“I was down—” He paused when Ginger emerged from the back room with a paint tray and a bucket swinging from her hand, “—at the Gazette.”
She stopped when she saw him. “Tom, what are you doing here?”
“Just saying hi. So, y’all are painting tonight?”
Ruby-Jane huffed, folding her arms. “That’s what she tells me. Of course the other two, Michele and Casey, get a pass.”
“Leave it alone, RJ. You know why.”
“Still doesn’t seem fair. Just because they have families.”
Ginger set her tray down without a word or a backward glance. “We can waste time talking about it or get to work and be done with it.”
Tom slipped off his jacket and draped it over the nearest chair. “Can I help?”
“No,” Ginger said. “We only have two roller brushes.”
Ruby-Jane shot him a sly smile. “No worry. He can have mine.”
“No, he can’t.” Ginger rose up, steel in her words, a hard glint in her eyes. “Stop yapping and start working.” She peeked at Tom. “Word of advice. Don’t hire your friends to work for you.”
“Duly noted.” He nodded, trying to hold her gaze. You okay? The recessed light dripping down from the ceiling haloed her chestnut hair and reflected in her hazel eyes.
She was breathtaking. But he couldn’t see her for himself, could he? He had to see her as God’s daughter. Pop’s advice from before the wedding had been coming back to him all week, “If you love her, win her to Jesus,” along with the whisper of the Lord, “Tell her she’s beautiful.”
“I meant it,” he said. “I can help.”
“It’s okay, Tom.” Ginger hoisted the big paint can, sloshing some over the side as she filled the tray. “We got it.”
Tom stepped over, reaching for the handle as she tried to set it down without hitting the corner of the tray.
His fingers grazed hers. When he looked at her, she was looking at him. His pulse drummed in his ears. “Y-you can let go.”
She hesitated. Then, “Ruby-Jane and I are perfectly capable of doing the job.”
“I never said you weren’t. But many hands make light work.”
“Hey, Ging,” Ruby-Jane said, walking over to Tom, offering him her roller. “I need to run. Daddy just called and Mama’s made a big ole spread for the entire family.” RJ held up her phone as if to prove her story. “Apparently my brother just drove into town . . . So, y’all two got this?”
“What brother? All your people live in town.” Ginger rebuffed Ruby-Jane with a stiff lip and a firm jut of her chin. “RJ, you can’t leave.”
“Family first. Besides, I’m on salary, not an indentured servant. Tom, I hereby dub you my replacement.” Tom reached for the long handle. “Do me proud.” Ruby-Jane edged toward the back door. “See you in the morning, Ginger.”
“RJ? RJ, wait.” Ginger chased her to the back room but to no avail. When she returned, she took up her roller and slapped it against the wall, mumbling, “. . . brother who just drove into town, my eye.”
“She seems to think we should spend some alone time together.”
Ginger rolled, rolled, rolled on the paint. “I had enough of you last weekend, no offense.”
“None taken. Now, where can I power up some tunes? Let’s get this place painted and beautiful.”
She wanted to be indifferent. Take him or leave him. Forget Tom Wells was in her shop, singing along with the music from his iPhone piped into the shop through the sound system.
She just wanted to paint, get the job done, go up to her apartment and cleanse her senses of any reference to Tom’s soapy scent.
“How’s it looking?” Tom pointed to his cut-in work at the top of the wall, just under the ceiling.
“Great.” She gave him a thumbs up, then went back to her portion of the wall.
Actually, he irritated her. Why was he here? What did he want with her? Why did he volunteer to do the neck-breaking cut-in work, even borrowing a ladder from Fred’s Grocer across the street, to do the job?
And the music? Smooth and soothing, raining down peace in the shop, watering her soul.
“. . . you’re beautiful,” Tom sang softly with the music, to himself.
Ginger pressed her roller against the wall, squeezing out the last of the beige-rose paint.
“. . . I can tell you’ve been praying.”
“Who is this? Singing?”
“Gospel artist, Mali Music.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Neither had I until a few years ago. He’s the real deal. I like him.”
Real deal? As opposed to a fake deal? Christians and their language . . . that irritated her most. Their two-faced kindness. Their faux helpfulness. Since her discovery of truth with Mama, Ginger had grown a pound of sympathy for her mother. Shana had tried to get it right, to be honest.
Tom’s low, silky bass swirled through her, leaving her with the same sensation as his touch. Squirming, squeezing his vocal notes out of her soul, Ginger glanced up at him as he cut-in under the ceiling. A singing, kind, handsome pastor? Look out. He’d have women all over him.