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“No, I don’t know. But as I said, you’re not gettin’ out of this.”
Knowing a full stop when I heard one, I clicked my tongue. “Then, I’ll be there. Need me to bring anythin’?”
“Just your manners.”
I laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“That’s my boy.”
“Hi, Everett.”
I turned at the sound of Laney’s voice the next day, my gut twisting up like a mop in a bucket at the sight of her. She wore a different pair of fancy boots today, a pretty little dress, and her hair was loose around her shoulders instead of in that tight bun under her ball cap like the day before.
Also unlike the day before, she and Paisley had a tall, blond, and handsome addition to their party. The Riley Conrad, country music’s sexiest male artist—according to the gossip rags I absolutely did not read—walked into my garage with a cowboy hat and a smile.
And if the too-pretty hat hadn’t given him away as a country singer, the worn leather guitar case in his hand would have. Was he planning to serenade us with one of the many songs he’d written about Laney? If so, I was pretty sure I could rustle up a funnel I could use to fill my ears with Pennzoil.
Wiping my hands on a shop cloth, I gave them each a nod. “Laney. Paisley. And you must be the boyfriend.”
“Riley,” he said, reaching forward to shake my hand, then taking it back with an easy grin when I showed him how dirty mine was. “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard—” His words were cut off with an elbow to the gut courtesy of his girlfriend, and he winced before finishing that sentence with a not-at-all convincing, “absolutely nothin’.”
I didn’t reply, just held his gaze for maybe a second too long before turning to Laney.
“How’s it goin’ with the car?” she asked, all business.
“Everett, Everett,” a woman’s voice pulled my attention from Laney. “Honey, are you done with my car yet? I’m so tired of walking—I’m no spring chicken.”
I grinned at Mrs. McClusky and nodded toward her car. “Yes, ma’am, and I was just fixin’ to call you. Mrs. M., you must have a sixth sense.”
“I must. Thank goodness, I am so tired,” she said again.
Laney’s eyes grew round as the older woman approached. “Mrs. M?”
“Yes?” Mrs. M. turned toward her, and when recognition dawned, her whole face lit up. “Oh, well, I’ll be! If it isn’t Laney Cole.”
I smiled as Laney hugged our first-grade teacher—retired now for the last ten years or so. When she pulled back, Mrs. M. put her hands on Laney’s shoulders and looked her up and down. “My, my—still pretty as a peach. You are the most beautiful girl in this whole town. You always have been of course, but don’t tell anyone I said that.”
A lump formed in my throat, and I looked away. The truth of her words was a little less casual when it came to how much I agreed.
“Thank you, Mrs. M. This is Riley, my—um, my boyfriend,” she managed, linking her arm through his while I found a spot on the cement floor that looked way too interesting to ignore.
“Riley Conrad, as I live and breathe. You are even more handsome in the flesh than you are on TV,” Mrs. M purred. “Well, flesh or flannel, anyway. Pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s mine, ma’am,” Riley drawled, taking his fancy hat off and sweeping it toward his chest as he bowed his head.
Before I could throw up on my work boots, Laney cleared her throat and dragged Paisley closer. “I also want you to meet my friend and manager, Paisley Stevens.”
Why am I still standing here? While the three women and their flannel-clad heartthrob chatted, I took the opportunity to head to the office to get Mrs. McClusky’s paperwork. When I came back, Paisley was walking away with her phone pressed to her ear as Laney spoke with our former teacher. There was no sign of Riley and his too-new-to-have-ever-seen-a-horse cowboy hat.
“Here’s your paperwork, ma’am,” I told Mrs. McMclusky. “Come on over, and I’ll ring you up and explain everythin’.”
“Sure thing, son,” she replied, then turned back to Laney and reached up to touch her face. “It’s good to see you, sweetheart. This whole town has missed your warm smile.”
Laney’s eyes were soft as she nodded. “It’s good to see you too.”
Mrs. McClusky started to turn away with me, but then flipped back. “It sure is a shame you two didn’t work out,” she said with a wistful sigh. Then she waved a hand. “But hey, I’m sure havin’ Riley Conrad on your arm doesn’t hurt.”
Laney cringed, and I fought the urge to throw Mrs. M’s paperwork into the air like a bratty kid she’d probably whip with a wooden ruler. Then we both fixed our faces as Mrs. M stepped over to the cash wrap with me.
