Small Town Girl Read Online Free PDF Page A

as she set the grinder.
    "Got any other ideas how you'll rebuild business? Maybe a little soft-shoe, hmm?" She danced a step or two to her own music.
    "Why, you got something to sell?" he taunted.
    She accidentally on purpose stomped his boot toe while reaching for the chicory. "Unless you're planning on charging ten bucks a cup, you'd better sell something besides coffee, and your good looks don't count."
    She ought to block what she was doing so he had to rely on her if he wanted to keep his customers, but she'd never been the spiteful sort. Besides, she didn't want to be responsible for the repercussions if people didn't get their caffeine fix.
    "Good looks?" He snorted. "Is that the best you can do to keep from getting fired?"
    Since she figured he was getting a good look at her ass, Jo ignored the frisson of fear at the possibility of losing her job. She reached for the filters in the cabinet and poured in the ground beans as she'd done every morning for the last year.
    With the heady aroma of brewed coffee sweetening the stale air, she took a deep breath and turned to face her surly boss, hands on hips. "I'm Joella Sanderson, cafe manager, hostess, short-order cook, and waitress. I have a resume as long as your arm. You can keep me on, or I can go down the street and become your competition."
    She had brazen down real well. Her honesty lacked a little polish.
    Flint scowled at her from his greater height. His muscled physique in a formfitting shirt and jeans was silhouetted against the gray dawn of the picture window. He ought to have red neon across his forehead flashing DANGER ! instead of that intriguing lock of too long hair that any woman in her right faculties would love to push out of his eyes.
    She didn't shy away while he studied her, from the flyaway wisps of yellow grazing her forehead, to the long ponytail that kept her mass of hair out of the food, down to the tips of her practical Nikes. She had been in a hurry to arrive early and hadn't bothered with any more makeup than mascara and lipstick this morning. The air-conditioning in the Stardust left something to be desired so she wore her sensible Frog Prince T-shirt and red shorts under the apron.
    He didn't offer a single smile or look of approval. Admittedly, she didn't look as good as she had last night, but she didn't think she was Godzilla either.
    "These are the mountains," he said, seemingly irrelevantly. "I thought women only got a tan like yours at the beach."
    Well, if that's the way he wanted it, she could give as good as she got. "Never heard of tanning beds?" she mocked, crossing her brown arms over the apron.
    "Never heard of skin cancer?" With a grim look on his lined face, he walked off, grabbing a bottle of ammonia from the counter as he headed for the back.
    Ammonia? Jo lifted her eyebrows and looked around. He'd cleaned the machine!
    Flynn Clinton, lately of the Barn Boys—and despite her blasé reaction she knew damned well who the hottest country band in a decade was—sweet-talking, sexy dancer and kisser par none, had cleaned the ancient, filthy Bunn burners that should have been tossed in the trash during the last world war.
    He was human after all. Maybe she could tolerate the intolerable hunk until she found the road out of here.
    Hearing him slam the door of Charlie's office, Joella examined the greasy assortment of antique equipment and pondered where to start. Heaving it all in the trash was her preference, but the place wasn't hers. The griddle then. After that, the refrigerator. The oven had died many moons ago and deserved a decent burial.
    She had been just a little less than honest earlier. Charlie had never let her back here except to fix the coffee. He liked her out in front of the counter, entertaining the customers. She'd had no problem with that since talking to people was her preference, and Charlie wouldn't have let her clean up anyway. He thought grease added flavor.
    But Flynn Clinton obviously thought otherwise.