Bowing his head against the rain, he started to jog as he rounded the corner to the main entrance, gritting his teeth against the residual pain in his injured leg. The lights were on inside the old building but the door held fast when he pulled on the handle. He reached into his pocket for his keys, but the door swung open before his fingers touched metal. “Thanks,” he said, stepping inside and shaking the rain off before glancing at the woman who stood there.
“Jolie?” He had the odd sensation of his blood freezing. Perhaps one of the warning signs of a heart attack?
“Hi, Dylan.” Her voice was still husky, her hair still long and reddish blond, her eyes the greenest he’d ever seen. “Long time.”
Not long enough.
When Finn had said he’d hired an assistant to help with the store, Dylan had somehow assumed he’d hired someone Dylan could work with. Well, now he knew why his cousin had been shifty about the new hire. What in the hell had Finn been thinking? And, yes, he definitely felt a strong squeezing sensation in the middle of his chest.
“You’re dripping,” Jolie said, interrupting his heart attack.
Dylan glanced down. There was water falling from the brim of his ball cap onto the floor near his boots. He pulled off the hat, gave it a shake. When he looked up, she was regarding him with an ironic half smile.
“You didn’t know I worked for you, did you?”
“No.” Dylan moved forward to set the lunch pail on the counter, trying not to notice that she looked even better than she had back in high school when she’d made his life miserable by not taking anything seriously. That wouldn’t have bothered him if she hadn’t been his chemistry partner for the year and if he hadn’t needed a strong A to sew up some much-needed scholarships.
“I moved back to the Lightning Creek about six weeks ago.” She leaned an elbow on the tall counter next to him, looking relaxed, as she always had during situations that’d sent his blood pressure skyrocketing. After nearly a decade of being a patrol cop, his blood pressure rarely triggered anymore...except, obviously, when he discovered that his nemesis was his employee. “This was the only job I could get close to home,” she continued.
He noticed that while she’d sounded cool and confident, she was watching him carefully.
“Imagine that,” Dylan said.
“It isn’t because I’m unemployable,” she said smoothly. “It’s because it’s the end of winter and no one is hiring.”
“Except Finn.” Bless his black heart.
“I might have reeled in a favor,” Jolie said, and even though she spoke matter-of-factly, Dylan didn’t want to know what kind of favor. “I needed the job and, frankly, I think this place needs someone like me.”
“This place needs you?” She looked about as out of place there—with her form-fitting, blinged-out white shirt tied at the waist and short denim skirt—as a rosebush in a hay field. Easy on the eyes, but somehow didn’t belong.
“Look at it,” Jolie said, making a sweeping gesture. “Dark, depressing.” She ran a finger over the counter next to her. “Dusty.”
“It’s a feed and seed store,” he said as if she were dense, which he knew she wasn’t.
“A depressing feed store. Why would anyone come here—”
“To buy feed?”
“—when they could go to a more modern place and get the same thing and a whole lot more?”
“Because we’re a local institution.”
“That would be the only reason as far as I can see. Your prices are barely competitive.”
“Well, maybe if you took a job elsewhere you wouldn’t have to be stuck in this dark, depressing...” He paused, trying to recall the third D she’d mentioned in her unsolicited critique.
“Dusty,” she supplied. “And at the moment, I don’t want a job elsewhere.”
“Why not? Surely your talents could be better used in a less dusty environment.”
“The employee discount. I buy a lot of feed.”
“And you can’t get a job anywhere else?”
“I could if I wanted to travel. I don’t.” She sauntered a step closer, her full lips curving into a half smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I can get something else when the market opens up. I have experience.” She said the word in a way that sent his imagination shooting into areas it probably shouldn’t travel, even if that hadn’t been her intention. He yanked it back to where it was supposed to be. When had he ever reacted like that to Jolie Brody?
“However, the market is tight. I now have a job close to home and I’m sticking with it.” Her smile became a touch warmer. “I promised Finn.”
He and Finn were going to have a talk as soon as he could get him on the phone.
The bell rang over the front door and Morley Ames walked in, kind of. The old guy, a close friend of his grandfather’s, was stooped over and skinnier than the last time he’d seen him, but his voice was just as booming as ever as he hailed Dylan.
Jolie smiled at Dylan and went behind the counter where she’d apparently been cleaning, since she quickly moved a bottle of spray cleaner out of sight.
“Morley,” Dylan said, moving forward to shake the man’s hand. “Good to see you.”
“So it’s true—you’ve given up law enforcement and moved home. I didn’t believe it when Gina told me at the café.”
“I’m just on leave,” Dylan said, noting that Jolie gave him a quick, curious glance before settling herself in front of the computer. “I thought I’d come here to escape all the rain,” he said with a smile, indicating the puddle that was forming around Morley’s feet as water dripped off his black hat and raincoat.
The old man looked up at him with an appreciative smile. “We all need a change sometimes,” he said.
“Can I help you with something?” Dylan asked before Morley launched into personal questions he’d have to deflect.
Morley pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it, squinting through his fogged glasses as he read, “Hen scratch. Rolled oats—two bags. Salt block—”
“Do you want minerals in that?” Jolie asked as she came to stand next to the old man, cocking her head to see his list. He beamed and handed it to her. She took it gently and squinted a little herself at the light-penciled script on the sheet of pale blue paper. “Lillian wrote this, didn’t she?”
“Woman can’t put pressure on a pencil,” Morley muttered. “Arthritis.”
“I have something for her,” Jolie said. “A special cream that just came in. I’ll see if I can find a sample while Dylan loads your truck.” She handed Dylan the paper.
Way to give orders, Jolie.
Dylan frowned as he took the list, suddenly understanding why they were both squinting. It was as if Morley’s wife had written in faint code. “Do you need this to write the ticket?” he asked Jolie, hoping she would decode it for him.
“Nope. I got it. Hen scratch, twenty-five pounds. Two fifty-pound bags of rolled oats. One salt block—”
“No