“You can check the final building inspection off your list,” her mother, who had resumed her sweeping, said. “Josh Howard came over while you were out. He gave the place a clean bill.”
“Without a front door?”
Belinda waved that off. “I told him it would be installed later today. Rickey is his second cousin on his mama’s side—he knows he’s good for it.”
Paxton shook her head. “Gotta love a small town,” she said as she stacked the sponges, all-purpose disinfecting spray, and grout cleaner on one of the new pub tables that had been delivered that morning.
A loud whistle drew her attention to the left side of the bar.
“I knew I smelled trouble in the air.”
Paxton grinned as Harlon Lewis, the bar’s previous owner, entered through the side door. He shucked his raincoat, leaving it just inside the door. He was accompanied by his grandson, Donovan, who carried two large fleur-de-lis wall décor pieces crafted out of dented sheet metal and spray-painted a shimmering metallic gold.
Paxton balled up the plastic shopping bags and tossed them in the blue recycling bin as she made her way over to Harlon. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a loud kiss.
“It’s so good to see you,” she said. She leaned back and smiled up at the man who had been the only father figure she’d ever known. “I’ve missed you, old man. You weren’t at the house when I dropped by yesterday.”
“You gotta get there early to catch me, girlie. I’ve got places to be.”
“Thanks for picking these up for me,” she said, gesturing to the fleur-de-lis. She’d commissioned Gauthier’s own metalworks artist and restoration specialist, Phylicia Phillips, to start making them as soon as the sale of the bar went through.
“It was no problem,” Harlon said. “Phil’s new shop ain’t too far from the house.”
“Still, you saved me a trip,” Paxton said, plopping another peck on his cheek.
“Hey, where’s my kiss?” Donovan asked, leaning toward her.
“Boy, get out of here with that mess.” Harlon swatted him with the dusty Vietnam vet baseball cap he’d been wearing for the better part of the three decades Paxton had known him.
Donovan frowned at his grandfather, then winked at Paxton.
“You can put those over there.” Paxton pointed toward the bar, which had been freshly waxed earlier that day. “I have anXmarked with electrical tape on the wall. You’ll find a nail right above it that you can hang them on.”
“Fine, but it’ll cost you a kiss,” Donovan said with another wink.
Paxton rolled her eyes and released a heavy sigh. This one would be a problem.
When she’d driven over to Harlon’s house on the lake yesterday, she was informed by the twenty-two-year-old—whom she used to babysit for extra money back when she was in high school—that his grandfather was on a hunting trip. Donovan invited her to join him inside for a beer, an invitation Paxton had instantly turned down. It only made him more eager.
The little scrub had had the nerve to tell her that he was going to make her his cougar. Paxton was so stunned by his boldness that she’d laughed in his face. She’d hoped her remarks about eating little tiger cubs like him for breakfast would have put an end to his pursuit, but apparently not.
While Donovan hung the artwork, Paxton threaded her arm through Harlon’s and took him on a tour. A ribbon of pride curled around her as he remarked on all the changes that had been done in the past couple of days.
“Girl, you are amazing. You turned this old dump into a palace.”
“This bar has never been a dump. You always took good care of it. We just spruced it up a bit.”
“Spruced it up, my foot. This place looks a hundred times better than it did before. A thousand. You did good by your mama, girl. I’m proud of you. She deserves this.”
Paxton barely managed to swallow the lump of emotion wedged in her throat. She coughed, ready to lay claim to the cold her mother had accused her of catching. Sentimental public displays had never been her style, and the sincerity in Harlon’s voice brought her close to the brink.
“Owning her own place has been a dream of hers for a long time,” Paxton said. “Thank you for selling it to us at such a reasonable price.”
He waved that off. “I’m sorry I had to sell it to you at all. If I’d been better at tucking money away, I would have given it to her.”
“She never would have taken it from you,” Paxton said.
She and Belinda had a lot of things in common, but that stubborn streak of pride was, by far, the strongest thread tying them together. The Joneses did not accept charity. Ever. They worked hard for what they wanted, and if they couldn’t get it on their own, then they weren’t meant to have it.
