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“Would five minutes be a believable response time?”
“That works for me.”
“All right, then. You got it, boss. Clock is ticking.”
Before Clay could hang up, he spotted Megan pushing her son away from the computer workstation and shoving the worn green backpack into his arms. Then she pointed at the counter in the front of the shop.
Clay placed the cell phone back in his pocket as she muttered something that sounded like, “Not while he’s here, you’re not.”
Tyler looked at Clay, then shuffled his thin-framed adolescent body in the direction his mother was pointing.
So what wasn’t Megan allowing her son to do while “Peyton Johnson”—or rather, a corporate rep—was here?
When Clay glanced at Megan, she flashed a smile at him. It was a pleasant smile, but it seemed a bit forced.
What made her so uneasy?
“Why don’t I show you around the shop?” she asked.
Clay didn’t need a tour. He’d had the run of the place since he was sixteen. He was also the owner of the building. But, of course, he couldn’t let on about that.
“Sure. Let’s get started.” The sooner he got this mess squared away, the sooner he could get the heck out of Brighton Valley. And this time, he’d leave it behind for good.
“You saw the front desk when you came in,” she said. “We also have our refurbished computers and some new Geekon models for sale up there. We don’t really keep a lot of cash in the store, just enough to make change for the customers. We take credit cards, too, but you probably won’t be dealing with any of that.”
She must have forgotten that he would have had to deal with all of that if a customer had actually come into the shop when she’d abandoned him to get her son an hour ago. But before either of them could comment, the bell on the door jangled, and an actual customer did walk in.
Or stomped in was more like it, a laptop tucked under his arm, a grimace on his face. “Where’s Don? He was supposed to have fixed this darn computer, and I waited nigh on three weeks for it. He finally called me yesterday and told me I could pick it up, so I did. But the fool thing still isn’t working right.”
Riley McLaughlin, a rather crotchety fellow who’d bought the refurbished machine from Ralph back when Clay used to work here, set the outdated laptop on the counter. “This is the third trip to town I’ve had to make, and I still can’t get online or send an email. How can you folks run a business if a customer can’t get any satisfaction?”
“Don isn’t here right now,” Megan said, “but if you want to leave the laptop here, I’ll have him take another look at it.”
“And then what?” Riley clucked his tongue. “I’ll have to wait another three weeks to get it back?”
“I promise to make sure he looks at it as soon as he gets into the shop. It’ll be a high priority.” Megan reached under the counter and pulled out the plate of cookies. “Here, try one of my snickerdoodles. I made them this morning.”
Riley knit his bushy gray brows together, then glanced at the sweet treats, grumbling as he did. Yet he took one of them and bit into it.
“Let me take a look at that for you,” Clay said. “But in the meantime, we just happen to have one of the new Geekon laptops here. Why don’t you take it home and give it a try. The corporate office is offering a special deal on this particular model, and there’s a ten-day free trial period.”
Riley, who was chomping away on Megan’s cookie, turned and studied Clay.
For a moment, Clay feared the guy might have recognized him. That is, until Riley asked, “Who are you?”
“Peyton Johnson. I work out of the Houston office.”
Riley’s scowl faded, and he let out a little humph. “I always did like free trials. But how much do those new laptops cost?”
“From what I understand, if you like the product and are willing to talk up Zorba the Geek, as well as Geekon computers, you can buy it for a a hundred dollars.” Clay reached for the box on the shelf that contained a new Geekon Blast, knowing that price was an unheard of bargain—even for a fellow who was as close to his nickels as Riley was. And it would certainly work a lot better at placating an angry customer than a couple of cookies—no matter how good they were.
At that moment, Clay’s smartphone rang—no doubt Zoe calling him back as requested—so he pulled it from his pocket to take the call.
“Are you sure about that discount and offer?” Megan whispered to him before he could answer the phone. “You must be mistaken. A hundred dollars is a ninety-percent savings off the retail price.”
He lifted his ringing cell. “Do you want to ask the Houston office about that promotional sale?”
She studied him, those pretty brown eyes darting back and forth as if trying to assess his honesty.
Clay tossed her a crooked grin, then answered the call. “Peyton Johnson.”
“Hey, boss. This is your wake-up call—or rather, your apartment’s-in-the-bag call.”
“Nice. Thanks, Zoe. And while I have you on the phone, can you please talk to Megan, who works here at the Brighton Valley store? I told her all about that hundred-dollar special that the marketing department is running on the Geekon Blast laptop. And she didn’t believe me.” He handed his phone to Megan, confident Zoe would assure her that she could believe anything Clay—or rather, “Peyton”—had told her, even though Zoe had no knowledge of the phony sale he’d just concocted for Riley’s benefit.
As Megan reached for Clay’s cell, her fingers brushed his, sparking a warm, feathery rush of heat up his arm. For a moment, their gazes met, and he realized she’d felt something, too.
Then she averted her gaze and spoke into the phone. “Hello?” She listened for a moment or two, then said, “Okay. It’s just that it sounded way too good to be true, if you know what I mean. Goodness, if those things only cost a hundred dollars, I’d like one, too.”
Again she listened to whatever Zoe was telling her. Then she nodded and handed the phone back to Clay. After thanking Zoe, he ended the call.
“Satisfied?” he asked.
“I guess so. She said you were in that last marketing meeting, and that you’re never wrong when it comes to sales and special prices. So she said I could rest assured that the offer was spot-on.”
Clay tossed her a grin.
Megan added, “She also said that she’d like one of the Geekon Blast models, too. Her nephew is having a birthday next week and would love a laptop. She’s thrilled to know that she can afford to buy him one—thanks to that special price.”
“Smart gal, that Zoe. She’s always been one to jump on a good deal.” Clay would have to tell his executive assistant not to spread the word about the sale. And that it was a onetime deal that would last only until the end of the day.
“So what do you say?” Clay asked, turning back to Riley. “Will you leave your old laptop with me and take this new baby for a test run?”
“You got a deal,” Riley said. Then he took the box off the counter, tucked it under his arm and headed out the door.
“I guess a new laptop worked even better at sweetening his mood than my cookies did,” Megan said.
“How many customer complaints do you get these days?” Clay asked.
She bit down on her bottom lip. “A few, I guess. Mostly because Don has gotten a little backlogged.”
Clay suspected that was an understatement. But he’d find out the truth soon enough.
“Come on,” she said, “I’ll finish giving you that tour of the shop.”
She led him back to the work area, which was three times the size of the front part of the store. Yet it seemed a lot smaller than Clay remembered. Maybe that was because it wasn’t just the shelves that were stacked with various new and used computers and laptops. The floors were so cluttered with machines that they’d had to make walkways to get around them.
“This is where Don works,” Megan said, indicating the old desk Ralph Weston used to keep as clean as a whistle. Only now the stacks of paper and other stuff made it impossible to see the once-glossy wood grain Ralph used to polish every Saturday afternoon.
Clay followed along as she talked and pointed, but each time she moved or brushed past him, her lavender scent taunted him, causing him to lose focus on what she was saying.
But it certainly didn’t cause him to lose his focus on the way her jeans hugged every inch of her curvy bottom—unlike that willowy, reed-thin model he’d dated last. To be honest, he actually found Megan’s womanly figure more appealing.
She grabbed a stack of papers off a ledger and shoved them into a bin on top of one of the old green filing cabinets. “I’m in the process of developing a new invoice system that will be easier to manage.”
He knew he should be paying a lot more attention to what she was saying and pointing out, even though not a stick of furniture or shelf or cabinet had changed in the ten-plus years since he’d worked here. But he couldn’t stop wanting to know more about her.
And less about the new system she’d been trying to explain.
“And that’s about the size of it,” she said as she ended her small circling tour at the foot of the stairway that led to the second floor. “And up there is the apartment Tyler was talking about, although I suspect you’d be much more comfortable at the Night Owl. Like I said, it’s closer to Wexler. And it’s right by the Stagecoach Inn, in case you wanted to grab some beers or go dancing or something after work.”
“Is that an invitation?” The minute the words rolled off his tongue, he could have kicked himself.
Why in the hell had he asked her that? He’d grown accustomed to women hitting on him, but even a former geek knew Megan was just being friendly and not flirting. Yet the longer he’d watched her bouncing around the store giving him a peppy, upbeat tour, like one of the cheerleaders back at Washington High in Wexler, the more he’d found himself slipping into nerd mode.
“Oh, no. I don’t go out on...” A blush spread up the neckline of her shirt, and she averted her sexy brown eyes. “I mean, I don’t go out dancing or anything like that. I’m a mom. I have Tyler and Lisa and... That reminds me.” She paused and glanced at her watch. “I’m sorry, but since I don’t normally work on Wednesdays, I don’t have a sitter lined up today. So I have to pick up my daughter. Do you mind watching the store for me again?”
Before, he could answer, the beautiful redhead was out the door like a shot. Just like she’d done the first time he’d seen her.
Clay looked at the stairs leading up to the apartment and wished her tour had continued to the intimate living space above.
Maybe her running out was for the best, because he had no business allowing himself to be distracted. His time in Brighton Valley was limited, and he didn’t plan to stay any longer than absolutely necessary.
Hopefully, Don Carpenter would be back soon, because Clay didn’t know how he was going to be able to work with the woman without a chaperone.
At the sound of a pencil tapping, he realized they hadn’t even been alone now. Megan’s son was sitting at the front counter staring at the computers lining the wall instead of writing in his school workbook.
So not only had she left him to look after the store, now she’d left him to babysit her son, too.
Megan Adams might be sexy as hell, but she had to be the most irresponsible employee he’d ever had. And he had a feeling she’d be the first one at the Brighton Valley store that he’d have to let go.
* * *
Peyton Johnson couldn’t have come at a worse time. And he probably couldn’t be any more annoyed at Megan than he was now.
When she’d grabbed her purse a second time and practically run from the shop yet again, he’d merely gaped at her. But she’d had a pretty good idea of what he’d been thinking.
Still, with Don away from the shop, what other option did she have? She couldn’t very well leave her second grader at school.
As she turned into the alley that ran behind the shops lining Main Street, Megan glanced into the rearview mirror and caught her daughter’s eye. “Lisa, change out of your cleats before we go inside and put on your shoes. You know how hard it is to get all that mud and grass out of the shop’s carpet.”
“Aw, Mom.” The seven-year-old insisted upon wearing her soccer uniform everywhere, even to school. “Then can I go barefoot? My coach said lots of athletes practice without shoes to toughen their feet up. And I want my feet to be tough.”
Megan hadn’t had a chance to vacuum the floor yet, and no telling what small screw or piece of wire might end up in her daughter’s foot. All she needed was for Mr. Johnson to think she was violating some safety regulation on top of everything else. “Never mind. Just stomp your shoes before we go inside.”
It was bad enough she had both her kids at work with her this afternoon, but with her mom and Ted on their dream vacation of a yearlong RV trip across America, Megan was left without many childcare options until summer camp started at the Wexler YMCA next week.
She held the door open for her blonde daughter, who’d once again left her backpack in the car—no doubt on purpose. “After you meet Mr. Johnson, the new worker I told you about, you need to go back to the car and get your homework. You have to practice your spelling tonight. It’s the last test of the year.”
Lisa rolled her eyes, transporting Megan back to a time when she used to do the same thing to her own mother. Oh, how she’d hated spelling. And reading. And any other kind of schoolwork that had to do with written words that seemed to jump all over the page.
She really couldn’t blame her daughter, who’d inherited the same learning disabilities she’d struggled with in school.
“Why do I even need to learn how to spell all those boring words anyway? Soccer players only need to know how to run fast and kick the ball.”
As they entered the back door to the shop, Peyton turned from where he stood perusing the ever-increasing number of backlogged computers that lined the shelves. “Even Mia Hamm had to learn how to spell,” Peyton told Lisa.
Megan’s stomach nose-dived, and the dull headache that had begun when Tyler’s school had first called her this afternoon sharpened. Not only had Peyton heard Lisa’s complaint, but he’d actually responded to her.
Great. The man had been in the shop for all of thirty minutes, and he could make a slew of assumptions about her parenting skills. And they hadn’t even talked about the problems facing the store—the computers needing repair and the stacks of old invoices that had yet to be logged.
He probably suspected that Megan’s son was a computer hacker and her whining daughter hated to read.
Would he realize that Megan’s problems with the kids sometimes caused her to be nearly as scattered as Don?
“Who are you?” Lisa asked him.
“Lisa!” Megan really had taught her daughter better manners than that. “This is Mr. Johnson. Remember, I told you about him. He’s the man from Geekon Enterprises who’s going to be working at the shop for a while.”
“Do you know Mia Hamm?” Lisa asked, zeroing in on her all-time favorite women’s soccer player.
“I’ve actually met her. And she’s a good speller. She needed to be in order to read those playbooks.”
Lisa’s eyes widened, and her lips parted. “You know her? Really?”
Megan had to admit that she was a bit surprised, too. And when she stole a glance at Peyton, she saw a blush creep onto his cheeks.
Why was that? Was he embarrassed to be caught in a lie? Surely he didn’t actually know the woman. Or did he?
He glanced away from her and Lisa, as though he wished he could be anywhere but here in the store with them.
“We’re not actually friends,” he admitted. “I met her at...a charity event. And the spelling thing. I...uh...read that in a magazine somewhere.”
“Mom,” Lisa said, “is the car unlocked? I have to go get my backpack.”
“It’s open,” Megan said. Then she watched in amused surprise as her daughter raced outside to get her bag.
Megan glanced at Peyton. She’d found it odd that he’d said anything to Lisa in the first place, but if it caused the girl to voluntarily want to do her schoolwork, well, then she wasn’t about to complain.
Her gaze focused in on the accountant who’d probably already taken inventory of the way she ran the back office, as well as the way she handled her children.
“Thank you,” she said. “That was brilliant.”
“Yeah, well, even geeks can relate to sports fanatics sometimes.”
A geek? That might be true of some accountants, but there was nothing geeky about Peyton Johnson. He looked as though he’d be more comfortable running track or fielding line drives than adding up columns and running spreadsheets behind some sedentary computer. But Megan wasn’t about to say as much.
“It’s not always Bring Your Kids to Work Day around here,” she said.
