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evidently trying to jog her memory into revealing where she’d bought the sign that would lead her to the book before the asshole could find it. Her brow wrinkled in concentration and she thoughtfully chewed a piece of gum, occasionally licking her lips in the process.
    It was distracting as hell.
    â€œArgh,” she moaned, rubbing her temples. “You don’t know how much I hate that I can’t remember where I bought that sign. I keep a record of everything,” she explained. “My grandfather was meticulous about it and wanted me to be the same. I know that it’s here somewhere, that there’s a clue to its whereabouts in this paperwork, but—”
    â€œYou inherited Bygone’s from your grandfather?” he asked, liking the nostalgic name of her store.
    She nodded, a soft smile curling her lips. “I did.He started picking in his teens, opened the store and did it all the way up until he died.”
    â€œPicking?”
    She sent him a self-conscious smile. “That’s what we’re called. People who ‘pick’ through other people’s unwanted stuff, looking for rusty treasure and old gold.”
    â€œSort of like Dumpster diving?”
    â€œIn a manner of speaking. But our Dumpsters are old barns and sheds, so-called junkyards, though that term sticks in my craw,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Nothing is junk . Everything has value. It’s just waiting for the right person to find it.”
    He stilled as her logic sank in, then he grunted.
    â€œWhat?” she asked, narrowing her gaze suspiciously.
    â€œNothing,” he said, shooting her an evaluating look. “I’d just never thought of it that way.”
    She turned back to her list, but seemed pleased. “Most people don’t. And history is getting carted off to the landfills faster than pickers can save it all.” She paused. “That old man whose front yard is an overgrown graveyard for old cars, cast-iron tubs and bicycles? The county health departments are coming in and shutting him down, threatening to condemn his house or fine him if he doesn’t clean it up.”
    â€œAnd you object?”
    She was thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t know,”she said. “I can see where neighbors would complain, but then again it’s his property, and so long as no one is getting hurt…” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just think it’s a shame all the way around.”
    â€œSo what are the kinds of things you like to rescue?” he asked, unbelievably intrigued with the way her mind worked. She wasn’t just pretty, he decided. She was interesting, too.
    Definitely a dangerous combination.
    She grinned. “Everything,” she said. “Advertising signs, old motorcycles and parts, cars, bicycles, streetlights and tin toys, cash registers, trunks and luggage.” She shrugged again, looking wistful. “Anything, really.”
    â€œBut surely you have special clients for particular things, right?”
    â€œOh, yeah,” she said. “For instance, your boss is into restoring old cars and likes all the gas and oil stuff.”
    â€œHe does?” Granted, he hadn’t known Payne long enough to glean that kind of information, but he could see where it would fit. And he’d only want original parts if he was restoring something—because he was a perfectionist—and someone like Bess was exactly who he’d contact.
    Her smile turned reminiscent. “I remember the first thing that I sold to him. A vintage hood ornament for a 1955 Oldsmobile Rocket 88.”
    He chuckled. “You can remember that but you can’t remember where you got that Coca-Cola sign?” he teased.
    She growled in frustration. “I know! It’s driving me crazy! But you have to understand, I buy lots of Coca-Cola stuff because it’s so collectible. And it never sits for long.”
    Lex had never