I’ll give you time to hide the silver first, if you want.”
He had to smile at her, all puffed up and huffy. “Actually, you kind of would be guarding the president. Follow me.” He locked the metal door to the drug area then led the way through the door to the stairs. But instead of taking them, he inserted the key to call the elevator.
At the top, he walked to the door to the right and searched his ring for the correct key. “I used to live in the other apartment.” He nodded to the door on his left. “But my mother recently broke her hip. Her house is a two-story with a walk-up porch so it wasn’t working for her. I was going to move her in here and sell her house but she insisted I move into the house instead.”
He found the correct key, opened the door, then stepped back so she could enter. She walked across the oak floor to look through the windows to Hollister. “Great view.” Her voice echoed off the high ceilings.
He stayed by the door as she wandered into the kitchen, the bathroom and lastly, the large bedroom, her heels tap-tap-tapping across the wood floor. Generations of Preston-used furniture made the apartment feel cozy.
This apartment was the mirror image of the one across the hall. Growing up, his father had always rented them. It was a good source of additional revenue for the drugstore’s start-up, and later the rents had paid Adam’s tuition to UCSD.
“I think it’s great. I’d like to rent it. Providing, of course, I meet your requirements.”
“Okay, well, let me take you across the hall to meet my mother. My requirements take a backseat to hers.”
“What does your mother have to do with this?”
“You’d be living right across the hall from her. That means she gets first right of refusal.”
He watched her throat move as she swallowed. She squared her shoulders and walked out ahead of him. He crossed the hall and knocked on his mom’s door.
“Come in.”
He opened the door. “Mom? Do you have a minute to meet a possible tenant?”
“Certainly, bring them in.”
“This is Priscilla Hart, an office manager, most recently from Colorado.”
The girl—woman—walked past him to where his mother sat, reading a thick book. “Ms. Preston. It’s nice to meet you. Your son told me about your recent accident. I’m sorry.”
His mom put aside the book. “To hear him talk, I’m a fragile invalid. Nothing could be further from the truth.”
“You’re reading Atlas Shrugged!”
The delight in her voice brought his head up.
“That’s one of my favorite books of all time.”
His mother’s eyes lit up. “Oh? What is it you like about it?”
Priss may not have recognized his mom’s “professor voice,” but Adam did.
“Her theory of rational self-interest and belief in the power of an individual.” At his mother’s wave, the girl sank onto the sofa. “I’ve learned a lot from that book.”
His mother had tried for years to get him interested in philosophy, but he’d fallen asleep ten pages into that doorstop of a book. Sports Illustrated was more his style. “You read that stuff?”
Priss looked up, yet somehow managed to look down her nose at him. “Are you one of those men who think you have to have a college degree to be intelligent?”
“I never said that. Did I say that?”
With a smug smile, his mother watched him twist on the hook.
“Priscilla, if you have some time, I’d love to discuss this book with you.”
Priss nodded.
“Would you mind making us some tea, Priscilla?” His mother gave a small head shake when he started to move.
Priss popped up. His mother explained where to find things in the kitchen.
Once she was in the other room, his mother said, “She’s the one.”
“I haven’t run her background check. She could be a convicted felon for all I know. She might steal the silver—”
“My silver is all at the house.”
“Or murder you in your sleep. You just like her because she likes that Rand woman.”
“You’re wrong. I like her because she ruffles your oh-so-neat feathers.” Her smile held secrets. “And frankly, son, your feathers could use a good ruffling.”
* * *
PRISS PUSHED THROUGH the door from the stairwell into Hollister Drugs, heading out for another day of job hunting. She loved her new digs. She enjoyed sitting in the overstuffed chair by the window, watching the town wake up, pedestrians shifting from a trickle to a stream as the shops opened. She liked the evenings, too. The lights winked out as the town settled in for sleep. Now if she could only get as lucky in the job market.
At least she could show that do-gooder, Ms. Barnes, that she had a decent place for Nacho to live in. Her credit check and references had come back sterling, so the uptight druggist couldn’t find an excuse not to rent to her. But she had no doubt that he’d tried.
She glanced to the prescription counter. Head down, Adam focused on something he was writing while speaking in an undertone to an ancient lady in a Sunday dress and orthopedic shoes. That first day, all Priss had seen was a double-breasted white coat and a wall of upper middle-class attitude. But the past few days she’d caught glimpses of more.
His tanned profile looked chiseled from granite. A sable curl escaped his perfectly gelled hair, falling onto his forehead. Underneath the Mr. Sphincter was a fine-looking man. That weird combination of handsome and uptight increasingly intrigued her. It seemed she kind of liked weird.
“And how is Annie doing, Ms. Talcott?” Adam looked up; his soft brown eyes held concern. “Has she gotten settled in Atlanta?”
The old lady beamed. “Oh, yes. Can you believe? She’s expecting again!” The woman set her industrial-strength purse on the counter, unclasped the catch and pulled out her wallet, flipping open a huge accordion photo holder. “Have I showed you my great-grandtwins lately?”
“How old are they now?” Adam’s fond smile displayed a killer chin dimple.
Their voices faded as she strode to the front of the store. He really appeared to care about that lady’s family. Hell, he even took the time to look at photos.
No doubt about it. Adam Preston was a Nice Guy.
And therefore, suspect.
Four hours later, Priss returned home. She pulled into her space, shut down the engine and waited for Mona to stop wheezing. She’d looked for work at every business in Widow’s Grove that her skills could possibly stretch to fit—and a few they wouldn’t.
The clock was ticking. Nacho had been in the not-so-caring hands of the county for two weeks now. Every night, a herd of sharp-hooved nightmares thundered through her sleep, all starring Nacho, with the boy being neglected, being bullied—and worse.
She shook her head, shoving her past to the back of her mind for another day.
* * *
IT WAS ONLY midmorning on Friday and she was already tired, discouraged and in need of coffee. She’d picked through the meager want ads in the local paper and had been to every business on Hollister. She was beginning to get a whiff of failure on the wind that grew stronger each day.
Today. I’m not quitting until I find a job today.
Throwing her shoulders back, she put on her interview smile, snatched her purse from the floorboard, and stepped out of the convertible. She’d abandoned