not attracted to him.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He drives me crazy. Him and his damned dogs. Don’t you remember what those terrors did to the steaks I had on the grill last weekend?”
Lulu laughed. “I never seen a dog run so fast.”
“They were like a band of thieves. One starts digging up my lilacs—serving as the distraction, I’m sure—while the other jumps on the grill, yanks those steaks right off the barbecue. They were gone before I could do a thing. I had to serve everyone grilled cheese.” She shook her head. “I bet he trains them to be bad.”
Lulu laughed. “They’re dogs who spied an opportunity and took it.”
“That opportunity happened to be dinner. Yours and mine and everyone else’s.”
Lulu shrugged. “So give them a biscuit the next time you see them and maybe then they’ll leave your lilacs alone.”
Sophie snorted. “Those dogs would probably bite off my hand. I like dogs, but Harlan Jones’s dogs aren’t ordinary dogs. They’re … golden-coated monsters.” Not to mention, they were huge. The only dogs Sophie had ever spent a lot of time around had been her mother’s dachshunds. Energetic, but small, and eager to please. The two Goldens were big and looked ready to topple her at any moment. She’d heard that breed was supposed to be friendly and smart, but Harlan’s dogs were rambunctious giants who never listened to her.
“Okay, so you don’t like the man’s dogs,” Lulu said. “What about his voice? You can’t tell me you don’t like that sexy drawl lighting up your mornings.”
“I don’t listen to him anymore. You know that.”
“I thought he was pretty funny.”
Sophie shot Lulu a glare. “He was making fun of me.”
Thank God he hadn’t heard the story of her breakup. It was bad enough that he recounted their every neighborhood argument on his radio show. If he got wind of the public demise of her relationship last year, Sophie could just imagine how long he’d milk that particular joke. She had no desire to be back under the media spotlight again. She’d be perfectly happy doing her job every day and not worrying about nosy reporters. “Harlan Jones doesn’t care about anything but his ratings.”
“Oh, lighten up, Sophie. That man could make fun of me anytime, long as he used that drawl when he did it. He’s like a piece of candy in your ear.”
“Which only makes you deaf. Honest, I don’t see his appeal.” In the weeks he had been in Edgerton Shores, Harlan Jones had seemed to convert every local resident into a WFFM fan. Women stopped him on the street just to hear him speak and men dropped by his yard to ask him what he thought of the Marlins or the Dolphins that season.
Every resident but Sophie.
She’d come inside to escape him, but it seemed it was impossible to do that. When Harlan wasn’t on the radio, he was on the tip of people’s tongues, or worse, he was here. And thus a topic of conversation.
Okay, so he had a nice smile. And a sexy drawl. Didn’t mean he was the kind of guy she wanted, or needed, in her life. He was the antithesis of what she was looking for.
“Women on the moon could see that cowboy’s appeal,” Lulu said, clearly not convinced.
“I can’t see why. I mean, I don’t even call him by his first name.”
“Yet.”
Sophie scowled. What did Lulu see in that man? Or for that matter, what did everyone else see? He was too full of himself for her. All confidence and swagger, like he was God’s gift to Edgerton Shores. “Why’s a cowboy living in Florida anyway? There are radio jobs all over the world.”
Lulu grinned. “If you ask him, you’ll know why.”
“I don’t want to know why. I just want him to go away.” Sophie raised the tray into her arms.
“Bringing him tea and fresh-baked biscotti is sure to accomplish that.”
Sophie glared at her assistant and left the kitchen. Lulu was crazy. Sophie didn’t like Harlan Jones. He wasn’t her type anyway. He was obnoxious, rude and mean. And he owned the world’s worst dogs.
If he didn’t make such darn nice chairs, she wouldn’t talk to him at all. Already, she regretted commandeering the furniture this morning. That’s where her impulsive streak got her—saddled with the last man on earth she wanted to spend time with.
She had a business to run. A fundraiser to plan. Thinking about Harlan Jones would do nothing but raise her blood pressure.
Harlan watched Sophie come out through the door, a tray balanced in one arm, a determined, no-nonsense look on her face. He could see she didn’t want to give him the time of day, much less a smile.
Ah, he loved a challenge. Especially one that drove her as crazy as she drove him.
A twinge of guilt ran through him. He should be at work, trying to get the radio station back in the black. Tobias was counting on him—and that wasn’t a role Harlan took lightly. But for now, for just a moment, he wanted to enjoy himself.
“Miss Watson, I do hope you intend to join me for that cup of tea,” he said as she laid his drink and some long, thin cookies before him. The water, he could see, was steaming hot, just the way he liked it. The cookies, crisp and fresh. The woman knew her stuff. He might just have to stay a while and make himself at home, considering how tempting she made the place. Surely he could find a way to work and take some time to annoy his neighbor—and all while enjoying a cup of tea.
“I can’t sit out here with you,” Sophie said. “I have a shop to attend to.”
“Seeing as how I’m your only customer, I think you can spare a minute or two to sit with me.”
“I—”
“Have you even tried these chairs you’re so darned fond of? Might as well plop your saddle in one and see how she rides.” He grinned. “Who knows? You may want to rethink our deal.”
Sophie hesitated a second, then pulled out the second chair and lowered herself into it. A slight smile crossed her face and he knew, as his own behind told him, that the seat had done the trick. If there was one thing Harlan Jones could do, it was make a pretty good chair. Too bad he knew better than to try to make a living at it.
Once again, the what-if questions flitted through his mind, but he pushed them away. He’d seen how a life built on a dream ended. His father had ended up penniless, with his wife literally working herself into an early grave to put food on the table. What food there had been, that was. Harlan had ended up getting a job at fourteen. He’d handed every paycheck to his mother, and still, there’d been lean weeks, lean months.
Times when the temperature on the heat was kept so low, living through those cold winter nights was barely tolerable. And more than one night when dinner was a couple slices of bread slathered with store-brand margarine.
Now Frank Jones relied on his sons to support him for the rest of his days. Not that Harlan minded doing it, but he was smart enough not to repeat those mistakes. His mother had suffered because of her husband’s selfish quest, one that drained instead of paid. Harlan would not make the same mistake. And he would take care of his brother for as long as Tobias needed the help.
Harlan shrugged off the thoughts. It was the end of a stressful day. For five minutes, he was going to enjoy himself and not think about the responsibilities that lay waiting for him outside of the tiny circle of Sophie Watson’s coffee shop. He could indulge in this oasis, and then go back to shouldering his burdens.
“I have to admit you do make a nice seat,” she said.
“Why, thank you. Though I think since you’re sitting on something I have smoothed with my own two hands, you can start calling me Harlan.”