around at the women who’d just been excitedly examining Whitney’s work. Most stood behind her resolutely, but a few had melted into the disapproving half of the restaurant. Julie, who’d been talking to Whitney moments before, quietly began to gather up all the sketches.
“Now, Sylvester,” Mrs. Palmer began, firmness overtaking the joviality in her voice.
Whitney interrupted. “These sketches are samples of my collection, underwear, nightgowns, robes. I don’t know what the big deal is—”
“The ‘big deal,’ Miss Winslow, is that we don’t need your racy kind of store in our town.”
“But this is Valentine Valley,” Whitney said, her voice growing cooler. “I’ve done my research. Why do you think I picked your town? You’re all about weddings and engagements and romance. And so is lingerie.”
Across the room, Josh was watching Whitney, his easygoing expression turning into admiration. He gave Brooke a nod as if to say, She’s handling herself just fine.
Julie brought the sketches to the booth. From beneath the table, Adam produced a large leather case and zipped the sketches away inside.
“People can buy it in brown paper packages off the Internet if they like,” Sylvester continued righteously, “but they don’t want to see it displayed where innocent eyes will be watching.”
“My window displays are tasteful and beautiful,” Whitney responded with indignation. “There would be nothing inappropriate.”
“So you say now,” Sylvester responded, “but once you own the building, you’ll reveal your real agenda, corrupting the morals of our children!”
Whitney’s face went red, and her mouth dropped open.
Mrs. Palmer’s eyes had gone cool with distaste. “That is unbelievably rude, Sylvester, to call our guest a liar.”
“This is over,” Adam murmured, and pushed forward to his grandma’s side. He tossed some money on the counter. “For our bill, Harriet, darlin’,” he said to the older waitress in her fifties, whose buttons on her too-small blouse looked like they might pop at any second. “Time to leave before anything worse is said.”
Brooke noticed he emphasized a deep drawl he didn’t normally have, and Harriet’s eyes softened. More than one woman was giving him the once-over, and Brooke could hear, “That’s Adam Desantis,” from several booths and tables.
“I’m not leaving,” Whitney said to no one in particular. “I’ve been insulted, and I want this man—”
“The name’s Sylvester Galimi!” he said clearly, hands on his hips.
“—to hear me out.”
Nothing good was going to come of this, Brooke knew. But Whitney didn’t know her—why would she listen? Mrs. Palmer was with Adam at the rack by the front door, busily trying to find her coat.
Voices were rising again, with people on each side beginning to argue with their relatives or neighbors. Carrying the portfolio case, Brooke reached Whitney’s side at the same time Josh did.
“Whitney, you don’t know me,” Brooke began, “but Mrs. Palmer’s like my own grandma, and I’ve known Adam forever. Why don’t you follow them before this gets worse?”
A look of frustration and worry wrinkled her forehead. “But I can’t let this man—”
“Ma’am,” Josh said, his deep voice smooth and full of the West. “I’ll escort you. You can’t accomplish anything with these hotheads all riled up.”
Looking up at him, Whitney’s eyes widened, and she seemed to forget what she was going to say, except for a weak, “But my coat . . .”
Brooke grabbed it from the booth they’d just left and followed Josh and Whitney, as a path cleared for them to the door.
Whitney tried to turn back. “My sketches—”
Brooke handed the case over, and Whitney’s expression melted from anger to sadness as her gaze swept the room. Then Josh tugged, and she allowed him to lead her through the door.
Out on the street, Brooke zipped up her coat and saw everyone else doing the same, their breaths puffs of mist. The last Peeping Toms called their good wishes to Mrs. Palmer even as they hurried down the street, shoulders up around their ears from the cold.
Chris Sweet was still there, and as Mrs. Palmer was slowly buttoning her coat, he called, “Adam?”
Adam turned around, his forehead lowered in confusion. Then his expression cleared, and he stuck out a hand. “Chris, good to see you.”
“So what are you up to?” Chris asked.
The two men exchanged a brief summary of their current workdays, and when Chris heard that Adam was working as a ranch hand, they started trading cowboy stories. Brooke saw her brother Josh tip his hat to Whitney and walk away down the street, whistling.
Whitney looked forlorn, staring into the brightly lit diner window like a kid who didn’t