It's in His Kiss Read online

  “Sam,” Olivia clarified.

  “I know who you mean,” Becca said on a laugh. “I’m just not sure my question and your question are on equal measure.”

  Olivia smiled. “Yeah. You’re totally doing him. You going to eat your brownie?”

  Becca sighed and handed it over. “I want points for that.”

  “You get points for the hot surfer.”

  Sam punched in the phone number for Becca’s first reference. He was leaning against their front counter. Tanner was sitting on it, absently rubbing his aching leg, watching him. They’d just come in from a scuba excursion with a bunch of college students, which had been a little bit like herding wild horses.

  “You trust her,” Tanner said, reading her application on his tablet. “Or you wouldn’t have slept with her.”

  Jesus. “Cole has a big mouth,” Sam said in disgust.

  Tanner flashed a grin. “Cole didn’t tell me shit. You just did.”

  Sam considered putting his fist through that grin.

  “You won’t,” Tanner said, reading his mind.

  “Only because I wouldn’t want to mess up your pretty face.”

  Tanner couldn’t be deterred. “So,” he went on. “You trust Becca, which means you’re calling those references for something else. It’s about her, not you. You’re wondering about her.”

  Wondering. Worrying . . .

  “You could do this the old-fashioned way, you know,” Tanner said, “and just ask her what you want to know.”

  “Calling her references is the smart thing to do,” Sam pointed out. But Tanner was right, he did trust her. At least as much as he trusted anyone. What he didn’t trust was the flashes of unease he sometimes saw in her pretty brown eyes, or her claims that she wasn’t in trouble.

  He wanted to know her story.

  Her first reference was her boss at the ad agency.

  “Excellent employee,” the guy said when he came on the line. “Hard worker, loyal, compulsively organized. A great office manager, not so great at the jingles. We were sorry she had to leave town so suddenly. I’d hire her back in an instant as an admin, but she said she wouldn’t be coming back to New Orleans for a while. Shame. Still, she’s on contract for the jingles, and I’ll take what I can get from her.”

  Next up was a co-worker. “Becca Thorpe?” the woman asked. “Loved her. Very hard to see her go. She struggled with jingle writing, I know, but she didn’t struggle to keep us organized. Such a sweet thing, too. She’d give a stranger the very shirt off her back. Certainly gave much of her life over to her family. Her brother mostly. That was a rough situation, but she’s resilient. You’d be lucky to have her.”

  Sam didn’t believe in luck. Sam believed in good, old-fashioned determination and making one’s own path. He knew what his path was.

  But now he wanted to know about Becca’s.

  Not in the mood to put together a meal for herself, Becca went back to the Eat Me diner for dinner. She was halfway through bacon and eggs—nothing said comfort food like a hot breakfast for dinner—when an old woman slid into the booth across from her and smiled.

  “Hi,” she said to Becca. “You don’t know me, but I know you. And I just wanted to say that you play the piano like an angel.”

  “Um,” Becca said. “Thanks.”

  The old woman just kept smiling at her.

  Where Becca had come from, if a stranger slid into your booth, you had your cell phone in hand, your thumb hovering over 911. Especially if that stranger knew something about you, like, say, the fact that you played the piano—which you’d told no one.

  But the thing was, this stranger was barely five feet tall, had blue-gray bristle for hair, matching blue-gray eyes gone filmy from age, and wore bright red lipstick. She also had more wrinkles than an uncooked chicken, and a harmless-looking smile that Becca didn’t buy for a minute.

  “I’m Lucille,” she said. “I kinda run this place.”

  Becca looked around. “The diner?”

  “No, Lucky Harbor.”

  “So you’re the mayor or something?” Becca asked.

  Lucille smiled. “Not the mayor, but actually, that’s a great idea. I’m more of a . . . social organizer.”

  “Oh,” Becca said, having no idea what a social organizer might do for an entire town, but impressed that a woman of her age had a job at all.

  “I was at the bar the other night, late,” Lucille said. “I got my hormone meds mixed up and couldn’t sleep. Jax makes a mean hot toddy.”

  Becca went still. Late the other night she’d walked to the Love Shack, and when the bar had emptied out, she’d played. “I didn’t see you.”

  “I know,” Lucile said, smiling. “I’m geriatric stealth. You’re an amazing piano player, anyone ever tell you that?”

  Becca felt nauseous. “Maybe once or twice.”

  “You playing tonight?”

  “No.” Maybe.

  “I’d sure like to hear you again,” Lucille said.

  “Sorry, but I don’t play for an audience.” Anymore. “I write jingles now.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Like for soup, and toilet paper.” She grimaced, thinking of her latest assignment, which she still hadn’t figured out. “I’m currently a little bit stuck.”

  “Really?” Lucille brightened. “I’m real good at making stuff up. What product?”

  Crap. “Diaxsistheerectiledysfunctionmed.”

  “What’s that?” Lucille cupped hand around her ear. “Speak up, hon, I’m old as dirt.”

  Becca sighed. “It’s Diaxsis.”

  “Shut the front door,” Lucille said on a wide grin.

  “It’s an erectile dysfunction med—”

  “I know what it is.” Lucille cackled and rubbed her hands together in delight. “And now you’re speaking my language. What are you stuck on exactly? You oughta write a song that someone of an age could sing to her man! Like how he shouldn’t be embarrassed to need the pill, ’cause us women need it, and by it I mean—”

  “I know what you mean!”

  “I’m just saying, those commercials all miss my age demographic. We’re not dead yet, you know.”

  “I’ll take that into consideration,” Becca said. “Soon as my muse comes back.”

  “Maybe your muse needs a distraction. Something to fuel your creativity. You ever teach music?”

  Becca actually found a laugh at that. She’d played music, dreamed music, worked for and about music, ate and slept music, then run like hell from music, but she’d never taught. “No.”

  “Could you?”

  “Well, probably,” she said slowly. “But. . .”

  “But it’d be better if it was, say, younger?” Lucille asked, reading her mind. “Like, young, eager-to-learn school-aged kids?”

  “Well, maybe,” Becca said, failing to see where this was going.

  Lucille grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that. The rec center needs someone to teach kids for Music Hour on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons. I’m on the board, and you have no idea how happy everyone’ll be that I found you.”

  “Wow,” Becca said, impressed. “You tricked me.”

  “Only a little. We’d pay you.”

  Becca had already been shaking her head, but she stopped at the pay part. “You would?”

  “You bet. We’ll need references, of course, someone who could vouch for you not being a felon or anything of that nature.” Lucille slid her a card. It said ORACLE OF LUCKY HARBOR and gave a cell number, website, and a physical address. “The website is my Pinterest,” Lucille said.

  Becca stared down at it. “I’ve been to your boards.”

  Lucille smiled. “Yeah, they’re good, right? I used to be on Facebook, but got kicked off. The addy’s for my art gallery. Email me your résumé and references today, okay? We can get you going by tomorrow. The kids’ll be so excited.”

  By the time Becca got back home, she was excited, too. Maybe she couldn’t pl