19. The Vogue Vault

Chapter 19

The Vogue Vault

Joy sat on her bed, computer propped on her lap as she picked at some of the new nail polish Luanne had applied. A nervous habit, which was why she preferred the tougher gels, but Luanne hadn't had the right equipment to do gels.

A first-world problem, but Joy needed to remind herself to leave her nails alone. They looked nice for now. Nice enough for Saturday anyway—not that her trip to Doro was the reason for her getting her nails done in the first place. Nope, this was about maintaining a professional appearance. Never mind that her profession wasn't getting much of her appearance these days.

Luanne was a cheerful chatterbox, and Joy had surprised herself by getting lost in the conversation, learning more about Fall River's quirky folk and the town's past. Joy had also met her soft-spoken teenaged son, Cade—the young host at the Miners Tavern the Friday before—and found herself enchanted by his shy charm. As Joy was leaving, Luanne had apologized at the door for the "googly eyes" Cade had given her, which Joy hadn't noticed but had filed away as one of the nicest compliments she'd received in a long time.

What was happening to her? These weren't her people, though she acted like they were. Did that make her a liar, a cheat? No, she wasn't using them for her own gain. But the revelation did beg the question: who were her people? The abusive client she'd spent the morning talking off a ledge? Sterling, acting snippy about her delayed return? Certainly not her aunt, uncle, cousins, or sister. What about Estelle, the woman who kept her life in order?

Estelle was the closest to "people" Joy had. In fact, Estelle was probably Joy's best friend—her only friend—in Chicago, yet she treated her PA with glib dismissal. How sad was that? Was that how one behaved with one's best friend? With her kindness and her infinite patience, Estelle would fit right into Fall River's fabric.

Joy pushed out an extended exhale and re-read the letter of intent Bruno Keating had personally delivered to her door days ago. The signature line he'd promised was there, with an expiration date beside it. The bleached-blond Hulk-wannabe was brazen, she'd give him that. No way was she giving him anything else, like Crystal Harmony Haven for pennies on the dollar. Besides, the place would still have to be brought up to code, a crucial fact Mr. Keating chose to bypass.

Maybe she'd keep the LOI for a laugh sometime in the future, when she was back in her Chicago office and the estate was long wrapped up.

Tossing the letter aside, she popped up and peeked out the window at Cully and Charlie schlepping building materials. After whatever "talk" they'd had yesterday, Cully seemed to be walking a different walk. He'd shown up at seven this morning, ready to work. While she couldn't attest to his sobriety, she saw no signs that he was under the influence of anything besides a caffeine jones and Mountain Coffee baked goods.

Both men were sweating their asses off, but her attention was wholly on Charlie. And speaking of asses, she was enjoying the way his glutes filled out his jeans with perfectly proportioned blocks of muscle. It was easy to picture him sans pants from the back, pale cheeks contrasting nicely with his tan skin. Not that she was imagining anything like that … or reliving that rock-her-world fake kiss. Nope.

She'd been so ready to throttle him when she'd walked in on him the day before, casually parked on the floor reading her private notes. Funny thing was, though, his brows had been furrowed, his expression one of concentration rather than mocking. No, the mocking had come right after she'd busted his squeezable ass.

When she'd recovered from the shock, the discovery hadn't bothered her as much as it should have. So he knew about Lacey Dewinter. So what? She knew about Oily Boy, the cover model. And once she left Fall River, those secrets would fade away, like everything else associated with Charlie Hunnicutt's town.

Today he wore the usual, but he'd added a light tool belt and work gloves. His blue T-shirt was darkened at the neck with a V of perspiration, as were the armpits. A few wet spots dotted his stomach and back, and his bare forearms glistened with the stuff—like his buff torso on that book cover, though not quite as greasy-looking.

Joy was not into sweaty men, but there was an undeniable primal attraction to a man's muscles in play and all that raw power that was making her panties inconveniently damp.

Watching from a distance was safe. There would be no touching, no blatant ogling in his presence, and definitely no kissing. She was doing research for her books, so she could describe the perfect man body in the sort of detail her readers would appreciate. And kisses filled with passion and tongue. Yeah, that was it.

Besides the lecture about her nails, she was going to have to keep herself in check when it came to her contractor partner. Once their trip to Doro was out of the way two days from now, that task would become much easier.

Saturday morning arrived, and Joy was desperate. She still didn't have any clothes for tonight and no time for the round trip to Montrose. So she tucked her ponytail under a ball cap that read "Tractor Supply" she'd found in her mother's closet and pulled the bill low over her eyes as she exited Crystal Harmony Haven. She paced the block quickly, dodging the usual clog of tourists on the sidewalk. People talking, laughing, eating ice cream, and not watching where the hell they were going.

When she reached her destination, she quietly opened the door, let herself in, and searched out the nearest rack of clothing where she could hide. But the damn bell above the damn door jingled loudly, pulling the clerk's attention.

"Come on in, hon! Are you looking for anything special?" a plump woman boomed from behind a glass display case. Lord, did Dixie have a sister?

"No, just looking, thanks." Joy pulled the bill a little lower. She couldn't see, and she bumped into a customer. "Sorry." When she looked up, she realized she'd collided with a mannequin.

Way to be inconspicuous.

She glanced around at the secondhand shop's surprisingly packed interior, hoping none of the patrons recognized her. Fortunately, they looked just like the ice-cream-eating, sidewalk-crowding visitors from the street. And besides, who knew her in this town besides a handful of people who were being productive right now instead of scrounging for a new outfit at the Vogue Vault?

She busied herself swiping through hangers and nearly shot from her stinky shoes when the greeter was beside her. "We just got in a mess of new things that I haven't had a chance to put out yet but that you might like." The woman stepped back and gave Joy an appraising sweep. "Hmm. You're about a size four, maybe six, and I think most of the new stuff is ten and up. I'll go take a look. Meanwhile, that rack there's the best chance for someone your size to find something." She pointed toward a round right smack in the middle of the window that faced the street.

Joy took a few stealthy steps toward the clothing in question, keeping her back to the window. Her hands flew through the choices, scrutinizing labels she didn't recognize, hefting fabric in her hands that mimicked silk, flinching at the feel of polyester. Good Lord, was this it? Just as she was deciding wearing her too-tight pants—button and zipper undone—was a better option, a familiar dark-haired woman smiled at her over one of the rounds.

"Hey, Joy," Amy greeted. "Are you here to check out the new stuff Winona just got in too?"

"Um, not exactly. I was looking for something casual for … for … "

Amy grinned. "For your date with Charlie tonight?" Heads rotated their way at the sound of Charlie's name. Great!

"It's not a date."

"Right," Amy said gravely. "Well, whatever it is that's got you shopping for new clothes, the good stuff is over here." She took Joy by the arm and guided her to a rack in a far corner that held a tented handwritten sign announcing they were on final clearance. "What size are you?"

Joy reddened. "I was a six when I first got here, but things have gotten a little tight."

Amy pulled out a silky black-and-white top. "Eating Miners burgers will do that to a girl. They taste great, but they're tough on the figure. Not that yours needs any improvement. This would go really well with your coloring." She thrust the hangered garment at Joy.

Accepting the blouse, Joy didn't bother adding that Amy's pastries might also be wreaking havoc of their own. Might, because Joy was still trying to convince herself the thin mountain air and the mineral-laden water were causing her clothes to shrink on their own while she slept at night.

Amy ferreted out more pieces. "I'll put these in a dressing room for you."

Joy blinked at her. "Do you work here too?"

"No, but there's only one dressing room. I'm looking out for you." With a wink, she pivoted and headed toward a curtained-off area.

Oh, that's so … sweet. Why was everyone in this town so nice?

Joy grabbed a few T-shirts and some jeans and followed Amy. In the makeshift dressing room, she fought off the curtain that wanted to either wrap around her or part and reveal her goods to the entire store. Amy stood by, insisting on seeing everything Joy tried on, and gave her a thumbs-up or thumbs-down. Joy hadn't asked for her opinion, but she found herself appreciating it because Amy usually had an explanation for why a garment did or didn't work.

"One of the servers at Dell's wears that same blouse all. The. Time. You don't want to be confused with her." Or, "That's from Walmart, and that brand has a tendency to rip at the armpit when you least expect it—like when you're dancing and throwing your arms around."

Joy didn't plan on dancing or throwing her arms around. When she told Amy this, the coffee shop owner merely rolled her eyes. "If you're at the Silver Lode and you're with Charlie Hunnicutt, you'll be dancing, guaranteed. Probably on stage."

Joy stifled her horror and ignored the bats that had begun a furious flight in her tummy. How could she get herself out of this "festival" she'd promised to attend? She'd call in sick. Yes, that was the answer. Except it wasn't.

"Oh, and you might want to lighten up on the makeup too. It tends to streak when you sweat," Amy added for good measure. "Besides, you have such a nice complexion. You don't want to cover that up."

"Are you saying I wear too much makeup?"

Amy pinched her thumb and index finger together. "Little bit?" She gave Joy such a sweet smile that Joy could only laugh.

An hour later, Joy emerged with recycled paper bags stuffed with an array of tops, a jean jacket, two pairs of jeans, plain black slacks, a floral sundress, a flirty denim skirt, a pair of black cowboy boots with red insets, strappy sandals, and two pairs of sneakers. Winona, the owner who'd been working the counter, had also thrown in a pair of ridiculous hoop earrings and a necklace loaded with mountain-motifed charms she'd called "whimsical." Despite her grousing on the phone to Estelle about the experience on her way back to her mother's shop, Joy was a little giddy over her purchases. She'd spent less than a hundred dollars.

For the next two hours, she showered and shampooed and tried on the clothes in different combinations until she finally decided on the skirt, the boots, and a ruffly white V-necked blouse. Back in Chicago, she would have never looked at pieces of clothing like these, much less buy and wear them. After all, they were on the cheap side, which explained why the sizes were at least one or two bigger than her usual clothing. Everyone knew inexpensive clothes were cut smaller.

She applied a little makeup, Amy's advice dancing in her head. Adding the silly necklace and the earrings, she gave herself the once-over. She hardly recognized herself in the laughable clothes. The whole package that was Joy Holiday was so off the beam. But she couldn't do much about it because her phone had been chiming for five minutes, telling her she was late. The rest of her new wardrobe wasn't going to be an improvement over this ensemble, so she flapped a hand at her reflection and left to pick up her … the guy whose kiss she couldn't get out of her head. The kiss that had been a mistake of epic proportion .

It didn't matter what Charlie Hunnicutt—or anyone in Fall River, Doro, or the entire Western Slope—thought of how she looked. She was blowing this Popsicle stand any day now. The exact day of her departure just wasn't clear yet.