“What if I borrow against some of the most rare pieces? If I fail I can always sell them. But if my idea is a success, I’ll still have my grandmother’s things.”
Lacey munched a potato chip and wiped the barbecue residue on her jeans. “Makes sense. Okay, let’s make a few calls and see who’s offering the best line of credit against collateral. By the time your inventory starts to arrive you’ll have the money to pay for it.”
Tara felt a smile of relief curve her mouth for the first time since learning of her grandmother’s death. Already organized, she reached for her folder marked Stock and thumbed through the publishing printouts. Tomorrow she’d order books, place ads in surrounding counties for antique consignment pieces and begin the marketing research on coffee houses. Remodeling and advertising came next if she intended to meet the self-imposed grand opening in four weeks.
“What’s going in on the first floor?” Lacey asked.
Tara froze. She’d been so wrapped up in her own plans that she had no idea what Sam had in mind for the ground floor of the Elliott Building. She tried to recall their conversation. He had said he was going to make the most of this opportunity, but she’d never asked him how he intended to do it. He’d agreed to anything she wanted to do and now she was committed to doing the same for him.
“Tara?” Lacey nudged her. “I said, what are Sam’s plans?”
“He didn’t tell me.” A chill ran up Tara’s spine at her vulnerable position. “But Sam knows this town and we’re right on the square, so it’s bound to be something conservative.” She hurried on, trying to sound convincing. “He may appear rough around the edges, but he comes from a respectable background. Surely he won’t do anything foolish and risk this chance to make something of himself….” Her speech faltered as she caught sight of her friend’s eyes rolling upward. “Would he?”
Lacey took a short break from popping chips into her mouth. “Better hang on to your fancy pants, city girl. I think you’re in for a wild ride.”
Chapter Three
“Motorcycles!”
“Not just any motorcycles. The best American-made bikes ever.” Sam glanced up from the makeshift drafting table, savoring the moment and the site of Tara’s lovely face contorted in disgust.
“It doesn’t make any difference what kind they are. They’re all foul-smelling and noisy. You might as well sell kerosene and chain saws down here.” Tara swept an arm toward the empty first floor, soon to be occupied by Sam’s Cycles. “Come on Sam, you can’t be serious about this.”
“I’m quite serious.”
“Then you’re doing it to spite me.”
He rolled his eyes and snorted. “You need to get over yourself, Rusty. Not everything’s about you. Did you consider consulting with me about any of your plans?”
She drew a breath to speak, but he ignored it and continued.
“No, because you want to do what interests you. Well, bikes are what interest me. Since it’s a subject I know a little something about, I intend to make a living selling them right here in the Elliott Building. By the way,” he paused, considering a new subject, “I’d like to talk to you about changing the name to the Kennesaw Building.”
“How dare you.” Her azure eyes bulged.
“I dare because it’s time to bring this town into the new millennium. Modernize. Move with the times, don’t you reckon?”
“Are you quite finished?”
“Honey, I’m just gettin’ started.” Sam smiled and looked her up and down. Instead of shrinking from his gaze, she stood taller and squared her shoulders beneath the solid black ensemble. He expected a battle and it seemed she wouldn’t disappoint.
“Grandmother wanted us to come back here and do something to help the community. I can think of a hundred reasons why you’re wasting your time trying to sell motorcycles.”
“Name three,” he challenged.
“Well, first of all, nobody around here rides those things.”
“Yet,” he countered. “And that’s because they don’t have a local dealer or service center. Once that objection is eliminated, you’re gonna see bikers everywhere.”
Tara grimaced at the suggestion. “And secondly, you’ll never make any money at it. How are you going to afford all those greasy parts, let alone new stuff?”
“I have connections.” He gave Tara a conspiratorial wink. “I happen to have a very successful contact in the business who can front me the stock as long as I can meet the, um, payment arrangements.”
“And if you can’t?” Her forehead wrinkled with apparent concern.
“I’d sooner not think about that.” He dismissed the subject with an exaggerated shudder. “Besides, I have a hunch Sam’s Cycles will be a hit.”
“Well, a hunch is not sufficient reason to go into business. You need something sensible to draw customers.”
“Like expensive antiques, huh? I reckon that’s just what we need to get this depressed economy back on track.”
She held up a hand to slow his argument. “You made that point with me yesterday and I’ve reconsidered my original plans. Thanks to your comments there will be a variety of products in all price ranges. So, I guess I owe you one.”
“That’s the understatement of the decade.”
She ignored his jab. “I’m also going to sell a wide range of books and other reading materials, and there will be a modern coffee bar. I intend to have something for every level of spending.”
“And you’ve done extensive market research to confirm that adding books and coffee will attract buyers by the score, I presume?” He enjoyed the flicker of annoyance in her stormy blue eyes.
“You only ask that because you think you know the answer. However, I have years of study and experience in appraisal and sales. I’m studying the markup on the merchandise I expect to carry, I know what the folks around here can afford to spend and I have a marketing strategy to draw shoppers from other towns.”
“Well, it’s nice to know my days as a teaching assistant weren’t completely wasted. Sounds like you didn’t spend all your time in Economics 101 daydreaming about being my bride.”
He was never going to let her forget her uncharacteristically bold confession and the subsequent kiss. And, it seemed, he would use it against her.
“If you intend to humiliate me at every turn, this has no chance of being a cooperative effort.”
“If you’re waiting for an apology, don’t waste your time or mine. I have a lot to do in the next few weeks.” Sam dipped his head and resumed drawing on the large pad of graph paper, which lay atop his makeshift desk, a sheet of plywood balanced over two saw-horses.
Tara’s eyes followed the movement of his thick mahogany mane as his head dropped forward. The devastating appeal of his clean-shaven profile was undermining her determination to remain calm. Against her better judgment, she admired the tanned arms stretched forward across the drawing. Her attention was drawn to the white paper where Sam was positioning windows and doors against a solid wall.
“How about number three?” she asked.
“What?” He glanced up, a puzzled expression in his eyes.
“You told me to name three reasons. Don’t you want to hear number three?”
The confusion left his face, replaced by a look of expectation. Sam sat tall on