Page 46 of Hard to Love
“It matters because I want you to be one of them.” She moved closer, not touching him but within his personal space. “Not only one of them, but something more. A resident artist.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means I want you to work here, have a dedicated space. Some of the other artists will likely come for a week at a time, maybe even a month, but I want a few who’re permanent. Have them teach classes.”
He rubbed a hand over his head. If he’d had more than a shadow of hair on his scalp, he would’ve been shovinghis fingers through it, which made her smile. Poor guy couldn’t even vent his frustration the normal way. “Prophecy isn’t exactly my kind of town.”
“What does that mean? This is a nice place with nice people and—”
“That’s the problem. It’s too nice.”
“How can a town be too nice?”
“I expect it to flash back to black and white at any time and turn into one of those 1950s TV shows, with two-parent-two-kid families strolling down Guadalupe Street.” He rolled a hand as if the cast ofLeave it to Beaverwere standing in front of them.
What normal person didn’t appreciate the charm of a small town? “And that’s bad?”
“It’s not the way the rest of the world works.”
“If it makes you feel any better, we’ve had a rash of hubcap thefts lately.”
“Jesus save you all.” He huffed out a laugh.
“Wait until yours get swiped. You might not be laughing.” But she didn’t even try to hold back her own smile.
“You’ve seen my car. I doubt I’m next on the list.”
True enough. “We’ve got problems—people out of work, single parents, a few backstabbers. Prophecy isn’t perfect.”
“I don’t even know how to live in a place like this.”
She wanted to swat him on the head for being so dense, but instead she tried to be patient. “Um…you seem to have done okay up to this point. You get along fine with Raylene. Talking with Delaney doesn’t seem to bother you.”
“I don’t do chitchat.”
“What do you call that lunch with Raylene’s friends?”
“Fiery hell.”
“Because they all sent their single female family members stalking you with casseroles and pies? Or because you’ve been living in the wilds of Montana so long that you don’t remember how to be a functioning member of society?”
“You make me sound like one of those extremists.” He jammed his hands on his hips, making his shirt sleeves ride up his biceps.
Greer clenched her hands around the table’s edge to keep from reaching out and tracing that sensuous serpent. Because this wasn’t a time to show physical attraction. It was a time for compassion. “People in a town this size hang out with one another, rely on one another. I think if you got to know a few people, you’d like it better.” She snapped her fingers. “You know your problem? You’ve been surrounded by women since you got here. I mean, hey, we’re stellar and all that. But even a man who loves women can only stand so much of us.”
“Don’t expect me to agree with that. It’s too damn dangerous.”
“You don’t have to because I know I’m right. What you need is some guy time.”
“Guy time.”
“Yeah, you know, beer, cards, and cigars. Or farts, belches, and butt scratches. Whatever makes you happy.”
“I’m more for the beer than the butt scratches.”
Even though she’d planned to keep her hands off him, affection welled up in her, and she couldn’t resist trailing her fingers over his cheek. “Then you just take a little time to think about my offer and I’ll handle your social life.”
Chapter Thirteen
