Finding Her Cowboy Page 8

  “Ever?” she asked, scattering old newspapers on the cement, leaving enough room for pedestrians to walk by. “Not sure I buy that.”

  “Where’s the table?” he asked, rubbing his palms together. “Let’s get this paint party started. I’m ready to show you what I can do.”

  “Around the corner, in the alleyway,” she said, pointing to the alley next to her store. “Would you mind grabbing it?”

  “Not at all,” he said with a lopsided smile that caused her to stare at him for a few extra seconds, admiring his adorable, innocent expression—a look she’d never seen in a man who played the field, the type of guy most people would assume Jack was by his attractive appearance.

  “Great, I’ll grab us two aprons,” she said, walking into the store, excited to have him in an apron again.

  “You keep aprons here?” he asked, jetting out of sight. He returned before she did, carrying the old wood dining table she’d picked up at the thrift store to display her products during sidewalk sales.

  “My mom’s an artist. I basically grew up with an apron around my waist and learned their value. I stash them everywhere.”

  “This is heavier than it looks,” he said with a grunt as he set the table onto the pile of newspapers that fluttered up at their edges, threatening to blow away in the wind.

  She laughed. “I know. It took me, Ronny, and Grace to move it into the alleyway last week.”

  “And it didn’t get destroyed in the rain? That’s impressive,” he said, running a hand along its smooth surface.

  “It’s been under an awning. I had Ronny sand it yesterday so I could paint it today.”

  “Is Ronny working today? He seems like a nice guy.”

  Becca touched her fingertips to her lips as heat climbed up her neck, remembering how Ronny had interrupted their first kiss. She coughed nervously and said, “He and Grace are amazing.”

  She tilted her wrist up and glanced at her watch. They still had time to finish painting the table before Grace arrived. “Ronny won’t be in today, but Grace will be here shortly,” she said, leaning down and prying open the first paint can with a flathead screwdriver.

  “That’s great. I’d like to meet her.”

  The can popped open, releasing the familiar chemical odor of acrylic paint; the sickening scent instantly saturated Becca’s sinuses before dissipating in the morning breeze.

  “Let’s start with white,” Becca said, dipping her paintbrush into the thick paint. She scraped the excess paint off against the inside lip of the can while slowly pulling her brush out. She ran a thick coat along the top of the table, stretching her arm as far as she could reach. She caught Jack staring at her. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “Beautiful,” he answered with a smile, not breaking eye contact.

  “You think that one stroke is beautiful?” she asked with a raised brow and a light laugh. Their arms rubbed together as they dipped their brushes into the paint simultaneously. She sucked in a quick breath, holding it in until they were no longer touching, allowing her to breath to flow normal again.

  “It was beautiful how gracefully you did it,” he said, pulling his brush out of the paint can.

  “You think I’m graceful?” she asked, dropping her eyes to her hands as she finished painting the top of the table.

  “Paint the fence,” he said as he ran his paintbrush up the table’s leg in one fast pass. “See? Your stroke is graceful, mine’s not.”

  “Paint the fence?” she asked with a laugh. “From the old Karate Kid movie?”

  “Fight movies are the best. They remind me what’s worth fighting for.”

  Her heartbeat quickened. “And what is worth fighting for?”

  He stared at her, then said, “That’s a loaded question.”

  “Weren’t you the one who brought it up?” she asked.

  “Alright,” he said with a rolling laugh. “Here’s one for you: favorite places you’ve traveled to.”

  “That’s easy,” she said with a flick of her paintbrush, causing white paint to speckle the sidewalk. “Oops,” she said with a wrinkle of her nose. “Kenya, Africa.”

  Jack moved to the second leg of the table and continued painting. “I knew a guy in college from Kenya. Man was that guy fast. He could outrun anyone.”

  She glanced down at Jack’s toned calves. “Did you run track in college?”

  “No,” he said with a hint of a smile that told her he wasn’t telling her the entire story.

  Jack’s phone chimed in his pocket. “Excuse me,” he said, setting his brush down and reaching for his phone. “What’s up?” Jack said in a cheery tone before his face grew serious. “Got it. Be there shortly.”

  Becca’s spirits plummeted.

  Jack slipped his phone into his pocket. “I’m really sorry about this, Becca, but the wrong shipment of vines got delivered to Dallas this morning. I’d ordered eighty drought resistant, Chinese blue wisteria trees and got two hundred purple Japanese vines instead. This can’t wait. I have someone stalling the delivery guy, but I need to get to Dallas and work this out. Can I get a raincheck on brunch?” He snapped his fingers and pointed to the farmer’s market on the square, bustling with activity. “I have an idea. Call me when you’ve finished painting the table.”

  She masked her disappointment with a soft smile. “Bye,” she said with a wave of her paintbrush.

  “Later,” he said, handing her his smock and giving her a light kiss goodbye. “Not a drop of paint. I guess I win this round.”

  She raised a brow. “That sounds more cocky than confident.”

  Jack laughed. “Call me when you’ve finished. It’ll be a virtual date to remember.” He took off at a sprint down the sidewalk.

  Becca couldn’t peel her eyes away from him. He approached the stoplight, running past an elderly woman dressed in a floral dress with a bright red bandana that matched the color of the flowers on her dress. The woman limped as she pulled a rolling grocery trolley behind her. She stumbled as she stepped from the curb down into the street, causing her trolley to tip and spill its contents; apples, oranges and a head of lettuce bounced and rolled into traffic.

  Jack stopped and turned back to the woman. He held his palm out to oncoming traffic as he gathered the woman’s produce and placed it back into her bag. Lifting her trolley with one arm, he offered her his other arm. The little woman stared up at him, joy lighting her face as she grabbed hold of him.

  Becca rested her shoulder into the doorframe of her store and sighed out, “He’s amazing.”

  “Who’s amazing?” asked Grace, stepping to Becca’s side. “That gorgeous guy who’s helping the little old lady cross the street?”

  Becca couldn’t suppress a smile. “You…think he’s gorgeous?” she asked, watching Jack disappear down a side street.

  “You’re beaming, Becca!” Grace exclaimed, her green eyes twinkling with excitement. “I’ve never seen you smile from ear to ear like that before.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Becca, running her paintbrush along the edge of the table. “Why don’t you grab a brush and get creative.”

  “Darn it to all tarnation,” Grace whined, stomping her foot. “I missed him. That was Jack. Wasn’t it?” asked Grace, grabbing Jack’s brush and picking up where he’d left off on the last leg of the table. When Becca didn’t answer her, she continued. “Is he coming back? I thought y’all were hitting the farmer’s market today?”

  “Maybe,” Becca said. “We’re taking it slow.”

  Grace set her paintbrush onto the newspaper and wrinkled up her face as she pulled her long blonde hair up into a messy bun. “Why?” she asked as if that were the dumbest thing she’d ever heard in her life. “And he’s running away. Didn’t things go well? Why is he running away?”

  Becca fought the urge to roll her eyes. “He had a work emergency. Here’s a question for you. What flowers should we paint? The white coat’s almost dry.”

  Grace ploppe
d down onto the cement and leaned against the three steps leading into Becca’s shop, as if she’d planned to sit there for a good while. She lifted her phone to her face and said, “I’ll find us a few options that match the colors you’ve got.”

  “Flowers…colors…” Becca closed her eyes, her mind drifting back to Jack’s garden. She’d relaxed into his comfy ergonomic chair as he ran his fingertips up and down her arm, causing her to smile from how his tickling touch caused goosebumps to flow up her side. She took in a deep breath, allowing the bouquet of fall flowers to awaken her senses—the most prevalent scent being lavender. “That’s it!” she shouted, her eyes flying open.

  “What’s it?” asked Grace.

  Becca held up a finger to silence Grace. “Play music from the movie Rocky,” she instructed.

  Grace looked at Becca through perplexed eyes but knew better than to pose another question. She tapped on her phone and said, “Gonna Fly Now? Never heard of that song. Here’s one I recognize. The Eye of the Tiger.” Seconds later, The Eye of the Tiger boomed through the store’s Bluetooth speakers.

  Becca motioned for Grace to turn the sound up as she lifted the white bucket of paint. When the music had reached the perfect volume, at least five decibels above noise ordinance, the music blocked out all sound coming from the square, allowing Becca’s head to clear. She poured about three cups of white paint along the bottom third of the tabletop, followed by a splash of blue, then red.

  She allowed the music to move her, invigorate her, while she mixed the colors together with her paintbrush until the paint matched the hue of Jack’s lavender bushes. Jack popped into her mind, holding her hand at they strolled through his garden. She swirled her brush into the paint, then pulled the vibrant purple color up the width of the table, branching the paint out to form long stems. She added more and more stems, dancing to the fast beat as she transformed the disconnected branches into bushy lavender plants.

  The song’s rhythm beat in her breast like her heartbeat had thumped against her ribcage when Jack lifted her chin to kiss her, his lips neared to her now, closer and closer with each beat, escalating her desire until they found hers.

  On the last note of the four-minute song, she threw her head back and lifted her arms in the air to mark its completion, causing paint to whip off her brush, sprinkling her face and hair.

  The echoes of applause hit her ears. She blinked herself back to reality to find a dozen onlookers, young and old, circling the table to admire her artwork. She’d never painted before, not really—that was her mom’s thing. Nor had she ever zoned everything and everyone out like that before.

  Grace held her phone high above her head. “I’m gonna take a picture and post it to the store’s Facebook page. Everyone smile,” she instructed the group.

  The crowd slowly dissipated, two of whom—a mother and her young daughter—entered the store. Becca followed them inside but stopped short when her phone chimed with an incoming Facetime call. She motioned for Grace to help the customers so she could answer the call from Jack.

  “Hey, Jack, you can’t be in Dallas already.”

  “No,” he said, his face popping up onto her screen. “I stopped off for gas.”

  “I finished,” she said with excitement, nearly flipping the camera around to show him, but choosing to surprise him instead.

  “Know what that means?” he asked.

  “I get a cookie?” she asked.

  He laughed. “No. It means it’s time for our walk.”

  “Something tells me our walk won’t be the same with you not actually here,” she said, gathering up the newspaper and throwing it into the recycle bin.

  “You’re right, but that doesn’t mean we won’t have some fun. Here,” he said, his face coming in and out of view as he set his phone into the holder attached to his windshield.

  “You sure this is okay? I don’t want you getting into an accident on my account.”

  “No hands on my phone,” he joked, holding up both hands.

  “Jack!” she screamed. “If you want to do this, you’d better hold on to that steering wheel,” she scolded.

  “Okay,” he said with a hearty laugh, taking hold of the wheel with both hands. “Have you ever tried Red Roadrunner’s honey butter chicken biscuit?”

  “For breakfast?” she asked, thinking. “I’ve had their maple sausage biscuit and their cinnamon biscuits, but I don’t think I’ve ever tried their honey butter chicken biscuit.”

  “Walk with me there.” He smacked his lips. “Oh, my mouth’s watering already.”

  Becca didn’t argue. She loved the homey feel of the Red Roadrunner. She didn’t eat there often; she didn’t eat anywhere often, not with her store keeping the same hours as the surrounding restaurants on the square.

  She walked into the café to a hearty greeting from the girl behind the counter.

  “What can I get’cha?” the girl asked with a bright smile.

  “Hey, Sandra!” said Jack.

  Becca had forgotten she still had Jack on the line. She stared down at her phone in her hand and laughed before lifting the phone up for Jack to see the restaurant.

  “Hey, Jack,” said Sandra, leaning over the counter to wave at Jack. “You must be Becca.” She handed Becca a white paper bag. “Here’s your honey butter chicken biscuit. And Jack, don’t be a stranger,” she said with a flirtatious lilt to her voice.

  “Thanks, Sandra,” said Becca, taking her conversation with Jack back outside. “Should we eat the biscuit at our tree?” she asked before catching herself.

  “Our tree?” he asked. “I like that.”

  She crossed the street, weaving through the throngs of people who decided to all hit the farmer’s market at its peak. “It’s you, me, and all of McKinney on this walk,” Becca said as she nestled into a grassy patch under the elm tree, smiling at the memory of their moist kiss.

  “Count me jealous,” he said with a sigh.

  “Jack, the leaves are changing!” she exclaimed, setting her phone down next to her, with the camera pointing up at the domed underside of the branches so he could see how half of the elm’s green leaves had turned pale yellow.

  She opened the paper bag to the aroma of home cooking. “Smells divine,” she said, unwrapping the crinkly paper and exposing a fluffy biscuit with a thinly sliced and breaded, fried chicken breast. She lifted the top biscuit to find the chicken shining with a sweet buttery spread. “Honey butter,” she acknowledged, biting into the sandwich. The warm, soft, flaky biscuit melted into the corners of her mouth as she chewed; the sweet, savory butter perfectly contrasted the crunch of the battered chicken breast. “That’s sooo good,” she said, taking another bite and moaning.

  Jack grunted. “Count me double jealous. Hope it’s satisfying your sweet tooth.”

  “Thanks, Jack. We’ll have to do this more often. And the pickles give it just the right tang.” With her last bite of the biscuit, she coughed, wishing she had something to wash it down with, or someone. Dang, she wished he were there with her.

  “Let’s get you something to drink,” Jack said, as if reading her thoughts. “And you’ve got goosebumps on your arms. Are you cold?”

  She rubbed her arm and smiled, then panic struck. “Watch the road, not my arms.”

  “But your arms are much prettier. Let’s walk to the tea house to warm you up. Have you tried their red nectar tea?”

  “They have red nectar tea? How could I have missed that?” she asked, brushing the biscuit crumbs from her faded jeans as she stood. She set a quick pace to the coffee and tea house; her feet propelling her forward with nostalgia to taste a new flavor of tea.

  She slowed her pace as she passed the coffee house’s four floral hanging baskets, overflowing with colors of fall; sprigs of red, orange, and yellow cascaded to the ground. “Are these from your garden store, Jack?”

  “Of course,” he said with pride.

  Old-fashioned bells jingled as Becca opened the glass door to the aroma of fre
sh ground coffee.

  “Good morning,” said a peppy elderly gentleman as he wiped down a table next to the front door.

  Becca stopped to greet him. “Morning,” she responded.

  “Only one thing could make this morning any brighter,” he said.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “A smile,” he said, which surprised her enough to instantly comply. She’d always had a doughy heart for the elderly. She gave him her widest, toothiest smile—the one she reserved only for her daddy, the one she knew would soften him up for a difficult conversation, or butter him up for a favor.

  “That’s it.” The man snapped his fingers and smiled back at her. “Ain’t nothing prettier. He said your smile could light up a room.”

  “Who said—” she began, then stopped short. “Jack?” she said, her voice laced with accusation.

  “Guilty,” he said with a laugh. “And why haven’t you ever smiled for me like that?”

  She knit her brows together. “I hope you’re not still driving because it looks like you’re holding your phone in your hands.”

  “Not guilty and guilty. I’m in the store’s parking lot. I need to jet in, but I’ll call you as soon as I get this settled.”

  “Thanks, Jack. Bye,” she said, waiting for him to end the call.

  “Enjoy your sweet tea. Later,” he said, swinging his phone at his side. The violent motion caused her stomach to pinch and tumble with motion sickness.

  “Becca!” the barista called from behind the counter.

  “Sweet tea?” Becca asked herself as she stepped to the counter. “But we’re in Texas.”

  The young barista tsked her tongue and sighed. “Did Jack say sweet tea? Sounds like him. Do you have any idea how much sugar is added to the real Southern sweet tea?” Her fluffy eyelash extensions fluttered. “Jack looks out for others, don’t he? He asked for the sweetest herbal tea we’ve got. Said he wanted to satisfy your sweet tooth without the cavities.” She held a white porcelain mug out to Becca. “This is a blend of African rooibos and honeybush. No need to add sugar to this tea.”

  “I’ve had rooibos before, but not honeybush. Thanks,” said Becca, accepting the mug, which she held up to her phone to toast Jack, but her phone’s screen still displayed a moving sidewalk, causing her head to spin.