Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [12]
“Oh, great. What the world needs—another Wally World.” She drank her 7-Up, trying to calm her rising irritation. She failed.
Jago shifted in the booth, stretched out his long legs and observed, “I see you rank developers slightly above used car salesmen and lawyers.”
“They take beautiful countryside and turn it into Plasticland. If I want to shop, I can drive into Lexington and have my choice of half a dozen malls. I don’t want any on my doorstep. The thought never occurs to developers that anyone might like how things are.”
“No one holds a gun to people’s heads. They don’t have to sell.”
“Good. Thank you. I’m not selling, no matter what anyone says. Go back to Trident, tell them I don’t care how they pressure Mac or if he sells the horse farm. The Windmill stays.” She slid from the booth before saying something she’d regret, then paused, having one more tidbit for Mr. Sexy Lips Developer. “I don’t like Trident sending their hired gun to muscle me. I don’t take harassment well. I tend to get mean. Very mean.”
Instead of looking affronted, he just smiled. “Sassy thing, aren’t you? Guess it goes with the red hair.”
“My hair isn’t red,” she snapped. Picking up a strand draped over her shoulder, she pretended to study it. “It’s . . . well . . . crabby tabby.”
“Crabby tabby?” He chuckled.
“Oh aye, and that describes me rather well, too. Push me, I hiss and the claws come out,” she warned.
He sipped his coffee and watched her with a predator’s stillness, which set prickles tingling along her spine and neck. “Ever get up on the soapbox and find you mistook the situation?”
“You aren’t from Trident?” she challenged.
He evaded, asking, “Now that I’ve eaten, may I have another beer?”
He slid from the booth and followed her to the front of the restaurant to perch on a stool at the counter. Asha went to the cooler, took out a Coors, opened it and set it on a paper coaster before him. She commented, “I noticed you didn’t answer my question.”
“Yes, Asha, I represent Trident. But not as a hired gun, as you so colorfully put it. We felt there was a need to study the area. Sheath the claws, Crabby Tabby. You don’t have to try and boot me out of the motel—yet.”
Netta came from the kitchen and plopped down on the stool beside Jago. “My feet hurt,” she grumbled. “They promised these high-priced New Balance shoes would stop that. Guess I have to break them in first, you think? Asha, hon, give me a cream soda with lots of ice. I’m dying of thirst.”
Asha took a glass off the shelf, filled it with ice and Big Red. She set it on a coaster in front of Netta, along with an Almond Joy—Netta’s nightly end-of-shift indulgence.
“So, have you finished giving handsome here the third degree?” Netta asked impishly.
Asha’s eyes met Jago’s, and she was barely able to focus on Netta due to the mesmerizing power the man exuded. “He’s a bloody developer,” she said, using her sour words as a shield.
Netta let out a howl. “Could be worse. He could be a used car salesman.”
Jago lifted his beer in a small salute, glancing pointedly to Asha. Netta leaned toward him and bumped shoulders.
“But then, Sexy Lips,” she cooed, “I’d let you park your socks under my Serta Sleeper no matter if you were a telemarketer, forever calling me at 8:00 a.m. and waking me from my beauty rest.”
“Down, Netta, you’ll give him a big head.” Asha chuckled. It was hard to remain straight-faced around the saucy, thirty-something woman with bleached-blond hair and china-blue eyes.
“Shucks, hon, I’d like to make something big on him.” Netta winked at Asha.
Asha shook her head with a smile. “Stop propositioning the customers, Netta.” The rebuke was a running joke. Part of her earthy charm, Netta propositioned the customers with great regularity; they’d be disappointed if she didn’t. In some ways Asha wished she could take life with the same seek-your-fun-where-you-may attitude. Having faced hitting the big 3-0 just three weeks past, she felt the pinch of her moral standards and the limited opportunities. She loved The Windmill, but being in the middle