harmony Valley in the first place. Creating upcycle art wasn’t cheap. Nor was living in San Francisco. “Well...”

      “Then it’s not for sale.” Joe closed the distance between them and slammed the hood. His gaze drifted to the BMW’s interior and the frost in his icy eyes thawed a smidge. He may have high hopes for the cars in this field, but he’d learn soon enough that building castles in the clouds would be easier than fixing anything here for resale.

      Brit loaded her tools into her toolbox and followed Reggie.

      She’d wait a week, let reality set in and make Joe a second offer.

      Maybe then he’d take twenty-five.

      * * *

      “GRANDPA PHIL IS a simple man. Cold cuts and white bread. Bills paid by check and sent via the post office.” Reggie was in glass-half-empty mode now. “He’s going to fire you for this.”

      Her sister didn’t have to sound so gleeful.

      “Technically, he can’t fire me if I’m renting a station from him. But if he does—” Brit unlocked the door to her grandfather’s barbershop and propped it open “—you can say I told you so.”

      “Hurry up, then. I’d rather be in and out before he gets here.” Reggie picked up the back of the rust-speckled antique bicycle and the metal mermaid rider Brit had welded to its frame. “What did you think of Joe?”

      Brit hefted the heavy end of her sculpture and backed into the shop. “I think he’ll give me that grille for five dollars by Memorial Day.” In her dreams, maybe. But she always dreamed big. At least she had until Dad died.

      “I meant...” Reggie waddled in with her end. The rear wheel spun between Reggie’s legs and the green aluminum mermaid tail swam over her shoulder. “What did you think of tall, dark and frowning?”

      “He could use a haircut.” Just a trim. A crisp cut would imply he’d been tamed. Who tamed a raging storm? “Set it down here.” When the bike rims rested on the ground, Brit soaked in the familiar ambience of the place. It may only be a two-person barbershop, but it had the stations and the shampoo sink of a salon, much like the places Mom had once worked in.

      Brit eyed the large framed mirror hanging over the chairs in the waiting area. A beer brand was stenciled in block letters in the middle of the glass, rendering it useless in a beauty shop. Looking at it made her feel uninspired to do hair or art. “I can’t work with that hanging behind me all day.”

      “Don’t change the subject. You thought Joe was cute, too.” Reggie smoothed her hair using her limited reflection in the mirror. “Admit it.”

      “That man is not cute.” Snowflakes were cute. Kittens were cute. Snow tigers were lethal. “Focus, Reggie. Mirror down. Mermaid bicycle up.” Brit tried not to look in the mirror. She really did, but it was impossible not to. Not to look, not to compare.

      Two women. Sisters. Anyone could see they were cut from the same cloth. Long, dark brown hair. Mahogany eyes. Wide smiles beneath pert noses—granted, Brit’s wasn’t as pert and she could mention more differences than similarities. For years, Brit hadn’t realized she was any different from Reggie. Not when they were five and enrolled in Miss Deborah’s School of Dance, where Reggie was placed front row, center stage, and Brit was relegated to the back row with the other gigglers. Not when they were eight and they’d sung in the school’s holiday choir, where Reggie sang front and center, while Brit was assigned to the end of the middle riser next to Olivia Paige, who blew the biggest gum bubbles Brit had ever seen.

      No. It wasn’t until they were twelve that Brit’s averageness relative to Reggie’s beauty sank in. That year, they’d been allowed to wear make-up when they’d gone to the sixth-grade Promotion Dance. Reggie had put on war paint like a professional model, while Brit had declined. Reggie had danced to every song, each one with a different boy. And Brit? She’d sat on a bench against the wall with Margaret Hilden, whose leg was in a cast. Brit had held back her tears until they’d returned home. And then she’d cried on Mom’s shoulder, on Dad’s shoulder, even on Reggie’s shoulder.

      Later, she’d fought the hiccups while Mom tucked her in bed. She’d kissed Brit’s forehead and whispered, “You have an inner beauty, honey. You’ll always look better and be more popular if you wear makeup and cute clothes.”

      Even at twelve Brit had understood what her mother was telling her: you’re the ugly duckling who’ll never be a swan.

      Mom loved her, but Mom was in the beauty business, which was all about appearances.

      Brit and Reggie had shared the same womb. The same bedroom. The same beat-up pickup their father used to drive. But they weren’t identical. Reggie had won more points in the gene pool. Reggie looked like she hadn’t ingested a carb in years, while Brit looked like she and carbs were on a first-name basis. And from the day of the Promotion Dance, they’d begun to go their separate ways. Reggie ascended to the throne of mama’s girl, while Brit became Dad’s sidekick. He was a metalworker and liked to tinker on cars.

      The summer after the Promotion Dance, the neighbors had met to discuss turning their street СКАЧАТЬ