He liked working with Roz. She was a woman who got things done, and who didn't poke her nose into
his end of things any more than was reasonable. She loved the work, just as he did, had an instinct for it. So when she did make a suggestion, you tended to listen and weigh it in.
She paid well and didn't hassle a man over every detail.
He could tell, just tell, that this manager was going to be nothing but bumps and ruts in his road.
Wasn't she already leaving messages for him in that cool Yankee voice about time management, invoice systems, and equipment inventory?
He didn't give a shit about that sort of thing, and he wasn't going to start giving one now.
He and Roz had a system, damn it. One that got the job done and made the client happy.
Why mess with success?
He drove his full-size pickup through the parking area, wove through the piles of mulch and sand, the landscape timbers, and around the side loading area.
He'd already eyeballed and tagged what he wanted— but before he loaded them up, he'd take one more look around. Plus there were some young evergreens in the field and a couple of hemlocks in the balled and burlapped area that he thought he could use.
Harper had grafted him a couple of willows and a hedgerow of peonies. They'd be ready to dig in this spring, along with the various pots of cuttings and layered plants Roz had helped him with.
He moved through the rows of trees, then turned around and backtracked.
This wasn't right, he thought. Everything was out of place, changed around. Where were his dogwoods? Where the hell were the rhododendrons, the mountain laurels he'd tagged? Where was his goddamn frigging magnolia?
He scowled at a pussy willow, then began a careful, step-by-step search through the section.
It was all different. Trees and shrubs were no longer in what he'd considered an interesting, eclectic mix of type and species, but lined up like army recruits, he decided. Alphabetized, for Christ's sweet sake.
In frigging Latin.
Shrubs were segregated, and organized in the same anal fashion.
He found his trees and, stewing, carted them to his truck. Muttering to himself, he decided to head into the field, dig up the trees he wanted there. They'd be safer at his place. Obviously.
Bur first he was going to hunt up Roz and get this mess straightened out.
* * *
Standing on a stepladder, armed with a bucket of soapy water and a rag, Stella attacked the top of the shelf she'd cleared off. A good cleaning, she decided, and it would be ready for her newly planned display. She envisioned it filled with color-coordinated decorative pots, some mixed plantings scattered among them. Add other accessories, like raffia twine, decorative watering spikes, florist stones and marbles, and so on, and you'd have something.
At point of purchase, it would generate impulse sales.
She was moving the soil additives, fertilizers, and animal repellents to the side wall. Those were basics, not impulse. Customers would walk back there for items of that nature, and pass the wind chimes she was going to hang, the bench and concrete planter she intended to haul in. With the other changes, it would all tie together, and with the flow, draw customers into the houseplant section, across to the patio pots, the garden furniture, all before they moved through to the bedding plants.
With an hour and a half until they opened, and if she could shanghai Harper into helping her with the heavy stuff, she'd have it done.
She heard footsteps coming through from the back, blew her hair out of her eyes. "Making progress,"
she began. "I know it doesn't look like it yet, but..."
She broke off when she saw him.
Even standing on the ladder, she felt dwarfed. He had to be six-five. All tough and rangy and fit in faded jeans with bleach stains splattered over one thigh. He wore a flannel shirt jacket-style over a white T-shirt and a pair of boots so dinged and scored she wondered he didn't take pity and give them a decent burial.
His long, wavy, unkempt hair was the color she'd been shooting for the one time she'd dyed her own.
She wouldn't have called him handsome—everything about him seemed rough and rugged. The hard mouth, the hollowed cheeks, the sharp nose, the expression in his eyes. They were green, but not like Kevin's had been. These were moody and deep, and seemed somehow hot under the strong line of brows.
No, she wouldn't have said handsome, but arresting, in a big and tough sort of way. The sort of tough that looked like a bunched fist would bounce right off him, doing a lot more damage to the puncher
than the punchee.
She smiled, though she wondered where Roz was, or Harper. Or somebody.
"I'm sorry. We're not open yet this morning. Is there something I can do for you?"
Oh, he knew that voice. That crisp, cool voice that had left him annoying messages about functional organizational plans and production goals.
He'd expected her to look like she'd sounded—a usual mistake, he supposed. There wasn't much cool
and crisp about that wild red hair she was trying to control with that stupid-looking kerchief, or the wariness in those big blue eyes.
"You moved my damn trees."
"I'm sorry?"
"Well, you ought to be. Don't do it again."
"I don't know what you're talking about." She kept a grip on the bucket—just in case—and stepped
down the ladder. "Did you order some trees? If I could have your name, I'll see if I can find your
order. We're implementing a new system, so—"
"I don't have to order anything, and I don't like your new system. And what the hell are you doing in here? Where is everything?"
His voice sounded local to her, with a definite edge of nasty impatience. "I think it would be best if you came back when we're open. Winter hours start at ten a.m. If you'd leave me your name..." She edged toward the counter and the phone.
"It's Kitridge, and you ought to know since you've been nagging me brainless for damn near a week."
"I don't know ... oh. Kitridge." She relaxed, fractionally. "The landscape designer. And I haven't been nagging," she said with more heat when her brain caught up. "I've been trying to contact you so we
could schedule a meeting. You haven't had the courtesy to return my calls. I certainly hope you're not
as rude with clients as you are with coworkers."
"Rude? Sister, you haven't seen rude."
"I have two sons," she snapped back. "I've seen plenty of rude. Roz hired me to put some order into
her business, to take some of the systemic load off her shoulders, to—"
"Systemic?" His gaze rose to the ceiling like a man sending out a prayer. "Jesus, are you always going
to talk like that?"
She took a calming breath. "Mr. Kitridge, I have a job to do. Part of that job is dealing with the landscaping arm of this business. It happens to be a very important and profitable arm."
"Damn right. And it's my frigging arm."
"It also happens to be ridiculously disorganized and apparently run like a circus. I've been finding little scraps of paper and hand-scribbled orders and invoices—if you can call them that—all week."
"So?"
"So, if you'd bothered to return my calls and arrange for a meeting, I could have explained to you how this arm of the business will now function."
"Oh, is that right?" That west Tennessee tone took on a soft and dangerous hue. "You're going to
explain it to me."
"That's exactly right. The system I'm implementing will, in the end, save you considerable time and
effort with computerized invoices and inventory, client lists and designs, with—"
He was sizing her up. He figured he had about a foot on her in height, probably a good hundred pounds
in bulk. But the woman had a mouth on her. It was what his mother would have called bee stung—pretty—and apparently it never stopped flapping.
"How the hell is having to spend half my time on a computer going to save me anything?"
"Once the data is inputted, it will. At this point, you seem to be carrying most of this information in
some pocket, or inside your head."
"So? If it's in a pocket, I can find it. If it's in my head, I can find it there, too. Nothing wrong with my memory."
"Maybe not. But tomorrow you may be run over by a truck and spend the next five years in a coma." That pretty mouth smiled, icily. "Then where will we be?"
"Being as I'd be in a coma, I wouldn't be worried about it. Come out here."
He grabbed her hand, pulled her toward the door. "Hey!" she managed. Then, "Hey!"
"This is business." He yanked open the door and kept pulling her along. "I'm not dragging you off to a cave."
"Then let go." His hands were hard as rock, and just as rough. And his legs, she realized, as he strode away from the building, ate up ground in long, hurried bites and forced her into an undignified trot.
"Just a minute. Look at that."
He gestured toward the tree and shrub area while she struggled to get her breath back. "What about it?"
"It's messed up."
"It certainly isn't. I spent nearly an entire day on this area." And had the aching muscles to prove it. "It's cohesively arranged so if a customer is looking for an ornamental tree, he—or a member of the staff—
can find the one that suits. If the customer is looking for a spring-blooming shrub or—"
"They're all lined up. What did you use, a carpenter's level? People come in here now, how can they
get a picture of how different specimens might work together?"
"That's your job and the staff's. We're here to help and direct the customer to possibilities as well as
their more definite wants. If they're wandering around trying to find a damn hydrangea—"
"They might just spot a spirea or camellia they'd like to have, too."
He had a point, and she'd considered it. She wasn't an idiot. "Or they may leave empty-handed because they couldn't easily find what they'd come for in the first place. Attentive and well-trained staff should be able to direct and explore with the customer. Either way has its pros and cons, but I happen to like this way better. And it's my call.
"Now." She stepped back. "If you have the time, we need to—"
"I don't." He stalked off toward his truck.
"Just wait." She jogged after him. "We need to talk about the new purchase orders and invoicing system."
"Send me a frigging memo. Sounds like your speed."
"I don't want to send you a frigging memo, and what are you doing with those trees?"
'Taking them home." He pulled open the truck door, climbed in.
"What do you mean you're taking them home? I don't have any paperwork on these."
"Hey, me neither." After slamming the door, he rolled the window down a stingy inch. "Step back, Red. Wouldn't want to run over your toes."
"Look. You can't just take off with stock whenever you feel like it."
"Take it up with Roz. If she's still the boss. Otherwise, better call the cops." He gunned the engine, and when she stumbled back, zipped into reverse. And left her staring after him.
Cheeks pink with temper, Stella marched back toward the building. Serve him right, she thought, just serve him right if she did call the police. She snapped her head up, eyes hot, as Roz opened the door.
"Was that Logan's truck?"
"Does he work with clients?"
"Sure. Why?"
"You're lucky you haven't been sued. He storms in, nothing but complaints. Bitch, bitch, bitch," Stella muttered as she swung past Roz and inside. "He doesn't like this, doesn't like that, doesn't like any
damn thing as far as I can tell. Then he drives off with a truckload of trees and shrubs."
Roz rubbed her earlobe thoughtfully. "He does have his moods."
"Moods? I only saw one, and I didn't like it." She yanked off the kerchief, tossed it on the counter.
"Pissed you off, did he?"
"In spades. I'm trying to do what you hired me to do, Roz."
"I know. And so far I don't believe I've made any comments or complaints that could qualify as bitch, bitch, bitch."
Stella sent her a horrified look. "No! Of course not. I didn't mean—God."
"We're in what I'd call an adjustment period. Some don't adjust as smoothly as others. I like most of
your ideas, and others I'm willing to give a chance. Logan's used to doing things his own way, and
that's been fine with me. It works for us."
"He took stock. How can I maintain inventory if I don't know what he took, or what it's for? I need paperwork, Roz."
"I imagine he took the specimens he'd tagged for his personal use. If he took others, he'll let me know. Which is not the way you do things," she continued before Stella could speak. "I'll talk to him, Stella,
but you might have to do some adjusting yourself. You're not in Michigan anymore. I'm going to let
