all over again.
She must have beans for brains to believe Randy actually liked her rhymes as much as her bed.
Great track record, Jo. He-Who-Should-Rot-in-Hell had taught her stage fright and Randy RJ Ratfink had taught her not to trust a lying, conniving music man. And now she had to work for one. Well, at least she knew better than to trust Flint. She just needed to think with her head instead of her hormones for a change. Easier said than done.
She stepped out of the alley into the early morning of Main Street, Northfork, North Carolina. She loved the picturesque brick storefronts with their sagging signs and wood benches strategically located under awnings. The side of a mountain didn't leave a lot of flat land for building, so the highway between the shops was narrow and the sidewalks tight. Tourists had to park in the lots on either side of town, or on the residential streets that wound up into the hollows. Foot traffic, the big-city planners had called it. Good for business.
But tourists came up only on weekends. To survive, businesses needed a thriving local population. Since the müi had started laying off, the local economy had flattened. She could see evidence of it already in the For Sale signs on houses, the closed gift shop, and the empty pharmacy that used to always be there on the corner. Asheville was less than an hour away, and people went down there on the weekends to do their shopping now, to the big box stores that could offer cheaper goodsmade in China.
She couldn't do anything about the mill, but she had lots of ideas about other ways to boost business. The big MusicFest the first week of August was one of them. And if Flynn Clinton really was an ex-member of the Barn Boys, then he might be just the man they needed on the committee.
Speak of the devil… There he stood, contemplating the flying fuchsia pig in front of George Bob's insurance office. He had his fingers stashed in his front jeans pockets and his head tilted as if in conversation with the pig on its pedestal. Jo admired his long legs in boot-cut jeans and smiled in memory of his dancing. Her boss was one hell of a sexy man. It was a pity she wasn't trusting men these days.
She'd have to pry his story out of him sometime. His story, and nothing more, she reminded herself. And she'd take any tale he told with a grain of salt. She planned on learning cynicism before her thirtieth birthday.
She sauntered across the street to stand beside him. "Impressive, isn't she? That's Dot's creation. She sells ceramic artwork, so she's a professional at this kind of thing. The purple pig the kids painted isn't quite so neat, but it's cute."
"What the hell is it?" he asked in obvious confusion. "An ashtray?"
"It isn't anything . It's art. Knock knock." She tapped his temple with her knuckles. She liked that she had to reach a bit to do so. She liked the heated look he shot her as well. She needed to be reminded she still had what it takes, even if she didn't plan to use it. "Where have you been? Everybody's doing them. I think Chicago started it with the cows. We can't do anything quite so fancy, but if it makes money for the festival, who cares?"
"How do they make money?" He leaned his head back to look the fuchsia pig in its checkerboarded eye. "It's the ugliest damned thing I've ever seen."
"Folk art. People like whimsical. We take bids on the pigs all summer and start the auction where the bids leave off at the festival in August. Cute, huh?"
"People are going to put these things in their houses?" He shook his head in disbelief and started across the street to the cafe.
Jo stayed in stride with him. "Or their gardens. Whatever. Will you take Sally's pig? It will look adorable by the front door."
He shoved the key in the lock. "If everyone else is doing it and I don't have to keep it forever, reckon I can give it a try. It won't trip any customers, will it?"
"That's why George Bob asked for the one on the pedestal, but you'd have to be
She must have beans for brains to believe Randy actually liked her rhymes as much as her bed.
Great track record, Jo. He-Who-Should-Rot-in-Hell had taught her stage fright and Randy RJ Ratfink had taught her not to trust a lying, conniving music man. And now she had to work for one. Well, at least she knew better than to trust Flint. She just needed to think with her head instead of her hormones for a change. Easier said than done.
She stepped out of the alley into the early morning of Main Street, Northfork, North Carolina. She loved the picturesque brick storefronts with their sagging signs and wood benches strategically located under awnings. The side of a mountain didn't leave a lot of flat land for building, so the highway between the shops was narrow and the sidewalks tight. Tourists had to park in the lots on either side of town, or on the residential streets that wound up into the hollows. Foot traffic, the big-city planners had called it. Good for business.
But tourists came up only on weekends. To survive, businesses needed a thriving local population. Since the müi had started laying off, the local economy had flattened. She could see evidence of it already in the For Sale signs on houses, the closed gift shop, and the empty pharmacy that used to always be there on the corner. Asheville was less than an hour away, and people went down there on the weekends to do their shopping now, to the big box stores that could offer cheaper goodsmade in China.
She couldn't do anything about the mill, but she had lots of ideas about other ways to boost business. The big MusicFest the first week of August was one of them. And if Flynn Clinton really was an ex-member of the Barn Boys, then he might be just the man they needed on the committee.
Speak of the devil… There he stood, contemplating the flying fuchsia pig in front of George Bob's insurance office. He had his fingers stashed in his front jeans pockets and his head tilted as if in conversation with the pig on its pedestal. Jo admired his long legs in boot-cut jeans and smiled in memory of his dancing. Her boss was one hell of a sexy man. It was a pity she wasn't trusting men these days.
She'd have to pry his story out of him sometime. His story, and nothing more, she reminded herself. And she'd take any tale he told with a grain of salt. She planned on learning cynicism before her thirtieth birthday.
She sauntered across the street to stand beside him. "Impressive, isn't she? That's Dot's creation. She sells ceramic artwork, so she's a professional at this kind of thing. The purple pig the kids painted isn't quite so neat, but it's cute."
"What the hell is it?" he asked in obvious confusion. "An ashtray?"
"It isn't anything . It's art. Knock knock." She tapped his temple with her knuckles. She liked that she had to reach a bit to do so. She liked the heated look he shot her as well. She needed to be reminded she still had what it takes, even if she didn't plan to use it. "Where have you been? Everybody's doing them. I think Chicago started it with the cows. We can't do anything quite so fancy, but if it makes money for the festival, who cares?"
"How do they make money?" He leaned his head back to look the fuchsia pig in its checkerboarded eye. "It's the ugliest damned thing I've ever seen."
"Folk art. People like whimsical. We take bids on the pigs all summer and start the auction where the bids leave off at the festival in August. Cute, huh?"
"People are going to put these things in their houses?" He shook his head in disbelief and started across the street to the cafe.
Jo stayed in stride with him. "Or their gardens. Whatever. Will you take Sally's pig? It will look adorable by the front door."
He shoved the key in the lock. "If everyone else is doing it and I don't have to keep it forever, reckon I can give it a try. It won't trip any customers, will it?"
"That's why George Bob asked for the one on the pedestal, but you'd have to be
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