Christmas Kisses with My Cowboy - Diana Palmer Page 0,54
she’d wound up sleepwalking into town in nothing but her slippers and nightcap the day after the auction.
“You’re an army of one, Mrs. McKinney,” Faith praised. “As for the extra shifts? I’m not looking to add exotic dancer to my résumé quite yet.”
“Good, because I ain’t hiring anyone. Like I told that cheat Mr. McKinney, the night I strung him up on Town Hall’s flagpole, the only woman who’s ever going to swing on Mr. McKinney’s pole again is me.”
To prove how serious she was, the older woman pointed toward the cement headstone at the base of the pole, which read:
AUTHOR J. MCKINNEY
A MAN WHOSE POLE IS PERMANENTLY CLOSED
FOR BUSINESS
BORN 7.1.1941–DIED 2.17.1983
HUSBAND, LOVING FATHER
&
DEVOTED FORNICATOR
The pole was a piece of fourth-generation history left over from the previous establishment, a strip club—and a reminder to unfaithful husbands everywhere. The inscription was the result of Mrs. McKinney’s discovery that her then-husband, an accountant by trade, wasn’t handling people’s money as much as he was exchanging it for dollar bills at his “gentleman’s” club.
“Then you might want to stop prancing around town in that elf getup.”
“Who told you about that?” Faith’s body heated as if a spotlight was suddenly shining down on her.
What had she thought would happen? She knew better. Knew Noah wasn’t to be trusted.
There were two things Faith didn’t do: trust or secrets. Her childhood hadn’t allowed for either. Trusting someone meant being vulnerable, and sharing secrets created an intimate bond. But she’d had no choice but to trust Noah to keep his word, because her good sense didn’t allow for intimate coffee meetups with cops. Which brought her to the third thing she didn’t do.
Cops.
So if he’d breathed even a single word about her being Sweet’s Secret Samaritan, then he’d better watch his pistol. Because when Faith got hold of him, he wouldn’t have anything left to holster.
“Mister was in here this morning flapping his lips about how you were moonlighting. He offered up a hundred dollars to anyone who’d reveal where you’re dancing. He’s thinking about hosting the next Moose Lodge get-together there, then announcing his candidacy for club president. He thinks your”—she waved a pie slicer at Faith’s cleavage—“jingle bells will give him an edge over Mr. Woodrow Rayborn in the race.”
“First, I’ve never danced, well, that way. And second—” Faith leaned in and lowered her voice. “Does Ms. Luella know about this? Because I don’t want her putting a hit out on me or dumping a load of coal on my porch.”
Faith shivered at the idea of letting Mister anywhere near her jingle bells. Not only was he one hair from bald, but he was also the long-standing gentleman friend of a woman who’d once tie-dyed an entire flock of sheep because their owner implied Ms. Luella’s knitting was so inferior it was a waste of wool.
“Ms. Luella isn’t who you need to be worried about.” This time the pie slicer was aimed at Faith’s throat. “You know I don’t tolerate moonlighters on my staff.”
“I work fulltime at the hospital and pick up odd shifts here after work or on the weekends.” Like today. Faith worked the early shift at the hospital, then raced to the diner just in time to start the swing shift, taking her workday from ten hours to a whopping fourteen. “So technically, when I’m here I’m moonlighting.”
Mrs. McKinney considered that for a long, hard moment, her lips tightening even more than usual, then lowered the weapon. “Since there’s no hanky-panky involved, I’ll let it slide. But now you’ve got me thinking. After all the ruckus about you in those leggings, maybe you should wear that outfit to work. Wouldn’t even have to offer Senior Sunday anymore, you’d gather a crowd. You’d have ’em wheeling their chairs right out of the nursing home.”
“I have burned the costume and, not that it’s any of your business, I only wore it because I was picking up some last-minute Dear Sweet letters from a few of the kids in the pediatric ward. And there was a mix-up at the costume shop, and that was the last elf costume they had.”
“Bet there were a bunch of angry parents trying to dodge all kinds of elf-inspired questions today.”
“It’s been a week.” Surprisingly, last night had been the highlight. And she meant that in the best kind of way. Seeing Noah had been exciting. Sparring with him had been as thrilling as the front seat of a roller-coaster ride.
“So that’s a no on the holiday uniform?” Viola asked.