Baby, Don't Go

She pushed to her feet and headed toward the door—she needed to find a way and a reason to stay here for a few days to find out.

“Earth to Marcus,” Porter hissed.

Marcus started, realizing he’d zoned out on the meeting with Porter, Kendall and Rachel Hutchins about the Homecoming weekend plans. Darn that dark-haired woman and her spontaneous outdoor bath. “Sorry, repeat that?”

Porter gave him a pointed look. “Kendall and I were just telling Rachel how grateful we are that she spearheaded this effort.”

“Er…right,” he said to the pretty blonde who had proved to be an organizational dynamo. “Everything sounds…great.”

When he realized his comment made it seem as if he hadn’t been listening, he added, “I know you’ve put a lot of work into this project.”

Rachel smiled. “So you’ll do it?”

He panicked. “Do what?”

“Hang the banner across Main Street,” she said, her voice irritated now that she knew he hadn’t been listening at all.

“We were saying we’ll need the cherry picker basket on the fire truck ladder to hang the banner,” Kendall said, giving him a quizzical look. “And since the fire department is your area…”

“Oh, right,” Marcus said. “No problem—I’ll take care of it. What else?”

Rachel gave him a little frown. “Here’s a schedule of the weekend events, and everything that’s still left to do in the next month.”

“We’ll provide any men you need,” Marcus said magnanimously.

“Yes, Kendall just said that,” Rachel said, her voice flat.

“Okay…anything else?”

“Just our food,” Rachel said, craning for a server.

“Our waitress seems to have disappeared,” Porter said.

“Molly probably ran her off,” Rachel offered. “That woman is impossible. And that help-wanted sign in the window is useless—word has gotten around. No one wants to work here.”

Marcus glanced around at customers sitting at cluttered tables, antsy and impatient. Others hadn’t yet been waited on. Irritation simmered in his empty stomach at the thorn in his side this place had become.

From the back came a horrific crashing noise, then Molly’s raised voice. “Get out of my kitchen!”

A young waitress came running out in tears, then bolted for the door. Molly emerged, shaking a spatula. “And don’t come back!”

Some of the customers got up and left.

Marcus stood and strode behind the counter, his anger zooming to the surface. “What’s the problem, Molly?”

The boxy woman squared her body to his. “The problem is no one around here has a head on their shoulders!”

“Molly,” Marcus said, banking his ire, “can I have a word with you in private?”

She crossed her arms over her matronly bosom. “No. Whatever you have to say, say it here.”

Marcus set his jaw and decided it was time to stop sugarcoating the situation. “You’ve had a dozen waitresses and they’ve all left. There’s a common denominator here, Molly, and it’s you!”

“I run a tight ship—it’s not my fault these flibberty-gibbet females can’t keep up!”

He pursed his mouth. “The bad service aside, the food still isn’t good enough. We’re expecting another inspection any day now, and a big crowd Homecoming weekend. Something has to change.”

She snorted. “If you think you can do a better job running this place, Mr. Marine MBA, be my guest.”

His mouth quirked. “You know the town charter specifies a woman in key positions, and the manager of the community-owned restaurant is one of those positions.”

She gave him a little smile. “Yes, it does. And believe me, no other woman around here can do this job.”

Exasperation with her and every other woman in town seized him. The fact that this restaurant could jeopardize all his plans made him see red. He’d faced down armed enemies on foreign territory, yet he had to come home and do battle in his own backyard? He lifted a shaking finger and didn’t bother to lower his voice. “I can take the next woman who walks through that door and teach her how to run this place better than you!”

The door opened and they turned to see a dark-haired woman standing there holding the help-wanted sign from the window.

Marcus’s mouth went dry—it was the woman from the creek.

“This will be fun to watch,” Molly said, then untied her camouflage apron and handed it to him. “Good luck.”

6

Alicia stepped to the side to dodge the bulldog of a woman who charged her way, gave her a smirk, then marched out the door. Alicia glanced around the nearly empty diner and was drawn to a tall, broad-shouldered man standing behind the counter looking in her direction.

That blue-eyed gaze was unmistakable. It was Marcus Armstrong, in the flesh.

As she walked forward, her mind scrolled through the information from the background report she’d ordered.

Marcus Alton Armstrong, thirty-eight, joined the U.S. Marine Corps while still attending high school, had made the military a career, served in Bosnia and Iraq with distinction. In between stints overseas, he’d earned an International Business degree and an MBA. A hero, a scholar, and a straight arrow. Never married, no children.

And insanely handsome in person. Everything about him reflected this rugged setting. His hair was sun-streaked, his skin deeply bronzed. His dramatic eyes were set in a rocky face, with a jutting nose and a square jaw. He was as tall as an evergreen with biceps like boulders. His drab-colored pants and cargo shirt said he was happy to blend into the background, but his sheer physical presence made that impossible. He looked formidable…the kind of man who was always in control.

From the way he was staring at her, Alicia was sure she must look a fright—her hair was still damp around her face where she’d splashed herself in the creek, her makeup was long gone, and she was seriously regretting pulling her hair into pigtails.

Why had she come to this town? Oh, right…

To expose this man for the extreme chauvinist he was.

“Hi,” she said, offering a smile and holding up the help-wanted sign. “Who can I talk to about a job?” When she’d seen the sign in the window, it had seemed like a natural fit—she’d worked dozens of restaurant jobs while going to school.

Although admittedly, she’d been fired from every one of them. Firing in her case had been literal—she’d been a decent cook and a popular waitress, but she’d shown an unfortunate propensity for setting fires. That part she would keep to herself, Alicia decided.

Instead of answering, he glanced around the diner as if he were looking to palm her off onto someone else. Two men at a nearby table she recognized from the website photo as his brothers looked at him with raised eyebrows, but made no move to relieve him. Finally, he turned back to her.

“I guess that would be me. I’m Marcus Armstrong.”

He had an amazing voice, as deep as a bottle of scotch, with a nice husky finish. But his backbone was rigid, and his mouth was unsmiling.