How to Lasso a Cowboy (2 page)

She sputtered again, clearly ready to argue back. Then she paused, and that crafty smile returned. “Then are they available for rent?”

“Rent?”

“You have no more room on your porch, Mr. Jones. And if you intend to make more furniture—or have any more clandestine furniture reproduction—here, then you are going to need more space. And I happen to need something exactly like this for in front of my shop. So, I would like to rent some of your chairs and give you the space you need.”

“No.”

She pursed her lips. “Give me one good reason why.”

“Because.”

“That's not a reason at all.” She shook her head. “You can't be serious. I've just made you a business offer here. What kind of businessman doesn't at least negotiate?”

“I'm not in the furniture business.”

She quirked a brow at that.

“And I'm not negotiating.” Or explaining himself.

Mortise stood, his tail wagging, all friendly-like. Harlan snapped his fingers to call the dog back, but it was too late—Mortise had already crossed to Sophie and pressed his body against her leg, his tail slapping against her legs, sending loose fur flying around them like dandelion fluff. Then Harlan realized why Mortise was being so friendly—

The small white bag still dangled from Sophie Watson's fingers. A temptation that had the dog sniffing the air and pressing closer.

“Are they for rent?” she asked again, trying to sidestep the dog, but Mortise moved with her.

“Mortise—” Harlan warned, but it was too late. Before the warning left his throat, the retriever had reached up, snatched the bag out of Sophie's hands and dashed off the porch.

“What the heck?” Sophie wheeled around. “Your dog just stole my lunch!”

Harlan glanced at Mortise lying under the shade of a palm tree and happily tearing into the paper wrapper. “That he did.”

“Aren't you going to stop him?”

Mortise raised his snout and chugged back a bite of the sandwich he'd unwrapped. At the same time, Tenon dropped to the ground beside him and began chomping on an unwrapped cookie. “I, uh, think it's a little late for that.”

Sophie Watson sputtered. She cursed. She sputtered some more. “Well, then you leave me no choice,” she said. She stripped off her sweater and tossed it to him. He caught it and stared at her. By removing the pale yellow sweater, she'd reduced herself to a clingy tank top in a matching fabric. He blinked and for a minute, lost his focus.

It took him a full five seconds to realize she had stacked up two of his chairs and hoisted them over her head, the muscles in her biceps flexing with the effort. “I'm taking these chairs, as repayment for my missing lunch,” she said.

“Hey, you can't—”

“I can and I will. Just watch me.” Then she swung around, his chairs on her head, and strode off down his stairs.

Harlan glanced at his dogs. “Why didn't you stop her?”

Mortise and Tenon looked up at him, then, Harlan swore, the dogs shrugged before going back to devouring Sophie Watson's lunch between their paws.

Well, hell. Harlan was definitely going to have to do something about that woman before she drove him completely over the edge.

“N
ICE
chairs.” Lulu Saunders shot Sophie a grin, then plopped into one of the two Adirondack-style oak chairs that now sat on either side of a small brightly tiled table in front of the Cuppa Java Café. The handmade chairs were the perfect complement to the homey atmosphere of the coffee shop. She'd been looking for outdoor furniture for months, and when she spied these on Harlan Jones's porch one afternoon, she'd stopped looking at any other types. They were perfect, and even better, made by a local resident.

In a small town like Edgerton Shores, the more local the better. Sophie bought her coffee beans from a local vendor who roasted them on site, made her muffins with local ingredients, and catered to her clientele with drinks named after local celebrities. She'd hired Lulu, who came from a family that had lived in this town for as long as there'd been an Edgerton Shores, and who, with her outgoing, boisterous personality, was nearly a local legend. Sophie herself had lived here all her life, and wanted the coffee shop to feel as if it had been here forever, too.

Which was why she'd tangled with that annoying Harlan Jones this morning. That man got on her nerves in the worst way. On top of that, he had the most incorrigible dogs in the world. And it seemed he was determined to
make her a laughingstock in her own town. But he made some seriously nice chairs.

Sophie dropped into the opposite chair and turned her face up to greet the sun. She had a rare temporary break, with no customers in the shop. She spent most of her days here, dispensing lattes and fresh-baked biscotti, and though she loved her job, she also loved the occasional opportunity to enjoy the fruits of her labor. “Thanks,” she told Lulu. “I stole them from Harlan Jones's front porch.”

“Stole them?”

“Yep. That man is too stubborn for his own good.”

“And sexy,” Lulu said with a sigh. She pushed her dark brown hair off her brow, and then took a sip of one of the two iced coffees she'd brought out earlier. “Not to mention that Southern drawl. He's yummy all around.”

Sophie laughed. “Yummy? I wouldn't describe Harlan Jones with that word or anything close to it.”

“Then you are blind, girlfriend, because that man is the sexiest thing to come to this town in a long time.” Lulu pressed a hand to her chest. “And since I'm the one who rented that house to him, you should be thanking me for improving the neighborhood view.”

Mildred Meyers came striding down the sidewalk, saving Sophie from replying about Harlan Jones's sexiness quotient. Probably a good thing, because Sophie had no time for a man in her life. She'd learned her lesson about trying to mix a relationship and a business that consumed most of her hours, a lesson that had ended her engagement and left her wondering how anyone managed to combine entrepreneurship with a personal life. On top of that, the messy and very public ending of her relationship with Jim had been the talk of the town for months.

Reminder to self: Never run out on your own wedding on a slow news day
. The reporters had bugged her
for weeks, disrupting her life and her business. Thank goodness the furor had finally died down. Sophie was inordinately relieved when Gertrude Maxwell took up a Winchester shotgun and chased her cheating husband out of the house, thus becoming the new topic du jour.

Either way, Sophie loved her cozy little coffee shop. It wasn't just her business, it was her refuge, even if building the business into something strong and viable was a continual, energy draining effort. She worked hard, but at a job she loved. When she reached the end of her week and realized she hadn't so much as flirted with a man, never mind go out on a date, she told herself there'd be time later for a relationship.

Yeah, like maybe when she was in a retirement home.

“I've had the most amazing brainstorm!” Mildred exclaimed as she approached them.

Sophie smiled. Combining Mildred with the word “brainstorm” could very well be a dangerous proposition. Mildred had once been a teacher—had even served as Sophie's third grade teacher—and had always been an active member of Edgerton Shores. She was an effusive, quirky woman with a penchant for bright clothing in garish combinations. Today she had on a pair of neon-lime Capri pants and a coral blouse that seemed to rival the sun in color strength. A chunky turquoise-and-gold necklace completed the ensemble, and was echoed in her jeweled sandals. “Where's your partner in crime?” Sophie asked.

“Your grandmother was feeling a bit under the weather, so she stayed home today.”

Concern flooded Sophie as she and Mildred headed into Cuppa Java and Sophie started making Mildred her usual order. “I should leave and go see her. Make sure she's okay.”

“You'll do no such thing. Your grandmother told me specifically that you were ‘not to worry or run over to her house for no good reason.'” Mildred fluttered her fingers in air quotes. “She is just fine, and ‘you have enough on your hands,' quote, unquote.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am. Besides, I left my can of pepper spray there. She's covered for any situation.”

Sophie bit back a laugh. Mildred and her pepper spray. Ever since she'd read a newspaper article saying that local crime had risen two percent over the last year, she'd started carrying the little can in her purse.

“Miss Meyers, I hardly think there's going to be a pepper spray–worthy incident in Edgerton Shores this afternoon.”

“You never know,” she said, wagging her finger in Sophie's direction. “Anyway, back to why I'm here. I came up with the most brilliant idea!”

Sophie finished mixing a latte for Mildred, then slid the coffee over to her. Lulu had also come inside and was busy loading fresh-baked cookies into the glass display case. “For what, Miss Meyers?” Sophie asked.

“For the town's Spring Fling, of course. We wanted some thing that would draw attention to the town and get people around here excited again.” Mildred's red lips spread in a wide smile. “And I've got the perfect solution.” Mildred dug in her floral tote bag and took out a thick pad of paper filled with notes in her distinctive loopy handwriting. “A love lottery.”

Lulu sputtered, biting back a laugh. Sophie cocked her head, sure she'd heard Mildred wrong. “A love
what?
”

“A love lottery. I told your grandma about it and she thought it was a splendid idea. All the single people in town put in applications to be matched with another single
person. They pay a few dollars for their match, and once they find their perfect love, they go out on a date.”

“Like one of them, whatcha call it? Online dating services?” Lulu asked.

Mildred waved a dismissive hand, then tucked the notepad back into her tote bag. “We aren't going to do any fancy internet stuff. We'll be matching people based on similar interests, the old-fashioned way.”

“What old-fashioned way?” Lulu asked.

Mildred pressed a hand to her ample bosom. “By instinct, of course. By, well, my instincts, since I have so much dating experience.”

Sophie looked at Lulu. Lulu looked at Sophie. Both of them decided not to ask about any of Mildred's dating experiences. There were times when a little information was just too much.

“I'm not sure about this,” Sophie said. “Do you really think we'll have enough participation? Edgerton Shores is a pretty small town.”

Mildred harrumphed. “I have done my research, and this town has a sixty-two percent available rate. We are home to some highly desirable singles.”

“We are?” Lulu said. “Someone better tell me where they are, then, because I've been looking for a man for way too long. Specifically, a man with a
j-o-b.
”

Sophie laughed. Poor Lulu hadn't exactly gotten lucky in love, though Sophie wasn't one to talk. She'd thought she'd had it all, then realized pretty quickly that was a figment of her imagination. That she'd mistaken infatuation for love and had missed the warning signs that she was marrying Mr. Wrong. Thank God she'd gotten smart before she got a wedding band.

The media, however, had never seemed interested in her side of the story. They'd loved the sensation of a bride
ditching her groom at the last minute—and that was all the sentence they wanted before they put in the period.

“For instance, there's Art Conway, over on LaBelle Terrace,” Mildred said, interrupting Sophie's thoughts. “That man's got a nice retirement package from GE, and a brand-new Cadillac.” A smile danced across the older woman's features. “He's quite the talk at the senior center.”

Sophie bit back a laugh. She could just see the results of the love lottery—a whole lot of eligible retirees making a love connection. Chances were it would spur more hanky panky at the bingo hall than anywhere else. Still, it sounded like a pretty good idea, and an easy fundraiser.

Sophie glanced at Mildred's notes. “It could work. Maybe. But I'm not sure we'd be able to raise the money we need.”

“You have a point.” Mildred pressed a finger to her bright coral lips.

“Unless…we combine this with the Spring Fling celebration,” Sophie said. “That's never a very big event, just a picnic on the town square and a dance at the end of the week. Making it the highlight of the week would increase awareness for the community wellness center. Maybe then all the events combined would bring in more money.”

Mildred nodded. “I know how important that is to you. It's something this town has needed for a long time.”

For the past year and a half, Sophie had been working to raise money to open a community wellness center to provide much needed services for the town's large senior citizen population. Sophie had proposed the idea, after watching her grandmother's health decline over the last few years. If there was some kind of a community place where Grandma Watson could go with her friends, to take exercise classes, cooking classes, or simply to fill her days
with fun, she would. Grandma got out from time to time, but ever since her hip replacement a few months ago, she'd become more frustrated by the lack of nearby venues for a day or night out. The closest place like that to Edgerton Shores was nearly forty-five minutes away—a trip that could double during tourist season. The town needed its own place, and needed it soon. Sophie and the rest of the committee members had held a bake sale, a fish fry and even sold T-shirts, but it hadn't been nearly enough. She glanced again at Mildred's notes. “This could be just the kind of thing that would add to the project's coffers.”

“We could put out the word to nearby towns,” Lulu said. “There are single gals all over Tampa Bay looking for Mr. Right.”

“Great idea. And if we have enough participation in this love lottery thing,” Sophie said, running some quick numbers in her head, “we'll be one step closer to building that community and wellness center. Maybe even have enough money to start renovating that building Art Conway gifted to the town last year.”

“Art is quite the man.” Mildred sighed. “He knows how much this town needs a place that meets everyone's needs.” She flexed her right arm. “As for me, I could use a power-lifting class.”

Sophie chuckled. “You and me both, Miss Meyers. Okay. I say we go for it.”

Mildred clapped her hands together. “Wonderful!” Then she thrust her bright floral tote bag into Sophie's hands. “I think you'll do a terrific job with this.”

“What? Me? But I—”

“Volunteered to head the publicity for the Spring Fling this year, remember?” Mildred gave Sophie an apologetic smile. When Sophie had volunteered to promote the annual town celebration, she hadn't expected it to involve much
more than sending a few press releases to the local media. And she certainly hadn't anticipated having to promote a date day. “And if you ask me, nothing deserves publicity like a Love Lottery.” She turned to go, her mission of passing the buck completed. Then she paused, and cast another smile over her shoulder. “And don't forget, as head of the Love Lottery, you need to participate, too.”

“Oh, no, that's the last thing I need. To make my love life public again.” The whispers about the runaway bride had finally died down. There hadn't been a call from a reporter in over six months. She had no desire to get the gossips buzzing again. It wasn't good for business and it definitely wasn't good for her. “Besides, I have my hands full already with the shop and now—” Sophie held up the folder “—this.”

“Your hands are never too full for love, dear.” Mildred toodled a little wave, and walked away, leaving Sophie holding the bag. Literally.

 

Harlan gave Sophie Watson thirty minutes, then he plopped his hat back on his head and strode downtown, Mortise and Tenon trailing along at his feet, a pair of happy panting puppies ready to go anywhere.

Harlan found Sophie standing beside his chairs, picking up an iced something or other from the tiny table she'd set between the two wooden seats. “I'm here to give you back your sweater, Miss Watson, and—” he plopped himself in an empty chair and kicked back “—to reclaim my chairs.”

“You can't just sit there.” Sophie snatched her sweater out of his hands and shrugged into it.

“Reckon I can. These are stolen property.
My
stolen property. I'm staking my claim before anyone gets any
crazy ideas—” he turned to her and arched a brow “—and tries something like branding them.”

“I don't own a branding iron, Mr. Jones, so the identity of your chairs is safe. Though I would be glad to hang a sign promoting your woodworking.” That crafty smile flitted across her face. “As an expression of my gratitude for your temporary relocation of the chairs to my front door.”

“No need for a sign. I'm not in the woodworking business.” Not now, not ever. “And this ‘temporary relocation' ain't nothing more than a furniture hijacking. So I reckon I'll sit here until you're ready to give back what's mine.”