Nights Under the Tennessee Stars. Joanne RockЧитать онлайн книгу.
years old than Erin ever had.
“That will look fantastic on you.” Trish nodded while she skimmed the blow-dryer over a section of Erin’s hair, smoothing the newly bronzed strands around a fat round brush. “But I think this color is pretty hot, too. Or maybe I’m just glad you let me pull out that black. How long have I been telling you that color is too strong for your features?”
“Six months.” Not that she’d been counting the days since the guy who’d lied to her with every breath had turned her into the kind of person she’d never wanted to be. “Ever since I came back to Heartache.”
“So what made you finally change your mind?” Trish turned down the setting on the dryer as she began working on the front of Erin’s hair.
“That clothing drive I told you about?” She had already posted flyers in the salon and asked Trish to mention it to her clients. “I’m going to get some television publicity for it and I didn’t want to look like—you know—super scary.”
Personally, Erin thought she’d rocked the black hair, but her whole style lately screamed “don’t mess with me,” and she wasn’t going to risk it costing her any clothes donations. She was committed, both feet in, to making this thing a success.
Trish frowned as she shut off the dryer and set it aside. “I was hoping the new color might have something to do with a certain gorgeous someone I saw leaving your store after hours yesterday.”
Remy.
Just thinking about him stirred a mixed bag of feelings that she wanted no part of—curiosity, suspicion, undeniable attraction.
“Definitely not, but—” She was about to say more and then decided the less said the better.
“But?” Trish twirled Erin’s chair around and handed her a small mirror so she could see the back of her hair.
“But that was the producer for the TV show Interstate Antiquer. Last Chance Vintage is going to be featured on it. He said they will cover the clothing drive so I’ll increase my donations.” And the way Remy looked at her didn’t have a damn thing to do with her hair color.
Something unspoken, but definite, had passed between them while she’d been showing him the space she was renovating. A look, maybe. She hadn’t imagined that moment of mutual awareness any more than she’d imagined Remy’s reaction.
He hadn’t been able to leave fast enough.
“So you’ll be working with him?” Trish met her eyes in the mirror.
“No. It sounds like I’ll be working with a production crew that makes the actual episodes—a show host, a couple of camera people.” She had the impression Remy wouldn’t be back in Heartache if he could avoid it. Something about his hasty retreat almost made her wonder if he was married.
An honorable guy would walk away fast if he felt a stray attraction to someone else, right? She wanted to believe that, but that was about as far as she’d come in getting past the Patrick ordeal—an acknowledgment that she still held out hope for some marriages.
She just didn’t hold out much for herself.
“That is so exciting.” Trish beamed as she admired Erin’s hair. “You’ll look fantastic on television. And this will be so good for Heartache.”
Standing, Erin checked her watch and noticed she was a few minutes late opening the store. Digging out her wallet, she called goodbye to Mrs. Spencer and Harlan, then followed Trish to the checkout register.
“It will be great to rake in lots of clothes. I’m really excited about the chance to help out women who—” had been cheated on by two-timing bastards “—need an extra hand.”
“Yes, well, for that reason, too.” Trish rang up the cost of the services. “But I meant this will also be good for the rest of us. A nationally broadcast show with your adorable store featured? It’s going to put Heartache on the map for tourists. Your sister must be turning cartwheels.”
Something about the way she said it made Erin stop.
“I don’t think it’s a show with that much reach.” Interstate Antiquer was geared toward a niche audience.
“Are you kidding me?” Trish ran Erin’s credit card and printed the receipt. “I’ve watched it, and I don’t know anything about antiques. People tune in for the slice of small-town life to get a feel for a place. It’ll definitely bring tourism to town. Your father would have loved this, Erin.”
Erin’s father had passed away eighteen months ago. He had been the mayor of Heartache for over a decade, helping to bring the town out of a recession. The Finley name was practically synonymous with Heartache. While Erin was proud of her town, she didn’t want any part of expanding tourism and bringing lots of outsiders in. She was a behind-the-scenes woman, for one thing.
And for another? She liked things here the way they were—Heartache was a place that still felt a little isolated from the rest of the world. It didn’t even have an airport. That time she’d planned to bring Patrick to town with her they’d had tickets to fly into Nashville.
“We’ll see,” Erin said finally, when she realized Trish had been waiting for some kind of response. She took her receipt and jammed it into her purse, wondering if she’d made a huge mistake by saying yes to Remy.
“Hey, isn’t that your producer friend now?” Trish pointed out the window where they could see the front of Last Chance Vintage. Where Remy Weldon stood, back against the glass storefront, cell phone pressed to his ear.
The fluttery feeling that started in Erin’s chest would have been exciting if she was sixteen. Right now, it felt ominous. She took a deep breath.
“Guess I’d better open the store.” Erin scrawled a quick signature on the receipt.
“You said it.” Trish’s eyes remained fixed on Remy. “Go get him, tiger.”
Erin shook her head. “Seriously. Not interested, Trish, but thank you for the great hair.”
Her friend winked at her.
Main Street held only a handful of local businesses. Her shop. The sandwich place. The Strand. There was a gas station farther down, and a pizza parlor. Then at the corner, she could just see Lucky’s Grocer and the village square. She liked it this way and she didn’t want to see four new fast-food chains pop up if tourism increased.
“Looking for me?” Erin called as she crossed the street.
Remy tilted his head sideways as he tucked his phone into his pocket. “I don’t know. Is that you?”
“Of course. I don’t look that different.” Her heart beat too fast and she didn’t want to talk about her appearance. “Figured I’d better spruce up the locks if I’m going on television. Don’t want to embarrass my mom.”
Remy leaned a shoulder into the doorjamb, far too close to where she needed to insert the key in the dead bolt. But then, he seemed distracted by her hair.
“What was wrong with your color?” His eyes wandered over her in a way that seemed more like a professional assessment than a personal inventory.
That was, until his gaze reached breast level. It would have been laughable at how fast his chin shot up except that he seemed...pained. Feeling that she’d witnessed some private part of him, she turned her attention to the lock.
Remy stepped back to give her room, taking all his lean good looks and masculinity a few inches away.
“Black wasn’t my natural color.” She let herself in and he followed slowly, closing the door as the bell jingled. She flipped on the lights. “See that photo of Heather and me?” She pointed to a shot her mother had taken of them on the front porch when they were about nine and ten years old, sharing a bowl of raspberries and wearing matching blue dresses. “That shade of red is my color. Heather still