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Staying at Joe's
Kathy Altman
Allison Kincaid can make a great sales pitch. But showing up at Joe Gallahan's motel asking for a favour is her toughest challenge yet.A year ago, they were more than just colleagues at a big PR firm. When work came between them, Joe put the blame on Allison… and his opinion hasn’t changed. She’s shocked, however, when Joe agrees to help. Even though she doesn’t love his terms, she accepts them because she'll get what she needs. If striking a deal with him means donning a pair of coveralls and swinging a hammer, so be it.Working side by side with Joe again, they might be able to repair the past. They just might get a second chance, too!
A deal she can’t refuse!
Allison Kincaid can make a great sales pitch. But showing up at Joe Gallahan’s motel asking for a favor is her toughest challenge yet. A year ago they were more than just colleagues at a big PR firm. When work came between them, Joe put the blame on Allison…and his opinion hasn’t changed.
She’s shocked, however, when Joe agrees to help. Even though she doesn’t love his terms, she accepts them because she’ll get what she needs. If striking a deal with him means donning a pair of coveralls and swinging a hammer, so be it. Working side by side with Joe again, they might be able to repair the past. They just might get a second chance, too!
“Joe, we had good reason for what we did.”
Allison could hear the pleading note in her voice. “Surely after all this time you can accept that.”
“I’m not having this conversation, Allison. I don’t want to talk about the agency, or Tackett, or any lame offer he sent you to make. Unless you want to pick up a paintbrush and dig in, you need to leave.”
“Just…give me a chance to change your mind.”
“And how do you plan on doing that, Allison? Wait. Let me guess.” Joe set the water bottle on the ladder and with one swift motion pulled his shirt over his head. “You and me, Slick. Right here, right now. Remind me how convincing you can be.”
Heat slapped at her cheeks. Her knees felt loose. He was unbelievable. She was unbelievable. While part of her loathed his over-the-top he-man tactics, another part couldn’t help admiring the hard, sculpted plane of his bare chest.
Shame sidled in, jacking her chin high. “That wasn’t what I had in mind, Joe.”
Dear Reader,
Welcome back! I’ve missed you! I’m so very excited to be able to take you on another journey to Castle Creek. After Harlequin Superromance released The Other Soldier last summer (July 2012), I received a number of emails expressing hope that I’d give Joe Gallahan his own book, since readers were curious to know the motel owner’s story. I have to admit I was curious about him myself. :-)
Forgiveness plays a pivotal role in Staying at Joe’s. As the book opens Allison and Joe are both harboring grudges, along with a double dose of heartache. It takes a lot of soul-searching—and sly encouragement from certain matchmaking elders—for the two to realize the life decisions they made were based on bad assumptions. Now not only do they need to forgive each other, they need to forgive themselves. (I just hope that Joe forgives me for everything I put him through!)
By the way, in the latter part of the story Allison samples a rather unusual cake. Occasionally my mother finds all kinds of glee in baking this cake, challenging the unwary to name the two secret ingredients—which no one has ever been able to do! Then, giggling maniacally, she reveals the mystery and the partakers refuse to believe that they ate—nay, relished—such a peculiar blend. If you’d care to have a copy of this recipe (which really is quite delicious!) please send me an email at kathy@kathyaltman.com and I’ll fix you right up. Or send me an email even if you wouldn’t care for the recipe—I’d adore hearing from you!
Thank you again for coming back to Castle Creek!
All my best,
Kathy Altman
Staying at Joe’s
Kathy Altman
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kathy Altman writes contemporary romance, romantic suspense and the occasional ode to chocolate. When she’s not plotting romance novels or writing reviews for USA TODAY’s Happy Ever After blog, she’s probably putting in her forty hours a week as a computer programmer for the air force, watching the Ciarán Hinds version of Persuasion or making other people feel superior by letting them win at Scrabble. Find Kathy online at www.kathyaltman.com (http://www.kathyaltman.com), or email her at kathy@kathyaltman.com—she’d adore hearing from you!
To my own personal PR crew—Mom, Mary, Jerry, Bill and Stephen—you all keep me going and I love you more than ham.
To Toni Anderson—I couldn’t have done justice to Joe without you.
To Kathy Jones—how lucky am I, to be your friend?
And to the sweetest, most thoughtful romance fans ever—Barb Kopsic, Carol Shaffer, Rhonda Sipe, Carol Opalinski, Mary Kennedy, Julia Broadbooks, Louise Hackworth, Edie Faile, Yvonne Cruz, Judy Kuhns, Marlee Soulard, Dolores Finley and especially Linda Esau.
You all are the best and I couldn’t appreciate you more!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For a newly published author, writing that sophomore book (the second published book) is notoriously stressful. Actually it’s downright agonizing. If your first book was well received, you can’t help but fret that readers will find the second a complete and utter letdown. If that first book tanked, you’ll spend every waking moment worrying that the second will disgrace your name beyond all hope of redemption and obliterate any chance of a writing career while everyone reading your words is rummaging for antacid or scrambling for a paper shredder as black rain erupts from the skies and cats begin to bark and small children everywhere demand brussels sprouts for breakfast—
Ahem. Let me pull myself back from the brink and thank the amazing people who made this return to Castle Creek possible. My most heartfelt gratitude goes to:
My ever-patient sweetie, Dan, for his expertise on building renovations;
Harlequin Superromance editor Karen Reid, for a rockin’ set of revisions;
Robin Covington, Entangled author extraordinaire, whose blog introduced me to Matt Nathanson and helped build my soundtrack;
and the brave, insightful and kindhearted Toni Anderson, Robin Allen and Debby Collier, for cheerfully reading early drafts of Joe’s story and generously helping me brainstorm.
Big squeezy hugs to you all.
Contents
Chapter One (#u6627d0ab-b25f-5758-8982-8cabcf9e05ad)
Chapter Two (#u1b5813fe-bfb0-5fd1-bc9f-e7d646e83c9f)
Chapter Three (#ue90ce816-1add-59cc-ae6e-7fa3bf9edf6a)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
THINK OF IT as just another pitch. One more client to woo. Schmooze and booze. Deal and seal. Nothing new here, Allie.
Except they weren’t in a high-end restaurant. He wasn’t a client. She wasn’t sipping wine. And she’d never been so bone-deep desperate.
Nor so ready to rely on bondage and torture, should the whole schmooze-and-booze thing end in an epic fail.
Though the thought of duct taping Joe Gallahan did cheer her immensely. She rolled her shoulders up and back, wiped her palms on her linen pants and stepped into the open doorway of the motel room. And blinked.
She’d never seen him in jeans. Two years of working together and three months of dating and she’d never seen him in anything with the slightest resemblance to denim. He’d never been the casual type. Not when it came to clothes, anyway. Then again, it had been nearly a year since he’d left—of course he’d changed. She had, too. Just...not as noticeably.
He stood with his back to her, in a sweat-stained T-shirt and faded, paint-spattered jeans. A pair of scuffed boots added to the construction worker look she was having a hard time wrapping her brain around. And his hair—once kept regularly trimmed—had now grown so long that the shaggy ends flirted with his shoulders.
She inhaled deeply and the thick, sharp smell of paint made her wish she hadn’t. She fought the urge to cough. A cough would give her away. A cough would mean she couldn’t change her mind.
As if she even had that option. Her pulse kicked up and her fingertips tingled. Easy, Allie. Too much at stake to chicken out now.
At least he seemed sober.
She straightened her spine and moved into the room, watching as Joe pushed the roller up and down the wall in the classic W pattern. The muscles of his back and arms alternately bunched and relaxed. Allie dragged her gaze away from his body, annoyed by flashes of erotic memories.
More than his appearance had changed. It seemed that he’d learned a little DIY somewhere along the way. Or had he always known how to do this home repair stuff? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d surprised her.
A hot flush of resentment bubbled up and prickled across her skin. If it weren’t for Joe Gallahan she’d be back in urban Virginia, less than six miles from the nation’s capital, sitting behind a gold-etched nameplate advertising her hard-earned position of “Account Executive.” And collecting the paychecks to prove it.
Instead she was still a PR rep, stuck with this ridiculous assignment in oh so cozy Castle Creek, Pennsylvania, hoping she wouldn’t get paint on a blouse she couldn’t afford to replace and preparing to plead with a man she’d just as soon tie up, slather with honey and roll onto a colony of fire ants.
Then again, she was lucky she still had a job. Though sending her off to meet with her ex-lover put her boss next in line for the whole fire ant thing.
Stroke by stroke, a thick coat of pale blue covered a hideous shade of green. Allison’s stomach lifted then dropped, like a roller coaster cresting that first big hill. He wouldn’t be happy to see her—which at least put them on equal ground.
“Hello, Joe,” she said.
He went still. The paint roller remained suspended in the air, the muscles of his forearms suddenly pronounced. He turned, slowly, his expression as inviting as his ramshackle, middle-of-nowhere motel. He stared at her and she stared back, fighting the urge to grab handfuls of his shirt and shake the stuffing out of him while screaming, Why?
He moved before she did, thank God, bending down and balancing the roller across the paint tray. When he straightened, his hands went to his hips in a familiar “I’m waiting to be impressed” pose.
“Allison Kincaid,” he said.
Silence, except for the low-pitched hum of the fan blowing the fumes toward the open window. Her gaze roved his face. The start of a beard darkened his jaw—yet another difference between this version of Joe and the clean-shaven, designer-suited marketing shark she’d known a year ago. Her throat closed again. If she was having a hard time reconciling the two, Tackett would, too.
Which promised a whole new set of complications. Damn it. Her neck muscles went tight. No matter their history, she had a job to do. A job to keep.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Want to tell me why you’re here?”
Forget “woo the client.” What she really wanted to do was kick his arrogant ass all the way back to Virginia. She risked another inhale, and willed her voice to remain steady.
“Tackett sent me,” she said.
His laugh was immediate and harsh. “The answer is no.” He pulled a tool from his back pocket, squatted and pried open a can of paint.
She didn’t blame him for saying no. She didn’t want him to say yes. But she had her orders.
She ventured farther into the room, heels clunking across water-stained plywood. “You don’t know the details.”
“I don’t need to.”
“You should hear this.”
“You should leave.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Sure, it is.” He finished pouring paint into the tray and with his fist thumped the lid back onto the can. “Turn around. Walk out the door. Get in your car. Drive away.” He stood, his gaze narrowed. “Don’t come back.”
“Joe.” She passed her keys from one hand to the other, the jingle a taunting echo in the near-empty room. “I wouldn’t be here if my job didn’t depend on it.”
“Then maybe you need another job.” He snatched up a bottle of water, gave the cap a vicious twist. “How long did it take you to drive up here? Five hours? Six? To ask a favor of me? On behalf of Tackett? You’re out of your mind.”
“You’re not the only one here with a grievance.”
“You have a grievance? Do what I did. Quit your job. End of grievance.”
“Can we at least talk about Tackett’s offer?”
“Not interested. Go home.”
“Won’t you at least—”
“Go. Home.” He took a swig of water, the plastic crackling in his grip. She glared at him, half hoping he’d choke. She hadn’t expected this to be easy, but she’d figured after all this time he’d feel some remorse for what he’d done to her. Instead he was still fixated on what had happened his last few weeks at the agency.
Tackett had told her to apologize. Fat chance.
“Tackett and I had good reason for what we did,” she said. “Surely after all this time you can accept that.”
“I’m not having this conversation. I don’t want to talk about the agency or Tackett or any lame-ass offer he sent you to make. Unless you want to pick up a paintbrush and dig in, you need to leave.”
“Just give me a chance to change your mind.”
“And how do you plan to do that? Wait. Let me guess.” He set the water bottle on the ladder and with one swift motion pulled his shirt over his head. “You and me, slick. Right here, right now. Remind me how convincing you can be.”
