From Boss to Bridegroom. Karen Kirst

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      Quinn approached, stopping closer than necessary simply to gauge her reaction. She didn’t retreat. Her lips tightened in disapproval or dislike, he couldn’t tell which.

      “Show me more.”

      Again, the royal-like dip of her head. Adjectives scrolled through his mind and, as was his custom upon meeting new people, he began a mental list of attributes. Reserved. Prickly. Beautiful. Too bad that last one didn’t appear to extend beyond the surface.

      Moving between the two counters, she led him down three side-by-side aisles crammed with a variety of goods—tools, animal traps, ready-made clothing, toys, books and paper products, barrels packed with pickles, flour, sugar and crackers and more. A woodstove occupied the far back corner, surrounded by several chairs and a spittoon. A checker set perched atop an upturned barrel.

      “What is this?”

      “This is where our male customers gather.”

      Dark tobacco stains marred the floorboards, indicating not everyone had good aim. The upscale Boston establishments his family had frequented would never have allowed such a thing. “How often?”

      “Whenever we’re open.”

      Quinn blinked, searched her face for a sign she was merely jesting. There was none. “Do you mean they gather here every day?”

      “Every single one.”

      “Are we talking an hour or two in the afternoons?”

      “No, they pretty much hang around from dawn to dusk.”

      “Let me get this straight—these men sit here for countless hours, disrupting the flow of foot traffic and taking up valuable space that could be used to house more items? And that was acceptable to the Moores?”

      “It’s the way things have always been done. Besides, they’re harmless.”

      She refolded a calico shirt on a display table piled with neat stacks of ready-made clothing that likely didn’t bear the Darling name. While his family’s garment factories currently supplied the Northern states, his father had plans to expand in the future. There was no question of the venture failing. Anything Edward Darling put his hand to succeeded.

      Clawson’s Mercantile in the Tennessee mountains was far removed from Boston and the Darling empire, however. His father had nothing to do with it. Whether it failed or flourished was entirely up to Quinn. For the first time in his adult life, he had something entirely his own. This store was his chance to prove to himself that he was capable.

      “Not everyone lives close by. Some customers travel an entire day to get here. This is where they catch up on local happenings and reconnect with old friends.”

      If Quinn had arrived before Emmett’s departure, he could’ve discussed this and much more with him. The delay had cost him. He ran a finger along the cold metal stove that wouldn’t be lit for many months.

      “Simply because something has gone on for a long time doesn’t mean it can’t be changed.” Never be afraid of change, son. Be bold but prudent. Quinn may have earned a business degree from Harvard, but his practical knowledge he’d gleaned from working side by side with his father. He gestured to the chairs. “These are going away.”

      She looked at him as though he’d suggested they set up a piano in the corner and hire saloon girls to sing for the customers. “Where will the men meet together?”

      “I saw a café across the street. Let the owner of that establishment deal with them.”

      “You can’t do this.”

      “The last I checked, my name was on the deed. I can and I will.”

      “Have you ever managed a store before?”

      Not accustomed to having his competence called into question, he retorted, “Until recent weeks, I was second in command of the Darling empire—a garment production business that supplies much of the Northeast. I believe I can manage to operate a small country store.”

      Her smirk poked holes in his calm demeanor, allowing tendrils of irritation to curl into his chest. He inhaled deeply, the odd mixture of scents around him—leather, the vinegar-laced smell of pickled fish, the fruity tang of plug tobacco—reminding him of why he was here. For change. A simpler life. A chance to carve his own way in the world, to prove to himself he could succeed apart from everything his father had built.

      One prickly shop assistant would not mar this experience for him.

      She brushed past him, snowy skirts whispering as she rounded the last aisle and pointed to the low cushioned benches beneath the windows flanking the front door. “This is where the ladies socialize. I suppose you want to be rid of these, too.”

      Wonderful. More people gossiping instead of shopping. “I don’t object to customers resting for a few moments. The benches stay. For now.”

      Her displeasure was written across her features.

      “How long have you worked here, Miss O’Malley?”

      “Since January.”

      Six months. Enough time for her to become accustomed to conducting business in accordance with Emmett Moore’s policies. No doubt she wouldn’t welcome his views. She would simply have to accept that he was in charge. If she couldn’t adapt to his approach to the business, she could always quit.

      Spinning on her heel, she led the way as they retraced their steps. When they reached the row of candy-filled glass containers, he lifted one of the lids and snagged two peppermint sticks. After popping one in his mouth, he offered the other to her.

      Her serious gaze shifted between the candy and his face. “No, thank you.”

      “Free of charge, of course.” He waved it beneath her nose, interested to see if she’d accept.

      “Sugar is bad for your teeth.”

      He removed the minty stick from his mouth and grinned. “I’ve been partial to sweets since boyhood. Does it look like my teeth have suffered?”

      Startled by the question, she gave them a cursory glance. “Uh, they appear to be in fine condition.”

      “See? No harm in indulging yourself every now and then.” He extended the candy once more.

      She was loath to take it, that much was clear. She did, though, in order to appease him. The graze of her fingertips across his palm arrowed into his chest, and the urge to capture her hand in his caught him unawares.

      “Thank you,” she murmured.

      Deliberately stepping away, he didn’t draw attention to the fact she didn’t immediately sample the treat and, instead, held it awkwardly at her side. Turning back to survey the store that was nothing like he’d imagined, he said, “I suggest you prepare yourself, Miss O’Malley. There will be changes ahead.”

      “You should prepare yourself, as well, Mr. Darling.” Retrieving a bead-encrusted reticule from a drawer, she deposited the peppermint inside. “The СКАЧАТЬ