Page 8 of Takes Two to Tango

Something inside him started at her name.Rayne Rose.He'd always loved the way everyone said her first and last name together. The vision of an orangey-pink rose like the ones his mother grew appeared in his mind. Those dew-kissed flowers were almost the color of her hair. So pure and fresh, just like Rayne. He dashed the image aside to focus on the flaking paint above his head. “Two or three days at most. Then a bit of sanding and fresh paint. Probably two weeks on the total project."

“Good.” Frances said with a nod. "It'll take that long for Meg to arrange hiring someone from Dallas anyway. I'd be obliged to you, Brent. I know you're busy this time of year."

"Not too busy for a neighbor, Mrs. Frances." He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around the half-sanded porch.Frances had given him gingersnaps when he was a kid and let him catch ladybugs in her garden. How could he not help her when she needed someone to do exactly what he did for a living? At that moment, he wondered what the cause of all this upheaval was. What was Rayne doing back in Oak Stand? And why had she pulled her son away from school and baseball to refurbish her aunt's bed and breakfast? He had questions, but no right to ask them. So he asked what he could. "So who's this Meg?"

Frances was about to answer when a huge rattling truck roared into the tree-lined drive. The red truck belched as the engine died. Big Bubba Malone.

The mountainous Bubba climbed from his monstrosity of a truck and doffed his cap as a tiny woman appeared at his elbow.

Everything about the woman looked severe. Straight, blunt-cut dark hair, black shirt, long gray skirt, culminating with polished combat boots. A small diamond winked in a nose that balanced Elvis Costello glasses. Her chin jutted out as Bubba graciously took her elbow.

"Hands off, Jethro," she said, pulling her arm away and stalking up the drive.

"That'sMeg. She's Rayne's assistant," Frances commented from behind him.

Brent stepped back when Meg reached the steps. He didn't want to stand in her way. She looked as mad as a cat dunked in a creek.

Frances stepped forward. "Meg, what in the world…?”

Meg cocked her head and crossed her arms."Oh, you mean besides having a flat outside this godforsaken town and then having to walk almost two miles before someone stopped? I don't know... maybe it was that man slapping me on my ass and calling melittle filly!"

Brent tried not to laugh. He really did, but the sound got past his lips before he could stop it.

She whirled, her dark eyes flashing behind her glasses. "What?"

He straightened. "Nothing."

Bubba stuck his cap on his balding head and sallied toward the porch. "Mornin', Mrs. Frances. Brent."

"Don't you step one foot near me," Meg said, flinging out a small hand and pointing at Bubba. "I don't want any of your primordial ooze to get on me."

Bubba Malone, the slightly dim, good ol' boy of Howard County, looked down at his shirt. "I ain't got nothing on me."

Meg shivered. "Dear God, he's got the brain of a flea."

Brent ribbed Bubba himself upon occasion, and he probably needed to explain over a beer about not touching, consent, and all those things, but there was no need for Meg to insult the dude. “Intelligence aside, he helped you, didn’t he?”

The termagant turned her dark eyes on him. She took him in from his work boots all the way up to his faded ball cap. He saw appreciation glint in her eyes just like almost every other woman. Then she arched an eyebrow. "So swatting a stranger on the backside is helping people around here? Really? In most places it’s called assault.”

Bubba kicked a brick lining the walk. "Heck, it was a compliment. You got a sweet a-" he glanced at Frances, "-uh, I didn’t mean no harm. You have my apologies for, um, me oversteppin’. I know I shouldn’t have done that. Don’t know why I did. Guess I get knock-kneed around pretty gals and forget my manners.”

Meg snapped her mouth closed as color flooded her cheeks. She stared at Bubba for a full five seconds before muttering, "I have to make a call."

She rushed through the front door, nearly bowling over Rayne in the process.

"Ow," Rayne said, lifting a foot and rubbing her pinky toe. "You gotta ditch those combat boots, Megs. They're killing me."

Her assistant must not have answered because Rayne shrugged and stepped onto the porch, barefoot and beautiful. Brent couldn't stop himself from taking her in. Her sunset hair lay tamed in a braid that fell over one shoulder. The dress she wore looked as though it had been purchased in Mexico. It had looping bright thread in whimsical patterns on the hem. A bright pink apron depicting a mixer reading Whip it Good on the front pocket nipped her trim waist and hugged her breasts. The only thing marring the perfection of Rayne was the frown she wore.

"What was that all about?” she asked, glancing back toward darkness of the foyer where Meg had disappeared.

Bubba pinked like a shrimp in a skillet. “Well, I don’t know why I popped her on her behind, but I sorta did.” He took off his ball cap to reveal a sweaty bald head, seemingly ashamed.

“You slapped Meg on her behind? Do you even have a hand anymore?”

Bubba lifted his hand and wiggled it. “I ain’t a modern man, I suppose. Sorry.”

“And what areyoudoing here?” Rayne looked directly at Brent, eyes puffy as if she'd cried recently. Or had an allergy attack. But the gaze was flinty and accusing.

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