When the Stars Come Out--A Cottonbloom Novel Read online

  He was silent while she finished his food. Feeling like a stuffed tick, she laid her napkin on top.

  “You’re long overdue for a raise. How about ten percent?” he asked.

  “Ten percent.” Shock made her voice sound flat even to her own ears.

  “All right. Twenty. Do we have a deal?”

  The food she’d relished churned in her stomach. He was offering her a raise? Why?

  “Jackson Abbott, just the man I needed to see.” Mr. Thatcher strolled over adjusting his suspenders over his potbelly. Jackson half turned in his seat to exchange a handshake and pleasantries.

  But no smile. His smiles were rare and fleeting and precious. To her at least. She’d made it her mission to see the dimples that carved furrows in his cheeks at least once a day. Sometimes she succeeded, sometimes she failed, but she never stopped trying.

  “What can I do you for, Thatch?” Jackson asked.

  “My wife’s car threw a light and is chugging at idle. She’s due to drive down to New Orleans on Sunday for her cousin’s bridal shower. I know tomorrow’s Saturday, but could you take a gander?”

  As quiet as a barn owl, Willa scooted out from under the table as the two men discussed logistics. Jackson wouldn’t even notice. He never noticed her in the garage.

  He grabbed her wrist. “Wait for me outside. I’ll only be a sec.”

  He raised his brows and waited for her to answer even though he’d posed it like an order. Only when she nodded did he let her go, but his gaze heated her back the whole way out.

  * * *

  Jackson listened to Thatch ramble about his wife’s car for two more minutes before impatience got the better of him. It was chance he’d been driving by and spotted Willa’s car in front of Rufus’s. He didn’t want to press his luck. Escape was not an option.

  He rose and clapped the other man on the shoulder. “You bring it by in the morning. We’ll either get her fixed up or give you a loaner.”

  “Thanks, Jackson. Knew I could count on you boys.”

  Jackson waved two fingers over his head and quick-stepped to the door. Had she waited or hightailed it away? He stopped on the cracking sidewalk. She wasn’t leaning against the bright yellow brick wall or window-shopping.

  He scanned the other side of the river and the upscale shops of Cottonbloom, Mississippi. A figure limned by the setting sun stood in the middle of the footbridge that separated Cottonbloom, Louisiana, from Cottonbloom, Mississippi.

  The tension across his shoulders flowed out, and his hands loosened from their tight fists. Willa Brown had been his right-hand woman in the shop for the last two years, and he’d taken her for granted. Treated her as if she were a high-end tool like his favorite socket wrench or air hammer. Always there and reliable. She was easy to be around, logical, sane. Funny even.

  But now, for the first time, he recognized her as a flight risk. He couldn’t lose her. She was too valuable to the shop. He put the tight clamp around his heart imagining her gone down to indigestion. Even though she’d eaten most of his food.

  How could such a little thing eat so much? The hollow look as she’d eyed the heaping plates had given him pause. He did some quick math in his head. Even without the raise, she was making enough to at least feed, house, and clothe herself.

  He cast back to that afternoon and her pale, clammy face. Had she nearly passed out from hunger? Maybe she had a parasitic boyfriend or a sick parent. Wyatt was right. He was more in tune with his car than the girl—woman—that had worked at his side for two years.

  He crossed the street and walked next to the sparse flowers that were part of the beautification project for Cottonbloom, Louisiana. The cooler nights had sent everything but a few hardy black-eyed Susans dormant. Louisiana was fickle in the winter. Usually mild, she could pop out a few Indian-summer days even in November, then turn around and freeze everyone back into sweaters.

  Willa hadn’t seen him yet, and he slowed to a stroll. The last time he’d seen her out of coveralls had been the day she’d applied for the job. Her jeans were worn thin and molded hips that were curvier than the baggy gray coveralls had hinted at.

  He blew out a long breath as he considered the way her tight T-shirt further emphasized her femininity. Her hair was a choppy mass of waves almost like she’d cut it herself—without a mirror. But the way she kept it tucked behind her ears was cute.

  Most days he never thought about her being … well, a her. Like Wyatt said, she was a prodigy in the garage. He needed to focus on her skills and not on the way her ass filled her jeans as she stood on tiptoe to skip a rock in the water. But seeing her like this, outside of work and casual, skewed his perception. She wasn’t just a female; she was a grown woman. Somehow the distinction seemed important.

  “I wasn’t sure you were going to wait.” He cleared his throat after his voice came out low-pitched and too intimate.

  “Yeah, well. It’s not like I have any pressing social engagements.” The familiar thread of self-depreciating humor set him at ease. Her next rock skipped three times before it sank.

  “You feeling better than you were this afternoon? I was worried.”

  She shot him a look from under her lashes that would qualify as flirty from any other woman. This was Willa though. “Were you? I’m fine.”

  Her face had lost its pallor and her eyes were bright again. Rufus’s barbeque had restored her. Why was she not eating regularly? He banked the question for later.

  “What do you say about the raise?” He joined her, and she shifted to face him, propping her hip against the rail. He was going to catch hell from Mack for offering this raise without consulting him, but Wyatt would have his back on the spur-of-the-moment decision. He always did. And Mack would agree it was the right thing to do after he got over his sulk.

  “Sounds too good to be true. What do you want in return?” The wariness in her voice and eyes threw him.

  A normal reaction to a twenty percent raise would be happiness. Thankfulness. Relief, maybe. But she seemed suspicious. Fearful even. More questions arose about her history and how she’d landed in Cottonbloom.

  “All I want is for you to keep up the good work in the garage.”

  “You need to buy Ford out. Why would you waste money on me?”

  “Waste?” The word came out harsher than he intended, and she took a step away from him. His breath caught with the thought she might be scared of him. “You deserve a raise, Willa. Don’t fight me on this.”

  “All you want is for me to keep working like normal?”

  “Keep working at the garage. That’s it.” A string of curses scrolled through his head. What had happened to her? And why was he just now asking himself these questions? He’d always prided himself on doing what was right, but he’d failed Willa. With everything that had happened in the past year, he’d become too self-absorbed.

  Too many things hid behind her semisweet chocolatey eyes. Like a predator with prey, he considered other ways to flush out whatever demons chased her. He side-eyed her, an idea popping into his head. “And I’ll need your Social Security number too.”

  She turned away from the water, her hands braced on the rail behind her as if she needed the support. “Why do you need that?”

  “Mack’s a stickler for the rules and wants everything aboveboard.” A half-truth. Mack would prefer to follow the rules, but he’d be fine paying her under the table as long as she was willing to stay. She didn’t need to know that though.

  A look flashed over her face before she recovered to force her lips into the facsimile of a smile. A lie. “First thing Monday morning.”

  His heart accelerated. He’d overplayed his hand. Instincts told him she’d be gone. “Not necessary until the first of January.”

  “Two more months, then.” She chewed on her bottom lip and turned back to face the river.

  “That’s when we’d need to file paperwork. No big deal.” He rested his elbows on the rail and stared at the reeds bending to the water’s
will as it flowed south toward the Mighty Mississippi. “It’s not a big deal, right?”

  Her silence spoke volumes.

  “Do you have a criminal record or something? It’s not like we’d let you go over some youthful mistake.”

  “I don’t have a record.”

  He heard nothing but truth in her voice, but maybe she was more adept at lying than he gave her credit for. She chafed her arms, looking smaller and more delicate in street clothes than the thick coveralls. He brushed the worries aside. No way was she a felon. Didn’t mean she wasn’t hiding from someone other than the law.

  “Who are you running from? You got an ex out there wanting to hurt you?” Even the possibility shattered his usual calm, but he forced his voice into neutral anyway. Ever so slowly, he was peeling away to the heart of the matter, but one wrong move would scare her off.

  She heaved a sigh. “It’s complicated, and I don’t want to discuss it any further if it’s all the same to you.”

  It involved an ex. Her skirting of his question cinched it. He did want to discuss it further—including a name and address—but he understood. It was the way he felt about discussing his mother or father or Ford or anything of consequence. Cars were easy. Safe. Emotionless.

  He was feeling anything but. A sense of vertigo swam through him and turned his stomach. Selfishly, he wanted to know more if only to settle his churning worry, but he wouldn’t get any more out of her about her situation tonight.

  He searched for a bland topic. Something safe like cars or the garage. “Like I said this afternoon, you can wear something besides coveralls to work. Something like what you’re wearing now.”

  “Believe it not, but these are kind of my nice clothes. I wouldn’t want them to get all greasy.” She ran her hands over her hips and down her legs. He inhaled sharply.

  Okay, unsafe topic. Very unsafe. Better to keep her in coveralls at work. If she leaned over the hood of a car in those jeans, he wouldn’t be able to not stare at her ass. Kind of like the way he was staring at her chest right now. He refocused his eyes on the writing across her bustline.

  “So you’re a big Outkast fan?” At her obvious confusion, he pointed at her chest. “Your shirt.”

  She looked down and splayed a hand over the band’s emblem on the front. “Sure. They’re really great.”

  “I didn’t think they were together anymore.”

  “Oh well, this is an old shirt. I should toss it.” She seemed flustered and fiddled with the hem as if trying to origami it into something different.

  Hadn’t she just told him these were her “good” clothes? Was he dealing with female insecurity? He needed a Cosmo or something as reference.

  “Don’t worry about it, you look seriously—” Sexy. The word popped into his head unbidden. His brain riffled for a more innocuous compliment. “Cute.”

  He looked to the water and scrubbed at the back of his head. A million other more appropriate words were available, and he’d picked cute? Okay, better choice than sexy, but what in the hell was wrong with him? His brain was misfiring and running on two cylinders.

  A laugh spurted out of her. Her face lost its haunted, hunted look. This was the Willa he looked forward to seeing every day. The one he couldn’t imagine not in his life.

  “Gee, thanks. You usually reserve that kind of sweet talk for your car.”

  First Wyatt and now Willa? He needed to seriously reevaluate his relationship with his Mustang. Right now though, he had more pressing worries.

  “I’ll see you Monday, right?” At her extended silence, he added softly. “If your past comes calling, I’ll protect you. I promise. Don’t quit on me, Willa.”

  He reached for her hand, much as she’d done in Rufus’s. Her hand was softer than he’d expected considering the type of work she did day in and day out. He rubbed his thumb over the back.

  Working side by side, they’d been physically close to each other plenty. Handing tools back and forth, dropping an engine back into a car with the hoist, working in the tight space of the pit together. But this was different in a way he couldn’t quantify.

  He stared into her eyes, trying to get a read on her, but too much flickered across her face. Finally, she broke eye contact and looked downriver as if plotting a course away from Cottonbloom. And him. “Of course I’ll be there.”

  She was still contemplating running, but he prayed he’d convinced her to stay a while longer. He’d use the time to force her to accept his help. Their hands separated, and he drew his into a fist and tapped the rail, the moment veering into awkwardness.

  “You need help with Thatch’s car tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Naw. I can handle it. Probably a sensor. You take the weekend off. Relax.”

  She gave him a slight nod. “See you Monday.”

  He left her, but after he slipped into the sleek leather seat of his Mustang, he waited. Her car was parked around the corner from his, the back end visible. It was a beat-up Honda, probably as old as she was. She walked from the bridge, stopping at the flowers to lean down and touch one, although she didn’t snap it off. Orange light streaking the sky framed her.

  She wasn’t cute, goddammit, she was beautiful. Yet she was hiding underneath coveralls in their garage. She disappeared, and her car started with a puff of black smoke from the exhaust.

  Hypersensitive to everything about her now, he evaluated her car like a doctor seeing a sick patient. The black smoke was an oil leak from an engine gasket. Not life threatening to the car yet, but her clutch was ready for hospice care. It could go any moment.

  She drove away, and he considered following her. Where did she even live? He wanted to kick his own ass. Maybe Mack knew. She’d submitted paperwork her first week at the garage. Surely one of the fill-in-the-blanks had been her address.

  His car started with a healthy growl. Usually, he relished the sound of the engine, and the way the car took his direction. Tonight, though, he drove back to the garage on autopilot, his thoughts centered on Willa and the fears that lurked behind the warmth of her eyes and smiles.

  Chapter Three

  Tugging the brim of her ball cap low, Willa sidled in the side door of the garage Monday morning half expecting Jackson to pounce on her with more questions. Everything looked wonderfully mundane for a Monday. Her tension eased, and she tipped her hat back so she wouldn’t trip over the various parts being stored against the cement wall and signed the time sheet.

  Mack and Wyatt chatted in front of the open hood of a Cutlass. Jackson was in the pit under Mr. Thatcher’s car. The fix must have been more complicated than a sensor then. That was the way of things sometimes. A problem could sneak up on you. Everything would be running along smoothly, then bam—a catastrophe. One that ended up costing thousands of dollars.

  Her problems had been like that. Her mother had died before any memories of her had had a chance to take shape. She hadn’t missed what she’d never known. Her daddy had been the sun and moon and stars to her. She’d dogged his footsteps and soaked in all his attention and knowledge. She was a self-proclaimed daddy’s girl.

  Everything changed the year she’d turned fourteen. The owner of a Dodge Charger had stolen her daddy’s heart. Hindsight was an evil bitch, unlike her stepmother who had tried to be nice to Willa. The natural companions of fourteen, rebellion and angst, had filled the void left by what had felt like her father’s defection. Looking back, Willa regretted the way she’d behaved. One of the many things she regretted.

  Jackson had probed too close to a still-festering wound Friday night on the footbridge. She’d done a good job avoiding entanglements since she’d left home. If she’d sensed herself becoming too comfortable or attached, she moved on. She’d become too comfortable in Cottonbloom and way too attached to the Abbotts. Her mistake.

  One she needed to rectify. She’d packed her meager belongings over the weekend. Looking at the two duffel bags that summed up her pitiful life had spiraled her into a crying fit. She couldn’t face s
tarting over again. Not yet. Anyway, she’d promised Jackson she’d be at work this morning. The way the shards of glassy green in his eyes had cut through her had made it impossible to deny him anything. Even if it would eventually lead to her downfall.

  He was the most honorable, upstanding person she’d ever encountered. If he discovered what she’d been and done, he would hate her. And if her past caught up to her in Cottonbloom, he would find out. She was caught in a limbo of needing to leave but wanting to stay.

  Two months. He’d given her a two-month reprieve. She would save and scrimp every penny. Repairs on her car would have to wait. Worst case, if her car died, she would move to a big city with public transportation. Abandoning the car would hurt, but would be a heck of a lot easier than leaving Jackson behind.

  She caught Jackson’s eye and he chucked his head in acknowledgment of her presence, both his hands buried in the undercarriage of the car. She should offer to help him. Instead, she poured a cup of coffee and slipped back out the door, seeking thirty seconds of sunshine and peace.

  She took a sip. Extra strong. Mack must have been the first one down. Jackson preferred his on the weak side. A Crown Victoria came into sight down the road, almost floating on its pillowy suspension. One or both of the Abbott aunts would be inside complaining of phantom noises and leaks. An excuse to check on their nephews. The car pulled up to one of the bay doors, and Hazel Abbott emerged from the driver’s side.

  Willa preferred Hyacinth, if only because she was funny and easygoing and lacked the laserlike perception of her twin. “Hello, Ms. Abbott. Pretty morning.”

  “Sure is.” Hazel stepped over with a spring that belied her age even though she looked like an old biddy in her low-heeled pumps and Sunday dresses every day of the week. “How is everyone doing this morning?”

  “Good. Everyone’s good.” Willa took another sip of coffee.

  “I doubt that. I heard Ford has thrown a wrench in the gears, so to speak.” A quick smile wrinkled the corners of her eyes like an accordion, but she turned serious again.