Brand New Me Read online

  She only wished she knew.

  “Okay?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  She didn’t trust herself to be able to come up with a coherent sentence. She nodded, managing at the last minute to close her mouth so that she didn’t look like a complete moron.

  “Is there a problem I need to know about?”

  She shook her head, slowly. Don’t mind me, boss. Just your average doofus. She took another breath, closing her eyes, trying to steady herself. “Wow,” she whispered finally. “Just…wow.”

  When she looked up, Tom was grinning, and she wanted to sink into the ground where she stood. She needed to escape through the door to her apartment, where she could properly dissolve into a pool of humiliation. If only she could make it up the stairs without tripping over her own feet and flopping onto the floor.

  He put his hand on her shoulder. “Wait.”

  She took another breath and stared back at him, trying not to grimace. Yes, we’re all in agreement. I am a complete moron. Can I go now?

  “Wow is right,” he said softly. He touched her cheek with his fingertips, running his index finger down the slope of her nose.

  She stared up at his ice-blue eyes again. If he kisses me now, what will I do? If I ask him up, what will we do? Do I have the cojones to find out?

  He rested his index finger on her lower lip for a moment, then leaned down and gave her one last, swift kiss, brushing his lips gently across her own. “Good night, Deirdre. See you at lunchtime.”

  He closed the door, and she stood in the darkened hallway, staring after him through the door glass as he moved through the pools of light, heading back toward Main, then merging into the shadows at the corner. “But I don’t work Sundays,” she murmured after he’d gone too far to hear.

  He probably shouldn’t have kissed her back. If he’d been thinking at all, he wouldn’t have. Except, of course, that when she’d looked up at him with those indigo eyes, then leaned into him, touching those lush lips to his, all coherent thought had immediately deserted his brain.

  Well, not all thought. But everything he could act upon.

  He’d been varying degrees of hard ever since he’d danced with her. Which was the first stupid thing he’d done that evening. He still didn’t know exactly why he’d walked out from behind the bar in the middle of the busiest part of the evening. She’d been standing there at the side of the garden, alone, clutching her tray to her chest, and all of a sudden he only wanted to hold her. The dance floor provided the perfect excuse.

  By the time they were done, every cell in his body had been on fire. It was all he could do to keep from kissing her right there at the end of “Volver, Volver” as she bent back over his arm. But that really would have caused no end of trouble, particularly when Janie and Pete Toleffson were sitting at a side table, watching. He still wasn’t sure how Deirdre fit into the extended Toleffson family, but he didn’t particularly want to find out by having the chief of police and the county attorney arrive on his doorstep.

  Not to mention the problems this relationship could cause with Sylvia, Chico and Clem. He paused outside the window of Siemen’s Mens Wear. Actually, Chico and Clem most likely wouldn’t give a damn, although Chico would probably feel duty bound to threaten his life if Deirdre got hurt.

  Sylvia, on the other hand, would raise holy hell. She was already close to it, complaining constantly about the size of her station, the length of her shift and the decline in her tips since Deirdre had come on board. He sighed. Sylvia might be a royal pain in the ass, but she was also good at her job, and replacing her would be a bigger pain than keeping her. Maybe he could hire Marilyn on for more hours so that Sylvia wouldn’t have to cover so many tables. The increased evening traffic Deirdre brought in could probably pay for more help.

  Already Deirdre Brandenburg was costing him money, and they hadn’t even gone out yet. They had, however, shared one hell of a kiss.

  Tom rubbed his jaw, ambling back up the street toward the Faro. Calling what he had with Deirdre a relationship was really straining the definition, but he was damned if he knew what else to call it. He wanted her. She seemed to want him. Why the hell was the whole thing so complicated? At this point in most of his previous relationships he would already have been in her bed, particularly considering he’d paid for it.

  But not this time. And he knew better than to push it. One soul-shaking kiss, and she’d been ready to run upstairs and hide. Hell, for all he knew she’d been ready to head back to Houston. She looked sort of like the squirrels who came to nibble corn in his backyard every morning—really grateful for the treat, but ready to head back up into the highest branches if he so much as set foot out the door.

  He foresaw a lot more aching evenings in his future until he finally figured out what exactly Deirdre Brandenburg was looking for in a man. Or more specifically, what she was looking for in him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Craig Dempsey sat in a gas station café down the street from the Faro and nursed his coffee. It was some of the lousiest coffee he’d ever tasted, so nursing it involved the occasional sip and grimace, but the café was the only place open on this end of Main at ten on a Sunday morning. The lousy coffee actually seemed to be the ideal accompaniment for the stale Danish that was the other half of his breakfast. Mornings in Konigsburg sucked.

  Particularly this morning, which had started with an eight a.m. call from Big John Brandenburg. Craig had managed to keep his head from exploding when the phone rang, but it wasn’t easy. After the Faro the night before, he’d gone on to a couple of other bars, downing enough boilermakers to half-quench the fire that had started in his gut when he’d watched Dee-Dee dancing with a friggin’ bartender. Just another in a long line of things that showed how far down the slope she was slipping. Eight a.m. was definitely not his wake-up time of choice.

  “Dempsey?” Big John barked. “What the hell is going on up there? You find my daughter or not?”

  Craig put one hand on the top of his head to keep it from flying off. “Yes sir, I found her yesterday. She’s here working as a waitress. I’ll talk to her soon.”

  “A waitress? Dee-Dee? Bullshit! And what the hell do you mean ‘soon’? Why didn’t you talk to her yesterday if you found out where she was?”

  Craig’s headache spread rapidly from his forehead to the back of his eyeballs. “About that. What is it you want me to say to her, exactly?”

  “Tell her to get her ass back to Houston. I told you that already.”

  Craig massaged his forehead. If his brain hadn’t been on the point of melting, he’d probably be handling this better. On the other hand, there were times when it was best to just face Big John head on. “Why should she do that?”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line. He had a feeling that possibility had never occurred to the big man before.

  “She’s been there on her own for a few weeks now.” Brandenburg’s voice sounded less gritty, as if he was actually thinking for once instead of issuing orders from his ass. “She should be good and ready to come home. Why wouldn’t she be?”

  Craig’s forehead gave another quick throb. Death would be preferable. Actually getting off the phone with Brandenburg would be ideal. Then he could swallow the bottle of aspirin he obviously needed. “She should be, particularly when you think about the kind of blue collar job she’s working. But you know how women are. Her pride and all.”

  The silence was longer this time. Maybe Big John was actually considering the possibility that somebody somewhere wouldn’t hop to his bidding immediately. Craig hoped it was giving him heartburn.

  “All right, use your best judgment,” Big John rumbled finally. “I’m giving you free rein here. Offer her whatever it takes. Tell her she gets her job back. I’ll unfreeze her accounts. Everything goes back the way it was. That should be enough to do it. I’m leaving for Europe this week. I want this settled now. Take care of it, Dempsey.”

  “Yes sir.” Craig sighed. “I�
�ll do that.” He’d managed to dress and shower then, after slurping down a handful of aspirin. Then he’d headed to downtown Konigsburg to take care of everything. Of course, he should have realized nobody would be around the Faro yet. The freakin’ bar didn’t close until two in the morning.

  He took another sip of coffee—the bitterness actually seemed appropriate this time. Last night had almost made him throw in the towel. It was bad enough having to sit through a hick country band playing two-steps for the yahoos. But he’d also had to watch Dee-Dee, his fiancée-in-all-but-name, bumping and grinding around the garden with some guy in jeans and a T-shirt whose monthly salary was probably equal to what Craig dropped for a dinner at La Mistral. That was wrong on so many levels, he couldn’t even count them all.

  Dee-Dee was part of his Master Plan, his post-football career. Marriage to one of the richest women in Texas and a suitable corporate position where he didn’t have to do much beyond occasional grip-and-grins—that was how things were supposed to work out. And he’d be damned if he’d let Dee-Dee wander off and spoil everything.

  It was time to put an end to this farce. Time to reel Dee-Dee in, take her back where she belonged. He was thoroughly sick of Konigsburg and his role as Big John’s personal investigator. He wanted to be back in Houston, back in his office, back in the restaurants and clubs where they knew him well enough to give him the best table in the house. He’d go to the Faro today and tell her it was over, that her father was ready to take her back, that it was time for her to grow up and do what she was supposed to do—hold down a high-paying job at Brandenburg, Inc. and marry Craig, preferably in that order.

  There wasn’t much chance she wouldn’t come, but if she got pissy about it, he’d offer her something she couldn’t refuse—a new office, say. Or a diamond the size of a Super Bowl ring. He grimaced. Maybe he’d even give her credit for that wind farm idea, although that probably wouldn’t be necessary. The unfrozen accounts alone should do it. That Dee-Dee could be living happily on a waitress’s salary didn’t seem likely.

  Craig did another sip and wince. He still didn’t know where she lived, which made this meeting that much more difficult. The Faro was his only lead, and it didn’t open until noon. Sitting in this godawful café drinking godawful coffee for two hours wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the best he’d been able to come up with so far. Who knew how early she came to work?

  Still, no matter when she showed up, he needed to catch her on the street, before she went into the bar. He didn’t much like the idea of confronting that bouncer if she decided to play hard to get.

  Craig pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. This was all supposed to have been so simple. Find Dee-Dee. Tell her Big John wanted her back in Houston. Accept her hysterical gratitude for being rescued from this shit-hole. Now here he was, stuck in Konigsburg, only marginally closer to getting her back home and getting Big John off his back.

  Across the street, somebody was unlocking a shop next door to the Faro. Craig took that as a hopeful sign. Maybe other people on this end of Main were going to show up early, including the staff at the Faro. He squinted at the person opening the shop, then sat up straighter in his chair.

  It was Dee-Dee. Dressed like the old Dee-Dee. Or sort of like her, anyway. The jeans she had on now were loose and baggy, just like she used to wear, although the T-shirt, in a shade of purple so bright it made Craig’s teeth ache, outlined her breasts in a way the old Dee-Dee would never have considered.

  Not that Craig was necessarily opposed to it. Maybe when he got her safely back to Houston, they could explore some new clothing options. He had a few lingerie recommendations he’d be glad to make.

  He dropped a couple of dollar bills on the table and headed for the door of the café, studiously ignoring the poisonous look the waitress gave him. If she wanted a better tip, she should get a job in a place where the food didn’t cause instant heartburn. Hell, she should move to Houston like a sensible person.

  Deirdre unlocked the back door to the shop. She was already running behind since Cal Toleffson had showed up at her door at nine with his brother Lars and a large walnut dresser and headboard sent by Docia from god only knew where. She should have told them no, but they’d already lugged it up the block and she didn’t have the heart to make them take it back. Of course, that meant they had to wrestle it up the stairs, which was probably even more work.

  She started to carry in the cans of primer she’d left stacked outside next to her car. The guy at the hardware store had recommended seven, but she’d gotten eight just to be sure—she could always return the last one if she didn’t need it. And besides, Tom would reimburse her for paint. He’d already said so.

  Tom. Deirdre resolutely pushed any and all thoughts of Tom Ames to a back corner of her mind where they wouldn’t get in her way. What had and hadn’t happened last night was not going to obsess her today, not if she had anything to say about it.

  Of course, she’d eventually have to face Tom himself, and she had no idea how she was going to do that. Wow. Right, Deirdre, such an amazingly intelligent thing to say about being kissed.

  She blew out a quick breath. Not going to think about it. Absolutely not. Painting. That’s what we’re doing today. Painting. She dragged the last can of paint to the storeroom, along with the sack of brushes and rollers. The boxes of T-shirts were still sort of in the way, although she’d managed to shove them to the side. Maybe she’d ask Chico to help her stack them later.

  “Dee-Dee?”

  Deirdre jumped violently, clamping her hand to her chest. She must have left the front door open, but she hadn’t heard anyone come in. Maybe it had happened while she was storing the primer. She turned to see a large male body silhouetted against the sunlight streaming through the front windows. A very familiar large male body.

  “Craig?” she gasped. “What are you doing in here? You startled me.”

  He didn’t look good, she noted. His eyes were sort of pink around the edges, as if he hadn’t been getting enough sleep, and his hair was more greasy than groomed. He was wearing the same knit golf shirt and khakis that he always wore on the weekends, but this time they seemed wilted, as if he’d been wearing them for a while. All in all, he didn’t look much like a rising junior executive in a Fortune 500 company.

  “What are you doing here?” she repeated.

  “I…uh…came to help you out,” he stammered, blinking. He glanced around the empty shop for the first time. “What are you doing in here, anyway? Don’t tell me you’re doing janitorial work, too.”

  Deirdre frowned. None of this made any particular sense. “Help me out? What do you mean? Help me here in the shop?”

  “No. Not exactly. I mean…” He paused. He looked like he was trying to regroup. “Look, I need to talk to you. Let me take you somewhere for brunch.”

  Brunch. Right. Once upon a time she’d had a couple of hours available to be bored out of her skull on Sundays, but those days were long gone now. She shook her head. “Sorry. I can’t lose any time this morning—I’ve got work to do here. This is my day off, and I need to get some things finished while I can.”

  Craig’s forehead furrowed. “If this is your day off, then what are you doing here?”

  “I’m trying to finish cleaning the walls so I can start slapping on the primer. This is the only day I’ve got to work on it full-time.”

  “Work on…what?” His eyes looked slightly dazed.

  She took a deep breath. Maybe if she slowed down he could catch up. “This is my shop, Craig. Or it will be when I get it cleaned up and renovated. I’m going to open the coffee roaster I told you about.”

  “Coffee roaster?” He stared around the room. “Here?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, it needs to be cleaned up. But I’m working on that. I’m hoping I can start putting in equipment next month. Furniture, at least. I’ll have to wait on the roaster itself.”

  “Next month.” He was frowning again, as if the conversation had slipped
away from him when he wasn’t looking. “You’re going to open a coffee roaster? Here? Next month? Why?”

  She gritted her teeth. How many times had she told him about what she wanted to do with her life? How many times had she mentioned her plans, how much she wanted to open a roaster in the Hill Country? Not enough times, apparently, for the information to have stuck in his mind.

  He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. And then he gave her one of those smiles she’d once found so dazzling. His promotional smile. Unfortunately, his eyes didn’t smile along with it. “The coffee roaster can go on hold, sweetheart. Maybe you can try something in Houston later on. I’m here to bring you back home. I know you and your father had a blow-up, but he regrets it. He wants you to come back.”

  Deirdre’s chest clenched hard, although she wasn’t sure why exactly. “He wants me to come back,” she repeated.

  Craig nodded. “Look, Dee-Dee, he’s sorry. He’s going to make it up to you. You don’t have to stay here in this…place.” He waved a hand at the shop, his voice dropping to the kind of tone he usually used when he discussed the current Dallas front four. “You can have your job back. And your apartment.”

  The clenching in her chest was rapidly replaced by a burning sensation. She recognized the emotion, although it wasn’t something she’d allowed herself to feel too much in the past. Rage. She was, she realized with some surprise, thoroughly pissed at Craig Dempsey and at her father. And it felt, well, good. Surprisingly good, in fact.

  “This place is my place, Craig,” she snapped. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Your place?” He stared around the room again, incredulously. “You own this?”

  She shook her head. “I’m leasing. It belongs to Tom Ames, the man who owns the Faro. But the shop is my idea. And I’m doing the work to get it into shape. I’ve waited a long time to do this, and now that I’ve started, I’m not going to quit until I’ve finally done what I want to do.” She pulled a paint roller out of the sack on the counter. “Maybe I’ll make it, maybe I won’t. But at least I’ll have tried.”